JFresf) (SHeamnip; 
 
 OR, 
 
 & 3&efo SHeaf from the ®ltr jFtellrB of 
 Continental Europe. 
 
Digitized by the Internet Archive 
 
 in 2008 with funding from 
 
 Microsoft Corporation 
 
 http://www.archive.org/details/freshgleaningsorOOmitcrich 
 
FRESH GLEANINGS; 
 
 OR, 
 
 a new sheaf from the old fields 
 Of Continental Europe. 
 
 i$5 *£fe. JWartoeh/ip-*> 
 
 c TWCcU5kfi > 3W^<* %u>*£* 
 
 'Ta de uTJkoi bv KareXaSovro, tovtuv [ivfifirjv Troirjaofiai. 
 
 Herod., lib. vi., cap. 
 
 NEW YORK: 
 
 (Eiiarles Scvftnev, 
 
 1851. 
 
:Dqi<? 
 
 Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1851, by 
 
 CHARLES SCRIBNER, 
 
 In the Clerk's Office of the District Court of the United States, for the 
 
 Southern District of New York. 
 
 Y (fyc.h &4^t 
 
 • • »•••»• 
 
A NEW PREFACE 
 
 WHEN I came back from the Old World, 
 Mary, I dedicated to you, this first essay of 
 my book-making life. The memory of the strange 
 and brilliant things which had met me beyond the 
 ocean, was hanging upon me very pleasantly ; — but, 
 pleasanter still, there lingered in my mind a recol- 
 lection of the sunny hours upon our farm-land in the 
 valley of Elmgrove. 
 
 I am not sure if you have heard it, — ^but some 
 readers have imagined that my talk of harvesting, 
 and of the old farm-house, was a mere show of 
 rhetoric. You know there was nothing but honesty 
 in what I wrote you ; and that it was with a thrill of 
 pleasure, I had no desire to conceal, that I wandered 
 again through the woods and fields of my rough farm 
 Under-the-Hill. 
 
 M111711 
 
vi A New Preface. 
 
 No, there was no rhetoric in my talk of the farm- 
 land then, — whatever may belong to it now. 
 
 Then, Europe was a memory — a blessed memory 
 lifting my heart and hope : now, our Farm-land 
 deserted, — the oaks, shading a silent sward-land, — 
 the elms, bowing to an untrodden lawn, are a 
 memory also. 
 
 Well, sweet memories make up the pleasure 
 
 of our life — for they nurse our hopes of sweet 
 memories to come ! 
 
 So, it is with blended recollections — bright and 
 gorgeous ones of European temples and festivities, — 
 gentle and soothing ones of the summer seasons at 
 Elmgrove, that I write to-day this fragment of Pre- 
 face, and inscribe again to you, this careless record 
 of my first wandering. 
 
 I wish it was worthier of the world ; I wish it was 
 worthier of you. But such as it is, with all its 
 imperfections, I am certain that you will receive it 
 graciously from one who hopes for your charity, and 
 who is sure of your affection. 
 
 I had thought of running over the book again, and 
 of crossing out what seemed to be the ebullitions of 
 boyish and pedantic fancies. But I have not clone 
 
A New Preface. vii 
 
 it. I wished that the book should stand, a type of 
 my first feeling. I could perhaps have made it less 
 obnoxious to the hard-sayings of the critics, and have 
 woven a little more maturity of observation into its 
 careless glimpses of the old-world life ; but I have 
 chosen rather that it should carry all its old weakness 
 with it. I have wished — though it may seem a 
 selfish wish — to claim so much more of your indul- 
 gence, as would suffice to cover all its failings. 
 
 I know the claim will not be refused ; and I know 
 that you will be as willing now, as always, to excuse 
 my defects, and to forget my errors. 
 
 I had undertaken, Mary, to write a Preface ; I 
 have forgotten myself— to a letter. The only excuse 
 I shall make, will be — to print it, and to send it to 
 
 you, 
 
 "With my kindest wishes, 
 
 IK. MAKVEL. 
 
 New York, May 30, 1851. 
 
PREFATORY LETTER 
 
 Eo Jtt. W. <& 
 
 EAVEN bless you, Mary, with richer 
 sheaves than this ! 
 
 You know that I had learned to use the 
 sickle on our farm-land in the valley, before I went 
 away ; — and could bind up the ears at harvest, with 
 the stoutest of my men. Now here, I bring back 
 chese Gleanings from beyond the Waters : — I have 
 plucked a grain-head here, and a grain-head there ; 
 but only since I have come home, and only at your 
 request, have I bound a few together in a Sheaf. 
 
 Here it is, homely and rude as our pastures upon 
 the hills : but it has a fragrance for me — dare I hope 
 it can have as much for you ? In the binding up, it 
 has made scenes come back, and stir my soul, as I 
 thought it could not be stirred twice. 
 
Prefatory Letter. 
 
 Yet is it useless — altogether useless — the effort 
 
 to make words paint the passions that blaze in a 
 man's heart, as he wanders for the first time over the 
 glorious old highways of Europe ! 
 
 This sheaf, Mary, is a sheaf of tares. 
 
 You might pardon it: but there is that sly-faced 
 step-dame — the Public — whom, as yet, I do not know 
 at all, — whom as yet, I tremble to face ; and I fear 
 greatly, that she will look with a colder eye than 
 yours, over these Gleanings, thrown together with the 
 same free and careless hand, with which I used to tie 
 up the last sheaves before a shower. 
 
 But it is too late now to waver : and if I have not 
 one kind look save yours, I hope I may have the cour- 
 age to say, in the submissive spirit of Medea : — 
 
 Eatur — nihil recuso — merui. 
 
Jirst Step totuavb tl)c Continent. 
 
FIRST STEP TOWARD THE CONTINENT. 
 
 Paul Pry. 
 
 Y physician said I must quit England : so I put 
 ten sovereigns in my pocket, and set off South- 
 ward, through the summer county of Devonshire. 
 
 To-morrow, thought I, — for it was the last stage 
 
 between Exeter and Torquay, and had grown so dark, that 
 I could see no longer the pretty cottages along the way, — 
 lo-morrow, and I shall see strange faces and strange 
 dresses, and listen to a strange language ; for by ten next 
 morning, I hoped to rub my eyes open, in the Southern 
 atmosphere of one of those little Norman Isles, which lie 
 off the Northwest coast of France. 
 
 In the exhilaration of my spirits, I hinted as much to 
 the coachman ; and asked, in the same breath, if we should 
 be down in time for the steamer — a fact of which, how- 
 ever, I felt as morally sure, as that the snug coach, Paul 
 Pry, was then and there, toiling up the last range of hills 
 that shuts off the view of the Channel waters. 
 
4 Fresh Gleanings. 
 
 — What steamer, yer honor ? — said the coachman. 
 
 — The steamer for Jersey, surely; it was stipulated, 
 wrier- I took my place, that we should not be too late for 
 it. 
 
 — IZg^d ! that's v good 'un; why, there's been no 
 steamer, yer honor, these three months. 
 
 The serious air of the coachman did not leave me the 
 benefit of a single doubt. The first moment my thoughts 
 ran back, in no very Christian temper, to the man who had 
 booked me at Exeter; the next, I was inside the coach, 
 with my feet stretched over the front seat, thinking soberly 
 of what should be done. 
 
 To go to Southampton for the Mail steamer would cost 
 more money than I had left, and to cross the Channel in 
 such vile fishing-craft as might be in Torbay, would ex- 
 pose one to ten thousand risks, and I had decided upon 
 neither one thing nor the other, when the coach stopped 
 at the door of the Royal Inn. 
 
 A 
 
 TORQUA Y. 
 
 'FTER a fortnight of rain in England — and whoever 
 ■*-*. has been in England a fortnight has had just such 
 experience — how like the dawning of some better world 
 upon this, is a true sun-shiny day, when the sky is clear, 
 the air warm and soft, and the sea, with a fleet of white 
 sails shining on it, as blue as Heaven ! 
 
