* * * * But if the sylvan youth,Whose fervent blood boils into violence,Must1have the chase, behold, despising flight,The roused-up lion, resolute and slow,Advancing full on the protended spear.--Thomson.
* * * * But if the sylvan youth,Whose fervent blood boils into violence,Must1have the chase, behold, despising flight,The roused-up lion, resolute and slow,Advancing full on the protended spear.--Thomson.
I had been wandering about one day in the neighbourhood of Bordeaux, indulging a variety of desultory meditations, following the uneven tenor of my own mind, sometimes sad and sometimes gay, and sometimes of that odd mixed nature where melancholy and mirth are so intimately commingled, that there is no separating them, when turning round an angle in the road, I had a figure before me whose occupations puzzled me not a little. He was one of that class of beings now nearly extinct, who still cling with pertinacity to powder and pigtails. His face was round, his cheekbones high, his complexion mummy-coloured, his nose turned up and primed with snuff, and in the cavities on each side stood two little dark eyes like black currants shining through a dumpling. The castor which covered his head was intended for a modern hat, but it had still a strange hankering for the form of the old-fashioned shovel, far more pinched behind than before, with the rear rim strongly turned up, as if to avoid the collar of his coat. It seemed that his head had been so long accustomed to wear cocked-hats, that whatever he put upon it assumed something of that form. To finish the whole, on each side under the brim lay two long rows of powdered curls, which flew off in an airy pigtail behind. This sort of man ought to be recorded, for in the course of years it will become unknown, like the mammoth; and strange remnants of whigs and pigtails will be found to puzzle the naturalist and antiquary.
But it was his occupation that I did not understand. He was creeping along by the side of a ditch, with his knees bowed, and eagerness in his air, and ever and anon he clapped to his shoulder a long machine, which seemed of a mongrel breed, between a duck-gun and a cross-bow; having the long barrel and stock of the one, and the arc and cord of the other. Continually as he placed it at his shoulder, I heard something plump into the ditch, on which he shook his head with evident mortification, and proceeded a little farther. I followed at the same stealthy pace, and he seemed rather flattered than discomposed by the attention I gave to his movements. At length he look a long and steady aim, drew the trigger, the bow twanged, and rushing forward with a shout of exultation, he seized an immense frog he had just shot, and held it up in triumph by the leg.[10]
"Qu'elle est belle! Qu'elle est belle!" cried he, turning to me as I came up. "It was a long shot, too," he added.
I paid him a compliment upon the achievement, and asked if he had had much sport.
He said, "No, that the weather was so hot that the frogs kept principally to the water, and they had been so much hunted that they were very wild."
"How!" cried I; "you do not shoot them sitting?"
He told me that he did, and asked me how I thought they ought to be shot?
I told him that to shoot them sitting was mere poaching, that he ought to take them in the leap.
He said "that a young man like me might do those things, but for an old man like him it was not so easy, but, however, that he would try."
I assured him that he ought to do so, and having examined hisarbalète, I left him to endeavour to shoot frogs flying if he could.
As I went home I could not help moralizing upon the change which has taken place in Frenchmen since the revolution--a change which has altered them entirely, and yet left them nearly as different from the English as ever. I then asked myself in what the difference between us and our neighbours consisted, and I laid down in my own mind a whole table of
Liberiùs si Dixero quid, si fortè jocosiùs, hoc mihi jurisCum veniâ dabis.--Horace.
Liberiùs si Dixero quid, si fortè jocosiùs, hoc mihi jurisCum veniâ dabis.--Horace.
They may be true or they may be false, but I beg it to be understood that they are given with perfect good humour towards a people for many of whom I have a high personal regard.
An Englishman is proud, a Frenchman is vain. A Frenchman says more than he thinks, an Englishman thinks more than he says. A Frenchman is an excellent acquaintance, an Englishman is a good friend. A Frenchman is enterprising, an Englishman is indefatigable. An Englishman has more judgment, a Frenchman more wit. Both are brave, but an Englishman fights coolly, a Frenchman hotly. The latter will attack anything, the former will be repulsed by nothing. An Englishman in conversation seems going a journey, a Frenchman is taking a walk. The one plods hard on to the object in view, the other skips away from his path for the slightest thing that catches his attention. There is more advantage in conversing with the one, more pleasure with the other. An Englishman generalizes, a Frenchman particularizes. An Englishman when he tastes anything says that it is good, that it has an agreeable flavour; a Frenchman describes every sensation it produces in his mouth and throat, from the tip of the tongue down to the stomach, and winds it up with a simile. An Englishman remarking an opera-dancer sees that she dances well, with grace, with agility; a Frenchman notes everyentrechat, and can tell to a line where her foot ought to fall. An Englishman must have a large stock of knives and forks to change with every plate: a Frenchman uses but one for all, and it sometimes serves him for a salt-spoon, too. An Englishman in his own country must have two rooms; a Frenchman can do very well with one; he dines there when he cannot go out, receives his company there, and can do everything there. A married Englishman requires but one bed, a married Frenchman must have two. In general an Englishman is willing to submit to the power of the law, but inclined to resist military force; the contrary proposition is the case with the French.
