BLIND SIGHT-SEEING.
———
FROM HOUSEHOLD WORDS.
———
It was traveling on the railroad from Orleans to Amboise, that I first met Monsieur and Madame Faye, who were returning from Paris to Tours. There was a little battle, just as the train was starting, in consequence of late comers. The only wonder is how any Frenchman manages ever to be ready, considering the immense amount of talk and leave-taking which seem a part of their existence—and I, amongst others, put out my hand to help in an apparently infirm man, whose agitation seemed to prevent him from knowing where to take his seat. I pointed to that next to me, pulling his coat to force him into it, that we might not all be inconvenienced by his lingering. He bowed and smiled, and continued to talk to a female who followed him; and who began to stow away numerous baskets and bundles which she was tightly embracing, thanking us, all the time, for our politeness to her husband. In a few seconds they were stashed, and we then had leisure to remark the appearance of the new travelers. The gentleman was rather past middle age, good-looking, neatly dressed. He had a cheerful, pleasant countenance and soft, mild eyes, which he directed toward those to whom he spoke, although we afterward found they possessed no speculation. The lady was any thing but tidy in her style; indeed, so much the reverse as to be surprising in a Frenchwoman; but her story, when it was told me at our next meeting at Tours, explained the peculiarities which made her at first an object of somewhat disrespectful observation.
We soon became good friends. Monsieur Faye was blind, and had been so from childhood. His cousin, Mathurine, hadproposed for himwhen they were both about five-and-twenty, and had, from that time, devoted her whole life to attend on him.
“I should not,” she said, “have asked him; but that my brother, who required my services because of his lameness, determined just then to marry; and, therefore, as I had a substitute with him, and poor dear Hector here was too modest to ask me, what else was to be done?”
I found, on further acquaintance, that Hector was a remarkable personage, in his way: a bit of a musician, a philosopher, an antiquary, and a great reader of, or rather listener to, history; for it was his little, lively, untiring wife, who read to him from morning till night; and sometimes, when he could not sleep, from night till morning.
I found Mathurine incessantly occupied with the well-being of Hector. She might have been pretty at the period of their union, probably some twenty years before; but her small, slight figure was rather awry, in consequence of having, for so long a time, served as a prop to her tall husband, who always leant on her shoulder as he walked. She seemed indeed altogether out of the perpendicular; her bonnet never sat straight, owning to its being pushed aside by his arm; her shawl had the end any where but in the middle; her gloves were generally ragged at the fingers, while I observed that his were carefully repaired—it being evident that my friends were obliged to practice economy; her shoes were shabby, with the strings often untied. “What would you have?” she once remarked laughingly. “I have no time to attend to these trifles; which, after all, don’t signify;for I am not acoquette, and he does not see me. I catch up the first thing that comes to hand, and he fancies I am quite abelle.”
Hector had the strangest voice I ever heard; it would begincontraltoand run up toaltoin an incredible manner when he was excited; and then fall down again to the gruffest bass, his little brisk wife’s treble accompanying so as, as she imagined, to soften the sharp effects he produced.
She had managed to learn several languages, in order to read to him the authors he admired in the original; and odd enough her versions were; but, as he perfectly comprehended the jargon they had studied together, her plan succeeded admirably.
Amongst Monsieur Faye’s peculiarities was that of being an inveterate sight-seer. There was no object of interest near the places he visited that he had not, as he said, seen; and no sooner did he hear a description of a castle or a cathedral than he became restless to make its acquaintance. I happened one day to speak of having, in former years, gone to the strange old castle of Loches, about thirty miles from Tours; and struck instantly with his usual desire for exploring, he proposed a journey to the spot, inviting me to be his guest and guide.
I have always observed that the French, although by no means what we call rich, are very generous, according to their means, and if they cannot do a thing in grand style, they do it equally well on a small scale. Hector had long wished to give a treat to his hostess and her family, and this he felt was a good opportunity. Our party, therefore, was formed of Madame Tricot, a black-eyed little widow; her sister Euphrosine and her young lover the militaire—just arrived on leave to visit his betrothed—and Achille, the widow’s eldest son; a sharp boy of thirteen, distinguished by his half-military college uniform, more perhaps than by the progress he was making in those studies which Madame Tricot felt sure would lead him to immortality; and which she herself superintended with unwearied zeal, forcing her refractory pupil to rise before daybreak every morning, and repeat his Greek and Latin lessons to her previous to school hours, although, when I questionedher with surprised awe, she replied by saying with a knowing nod:
“No, no, I do not understand all this; but Achille imagines I do; and, at all events, he is obliged by this means to learn his lessons. They are very severe at college, and he is such agamin!”
As I had seldom seen Achille occupied, in his leisure hours, in the absence of his mamma, in any other way than teazing a peculiarly uproarious parrot, whose discordant shrieks regularly awoke me from early slumber, I could easily believe that some difficulties lay in the way of the future hero’s advancement, had he been left entirely to his own plan of pursuing knowledge.
Seven persons, large and small, besides the driver, one fine October morning, filled the large rumbling vehicle which Madame Faye had engaged for our expedition to the old ruined castle of Loches; and very merry we all were as we saw the baskets of eatables stuffed under the seats, and wedged ourselves inside and out preparatory to setting forth, which we did at last in the midst of a shower of precautionary words from Madame Tricot, sent after the two staring, laughing, rosy-cheek maids who stood helping, and enjoying our prospect of afête, and flirting with our smart driver up to the very last moment. At length we rattled away along the leafy avenue of the Boulevard Heurteloup, at Tours, and were soon on the long level road which conducts to the old town, which we made our goal.