T o R a U A Y. .5 
 
 It was a day to make one feel at peace with his species. 
 I did not carry with me a single vengeful thought — not 
 even for the man who had booked me at Exeter — as I 
 walked out upon the quay before the inn door, as thor- 
 oughly capable of enjoying the summer warmness as, any 
 invalid of them all, who were sunning themselves on the 
 6imny sides of nearly all the houses of the town. 
 
 For it is worth mentioning — that five-and-twenty 
 
 years ago, Torquay was as humble a little fishing-place 
 as when Harry of Richmond landed in the bay with his 
 army ; but it came to be known — some way or other — that 
 nowhere on the British coasts were the winter suns so soft 
 and warm ; and presto sprung forth little cottages and villas 
 on every shelf of the hills, and the inns where one could 
 buy only a stoup of fisherman's ale / will now make you a 
 bill as long as the bills at Bath. 
 
 The hills sweep round the bay so as to shut off every 
 rude wind of the North ; and the sun goes glancing over 
 their green sides — now here, now there — but never leaves 
 them from morning till night. I lost myself wandering in 
 the little valleys among them ; along the bosom of each 
 were walks made, and from under the tangled limbs of 
 fir-trees, I would now and then climb suddenly upon a 
 level spot where the sunshine lay, and where sat a gem 
 of a cottage ; and from the paling round the cottage, I 
 would see the town lying along the lip of the bay under 
 so new an aspect, that I would look two or three times 
 before I could be sure that it was the same town of Tor- 
 quay. Some old church tower that had grown familiar 
 
6 Fresh Gleanings. 
 
 would have disappeared, and a new and taller tower 
 would rise from the houses, that I did not know ; and as I 
 went to other openings upon the hills, the old tower would 
 come back, and the new one vanish — but always the 
 bright waters of the bay sleeping below. 
 
 Here and there came upon me companies of invalids, 
 luxuriating in the sun. One face I saw — that of a sick 
 girl — comes to me now much oftener than it ought. 
 
 She was sitting in one of the little Bath chairs, and 
 
 a serving man was drawing her up the hill. Her mother 
 was walking on one side, and her brother, or he may have 
 been her lover, the other — if he was a lover, I pity him, for 
 she must be dead before now. Her hair was flaxen, and 
 once or twice she laid it back with a gentle motion, from 
 her cheek ; her eye was bright — too bright, and swimming 
 with a tender expression, that seemed to me a tender 
 thankfulness for so glorious a day. 
 
 The man drew her to the edge of the cliff where I was 
 standing, and her expression grew more earnest as she 
 looked out over the sea, where the sun lay in a flood. 
 There was no ripple — only a gentle waving motion that 
 did not break the surface, but which at intervals came 
 rocking up to the beach, and the low murmur it made, was 
 all that broke the stillness. 
 
 The sick girl looked out upon the water — and from that 
 turned to the face of her mother — and then to the face of 
 the young man — and then to the sea again — and from that 
 up to the sky — and her small hands met together, r.nd 
 were clasped for a moment — and I thought a tear or two 
 
The I \ N by the Bridge. 7 
 
 fell from her eyes. 1 turned away as if I had seen noth- 
 ing of it ; but I did see it, and it made a difFereut man of 
 me for a week. 
 
 I had half a mind, forgetting the Doctor, to stop in Tor- 
 quay. So I had a chat with my landlady. She would be 
 charmed to have me for a lodger, and her terms were 
 two guineas for board, a guinea more for room ; and for 
 service — it should be left entirely to my discretion. 
 
 1 did not whistle, but slipped my hand into my 
 
 trowsers pocket, and tried to jingle the four sovereigns 1 
 had left, and pursed up my lips very tightly — in short, 
 I must have made a very awkward appearance. 
 
 That very afternoon I had paid my bill, and before 
 night was sitting in the best parlor, up stairs, of a little inn 
 at Paignton, the other side of the bay. So small was the 
 inn, that the housemaid was sent off to the butcher's shop, 
 to buy me a steak for supper — with this I took a tankard 
 of ale, and before a grate full of coals sat dozing the night 
 away, till the village clock struck eleven. 
 
 The Inn by the Bridge. 
 
 T WAS glad the coachman did not ask me where I was 
 -■- going, when I got upon the Plymouth coach next 
 morning — for I could not have told him. We had not 
 gone twenty miles before we entered the sweetest gem 
 of a valley that could be found in all Devonshire ; and 
 
8 Fresh Gleanings. 
 
 scarce had we entered it, before the coachman pointed out 
 •with his whip, a heavy, home-looking, stone mansion be- 
 side the way, where, said he, in spring time — they take 
 lodgers, who go trouting all down the valley. 
 
 — And if they take lodgers in spring, why not in winter, 
 said I. 
 
 — Sure enough ; why not ] said he. 
 
 So, when we were opposite, he reined up his horses, 
 and I jumped down with my portmanteau in my hand. 
 The good woman showed me into a snug little parlor, and 
 the maid came in with a pan full of coals, and presently 
 the grate was all in a glow, and the room dusted ; and 
 for dinner, I was served with such old-fashioned apple- 
 pies, and such luscious clotted cream, as are to be found 
 nowhere else in England. 
 
 Ah, it was a rare time that, in the old inn at Erme- 
 
 bridge ! Out of one window I could see the stone arch 
 that leaped the stream, over which the coaches thundered 
 twice and three times a day ; and beyond it, the gray roofs 
 of the village nestled together on the side of the valley, with 
 the brown church tower, mossy and old, lifting above them 
 — and beyond, the hills rising, and spreading into green 
 grain fields. Out of the other window, that went down to 
 the floor, I could step into a rich plat of grass, with trim 
 walks in it, and laurels blossoming, and holding up their 
 painted heads as proudly, as if the month were June, and 
 not January. From the very edge of this little green spot 
 stretched a pheasant wood — for how many miles over the 
 hills, I do not know ; but I have walked myself tired in 
 
T II R I N N BY THE B R 1 D G E. 9 
 
 it, and never found the end ; and sometimes the pheasants 
 would steal out, and go stalking under the laurels, and 
 stretch out a wing and a leg to sun, on a soft bit of the 
 gravel ; but when I touched the window, they would 
 whir away to the middle of the wood. 
 
 Stranger things happen every day, than that I should 
 forget all about the instructions of Dr. Manifold, and loiter 
 a whole week at Erme-bridge. I could make a very long 
 story, if I chose, of my landlady's discourse— of the talk 
 of the wise ones of the village, as they happened in of an 
 evening for a mug of toddy or a glass of my landlord's ale — 
 of my rambles over the grounds of the Squire, whose cas- 
 tellated mansion broke up into the sky, at the South end 
 of the valley, with a score or more of chimney tops — of 
 my stealing slyly upon herds of deer, to see them go gal- 
 loping away like the wind — of the Sunday service at the 
 church, where the Christmas-greens were still hanging, 
 a sprig of holly in each corner of the pews, and wreaths 
 woven of fir-boughs and myrtle hanging in dried festoons 
 from the desk where the curate stood, (whose man-ser- 
 vant would now and then slip into the inn with the parish 
 jug — as if the curate had not an equal right to the good 
 things of life as any man of us all!) — but I have not the 
 heart to make a long story of it ; for Ill-health, that had 
 dogged me like a hound all the way down through the 
 North of England, came here upon my track again. I 
 got once more upon the Plymouth coach to give him a 
 new chase; and as we rattled over the bridge, and I 
 caught the last eourtesy and the last smile of the landlady 
 
10 Fresh Gleanings. 
 
 at the door, I vowed in my heart, that — if my wife were 
 willing — I would spend my honey-moon at that same inn 
 of Erme-bridge. 
 
 S The Zebra. 
 
 IT was a wretched, rainy night ; and as I went about 
 through the muddy and narrow streets, and under the 
 black, overhanging gables of Plymouth, I fancied that all 
 whom I met gliding about in cloaks, were worthy old 
 Round-heads, making ready for the Mayflower. I felt 
 that there was something half-kindred in our purpose ; for 
 I was threading the slippery streets, in search of some 
 craft to take me over to the Island of Jersey, out of the 
 clutches of a Tyrant more ruthless than Charles and Laud 
 together. 
 