A Frenchman is constitutionally a happier animal than an Englishman. He is born a philosopher. He enjoys to-day, he forgets the past, and lets to-morrow take care of itself. No misfortunes can affect him, he floats like a bit of cork on the top of the waves which seem destined to overwhelm him. He makes his servant his confidant, the coffee-house his library, the man next him his friend, the theatre his fireside;--and his home--but he has nothing to do with that.
He is gay, witty, brave, and not unfeeling, but his character is like the sand on the sea-shore, where you may write deeply, but a few waves sweep it away for ever. That perverted word 'sentiment' in its true sense he knows little of. But are there many men in all the world who know much more.
A Frenchman is not so insincere as he has been called. It is true he makes vehement professions which mean nothing, but he makes them in a language the expressions of which are all overcharged, and in a country where they are justly appreciated. As money, the representative of labour, has in every country its relative value, so words, the current coin of conversation, vary in import amongst various nations, and have a rate of exchange with foreigners. Thus, if an Englishman takes a Frenchman's professions at the value the same would hear in England, it is his own fault, for the rate of exchange is against them. Besides, they areobligedto use large words, there is no small change in France. In conversation, as well as in commerce, there is nothing circulating but heavy five-franc pieces. A boot is said to fit "divinement," and a tailor tells you that there is "de quoi se mettre à genoux devant" the coat he has just made for you. I have heard a boot-jack calledsuperb, a pair of stockingsmagnifique, and a wigangelique. A man offered me "poudre à la rose," to make my boots slip on; and an old woman who had strayed a kitten, called it "expatriating her cat." An Englishman says, "I am glad to see you;" a Frenchman "Je suis ravi de vous voir." It comes to the same thing in the end. Everything in France isau dessus du vraisemblable, and the language not more than the rest. An Englishman's passions are like his own coal fire, difficult to kindle; but long before they go out, have more heat than flame, more intensity than brilliancy. A Frenchman is like a fire of wood that crackles and flames and blazes, that is lighted in a minute, and in a minute extinguished.
The French, though they are daily improving, are still certainly a dirty people,[11]not in their persons but in their houses and habits. In this, as in everything else, they are the most inconsistent nation in the world. In their habitations there is the strangest mixture of splendour and want of cleanliness, and in their manners an equal mingling of elegance and coarseness. One must often walk up a staircase where every kind of dirt is to be found in order to arrive at a palace, and a thousand things that shock all notions of delicacy are here openly done and talked of by the most polite.
A Frenchman's politeness consists much more in small talk and petty ceremonies than in any real elegance of person or of mind. They have told the world so often that they are the most civilized nation in Europe, that the world believes it. It is true, they have an immensity of the jargon of society, a quickness in catching and appreciating the tastes and ideas of others, and a great fund of good-nature, which makes them love to see all around them at their ease; but their vanity stands much in the way of their politeness. An Englishman may perhaps over-rate both himself and his country, but he is contented with his own opinion, and cares little what others think on the subject; but a Frenchman wishes every one to acknowledge, and takes the greatest pains to prove, that France is the first country and himself the first man in the world. A Frenchman, however, has much more of the two great principles on which real politeness is founded than an Englishman. He is by nature an infinitely more good-humoured being, and he has more of that inestimable quality which he himself callstact.
If the French called themselves simply the most polite nation in the world, we might be inclined to admit the claim. When they say they are the mostcivilized, we instantly deny it. I have seen an actress and a famous actress too, stop in the midst of one of Racine's finest speeches to spit in her pocket handkerchief, before the whole audience. I asked the gentleman next me if such were a common occurrence. He seemed surprised at the question, and said, what could she do? She must spit! Did we not spit in England? he asked. I told him not in general, and never in genteel society. He said, "Oh!" and without doubt did not believe a word I said; for, let it be remarked, that the French generally have no more idea of our manners and customs than if we were placed at one pole and they at the other. A great proportion of the French people look upon us as a kind of Sandwich Islanders--imagine that we never see the sun--that our atmosphere is one constant fog--that we eat nothing but beef and potatoes--that we drink nothing but tea and porter--and that our only ripe fruit is. baked apples.[12]Let me do them justice, however; rarely or ever would an Englishman have been insulted by the populace of France with those brutal appellations which the lower classes in England did not fail to bestow upon the French, when they discovered them in the streets of London during the war. If the higher class of society in France, is not so refined as the same class in England, and I do not scruple to say that it is not, there is much more urbanity, and real or acquired politeness, amongst the peasantry of the former country. One or the greatest differences, however, between the two countries is the one which is least favourable to England and the most honourable to France. France is always anxious to improve, and the whole nation drags on the unwilling few. England is always suspicious of improvement, and the talented few drag on the unwilling nation.
I have hitherto in general spoken of French men; what shall I say of French women? If I say but little, it is not that I think them in any degree less charming, less graceful, less fascinating than others have thought. To criticise them would be a task invidious and not for me. If they have anything about them that might as well be altered, I say, heaven forbid that it should be otherwise; for as perfection is certainly not to be found amongst men, it would place too terrible a difference between the sexes if it were to be met with in women.