Situated just at the entrance of the luxuriant garden of Touraine; full to overflowing of grapes and melons, and plums and peaches, of incredible size; on the banks of the river Indre, (here spanned by several pretty bridges,) rises the craggy hill, on the sides of which was built, at a period too remote to be ascertained even by a hand-book, the rugged, stony, impassable, confused, fossil-looking town, crowned at its extreme summit by the grimmest, strangest, oldest, and most inexplicably constructed castle that exists in France. Probably its like would be sought in vain in Europe. Such another series of towers, and spires, and long and high walls, terraces, battlements, stair-cases, and dungeons, was never brought together by the hand of man. The castle was constructed by order of a certain Count of Anjou, named Foulques Nera, to become—long after his valorous fame had passed away, or had merged into the reputation of an ogre—a ponderous plaything.
The inn where our party stopped at Loches, is very characteristic of the place; for it is, though modernized and beautified outwardly, a maze of galleries, and corridors, and turrets, and secret stair-cases, and rooms with vaulted ceilings, so that the world of the present day seems shut out the moment the façade is lost sight of. It had an odd effect in such a place to see smart handmaids flitting about, and a chattering hostess coming out to welcome guests to her antique dwelling, which has all the trouble in the world to look young and inviting, in spite of the paint and frippery in which French taste has striven to disguise its feudal reality.
We very soon arranged ourselves and our repast (with but little addition from the larder of our nevertheless civil hostess) on a sort of platform, on the walls of what is now a terrace, and was once no doubt a war-like spot, where if people “drank the red wine,” it was probably “through the helmet barred.” The hostess merrily uncorked our bottles of Loire wine, observing candidly that it was much better than her cellars produced; and, addressing herself to me, adroitly began a eulogy on the character of the English in general, remarking, that it was astonishing how many of my countrymen made her hotel their home for six months together.
A ramble through the streets showed us that it was market day at Loches. From the lower range of rugged walls to the rocky summit where the castle toppled over—comprising the narrow, high street, which ascends through the whole length, winding and twisting like a snake pursued—was one mass of vegetables, fruit, and flowers, whose bright hues, and the gay colors of the vendors’ dresses, contrasted strangely with the lofty houses with overhanging roofs, frowning down on the groups that dared to disturb the solemn gloom which had been theirs for centuries.
Monsieur Faye stopped every moment to talk to the market-women, to cheapen melons, and to accept bouquets from girls whose bright eyes he praised. On he went, chuckling that his defective sight had not been discovered: his little wife winking to us meantime with an air of entire satisfaction. Madame Tricot endeavored to excite Achille to study theguide pittoresqueand make himself acquainted with the notable objects of the place. The lovers, who had doubtless much zeal in the same cause, proposed to him that they should all three mount the hill at a quick pace, and find out the points of view ready for us on arrival at the top. By a curious chance we never managed to find the couple again until our return; and Achille reported that he had not seen them since he observed them to have “joined their heads” over the tomb of Agnes Sorel, the chief lion of the spot.
It seems that Charles the Seventh came to Loches to hunt, when he was visited by the disconsolate wife of the troubadour King René, of Anjou, who came to solicit his aid in favor of her imprisoned husband. Agnes was in her train—one of those dangerous maids of honor whose eyes have done such fatal mischief to the susceptible hearts of incautious monarchs—but when the duchess quitted Loches, her beautiful companion accompanied her not, she remained in the service of Mary d’Anjou, the wife of Charles the Seventh.
It would be curious to know in what chamber of this wild old castle the love tale was first told which has furnished France with a ceaseless romance. All that remains of Agnes now is her white marble tomb, on which she lies with her hands clasped on bare breast, her beautiful, delicate, and expressive head guarded by two winged kneeling cherubs, and her draperied feet supported by two lambs. The tomb: is in perfect preservation, and is one of the most exquisitemorceauxin France. Agnes was the châtelaine of the castle, and loved to live here above all other places, although the munificence of her lover gave her the choice of several abodes.
Here, it is said that the ill-nurtured Prince Dauphin, afterward Louis the Eleventh, performed an act very much in conformity with his usual brutality. In one of these saloons he struck the beautiful favorite of his father; but he who could beat his own chosen little effigy of the Virgin Mary, because she refused some of his requests, might well begin his career by an outrage like this. Happy, no doubt, were both the angry beauty and her royal lover, when they saw the last drawbridge of the castle of Loches fall and shut out forever from their presence the gloomy prince, who disapproved of their luxuries, and who spurred his steed onward, nor stopped till he had reached the dominions of the Duke of Burgundy.
Louis came back eventually, however, to these walls, and either late repentance or a sense of justice caused him to respect the tomb of Agnes, which he refused to let the monks of Loches remove.
Monsieur Faye was very anxious to ascertain—for he was rather a phrenologist—the form of the celebrated beauty’s head, and felt it through the bars which protect the lovely marble statue to his heart’s content, discovering bumps which would have disclosed the whole of her character, had history been silent on the subject. There was, besides, not a cornice nor a balustrade in the building that he did not feel; his hand being guided by that of Mathurine. I was amazed at the accuracy of his notions of the places we inspected; and more so at the unwearied patience of his guide, who had no enjoyment which he did not feel, and who had acquired a habit of description so accurate that I felt at last inclined to let her see for the whole party.