 So I went splashing along, around sharp corners, and 
 through ill-lighted ways, with my feelings so wrought 
 up by crowding fancies and the strangeness of the scene 
 — the distant lamps glimmering on the wet pavement 
 — the rain-drops pattering on me from the quaint old 
 blackened balconies — that once or twice, I caught my- 
 self turning half round at sound of an approaching foot- 
 fall, to-see if a posse of King Charles's men were not upon 
 my track; but they were not, and I found my way 
 quietly enough down to the George and Dragon. — Just 
 such a bit of a carousing inn it was, as would have re- 
 
 sb 
 
The Zebra. 11 
 
 joiced the heart of Roger Wildrake with a heaping tank- 
 ard of sack. But though the merry old days of Wildrakes 
 are gone, the days of sack-drinkers are not, The twofold 
 virtue is still recognized at the inn of the George and 
 Dragon. The tap-room was full. They were sitting on 
 wooden benches around a blazing fire in the grate— the 
 half of them with pipes, and every man of them with his 
 mug of ale. 
 
 For my own part, I like to see now and then such re- 
 siduary customs of the Past ; and in an old lumbering 
 town like Plymouth, it freshens memories, and makes an 
 agreeable coincidence, and puts the quickest possible edge 
 upon a man's appetite for seeing and living over again the 
 times that are gone. And if there are folks so stupidly 
 sober as to question my habit in the thing, I shall enter 
 no such plea as no?i jpeccatum est ; for in many a little inn 
 along the Tweed have I drained a good tankard of home- 
 brewed, and felt myself — not a whit the worse for it. 
 
 The landlord came out from behind his bar, where he 
 stood between two rows of glittering tankards, and went 
 down with me upon the Quay, in search of a skipper 
 friend of his own, who was going on the morrow to Jer- 
 sey. It was a little black, one-masted vessel we found, 
 rocking just under the lee of the pier, and we had shout- 
 ed a half dozen times before a stumpy figure put its head 
 out of the forecastle, and told us the Zebra would sail at 
 morning tide next day. 
 
 I promised to send my luggage to the Dragon, and the 
 host of the Dragon said it would be all right. I splashed 
 
12 F R E S II G L E A N I N G S. 
 
 home again, and dreamed all night of doublets, and striped 
 hose, and Round-heads, and basket-hilts, and Old Noll, and 
 Pym, and Plymouth Rock — and now and then, like a gleam 
 of light breaking through the dreams, came a pleasant 
 vision of sweet Alice Lee. 
 
 The tide came in, and the tide went out, and the sun 
 got up to its highest ; still the Zebra lay just off the pier ; 
 and every time I met the Captain, who was a dapper little 
 Islander, he would half embrace me in a perfect trans- 
 port of excuses 
 
 I think I must have borne it very meekly, or his confi- 
 dence in my forbearance would not have remained so un- 
 shaken ; for he had repeated this manoeuvre I know not 
 how many times, before we were fairly ready to set off. 
 I had even taken a steak in the back parlor of the Dragon, 
 and had gone iip the heights above the town, to see 
 through. a glass, the waves dashing over the top of Eddy- 
 stone, nine miles down the bay ; and the sun had gone 
 down at the first clinck of the windlass, and the light was 
 blazing on the end of the Breakwater, when we rounded 
 it, and dropped down into the Sound. 
 
 There is nothing in a run across the English Channel, 
 ipso facto, either curious, or worth the telling. But there 
 I was, a sad wreck of an invalid, with two sovereigns in 
 my pocket, a doctor's prescription, and a pill-box — with 
 only so much dinner in my stomach, as I had picked up on 
 ten minutes' notice in the back room of the Dragon — in a 
 little forty-ton vessel, cutter-rigged — with a half-blooded 
 Captain, who had sprung a brandy-bottle in his berth, be- 
 
The Zebra. 13 
 
 fore we were quit of Mt. Edgecombe — bound two or 
 three hundred miles away, to a dot of an Island, so set 
 around with barefaced and sunken rocks, that to make it 
 in the best of weather, is like sailing between Scylla and 
 Charybdis, amid the howlings of Sea-green dogs * 
 
 For company, were forty fat sheep — a butcher — a 
 Plymouth pilgrim, who was a shoemaker, and had a wife 
 and nine children — a stone-cutter with his bride, going to 
 try his new-knit fortunes in the Islands of the sea. Philippe 
 was Captain, but stayed most of his time below, wrapped 
 in a cloak ; Ben, the mate, had but one hand, but he 
 managed the tiller very well with his stump; Tom was 
 the only sailor aboard, and had it not been for him, I be- 
 lieve I should never have lived to tell the story of the voy- 
 age. Pierre wore a long dreadnought, spoke bad En- 
 glish, built the fire, emptied the slops, and did the cooking. 
 Beside myself, there was not another soul on board, ex- 
 cept a small dog, who, before we had been out eight-and- 
 twenty hours, became disgusted with appearances on 
 deck, and went below, where he lay coiled up in a corner 
 of the hold. 
 
 In the cabin were four berths : Philippe had one, the 
 butcher another, the stone-cutter and wife (they took turns 
 — so did we all before we got to Jersey) another, and 
 myself the fourth. A stove and table filled up the middle. 
 A light wind hardly kept the sail full down the Sound. — 
 At ten it was calm, and the canvas flapped the mast. At 
 
 * — — coeruleis canibus resonantia saxa. (/En., lib. iii. 432.) 
 
14 Fresh Gleanings. 
 
 twelve we were dashing ahead merrily, and sheets of foam 
 flew from the bow, all over the vessel : I wrung my Scotch 
 cap dry, and put it on for a night-cap, and turned in. 
 
 I had not slept two hours, before I commenced dream- 
 ing — dreaming, strange as it seems, now that I come to 
 write it down— about being in a tub of malt liquor ; and I 
 had sunk so low, that it was just gurgling in my ears, 
 when 1 woke up : 1 was as wet as if it had been no 
 dream. The berth was soaking wet, and had soaked 
 through three coats, and wet me to the skin. I staggered 
 on deck — it was no drier there. The wind had hauled 
 ahead, and the waves came driving at us, and licked us 
 over, like hungry dogs. I can not describe the action of 
 the little craft as she tossed and plunged, and then leaped 
 down into a dark trough of the howling waves. It was 
 dreadful — I could not bear it. I tried to shake some of 
 the water from me, and crawled below ; and took one of 
 the Doctor's pills, and turned my head to the wall. 
 
 My thoughts were quick and active ; for the peltjngs of 
 the wet, and a but-half- admitted sense of danger made 
 me wakeful as the morning; but my thoughts took one 
 inevitable direction ; I could have pleaded in a period as 
 long as the longest in one of Fenelon's sermons, and by 
 half more eloquent, for a single half hour of quiet.. 
 
 Oh, ye pleasant romancers about the gay life upon 
 
 the sea, — whose romances spend themselves in dreams and 
 in longings, I wish you could have had the berth of this 
 poor soul for an hour, that night in the Zebra ! 
 
 If a man's thoughts are not lively enough to run away 
 
The Zebra. 15 
 
 from his distresses, at such a time, there would be no hope 
 for him — he would go down in sorrow to the grave. 
 Now, my thoughts were frolicking through the green al- 
 leys of England, and cottages sweet as love ever fancied, 
 — when I was restored to present consciousness, by the ef- 
 forts made to breathe an infernal smoke, that filled the 
 whole cabin of the Zebra. 
 
 Pierre had come in, in his dreadnought, and was build- 
 ing a fire in the stove. Presently he put over a pot of 
 coffee ; and when it had boiled, he generously offered it 
 around at the berths, in a tin dipper. I was not sure — but 
 thought I had seen the same dipper passed, in a hurried 
 manner, from the berth of the stone-cutter's wife to the 
 gangway, in the first glimmer of the morning. 
 
