_Civita Vecchia, Jan. 1._--We left Palo just after sunrise, and walked

in the cool of the morning beside the blue Mediterranean. On the right,

the low outposts of the Appenines rose, bleak and brown, the narrow

plain between them and the shore resembling a desert, so destitute was

it of the signs of civilized life. A low, white cloud that hung over the

sea, afar off, showed us the locality of Sardinia, though the land was

not visible. The sun shone down warmly, and with the blue sky and bluer

sea we could easily have imagined a milder season. The barren scenery

took a new interest in my eyes, when I remembered that I was spending

amidst it that birth-day which removes me, in the eyes of the world,

from dependant youth to responsible manhood.

In the afternoon we found a beautiful cove in a curve of the shore, and

went to bathe in the cold surf. It was very refreshing, but not quite

equal to the sulphur-bath on the road to Tivoli. The mountains now ran

closer to the sea, and the road was bordered with thickets of myrtle. I

stopped often to beat my staff into the bushes, and inhale the fragrance

that arose from their crushed leaves. The hills were covered with this

poetical shrub, and any acre of the ground would make the fortune of a

florist at home.

The sun was sinking in a sky of orange and rose, as Civita Vecchia came

in sight on a long headland before us. Beyond the sea stretched the dim

hills of Corsica. We walked nearly an hour in the clear moonlight, by

the sounding shore, before the gate of the city was reached. We have

found a tolerable inn, and are now enjoying the pleasures of supper and

rest.

_Marseilles, Jan. 16._--At length we tread the shore of France--of sunny

Provence--the last unvisited realm we have to roam through before

returning home. It is with a feeling of more than common relief that we

see around us the lively faces and hear the glib tongues of the French.

It is like an earnest that the "roughing" we have undergone among

Bohemian boors and Italian savages is well nigh finished, and that,

henceforth, we shall find civilized sympathy and politeness, if nothing

more, to make the way smoother. Perhaps the three woful days which

terminated at half-past two yesterday afternoon, as we passed through

the narrow strait into the beautiful harbor which Marseilles encloses in

her sheltering heart, make it still pleasanter. Now, while there is

time, I must describe those three days, for who could write on the wet

deck of a steamboat, amid all the sights and smells which a sea voyage

creates? Description does not flourish when the bones are sore with

lying on planks, and the body shivering like an aspen leaf with cold.

About the old town of Civita Vecchia there is not much to be said,

except that it has the same little harbor which Trajan dug for it, and

is as dirty and disagreeable as a town can well be. We saw nothing

except a little church, and the prison-yard, full of criminals, where

the celebrated bandit, Gasparoni, has been now confined for eight years.

The Neapolitan Company's boat, _Mongibello_, was advertised to leave the

12th, so, after procuring our passports, we went to the office to take

passage. The official, however, refused to give us tickets for the third

place, because, forsooth, we were not servants or common laborers! and

words were wasted in trying to convince him that it would make no

difference. As the second cabin fare was nearly three times as high, and

entirely too dear for us, we went to the office of the Tuscan Company,

whose boat was to leave in two days. Through the influence of an Italian

gentleman, secretary to Bartolini, the American Consul, whom we met,

they agreed to take us for forty-five francs, on deck, the price of the

Neapolitan boat being thirty.

Rather than stay two days longer in the dull town, we went again to the

latter Company's office and offered them forty-five francs to go that

day in _their_ boat. This removed the former scruples, and tickets were

immediately made out. After a plentiful dinner at the albergo, to

prepare ourselves for the exposure, we filled our pockets with a supply

of bread, cheese, and figs, for the voyage. We then engaged a boatman,

who agreed to row us out to the steamer for two pauls, but after he had

us on board and an oar's length from the quay, he said two pauls

_apiece_ was his bargain. I instantly refused, and, summoning the best

Italian I could command, explained our agreement; but he still persisted

in demanding double price. The dispute soon drew a number of persons to

the quay, some of whom, being boatmen, sided with him. Finding he had us

safe in his boat, his manner was exceedingly calm and polite. He

contradicted me with a "pardon, Signore!" accompanying the words with a

low bow and a graceful lift of his scarlet cap, and replied to my

indignant accusations in the softest and most silvery-modulated Roman

sentences. I found, at last, that if I was in the right, I cut the worse

figure of the two, and, therefore, put an end to the dispute by desiring

him to row on at his own price.

The hour of starting was two, but the boat lay quietly in the harbor

till four, when we glided out on the open sea, and went northward, with

the blue hills of Corsica far on our left. A gorgeous sunset faded away

over the water, and the moon rose behind the low mountains of the

Italian coast. Having found a warm and sheltered place near the chimney,

I drew my beaver further over my eyes, to keep out the moonlight, and

lay down on the deck with my knapsack under my head. It was a hard bed,

indeed; and the first time I attempted to rise, I found myself glued to

the floor by the pitch which was smeared along the seams of the boards!

Our fellow-sufferers were a company of Swiss soldiers going home after a

four years' service under the King of Naples, but they took to their

situation more easily than we.

Sleep was next to impossible, so I paced the deck occasionally, looking

out on the moonlit sea and the dim shores on either side. A little after

midnight we passed between Elba and Corsica. The dark crags of Elba rose

on our right, and the bold headlands of Napoleon's isle stood opposite,

at perhaps twenty miles' distance. There was something dreary and

mysterious in the whole scene, viewed at such a time--the grandeur of

his career, who was born on one and exiled to the other, gave it a

strange and thrilling interest.

We made the light-house before the harbor of Leghorn at dawn, and by

sunrise were anchored within the mole. I sat on the deck the whole day,

watching the picturesque vessels that skimmed about with their lateen

sails, and wondering how soon the sailors, on the deck of a Boston brig

anchored near us, would see my distant country. Leaving at four o'clock,

we dashed away, along the mountain coast of Carrara, at a rapid rate.

The wind was strong and cold, but I lay down behind the boiler, and

though the boards were as hard as ever, slept two or three hours. When I

awoke at half-past two in the morning, after a short rest, Genoa was

close at hand. We glided between the two revolving lights on the mole,

into the harbor, with the amphitheatre on which the superb city sits,

dark and silent around us. It began raining soon, the engine-fire sank

down, and as there was no place of shelter, we were shortly wet to the

skin.

How long those dreary hours seemed, till the dawn came! All was cold and

rainy and dark, and we waited in a kind of torpid misery for daylight.

The entire day, I passed sitting in a coil of rope under the stern of

the cabin, and even the beauties of the glorious city scarce affected

me. We lay opposite the Doria palace, and the constellation of villas

and towers still glittered along the hills; but who, with his teeth

chattering and limbs numb and damp, could feel pleasure in looking on

Elysium itself?

We got under way again at three o'clock. The rain very soon hid the

coast from view, and the waves pitched our boat about in a manner not at

all pleasant. I soon experienced sea-sickness in all its horrors. We had

accidentally made the acquaintance of one of the Neapolitan sailors, who

had been in America. He was one of those rough, honest natures I like to

meet with--their blunt kindness, is better than refined and oily-tongued

suavity. As we were standing by the chimney, reflecting dolefully how we

should pass the coming night, he came up and said; "I am in trouble

about you, poor fellows! I don't think I shall sleep three hours

to-night, to think of you. I shall tell all the cabin they shall give

you beds, because they shall see you are gentlemen!" Whether he did so

or the officers were moved by spontaneous commiseration, we knew not,

but in half an hour a servant beckoned us into the cabin, and berths

were given us.

I turned in with a feeling of relief not easily imagined, and forgave

the fleas willingly, in the comfort of a shelter from the storm. When I

awoke, it was broad day. A fresh breeze was drying the deck, and the sun

was half-visible among breaking clouds. We had just passed the Isle of

the Titan, one of the _Isles des Hyères_, and the bay of Toulon opened

on our right. It was a rugged, rocky coast, but the hills of sunny

Provence rose beyond. The sailor came up with a smile of satisfaction on

his rough countenance, and said: "You did sleep better, I think; I did

tell them all!" coupling his assertion with a round curse on the

officers.

We ran along, beside the brown, bare crags till nearly noon, when we

reached the eastern point of the Bay of Marseilles. A group of small

islands, formed of bare rocks, rising in precipices three or four

hundred feet high, guards the point; on turning into the Gulf, we saw on

the left the rocky islands of Pomegues, and If, with the castle crowning

the latter, in which Mirabeau was confined. The ranges of hills which

rose around the great bay, were spotted and sprinkled over with

thousands of the country cottages of the Marseilles merchants, called

_Bastides_; the city itself was hidden from view. We saw apparently the

whole bay, but there was no crowd of vessels, such as would befit a

great sea-port; a few spires peeping over a hill, with some

fortifications, were all that was visible. At length we turned suddenly

aside and entered a narrow strait, between two forts. Immediately a

broad harbor opened before us, locked in the very heart of the hills on

which the city stands. It was covered with vessels of all nations; on

leaving the boat, we rowed past the "Aristides," bearing the blue cross

of Greece, and I searched eagerly and found, among the crowded masts,

the starry banner of America.

I have rambled through all the principal parts of Marseilles, and am

very favorably impressed with its appearance. Its cleanliness and the

air of life and business which marks the streets, are the more pleasant

after coming from the dirty and depopulated Italian cities. The broad

avenues, lined with trees, which traverse its whole length, must be

delightful in summer. I am often reminded, by its spacious and crowded

thoroughfares, of our American cities. Although founded by the Phoceans,

three thousand years ago, it has scarcely an edifice of greater

antiquity than three or four centuries, and the tourist must content

himself with wandering through the narrow streets of the old town,

observing the Provençal costumes, or strolling among Turks and Moors on

the _Quai d'Orléans_.

We have been detained here a day longer than was necessary, owing to

some misunderstanding about the passports. This has not been favorable

to our reduced circumstances, for we have, now but twenty francs each,

left, to take us to Paris. Our boots, too, after serving us so long,

begin to show signs of failing in this hour of adversity. Although we

are somewhat accustomed to such circumstances, I cannot help shrinking

when I think of the solitary napoleon and the five hundred miles to be

passed. Perhaps, however, the coin will do as much as its great

namesake, and achieve for us a Marengo in the war with fate.

CHAPTER XLIII.

PILGRIMAGE TO VAUCLUSE AND JOURNEY UP THE RHONE.

We left Marseilles about nine o'clock, on a dull, rainy morning, for

Avignon and the Rhone, intending to take in our way the glen of

Vaucluse. The dirty _faubourgs_ stretch out along the road for a great

distance, and we trudged through them, past foundries, furnaces and

manufactories, considerably disheartened with the prospect. We wound

among the bleak stony hills, continually ascending, for nearly three

hours. Great numbers of cabarets, frequented by the common people, lined

the roads, and we met continually trains of heavy laden wagons, drawn by

large mules. The country is very wild and barren, and would have been

tiresome, except for the pine groves with their beautiful green foliage.

We got something to eat with difficulty at an inn, for the people spoke

nothing but the Provençal dialect, and the place was so cold and

cheerless we were glad to go out again into the storm. It mattered

little to us, that we heard the language in which the gay troubadours of

king René sung their songs of love. We thought more of our dripping

clothes and numb, cold limbs, and would have been glad to hear instead,

the strong, hearty German tongue, full of warmth and kindly sympathy for

the stranger. The wind swept drearily among the hills; black, gusty

clouds covered the sky, and the incessant rain filled the road with

muddy pools. We looked at the country chateaux, so comfortable in the

midst of their sheltering poplars, with a sigh, and thought of homes

afar off, whose doors were never closed to _us_.