The towers of the castle rise above a hundred and fifty feet from the gigantic rock upon which they are built. Some of them appear light and graceful at a distance, although really massive. The castle is divided into two unequal portions: in one is a huge church, the spires of which peer up between enclosing turrets in a way quite original; the other is chiefly composed of a huge tower, which looks like the spiteful ogre of a fairy tale, bending over a mountain and watching to snap up unwary knights or merchants who ventured near his stronghold. Century after century this grim old place has been the abode of personages famous in the romance of history. Joan of Arc came here on a visit; Anne of Brittany and her two husbands made it their favorite abode, and her oratory still exists, covered with ermine spots andcordelièresin stone, which incrust the walls, and were very sensible to the touch of my blind friend. Mary Stuart here tuned her lute; and here, several ages before, our John Lackland feasted and reveled; here Philip Augustus came to receive the castle as a bribe for the assistance he was to render him against Cœur de Lion, who afterward besieged and took it. Here Jean of France resided, before the great battle which sent him the prisoner of the Black Prince to England, and in the fine Lady Chapel—whose delicate columns Monsieur Faye felt with his hands—was instituted a perpetual mass for the souls of the identical King John of France, and all the kings and dukes that had preceded him here. Here Francis the First and the fair and inappropriately named Diana, lived and loved a great part of their hours away.
When one sees the dark, dreary, gloomy, rugged walls, it is difficult to fancy Loches a dwelling for beauty and love; and it would require loads of bright tapestry and gilt furniture to fill up the black and blank nooks which yawn on all sides. In these chambers, however, once all was revel and luxury, as the court of the profligate Medici could testify: and the be-puffed and be-hooped ladies, and the be-slashed and be-jeweled lords, danced many abranleandpavaneover the dungeons, where howled and groaned the victims of their tyranny and cruel luxury.
It is said that one of the towers descends as deep into the earth as it rises above it, and terrible are the approaches to these frightful spots. A tradition exists that one of the later governors of the castle, being curious to know the extent of these gloomy places, set forth one day on an exploring expedition, and found several passages closed by iron doors: these he had forced open, and found himself in new passages, cut in the depth of the rock on which the castle is built. Another door arrested his progress, which was also broken open, and he entered a long alley, still in the rock, which he followed for a considerable time, till at length it led him to a subterraneous chamber, where, seated on a huge block of stone, with his head leaning on his two hands, sat a very tall man. Monsieur de Pontbrillant, the enterprising governor, was amazed at this vision; but, scarcely had he looked upon it, when the current of air striking the figure, it fell away into dust at his feet. Beside the unfortunate prisoner stood a small wooden coffer, in which still remained several articles of linen, very fine, and carefully folded. The skull and bones of this corpse were long shown at the castle, and were looked upon with awe by those to whom this story was related: but who the prisoner was was never known. In more than one of the old castles of France are still to be traced these horrid dungeons, where captives of all ranks were confined immediately beneath the pleasure chambers of the lords and ladies.
The governor of Loches was always a very great man, which, perhaps, accounted for the fact of our having to wait a long time for the keys of the great tower, which a messenger had gone in search of at the present governor’s lodgings. While we waited in an outer court, we were civilly invited by the portress to walk into her parlor, and there we sat some time talking to her, and hearing the gossip of the place. Beside the large fire-place, guarded from the draught of the open door by a huge wooden screen, sat the grandmother of the establishment—generally a cherished member of the humblest family circle in France—who, old as she seemed, got upand made us a reverence, resuming her cosy seat by the fire, which was directly piled with enormous pine cones and sent up a resinous flame, the perfume of which spread through the room. Monsieur Faye was placed near her, and as she went on with her ceaseless knitting, she was soon busy in cheerful converse with her new acquaintance, while I waslistening to a history of a lately escaped convict from this apparently secure retreat: the castle being the country prison.
“You see,” said the portress, “you would not have been obliged to wait so long for the keys but for this: we used, till three days ago, to keep them here, but since that event they are sent up to the governor’s house, and my husband, the guide, who shows you over the dungeons, is obliged to go and get them—but he will soon be back.”
“Do they keep prisoners in the dungeons now-a-days?” I asked.
I was told that the escaped culprit, who had robbed a hen-roost, had been put in a room above the dungeons—of which there are three stories beneath the ground level—and had contrived to hook up a plank, by which means he descended, with intent to rise the easier, having swung himself down till he could jump across a certain black abyss, which we afterward shuddered to see, and gain a broken stair-case where a door led to a corridor conducting to the outer court. With an iron nail he had displaced a huge stone in the steps, had crept through that, displaced a second in the same way, and thus arrived at the passage. Here he hid himself in a dark corner on the chance of the jailor-guide coming that way with visitors before long. As it happened, that event occurred, and the jailor was just preparing to light the candle which serves to illumine the gloom, having left the outer door open till the process was accomplished, when the ready adventurer lept from his hiding-place, overturned the guide, and amidst the screams and cries of the affrighted visitors, rushed out, with them, pell-mell into the outer world. As his blouse was the same costume as that worn by many of the affrighted strangers—for all ranks make the dungeons a lion—he passed unnoticed in the crowd, and excited no surprise as he “ran violently down the steep hill” with the rest and got fairly off. I could not regret that so ingenious and fearless a personage had baffled the vigilance of the guardians of Loches, but I felt a little nervous at the chance of a similar adventure occurring as we began our exploring expedition in the same quarter. I was assured, however, that there was no chance of such a thing, all the prisoners now detained, to the number of four, being at that moment smoking their pipes in a pleasant, sunny little court which we had to cross before we reached the low door which gave entrance to the dungeons.
There was nothing formidable in the aspect of these worthies, whose crimes were not of a deeper die than that of having got drunk and committed damage to the citizens in their cups; and we passed amongst them, returning the salutes they made with their night-caps, quite without alarm.
In the great court before this enormous and sinister-looking tower, one of the most splendid and the most worthless of the ancient governors of Loches paused before he entered, attended by three hundred gentlemen of high family, all probably “as wicked as himself,” and all bent on turning the good fortune of their friend and patron to the best account. This governor was the famous favorite of the infamous Henry the Third of France, the gorgeous Duke d’Epernon, and during the time he passed in these walls, the gold of thekingdom was no more spared by him than by his master. But a change arrived—two reigns had intervened—and a second time he visited these walls, more as a prisoner than a prince; he was then a gray-headed, gloomy, morose, miserable man, deserted by all the former companions of his profligacy whom the axe and the sword had spared, and here he came to hide himself from a court which his vices had disgraced.