 — No, thank ye — said I — too ungraciously, for after all, 
 thought I, it is only suspicion — corroborated, I must say, by 
 the fact that the stone-cutter himself scrupulously abstained. 
 The Captain, however, drank a full dipper of it ; and if he 
 did not relish it so much as his brandy, it was surely no 
 fault of the dipper, which was as good a dipper, mechan- 
 ically speaking, as one could wish for. 
 
 But the stone-cutter's wife w r as not the only one who 
 proved unseaworthy ; for there were noises from the berth 
 of the butcher below me, that sounded like any thing else, 
 more than the turning out of coffee. 
 
 By and by there was a slight scuffle on deck ; the Cap- 
 tain was at the foot of the gangway, and Pierre at the 
 top :-«-they passed down the drenched cobbler, and set 
 him up in the lee corner ; the poor devil had not strength 
 
16 Fresh Gleanings. 
 
 to say any thing. Next they handed down his wife, and 
 set her up to windward as a sort of bolster, to keep the 
 old fellow from tumbling against the stove, at each lurch 
 of the vessel. Next, they passed down one of the cob- 
 bler's boys — then one of the cobbler's girls. I grew un- 
 easy, but said nothing — I doubt if I could have said any 
 thing. " • 
 
 They kept on passing them down — first a boy, then a 
 girl — then a girl, and then a boy, until I had counted nine. 
 They filled the floor like a mat, homespun — I tried to 
 smile at the joke, but I could not. Through all this, the 
 cobbler had not said a word — nor one of the children — nor 
 the butcher — nor the stone-cutter's wife — nor I; but I 
 thought how it would be, for there was no room now to 
 pass about the dipper; indeed I doubt if one of them 
 could have carried a steady hand. 
 
 Presently there was a low cry. 
 
 — Ma, Ma, tell Johnny 
 
 — Poor dear ! how can he help it — said Ma ; and the 
 cobbler's wife made a hurried effort to clear a spot beside 
 her ; — how could she hope it, wedged in as they were ] 
 
 The cobbler tried to recoil, but said not a word, though 
 his mouth was full of bitterness — poor soul ! — so was his 
 lap. 
 
 Now it happened just then, that my London beaver, 
 which was upon a beam under the skylight, lurched over 
 and fell among them. I would not have got down to pick 
 it up, if it had been worth ten guineas. So it went bob- 
 bing among them, striking one in the teeth, and another 
 
The Zebra. 17 
 
 in the eyes, and once burying Johnny to the shoulders. 
 There was a suffocating cry from under it, and by a sin- 
 gle pinch of the thumb and finger, the cobbler's wife made 
 a cocked hat of it ; still, flattened and shapeless, it went 
 driving round, nor stopped till Pierre picked it up, and 
 jammed it into his locker. 
 
 I grew tired of all this. I do not like to confess to sea- 
 sickness, but there was a feeling at my heart (it may have 
 been the stomach, as I'm no anatomist) which played the 
 very dickens with me. I got upon deck — I never knew 
 how — but have a faint recollection of three or four of the 
 cobbler's children squalling after me, as if they had been 
 trodden on. I put an arm round the bulwarks, — begged 
 Pierre to lay a tarpaulin over me, for it was raining in 
 torrents, and looked out upon the sea. 
 
 Now and then a wave would rise close beside the ves- 
 sel, and a gust tear off its whole beaded top, and bring it 
 — a long sheet of water — crackling and spattering over 
 me. I would duck my gray wool cap under the tarpau- 
 lin, but no sooner out, than — whist came another scud, 
 half blinding me with spray. A gull now and then would 
 battle with the wind, but seemed struggling to get to land. 
 The clouds thickened gradually into darkness, for the sun 
 was down ; — -ponto nox incubat atra — black night brooded 
 on the waters ; the very half line came to me, as I sat hug- 
 ging the low bulwarks, and gasping between the gusts. 
 
 O ! terque, quaterque beati, you school-boys, who scan 
 Virgil to the beats of the master's rod, though it be on 
 your bare backs, rather than the thumps and dashings of 
 
18 Fresh Gleanings. 
 
 a January gale upon the writhing carcass of that little 
 floating Zebra — more headlong in its gallop than the wild- 
 est that courses the plains of Timbuctoo !. 
 
 There was no sleep that night. I did not go back to 
 the cabin : I gave the mate a half-a-crown for his bunk, 
 which was just within the gangway. True, the clothes 
 smelled bad, but the cabin smelled infinitely worse. 
 
 No better sky opened on us next morning. Again the 
 vile smoke filled the cabin ; again Pierre made the coffee ; 
 again he passed the dipper. I was faint, for I had eaten 
 nothing since the dinner in the parlor of the Dragon. I 
 begged a bit of biscuit, munched it, and staggered forward 
 to the water-cask. The butcher, too, had crawled on 
 deck, but he said nothing to me (he knew my berth was 
 oyer him) and I said nothing to him. 
 
 By noon a little sun showed itself. A London packet 
 was beating down Channel. It scarce seemed to mind 
 the sea that was tossing us about, as if we were not worth 
 a reckoning. I would have given my two sovereigns, and 
 my hat, and all I had, to have been on board of her. 
 
 The cobbler's boys crawled on deck. Pierre made a 
 little broth, and I begged some, and ate it in a pint bowl 
 that I had not seen before. Before dark, we had made 
 the Island of Sark, but night came on black again, and in 
 the morning, hungry and faint, I crawled again upon the 
 wet decks, to see — nothing but a great gray waste of 
 waters, dashing arid lashing around us. 
 
 The sheep were almost dead, and so was I. There 
 was not a quadrant on board, if there had been a sun to 
 
Th e Zebra. 19 
 
 light it. The captain knew no more of navigation than the 
 butcher; yet, there we were, tearing away at a deuce of 
 a pace — Philippe in the rigging, *and the one-handed man 
 at the helm — Heaven only knew where. So we had run 
 on till near noon, when we decided — and the butcher and 
 I came into consultation — to put the vessel about. All 
 was ready for the new move, when Philippe cried, land. 
 As I had no more faith in the fellow's eyes, than I had in 
 his conscience, I doubted still. 
 
 Soon, however, there was a blue lift in the horizon. An 
 hour, and we made Guernsey and rounded it; then we 
 made the highlands of St. John's and of Grosnez ; and saw 
 the tall belfry of St. Owen ; and shot among the troubled 
 waves, within two oars' length of the fearful Corbiere ; and 
 passed La Moye, and ran under the shade of St. Brelades, 
 and frightfully near La Fret ; and dashed round Noirmont 
 tower — away through the broad bay of Sf. Aubins — under 
 the scowling-guns of the castle — straight between the pier- 
 heads of the dock of St. Hiliers. 
 
 1 will never go to sea again in a vessel of forty tons ; 
 
 — I will never sail again with such a half-blooded blade of a 
 captain ; — I will never sail again with a cobbler who has 
 a wife and nine children ; — I will never sail again with a 
 butcher who does not know a coffee-cup from a wash- 
 bowl ; but, the cruise in the Zebra being at an end, I can 
 only say, — I will never, under favor of Heaven, make such 
 another. 
 
20 Fresh Gleanings. 
 
 Saint Hiliers. 
 
 TT was very odd, but even so, that Ill-health, which, as 
 **■ I said, had dogged me all through England, lost the 
 scent in some of those doublings upon the Channel ; and I 
 felt myself a well man, (though a very weak one) at the 
 first step I put upon the quay ; and tenfold so, when I had 
 taken a good bath, and a good dinner in the neat little inn 
 of my host, upon the Place Royale. 
 