This was all forgotten, when we reached Aix, and the hostess of the Café

d'Afrique filled her little stove with fresh coal, and hung our wet

garments around it, while her daughter, a pale-faced, crippled child,

smiled kindly on us and tried to talk with us in French. Putting on our

damp, heavy coats again, B---- and I rambled through the streets, while

our frugal supper was preparing. We saw the statue of the _Bon Roi

René_, who held at Aix his court of shepherds and troubadours--the dark

Cathedral of St. Saveur--the ancient walls and battlements, and gazed

down the valley at the dark, precipitous mass of Mont St. Victor, at

whose base Marius obtained a splendid victory over the barbarians.

After leaving next morning, we saw at some distance to the south, the

enormous aqueduct now being erected for the canal from the Rhone to

Marseilles. The shallow, elevated valleys we passed in the forenoon's

walk were stony and barren, but covered with large orchards of almond

trees, the fruit of which forms a considerable article of export. This

district borders on the desert of the Crau, a vast plain of stones,

reaching to the mouth of the Rhone and almost entirely uninhabited. We

caught occasional glimpses of its sea-like waste, between the summits of

the hills. At length, after threading a high ascent, we saw the valley

of the Durance suddenly below us. The sun, breaking through the clouds,

shone on the mountain wall, which stood on the opposite side, touching

with his glow the bare and rocky precipices that frowned far above the

stream. Descending to the valley, we followed its course towards the

Rhone, with the ruins of feudal bourgs crowning the crags above us.

It was dusk, when we reached the village of Senas, tired with the day's

march. A landlord, standing in his door, on the lookout for customers,

invited us to enter, in a manner so polite and pressing, we could not

choose but do so. This is a universal custom with the country

innkeepers. In a little village which we passed towards evening, there

was a tavern, with the sign: "_The Mother of Soldiers_." A portly woman,

whose face beamed with kindness and cheerfulness, stood in the door and

invited us to stop there for the night. "No, mother!" I answered; "we

must go much further to-day." "Go, then," said she, "with good luck, my

children! a pleasant journey!" On entering the inn at Senas, two or

three bronzed soldiers were sitting by the table. My French vocabulary

happening to give out in the middle of a consultation about eggs and

onion-soup, one of them came to my assistance and addressed me in

German. He was from Fulda, in Hesse Cassel, and had served fifteen years

in Africa. Two other young soldiers, from the western border of Germany,

came during the evening, and one of them being partly intoxicated,

created such a tumult, that a quarrel arose, which ended in his being

beaten and turned out of the house.

We met, every day, large numbers of recruits in companies of one or two

hundred, on their way to Marseilles to embark for Algiers. They were

mostly youths, from sixteen to twenty years of age, and seemed little to

forebode their probable fate. In looking on their fresh, healthy faces

and bounding forms, I saw also a dim and ghastly vision of bones

whitening on the desert, of men perishing with heat and fever, or

stricken down by the aim of the savage Bedouin.

Leaving next morning at day-break, we walked on before breakfast to

Orgon, a little village in a corner of the cliffs which border the

Durance, and crossed the muddy river by a suspension bridge a short

distance below, to Cavaillon, where the country people were holding a

great market. From this place a road led across the meadow-land to

L'Isle, six miles distant. This little town is so named, because it is

situated on an island formed by the crystal Sorgues, which flows from

the fountains of Vaucluse. It is a very picturesque and pretty place.

Great mill-wheels, turning slowly and constantly, stand at intervals in

the stream, whose grassy banks are now as green as in spring-time. We

walked along the Sorgues, which is quite as beautiful and worthy to be

sung as the Clitumnus, to the end of the village, to take the road to

Vaucluse. Beside its banks stands a dirty, modern "Hotel de Petrarque et

Laure." Alas, that the names of the most romantic and impassioned lovers

of all history should be desecrated to a sign-post to allure

gormandizing tourists!

The bare mountain in whose heart lies the poet's solitude, now rose

before us, at the foot of the lofty Mont Ventoux, whose summit of snows

extended beyond. We left the river, and walked over a barren plain,

across which the wind blew most drearily. The sky was rainy and dark,

and completed the desolateness of the scene, which in no wise heightened

our anticipations of the renowned glen. At length we rejoined the

Sorgues and entered a little green valley running up into the mountain.

The narrowness of the entrance entirely shut out the wind, and except

the rolling of the waters over their pebbly bed, all was still and

lonely and beautiful. The sides of the dell were covered with olive

trees, and a narrow strip of emerald meadow lay at the bottom. It grew

more hidden and sequestered as we approached the little village of

Vaucluse. Here, the mountain towers far above, and precipices of grey

rock, many hundred feet high, hang over the narrowing glen. On a crag

over the village are the remains of a castle; the slope below this, now

rugged and stony, was once graced by the cottage and garden of Petrarch.

All traces of them have long since vanished, but a simple column,

bearing the inscription; "À PETRARQUE," stands beside the Sorgues.

We ascended into the defile by a path among the rocks, overshadowed by

olive and wild fig trees, to the celebrated fountains of Vaucluse. The

glen seems as if struck into the mountain's depths by one blow of an

enchanter's wand; and just at the end, where the rod might have rested

in its downward sweep, is the fathomless well whose overbrimming fulness

gives birth to the Sorgues. We climbed up over the mossy rocks and sat

down in the grot, beside the dark, still pool. It was the most absolute

solitude. The rocks towered above and over us, to the height of six

hundred feet, and the gray walls of the wild glen below shut out all

appearance of life. I leaned over the rock and drank of the blue crystal

that grew gradually darker towards the centre, till it became a mirror,

and gave back a perfect reflection of the crags above it. There was no

bubbling--no gushing up from its deep bosom--but the wealth of sparkling

waters continually welled over, as from a too-full goblet.

It was with actual sorrow that I turned away from the silent spot. I

never visited a place to which the fancy clung more suddenly and fondly.

There is something holy in its solitude, making one envy Petrarch the

years of calm and unsullied enjoyment which blessed him there. As some

persons, whom we pass as strangers, strike a hidden chord in our

spirits, compelling a silent sympathy with them, so some landscapes have

a character of beauty which harmonizes thrillingly with the mood in

which we look upon them, till we forget admiration in the glow of

spontaneous attachment. They seem like abodes of the Beautiful, which

the soul in its wanderings long ago visited, and now recognizes and

loves as the home of a forgotten dream. It was thus I felt by the

fountains of Vaucluse; sadly and with weary steps I turned away, leaving

its loneliness unbroken as before.

We returned over the plain in the wind, under the gloomy sky, passed

L'Isle at dusk, and after walking an hour with a rain following close

behind us, stopped at an _auberge_ in Le Thor, where we rested our tired

frames and broke our long day's fasting. We were greeted in the morning

with a dismal rain and wet roads, as we began the march. After a time,

however, it poured down in such torrents, that we were obliged to take

shelter in a _remise_ by the road, side, where a good woman, who

addressed us in the unintelligible Provençal, kindled up a blazing fire.

On climbing a long hill, when the storm had abated, we experienced a

delightful surprise. Below us lay the broad valley of the Rhone, with

its meadows looking fresh and spring-like after the rain. The clouds

were breaking away; clear blue sky was visible over Avignon, and a belt

of sunlight lay warmly along the mountains of Languedoc. Many villages,

with their tall, picturesque towers, dotted the landscape, and the

groves of green olive enlivened the barrenness of winter. Two or three

hours' walk over the plain, by a road fringed with willows, brought us

to the gates of Avignon.

We walked around its picturesque turreted wall, and rambled through its

narrow streets, washed here and there by streams which turn the old

mill-wheels lazily around. We climbed up to the massive palace, which

overlooks the city from its craggy seat, attesting the splendor it

enjoyed, when for thirty years the Papal Court was held there, and the

gray, weather-beaten, irregular building, resembling a pile of

precipitous rocks, echoed with the revels of licentious prelates. We

could not enter to learn the terrible secrets of the Inquisition, here

unveiled, but we looked up at the tower, from which the captive Rienzi

was liberated at the intercession of Petrarch.

After leaving Avignon, we took the road up the Rhone for Lyons, turning

our backs upon the _rainy_ south. We reached the village of Sorgues by

dusk, and accepted the invitation of an old dame to lodge at her _inn_,

which proved to be a _blacksmith's shop_! It was nevertheless clean and

comfortable, and we sat down in one corner, out of the reach of the

showers of sparks, which flew hissing from a red-hot horseshoe, that the

smith and his apprentice were hammering. A Piedmontese pedlar, who

carried the "Song of the Holy St. Philomène" to sell among the peasants,

came in directly, and bargained for a sleep on some hay, for two sous.

For a bed in the loft over the shop, we were charged five sous each,

which, with seven sous for supper, made our expenses for the night about

eleven cents! Our circumstances demanded the greatest economy, and we

began to fear whether even this spare allowance would enable us to reach

Lyons. Owing to a day's delay in Marseilles, we had left that city with

but fifteen francs each; the incessant storms of winter and the worn-out

state of our shoes, which were no longer proof against water or mud,

prolonged our journey considerably, so that by starting before dawn and

walking till dark, we were only able to make thirty miles a day. We

could always procure beds for five sous, and as in the country inns one

is only charged for what he chooses to order, our frugal suppers cost us

but little. We purchased bread and cheese in the villages, and made our

breakfasts and dinners on a bank by the roadside, or climbed the rocks

and sat down by the source of some trickling rill. This simple fare had

an excellent relish, and although we walked in wet clothes from morning

till night, often laying down on the damp, cold earth to rest, our

health was never affected.

It is worth all the toil and privation we have as yet undergone, to

gain, from actual experience, the blessed knowledge that man always

retains a kindness and brotherly sympathy towards his fellow--that under

all the weight of vice and misery which a grinding oppression of soul

and body brings on the laborers of earth, there still remain many bright

tokens of a better nature. Among the starving mountaineers of the

Hartz--the degraded peasantry of Bohemia--the savage _contadini_ of

Central Italy, or the dwellers on the hills of Provence and beside the

swift Rhone, we almost invariably found kind, honest hearts, and an

aspiration for something better, betokening the consciousness that such

brute-like, obedient existence was not their proper destiny. We found

few so hardened as to be insensible to a kind look or a friendly word,

and nothing made us forget we were among strangers so much as the many

tokens of sympathy which met us when least looked for. A young

Englishman, who had traveled on foot from Geneva to Rome, enduring many

privations on account of his reduced circumstances, said to me, while

speaking on this subject: "A single word of kindness from a stranger

would make my heart warm and my spirits cheerful, for days afterwards."

There is not so much evil in man as men would have us believe; and it is

a happy comfort to know and feel this.

Leaving our little inn before day break next morning, we crossed the

Sorgues, grown muddy since its infancy at Vaucluse, like many a young

soul, whose mountain purity goes out into the soiling world and becomes

sullied forever. The road passed over broad, barren ranges of hills, and

the landscape was destitute of all interest, till we approached Orange.

This city is built at the foot of a rocky height, a great square

projection of which seemed to stand in its midst. As we approached

nearer, however, arches and lines of cornice could be discerned, and we

recognized it as the celebrated amphitheatre, one of the grandest Roman

relics in the south of France.

I stood at the foot of this great fabric, and gazed up at it in

astonishment. The exterior wall, three hundred and thirty-four feet in

length, and rising to the height of one hundred and twenty-one feet, is

still in excellent, preservation, and through its rows of solid arches

one looks on the broken ranges of seats within. On the crag above, and

looking as if about to topple down on it, is a massive fragment of the

fortress of the Princes of Orange, razed by Louis XIV. Passing through

the city, we came to the beautiful Roman triumphal arch, which to my eye

is a finer structure than that of Constantino at Rome. It is built of a

rich yellow marble and highly ornamented with sculptured trophies. From

the barbaric shields and the letters MARIO, still remaining, it has been

supposed to commemorate the victory of Marius over the barbarians, near

Aix. A frieze, running along the top, on each side, shows, although

broken and much defaced by the weather, the life and action which once

marked the struggling figures. These Roman ruins, scattered through

Provence and Languedoc, though inferior in historical interest, equal

in architectural beauty the greater part of those in the Eternal City

itself.