I'll bow my leg and crook my knee,And draw a black clout o'er my e'e;A cripple or blind they will ca' me,While we shall be merry and sing.The Gaberlunzie Man.
I'll bow my leg and crook my knee,And draw a black clout o'er my e'e;A cripple or blind they will ca' me,
While we shall be merry and sing.
The Gaberlunzie Man.
There is a singular mode of begging existing at Bordeaux, which at all events has the merit of novelty. In passing along the Cours de Tourny, which is lined on each side by a row of fine elms, the eye is attracted by a number of little boxes, and cups, with a small slit in the top, large enough to admit a two-sous piece. Some of these are fixed to the trees, and some are placed in the centre of a chair left at the road side, without any one to guard it. It was some time before it struck me that this was for the purpose of soliciting charity; but upon inquiry, I found that it was an invention of late years, which at first had considerable success. The originator did not at once hazard his little box on the highway without interpretation, but fixed a placard upon one of the trees just above it, stating that it belonged to a "pauvre malade," who could not quit his bed; and, adding a list of as many misfortunes as he thought necessary, he summed up by begging the charitable passenger to drop his alms into thecoffrebelow.
As he neglected to take out a patent for his invention, of course there immediately appeared an infinity of other "pauvres malades," who contrived to levy a considerable contribution from the inhabitants of Bordeaux. Some placed a chair to represent their person: some were afflicted with one disease, some another. In short, various improvements took place, the thing being understood, and everybody knowing what the box meant, the placard was dispensed with, and the passenger's imagination was left to supply any malady for which he had a particular predilection.
Begging is in France a perfect trade, and by no means one of the least profitable. The streets, the highways, and all public places are infested with troops of beings of the most miserable appearance, with everything, that rags, filth, and disease can do to make them equally objects of disgust and compassion. But let it not be thought that these wretches, often scarcely human, are left to so sad a fate by any mismanagement of the many excellent charitable institutions of France. Misery is their profession. To cure than of their maladies would be a robbery, and to furnish them with any employment, they would consider as one of the worst sorts of tyranny. Idleness is their liberty, and disease is their fortune. A sore leg is at any time better than a trade, and a withered arm is a treasure.
In the towns, they have particular stations, which may be looked upon as shops where they expose their miseries, as they would any other kind of merchandise. There was one, I remember, at Bordeaux, who had scarcely any vestige of form left. He used to come to his station on horseback, (for he was a man of some consideration), and setting himself on the ground, he displayed his legs, which were dreadfully deformed; as a tradesman sets out his goods in his shop window.
All the cottages that border the high road are filled with little mendicants, who rush forth at the first sound of a carriage, and torment the unhappy traveller, sometimes for miles. One of their most common methods of begging is to throw a bunch of flowers into the window, and then never quit the vehicle till they are paid for them. Such a mode of soliciting charity may seem very poetical; but never in my life did I see such a race of dirty, ragged, pertinacious little vagabonds.
It is the same all over France. In every thing else the various provinces differ essentially, but in beggars they are all equally well supplied. I have visited the north, the south, the east, and the west of France, and have found no visible difference. From the Place de la Comédie, at Bordeaux, passing along the allées and the Cours de Tourny to the Place Dauphine, a distance of about half a mile, I once met three-and-twenty beggars; and on the bridge at Pau I have counted nineteen. Although many of those who are now common mendicants, played parts, more or less conspicuous, in the French revolution, I do not believe that it added greatly, if at all, to the number of beggars in France. The wars of the League and those of the Fronde certainly did add to the number; but in those wars there was no purifying principle, no ennobling motive on the part of the insurgents: all was selfishness, vice, or caprice. In speaking of the wars of the Fronde, Voltaire says:
Les Anglais avaient mis dans leurs troubles civiles un acharnement mélancolique et une fureur raisonée. Ils donnaient de sanglantes batalles et le fer décidait tout.Les Français, au contraire, se précipitaient dans les séditions par caprice et en riant. Les femmes étaient à la tête des factions, l'amour faisait et rompait les cabales.--Voltaire--Siecle de Louis XIV.
Les Anglais avaient mis dans leurs troubles civiles un acharnement mélancolique et une fureur raisonée. Ils donnaient de sanglantes batalles et le fer décidait tout.
Les Français, au contraire, se précipitaient dans les séditions par caprice et en riant. Les femmes étaient à la tête des factions, l'amour faisait et rompait les cabales.--Voltaire--Siecle de Louis XIV.
Amongst the beggars in the streets of Bordeaux there is an old man, said to have been bourreau, or executioner, in that city, during the revolution. Perhaps an executioner is one of the most extraordinary beings in nature. Cut off from all human feeling, to embrace by choice the occupation of deliberately slaying his fellow-creatures, seems a paradox in the history of man. There is certainly a strange principle of destructiveness mingled with all nature, in a way and for reasons that we cannot divine. But here seems an innate cruelty getting the better of all that man learns from his infancy. An executioner must be a being apart from all nature, who, without passion or prejudice to stimulate him, throws off all feeling of humanity, breaks from all social charity, and exposes himself to the abhorrence of mankind, for the sole delight of embruing his hands in human blood.
