CHAPTER XII.

St. Jean de Maurienne—A tradition of two fingers—Story of a procession of bears at Henry the Second’s passage—Peculiar customs—Baptism—Funerals—Aiguebelle—La Carbonaria—Chambéry—-Road by theMont du Chat—A valley of the Rhone—Pierre Châtelonce a monastery—Bellay—Murder committed by a notary—A peculiar race—Pont d’Ain—Cathedral ofBrou—Its foundress and her motto—Bourg—Fair-time—Anaubergiste—Montrevel—We are taken for part of Franconi’s troop—Tournus—Chalons—Arnay le Duc—Vermenton—Joigny—A poor traveller—The chapter ofSens—MontereauwhereJean sans Peurwas murdered—Melun—Paris—Fanny.

4th November.

Left St. Michel early as possible, (the mountains before us, along whose edge a passage from the road has been blasted, seeming to shut in the valley,) skirting the bright river, which widens and winds, forming birch and fir islets, its small waves all golden, not from the sun, which does not look down on them so early, but the reflection of the autumnal foliage on the hill side.St. Jean de Maurienne, two posts farther, has a good inn; looking back to it from the turn of the road, the view was smiling and lovely. In the vestibule of the cathedral are the tomb of Humbert ofthe white hands, and others of the first counts ofLa Maurienne, and in its treasury are preserved the two fingers of John the Baptist, with which it is said he baptized Jesus Christ. According to the traditions of the country, a young girl born in the environs went to Egypt, whence she brought them back in a golden box. Gontran, king of Burgundy and Orleans, built, in the year 561, the church which was destined to contain these precious relics, and the town, tendering to them the respect due, added two fingers to its arms!!

The country surroundingSt. Jeanproduces bears, and theMaréchal de Viellevilletells an amusing anecdote relating to the passage of Henry the Second of France in 1548:—

“He was prayed by the bishop and the inhabitants to honour them by making his entry into their town with some pomp, promising him some new diversion which would gratify and was unknown to him. The king consequently presented himself at the gates ofMaurienne, accompanied by a train suited to royalty, but having entered and moved forward about two hundred paces, he was suddenly met by a company of men in bearskins, but their heads, hands and feet as well as their bodies so masked and accoutred, that they might be taken for real bears, and issuingfrom a street to the beat of drum, banners earned before them, and each bearing a pole on his shoulder, placed themselves between the king and his Swiss guards, marching four and four, to the wonder of the court, and the people conducted the king, who was marvellously delighted at seeing bears so well counterfeited, to the portal of the church, where, according to custom, Henry dismounted, and where the bishop and clergy waited his coming, forming a station with cross and relics, in their ornaments and richest attire, and with sacred music to welcome him.”

“The service over, the above named bears brought the king back to his lodging, and executed before it a thousand bearish gambols, such as wrestling and climbing along the houses and up the pillars of the market, and, admirable to relate, they imitated with such truth to nature, the howling of bears, that one might have fancied oneself in the mountains; and seeing that his majesty from his apartments took great pleasure in watching them, the whole hundred assembled beneath and howled simultaneously a manner of salvo, so fearful, that a great number of horses, mounted by valets and lackeys, and in waiting before the king’s lodging, broke violently girths and reins, flung their riders, and dashed in their terror over the bodies of all who stoodon their passage. The king confessed he had never been so gratified by rural device and drollery, and bestowed two thousand crowns.”

St. Jean de Maurienneretains peculiar customs and ceremonies on the occasion of baptism, marriage and funeral. The cradle of a male child, in honour of its sex, is carried on the right shoulder, and the bells are rung to welcome its birth; they are silent for a female, and the left shoulder is the less dignified place on which rests her cradle.

The young man who aspires to the hand of a maiden seeks her cottage at night, accompanied by one comrade. If she places upright in the chimney one of the logs burning in the hearth, it is a token of his being rejected. Should this fatal sign remain unmade, preliminaries are entered upon, and the future bridegroom invites his father-in-law to the public-house, where all is arranged, and the young man, reconducted to the cottage, gives earnest-money to his intended wife. They are then affianced without ceremony. The night before the marriage the relations of both are invited to the maiden’s house, who hides herself, and is sought by her lover and his comrades, and welcomed when found with rustic music. The wedding morning, the friends and guests, covered with cockades and laurel branches, conduct the couple to church. Themother-in-law of the maiden waits her return and receives her with various and symbolical ceremonies. A broom is laid on her path; if she forgets to take it up it is a mournful omen, and a sign that she will prove a bad housewife. Her mother-in-law throws a handful of corn at her head in token of the plenty which is to form the happiness of her household.

She next finds placed before her a loaf, which she is to cut and distribute to the poor, and a kettle of broth wherewith to serve the guests, in token of charity and hospitality. Then follows the meal: a cake is brought in, ornamented with laurel branches, and a child carries round the table a plate, on which each person lays his offering, which is presented to the bride, and by her given to the poor.