 My heart warms as I go back to the pleasant little city 
 of St. Hiliers, picturesquely strewed along the sands of St. 
 Aubin's bay, with grim and great Fort Regent scowling 
 over it from the rock, — its houses lighted up by sunshine, 
 its streets smooth and clean to a nicety — all of which I 
 knew, and all the hucksters' shops and alleys, as well as 1 
 know the green, broad valley that stretches from my win- 
 dow to-day. Morning after morning, in pleasant winter 
 time, have I wandered through the streets of the Island city, 
 busy and active, — and along the quays, where lie vessels 
 from Rio and the Cape, and Newfoundland; and by the 
 pretty cottages that sit upon the hills above the town, and 
 out upon the long reach of pebbles, that connects Castle 
 Elizabeth with the shore. There, they say, upon the rocky 
 isle, an old hermit had his home ; I have laid myself down 
 in the bed in the rock, where they say that the hermit 
 laid > but the wild Normans as early as the times of 
 
Saint Hiliers. 21 
 
 Charles tho Simple, killed the poor anchorite, and now 
 nothing is left of him, but his hole in the rock, and his 
 name — for his name was St. Hilier. 
 
 Pleasant memories hover about the old castle, for Wal- 
 ter Raleigh was once its Governor, and had a snug room 
 on the first floor, with — I dare say — many a good butt of 
 sack on the floor below. Clarendon wrote a part of his 
 history in some odd corner of the battlemented building. 
 But the days of its glory are gone ; and the head-quarters 
 of Charles the Second, who made the old walls shake with 
 jollity, have become a guard-room for half a dozen lazy 
 fellows in gray coats and breeches, who keep up a clatter 
 with pipes, and a few tumblers of weak wine. Age has 
 worn sad furrows in its face, and a few guns from the 
 prim-looking Fort Regent, upon the hill, would batter 
 it down to the sea. 
 
 It is very strange how this Island people, living as it 
 were within hail of the coast of France, and speaking the 
 Norman language, and living under Norman customs, 
 should yet be the sturdiest loyalists, and the most con- 
 summate haters of French rule, anywhere to be found in 
 the dominions of her Britannic majesty. Time and time 
 again, the French have struggled to possess the Island — 
 twice have had armies upon it, but always have been 
 driven back into the sea. 
 
 Now, little Martello towers line the whole shores, 
 springing from the rocks just off the land ; and through- 
 out the reign of Napoleon, a red light might have been 
 seen in them all at night — for in each, two artillery men 
 boiled their pot for a week together. 
 
22 Fresh Gleanings. 
 
 The last regular descent upon the city, or in fact upon 
 any part of the Island, was somewhere about the year 17S0 
 or '81.* Baron de Rullecourt landed one stormy night 
 with seven hundred men, at a point of rocks within a half- 
 hour's march of the town Square. Before light they had 
 roused Major Corbet, the governor of the Island ; two tall 
 French grenadiers served him as valets*dc'cliambre, and 
 marched him, arm in arm, upon the Place Royale. By this 
 time the Islanders were awake, and were surprised to find 
 seven hundred French soldiers marshaled in their quiet 
 Square, and Major Corbet, in his night-cap, in the front 
 ranks. Major Corbet, acting probably under advices of 
 his French retainers, ordered the Island garrison to capit- 
 ulate. 
 
 Major Pierson, the next in command, being thoroughly 
 awake, declined compliance ; and by noon a thousand of 
 the militia had crowded up all the little streets which lead 
 off' the Royal Square. Major Pierson was at the head of 
 his company. The Frenchmen stood firm. 
 
 Major Corbet, shivering with the cold, for it was Jan- 
 Mary, penned another and final order, as commander-in- 
 chief. Major Pierson stuck the billet upon the point of 
 his sword, and waved to his men to come forward. 
 
 "Crack ! — went the French musketry. 
 
 Major Pierson fell dead, but his men bore up stoutly ; 
 Baron de Rullecourt fell: the French ranks became thin- 
 
 * Falle's History. Earlier attacks upon the islands are mentioned 
 in Raleigh's History of the World; particularly that upon Sark — a 
 •curious story — in the time of Edward VI. 
 
The Island op Jersey. 23 
 
 ned — the Islanders closed round them, hewing, and firing, 
 and shouting. They beat them down, — they trampled 
 them under foot, — they met in the middle. It was a 
 rare time for the quiet little town of St. Hiliers. Only 
 fifty got safely to their boats. 
 
 The Islanders speak of it now as a thing of yesterday. 
 — Poor Major Pierson! says one. 
 
 — Et Rullccourt — le pauvre (Liable! says another; and 
 they show you the stone (I could see it from my inn 
 window) on which he fell fighting so bravely. 
 
 Making up, as they do, a family of themselves, apart 
 from the rest of the world, it was curious to observe how 
 their thoughts ran upon old themes. They were once, 
 it is said, nearer the Main than now ; and this leads me 
 
 away from St. Hiliers- — its inn — my host Monsieur B , 
 
 his fat wife, and daughter, to take a rambling glance at 
 the whole Island. 
 
 The Island of Jersey. 
 
 FTHRADITION — a pleasant old story-teller as ever 
 -*- lived — says that the people of Normandy, once 
 passed over to the Island of Jersey upon a bridge of a 
 single plank, paying a small tribute to the Abbot of 
 Coutance. If the method should be resumed, there 
 would be needed a plank five leagues long — and the 
 bishop must be toll-gatherer, for the abbot is dead. 
 
24 Fresh Gleanings. 
 
 Perhaps it was when crossing was so easy, that the 
 fierce Normans made such terrible inroads upon the island, 
 atid upon all the neighboring parts of France — even to 
 the gates of the palace of Charles the Simple, that this 
 weak monarch proposed to Rollo, who called himself 
 Duke of Normandy, this bargain : — Rollo was to have 
 quiet possession of the islands of Sark, Alderney, Guern- 
 sey and Jersey, and all that part of France now called 
 Normandy, with the king's daughter Gisla, into the bar- 
 gain — provided he would neither ask, nor take any thing 
 more. More of the king's daughters, Rollo, as a discreet 
 prince (and tradition says thus much for him), probably 
 never wanted; — for the same tradition says, Gisla was 
 both old and ugly. 
 
 Yet, — so strange are the ways of Providence, — from 
 this same match, brought into effect by so romantic at- 
 tachments, is legitimately sprung His Royal Highness, Al- 
 bert Prince of Wales. How much of the blood of Gisla 
 or of Hollo, stirs up the little chubby rogue, at his hoop-driv- 
 ing in the park behind the palace, it matters not to inquire. 
 
 A part of the bargain I had forgotten. — Rollo, on mar- 
 rying his wife, was to become a Christian ; an odd way, 
 it may seem to many, of promoting the Christian virtues 
 in a man ; — but those were rude times. Rollo managed 
 his new estates well; he was both loved and feared. It 
 was the custom of the humblest of the peasantry to call 
 in the prince to settle their disputes; "Rollo, Rollo, 
 a Vaide mon prince /" was the cry ; — and so often was it 
 repeated, and so just were the Duke's decisions, that the 
 
Tut Island of Jersey. 25 
 
 cry became a part of their law. It went down to the 
 people under succeeding monarchs — to the times of 
 Robert the Magnificent, and William the Conqueror, and 
 Henry ; and even still later, it had force in Normandy. 
 
 Apropos is this story, I have somewhere met with, of 
 the burial of William the Conqueror,* whose ashes lie 
 under the high arches of the Abbaye mix homines at Caen. 
 
 The grave was dug, — the monarch was in his coffin, 
 
 — the candles were burning, and the incense was rising. 
 The dead monarch's son Henry, in armor, and his guards 
 in glittering armor, stood looking on; — they raised the cof- 
 fin to lower it in the grave, when suddenly, a voice from 
 beside the royal cortege cried, — Ha Ro ! Ha Ro ! 
 Ha Ro ! a Vaidc mon prince ! 
 
 The attendants set down the coffin on the pavement. 
 Henry looked stern, but could not control the effect of the 
 cry. 
 
 A peasant claimed the spot as his ; his evidence was 
 made good by the concurrence of the bystanders ; and 
 not till the money was counted him for the burial-spot, 
 did the dead king find a place in his graved 
 
 The strangest remains to be told : — the cry has still a 
 sacred and binding force throughout the Island of Jersey 
 — and the Clamcur dc Ha-ro fills pages of their books of 
 law. Wo be to the aggressor who hears the cry, though 
 Rollo has been dead a thousand years ! 
 