Before the revolution the office of bourreau was confined to particular families. It was a curse that descended from generation to generation; all fled from, all detested the unfortunate man fated to be the instrument of his fellows' death, and he himself, cut off from society with kindred beings, often grew morose and cruel, destroying without regret that race which refused him all community.
But when this odious inheritance was abolished, and it became a voluntary act, thousands stepped forward eager for the office of blood-spiller, and in all the horrors which succeeded, no one was ever wanting to do the work of death.
As the office of executioner is the most extraordinary that man can choose, so perhaps the French revolution is the most extraordinary event in the history of mankind.
It seems as if all nations were more or less like a man subject to occasional fits of insanity, and that they cannot proceed beyond a certain period without an unconquerable desire to destroy everything, which at other times they are most careful to preserve. From some of these maladies they recover, and have afterwards a more perfect health than if they had never occurred, but often the effects of the disease remain long after it has itself ceased.
The French revolution in general, taking it from its very commencement to its close, produced some good amidst a mass of evil; but there were particular periods, when all thought of right seemed abandoned, which did as much as the destruction of all order, the abolition of all law, the contempt of all religion; and the annihilation of every principle and every feeling, can effect towards a nation's overthrow. It often happens that man in doing wrong in one way, unintentionally do good in another; but those who governed France at the periods of which I speak, with a comprehensiveness of mind which, happily for the world, is not always attendant upon crime, contrived to be uniform at least in evil; and left no one good act for which history could accuse them of inconsistency. At the same time, they took care to prove to the world, by a rare combination of qualities, that it was in ill alone that they were uniform, by mixing the maddest display of folly with the affectations of philosophy, and uniting levity with slaughter. Humanity shudders at the remembrance of such deeds; not alone because they were bloody, but at the horrid frivolities with which they were accompanied. It appears as if the love of destruction had seized like a mania upon all the nation with a power ungovernable, had taken the place of every better feeling, and left every weakness and every defect in more than original force.
Never was the national levity of the French more conspicuous than during great part of the reign of terror. While every day shed fresh blood, and the deputy who superintended the work of murder at Nantes, found the guillotine but a means of slaughter in detail, not at all suited to his comprehensive mind; while he fell upon the happy expedient of embarking his victims in a covered boat, and sinking them wholesale in the river: at that very time the opera was as fully attended and the card-tables as gay as ever; jokes were cut upon the guillotine by those who were next to undergo its stroke, and the murderer handed his snuff-box to the victim whom to-morrow he condemned to death. In future ages the minute points of this vast tragedy will scarcely be believed. Many of its horrors are but faintly remembered even now, and the benefits which accrued from it are far overrated. Thedîme, thecorvée, and almost all thedroits seigneuriauxwere falling or had fallen even before the actual revolution began, and every other abuse would have gradually yielded to the power of time and the increase of knowledge. But the French were not contented to wait; they slew a good king, deluged their fields in blood, and stained their annals with crime, to obtain what a few years would have peaceably brought about.
France has never yet perfectly recovered the revolution; the character of the people has been injured by it, and all the foundations of society have been shaken. No definite ideas regarding any of the great questions which affect the happiness of a community have been left; and though it is not improbable that from this chaotic condition a new and brighter system may arise, yet the state of transition has already lasted long enough to be an intolerable evil. Though I am inclined to believe that in France, as in other countries, an improvement in morals has taken place in regard to religion, the bad results produced by the revolution have been very extensive. Yet it is curious to observe, that among all the blasphemies and follies with which the French amused themselves at that period, a feeling of the absolute necessity of some religion manifested itself continually. Even in their greatest absurdities, it is evident. At the moment that a statue to eternal sleep was erected, pointing to the tomb, it was proposed to grant a patent to the Almighty for the invention of the world, upon condition that he ceased to meddle with human affairs. At another time, fruits and all things necessary to the support of man were proposed as the object of human adoration; but the conviction of our dependence upon some superior being, and the necessity of worship, was always breaking forth.
The revolution has, in a manner, divided the kingdom into various sects, of which the three principal are bigots, sceptics, and hypocrites. The bigots consist in general of that portion of the higher ranks who actually suffered in the revolution, and that portion of the lower whom it neither enlightened nor led astray. The sceptics consist of those who either never had any religion, or who lost it in the theories and sophistry of the day, and these form the great bulk, I am sorry to say, of the thinking and scientific in one class, and the vicious and thoughtless of another. The hypocrites are those in all stations to whom long practice in political dissembling has given a facility in dissembling altogether. There are two other sects. The French protestant and the unbigotted and enlightened French catholic, but these are few in comparison. They comprise, however, many of the most talented and most virtuous of the nation.