When a man dies in these countries, two of his neighbours dig his grave, others carry him thither, and the ceremony ends by a repast, during which the guests drink to the memory of the departed, and the health of those who have “made the ground.” There are parishes in which it is the custom to lay every Sunday, during a year, a loaf and a pint of wine on the dead man’s grave. If the decease takes place on a Friday, it is a sign of new misfortune to his family. The new-born child and the person carrying it, who meet a funeral, are destined to follow within a year.

We passedLa Grande Maison,a low inn by the road-side, and a little further, arrived at one of those sweet spots which make landmarks in one’s memory—the entrance of a village, beyond which the mountains meet again; where a one-arched bridge spans the river before a mass of black rock, and the remains of one which former storms swept away, and is now scarce visible through the vegetation which covers it; and cottages on the shore, with trellised vines and gay flower gardens sloping to the water.

We had lingered on the way, and it was late and the fog rising, when we entered the marshy valley in which standsAiguebelle, at whose entrance among the trees which cover its summit may still be traced the ruins of Carbonaria, or, as the Savoyards call it, the Castle ofLa Charbonnière,which was the birthplace and the residence of the first counts of Savoy, but, taken by Henry the Fourth, was razed to the ground. At no great distance fromAiguebelle, is, or rather was, the village ofRandans,on which a mass of rock, detached from that of Combes, slipped suddenly down in June, 1750. The soil is now on a level with the steeple of the church, through whose windows it is possible to enter the buried edifice. The inn ofAiguebelle(la Posta) good and comfortable.

5th November.

A morning of clouds and vapour floating over the hills, and hardly favourable to the cold on my chest, which causes me some suffering; a road all rises and falls, mud and stones, but looking down on a fair valley, whose wooded hillocks are again crowned with ruined castles.Maltaverne,orChateauneuf,as it is called, may possess a good inn, but it looks unpromising; I should be more inclined to try the Balance at St. Ambrose, a little farther. At last, from this narrow road which winds between green hedges, descending abruptly, we come on the rock ofMontmeillan,(of whose importance you can only on this side be aware,) the high cliff commanding it, and the broad bed of theIsèrebelow. From the bridge which crosses the latterMont Blancwas not to-day visible, hid in clouds called up by the north-easter. The road skirts the dirty town, and is carried across the lower portion of the rock, (D—— said a surly No! to the innkeeper who summoned us to his bad inn,) and we rode on toChambéry, through scenery changed and saddened in the four months which have elapsed since we left it, amongst leafless walnut-trees and fading yellow poplars. Found on the muddy road the white-haired and half blind beggar, who was our pensioner. He thanked me for my returngift, with “Merci, mon garçon,” and entering by theFaubourg Montmeillan,Fanny made no mistake, but passing scornfully the Europe and Petit Paris, entered her own inn-yard.

11th November.

Though really ill when I arrived, the comfortable bed I found ready, and the care of these kind people, who madetisanesinnumerable, has already worked a cure. So having found no letters, and having three days borne with the anxiety the want of them occasioned, I decided on leaving for Geneva, where I had also desired they might be sent on. As we were about to start this morning, anemployéof the post-office appeared bearer of three, whose arrival took place before our own, and my mind being at ease, we are to take the road over theMont du Chat, eleven posts shorter than that by Geneva.

ToBourget,the first post, we crossed the plain, commencing only to ascend when we had passed its village and ruined castle on the lake shore. To us who expected a quiet promenade on a hill-side, theMont du Chatwas a surprise; its bold zigzags, often without parapets, leading to the very summit, the eye looking perpendicularly down to the blue water, and the autumnal foliage of the chestnuttrees which cover a portion of its base, and among which hidesHautecombe.

Beyond the abbey the foot of the Mont du Chat is barren and wild, a mass of grey rock descending to the lake without relief or verdure. Aix, and the range of mountains at its back, theMont d’Azi,and theDent de Nivolet,lie on the opposite shore,Chambéryand his snowy mountains behind, faintly outlined to-day through mists called up by the hottest sun which ever shone in November. Each bend of the zigzags of this splendid road is supported by a rounded wall from beneath, resembling towers, and the first of which deceived me, then on the look out for a Roman ruin, and so determined on its discovery, as to believe that this might be a part of the temple raised to Mercury, whose foundations may really be traced still on the little plain at the summit of the pass. Not far beyond this level of a few yards we rode by a ruin of another date, being the remnant of a Gothic portal. Descending once more, though the view had lost its chief charm with the bright glory of the lake ofBourget,it yet possessed boldness and grandeur, looking over broken hills topped by towns, strangely grouped, and barren, and terminated by the mountain of Tarare, recalling Scott’s descriptions of border country. On our path, beneath the jagged line of whitecliff on the left, were green pastures, hiding in nooks, belted with rocks and patches of woodland through which peeped cottage chimneys, and streams fringed with trees, the trunks of prostrate elms serving for bridge over them, and fair fresh children watching the cattle which browsed on the strips of turf along their banks. Arrived at the foot of theMont du Chat, we soon after reached Yenne, a prettily-situated but most ill-favoured town, beyond which the road continued level till it suddenly crossed the bed of a torrent, one of the Rhone’s tributaries. This being the diligence route, they talk of building a bridge, but the width of the winter bed would render it a work of difficulty, though to-day the stream was but about forty feet wide, and barely reached our horses’ knees. A few steps further brought us to the brink of the Rhone, and within a most stern and solitary glen, a valley of stone. On our left, where its wall rose, its cold grey only varied by stains the weather has made, bare of leaf or living thing; on the right, and the river’s opposite shore, greenly feathered to the summit, and a mere line of crag, showing white among the brushwood, like an embattled wall. A sudden bend of the river parts it from the road, which, scarcely broad enough for one carriage, winds under and among tall crags,scattered over turf like velvet, till it enters a gallery formed by two of these, which might serve for portal to Dante’s Inferno. The sides are so high, and the aperture they leave so narrow, that no sunshine penetrates to dissipate its chill or darkness; and down the face of its upper portion, and through the more opaque mass which projects below, a winter torrent, which now only trickles, has worn itself a deep groove and circular passage.