The rest of the day the road was monotonous, though varied somewhat by

the tall crags of Mornas and Mont-dragon, towering over the villages of

the same name. Night came on as the rock of Pierrelatte, at whose foot

we were to sleep, appeared in the distance, rising like a Gibraltar from

the plain, and we only reached it in time to escape the rain that came

down the valley of the Rhone.

Next day we passed several companies of soldiers on their way to Africa.

One of them was accompanied by a young girl, apparently the wife of the

recruit by whose side she was marching. She wore the tight blue jacket

of the troop, and a red skirt, reaching to the knees, over her soldier

pantaloons; while her pretty face showed to advantage beneath a small

military cap. It was a "Fille du Regiment" in real life. Near

Montelimart, we lost sight of Mont Ventoux, whose gleaming white crest

had been visible all the way from Vaucluse, and passed along the base of

a range of hills running near to the river. So went our march, without

particular incident, till we bivouacked for the night among a company of

soldiers in the little village of Loriol.

Leaving at six o'clock, wakened by the trumpets which called up the

soldiery to their day's march, we reached the river Drome at dawn, and

from the bridge over its rapid current, gazed at the dim, ash-colored

masses of the Alps of Dauphiné, piled along the sky, far up the valley.

The coming of morn threw a yellow glow along their snowy sides, and

lighted up, here and there, a flashing glacier. The peasantry were

already up and at work, and caravans of pack-wagons rumbled along in the

morning twilight We trudged on with them, and by breakfast-time had made

some distance of the way to Valence. The road, which does not approach

the Rhone, is devoid of interest and tiresome, though under a summer

sky, when the bare vine-hills are latticed over with green, and the

fruit-trees covered with blossoms and foliage, it might be a scene of

great beauty.

Valence, which we reached towards noon, is a commonplace city on the

Rhone; and my only reasons for traversing its dirty streets in

preference to taking the road, which passes without the walls, were--to

get something for dinner, and because it _might_ have been the

birth-place of Aymer de Valence, the valorous Crusader, chronicled in

"Ivanhoe," whose tomb I had seen in Westminster Abbey. One of the

streets which was marked "_Rue Bayard_," shows that my valiant

namesake--the knight without fear and reproach--is still remembered in

his native province. The ruins of his chateau are still standing among

the Alps near Grenoble.

In the afternoon we crossed the Isère, a swift, muddy river, which rises

among the Alps of Dauphiné, We saw their icy range, among which is the

desert solitude of the Grand Chartreuse, far up the valley; but the

thick atmosphere hid the mighty Mont Blanc, whose cloudy outline, eighty

miles distant in a "bee line," is visible in fair weather. At Tain, we

came upon the Rhone again, and walked along the base of the hills which

contract its current. Here, I should call it beautiful. The scenery has

a wildness that approaches to that of the Rhine. Rocky, castellated

heights frown over the rushing waters, which have something of the

majesty of their "exulting and abounding" rival. Winding around the

curving hills, the scene is constantly varied, and the little willowed

islets clasped in the embrace of the stream, mingle a trait of softened

beauty with its sterner character.

After passing the night at a village on its banks, we left it again at

St. Vallier, the next morning. At sunset, the spires of Vienne were

visible, and the lofty Mont Pilas, the snows of whose riven summits feed

the springs of the Loire on its western side, stretched majestically

along the opposite bank of the Rhone. In a meadow, near Vienne, stands a

curious Roman obelisk, seventy-six feet in height. The base is composed

of four pillars, connected by arches, and the whole structure has a

barbaric air, compared with the more elegant monuments of Orange and

Nismes. Vienne, which is mentioned by several of the Roman historians

under its present name, was the capital of the Allobroges, and I looked

upon it with a new and strange interest, on calling to mind my

school-boy days, when I had become familiar with that war-like race, in

toiling over the pages of Cæsar. We walked in the mud and darkness for

what seemed a great distance, and finally took shelter in a little inn

at the northern end of the city. Two Belgian soldiers, coming from

Africa, were already quartered there, and we listened to their tales of

the Arab and the desert, while supper was preparing.

The morning of the 25th was dull and rainy; the road, very muddy and

unpleasant, led over the hills, avoiding the westward curve of the

Rhone, directly towards Lyons. About noon, we came in sight of the broad

valley in which the Rhone first clasps his Burgundian bride--the Saone,

and a cloud of impenetrable coal-smoke showed us the location of Lyons.

A nearer approach revealed a large flat dome, and some ranges of tall

buildings near the river. We soon entered the suburb of La Guillotière,

which has sprung up on the eastern bank of the Rhone. Notwithstanding

our clothes were like sponges, our boots entirely worn out, and our

bodies somewhat thin with nine days exposure to the wintry storms in

walking two hundred and forty miles, we entered Lyons with suspense and

anxiety. But one franc apiece remained out of the fifteen with which we

left Marseilles. B---- wrote home some time ago, directing a remittance

to be forwarded to a merchant at Paris, to whom he had a letter of

introduction, and in the hope that this had arrived, he determined to

enclose the letter in a note, stating our circumstances, and requesting

him to forward a part of the remittance to Lyons. We had then to wait at

least four days; people are suspicious and mistrustful in cities, and if

no relief should come, what was to be done?

After wading through the mud of the suburbs, we chose a common-looking

inn near the river, as the comfort of our stay depended wholly on the

kindness of our hosts, and we hoped to find more sympathy among the

laboring classes. We engaged lodgings for four or five days; after

dinner the letter was dispatched, and we wandered about through the

dark, dirty city until night. Our landlord, Monsieur Ferrand, was a

rough, vigorous man, with a gloomy, discontented expression; his words

were few and blunt; but a certain restlessness of manner, and a secret

flashing of his cold, forbidding eye betrayed to me some strong hidden

excitement. Madame Ferrand was kind and talkative, though passionate;

but the appearance of the place gave me an unfavorable impression, which

was heightened by the thought that it was now impossible to change our

lodgings until relief should arrive. When bed-time came, a ladder was

placed against a sort of high platform along one side of the kitchen; we

mounted and found a bed, concealed from the view of those below by a

dusty muslin curtain. We lay there, between heaven and earth--the dirty

earth of the brick floor and the sooty heaven of the ceiling--listening

until midnight to the boisterous songs, and loud, angry disputes in the

room adjoining. Thus ended our first day in Lyons.

Five weary days, each of them containing a month of torturing suspense,

have since passed. Our lodging-place grew so unpleasant that we

preferred wandering all day through the misty, muddy, smoky streets,

taking refuge in the covered bazaars when it rained heavily. The gloom

of every thing around us, entirely smothered down the lightness of heart

which made us laugh over our embarrassments at Vienna. When at evening,

the dull, leaden hue of the clouds seemed to make the air dark and cold

and heavy, we walked beside the swollen and turbid Rhone, under an

avenue of leafless trees, the damp soil chilling our feet and striking a

numbness through our frames, and _then_ I knew what those must feel who

have _no_ hope in their destitution, and not a friend in all the great

world, who is not wretched as themselves. I prize the lesson, though the

price of it is hard.

"This morning," I said to B----, "will terminate our suspense." I felt

cheerful in spite of myself; and this was like a presentiment of coming

good luck. To pass the time till the mail arrived we climbed to the

chapel of _Fourvières_, whose walls are covered with votive offerings to

a miraculous picture of the Virgin. But at the precise hour we were at

the Post Office. What an intensity of suspense can be felt in that

minute, while the clerk is looking over the letters! And what a

lightning-like shock of joy when it _did_ come, and was opened with

eager, trembling hands, revealing the relief we had almost despaired of!

The city did not seem less gloomy, for that was impossible, but the

faces of the crowd which had appeared cold and suspicious, were now kind

and cheerful. we came home to our lodgings with changed feelings, and

Madame Ferrand must have seen the joy in our faces, for she greeted us

with an unusual smile.

We leave to-morrow morning for Chalons. I do not feel disposed to

describe Lyons particularly, although I have become intimately

acquainted with every part of it, from _Presqu' isle Perrache to Croix

Rousse_. I know the contents of every shop in the Bazaar, and the

passage of the Hotel Dieu--the title of every volume in the bookstores

in the Place Belcour--and the countenance of every boot-block and

apple-woman on the Quais on both sides of the river. I have walked up

the Saone to _Pierre Seise_--down the Rhone to his muddy

marriage--climbed the Heights of _Fourvières_, and promenaded in the

_Cours Napoleon_! Why, men have been presented with the freedom of

cities, when they have had far less cause for such an honor than this!

CHAPTER XLIV.

TRAVELING IN BURGUNDY--THE MISERIES OF A COUNTRY DILIGENCE.

_Paris, Feb. 6, 1840._--Every letter of the date is traced with an

emotion of joy, for our dreary journey is over. There was a magic in the

name that revived us during a long journey, and now the thought that it

is all over--that these walls which enclose us, stand in the heart of

the gay city--seems almost too joyful to be true. Yesterday I marked

with the whitest chalk, on the blackest of all tablets to make the

contrast greater, for I got out of the cramped diligence at the Barrière

de Charenton, and saw before me in the morning twilight, the immense

groy mass of Paris. I forgot my numbed and stiffened frame, and every

other of the thousand disagreeable feelings of diligence traveling, in

the pleasure which that sight afforded.

We arose in the dark at Lyons, and after bidding adieu to morose

Monsieur Ferrand, traversed the silent city and found our way in the

mist and gloom to the steamboat landing on the Saone. The waters were

swollen much above their usual level, which was favorable for the boat,

as long as there was room enough left to pass under the bridges. After a

great deal of bustle we got under way, and were dashing out of Lyons,

against the swift current, before day-break. We passed _L'Isle Barbe_,

once a favorite residence of Charlemagne, and now the haunt of the

Lyonnaise on summer holidays, and going under the suspension bridges

with levelled chimneys, entered the picturesque hills above, which are

covered with vineyards nearly to the top; the villages scattered over

them have those square, pointed towers, which give such a quaintness to

French country scenery.

The stream being very high, the meadows on both sides were deeply

overflowed. To avoid the strong current in the centre, our boat ran

along the banks, pushing aside the alder thickets and poplar shoots; in

passing the bridges, the pipes were always brought down flat on the

deck. A little after noon, we passed the large town of Macon, the

birth-place of the poet Lamartine. The valley of the Saone, no longer

enclosed among the hills, spread out to several miles in width. Along

the west lay in sunshine the vine-mountains of Côte d'Or, and among the

dark clouds in the eastern sky, we could barely distinguish the outline

of the Jura. The waters were so much swollen as to cover the plain for

two or three miles. We seemed to be sailing down a lake, with rows of

trees springing up out of the water, and houses and villages lying like

islands on its surface. A sunset that promised better weather tinged the

broad brown flood, as Chalons came in sight, looking like a city built

along the shore of a lake. We squeezed through the crowd of porters and

diligence men, declining their kind offers, and hunted quarters to suit

ourselves.

We left Chalons on the morning of the 1st, in high spirits at the

thought that there were but little more than two hundred miles between

us and Paris. In walking over the cold, muddy plain, we passed a family

of strolling musicians, who were sitting on a heap of stones by the

roadside. An ill-dressed, ill-natured man and woman, each carrying a

violin, and a thin, squalid girl, with a tamborine, composed the group.

Their faces bore that unfeeling stamp, which springs from depravity and

degradation. When we had walked somewhat more than a mile, we overtook a

little girl, who was crying bitterly. By her features, from which the

fresh beauty of childhood had not been worn, and the steel triangle

which was tied to her belt, we knew she belonged to the family we had

passed. Her dress was thin and ragged and a pair of wooden shoes but ill

protected her feet from the sharp cold. I stopped and asked her why she

cried, but she did not at first answer. However, by questioning, I found

her unfeeling parents had sent her on without food; she was sobbing with

hunger and cold. Our pockets were full of bread and cheese which we had

bought for breakfast, and we gave her half a loaf, which stopped her

tears at once. She looked up and thanked us, smiling; and sitting down

on a bank, began to eat as if half famished.