 * Histoire des Frangais. — Sismondi. Mrs. He-mans has written 
 some very pretty verses in connection with the same incident. 
 
 B 
 
26 F it e s ii G l Ti a y \ 3 n s 
 
 After Rollo, came seven Dukes, — then William, who 
 fought at Hastings, where Hubert's grandsire drew a long- 
 bow. William gave Jersey with the rest of Normandy to 
 his son Robert — poor fellow — he had his eyes put out in 
 Cardiffe Castle — a day's ride from Bristol ; and the phthis- 
 icy old warder will tell you the story, if you go there, now. 
 
 Since that sad day, England's kings have been masters 
 of Jersey, with the exception of a little time when Crom- 
 well sent over his army, and subdued it. For the men of 
 Jersey were great royalists, and Charles II. led a gay 
 life there after running away from Worcester, or (Scott's 
 version) after stealing out of Ditchley park, under advice 
 of old Doctor Rochecliffe. And now they show you, with 
 pitiable pride, — the table at which he sat, — the bed on 
 which he slept (one of them), and speak of him (many of 
 them) as a father. 
 
 Cromwell, however, conquered the Island, and Haines 
 
 was made Governor but a truce to all this ; you will 
 
 find as much in your geographies. It gives one no clear 
 idea of the beautiful, green, little Island of Jersey ;* so we 
 
 * I am not writing a geography, nor a gazetteer, I therefore put 
 statistics all down in a note. — The Island is twelve miles long, by eight 
 broad. Its population, in round numbers, is fifty thousand — of whom 
 half are at St. Hiliers, and St. Aubins,— another little city opposite the 
 first. Twenty thousand are engaged in agriculture. The language is 
 indifferently — a French patois, and bad English. French is the lan- 
 guage of the courts ; French and English of the churches. Over thirty 
 thousand tons of shipping are owned by the inhabitants, and double the 
 amount enters in a year. Exports are cows, cider, and potatoes — all 
 
The Island of Jersey. 27 
 
 will take a ramble together through the shaded lanes, and 
 look out upon the fields. 
 
 In the first place, there remain upon the island the old 
 Seigneuries ; nowhere else will you hear of the Lords of the 
 Manor. The old feudal privileges have, it is true, mostly 
 gone by : still, enough remain to give their holders rank 
 and name ; and the gems of the island are the old Manor- 
 houses. Buried in trees, they are of quaint architecture, 
 and you look up through long avenues upon their peaked 
 gables, and brown faces half covered with ivy. There is 
 the manor-house of Rozel, — a miniature castle, with a min- 
 iature park about it, on which the deer are trooping ; and 
 from its windows you look over St. Catharine's bay, and 
 Archirondel tower — rising tall and weather-beaten out of 
 the edge of the sea. There is the Seigneury of Trinity — a 
 great, soberly mansion, whose walls the thick evergreens 
 have made damp-looking and mossy, but within, it is ever 
 cheerful as Summer. 
 
 Nor are the Seigneuries all ; for the whole island is one 
 great suburb. — Now we have a huge stone wall at our 
 left, coming up to the very track of the carriage- wheels, — 
 if track there could be upon the delightfully smooth roads : 
 a little moss hangs in its crevices ; the edge of a mouldy 
 thatch appears over one end. You enter by a high arch- 
 way, over which are two hearts uni'ed, graven in the 
 
 excellent; imports — wines, grain, and fish. There are no duties. 
 Exchange is in favor of Great Britian to the amount of a shilling in 
 a pound. 
 
28 Fresh Gleanings. 
 
 Btone, and a date a century or two old ; the. archway 
 opens upon the cheerful, noisy court of a farmery ; — on 
 one side, facing the sun, are the cottage windows, and a 
 gray thatch, thick and heavy, covers the roof; lines of 
 hospitable-looking sheds, weighed down with thatch, 
 flank the cottages, and the stables are opposite ; between 
 are piles of straw, and ricks, and carts, and pigs — and 
 ducks quacking, and an old woman in a short petticoat 
 and a red turban. A black and white cat is sunning 
 herself on a shelf by the door, and a big dog stalks lazily 
 out, to give you a growl of salutation as you pass on your 
 way. 
 
 Just by the farmery, looking over the hedge, you can 
 see a dozen of the beautiful cows of Jersey feeding 
 in the orchard ; and they will lift their heads, and turn 
 their mild eyes upon you with a look that is half human. 
 All the while the hedgerows on either side roll up in 
 round, green mounds. The narrow space between is 
 hard and smooth, and so winding that the view is always 
 changing ; and if you spring for a moment to the top of 
 the grassy knoll, where the hedge is thin, you will see such 
 a carpet of greenness as will make the heart glad in win- 
 ter; and beyond its limit, toppling out of the trees — a cot- 
 tage, with so many roofs and angles, and windows and 
 chimneys, as woul \ make the study of a painter ; — still be- 
 yond, like the burro wings of a mole, follow those same 
 green hedgerows, winding down to the sea, — which is not 
 so far away, but that you can see the glisten of the water- 
 drops and the shaking of the waves. 
 
The Island of Jersey. 29 
 
 There is picturesqueness of another kind upon the island; 
 — deep valleys, away by St. Mary's toward the West, and 
 hills pushing boldly into them, with untamed forests u 
 their foreheads ; and upon the tops of some of them are 
 standing Poquelays — so they call them — tall upright stones 
 of the times of Druid worship. 
 
 There is the remnant upon the high cape of Grosnez, — 
 a patch of a ruin, — about which more old wives' stories 
 hang, than ivy-berries upon the wall. 
 
 There is tall Mont Orgueil, and its tall castle topping it 
 — just in that state of decay, that one loves to wander 
 dreaming up its stairways ; — for the wooden wainscots are 
 not yet mouldered, and you tread great oaken floors that 
 shake and creak ; you climb tottering stair-cases in angles 
 of the wall, and lo ! at the landing — the floors have fallen, 
 and you look down a dizzy depth from chamber to dun- 
 geon ; — you sit in an embrasure of the window of the 
 great hall of the castle, as the sun goes down ; and the 
 red light reflected from the waters, that rush thither and 
 away upon the beach, checkers the heavy whited arches. 
 
 Stamp upon the floor, and the timbers tremble, and 
 the echo rings ; — a great door slams below, and the crash 
 comes bellowing into the hall ; — a little door slams above, 
 and the ruin seems to shake ; a bat flies in at the door, 
 and flies out at the window. As the twilight deepens, 
 and gray turns to black in the corners of the hall, 
 wild goblin dreams crowd over you ; — there is a laugh 
 faint and low (for it comes from the boys of Gorey) 
 —it is an imp in the shadow. Now it comes louder 
 
30 Fresh Gleanings. 
 
 — hurra ! — it is Prince Rupert,* and Charley at their 
 cups. 
 
 What a leer in the look of the prince, what a devil 
 
 in his eye ! A low shout again — Vive le Roi / vive le 
 Rol / 
 
 How the glasses jingle ! A bat flies in, and a bat flies 
 
 out. A laugh, low and meaning — Hist ! there is a 
 
 maid in the corner, and she looks — entreaty. 
 
 Clinck, clinck, go Prince Rupert's spurs, as he sets up 
 a goblin dance. 
 
 --King Charles laughs — what a laugh! and his 
 
 sword goes click, click, against the heavy oak table as he 
 reels with his glass. 
 
 — No, no ; it is not Charles, it is not Prince Rupert. It 
 is Robertf of Normandy — for he built the castle — and his 
 tread is heavy on the old floor, and his armor goes clank- 
 ing — clanking. 
 
 But his eyes are out — Poor Robert ! Wicked Henry ! 
 