Emerging from the few yards of obscurity, we were again on the bank of the rapid Rhone, the frontier fortress ofPierre Châtelcrowning the high grand cliff opposite, and before us the light suspension bridge gracefully crossing the river, uniting Savoy to France. Half way up the cliff side and imbedded in it, a picturesque object among trees and briars which spring round, is a loopholed wall flanked by two low towers, the private entrance to the fort, to which conducts a stair cut in the living rock. Arrived at the bridge, two stupid Savoydouaniersdetained us twenty minutes ere they could understand our non-possession of receipts for horse-duty, taken from us when the money was returned. On the French shore, the men said, that being a festival, they could not tell whether Monsieur would or would not descend from his pavilion to give the acquit à caution. We observed that, if that were the case, hewould do well to build an inn. The old gentleman appeared on his terrace shrugging his shoulders in sign of impatience, but at last thought proper to come down, and the horses being measured and the fifty-five francs paid, we were allowed to ride on, having lost an hour.

Pierre Châtel, now a fortress, was once a fortified monastery, raised byAmedéethe Sixth, in the fourteenth century, who founded the order of the collar of Savoy, now named of the Annonciade, the Chartreuse ofPierre Châtelserving as chapel and place of assembly for the knights of the order. It was only when Bresse and Bugey had been ceded by Charles Emmanuel to Henry the Fourth of France, that the meetings of the knights of the order were transferred toMontmeillan,and not very long since the armorial bearings of those received during the fifteenth and sixteenth centuries were still hung in one of the vast halls.

The road passing from the bridge beneath the crag on which the fortress stands, though quitting the Rhone here, continues very beautiful as far as Bellay, bold in the distance and wooded near,—but the hills are frequent and fatiguing, and the last the worst, as the town is perched on a pinnacle. The miserable inn is on the Place, and the window of ourbedroom looked on the closed office of the notary Peytel. You may remember that the 31st of October twelvemonth, driving home in his cabriolet from Bourg, to obtain sole command of her fortune, he murdered his young wife, having first shot the servant, (a man of irreproachable character,) as on him was to lie the weight of the crime. The story Peytel told was at first believed, but his forgetfulness had left his servant’s still loaded pistols on his person, and his guilt came strangely to light. His fellow notaries, not liking the stain of an execution on their brotherhood, drew up a petition in his favour. It appears that notwithstanding his double murder, he excited sympathy, and himself believed in the possibility of pardon; and bearing out the assertion “that all the world is a stage and the men merely players,” to obtain a last dramatic effect he embraced the gaoler’s wife ere he went to execution, and bade her mark that his countenance had undergone no change. The servant, while lighting my fire, said his sister had gone to Paris to petition the king, but had done so in vain, because it was said that Peytel was not abrave homme, as this was not hispremière fois. So that, according to Fanchette’s code of morality, a man may be abrave hommewho commits murder only apremière fois. Bad dinner and bad beds.

The hostler asked D—— if I did not belong to a peculiar race called Amazons, always attired thus.

Pont d’Ain, 12th November.

Rose early to leave Bellay ditto, and were detained by seeing the rain pouring down on the melancholy Place, and the red umbrellas of people who crossed it insabots,and the dripping diligence just arrived, wrinkling the widened gutter where half a dozen ducks were dipping their heads in the water and seemed triumphing in their superior powers of enjoyment. As the inn was not tempting, we left it as soon as the shower in some degree subsided, and a short distance and gentle ascent brought us to the identical bridge, the scene of the murder. It crosses a sluggish stream which creeps on either side of it and of the road over low and marshy meadows. The spot has a melancholy aspect, partly perhaps from its associations and the weather on which we saw it. A few fine oaks grow here and there, near one of which the man was murdered, and within hearing are several cottages, one so close that its inhabitants might almost, had the moon been bright (for it was eleven o’clock), have seen what was passing. The marsh, to which she fled in her terror, was on the right hand as we approachedthe bridge, and having pursued and shot her there, he feared she was not quite dead, and ere he feigned to seek assistance, laid her, face downwards, in the water, and preserving his coolness when he returned, placed her corpse in the cabriolet and drove beside his victim into Bellay.