The sceptics are, of course, divided between many opinions. Many are materialists; one or two fancy themselves atheists, but a great majority follow what they call a purism. They allow the existence of a supreme Being, are doubtful in regard to the immortality of the soul, and profess to hold the moral doctrine of the Evangelists, although they deny it a divine origin. They labour, according to the reasoning of various pseudo-philosophers, to prove that the moral code of Christianity was merely a compilation by the eclectists of Alexandria from the most celebrated doctrines of the ancient philosophers, joined with the principle of universal charity which they own to be found in no other composition than the gospel. But they attempt by no means to dispose of the sect of Christians mentioned in the celebrated letter from Trajan to Pliny; nor to account for the extraordinary circumstance of the philosophers of Alexandria having borrowed the name of Christ, (as they suppose,) and having raised upon it such an apocrypha of history, circumstances, and details, all of which could have been contradicted at the time, had they been false. According to their own theory they are obliged to imagine much more and believe much more without proof, than if they were to receive the history which the divine volume gives of itself.
From all that I have seen in France of the consequences of their great national calamity, I am convinced, that however revolutions may call forth latent talent, and acuminate the mind of man, however necessary they may sometimes be as a defence to liberty and a check to tyrants, general virtue owes them little, and the very principles of social happiness are by them destroyed.
Tutta fra se di se siessa invaghita.--Bernardo L'Unico.
What the world are accustomed to consider as great and brilliant actions, have very often their origin in pride or ostentation, while home virtues, and less obtrusive qualities, though their motive does not admit of doubt, and their nature is mixed with no evil, are scarcely ranked in the catalogue of good deeds, and even if known are rarely appreciated. The rich man who spends a part of his fortune and bestows a portion of his time on public charities, claims unanimous applause as his just reward, and mankind are willing to grant it without any investigation, either of his actions or their incitements; but the man who without possessing any wealth to give, delights to see every one cheerful and happy around him, and finds his pleasure in his fellow-creature's peace, receives but small gratitude, and meets with little admiration.
For my own part, I am thankful to every one who gives me happy moments. There was a little circle at Bordeaux, in which I have spent some of the most pleasant hours of my existence. The follies and vices, the turmoil and discontent, of a large city never set foot there. It was composed of a few, that could feel and enjoy all that was beautiful in art or nature, whose native resources were equal to their own contentment, and who without shunning, required nothing from the world. Time passed not slowly with them; music, and reading, and conversation succeeded; each borrowing a charm from the other, and linking themselves together; so that the evenings flew insensibly; and the hour of our separation always arrived before we were aware of its approach.
In the mornings, we often left the town and spent the day in the most beautiful parts of the environs; and the scenery was always sure to suggest some new idea, which again celled forth a thousand more, and every one happy themselves, endeavoured to add to the happiness of others. It was in one of these expeditions that we went to visit the little town and château of La Brède, once the residence of the famous Montesquieu. The house is a true old Frenchchâteau, with its turrets, and drawbridges, and garden within the ditch, and loopholes for firing through the walls and all the littleet cæteras, which carry one's mind back to ancient days; but the devil, or some spirit hostile to antiquity, has put it into the proprietor's head to whitewash the towers of La Brède; and there they were, hard at it, trying to metamorphose the old mansion of Montesquieu into the likeness of a Cockney cottage on the Hampstead road.
The owner was absent, but we were admitted immediately, and taken, in the first place, into the apartment where Montesquieu had composed hisEsprit des Lois. A little more reverence for old times had been shown here; the room was exactly in the state he left it when he died; there was his arm-chair, and all the rest of the old damask furniture, spotted and stained in a truly classical manner; and there was the hole the sage had worn in the marble by resting his foot with mathematical precision always on one spot. We saw it all--all, which is nothing in itself, but something in its associations. We were then taken through the house, which appeared a large rambling kind of building; but, to tell the truth, I do not recollect much about it, except one large hall of very vast dimensions, where lay an old helmet, which something tempted me to put upon my head, and which I once thought must have remained there for ever, for, as if to punish me for the whim, during some time I could get it off by no manner of means. I have said that I remember little about the house; the reason was this--I was thinking more at the time of the woman who showed it to us than of anything else in it, aye, or of Montesquieu into the bargain. Now there may be many people who would judge from this confession, that she was some prettysoubrette, whose beauty had taken my imagination by the ear. But no such thing: not that I am not fond of beauty in every shape, but the case was different in the present instance. What or who she was I do not know; but if Dame Fortune had placed her in any other situation than that of a lady, the jade of a goddess ought to be put in the pillory for a cheat and an impostor. Her dress was of that dubious description which gave no information; but her manners--her air--her look--told a great deal. She was grave without being sad. It was a sort of gentle gravity, that seemed to proceed more from a calm, even disposition than from any grief or sorrow; and when she smiled, there was a ray of pure, warm light came beaming from her eyes, and said that there was much unextinguished within. They were as fine eyes, too, as ever I beheld. Yet she was not handsome; though, if I were to go on with the description, perhaps I should make her out a perfect beauty, for I saw nothing but the expression, and that was beautiful. I could draw her character, I am sure, and would not be mistaken in a single line; for her voice was exactly like her eyes, and when the two go together one cannot be deceived; there was a mild elegance in it that was never harsh, though sometimes it rose a little, and sometimes fell, and gave more melody to the French tongue than ever I had heard before.