The physiognomy of this region is very singular. It appears as if the

country had been originally a vast elevated plain, and some great power

had _scooped_ out, as with a hand, deep circular valleys all over its

surface. In winding along the high ridges, we often looked down, on

either side, into such hollows, several miles in diameter, and sometimes

entirely covered with vineyards. At La Rochepot, a quaint, antique

village, lying in the bottom of one of these dells, we saw the finest

ruin of the middle ages that I have met with in France. An American lady

had spoken to me of it in Rome, and I believe Willis mentions it in his

"Pencillings," but it is not described in the guide books, nor could we

learn what feudal lord had ever dwelt in its halls. It covers the summit

of a stately rock, at whose foot the village is crouched, and the green

ivy climbs up to the very top of its gray towers.

As the road makes a wide curve around the side of the hill, we descended

to the village by the nearer foot-path, and passed among its low, old

houses, with their pointed gables and mossy roofs. The path led close

along the foot of the rock, and we climbed up to the ruin, and stood in

its grass-grown courtyard. Only the outer walls and the round towers at

each corner are left remaining; the inner part has been razed to the

ground, and where proud barons once marshalled their vassals, the

villagers now play their holiday games. On one side, several Gothic

windows are left standing, perfect, though of simple construction, and

in the towers we saw many fire-places and door-ways of richly cut stone,

which looked as fresh as if just erected.

We passed the night at Ivry (not the Ivry which gained Henri Quatre his

kingdom) and then continued our march over roads which I can only

compare to our country roads in America during the spring thaw. In

addition to this, the rain commenced early in the morning and continued

all day, so that we were completely wet the whole time. The plains, too

high and cold to produce wine, were varied by forests of beech and oak,

and the population was thinly scattered over them in small villages.

Travelers generally complain very much of the monotony of this part of

France, and, with such dreary weather, we could not disagree with them.

As the day wore on, the rain increased, and the sky put on that dull,

gray cast, which denotes a lengthened storm. We were fain to stop at

nightfall, but there was no inn near at hand--not even a hovel of a

_cabaret_ in which to shelter ourselves, and, on enquiring of the

wagoners, we received the comforting assurance that there was yet a

league and a half to the nearest stopping place. On, then, we went, with

the pitiless storm beating in our faces and on our breasts, till there

was not a dry spot left, except what our knapsacks covered. We could not

have been more completely saturated if we had been dipped in the Yonne.

At length, after two hours of slipping and sliding along in the mud and

wet and darkness, we reached Saulieu, and, by the warm fire, thanked our

stars that the day's dismal tramp was over.

By good or bad luck (I have not yet decided which) a vehicle was to

start the next morning for Auxerre, distant sixty miles, and the fare

being but five francs, we thought it wisest to take places. It was

always with reluctance that we departed from our usual mode of

traveling, but, in the present instance, the circumstances absolutely

compelled it.

Next morning, at sunrise, we took our seats in a large, square vehicle

on two wheels, calculated for six persons and a driver, with a single

horse. But, as he was fat and round as an elephant, and started off at a

brisk pace, and we were well protected from the rain, it was not so bad

after all, barring the jolts and jarred vertebræ. We drove on, over the

same dreary expanse of plain and forest, passing through two or three

towns in the course of the day, and by evening had made somewhat more

than half our journey. Owing to the slowness of our fresh horse, we were

jolted about the whole night, and did not arrive at Auxerre until six

o'clock in the morning. After waiting an hour in a hotel beside the

rushing Yonne, a lumbering diligence was got ready, and we were given

places to Paris for seven francs. As the distance is one hundred and ten

miles, this would be considered cheap, but I should not want to travel

it again and be paid for doing so. Twelve persons were packed into a box

not large enough for a cow, and no cabinet-maker ever dove-tailed the

corners of his bureaus tighter than we did our knees and nether

extremities. It is my lot to be blessed with abundance of stature, and

none but tall persons can appreciate the misery of sitting for hours

with their joints in an immovable vice. The closeness of the

atmosphere--for the passengers would not permit the windows to be opened

for fear of taking cold--combined with loss of sleep, made me so drowsy

that my head was continually falling on my next neighbor, who, being a

heavy country lady, thrust it indignantly away. I would then try my best

to keep it up awhile, but it would droop gradually, till the crash of a

bonnet or a smart bump against some other head would recall me, for a

moment, to consciousness.

We passed Joigny, on the Yonne, Sens, with its glorious old cathedral,

and at dusk reached Montercau, on the Seine. This was the scene of one

of Napoleon's best victories, on his return from Elba. In driving over

the bridge, I looked down on the swift and swollen current, and hoped

that its hue might never be darkened again so fearfully as the last

sixty years have witnessed. No river in Europe has such an association

connected with it. We think of the Danube, for its majesty, of the

Rhine, for its wild beauty, but of the Seine--for its blood!

In coming thus to the last famed stream I shall visit in Europe, I might

say, with Barry Cornwall:

"We've sailed through banks of green,

Where the wild waves fret and quiver;

And we've down the Danube been--

The dark, deep, thundering river!

We've thridded the Elbe and Rhone,

The Tiber and blood dyed Seine,

And we've been where the blue Garonne

Goes laughing to meet the main!"

All that night did we endure squeezing and suffocation, and no morn was

ever more welcome than that which revealed to us Paris. With matted

hair, wild, glaring eyes, and dusty and dishevelled habiliments, we

entered the gay capital, and blessed every stone upon which we placed

our feet, in the fulness of our joy.

In paying our fare at Auxerre, I was obliged to use a draft on the

banker, Rougemont de Lowenberg. The ignorant conductor hesitated to

change this, but permitted us to go, on condition of keeping it until we

should arrive. Therefore, on getting out of the diligence, after

forty-eight hours of sleepless and fasting misery, the _facteur_ of the

office went with me to get it paid, leaving B---- to wait for us. I knew

nothing of Paris, and this merciless man kept me for three hours at his

heels, following him on all _his_ errands, before he did mine, in that

time traversing the whole length of the city, in order to leave a

_chèvre-feuille_ at an aristocratic residence in the Faubourg St.

Germain. Yet even combined weariness and hunger could not prevent me

from looking with vivid interest down a long avenue, at the Column of

the place Vendôme, in passing, and gazing up in wonder at the splendid

portico of the Madeleine. But of anything else I have a very faint

remembrance. "You can eat breakfast, now, I think," said he, when we

returned, "we have walked more than four leagues!"

I know we will be excused, that, instead of hurrying away to Notre Dame

or the Louvre, we sat down quietly to a most complete breakfast. Even

the most romantic must be forced to confess that admiration does not sit

well on an empty stomach. Our first walk was to a bath, and then, with

complexions several shades lighter, and limbs that felt us if lifted by

invisible wings, we hurried away to the Post Office. I seized the

welcome missives from my far home, with a beating heart, and hastening

back, read till the words became indistinct in the twilight.

CHAPTER XLV.

POETICAL SCENES IN PARIS.

What a gay little world in miniature this is! I wonder not that the

French, with their exuberant gaiety of spirit, should revel in its

ceaseless tides of pleasure, as if it were an earthly Elysium. I feel

already the influence of its cheerful atmosphere, and have rarely

threaded the crowds of a stranger city, with so light a heart as I do

now daily, on the thronged banks of the Seine. And yet it would be

difficult to describe wherein consists this agreeable peculiarity. You

can find streets as dark and crooked and dirty anywhere in Germany, and

squares and gardens as gay and sunny beyond the Alps, and yet they would

affect you far differently. You could not, as here, divest yourself of

every particle of sad or serious thought and be content to gaze for

hours on the showy scene, without an idea beyond the present moment. It

must be that the spirit of the croud is _magnetically_ contagious.

The evening of our arrival we walked out past the massive and stately

_Hotel de Ville_, and took a promenade along the Quais. The shops facing

the river presented a scene of great splendor. Several of the Quais on

the north bank of the Seine are occupied almost entirely by jewellers,

the windows of whose shops, arranged in a style of the greatest taste,

make a dazzling display. Rows of gold watches and chains are arranged

across the crystal panes, and heaped in pyramids on long glass slabs;

cylindrical wheels of wire, hung with jewelled breastpins and earrings,

turn slowly around by some invisible agency, displaying row after row of

their glittering treasures.

From the centre of the Pont Neuf, we could see for a long distance up

and down the river. The different bridges traced on either side a dozen

starry lines through the dark air, and a continued blaze lighted the

two shores in their whole length, revealing the outline of the Isle da

la Cité. I recognized the Palaces of the Louvre and the Tuileries in the

dusky mass beyond. Eastward, looming against the dark sky, I could

faintly trace the black towers of Notre Dame, The rushing of the swift

waters below mingled with the rattling of a thousand carts and

carriages, and the confusion of a thousand voices, till it seemed like

some grand nightly festival.

I first saw Notre Dame by moonlight. The shadow of its stupendous front

was thrown directly towards me, hiding the innumerable lines of the

ornamental sculpture which cover its tall, square towers. I walked

forward until the interlacing, Moorish arches between them stood full

against the moon, and the light, struggling through the quaint openings

of the tracery, streamed in silver lines down into the shadow. The

square before it was quite deserted, for it stands on a lonely part of

the Isle de la Cité, and it looked thus far more majestic and solemn

than in the glaring daylight.

The great quadrangle of the Tuileries encloses the Place du Carrousel,

in the centre of which stands a triumphal arch, erected by Napoleon

after his Italian victories. Standing in the middle of this arch, you

look through the open passage in the central building of the palace,

into the Gardens beyond. Further on, in a direct line, the middle avenue

of the Gardens extends away to the _Place de la Concorde_, where the

Obelisk of Luxor makes a perpendicular line through your vista; still

further goes the broad avenue through the Elysian Fields, until afar

off, the Arc de l'Etoile, _two miles distant_, closes this view through

the palace doorway.

Let us go through it, and on, to the Place de la Concorde, reserving the

Gardens for another time. What is there in Europe--nay, in the

world,--equal to this? In the centre, the mighty obelisk of red granite

pierces the sky,--on either hand showers of silver spray are thrown up

from splendid bronze fountains--statues and pillars of gilded bronze

sweep in a grand circle around the square, and on each side magnificent

vistas lead the eye off, and combine the distant with the near, to

complete this unparalleled view! Eastward, beyond the tall trees in the

garden of the Tuileries, rises the long front of the Palace, with the

tri-color floating above; westward, in front of us, is the Forest of the

Elysian Fields, with the arch of triumph nearly a mile and a half

distant, looking down from the end of the avenue, at the Barriere de

Neuilly. To the right and left are the marble fronts of the Church of

the Madeleine and the Chamber of Deputies, the latter on the other side

of the Seine. Thus the groves and gardens of Paris--the palace of her

kings--the proud monument of her sons' glory--and the masterpieces of

modern French architecture are all embraced in this one splendid _coup

d'oeil_.

Following the motley multitude to the bridge, I crossed and made my way

to the Hotel des Invalides. Along the esplanade, playful companies of

children were running and tumbling in their sports over the green turf,

which was as fresh as a meadow; while, not the least interesting feature

of the scene, numbers of scarred and disabled veterans, in the livery of

the Hospital, basked in the sunshine, watching with quiet satisfaction

the gambols of the second generation they have seen arise. What tales

could they not tell, those wrinkled and feeble old men! What visions of

Marengo and Austerlitz and Borodino shift still with a fiery vividness

through their fading memories! Some may have left a limb on the Lybian

desert; and the sabre of the Cossack may have scarred the brows of

others. They witnessed the rising and setting of that great meteor,

which intoxicated France with such a blaze of power and glory, and now,

when the recollection of that wonderful period seems almost like a

stormy dream, they are left to guard the ashes of their ancient General,

brought back from his exile to rest in the bosom of his own French

people. It was to me a touching and exciting thing, to look on those

whose eyes had witnessed the filling up of such a fated leaf in the

world's history.