Our road entered a desolate glen, where the deposits formed by the heavy rains have made small lakes or rather large pools under the bare hills. This melancholy valley is succeeded by one of surpassing beauty, for there are crags still grey and shattered but peeping above wooded hills on which stand the proud ruins of convent and castle, or with vineyards growing up their sides, the clear water of the rapid stream at their foot flashing as it turns watermills, and in the hollow where it flows so busily, oak and chestnut, and walnut, and ash-trees, forming groves rich and varied, interspersed with clumps of dark box and portions of fallen rock bright with the delicate greens of the mosses which cover them.

We passed St. Rambert, beautifully placed on the river’s edge, with its ancient fortress above and the ruin of another stronghold like itself on an eminence which rises from the flat surface of the valley. Two leagues before arriving atPont d’Ain, we bade a final adieu to this lovely country, and issued on theplains of France. As it was growing dusk, we less regretted the change, and Fanny, finding a strip of turf by the road-side, shook her small head and cantered on merrily. There is a fine bridge atPont d’Ain, and the inn is good, though dear.

13th November.

A lovely morning; Bourg is prettily placed, for the plain has undulations and patches of copse wood, and you look back to the mountains of Savoy. Left the cathedral ofBrouon the right hand just before entering the town, a large building of not perhaps the purest Gothic, but picturesque notwithstanding, and within of remarkable beauty. Early in the year 1120, there stood on this spot a monastery, whither Ulric, Lord of Bresse, returned from the Holy Land to end his days. The Duchess of Savoy, wife of Philip the Second, made a vow to build here a splendid church and convent should her husband escape the consequences of a dangerous fall. Commenced by the latter, they were left unfinished, for he died in 1497. His son Philibert succeeded him; he had espoused Margaret of Austria, daughter of the Emperor Maximilian and of Mary of Burgundy. Twice affianced, to Charles the Eighth of France, and John, heir to the Spanish throne, she married Philibert,surnamed the Handsome in 1501, and in 1504 was left a widow and childless. She had Bresse for dowry, and the government of Burgundy from her father, so that seeing herself rich and uncontrolled, she undertook to accomplish her mother-in-law’s vow, and raised the cathedral as it now stands between the years 1511 and 1530. The tombs of the old duchess, its first founder, and that of Philip, are there, as are those of Philibert the Handsome and Margaret herself. On her monument is inscribed the singular motto—

Fortune, Infortune, fors une.

Unluckily for our progress it was fair time at Bourg, and the crowd of peasants in their short boddices and flat hats, which, surmounted by a black lace turret and ornamented by black lace streamers, are placed at the top of their ugly heads, literally stopped the way. One pretty girl (the only one) looked well under it. The boddice and short sleeves are ornamented with fringe, black lace, and rags innumerable, and the arms are bare, saving in those who, exhibiting great luxury, have worsted gloves confined above the elbow by elastic garters. Passing towards the centre of the fair, where the thickest crowd stood gaping round the tent which containedFranconi’s troop, a fat man came rushing forth from a café, and with one hand on my rein and the other on my arm, inquired whether I would take any thing, and whether the horses had been fed, so affectionately, that I had great trouble in getting rid of him.

My heart sank when I saw Montrevel, where the landlady ofPont d’Ainhad said we should be “pas mal,” and the poor woman, with fear in her face, told me she had never lodged travellers before. However, when I had groped after her up the dark ladder-staircase, and passed the room in which slept the whole family, three dogs included, we found one better than I expected, as it was large as a barn, and clean, though damp, as never used save for festivals, wedding, or christening. We made a good fire on the one lonely dog, and got supper, whose best dish was one of roasted chestnuts, and dry sheets over hard, moist mattresses, the beds being there for ornament. To the stable, while D—— stood there to see the horses fed, came a peasant in blue frock and striped night-cap, who watched, in respect and some awe, Fanny’s demeanour, never of the quietest when she is curried, and at last said, “Those animals have far more sense than we have.” D—— thought from his face that might easily be, and said, “Very true;” but with another look of admiration hereturned to the charge, and said, “Vous venez de travailler à Bourg,” which D——, not quite comprehending, explanations followed; and it came out that he thought we belonged to Franconi’s troop (as did I suppose the fat man at the café) and were all four performers.

Left Montrevel for Tournus, the greater part of the way a desolate flat, beneath the cold fog, broken by a few hills, long as uninteresting. The peasants of La Bresse are a quiet though uncouth set of people; their miserable habitations cleaner than those of the more northern provinces of France. Met no one save a group of gipsies, on whom we came as I walked to warm myself down one of these quasi mountains, Fanny following like a spaniel. They were gathered beneath an ancient oak, the older people cooking, a handsome youth touching a guitar, and a girl, with the dark fine features of her race, gazing at him as did the large dog, whose head rested on her knee. Outside the bridge of Tournus, found at a café the stout old gentleman,Madame Lalouet’s pensionnaire,who, on our former visit, provided us with a château and private theatre. We shook hands, and he told us we should be welcome at the inn, as indeed we found on our arrival, for it is one of the very best on the road.

14th November.

Left Tournus forChalonsthe 14th November, in cold fog and drizzling rain; the view of the town and its towers, and the windings of theSaône, which I thought pretty when we rode here on a sunny morning, having lost its charm now, seen through the mist which lay heavily on the few leafless trees, and the waves of mud of the straight road before us. Before reachingChalonswe came again on the broken, badpavé; the sides of the road impassable, as our horses slipped or sunk into the heavy ground almost to the knee. Arrived at theHôtel du Parc;uncomfortable as before.