 * Historical critics will quarrel with me for sending Prince Rupert 
 to Jersey, where, so far as I know, he never set foot ; but if a man 
 may poetize with a license, surely he may dream, with a license. 
 
 t Robert, eldest son of William the Conqueror (1100), was sup- 
 posed to have been the builder of the castle. It will be remembered 
 that Normandy pertained to him (vid. Turner) by his father's arrange- 
 ment. It was purchased from him by William Rufus ; and the suc- 
 ceeding monarch, Henry Beauclerc, the youngest brother, having 
 conquered Robert, retained him prisoner in CardifFe Castle in South 
 Wales (where I had the pleasure of sitting in his dungeon), for 
 twenty-eight years. And-^-the story runs — the prisoner's eyes were 
 put out with a heated copper basin, by command of his brother. 
 
La Hogue B i e. 31 
 
 The sockets are deep and bare. 'Fore Heaven ! — his 
 head is white : — it is a skull ! — and the skeleton — for it is 
 a skeleton, and no armor — goes clanking — clanking, over 
 the oaken floor. 
 
 1 said it was a place for dreams — for it was after 
 
 all, only the warder come with his keys, who tells us it 
 is time to lock up the ruin. 
 
 La Hogue Bie* 
 
 /~^i OING home — to St. Hiliers — from Mount Orgueil, 
 R*^ by the way of St. Savior's, there may be seen over 
 the hedge, a little to the right of the road — so near, 
 that in the evening you would see it, and stand and stare 
 — a tower, built upon a mound ; and the mound is cov- 
 ered with trees, and the tower is covered with ivy. At 
 night, you might fancy it a great giant, squat upon his 
 haunches, with long green hair, waving to and fro in the 
 wind. 
 
 * Legends somewhat similar to this are to be found in the collec- 
 tion of MM. Grimm. This, however, as I received it, was uniformly 
 without the machinery of the Gold bird, as in the " Deux Freres" 
 (de Hesse et Paderborn), or of the Animals, as in " Brunnenhold und 
 Brunnenstark," or " Guntram und Waltram." 
 
 Something like the present is doubtless to be found in " Les Contes 
 Populaires de la Normandie ;" though I have not been able to see a 
 copy of that work. 
 
32 Fresh Gleanings. 
 
 It is very old — so old, that tradition only assigns it a 
 date of erection. It has passed through the hands of a 
 great many owners, but has always been maintained in 
 perfect repair. It is even held sacred by a great many 
 upon the island : and throngs go to it upon Sundays — 
 to wind up its shaded mound, to scramble through the 
 little ruined chapel at its base, and to toil up its long 
 flight of steps to look out upon the island. For nowhere 
 do you see more of the island, or do you see it better; — 
 the checkered fields, — the shining streaks of road, — the 
 green lines of hedges, — the high rock of Fort Regent, — the 
 white city below it, are as plain as a painting to the eye. 
 In a fair day, Guernsey can be seen, and the tall island 
 of Sark ; and Eastward, over the glittering strip of ocean, 
 looking hard and fixedly, one can see a narrow white 
 point lifting above the horizon, and whoever you ask will 
 tell you it is the tower of the cathedral of Coutances. 
 And if you roll your eyes about like a stupid stranger, 
 the same informant will very likely tell you the story of 
 La Hogue Bie : — a story that is in the mouths of all the 
 old wives of Jersey. By many, too, it is implicitly 
 believed, nor shall I take it upon myself to say that it is 
 without dfcson. 
 
 Long time ago, and the marsh of St. Laurence upon 
 the island of Jersey was infested wk*i a great monster — 
 dragon-shaped — possibly a surviving member of the great 
 family of Iguanodi, of whose former existence Dr. Man- 
 tell has established the proof — that devoured, without 
 pity, men, women, and children. The bravest warriors 
 
Lit Hocie Bie. 33 
 
 put on their armor and went out to fight the monster, but 
 the monster devoured them. The boldest tried to waylay 
 him at night as he came out from the marsh, but his red 
 eye pierced the darkness, and when they saw it darting 
 out gleams of light, and heard his huge body crackling 
 over the shrubs, the boldest fled. A bullock was but a 
 mouthful for the monster, and their flocks were all con 
 sumed ; — the people lived in high stone houses for dread. 
 And when their flocks were all killed, how could they 
 live longer % They made companies and went out to 
 meet the monster; but a single sweep of his dragon tail 
 swept down the foremost ranks. 
 
 Now in those times, there lived in Normandy, a most 
 valiant knight, whose name was De Hambie. De Ham- 
 bie had heard of the monster that spread such desolation 
 over the fair island of Jersey, and he burned with desire 
 to give battle to the Dragon. 
 
 So, one day, when the monster had gorged himself with 
 the noblest flock in the island, and seemed to be sleeping 
 upon the edge of the marsh, the islanders sent over a mes- 
 senger to De Hambie, to come and slay it. De Hambie 
 put on his armor and took his tried spear, and one 
 attendant : — and his wife, who was young and beautiful, 
 went with him as far as the Abbey of Coutances, and 
 bade him adieu, in tears before the altar. 
 
 A whole day De Hambie fought with the monster : he 
 broke his tried spear, and two other spears that his 
 attendant had given him were broken — one only remained. 
 Twice his shield had fallen clattering under the paw of 
 
34 Fresh Gleanings. 
 
 the Dragon; — his mace was thrown, and the blood was 
 oozing through the joints of his armor : his hand shook as 
 he lifted his spear for the final throw. 
 
 St. Mary be praised ! it pierced the red eye of the 
 
 Dragon — through eye and through brain the rough boar- 
 spear sped. 
 
 The monster howled ; — they say his howling was heard 
 from Grosnez to Gorey ; he turned over and died. 
 
 De Hambie, worn out with fatigue, laid himself down 
 to sleep. Dark purposes floated through the mind of his 
 attendant as he stood beside him. He thought of the 
 rich lands of De Hambie stretching through the fairest 
 valley of Normandy ; — he thought of his castle so strong, 
 and his larder so choicely stocked ; — he thought of his fair 
 young wife. None but he had seen the monster slain ; 
 there would be none to dispute his tale. In an evil hour 
 he smote his sleeping master, and De Hambie, who had 
 slain the Dragon, was himself slain. 
 
 The treacherous servant went back with this lying story 
 on his lips : — " Fair madam, the monster has slain the 
 noble De Hambie, but I have slain the monster. With 
 his last words, my noble master has commended his pool 
 servant to you." And, with his lying lips, he kissed the 
 fair hands of the weeping widow. She mourned griev- 
 ously ; — for De Hambie had been good — as he was valiant. 
 She was grateful to the brave man who had slain the 
 Dragon, for she believed the tale of the treacherous fol- 
 lower, and in an evil hour, she gave him her feand and 
 lands. 
 
La Solitude. 35 
 
 A wicked conscience is never safe : ' nemo mains fclix' 
 — and the traitor babbled in his sleep. 
 
 The indignant woman plunged a sword in the heart 
 of the faithless villain — the sword of her noble husband. 
 She sought the spot on which De Hambie was slain so 
 cruelly ; — she built a mound over the spot, and upon the 
 mound a tower — so high she could see it from her window 
 of the Abbey of Coutances. 
 
 The mound is covered with trees, and the tower is 
 covered with ivy ; — you can see it a little upon the right of 
 the road as you go from Mount Orgueil to St. Hiliers ; 
 — they call it La Hogue Bie. 
 
 La Solitude. 
 
 IT was the name of the little cottage where I lived when 
 at Jersey, — Lf Solitude. Monsieur de Grouchy could 
 not have choseT a better, if he had hunted through the 
 whole vocabulary o£ names ; you turned off down a little 
 by-way from the high road to St. Savior's to reach it. 
 The very first time that I swung open the green gate that 
 opens on the by-way, and brushed through the laurel 
 bushes, and read the name modestly written over the 
 door, and under the arbor that was flaunting in the dead 
 of winter with rich green ivy leaves, — my heart yearned 
 toward it as toward a home. 
 
 There were no round, chubby, bright-eyed faces look- 
 
33 Fresh Glea n i n g s. 
 
 ing out of the windows under the roof — not one, for my 
 landlord and landlady were childless. It was, indeed, 
 La Solitude. The noise from the road turned into a pleas- 
 ant murmur before it reached the cottage, for it had to 
 pass over the high wall of my neighbor's garden, and 
 over his beds of cauliflowers, and his broad alleys trimmed 
 with box. 
 