Marie de Medicis, the prisoner of her son at Blois, also arrived here, in night and silence, escaped from her captivity, and entreated shelter of the old favorite, who had been suspected of knowing more than was honest of the murder of her husband, Henry the Fourth.
It is a strange reflection, and one that might well intrude while one stands before the door of the great tower of Loches, waiting till its rusty key turns in the lock, how unequal is the fate of those who have acted remarkable parts in the drama of the world. In spite of the mutations of fortune, mortification, neglect, disgrace or discontent, in spite of the overthrow of ambition, the wreck of hope, the struggles and turmoils, that d’Epernon had gone through, he could not get rid of the burden of life till the age of eighty-eight, when he died in the Castle of Loches, unregretted, and at once forgotten.
A story is told relating to him, which proves that men are not to be frightened by tyranny and power out of their natural wit and sarcasm. While this favorite of the contemptible king was in the enjoyment of his greatest favor, the public criers were accustomed to carry about a huge book, which they announced as “The high acts and deeds of valor and virtue of the most noble Duke d’Epernon.” These books, eagerly purchased, were found to contain blank paper. I fear that these historical recollections did not occur to Achille as he descended the rugged steps, green, and slimy, and steep, which led, from stage to stage, to the hideous dark holes in which these heroes of middle-age romance were accustomed to place their vassals or equals, as the case might be, when once in the power of their vengeance. Our guide, the jailor, was a good deal interrupted in his customary story of the place by indignation at the devastation committed on his steps and apartments by the late fugitive. Not attempting to smother the indignation awakened in his bosom, as he reviewed the ruin caused by the nail of the man of expedients, he mixed up his historical records with allusions to the damage in something like the following terms:
“Here you see the dungeon where the great monarchLouis the Eleventh (confound his impudence!) confined his minister Cardinal Balue in an iron cage—(I wish there was one here now and Jacques le Pochard was in it!) This is the place where the Grand Duke Sforza was lodged, and you may see where he painted the walls all round to amuse himself—here, where the flame of my candle touches the roof—(it’ll take me a whole day to mend the bottom of that door—the villain!) This is the dungeon where criminals were fastened to that iron bar in the middle of the chamber, and were only able to move from one end to the other by slipping a link of their chain along—mind the step! it leads through the dark passage to the next flight. (I had no idea the rascal had done so much harm to my steps! if ever I catch him again, I’ll flay him!—the brigand!)”
Nothing could equal the delight of my blind friend, at finding that he could touch the damp roofs of these horrible boudoirs for the favorites of princes with his hand, and that he could make out the patterns sketched by the unlucky Duke of Milan on the walls of the chamber with three rows of bars to the window, through which the duke found light enough to pursue his passion for art.
We had seen or felt all at last, and I was glad to return to the last corridor leading to daylight, when suddenly our guide exclaimed that he had left the key in the lock outside, and that some miscreant in the court had shut the door upon us. This was startling intelligence, and we began to feel any thing but satisfaction in the adventure, while our guide, placing his lips to the huge, gaping key-hole—through which a long line of sunlight streamed, as if in mockery—roared lustily to those without. Presently we heard suppressed tittering, and, after a minute or two of altercation between the old man’s voice and that of a young girl on the other side, the key was replaced, turned, and we hastily emerged to day and freedom.
“I ought to have known,” said the old grandfather, laughing, in spite of his anger, as a pretty, saucy-looking girl of twelve bounded across the court and took refuge in the porter’s lodge, “that that young hussy would never let an opportunity slip of playing me a trick—brigande!”
Achille seemed more amused with this last episode than any of our adventures; and it was with much gayety, and highly satisfied, that we descended the stony street, no longer filled with sellers and buyers, for the market was over. We had been four hours exploring! and nothing interrupted the stillness of the dreary old town but the ringing laughter of our young companions, and the pleasant exclamations of the whole party.
It was beyond midnight when we drove merrily up to the Boulevard Heurteloup, and found the same two watchful maidens on the look-out for our return. They did not appear to have been dull in our absence, nor did they seem afraid of solitude, probably feeling secure in the opportune presence of the sentinels on guard, whose measured tread still sounded along the avenue leading to the rail-road station hard by. Monsieur Faye remarked that we were fortunate in a moonlight night, and observed that he had seldom seen the stars so bright as they had been all the way from Loches.
———
BY MRS. S. C. HALL.
———
(Continued from page 534.)