15th November.

A lovely morning, though the fog overtook us, and the last of our rides which possessed any interest; for, after Chagny’s plain andpavé,we entered the valley, and passed the ruins ofLa Rochepot;they had less beauty in the gleam of November sunshine, and clouds and mist hid the plains of Bresse, and the line of snowy mountains which terminated the view. The moor beyond, soaked by autumnal rains, was too heavy to canter over; and the oak wood, beyondGivry,exhibits now but a few brown leaves, clinging mournfully to twigs almost bare. Recognized by postilions whomet us on the road in April, and arrived atArnay le Ducby moonlight.

16th November.

As it rains now every other day, it rained this morning, and our hostess as we left her shrugged her shoulders at our insanity. We hoped to pass Rouvray and reach Avallon, but when two leagues and a half fromRoche en Breuil,Grizzy dropped a hind shoe, and we were retarded by the necessity of leading her thither, for in the two wretched villages we rode through, there was no farrier. Entering Rouvray, Fanny dropped one of hers put on at Florence, and we went to and were well received at theAncienne Poste,our old quarters.

17th November.

Wished to get on to Auxerre, for the day was warm and lovely, but to do so took unwisely our host’s advice, and a short cut by an abandoned route, where we sank into mud, and scrambled over stones and rode through a deep stream, till at the first village we reached we were very happy to inquire the way to join the high road again, and thus doubling instead of saving distance, and climbing the long hills of Burgundy, it was already dark when we reached St. Bris. We reckonedon the moon, but she was hid in heavy clouds till we reached Vermenton, where, her light no longer needed, she shone forth splendidly.

The inn is the last house in the dirty town, and though frequented byrouliersonly, whose waggons, with their dogs guarding them, were ranged before the door in the moonlight, we found there, with a good humoured fat landlady, good dinner, beds and fire, and our horses a private stable, but the waggoners sing at supper and get up at two to prepare for starting at four, so that our rest was of the shortest. Beyond Vermenton there is another long hill, steeper than any we have travelled since those of the Appennines. The heavy fog froze on our cloaks, hiding the view of the bare hills beyond our marl road, the only good one between Paris and Bourg, till we drew near Auxerre, where we fed our horses, and the weather changed during our short stay, as the sun shone out with oppressive splendour. For some miles ere we reached Joigny, the badness of the road retarded us, and the sun had set when we stopped at thehôtel de Bourgogne,one of the good inns on our passage.

19th November.

When half a league out of Joigny, D—— discovered that he had left the small valise inthe manger, and commissioned to return for it a young man who for some time, walking lightly along, had kept pace with our horses, and had just laughed heartily at an old marketwoman, who, riding her donkey in masculine guise, treated with some contempt me and my saddle. He said it was a happy chance for him, as he was on his way from Bordeaux to Paris, and had spent his last halfpenny, having paid four sous for his night’s lodging, and eaten neither supper nor breakfast. He ran to Joigny and back, and when he came up with us once more, we noticed that his shoe was cut, and praised his diligence. He said he had been a far better walker before the beam of a house, which was taking down, had fallen on his foot and crushed it. As he took from D—— the money which was to convey him the remainder of his way, he drew his left hand a moment from his waistcoat pocket, and I saw it was crippled. So here was a poor fellow, with no breakfast, and no money, and no hope of either, walking to Paris miles away, with a useless hand and injured foot, neither desponding nor trying to excite compassion, nor asking charity, nor servile when it was bestowed—proving again what I have observed so often, that the French bear privation and misfortune better than any people in the world. He said he should be well providedfor as soon as he arrived in Paris, as he wrote a fair hand, and his brother established there had a place of clerk awaiting him. At the first village we came to, he stopped for his morning meal, and we saw no more of him.

AtVilleneuvele Roy we fed and rested our horses, and again lingered too long. Passed through Sens, the prettiest of French towns, and before its cathedral, without stopping. The chapter of Sens is unfortunately poor, and has lately sold ancient tapestries and curious relics to pay the expenses of its repairs. A part of this money has been expended in raising statues outside the building, and the sculptor has so executed his mission, that several are most remarkable as being very crooked; and one, in particular, whose arms are folded, leans to one side, perilously for those below, as he is ninety feet from the ground. Night closed in as we reachedPont-sur-Yonne,for we had again counted on a faithless moon; and as the trees, which bordered the bad road, had been lately felled and lay across it, we proceeded slowly and all rather wearily, till the moon shone out from behind a cloud, and Fanny knew her way and trotted on first and stopped at the inn gate. The landlady received us gratefully, as since our passage she has lodged several families who went to her on my recommendation, and wehave enjoyed the best supper by the blazing fire in her best room, hung round withDon Quixote’sadventures.

20th November.