Entrance is denied to the tomb of Napoleon until it is finished, which

will not be for three or four yours yet. I went, however, into the

"Church of the Banners"--a large chapel, hung with two or three hundred

flags taken by the armies of the Empire. The greater part of them were

Austrian and Russian. It appeared to be empty when I entered, but on

looking around, I saw an old gray-headed soldier kneeling at one side.

His head was bowed over his hands, and he seemed perfectly absorbed in

his thoughts. Perhaps the very tattered banners which hung down

motionless above his head, he might have assisted in conquering. I

looked a moment on those eloquent trophies, and then noiselessly

withdrew.

There is at least one solemn spot near Paris; the laughing winds that

come up from the merry city sink into sighs under the cypress boughs of

Pere Lachaise. And yet it is not a gloomy place, but full of a serious

beauty, fitting for a city of the dead. I shall never forget the sunny

afternoon when I first entered its gate and walked slowly up the hill,

between rows of tombs, gleaming white amid the heavy foliage, while the

green turf around them was just beginning to be starred by the opening

daisies, From the little chapel on its summit I looked back at the blue

spires of the city, whose roar of life dwindled to a low murmur.

Countless pyramids, obelisks and urns, rising far and wide above the

cedars and cypresses, showed the extent of the splendid necropolis,

which is inhabited by pale, shrouded emigrants from its living sister

below. The only sad part of the view, was the slope of the hill alloted

to the poor, where legions of plain black crosses are drawn up into

solid squares on its side and stand alone gloomy--the advanced guard of

the army of Death! I mused over the tombs of Molière and La Fontaine;

Massena, Mortier and Lefebre; General Foy and Casimir Perier; and

finally descended to the shrine where Abelard reposes by the side of his

Heloise. The old sculptured tomb, brought away from the Paraclete, still

covers their remains, and pious hands (of lovers, perhaps,) keep fresh

the wreaths of _immortelles_ above their marble effigies.

In the Theatre Français, I saw Rachel, the actress. She appeared in the

character of "Virginia," in a tragedy of that name, by the poet Latour.

Her appearance as she came upon the stage alone, convinced me she would

not belie her renown. She is rather small in stature, with dark,

piercing eyes and rich black hair; her lips are full, but delicately

formed, and her features have a marked yet flexible outline, which

conveys the minutest shades of expression. Her voice is clear, deep and

thrilling, and like sonic grand strain of music, there is power and

meaning in its slightest modulations. Her gestures embody the very

spirit of the character; she has so perfectly attained that rare harmony

of thought, sound and action, or rather, that unity of feeling which

renders them harmonious, that her acting seems the unstudied,

irrepressible impulse of her soul. With the first sentence she uttered,

I forgot Rachel. I only saw the innocent Roman girl; I awaited in

suspense and with a powerful sympathy, the developement of the oft-told

tragedy. My blood grew warm with indignation when the words of Appius

roused her to anger, and I could scarcely keep back my tears, when, with

a voice broken by sobs, she bade farewell to the protecting gods of her

father's hearth.

Among the bewildering variety of ancient ornaments and implements in the

Egyptian Gallery of the Louvre, I saw an object of startling interest. A

fragment of the Iliad, written nearly three thousand years ago! One may

even dare to conjecture that the torn and half-mouldered slip of

papyrus, upon which he gazes, may have been taken down from the lips of

the immortal Chiun. The eyes look on those faded characters, and across

the great gulf of Time, the soul leaps into the Past, brought into

shadowy nearness by a mirage of the mind. There, as in the desert,

images start up, vivid, yet of a vague and dreamy beauty. We see the

olive groves of Greece--white-robed youths and maidens sit in the shade

of swaying boughs--and one of them reads aloud, in words that sound like

the clashing of shields, the deeds of Achilles.

As we step out the western portal of the Tuileries, a beautiful scene

greets us. We look on the palace garden, fragrant with flowers and

classic with bronze copies of ancient sculpture. Beyond this, broad

gravel walks divide the flower-bordered lawns and ranks of marble

demigods and heroes look down on the joyous crowd. Children troll their

hoops along the avenues or skip the rope under the clipped lindens,

whose boughs are now tinged a pale yellow by the bursting buds. The

swans glide about on a pond in the centre, begging bread of the

bystanders, who watch a miniature ship which the soft breeze carries

steadily across. Paris is unseen, but _heard_, on every side; only the

Column of Luxor and the Arc de Triomphe rise blue and grand above the

top of the forest. What with the sound of voices, the merry laughter of

the children and a host of smiling faces, the scene touches a happy

chord in one's heart, and he mingles with it, lost in pleasant reverie,

till the sounds fade away with the fading light.

Just below the Baths of the Louvre, there are several floating barges

belonging to the washer-women, anchored at the foot of the great stone

staircase leading down to the water. They stand there day after day,

beating their clothes upon flat boards and rinsing them in the Seine.

One day there seemed to have been a wedding or some other cause of

rejoicing among them, for a large number of the youngest were talking in

great glee on one of the platforms of the staircase, while a handsome,

German-looking youth stood near, with a guitar slung around his neck. He

struck up a lively air, and the girls fell into a droll sort of a dance.

They went at it heavily and roughly enough, but made up in good humor

what they lacked in grace; the older members of the craft looked up from

their work with satisfaction and many shouts of applause wore sent down

to them from the spectators on the Quai and the Pont Neuf. Not content

with this, they seized on some luckless men who were descending the

steps, and clasping them with their powerful right arms, spun them

around like so many tops and sent them whizzing off at a tangent. Loud

bursts of laughter greeted this performance, and the stout river maidens

returned to their dance with redoubled spirit.

Yesterday, the famous procession of the "_boeuf gras_" took place for

the second time, with great splendor. The order of march had been duly

announced beforehand, and by noon all the streets and squares through

which it was to pass, were crowded with waiting spectators. Mounted gens

d'armes rode constantly to and fro, to direct the passage of vehicles

and keep an open thoroughfare. Thousands of country peasants poured into

the city, the boys of whom were seen in all directions, blowing

distressingly through hollow ox-horns. Altogether, the spirit of

nonsense which animated the crowd, displayed itself very amusingly.

A few mounted guards led the procession, followed by a band of music.

Then appeared Roman lictors and officers of sacrifice, leading

Dagobert, the famous bull of Normandy, destined to the honor of being

slaughtered as the Carnival beef. He trod rather tenderly, finding, no

doubt, a difference between the meadows of Caen and the pavements of

Paris, and I thought he would have been willing to forego his gilded

horns and flowery crown, to get back there again. His weight was said to

be four thousand pounds, and the bills pompously declared that he had no

rival in France, except the elephant in the _Jardin des Plantes_.

After him came the farmer by whom he was raised, and M. Roland, the

butcher of the carnival, followed by a hundred of the same craft,

dressed as cavaliers of the different ages of France. They made a very

showy appearance, although the faded velvet and soiled tinsel of their

mantles were rather too apparent by daylight.

After all these had gone by, came an enormous triumphal car, very

profusely covered with gilding and ornamental flowers. A fellow with

long woollen hair and beard, intended to represent Time, acted as

driver. In the car, under a gilded canopy, reposed a number of persons,

in blue silk smocks and yellow "fleshtights," said to be Venus, Apollo,

the Graces, &c. but I endeavored in vain to distinguish one divinity

from another. However, three children on the back seat, dressed in the

same style, with the addition of long flaxy ringlets, made very passable

Cupids. This closed the march; which passed onward towards the Place de

la Concorde, accompanied by the sounds of music and the shouts of the

mob. The broad, splendid line of Boulevards, which describe a

semi-circle around the heart of the city, were crowded, and for the

whole distance of three miles, it required no slight labor to make one's

way. People in masks and fancy costumes were continually passing and

re-passing, and I detected in more than one of the carriages, checks

rather too fair to suit the slouched hunter's hats which shaded them. It

seemed as if all Paris was taking a holiday, and resolved to make the

most of it.

CHAPTER XLVI.

A GLIMPSE OF NORMANDY.

After a residence of five weeks, which, in spite of some few troubles,

passed away quickly and delightfully, I turned my back on Paris. It was

not regret I experienced on taking my seat in the cars for Versailles,

but that feeling of reluctance with which we leave places whose

brightness and gaiety force the mind away from serious toil. Steam,

however, cuts short all sentiment, and in much less time than it takes

to bid farewell to a German, we had whizzed past the Place d'Europe,

through the barrier, and were watching the spires start up from the

receding city, on the way to St. Cloud.

At Versailles I spent three hours in a hasty walk through the palace,

which allowed but a bare glance at the gorgeous paintings of Horace

Vernet. His "Taking of Constantine" has the vivid look of reality. The

white houses shine in the sun, and from the bleached earth to the blue

and dazzling sky, there seems to hang a heavy, scorching atmosphere. The

white smoke of the artillery curls almost visibly off the canvass, and

the cracked and half-sprung walls look as if about to topple down on the

besiegers. One series of halls is devoted to the illustration of the

knightly chronicles of France, from the days of Charlemagne to those of

Bayard and Gaston de Foix. Among these pictured legends, I looked with

the deepest interest on that of the noble girl of Orleans. Her

countenance--the same in all these pictures and in a beautiful statue of

her, which stands in one of the corridors--is said to be copied from an

old and well-authenticated portrait. United to the sweetness and purity

of peasant beauty, she has the lofty brow and inspired expression of a

prophetess. There is a soft light in her full blue eye that does not

belong to earth. I wonder not the soldiery deemed her chosen by God to

lead them to successful battle; had I lived in those times I could have

followed her consecrated banner to the ends of the earth. In the statue,

she stands musing, with her head drooping forward, as if the weight of

the breastplate oppressed her woman's heart; the melancholy soul which

shines through the marble seems to forebode the fearful winding-up of

her eventful destiny.

The afternoon was somewhat advanced, by the time I had seen the palace

and gardens. After a hurried dinner at a restaurant, I shouldered my

knapsack and took the road to St. Germain. The day was gloomy and

cheerless, and I should have felt very lonely but for the thought of

soon reaching England. There is no time of the year more melancholy than

a cold, cloudy day in March; whatever may be the beauties of pedestrian

traveling in fairer seasons, my experience dictates that during winter

storms and March glooms, it had better be dispensed with. However, I

pushed on to St. Germain, threaded its long streets, looked down from

the height over its magnificent tract of forest and turned westward down

the Seine. Owing to the scantiness of villages, I was obliged to walk an

hour and a half in the wind and darkness, before I reached a solitary

inn. As I opened the door and asked for lodging, the landlady inquired

if I had the necessary papers. I answered in the affirmative and was

admitted. While I was eating supper, they prepared their meal on the

other end of the small table and sat down together. They fell into the

error, so common to ignorant persons, of thinking a foreigner could not

understand them, and began talking quite unconcernedly about me. "Why

don't he take the railroad?" said the old man: "he must have very little

money--it would be bad for us if he had none." "Oh!" remarked his son,

"if he had none, he would not be sitting there so quiet and

unconcerned." I thought there was some knowledge of human nature in this

remark. "And besides," added the landlady, "there is no danger for us,

for we have his passport." Of course I enjoyed this in secret, and

mentally pardoned their suspicions, when I reflected that the high roads

between Paris and London are frequented by many imposters, which makes

the people naturally mistrustful. I walked all the next day through a

beautiful and richly cultivated country. The early fruit trees were

bursting into bloom, and the farmers led out their cattle to pasturage

in the fresh meadows. The scenery must be delightful in summer--worthy

of all that has been said or sung about lovely Normandy. On the morning

of the third day, before reaching Rouen, I saw at a distance the remains

of Chateau Galliard, the favorite castle of Richard Coeur de Lion. Rouen

breathes everywhere of the ancient times of Normandy. Nothing can be

more picturesque than its quaint, irregular wooden houses, and the low,

mossy mills, spanning the clear streams which rush through its streets.