Matthew Whitelock, reclining in what he called his “easy chair,” was musing, rather than thinking, over the inconsistencies of the most consistent, and pondering as to which was the more beautiful to contemplate—the love a mother bears her child, or the devotion a child renders to a parent; thinking how many instances there are of the former, and how, comparatively, few of the latter; hoping that the widow would really buy the wine and meat, as he desired; and having, like all genuine Englishmen, great faith in “creature comforts,” he converted the worn, attenuated widow into a portly woman. Having arranged this, he indulged in a vision he had of late enjoyed so frequently, that it had become almost a reality—that Richard would turn out something like Whittington: his dreams of the future had gradually taken Richard in, first as a shadow, then as a substance, until he formed a portion of all his day dreams—wondering if he could tie up fishing-flies, yet fearing to ask him, lest Martha might make it another subject of complaint; varying these fancies with probabilities as to whether he should have good fishing the first of the following June, when he made his annual journey to Teddington, and, be the day hot or cold, invariably returned with a swollen face, wonderfully helping Martha’s sarcasms during the following summer and autumn months; indeed, she constituted it a red letter day—every thing occurred “before” or after “master went bothering after the bits of fish, that the cat wouldn’t eat without butter, and got the bad face.” Then again his thoughts would dwell upon Richard, whom he believed—and with fair show of reason—endowed with a rare capacity for acquiring knowledge, and tuning it to the best account. He never thought of another power he had—that of attaching to him those who seldom formed attachments. Some observation made by the lad, in a careless, off-hand manner, would frequently set his master calculating what he could do for him. He delighted in lending him books, and to draw forth his opinions upon them; devising manyclever expedients to overcome Richard’s shyness, and make him “speak out.” As the lad’s accumulated and accumulating knowledge became better known to him, he felt almost inclined to apologise when it was necessary he should take out parcels; but what especially charmed him was the boy’s unconsciousness of his own book improvement and superiority. Had it not been for the unaccountable fear Matthew Whitelock entertained of his housekeeper—which he only overcame by fits and starts—he would have forbidden Richard the kitchen, and seated him at his own little table in the dusty back room; but he knew that such a movement must lead to open rebellion. He had grown positively uncomfortable at the idea of Richard’s brushing his shoes, and cleaning knives—“a lad capable of writing the Latin names of his books without a dictionary, and was a better penman than he was himself!” However difficult it may be of belief, considering his “calling,” it is a positive fact that Matthew Whitelock reverenced literary acquirements; and when a clever book did not “sell,” Matthew would take the part of the author against “the trade”—a proceeding which caused him to be considered “a fool” by many who are wise in their own conceits.
These and such like thoughts were passing through Matthew’s mind, in a half-dreamy way; now lingering, now rushing onward, and then off, while Peter lay at his feet; and he began to long, as often he did, for Richard’s return; for he enjoyed a chat with his messenger, as he used to enjoy a newspaper. Without his perceiving it, Matty entered, and shutting the door, as she always did when she had any thing particular to say, placed her back against it, wreathed her bony arms together, and passing one foot over the instep of the other, stood on one leg, “shouldering” the door-case.
“It’s my opinion, sir, that you make too much fuss entirely with that boy, and that he’s forgetting his place.”
“Is it—how?”
“Well, thoughts is thoughts, and it’s hard to put them into words; but here they are! He’d rayther any time stay fiddling after one bit of dust or another, or stitching ould tataration books, that’s going to the bad since the year one, or mending your pen—as if you had not eyesight (the Lord preserve it) to do it yourself—than sit and rest his young bones at his supper; and as to rubbing over the knives, he does them in no time, without a bit of a stop between; so that I never have a word out of him. And the paper! he reads it shameful! reading polyticks as if they war dirt; and so ignorant, that when he’s done, he knows no more of the state of Europe than when he began. His mother says he lives without sleep, or as good as; there’s a heart-break for a tender mother! I hate unnatural ways. The truth is, he’s above his business.”
“I quite agree with you.”
“Then,” said the contradictory Matty, “it’s a sin and a shame for you to say so, sir. You have nothing to complain of: he’s willing enough to do every hand’s turn for you. I’m nothing in the house—just no-thing! He’s as civil and smooth as creme—with his good morning, and good evening, and fine day. Mrs. Cook! but that’s professional—there’s no love with it. He’s all for learning and books. If he goes on this way, you’ll have to take him into partnership.”
“Very likely!”
Matty immediately stood erect.
“Then, sir, you must look out for another housekeeper, that’s all: I’m not going to have two masters, and one of them no better than a dog-boy! Oh! that I should come to that! He’s bewitched you, so he has—put hiscometherover you. I shouldn’t wonder if you made him sit down at your table, and printed his poems.”
“His what?”
“Poems! Havn’t I heard you say many times that there was no good in books now, since there’s such a many writers; that a book is no longer a book, only a rubbish; and that all the half of the writers do is to spile paper and pens, and waste ink. Them’s your words, master, when you war in one of your pleasant humors,discoorsingupon the ruin that’s come into the world. And now this boy goes and writes poems, and you’ll print them!”
“Go down stairs, Matty, and bring me those poems.”
“And to be made apaper weightin my ould days—just to stand upon papers.”
“Do as I desire you.”
“I can’t: do you think I’d keep ’em in the kitchen? There they are!” she continued, throwing a roll of manuscript on the table; “there they are! As ifhehad any right to set up for a poet—as if his mother and him havn’t gone through starvation enough without that. That’s what comes of his neglecting the state of Europe, and hurrying over the knives: his mother wanted to tell you about it, but had no courage, and no wonder. It’seasy to see what’s before him now; and his poor mother blind and desolate. Poems! Oh! no wonder my hair’s gray! But it’s your fault, master—informing his mind! I wonder who ever troubled about my mind!” And out she flounced, while her master, not without some secret apprehension—more anxiety, in fact, for Richard than he had ever felt before—unrolled the manuscript, and, after wiping and putting on his spectacles, commenced its perusal.
[To be continued.
THE TOPMOST CITY OF THE EARTH.
Thirteen thousand, seven hundred and twenty feet above the level of the sea! At a perpendicular elevation of upwards of two miles and a half, nearly on the snow line of the Andes, stands the topmost city of the earth, Ceno de Pasco. It is the capital of the richest silver district of Peru. At the before-named height, the Andes spread themselves out into vast plains or table-lands. Such table-lands—Punas, the Indians call them—sometimes extend hundreds of miles, and, on one of them—that of Pasco—stands the before-named city of Ceno de Pasco, which I took care to visit when I was a dweller in Peru.