LeftVilleneuve le Guiardfor Melun in threatening weather, following the Fontainebleau road as far as Fossard, but the skies compensated for their yesterday’s kindness, and the cold north-easter blew in our faces the coldest of all possible rains. The horses hung their heads, and so did we: for there was neither bank nor bush to shelter us. Where the road turns off at Fossard, there appears to be a good inn, which we passed crest-fallen, crossing the bridge of Montereau, whereJean sans Peur, duke of Burgundy, was murdered.

Not stopping to see his sword, which hangs in the church, we travelled with more discontent than curiosity up the long hill which rises from the dirty Yonne. My hat, lately purchased in a country town, proving only felt, and softened by rain till it clung to my throat like a black silk handkerchief: rain almost the whole weary day, and the road crossing a wood, thin, stunted and leafless, so affording no shelter. Ere entering Melun, the shoe of Grizzle’s obstinate hind foot, and the two fore shoes of Fanny, were discovered to be loose, and must be put on ere we leave to-morrow. This inn, theHôtel de France,is acontrast and a foil to its Fontainebleau namesake, being as bad as its masters are uncivil. Poisoned at dinner by somechicorée,dressed in a dirty copper saucepan.

Paris, 21st November.

Very unwell all night, but up with dawn, as the shoeing of our horses by a country farrier is an operation long and perilous. If I had seen yesterday before dinner the aides de cuisine I watched this morning preparing vegetables in the yard, the sight of them would have cured hunger and spared illness. The rain held off till we got on horseback, and then came down and continued in torrents till we reached Charenton, accompanied by wind and fog; so that the deluge joined to the extreme fatigue which I felt at last, and the sick faintness consequent on eating verdigrease, I suffered more than any day of our journey, and, being last, it seemed the longest. At Charenton the rain abating, the horses dried, and we cheered up, and as it grew dark arrived at the Place de la Bastille. When we reached the quays, Fanny, though far from home, still knew her way, pricked her ears and hurried her pace, and, when on thePlace Louis Quinze,took unbidden the way to theChamps Elysées,and cantered up them towards her old habitation.

There are always moments of anxietypreceding the meeting with friends after months of absence, and the heart beats painfully as one stops before the door, uncertain of the well-being of those within. My father’s voice from the window reassured me, and we entered, hopeless looking figures, wet to the skin, and muddy to the knee. “Sure such a pair were never seen!”

It was luxury to close round the fire, talking all at once; to feel we did not care whether it snowed or shone on the morrow, as our long march was at an end at last, and our comrades consigned to the care of their old attendant, whom they recognized and caressed, after their manner, and who walked triumphantly away with his travelled Fanny.

We have travelled many a mile.And your courage mine inspired;Your playfulness awoke our smile,Your eager step seemed never tired;Suspended o’er the torrent’s wrath,When you trod the zigzag path,Where your small foot scarce found place;With the spirit of your race,Climbed the steps of slippery stoneWhere horse’s hoof had never gone,While the Alpine women wondered;Where the wild stream foamed and thundered,Firm and fearless stemmed the ford,And calmly drank where worst it roared,And seemed as in contempt to treadO’er the easier Appennine,Till you toss’d your tiny head,Disdainful of the Florentine.

We have travelled many a mile.

And your courage mine inspired;

Your playfulness awoke our smile,

Your eager step seemed never tired;

Suspended o’er the torrent’s wrath,

When you trod the zigzag path,

Where your small foot scarce found place;

With the spirit of your race,

Climbed the steps of slippery stone

Where horse’s hoof had never gone,

While the Alpine women wondered;

Where the wild stream foamed and thundered,

Firm and fearless stemmed the ford,

And calmly drank where worst it roared,

And seemed as in contempt to tread

O’er the easier Appennine,

Till you toss’d your tiny head,

Disdainful of the Florentine.

When the summer day we boreAir which burned and earth which glowed,On the broad lake’s glorious shore;Droopingly your comrade trode;Where from the oak-boughs o’er us flung,The clasping vine’s rich clusters hung,And the dark Italian laughedWhile the full grape’s juice we quaffed,The gladness he had given to see;Save you, we came so wearily;Still your portion you received,And thanked me for your thirst relievedBy treading yet more cheerily.

When the summer day we bore

Air which burned and earth which glowed,

On the broad lake’s glorious shore;

Droopingly your comrade trode;

Where from the oak-boughs o’er us flung,

The clasping vine’s rich clusters hung,

And the dark Italian laughed

While the full grape’s juice we quaffed,

The gladness he had given to see;

Save you, we came so wearily;

Still your portion you received,

And thanked me for your thirst relieved

By treading yet more cheerily.

Riding o’er a land unknown,When day had died in twilight’s bed,And darkness on the world sank down.And it was long since you had fed,And yet we had not reached the town;The village inn you lingered nigh,And turned to me your asking eye:It said, “The long day’s night is near,Mistress, may I rest me here?”Needed but to raise the rein,Merrily you trode again.All strange places made your home,You ne’er demeaned you as a stranger,Wont in confidence to come,Pawing joy to rack and manger.Plebeian horses shrank aloofFrom my small steed’s indignant hoof.Where’er we went, affection grewIn the coldest hearts, for you.They knew you by your hurried tread;They watched you from afar—they said,O’er hill, o’er hold your small form shoot,Like a meteor of the sky,Fanny of the flying foot,Fanny of the shining eye!