The Cathedral, with its four towers, rises from among the clustered

cottages like a giant rook, split by the lightning and worn by the rains

of centuries is into a thousand fantastic shapes.

Resuming my walk in the afternoon, I climbed the heights west of the

city, and after passing through a suburb four or five miles in length,

entered the vale of the Cailly. This is one of the sweetest scenes in

France. It lies among the woody hills like a Paradise, with its velvet

meadows and villas and breathing gardens. The grass was starred with

daisies and if I took a step into the oak and chesnut woods, I trampled

on thousands of anemones and fragrant daffodils. The upland plain,

stretching inward from the coast, wears a different character. As I

ascended, towards evening, and walked over its monotonous swells, I felt

almost homesick beneath its saddening influence. The sun, hazed over

with dull clouds, gave out that cold and lifeless light which is more

lonely than complete darkness. The wind, sweeping dismally over the

fields, sent clouds of blinding dust down the road, and as it passed

through the forests, the myriads of fine twigs sent up a sound as deep

and grand as the roar of a roused ocean. Every chink of the Norman

cottage where I slept, whistled most drearily, and as I looked out the

little window of my room, the trees were swaying in the gloom, and long,

black clouds scudded across the sky. Though my bed was poor and hard, it

was a sublime sound that cradled me into slumber. Homer might have used

it as the lullaby of Jove.

My last day on the continent came. I rose early and walked over the

hills towards Dieppe. The scenery grew more bleak as I approached the

sea, but the low and sheltered valleys preserved the pastoral look of

the interior. In the afternoon, as I climbed a long, elevated ridge,

over which a strong northwester was blowing, I was struck with a

beautiful rustic church, in one of the dells below me. While admiring

its neat tower I had gained unconsciously the summit of the hill, and on

turning suddenly around, lo! there was the glorious old Atlantic

stretching far before and around me! A shower was sweeping mistily along

the horizon and I could trace the white line of the breakers that foamed

at the foot of the cliffs. The scene came over me like a vivid electric

shock, and I gave an involuntary shout, which might have been heard in

all the valleys around. After a year and a half of wandering over the

continent, that gray ocean was something to be revered and loved, for it

clasped the shores of my native America.

I entered Dieppe in a heavy shower, and after finding an inn suited to

my means and obtaining a _permis d'embarquement_ from the police office,

I went out to the battlements and looked again on the sea. The landlord

promised to call me in time for the boat, but my anxiety waked me

sooner, and mistaking the strokes of the cathedral bell, I shouldered my

knapsack and went down to the wharf at one o'clock. No one was stirring

on board the boat, and I was obliged to pace the silent, gloomy streets

of the town for two hours. I watched the steamer glide out on the rainy

channel, and turning into the topmost berth, drew the sliding curtain

and strove to keep out cold and sea-sickness. But it was unavailing; a

heavy storm of snow and rain rendered our passage so dreary that I did

not stir until we were approaching the chain pier of Brighton.

I looked out on the foggy shores of England with a feeling of relief; my

tongue would now be freed from the difficult bondage of foreign

languages, and my ears be rejoiced with the music of my own. After two

hours' delay at the Custom House, I took my seat in an open car for

London. The day was dull and cold; the sun resembled a milky blotch in

the midst of a leaden sky. I sat and shivered, as we flew onward, amid

the rich, cultivated English scenery. At last the fog grew thicker; the

road was carried over the tops of houses; the familiar dome of St.

Paul's stood out above the spires; and I was again in London!

CHAPTER XLVII.

LOCKHART, BERNARD BARTON AND CROLY--LONDON CHIMES AND GREENWICH FAIR.

My circumstances, on arriving at London, were again very reduced. A

franc and a half constituted the whole of my funds. This, joined to the

knowledge of London expenses, rendered instant exertion necessary, to

prevent still greater embarrassment. I called on a printer the next

morning, hoping to procure work, but found, as I had no documents with

me to show I had served a regular apprenticeship, this would be

extremely difficult, although workmen were in great demand. Mr. Putnam,

however, on whom I had previously called, gave me employment for a time

in his publishing establishment, and thus I was fortunately enabled to

await the arrival of a remittance from home.

Mrs. Trollope, whom I met in Florence, kindly gave me a letter to

Murray, the publisher, and I visited him soon after my arrival. In his

library I saw the original portraits of Byron, Moore, Campbell and the

other authors who were intimate with him and his father. A day or two

afterwards I had the good fortune to breakfast with Lockhart and Bernard

Barton, at the house of the former. Mr. Murray, through whom the

invitation was given, accompanied me there. As it was late when we

arrived at Regent's Park, we found them waiting, and sat down

immediately to breakfast.

I was much pleased with Lockhart's appearance and manners. He has a

noble, manly countenance--in fact, the handsomest English face I ever

saw--a quick, dark eye and an ample forehead, shaded by locks which

show, as yet, but few threads of gray. There is a peculiar charm in his

rich, soft voice; especially when reciting poetry, it has a clear,

organ-like vibration, which thrills deliciously on the ear. His

daughter, who sat at the head of the table, is a most lovely and amiable

girl.

Bernard Burton, who is now quite an old man, is a very lively and

sociable Friend. His head is gray and almost bald, but there is still

plenty of fire in his eyes and life in his limbs. His many kind and

amiable qualities endear him to a large circle of literary friends. He

still continues writing, and within the last year has brought out a

volume of simple, touching "Household Verses." A picture of cheerful and

contented old age has never been more briefly and beautifully drawn,

than in the following lines, which he sent me, in answer to my desire to

possess one of his poems in his own hand:

STANZAS.

I feel that I am growing old,

Nor wish to hide that truth;

Conscious my heart is not more cold

Than in my by-gone youth.

I cannot roam the country round,

As I was wont to do;

My feet a scantier circle bound,

My eyes a narrower view.

But on my mental vision rise

Bright scenes of beauty still:

Morn's splendor, evening's glowing skies,

Valley, and grove, and hill.

Nor can infirmities o'erwhelm

The purer pleasures brought

From the immortal spirit's realm

Of feeling and of Thought!

My heart! let not dismay or doubt

In thee an entrance win!

Thou _hast_ enjoyed thyself _without_--

_Now seek thy joy within_!

During breakfast he related to us a pleasant anecdote of Scott. He once

wrote to the poet in behalf of a young lady, who wished to have the

description of Melrose, in the "Lay of the last Minstrel," in the poet's

own writing. Scott sent it, but added these lines to the conclusion:

"Then go, and muse with deepest awe

On what the writer never saw;

Who would not wander 'neath the moon

To see what he could see at noon!"

We went afterwards into Lockhart's library, which was full of

interesting objects. I saw the private diary of Scott, kept until within

a short time of his death. It was melancholy to trace the gradual

failing of all his energies in the very wavering of the autograph. In a

large volume of his correspondence, containing letters from Campbell,

Wordsworth, Byron, and all the distinguished characters of the age, I

saw Campbell's "Battle of the Baltic" in his own hand. I was highly

interested and gratified with the whole visit; the more so, as Mr.

Lockhart had invited me voluntarily, without previous acquaintance. I

have since heard him spoken of in the highest terms of esteem.

I went one Sunday to the Church of St. Stephen, to hear Croly, the poet.

The service, read by a drowsy clerk, was long and monotonous; I sat in a

side-aisle, looking up at the dome, and listening to the rain which

dashed in torrents against the windowpanes. At last, a tall, gray-haired

man came down the passage. He bowed with a sad smile, so full of

benevolence and resignation, that it went into my heart at once, and I

gave him an involuntary tribute of sympathy. He has a heavy affliction

to bear--the death of his gallant son, one of the officers who were

slain in the late battle of Ferozeshaw. His whole manner betrays the

tokens of subdued but constant grief.

His sermon was peculiarly finished and appropriate; the language was

clear and forcible, without that splendor of thought and dazzling

vividness of imagery which mark "Salathiel." Yet I could not help

noticing that he delighted to dwell on the spiritualities of religion,

rather than its outward observances, which he seemed inclined to hurry

over as lightly as possible. His mild, gray eye and lofty forehead are

more like the benevolent divine than the poet. I thought of Salathiel,

and looked at the dignified, sorrowful man before me. The picture of the

accursed Judean vanished, and his own solemn lines rang on my ear:

"The mighty grave

Wraps lord and slave,

Nor pride, nor poverty dares come

Within that prison-house, that tomb!"

Whenever I hear them, or think of them again, I shall see, in memory,

Croly's calm, pale countenance.

"The chimes, the chimes of Mother-land,

Of England, green and old;

That out from thane and ivied tower

A thousand years have tolled!"

I often thought of Coxe's beautiful ballad, when, after a day spent in

Waterloo Place, I have listened, on my way homeward, to the chimes of

Mary-le-bone Chapel, sounding sweetly and clearly above all the din of

the Strand. There is something in their silvery vibration, which is far

more expressive than the ordinary tones of a bell. The ear becomes weary

of a continued toll--the sound of some bells seems to have nothing more

in it than the ordinary clang of metal--but these simple notes,

following one another so melodiously, fall on the ear, stunned by the

ceaseless roar of carriages or the mingled cries of the mob, as gently

and gratefully as drops of dew. Whether it be morning, and they ring out

louder and deeper through the mist, or midnight, when the vast ocean of

being beneath them surges less noisily than its wont, they are alike

full of melody and poetry. I have often paused, deep in the night, to

hear those clear tones, dropping down from the darkness, thrilling, with

their full, tremulous sweetness, the still air of the lighted Strand,

and winding away through dark, silent lanes and solitary courts, till

the ear of the care-worn watcher is scarcely stirred with their dying

vibrations. They seemed like those spirit-voices, which, at such times,

speak almost audibly to the heart. How delicious it must be, to those

who dwell within the limits of their sound, to wake from some happy

dream and hear those chimes blending in with their midnight fancies,

like the musical echo of the promised bliss. I love these eloquent

bells, and I think there must be many, living out a life of misery and

suffering, to whom their tones come with an almost human consolation.

The natures of the very cockneys, who never go without the horizon of

their vibrations, is, to my mind, invested with _one_ hue of poetry!

A few days ago, an American friend invited me to accompany him to

Greenwich Fair. We took a penny steamer from Hungerford Market to London

Bridge, and jumped into the cars, which go every live minutes. Twelve

minutes' ride above the chimneys of London and the vegetable-fields of

Rotherhithe and Deptford brought us to Greenwich, we followed the stream

of people which was flowing from all parts of the city into the Park.

Here began the merriment. We heard on every side the noise of the

"scratchers," or, as the venders of these articles denominated

them--"the fun of the fair." By this is meant a little notched wheel,

with a piece of wood fastened on it, like a miniature watchman's rattle.

The "fun" consists in drawing them down the back of any one you pass,

when they make a sound precisely like that of ripping cloth. The women

take great delight in this, and as it is only deemed politeness to

return the compliment, we soon had enough to do. Nobody seemed to take

the diversion amiss, but it was so irresistibly droll to see a large

crowd engaged in this singular amusement, that we both burst into hearty

laughter.