Through the Palace Square of Lima—not forgetting to look up for the fortieth time at its magnificent cathedral—over the Rimac by a handsome bridge, which connects the city with the suburb of San Lazaro, I got out with my friends into the open country. The plain on which Lima stands gradually contracts as it approaches the Sierra, until it becomes a narrow track between great walls of rock. The road then slowly rises to a height of upwards of six thousand five hundred feet. Having mounted thus far, and so done more up-hill business than belongs to the ascent of Snowdon, we are told quietly that we have reached the foot of the mountains. From this point the ascent is steeper and more dangerous, winding along narrow paths, and doubling huge projections, yielding, sometimes, barely room for a mule to pass; whilst, now and then, a heavy mass comes tumbling down from overhead, and lodges on some ledge that is wide enough to stop it, with a crash that makes the mountain tremble.
The Sierra is cleft in many places by gorges, that descend, straight as the plummet, to an immense depth; and, as the road passes along the edge of these abysses, the view suggests a strong temptation to make one false step, or cause the same to be made by the mule, since it would be but a moment’s work to slip into the throat of the old gaping chasm.
As we ascend, the change in the climate and vegetation, of course, soon attracts attention. We pass from the sugar-cane and banana in the plains, through every shade of increasing barrenness, to a few mosses and scrubby bushes on the Puna. A few villages are scattered on the route, and in the neighborhood of these, maize and potatoes are grown even at a height of some ten thousand feet. But, by degrees these disappear, and the monotony of the road is broken only by an occasional tambo—a most miserable stunted species of road-side inn—which yields a scanty supply of food and accommodation, and is eaten up almost to the very walls by fleas. Fleas, I should guess, were, like the potato, first imported into Europe from Peru. In that country, certainly, the species must have been multiplying rapidly from the remotest times. The scenery of the Andes (like that of the Himalayas, and of all vast mountains) appears, at first sight, to fall short of one’s previous ideas. The view is often very much confined. The idea of their enormous height is not at all conveyed by traveling over them; for, the successive valleys and table-lands present successive starting-points, and the stupendous mountain chain, supporting countries on its bosom, escapes the measurement of a mere pair of eyes.
Having crossed the passes of the Alto de Jaquehambo, and the Alto de Lachaqual—the latter of which is above the snow line, fifteen thousand, five hundred feet high—we begin to descend, and presently, a sudden turn in the road reveals a large and apparently well-built town. This town lies in a basin surrounded by rocks, and the view of it forms a scene oddly inconsistent with the grand solitude and bleakness of the scenery around. Closer acquaintance dissipates our notion that the town is well built. It is a dirty miserable place, in which there are uncomfortably huddled together fifteen thousand people. It is chiefly composed of miners’ huts—something like overgrown bee-hives—with a few tolerable houses that belong to shop-keepers and the proprietors of mines. As we descend from the pass into the Puna, a scene worthy of the Andes breaks upon us. We are on the highest and most extensive table-land in all Peru. Its breadth is about seventy miles; its length scarcely determinable, as it penetrates into the mountains at various points, and is not abruptly broken by them, but sweeps gradually upwards to their summits. In the centre is a large lake, from one side of which the principal tributary of the Amazon begins its course, whilst, from the other side, several small streams flow to the western coast, so that from this lake tribute is sent both to the Atlantic and Pacific oceans. In the distance rises the great Cordillera stretching towards the Brazils; whilst the nearer peaks of the Andes, whitened with snow, shine round about us, cold, rugged, and silent, in vast masses that cause our hearts to dilate with a half painful sense of the sublime. The clear blue sky of the plains has deepened almost into black; the dull, lead-colored sun seems to have lost the power of communicating heat, and looks like a mere spectre of the tyrant under whose reign for so many years, men, women, and children have been flayed, or roasted, or marked with a brand upon the skin.
On first reaching the Puna, we all suffer a good deal from the rarefaction of the air, which produces sickness, bleeding at the mouth and nose, and pain in the chest. Horses and mules, on their first visit, suffer from this cause more acutely than men, and the drivers often slit the nostrils of these animals, an operation which is said to give relief. The slitting of our own noses being, of course, out of the question, we get over our discomfort as we can. The only native animals found on the Puna belong to the llama tribe; alpacas, guanacas, and vicunas. Thellama works at the mines as the ordinary beast of burden, and is perfectly efficient; it is more sagacious, steady, and sure-footed even than the mule. The alpacas are tamed and kept in flocks for the sake of their wool, an article which has of late become important to the English manufacturers. The guanacas and vicunas—the former the largest, and the latter the handsomest members of their tribe—are seldom to be tamed; they range the mountains, and the pursuit of them affords sport to the European hunter in Peru.