Riding o’er a land unknown,

When day had died in twilight’s bed,

And darkness on the world sank down.

And it was long since you had fed,

And yet we had not reached the town;

The village inn you lingered nigh,

And turned to me your asking eye:

It said, “The long day’s night is near,

Mistress, may I rest me here?”

Needed but to raise the rein,

Merrily you trode again.

All strange places made your home,

You ne’er demeaned you as a stranger,

Wont in confidence to come,

Pawing joy to rack and manger.

Plebeian horses shrank aloof

From my small steed’s indignant hoof.

Where’er we went, affection grew

In the coldest hearts, for you.

They knew you by your hurried tread;

They watched you from afar—they said,

O’er hill, o’er hold your small form shoot,

Like a meteor of the sky,

Fanny of the flying foot,

Fanny of the shining eye!

Bright Italia woo’d in vain,Fields of France we sought again;While to the Arno’s narrow valleyThe summer would not say adieu,The autumn’s forces failed to rallyUpon the mountain too;Lay in the hollow of the hillThe sealike mist, inert and still;And warring sunbeams shone between,Where taller trees made islets green;And on the higher peaks enthroned,The wind’s contending currents moaned,Disputing mastery o’er each other,For the north called the snow, his brother;And the south, scattering clouds afar,Made vistas for the evening star.And it was beautiful to viewThe unveiled moon smile all her loveUnto a sky so purely blue:And by her trembling light you knewThe humble inn and chestnut grove,Which scarce had shelter suiting you.Beside, upon the couch of fern,The tired ox lay down in turn;The poster’s bells chimed thro’ the night,The mountain wind sang through the cranny,And yet of all who rose with light,The promptest was my joyous Fanny.

Bright Italia woo’d in vain,

Fields of France we sought again;

While to the Arno’s narrow valley

The summer would not say adieu,

The autumn’s forces failed to rally

Upon the mountain too;

Lay in the hollow of the hill

The sealike mist, inert and still;

And warring sunbeams shone between,

Where taller trees made islets green;

And on the higher peaks enthroned,

The wind’s contending currents moaned,

Disputing mastery o’er each other,

For the north called the snow, his brother;

And the south, scattering clouds afar,

Made vistas for the evening star.

And it was beautiful to view

The unveiled moon smile all her love

Unto a sky so purely blue:

And by her trembling light you knew

The humble inn and chestnut grove,

Which scarce had shelter suiting you.

Beside, upon the couch of fern,

The tired ox lay down in turn;

The poster’s bells chimed thro’ the night,

The mountain wind sang through the cranny,

And yet of all who rose with light,

The promptest was my joyous Fanny.

The plains of Piedmont we passed o’er,The swollen river’s ravaged shore;And Savoy’s sentinel was nigh,With his white forehead in the sky.And from the road the conqueror made,We looked back o’er the land he swayed;Land deemed an empire’s dearest gem,Till sank into her wearer’s soulThe iron of her diadem;Once could she heroes’ names unroll,And now she yields all saving them!Seeming near tho’ far away,Stretched at our feet Italia lay,As we the fathom line might throw,Where the coiled river gleamed below;Where shattered peak and abbey hoarDarkly rose in heaven as basedOn the white vapour which embraced,And tremblingly one sunbeam found,A path unto the nearer moundNobly tho’ ruinously crowned,By some old ruler of the Dore.Hollow tower and crumbling wall,Sole historians to recall,Power and pride, and force, and fall.Rising in that fragrant air,Breathing life and joy and rest,(Such as should blow o’er the blest,)Gently the matin chime it bare,As if the voice of praise and prayerIts holy pinion wafted best.The vine crept up the mountain side,Paying homage to its pride;The monarch forest o’er us rearedArms unshorn and crown unseared;On its branches, poised or hidBy the green leaves’ pyramid,Snow-flakes, delicate and faint,Lay like blossoms pure and pale,Such as would perish in the taintOf the hot breezes of the vale.Gaily went my lively steed,Cast no lingering glance below,Browzing on the mountain weed,Slaking thirst on mountain snow.Suddenly when change arose,Unseen winds brought unfelt foesHeaven to hide and earth to bound,While the thickening fog closed round,Impalpable but mighty wall;Where sprang a moment from the gloom,Engulphed again as in a tomb,In mid air hung the waterfall.And on the border of its shroud,The lake but seemed a denser cloud.We knew that shelter must be wonEre setting of that shadowed sun,Or we might find at evening’s closeToo cold a couch, too still repose.The Guardian screen’d him from the blast,In each closed refuge we rode past.The strings of pearl the frost had strungTo your dark mane’s tresses clung,Against the tempest and the hill,Strained gallantly my palfrey still.When all things shook in Nature’s spasm,And the wind roared down the cleftWhere barriers former storms have left,Bend like rushes o’er the chasm,Firmly placed to meet its course,Fearlessly you faced its force;When its rude hand rending wideThe curtain of the mountain side,Showed the village at its foot,Where the pine first strikes its root,On the loud Arc’s savage shore;Well you guessed your labour o’er,And rightly chose the stable door;With eye undimm’d, and limbs unworn,You rolled your weariness away.Your hunger scarce appeased at morn,For still you struck your foot to say,What sweetness has the lowland corn,What fragrance has the mountain hay!Sun and summer left behind,Pelting rain and biting windMarshalled back our joyless way,Thro’ the brief and wintry day;By the long untrodden road,Straight you sought your old abode;Neighing welcome at the door,To the menial yours before.Strong until the goal was won,Failing when your task was done,We watched you prostrate in the stall,Your head upon the old man’s knee,And your dim eye turned to me;Anxiously your state he scanned;You, untameable with all,Faintly licked his iron hand;Now sorrow o’er and sickness cured,Prized for every pang endured,Your playful toil what sweetens rest,Your task to bear me forth at morn,Lighter step and loftier crest,Seem proud of hardships braved and borne.And when age shall come at length,And the swift foot learns to tire,And the dark glance lacks its fire,None to urge your failing strength,Service harsh nor duties vile,Peasant hand shall ne’er defile;The green fields of your native isleHome of your sinking years shall be;Ranging far and dying free.Flowers shall shine and laurels nodO’er the gay, the bold, the canny;Larks upsoaring from the sod,Swell their songs in praise of Fanny.