As we began ascending Greenwich Hill, we were assailed with another kind

of game. The ground was covered with smashed oranges, with which the

people above and below were stoutly pelting each other. Half a dozen

heavy ones whizzed uncomfortably near my head as I went up, and I saw

several persons get the full benefit of a shot on their backs and

breasts. The young country lads and lasses amused themselves by running

at full spend down the steep side of a hill. This was, however, a feat

attended with some risk; for I saw one luckless girl describe an arc of

a circle, of which her feet was the centre and her body the radius. All

was noise and nonsense. They ran to and fro under the long, hoary bough

of the venerable oaks that crest the summit, and clattered down the

magnificent forest-avenues, whose budding foliage gave them little

shelter from the passing April showers.

The view from the top is splendid. The stately Thames curves through the

plain below, which loses itself afar off in the mist; Greenwich, with

its massive hospital, lies just at one's feet, and in a clear day the

domes of London skirt the horizon. The wood of the Park is entirely

oak--the majestic, dignified, English oak--which covers, in picturesque

clumps, the sides and summits of the two billowy hills. It must be a

sweet place in summer, when the dark, massive foliage is heavy on every

mossy arm, and the smooth and curving sward shines with thousands of

field-flowers.

Owing to the showers, the streets were coated with mud, of a consistence

as soft and yielding as the most fleecy Persian carpet. Near the gate,

boys were holding scores of donkeys, which they offered us at threepence

for a ride of two miles. We walked down towards the river, and came at

last to a group of tumblers, who with muddy hands and feet were throwing

somersets in the open street. I recognized them as old acquaintances of

the Rue St. Antoine and the Champs Elysées; but the little boy who cried

before, because he did not want to bend his head and foot into a ring,

like a hoop-snake, had learned his part better by this time, so that he

went through it all without whimpering and came off with only a fiery

red face. The exercises of the young gentlemen were of course very

graceful and classic, and the effect of their _poses_ of strength was

very much heightened by the muddy foot-marks which they left on each

other's orange-colored skins.

The avenue of booths was still more diverting. Here under sheets of

leaky awning, were exposed for sale rows of gilded gingerbread kings and

queens, and I cannot remember how many men and women held me fast by the

arms, determined to force me into buying a pound of them. We paused at

the sign: "SIGNOR URBANI'S GRAND MAGICAL DISPLAY." The title was

attractive, so we paid the penny admission, and walked behind the dark,

mysterious curtain. Two bare brick walls, three benches and a little boy

appeared to us. A sheet hung before us upon which quivered the shadow of

some terrible head. At my friend's command, the boy (also a spectator)

put out the light, when the awful and grinning face of a black woman

became visible. While we were admiring this striking production, thus

mysteriously revealed, Signor Urbani came in, and seeing no hope of any

more spectators, went behind the curtain and startled our sensitive

nerves with six or seven skeleton and devil apparitions, winding up the

wonderful entertainment with the same black head. We signified our

entire approbation by due applause and then went out to seek further

novelties.

The centre of the square was occupied by swings, where some eight or ten

boat-loads of persons were flying topsy-turvy into the air, making one

giddy to look at them, and constant fearful shrieks arose from the lady

swingers, at finding themselves in a horizontal or inverted position,

high above the ground. One of the machines was like a great wheel, with

four cars attached, which mounted and descended with their motley

freight. We got into the boat by way of experiment. The starting motion

was pleasant, but very soon it flew with a swiftness and to a height

rather alarming. I began to repent having chosen such a mode of

amusement, but held on as well as I could, in my uneasy place. Presently

we mounted till the long beam of our boat was horizontal; at one

instant, I saw three young ladies below me, with their heads downward,

like a shadow in the water--the next I was turned heels up, looking at

thorn as a shadow does at its original. I was fast becoming sea-sick,

when, after a few minutes of such giddy soaring, the ropes were

slackened and we all got out, looking somewhat pale, and feeling

nervous, if nothing else.

There were also many great tents, hung with boughs and lighted with

innumerable colored lamps, where the people danced their country dances

in a choking cloud of dry saw-dust. Conjurors and gymnastic performers

were showing off on conspicuous platforms, and a continual sound of

drums, cymbals and shrill trumpets called the attention of the crowd to

some "Wonderful Exhibition"--some infant phenomenon, giant, or

three-headed pig. A great part of the crowd belonged evidently to the

very worst part of society, but the watchfulness of the police prevented

any open disorder. We came away early and in a quarter of an hour were

in busy London, leaving far behind us the revel and debauch, which was

prolonged through the whole night.

London has the advantage of one of the most gloomy atmospheres in the

world. During this opening spring weather, no light and scarcely any

warmth can penetrate the dull, yellowish-gray mist, which incessantly

hangs over the city. Sometimes at noon we have for an hour or two a

sickly gleam of sunshine, but it is soon swallowed up by the smoke and

drizzling fog. The people carry umbrellas at all times, for the rain

seems to drop spontaneously out of the very air, without wailing for the

usual preparation of a gathering cloud. Professor Espy's rules would be

of little avail here.

A few days ago we had a real fog--a specimen of November weather, as the

people said. If November wears such a mantle, London, during that sober

month, must furnish a good idea of the gloom of Hades. The streets wore

wrapped in a veil of dense mist, of a dirty yellow color, as if the air

had suddenly grown thick and mouldy. The houses on the opposite sides of

the street were invisible, and the gas lamps, lighted in the shops,

burned with a white and ghastly flame. Carriages ran together in the

streets, and I was kept constantly on the look-out, lest some one should

come suddenly out of the cloud around me, and we should meet with a

shock like that of two knights at a tournament. As I stood in the centre

of Trafalgar Square, with every object invisible around me, it reminded

me, (hoping the comparison will not be accepted in every particular) of

Satan resting in the middle of Chaos. The weather sometimes continues

thus for whole days together.

_April 26._--An hour and a half of land are still allowed us, and then

we shall set foot on the back of the oak-ribbed leviathan, which will be

our home until a thousand leagues of blue ocean are crossed. I shall

hear the old Aldgate clock strike for the last time--I shall take a last

walk through the Minories and past the Tower yard, and as we glide down

the Thames, St. Pauls, half-hidden in mist and coal-smoke, will probably

be my last glimpse of London.

CHAPTER XLVIII.

HOMEWARD BOUND----CONCLUSION.

We slid out of St. Katharine's Dock at noon on the appointed day, and

with a pair of sooty steamboats hitched to our vessel, moved slowly down

the Thames in mist and drizzling rain. I stayed on the wet deck all

afternoon, that I might more forcibly and joyously feel we were again in

motion on the waters and homeward bound! My attention was divided

between the dreary views of Blackwall, Greenwich and Woolwich, and the

motley throng of passengers who were to form our ocean society. An

English family, going out to settle in Canada, were gathered together in

great distress and anxiety, for the father had gone ashore in London at

a late hour, and was left behind. When we anchored for the night at

Gravesend, their fears were quieted by his arrival in a skiff from the

shore, as he had immediately followed us by railroad.

My cousin and B---- had hastened on from Paris to join me, and a day

before the sailing of the "Victoria," we took berths in the second

cabin, for twelve pounds ten shillings each, which in the London line of

packets, includes coarse but substantial fare for the whole voyage. Our

funds were insufficient to pay even this; but Captain Morgan, less

mistrustful than my Norman landlord, generously agreed that the

remainder of the fare should be paid in America. B---- and I, with two

young Englishmen, took possession of a State-room of rough boards,

lighted by a bull's-eye, which in stormy weather leaked so much that our

trunks swam in water. A narrow mattrass and blanket, with a knapsack for

a pillow, formed a passable bed. A long entry between the rooms, lighted

by a feeble swinging lamp, was filled with a board table, around which

the thirty-two second cabin passengers met to discuss politics and salt

pork, favorable winds and hard sea-biscuit.

We lay becalmed opposite Sheerness the whole of the second day. At dusk

a sudden squall came up, which drove us foaming towards the North

Foreland. When I went on deck in the morning, we had passed Dover and

Brighton, and the Isle of Wight was rising dim ahead of us. The low

English coast on our right was bordered by long reaches of dazzling

chalky sand, which glittered along the calm blue water.

Gliding into the Bay of Portsmouth, we dropped anchor opposite the

romantic town of Ryde, built on the sloping shore of the green Isle of

Wight. Eight or nine vessels of the Experimental Squadron were anchored

near us, and over the houses of Portsmouth, I saw the masts of the

Victory--the flag-ship in the battle of Trafalgar, on board of which

Nelson was killed. The wind was not strong enough to permit the passage

of the Needles, so at midnight we succeeded in wearing back again into

the channel, around the Isle of Wight. A head wind forced us to tack

away towards the shore of France. We were twice in sight of the rocky

coast of Brittany, near Cherbourg, but the misty promontory of Land's

End was our last glimpse of the old world.

On one of our first days at sea, I caught a curlew, which came flying on

weary wings towards us, and alighted on one of the boats. Two of his

brethren, too much exhausted or too timid to do likewise, dropped flat

on the waves and resigned themselves to their fate without a struggle. I

slipped up and caught his long, lank legs, while he was resting with

flagging wings and half-shut eyes. We fed him, though it was difficult

to get anything down his reed-shaped bill; but he took kindly to our

force-work, and when we let him loose on the deck, walked about with an

air quite tame and familiar. He died, however, two days afterwards. A

French pigeon, which was caught in the rigging, lived and throve during

the whole of the passage.

A few days afterwards, a heavy storm came on, and we were all sleepless

and sea-sick, as long as it lasted. Thanks, however, to a beautiful law

of memory, the recollection of that dismal period soon lost its

unpleasantness, while the grand forms of beauty the vexed ocean

presented, will remain forever, as distinct and abiding images. I kept

on deck as long as I could stand, watching the giant waves over which

our vessel took her course. They rolled up towards us, thirty or forty

feet in height--dark gray masses, changing to a beautiful vitriol tint,

wherever the light struck through their countless and changing crests.

It was a glorious thing to see our good ship mount slowly up the side of

one of these watery lulls, till her prow was lifted high in air, then,

rocking over its brow, plunge with a slight quiver downward, and plough

up a briny cataract, as she struck the vale. I never before realized the

terrible sublimity of the sea. And yet it was a pride to see how

man--strong in his godlike will--could bid defiance to those whelming

surges, and bravo their wrath unharmed.

We swung up and down on the billows, till we scarcely knew which way to

stand. The most grave and sober personages suddenly found themselves

reeling in a very undignified manner, and not a few measured their

lengths on the slippery decks. Boxes and barrels were affected in like

manner; everything danced around us. Trunks ran out from under the

berths; packages leaped down from the shelves; chairs skipped across the

rooms, and at table, knives, forks and mugs engaged in a general waltz

and _break down_. One incident of this kind was rather laughable. One

night, about midnight, the gale, which had been blowing violently,

suddenly lulled, "as if," to use a sailor's phrase, "it had been chopped

off!" Instantly the ship gave a tremendous lurch, which was the signal

for a general breaking loose. Two or three others followed, so violent,

that for a moment I imagined the vessel had been thrown on her beam

ends. Trunks, crockery and barrels went banging down from one end of the

ship to the other. The women in the steerage set up an awful scream, and

the German emigrants, thinking we were in terrible danger, commenced

praying with might and main. In the passage near our room stood several

barrels, filled with broken dishes, which at every lurch went banging

from side to side, jarring the board partition and making a horrible

din. I shall not soon forget the Babel which kept our eyes open that

night.

The 19th of May a calm came on. Our white wings flapped idly on the

mast, and only the top-gallant sails were bent enough occasionally to

lug us along at a mile an hour. A barque from Ceylon, making the most of

the wind, with every rag of canvass set, passed us slowly on the way

eastward. The sun went down unclouded, and a glorious starry night

brooded over us. Its clearness and brightness were to me indications of

America. I longed to be on shore. The forests about home were then

clothed in the delicate green of their first leaves, and that bland

weather embraced the sweet earth like a blessing of heaven. The gentle

breath from out the west seemed made for the odor of violets, and as it

came to me over the slightly-ruflled deep, I thought how much sweeter it

were to feel it, while "wasting in wood-paths the voluptuous hours."