On entering the city of Pasco from the mountain solitudes, we are in the first place annoyed at the incessant clatter that surrounds us. The mines are opened in the streets, the courtyards, and occasionally even in the houses of the town. We encounter them at every step, and as they are often very shallow—the depth varying from twenty to a hundred and fifty feet—the blows of many picks and hammers are distinctly heard. The mines are generally private property, though some of them, indeed, belong to English companies. The mode of working is extremely careless. The descent into them is by a bucket hung on an old chain, or worn-out rope. The sides and roof of the galleries are frequently left unsupported, because timber happens to be scarce and dear; accidents therefore constantly occur, but nobody concerns himself about them. The rubbish is removed after a fall in; and the work goes on as usual. The miners are, for the most part, Indians. They earn, on an average, from four to six reals (two or three shillings) daily; but when a rich vein has been opened, they are paid in ore, and often earn very high wages, which they spend in brandy, chicha, and fine clothes. The town abounds with liquor-shops, eating-houses, andcaféswhich are generally kept by foreigners, men of all nations. From these places the Indian miners buy their food ready cooked. It consists chiefly of maize bread and charquí—slices of beef dried in the sun—great quantities of which are imported from the more southern republics, especially the Argentine. Even before food, however, the chief comfort of the Indian is the coca leaf. The coca plant is not unlike the vine in its appearance. It is cultivated by the Indians at the foot and on the sides of the Cordilleras, and bears a white flower, with a small red fruit. At the proper season, the leaves are stripped from the plants, carefully dried, and packed in bags containing each from fifty to a hundred pounds. They have an aromatic bitter taste. The cholo never is without his little pouch of coca leaves, and a small calabash containing quick-lime, or the ashes of a hot root. He first chews a quid of leaves until it is well moistened, and then thrusts a little lime into the mass on the point of a small stick; thereupon the mastication is continued till the quid is dry. This kind of refreshment is taken by the miners three times a day, about a quarter of an hour being set apart for its enjoyment upon each occasion; and the men will go through the most arduous toil, or travel for days over the mountains, with no other support than coca leaf. In traveling, a quid is kept continually in the mouth. On first using the coca, there is some excoriation suffered by the lips; this, however, passes off, and, when mixed with a little quinna, I must say that I have found the stuff very agreeable. It produces the exhilarating effects of opium without the drowsiness and stupefaction; it will ward off sleep, destroy the sense of hunger, and act as a spur upon the strength and spirit. The cholos who use it regularly are unquestionably healthy and long-lived; but the coca, like all other stimulants, is liable to serious abuse. The coquero or coca-chewer, who is never without a ball of it in his mouth, often passes the night through without sleep; he becomes debilitated, languid, nervous; his complexion takes a greenish hue; and, if he will persist in his excess—which soon becomes a vice beyond the power of his will—he perishes.
In the shops of Pasco are found the products of all countries. Bass’s pale ale is in high favor here, and knives and forks carry the stamp of Sheffield cutlers. I remember being pleasantly surprised in a shepherd’s hut on the Puna, at having placed before me some boiled maize on a plate ornamented with a picture of John Anderson my joe and his gude wife, with two verses of the song beneath it. The Indian was delighted with the pleasure I took in the plate, and was solicitous to have the lines translated.
The most common contents of dishes at the fondas or eating-houses, are pucheros and picantes; the former a mixture of every thing—beef, pork, camotes, frijoles, bananas, potatoes, maize, etc., highly seasoned with aji—a sort of ground pepper of a peculiar and pleasant flavor. The latter, the picante, is comprised of jerked beef, chopped small, and mixed with bread crumbs or crushed maize. The usual liquors are a sweet unpleasant wine, chicha, and guarapo—the latter made from fermented sugar and water; still good wines are procurable, and spirits are much too plentiful. Under the influence of spirit frequent battles occur among the Indians, in which the long knife is freely used.
As the high table-land is altogether unproductive, provisions and other necessaries are brought from the valleys on the backs of mules. That is the only practicable mode of carriage; although it is a curious fact that, during the War of Independence, cavalry and artillery were transported to these heights, and two battles were fought close to Pasco. At the latter of these Bolivar had ten thousand troops besides artillery in the field, and Canterac, the royalist general, opposed him with an equal number. They must certainly have had a taste for fighting under difficulties if they dragged themselves, their guns, and horses up these mountains for no other purpose.
An English firm at Callao, which has considerable mining property on the Ceno de Pasco, has recently procured from England a quantity of improved machinery for the extraction of the silver from its ore. The old method is still commonly practised, that is to say, the ore is amalgamated with quicksilver by treading together quicksilver and ore beneath the feet of mules and horses; this proceeding causes a considerable loss of quicksilver—ruins the feet of theanimals, and does not properly fulfill its purpose. The quicksilver—nearly all of which it brought from Europe—is afterward evaporated by the application of heat. Coal is found on the Puna.
The whole annual produce of the mines of Ceno Pasco once reached the amount of eight millions of dollars, or one million, six hundred and fifty thousand pounds; but the returns now do not probably reach half that sum. There is in the city a government establishment, at which all the silver is marked before being sent to Lima. It is usually melted into large oblong flat bars, some of which weigh from sixty to eighty pounds. These are conveyed to the capital on mules, commonly with no protection except that of the mule-drivers, although the Sierra may be swarming with the bandit montoneros. These gentlemen do not consider it convenient to intercept the silver on its downward passage, they preferring to wait for the coin that is returned in payment. With this upward freight a strong escort is always sent, and when it is attacked, a fierce battle ensues, that often ends in favor of the robbers.
The singular accoutrements of the horsemen are among the first things that attract the attention of the stranger in Peru. If the rider be a rich man, the horse is almost hidden by a multitude of straps and ornaments. The saddle is made very high both on pummel and crupper, leaving just room for the rider to wedge himself into his seat between them. Under the saddle is the pillow, an alpaca or goat’s skin, dyed black, with the wool combed out or twisted with silver wire into short curls, lengthened sometimes with long fringes of dyed alpaca wool. The stirrups are heavy and clumsy; each is a solid piece of wood, often measuring twelve inches square at the bottom, and gradually tapering to a point where it is attached to the saddle by a silver ring; on one side an opening is scooped out for the foot; the other three sides are all highly polished, often carved beautifully and inlaid with silver. The bit is very heavy; often of silver. The head-band is adorned with a long fringe of plaited strips of leather; and the reins, which are separate, pass through a silver ring, one of them being continued in a long lash. In addition to the bridle, the horse’s head is encumbered with a leathern halter covered with silver ornaments. The spurs are the most preposterous part of the whole equipment. They are so formed, that the wearer can walk only on his toes. The stem of the spur is often twelve inches long, and the rowel six inches in diameter. Amongst the wealthier classes, these spurs also, are frequently of silver. Every horseman wears the poncho; and some ponchos, from their splendid colors and fine texture, are a costly article of dress. The horses that bear these encumbrances are small, but they are well made and active; they are not allowed to trot, but taught a sort of amble which, when the rider becomes used to it, is an easy kind of motion. It is very rapid. Horses are but seldom used for draught, as, even in the low country, asses are the ordinary beasts of burden. These are bred in vast numbers, and troops of them are constantly passed by the traveler on all the roads: they have no head-gear, but are driven in the same manner as cattle, the driver riding behind armed with a long whip. These poor animals are most cruelly treated. Peru has been called “the heaven of women, the purgatory of husbands, and the hell of asses.” The last clause of the proverb cannot be questioned.