The plains of Piedmont we passed o’er,

The swollen river’s ravaged shore;

And Savoy’s sentinel was nigh,

With his white forehead in the sky.

And from the road the conqueror made,

We looked back o’er the land he swayed;

Land deemed an empire’s dearest gem,

Till sank into her wearer’s soul

The iron of her diadem;

Once could she heroes’ names unroll,

And now she yields all saving them!

Seeming near tho’ far away,

Stretched at our feet Italia lay,

As we the fathom line might throw,

Where the coiled river gleamed below;

Where shattered peak and abbey hoar

Darkly rose in heaven as based

On the white vapour which embraced,

And tremblingly one sunbeam found,

A path unto the nearer mound

Nobly tho’ ruinously crowned,

By some old ruler of the Dore.

Hollow tower and crumbling wall,

Sole historians to recall,

Power and pride, and force, and fall.

Rising in that fragrant air,

Breathing life and joy and rest,

(Such as should blow o’er the blest,)

Gently the matin chime it bare,

As if the voice of praise and prayer

Its holy pinion wafted best.

The vine crept up the mountain side,

Paying homage to its pride;

The monarch forest o’er us reared

Arms unshorn and crown unseared;

On its branches, poised or hid

By the green leaves’ pyramid,

Snow-flakes, delicate and faint,

Lay like blossoms pure and pale,

Such as would perish in the taint

Of the hot breezes of the vale.

Gaily went my lively steed,

Cast no lingering glance below,

Browzing on the mountain weed,

Slaking thirst on mountain snow.

Suddenly when change arose,

Unseen winds brought unfelt foes

Heaven to hide and earth to bound,

While the thickening fog closed round,

Impalpable but mighty wall;

Where sprang a moment from the gloom,

Engulphed again as in a tomb,

In mid air hung the waterfall.

And on the border of its shroud,

The lake but seemed a denser cloud.

We knew that shelter must be won

Ere setting of that shadowed sun,

Or we might find at evening’s close

Too cold a couch, too still repose.

The Guardian screen’d him from the blast,

In each closed refuge we rode past.

The strings of pearl the frost had strung

To your dark mane’s tresses clung,

Against the tempest and the hill,

Strained gallantly my palfrey still.

When all things shook in Nature’s spasm,

And the wind roared down the cleft

Where barriers former storms have left,

Bend like rushes o’er the chasm,

Firmly placed to meet its course,

Fearlessly you faced its force;

When its rude hand rending wide

The curtain of the mountain side,

Showed the village at its foot,

Where the pine first strikes its root,

On the loud Arc’s savage shore;

Well you guessed your labour o’er,

And rightly chose the stable door;

With eye undimm’d, and limbs unworn,

You rolled your weariness away.

Your hunger scarce appeased at morn,

For still you struck your foot to say,

What sweetness has the lowland corn,

What fragrance has the mountain hay!

Sun and summer left behind,

Pelting rain and biting wind

Marshalled back our joyless way,

Thro’ the brief and wintry day;

By the long untrodden road,

Straight you sought your old abode;

Neighing welcome at the door,

To the menial yours before.

Strong until the goal was won,

Failing when your task was done,

We watched you prostrate in the stall,

Your head upon the old man’s knee,

And your dim eye turned to me;

Anxiously your state he scanned;

You, untameable with all,

Faintly licked his iron hand;

Now sorrow o’er and sickness cured,

Prized for every pang endured,

Your playful toil what sweetens rest,

Your task to bear me forth at morn,

Lighter step and loftier crest,

Seem proud of hardships braved and borne.

And when age shall come at length,

And the swift foot learns to tire,

And the dark glance lacks its fire,

None to urge your failing strength,

Service harsh nor duties vile,

Peasant hand shall ne’er defile;

The green fields of your native isle

Home of your sinking years shall be;

Ranging far and dying free.

Flowers shall shine and laurels nod

O’er the gay, the bold, the canny;

Larks upsoaring from the sod,

Swell their songs in praise of Fanny.

Back to Index Next