Now reader, for aught I know, you may be as arrant a fool as ever God put breath into--for I hope and trust this book will be read not by the wise part of mankind only--should that be the case, Lord have mercy upon the publisher. But do not be offended. You may, (under the same restrictive "for aught I know,") be as wise as king Solomon or wiser; but, whatever be your portion of wit, you will have seen, in all probability, long before now, that there was something in this girl that interested me not a little. What that was can be nothing to you, for it proceeded from private feelings and private recollections, which you would make nothing of if you knew them this minute.
However, there was a question which none of us could decide: was she one of the family of the château or was she not, and how were we to bestow the little donation usually given to the servants under such circumstances? However, the elder lady of the party took it upon herself; and while I was standing in the garden where Montesquieu used to work with his own hands, figuring to myself the philosopher of the laws, digging away in his full nightcap and variegated dressing-gown, she put the money, into the hands of her companion, begging that she would give it to the servants. The other looked at her with a smile which might have been translated half a dozen ways. It might have been, "I am a servant myself"--it might have been, "I see your embarrassment." But, however, she said that she would give it to them, and bidding her adieu, we proceeded to the carriage. We had scarcely all got in, when she came tripping over the drawbridge, with a bouquet of flowers in her hand. She gave them with one of those same bright smiles, saying, that perhaps we might like to have "Quelques fleurs du jardin de Montesquieu." We took them thankfully, and she re-entered the house, leaving us more than ever in doubt.
Quant è bella giovinezzaChe si fugge tutta viaChe vuol esser lieto, siaDi doman non c'è certezza.--Triomfo de Bacco.
Quant è bella giovinezza
Che si fugge tutta viaChe vuol esser lieto, sia
Di doman non c'è certezza.--Triomfo de Bacco.
There is scarcely any character in the range of history, which I am so much led to admire as that of Edward the Black Prince. Combining all the brightest qualities of a hero and a man, his glorious actions and his early death, all give him a title to our interest and admiration. One of the last excursions which we made with the friends I have just mentioned was to a little town called Blancford. It lies, as it were, behind Bordeaux, upon an eminence which commands all the country round, with a far view over the plains of Medoc, and the bend of the Garrone lying at your feet. In a valley, at a short distance, stand the walls of an old castle, in which the Black Prince is said to have passed some of the last hours of his existence; and this was the real object of our pilgrimage.
Having ordered dinner, and left the carriage at Blancford, we wandered down, through some of the beautiful lanes, all breaking forth into the first blossoms of spring, to the ruins of the old château, which afford a sad picture of the decay of human works.
The walls, built to resist armies, had crumbled to nothing before the power of Time. We nevertheless amused ourselves for more than an hour, climbing amongst the old ivy-grown remains, and fancying the various beings that, from time to time, had tenanted that spot now so desolate. It was all imagination, it is true; but 'tis one of the greatest arts in life, thus to give food to fancy and to supply her with materials from the past. It is less dangerous than borrowing from the future. I forget whether it is Lord Kaimes, or Allison, or who, that accounts for the pleasure which we feel in the sublime and beautiful, principally from the exercise of the mind in new combinations. I feel that there is some truth in it; for when I can let my imagination soar without restraint, I try to separate myself, as it were, from her, and view her, as I would a lark, rising and singing in the sky, and enjoy her very wanderings.
So much amusement did we derive from our speculations that we lingered there long. A variety of shrubs and foliage had decorated the old ruin in a fantastic manner; and as we descended into one of the dungeons, where probably many a captive had told his solitary hours, a free wild bird started out, at our approach and took its flight into the unconfined air. On the highest pinnacles of the walls, where the hand of man could never reach, Nature has sown little groups of wild pinks, that hung bending in the wind, as if to tempt one to take them. I endeavoured in vain to obtain some of them, for one of the ladies of the party, between whom and my friend B---- feelings were growing up which ended in much happiness at an after period. To punish my awkwardness, they called upon me to write a ballad on the subject. I did my best to comply, for we all strove to bring our little share of amusement into the common stock, and I felt myself more peculiarly bound to contribute, as I believed in my heart that many of these amusements, and especially that of whiling away the evening with little tales and sketches, had been devised for the purpose of turning my mind from every painful thought. These contributions gradually accumulated into a short miscellany, which, as it comes decidedly into the recollections of this year, I will give, as far as my memory serves, and call it "Scraps."
We left the old castle with a feeling of regret. We had had time to establish a kind of friendship with it, and did not like to quit it. After dinner we wandered on to the brow of the hill, and sitting down, watched the landscape as the closing evening varied all its hues. It had been a fine clear day; no pain had reached us ourselves and no storm had come across the sky--all had been bright and unshadowed. The last moments of such a day are precious, for who can say what to-morrow will bring forth? and all feeling it alike, we lingered on till the edge of the sun touched the horizon, and then returned to the busy haunts of man.