The taste for gambling, so prevalent throughout South America, is most strongly developed at Ceno de Pasco. Public lotteries are drawn every week, and sometimes every day in the week. The streets are continually infested by fellows crying, “A thousand dollars to-morrow!” These men carry books, from which they tear, for each customer, a ticket, price one shilling, giving him or her a chance in the next lottery. The prize is sometimes as large as five thousand dollars, with intermediate ones of smaller amount. I believe that the strictest impartiality and fairness characterize the drawing. All these lotteries are under government control.
The billiard and montero tables are in constant request: dominoes is a favorite game in thecafés; but those games at cards which are rapid in their results, and depend wholly upon chance, have irresistible attractions for all classes. The shaven priest, decorated with cross and rosary, may be frequently seen playing with the ragged Indian; and instances are told of the wealthy mine proprietor losing, in a night, every dollar he possessed to one of his own ragged men.
The cock-pit is a favorite amusement. The combatants are armed with one spur only; this is a flat, curved, two-edged blade, very keen, and finely pointed. The first blow commonly decides the battle, and both cocks are often killed. Hundreds of dollars change hands every minute: the excitement of the bettors is intense; and, even here, on the afternoon of the Sabbath, which is especially appropriated to the cock-fight, the priest hands round his begging-box, or lays his dollar on a favorite bird.
Ceno de Pasco, although so high up in the world, and so close to the region of eternal snow, has, nevertheless, a tolerable warmth during the day. The nights are all frosty, and a dense fog often envelops the Puna. Excessively heavy rain falls at certain periods of the year. But the most sublime spectacle on the Andes is a thunder-storm. It is an event of frequent occurrence in the table-lands, and I had the good fortune to witness one of extraordinary grandeur. It is impossible to convey any idea of the magnificence of the spectacle.
The lightning plays around the summits of the mountains in a constant succession of brilliant flashes, whilst the thunder is prolonged through the deep ravines and distant valleys, until the echo of the one peal and the crash of another blend together in one never-ending roll. Heavy falls of snow often accompany these storms, and the condition of travelers crossing the passes during one of them is most distressing. Unable to advance or to retreat, they halt and wait, in momentary fear of being hurled over the mountain sides. Blinded by snow, and by the vivid flashes, they dare not proceed; the ledgesalso are, perhaps, so narrow, that if they would they could not turn the mule round to retrace their steps. In such a position as this, men have been compelled to remain during many hours in places where the thermometer falls every night in the year below freezing point, and where the most intense darkness—whilst it fails to hide the real dangers, conjures up imaginary ones, which multiply all the horrors of the scene.
There are some portions of Upper Peru which are yet comparatively unknown to Europeans. This is especially the case with that part of it which has declared itself an independent republic, under the name of Bolivia. Though possessing a coast town on the Pacific of considerable extent, with several good harbors, yet its singular formation precludes ranch intercourse with other countries. Between the Andes and the sea is a broad belt of barren desert; a sand plain in continual motion. This is traversed by a few small rivers; which, though very shallow and often dry during the summer months, render the strips of soil through which they pass extremely fruitful. Beyond this desert, the most inaccessible chain in the Andes rises and forbids approach to the fair country enclosed within. On the summit of this chain is the celebrated mountain Potosi, now nearly exhausted of its treasures: the town is situated in a district wholly destitute of vegetation. Passing from the Ceno de Pasco through the town of Larma, we enter the valley of Janja, and shortly find ourselves in a country presenting a strange contrast to the one we have just left. A succession of the most fertile valleys in the world. As the ascent of the mountain commences from the low country, the sandy desert disappears. A rich coat of lucerne spreads over the sheltered hollows. Vines and olives appear in the vales. The sugar-cane, the banana, the guava, and numberless tropical fruits flourish. At the height of eight, and sometimes ten thousand feet, Los Vales of Bolivia are covered with the most luxurious vegetation. Forest-trees of gigantic size are thickly spread over the mountains. The cereals, which live a sickly life down by the sea, appear in these lofty valleys in full vigor: including maize, quinna, rice, barley, with occasional patches of wheat, though of this last the chief supply is imported out of Chili. Rich esculents and fruits unknown in other countries are in abundance. Amongst the former are yuca, mandive, and camotes; whilst the delicious cherrimoya reigns supreme over them all.
The valleys of Upper Peru, of Bolivia, and of the province of Salta in La Plata, are rich in the most valuable products. Exclusive of minerals—which include gold, silver, copper, and lead—we have coffee, chocolate, tobacco, cotton, indigo, cochineal, sarsaparilla, logwood, and an infinity of similar productions. Cattle are numerous: mules and horses abundant. And, above all, the men are noted for their generosity and hospitality, and the women for their grace and beauty.
What a contrast between these glorious valleys—in which Rasselas might well have lived—and the rugged heights of the silver city, Ceno Pasco: its dirty streets, and half-savage people; its unhealthy mines, and blackened smelting-furnaces; its bare rocks and scrubby patches of brown herbage affording a scanty subsistence to its flock of shaggy llamas.
It is a charm to travelers among the Andes, that, within their limits, these vast mountains enclose every climate. Within the range of one degree of latitude, we may sit and burn under a palm-tree, or lie down upon a bed of Alpine moss.