Soon afterwards a fresh wind sprung up, which increased rapidly, till

every sail was bent to the full. Our vessel parted the brine with an

arrowy glide, the ease and grace of which it is impossible to describe.

The breeze held on steadily for two or three days, which brought us to

the southern extremity of the Banks. Here the air felt so sharp and

chilling, that I was afraid we might be under the lee of an iceberg, but

in the evening the dull gray mass of clouds lifted themselves from the

horizon, and the sun set in clear, American beauty away beyond Labrador.

The next morning we were enveloped in a dense fog, and the wind which

bore us onward was of a piercing coldness. A sharp look-out was kept on

the bow, but as we could see but a short distance, it might have been

dangerous had we met one of the Arctic squadron. At noon it cleared away

again, and the bank of fog was visible a long time astern, piled along

the horizon, reminding me of the Alps, as seen from the plains of

Piedmont.

On the 31st, the fortunate wind which carried us from the Banks, failed

us about thirty-five miles from Sandy Hook. We lay in the midst of the

mackerel fishery, with small schooners anchored all around us. Fog,

dense and impenetrable, weighed on the moveless ocean, like an

atmosphere of wool. The only incident to break the horrid monotony of

the day, was the arrival of a pilot, with one or two newspapers,

detailing the account of the Mexican War. We heard in the afternoon the

booming of the surf along the low beach of Long Island--hollow and

faint, like the murmur of a shell. When the mist lifted a little, we

saw the faint line of breakers along the shore. The Germans gathered on

deck to sing their old, familiar songs, and their voices blended

beautifully together in the stillness.

Next morning at sunrise we saw Sandy Hook; at nine o'clock we were

telegraphed in New York by the station at Coney Island; at eleven the

steamer "Hercules" met us outside the Hook; and at noon we were gliding

up the Narrows, with the whole ship's company of four hundred persons on

deck, gazing on the beautiful shores of Staten Island and agreeing

almost universally, that it was the most delightful scene they had ever

looked upon.

And now I close the story of my long wandering, as I began it--with a

lay written on the deep.

HOMEWARD BOUND.

Farewell to Europe! Days have come and gone

Since misty England set behind the sea.

Our ship climbs onward o'er the lifted waves,

That gather up in ridges, mountain-high,

And like a sea-god, conscious in his power,

Buffets the surges. Storm-arousing winds

That sweep, unchecked, from frozen Labrador,

Make wintry music through the creaking shrouds.

Th' horizon's ring, that clasps the dreary view,

Lays mistily upon the gray Atlantic's breast.

Shut out, at times, by bulk of sparry blue,

That, rolling near us, heaves the swaying prow

High on its shoulders, to descend again

Ploughing a thousand cascades, and around

Spreading the frothy foam. These watery gulfs,

With storm, and winds far-sweeping, hem us in,

Alone upon the waters!

Days must pass--

Many and weary--between sea and sky.

Our eyes, that long e'en now for the fresh green

Of sprouting forests, and the far blue stretch

Of regal mountains piled along the sky,

Must see, for many an eve, the level sun

Sheathe, with his latest gold, the heaving brine,

By thousand ripples shivered, or Night's pomp

Brooding in silence, ebon and profound,

Upon the murmuring darkness of the deep,

Broken by flashings, that the parted wave

Sends white and star-like throujch its bursting foam.

Yet not more dear the opening dawn of heaven

Poured on the earth in an Italian May,

When souls take wings upon the scented air

Of starry meadows, and the yearning heart

Pains with deep sweetness in the balmy time,

Than these gray morns, and days of misty blue,

And surges, never-ceasing;--for our prow

Points to the sunset like a morning ray,

And o'er the waves, and through the sweeping storms,

Through day and darkness, rushes ever on,

Westward and westward still! What joy can send

The spirit thrilling onward with the wind,

In untamed exultation, like the thought

That fills the Homeward Bound?

Country and home!

Ah! not the charm of silver-tongued romance,

Born of the feudal time, nor whatsoe'er

Of dying glory fills the golden realms

Of perished song, where heaven-descended Art

Still boasts her later triumphs, can compare

With that one thought of liberty inherited--

Of free life giv'n by fathers who were free,

And to be left to children freer still!

That pride and consciousness of manhood, caught

From boyish musings on the holy graves

Of hero-martyrs, and from every form

Which virgin Nature, mighty and unchained,

Takes in an empire not less proudly so--

Inspired in mountain airs, untainted yet

By thousand generations' breathing--felt

Like a near presence in the awful depths

Of unhewn forests, and upon the steep

Where giant rivers take their maddening plunge--

Has grown impatient of the stifling damps

Which hover close on Europe's shackled soil.

Content to tread awhile the holy steps

Of Art and Genius, sacred through all time,

The spirit breathed that dull, oppressive air--

Which, freighted with its tyrant-clouds, o'erweighs

The upward throb of many a nation's soul--

Amid those olden memories, felt the thrall.

But kept the birth-right of its freer home,

Here, on the world's blue highway, comes again

The voice of Freedom, heard amid the roar

Of sundered billows, while above the wave

Rise visions of the forest and the stream.

Like trailing robes the morning mists uproll,

Torn by the mountain pines; the flashing rills

Shout downward through the hollows of the vales;

Down the great river's bosom shining sails

Glide with a gradual motion, while from all--

Hamlet, and bowered homestead, and proud town--

Voices of joy ring up into heaven!

Yet louder, winds! Urge on our keel, ye waves,

Swift as the spirit's yearnings! We would ride

With a loud stormy motion o'er your crests,

With tempests shouting like a sudden joy--

Interpreting our triumph! 'Tis your voice,

Ye unchained elements, alone can speak

The sympathetic feeling of the free--

The arrowy impulse of the Homeward Bound!

* * * * *

Although the narrative of my journey, "with knapsack and staff," is now

strictly finished, a few more words of explanation seem necessary, to

describe more fully the method of traveling which we adopted. I add them

the more willingly, as it is my belief that many, whose circumstances

are similar to mine, desire to undertake the same romantic journey. Some

matter-of-fact statements may be to them useful as well as interesting.

We found the pedestrian style not only by far the best way to become

acquainted with the people and sceneryof a country, but the pleasantest

mode of traveling. To be sure, the knapsack was, at first, rather heavy,

our feet were often sore and our limbs weary, but a few days walking

made a great difference, and after we had traveled two weeks, this

disappeared altogether. Every morning we rose as fresh and strong as if

it had been the first day--even after a walk of thirty miles, we felt

but little fatigue. We enjoyed slumber in its fullest luxury, and our

spirits were always light and joyous. We made it a rule to pay no regard

to the weather, unless it was so bad as to render walking unhealthy.

Often, during the day, we rested for half an hour on the grassy bank,

or sometimes, if it was warm weather, lay at full length in the shade

with our knapsacks under our heads. This is a pleasure which none but

the pedestrian can comprehend.

We always accepted a companion, of whatever kind, while walking--from

chimney-sweeps to barons. In a strange country one can learn something

from every peasant, and we neglected no opportunity, not only to obtain

information, but impart it. We found everywhere great curiosity

respecting America, and we were always glad to tell them all they wished

to know. In Germany, we were generally taken for Germans from some part

of the country where the dialect was a little different, or, if they

remarked our foreign peculiarities, they supposed we were either Poles,

Russians, or Swiss. The greatest ignorance in relation to America,

prevails among the common people. They imagine we are a savage race,

without intelligence and almost without law. Persons of education, who

had some slight knowledge of our history, showed a curiosity to know

something of our political condition. They are taught by the German

newspapers (which are under a strict censorship in this respect) to look

only at the evil in our country, and they almost invariably began by

adverting to Slavery and Repudiation. While we admitted, often with

shame and mortification, the existence of things so inconsistent with

true republicanism, we endeavored to make them comprehend the advantages

enjoyed by the free citizen--the complete equality of birth--which

places America, despite her sins, far above any other nation on earth. I

could plainly see, by the kindling eye and half-suppressed sigh, that

they appreciated a freedom so immeasurably greater than that which they

enjoyed.

In large cities we always preferred to take the second or third-rate

hotels, which are generally visited by merchants and persons who travel

on business; for, with the same comforts as the first rank, they are

nearly twice as cheap. A traveler, with a guide-book and a good pair of

eyes, can also dispense with the services of a _courier_, whose duty it

is to conduct strangers about the city, from one lion to another. We

chose rather to find out and view the "sights" at our leisure. In small

villages, where we were often obliged to stop, we chose the best hotels,

which, particularly in Northern Germany and in Italy, are none too

good. But if it was a _post_, that is, a town where the post-chaise

stops to change horses, we usually avoided the post-hotel, where one

must pay high for having curtains before his windows and a more elegant

cover on his bed. In the less splendid country inns, we always found

neat, comfortable lodging, and a pleasant, friendly reception from the

people. They saluted us on entering, with "Be you welcome," and on

leaving, wished us a pleasant journey and good fortune. The host, when

he brought us supper or breakfast, lifted his cap, and wished us a good

appetite--and when he lighted us to our chambers, left us with "May you

sleep well!" We generally found honest, friendly people; they delighted

in telling us about the country around; what ruins there were in the

neighborhood--and what strange legends were connected with them. The

only part of Europe where it is unpleasant to travel in this manner, is

Bohemia. We could rarely find a comfortable inn; the people all spoke an

unknown language, and were not particularly celebrated for their

honesty. Beside this, travelers rarely go on foot in those regions; we

were frequently taken for traveling handworker, and subjected to

imposition.

With regard to passports, although they were vexatious and often

expensive, we found little difficulty when we had acquainted ourselves

with the regulations concerning them. In France and Germany they are

comparatively little trouble; in Italy they are the traveler's greatest

annoyance. Americans are treated with less strictness, in this respect,

than citizens of other nations, and, owing to the absence of rank among

us, we also enjoy greater advantages of acquaintance and intercourse.

The expenses of traveling in England, although much greater than in our

own country, may, as we learned by experience, be brought, through

economy, within the same compass. Indeed, it is my belief, from

observation, that, with few exceptions, throughout Europe, where a

traveler enjoys the same comfort and abundance as in America, he must

pay the same prices. The principal difference is, that he only pays for

what he gets, so that, if he be content with the necessities of life,

without its luxuries, the expense is in proportion. I have given, at

times, through the foregoing chapters, the cost of travel and residence

in Europe, yet a connected estimate will better show the _minimum_

expense of a two years' pilgrimage:

Voyage to Liverpool, in the second cabin . . . . . . . . . . . $24.00

Three weeks' travel in Ireland and Scotland . . . . . . . . . 25.00

A week in London, at three shillings a day . . . . . . . . . . 4.50

From London to Heidelberg . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 15.00

A month at Heidelberg, and trip to Frankfort . . . . . . . . . 20.00

Seven months in Frankfort, at $10 per month . . . . . . . . . 70.00

Fuel, passports, excursions and other expenses . . . . . . . . 30.00

Tour through Cassel, the Hartz, Saxony, Austria, Bavaria, etc. 40.00

A month in Frankfort . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 10.00

From Frankfort through Switzerland, and over the Alps

to Milan . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 15.00

From Milan to Genoa . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 60

Expenses from Genoa to Florence . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 14.00

Four months in Florence . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 50.00

Eight day's journey from Florence to Rome, two weeks in

Rome, voyage to Marseilles and journey to Paris . . . . . . 40.00

Five weeks in Paris . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 15.00

From Paris to London . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 8.00

Six weeks in London, at three shillings a day . . . . . . . . 31.00

Passage home . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 60.00

------

$472.00

The cost for places of amusement, guides' fees, and other small

expenses, not included in this list, increase the sum total to $500, for

which the tour may be made. Now, having, I hope, established this to the

reader's satisfaction, I respectfully take leave of him.

THE END.