There be of British arms and deedsWho sing in noble strain,Of Poitiers' field, and Agincourt,And Cressy's bloody plain.High tales of merry England,Full often have been told,For never wanted bard to singThe adieus of the hold.But now I tune another string,To try my minstrel power,My story of a gallant knight,A lady, and a flower.The noble sun, that shines on all,The little or the great,As bright on cottage doorway small,As on the castle gate.Came pouring over fair GuienneFrom the far eastern sea;And glisten'd on the broad Garrone,And slept on Blancford lea.The morn was up, the morn was bright,In southern summer's rays,And Nature caroll'd in the light,And sung her Maker's praise.Fair Blancford! thou art always fair,With many a shady dell,And bland variety and changeOf forest and of fell.But Blancford on that morn was gay,With many a pennon bright,And glittering arms and panoplyShone in the morning light.For good Prince Edward, England's pride,Now lay in Blancford's towers,And weary sickness had consumedThe hero's winter hours.But now that brighter beams had comeWith Summer's brighter ray,He called his gallant knights aroundTo spend a festal day.With tournament and revelry,To pass away the hours,And win fair Mary from her sire,The lord of Blancford's towers.But why fair Mary's brow was sadNone in the castle knew,Nor why she watch'd one garden bed,Where none but wild pinks grew.Some said that seven nights beforeA page had sped away,To where Lord Clifford, with his powerOn Touraine's frontier lay.To Blancford no Lord Clifford came,And many a tale was told,For well 'twas known that he had soughtFair Mary's love of old.And some there said, Lord Clifford's loveHad cool'd at Mary's pride,And some there said, that other vowsHis heart Inconstant tied.Foul slander, ready still to soilAll that is bright and fair,With more than Time's destructiveness,Who never learn'd to spare!The morn was bright, but posts had comeBringing no tidings fair,For knit was Edward's royal browAnd full of thoughtful care.The lists were set; the parted sunShone equal on the plain,And many a knight there manfullyStrove fresh applause to gain.Good Lord James Talbot, and Sir GuyOf Brackenbury, heWho slew the Giant Iron armOn Cressy's famous lea.Were counted best; and pray'd the princeTo give the sign that theyMight run a course, and one receiveThe honours of the day."Speed knights! perhaps those arms that shineIn peace," Prince Edward said,"Before a se'nnight pass, may wellIn Gallic blood be dyed."For here we learn that hostile bandsHave gather'd in Touraine,And Clifford with his little troop,Are prisoners, or slain."For with five hundred spears, how boldSoe'er his courage show,He never would withstand the shockOf such a host of foe."Fair Mary spoke not; but the bloodFled truant from her cheek,And left it pale as when day leavesSome mountain's snowy peak.But then there came the cry of horse,The east lea pricking o'er;And to the lists a weary pageA tatter'd pennon bore.Fast came a knight, with blood-stain'd arms,And dusty panoply,And beaver down, and armed lance,In chivalric array.No crest, no arms, no gay deviceUpon his shield he wore,But a small knot beside his plumeOf plain wild pinks he bore.For love, for love and chivalry,Lord Clifford rides the plain!And foul lies he who dares to sayHis honour ere knew stain!And Mary's cheek was blushing bright,And Mary's heart beat high,And Mary's breath, that fear oppressed,Came in a long glad sigh.Straight to the prince, the knight he rode,"I claim these lists," he cried,"Though late unto the field I comeMy suit be not denied."For we have fought beside the Loire,And dyed our arms in blood,Nor ever ceased to wield the swordSo long as rebels stood."Hemmed in, I one time never thoughtTo die in British land,Nor see my noble prince again,Nor kiss his royal hand."But well fought every gallant squire,And well fought every knight,And rebels have been taught to feelThe force of British might."And now in humble tone they sue,To know thy high command,And here stand I these lists to claim,For a fair lady's hand."For Mary's love and chivalryI dare the world to fight;And foul and bitterly he liesWho dares deny my right!""No, no, brave Clifford," Edward said,"No lists to-day for thee,Thy gallant deeds beside the LoireWell prove thy chivalry."Sir Guy, Sir Henry, and the restHave well acquit their arms,But Edward's thanks are Clifford's dueAs well as Mary's charms."My lord, you are her sire," he said,"Give kind consent and free,And who denies our Clifford's rightShall ride a tilt with me."Gay spake the prince, gay laugh'd the throng,And Mary said not nay,And bright with smile, and dance, and song,Went down the festal day.And when Lord Clifford to the boardLed down his Mary fair,A knot of pinks was in his cap,A knot was in her hair.For it had been their sign of love.And loved by them was still,Till death came gently on their headsAnd bowed them to his will.And now though years have passed away,And all that years have seen,And Clifford's deeds and Mary's charmsAre as they ne'er had been.Some wind, as if in memory,Has borne the seeds on high,To deck the ruin's crumbling walls,And catch the passing eye.They tell a tale to those who hear,For beauty, strength, and power,Are but the idlesse of a day,More short-lived than a flower.Joy on, joy on, then, whilst ye may,Nor waste the moments dear,Nor give yourselves a cause to sigh,Nor teach to shed a tear.
There be of British arms and deeds
Who sing in noble strain,
Of Poitiers' field, and Agincourt,
And Cressy's bloody plain.
High tales of merry England,
Full often have been told,
For never wanted bard to sing
The adieus of the hold.
But now I tune another string,
To try my minstrel power,
My story of a gallant knight,
A lady, and a flower.
The noble sun, that shines on all,
The little or the great,
As bright on cottage doorway small,
As on the castle gate.
Came pouring over fair Guienne
From the far eastern sea;
And glisten'd on the broad Garrone,
And slept on Blancford lea.
The morn was up, the morn was bright,
In southern summer's rays,
And Nature caroll'd in the light,
And sung her Maker's praise.
Fair Blancford! thou art always fair,
With many a shady dell,
And bland variety and change
Of forest and of fell.
But Blancford on that morn was gay,
With many a pennon bright,
And glittering arms and panoply
Shone in the morning light.
For good Prince Edward, England's pride,
Now lay in Blancford's towers,
And weary sickness had consumed
The hero's winter hours.
But now that brighter beams had come
With Summer's brighter ray,
He called his gallant knights around
To spend a festal day.
With tournament and revelry,
To pass away the hours,
And win fair Mary from her sire,
The lord of Blancford's towers.
But why fair Mary's brow was sad
None in the castle knew,
Nor why she watch'd one garden bed,
Where none but wild pinks grew.
Some said that seven nights before
A page had sped away,
To where Lord Clifford, with his power
On Touraine's frontier lay.
To Blancford no Lord Clifford came,
And many a tale was told,
For well 'twas known that he had sought
Fair Mary's love of old.
And some there said, Lord Clifford's love
Had cool'd at Mary's pride,
And some there said, that other vows
His heart Inconstant tied.
Foul slander, ready still to soil
All that is bright and fair,
With more than Time's destructiveness,
Who never learn'd to spare!
The morn was bright, but posts had come
Bringing no tidings fair,
For knit was Edward's royal brow
And full of thoughtful care.
The lists were set; the parted sun
Shone equal on the plain,
And many a knight there manfully
Strove fresh applause to gain.
Good Lord James Talbot, and Sir Guy
Of Brackenbury, he
Who slew the Giant Iron arm
On Cressy's famous lea.
Were counted best; and pray'd the prince
To give the sign that they
Might run a course, and one receive
The honours of the day.
"Speed knights! perhaps those arms that shine
In peace," Prince Edward said,
"Before a se'nnight pass, may well
In Gallic blood be dyed.
"For here we learn that hostile bands
Have gather'd in Touraine,
And Clifford with his little troop,
Are prisoners, or slain.
"For with five hundred spears, how bold
Soe'er his courage show,
He never would withstand the shock
Of such a host of foe."
Fair Mary spoke not; but the blood
Fled truant from her cheek,
And left it pale as when day leaves
Some mountain's snowy peak.
But then there came the cry of horse,
The east lea pricking o'er;
And to the lists a weary page
A tatter'd pennon bore.
Fast came a knight, with blood-stain'd arms,
And dusty panoply,
And beaver down, and armed lance,
In chivalric array.
No crest, no arms, no gay device
Upon his shield he wore,
But a small knot beside his plume
Of plain wild pinks he bore.
For love, for love and chivalry,
Lord Clifford rides the plain!
And foul lies he who dares to say
His honour ere knew stain!
And Mary's cheek was blushing bright,
And Mary's heart beat high,
And Mary's breath, that fear oppressed,
Came in a long glad sigh.
Straight to the prince, the knight he rode,
"I claim these lists," he cried,
"Though late unto the field I come
My suit be not denied.
"For we have fought beside the Loire,
And dyed our arms in blood,
Nor ever ceased to wield the sword
So long as rebels stood.
"Hemmed in, I one time never thought
To die in British land,
Nor see my noble prince again,
Nor kiss his royal hand.
"But well fought every gallant squire,
And well fought every knight,
And rebels have been taught to feel
The force of British might.
"And now in humble tone they sue,
To know thy high command,
And here stand I these lists to claim,
For a fair lady's hand.
"For Mary's love and chivalry
I dare the world to fight;
And foul and bitterly he lies
Who dares deny my right!"
"No, no, brave Clifford," Edward said,
"No lists to-day for thee,
Thy gallant deeds beside the Loire
Well prove thy chivalry.
"Sir Guy, Sir Henry, and the rest
Have well acquit their arms,
But Edward's thanks are Clifford's due
As well as Mary's charms.
"My lord, you are her sire," he said,
"Give kind consent and free,
And who denies our Clifford's right
Shall ride a tilt with me."
Gay spake the prince, gay laugh'd the throng,
And Mary said not nay,
And bright with smile, and dance, and song,
Went down the festal day.
And when Lord Clifford to the board
Led down his Mary fair,
A knot of pinks was in his cap,
A knot was in her hair.
For it had been their sign of love.
And loved by them was still,
Till death came gently on their heads
And bowed them to his will.
And now though years have passed away,
And all that years have seen,
And Clifford's deeds and Mary's charms
Are as they ne'er had been.
Some wind, as if in memory,
Has borne the seeds on high,
To deck the ruin's crumbling walls,
And catch the passing eye.
They tell a tale to those who hear,
For beauty, strength, and power,
Are but the idlesse of a day,
More short-lived than a flower.
Joy on, joy on, then, whilst ye may,
Nor waste the moments dear,
Nor give yourselves a cause to sigh,
Nor teach to shed a tear.