 Let us step up a moment into the little parlor upon 
 
 the first floor ; it would not be high enough to rank as cntre 
 sol in the atmosphere of St. Denis; — it matters not one 
 straw, for I do so dearly love to wander in fancy ovei 
 those humble wayside nooks in Europe, which I had 
 learned to call, for ever so short a time, — my home, that I 
 shall be eternally interrupting my story, to peep at them 
 again and again. 
 
 The curtains are of dark-colored chintz, and there is a 
 most capacious old-fashioned sofa, that is covered with the 
 same ; the ceiling is low, but you need not stoop— for my 
 landlady is none of the shortest, and on fete days she 
 wears stupendous head-gear. The grate is English, and is 
 glowing in good English fashion ; — a cozy arm-chair stands 
 by the corner, and a round, heavy table in front ; and if 
 it be four by the clock over* the mantle,, the table is cover- 
 ed with a snow-white cloth, and it is smoking and smell- 
 ing savory with dinner; — on one corner a tall bottle of 
 Medoc is standing sentinel, and over opposite — as a sort 
 of reserve guard — more for appearances, than actual ser- 
 vice — is a pot-bellied little decanter of Sherry. Under 
 the window, — though you can scarce get your head out 
 
La Solitude. 37 
 
 for the trailing vines, is the green by-lane. Further down 
 it, looking to the left, — is another cottage ; but you cannot 
 see it — -the trees are so thick ; I never saw one of its in- 
 mates ; but sometimes, just at dusk, I used to hear a pair 
 of feet go pattering under my window — they must have 
 been small feet — and used to hear the snatch of a soft 
 song — at must have been a young girl's voice ; and I often 
 thought that I would ask my landlady, who lived in the 
 cottage, but I came away and forgot it. 
 
 There stood another cottage at the mouth of the lane, 
 where it left the highway. The very first morning I 
 passed, a lady in a snn-bonnet was weeding a patch of 
 flowers in the yard.— The next morning she wore a better 
 bonnet ; and so, between seeing her one morning in one 
 bonnet, and another morning in another — seeing her face 
 one morning, and her back the next — I came to be quite 
 familiar with her appearance and attitudes, and I dare 
 say, if I had stayed long enough, our acquaintance might 
 in time, have ripened to something like chit-chat over the 
 holly-hedge that bordered her garden. 
 
 But I was most familiar with my neighbors over the 
 way, the other side of the lane"; though I never remember 
 to have met a single one of them, even in my walks through 
 the town. The intimacy sprung up in their garden, and 
 grew through my windows. 
 
 My landlady told me the occupants of the cottage were 
 brothers — one a bachelor, and the other married ; and 
 that his were the two children, I had seen tottling over 
 the gravel-walks in the garden. 
 
38 Fresh Gleanings. 
 
 But my landlady had not told me which was the mar- 
 ried man, and which the Benedick. It put my ingenuity 
 sadly to the test to establish the difference. They were 
 not far from the same age — one a heavy, florid man, with 
 a portly step — the other thin, not as tidily dressed, and 
 shorter by an inch. They sometimes of a morning walk 
 ed down the garden, and out at the green gate together, 
 but oftener the thin man was first by a half hour at the 
 least. 
 
 I tried to hang an opinion upon this, but could not. 
 There was something, however, in their ways of shutting 
 the door that gave me for a time strong hopes of determ- 
 ining their respective conditions. The thin, pale man, 
 uniformly shut the door very promptly, and occasionally 
 with a slam; the florid man, on the contrary, usually loit- 
 ered in the half open door, while he was putting on his 
 gloves, and then closed it very deliberately, but impress- 
 ively, and walked down the garden, as if he were at peace 
 with all the world. The man, thought I, who closes the 
 door emphatically and promptly, and earliest by a half 
 hour (for here, the first-mentioned observation comes in 
 very gracefully to sustain the last) — as if the world in- 
 doors were one thing to him, and the world out-of-doors 
 quite another, must be the husband. 
 
 On the other hand, the man who loiters with the door 
 half open, as if, I thought, the world within and the world 
 without, were all one to him, must be — I was very sure of 
 it — the bachelor brother. 
 
 The expression upon the countenance of the last, tend- 
 
La Solitude. 39 
 
 ed the more to confirm my opinion ; for, after observing it 
 attentively every morning for a week, I could discover no 
 expression at all, either of joy, sorrow, disgust, or anxiety — 
 one or other of which, under the circumstances, would I 
 thought, very naturally sit upon the face of a husband. 
 
 The pale man seemed to me to have more thankfulness 
 in his nature ; and as he felt first the fresh, cool air of the 
 morning, I fancied that he breathed a sort of inward 
 thanksgiving to Heaven, for having made such a morning, 
 and for having given him such a blessed opportunity to 
 enjoy it ; — and surely, thought I, it is, or ought to be, char- 
 acteristic of a married man, to be grateful for even the 
 most trifling mercies of Heaven. 
 
 Toward noon, it always happened that a small boy with 
 a basket, rung the bell at the green gate, and the maid-of 
 all-work ran out — always in the same pea-green dress, 
 slip-shod — to bring back the steak, or joint, or brace of 
 fowls, as the case might be. 
 
 At four precisely, the two brothers, arm in arm, enter 
 the little green -gate; and four times out of five, it hap- 
 pened that just at that hour, the two little children would 
 be frolicking about the garden, and that both would set 
 off on a canter down toward the gate, shouting, I fancied, 
 (for I could not hear,) at every jump, — " Papa — papa !" 
 
 The florid man uniformly stood still for the little girl to 
 come up, and the pale man as uniformly advanced a step 
 to catch the little boy in his arms. 
 
 Which was the papa 1 — for my life I could not tell. 
 
 They walk together into the house ; presently the stout 
 
40 Fresh Gleanings. 
 
 man appears with a knife in his hand — walks to the farther 
 end of the garden, and cuts a huge bunch of celery — he then 
 disappears, and I see no more of either till after dinner. 
 
 1 have finished my own, and am sitting before the 
 
 window, when out come the two brothers, and seat them- 
 selves for a quiet smoke upon the bench beside the door. 
 The stout man puffs slowly, and at long intervals, — and 
 throws his head back against the wall — and clasps his hands 
 across the lower button of his waistcoat — and puffs — and 
 looks into the sky, as if it were all his own. 
 
 Happy man ! thought I, without care, without anxieties — 
 your own robust, contented looks, are, after all, the best 
 proof of your fortunate estate. 
 
 I could not help contrasting his free and easy appeal - 
 ance with that of the poor man beside him. The puffs of 
 this last were violent and irregular ; indeed, his cigar was 
 gone, before that of the stout man was half consumed. I 
 thought he gazed with a look of envy upon the careless 
 air of the bachelor brother. Poor soul ! from my heart I 
 pitied him. 
 
 — Meantime the children steal out ; — the boy treads on 
 the toes of the thin man, and the little girl (and it puzzled me 
 for a while) covers the face of the stout man with kisses. 
 
 Once on a fair noon, after I had resided a fortnight 
 at the cottage — the mother made her appearance with a 
 babe of only six weeks old in her arms ; — this, I deter- 
 mined, should be the test. She stood for a moment before 
 the brothers, as if hesitating ; and then with a smile, 1 
 thought half of irony, she put it gently into the arms of 
 
La Solitude. 41 
 
 the thin man. He turned his eyes upward a moment — but 
 whether to thank Heaven for having given him such a 
 babe, or in a prayerful wish that Heaven would make it 
 soon able to take care of itself, — I could not determine. 
 The mother sits between the brothers, and talks vivaciously 
 to one and the other — never seeming to have a single sen- 
 timent of pity, for the sad wreck of a husband beside her. 
 Now, whether the motion of the father's arms induced 
 the sensations of sea-sickness, or whether the babe had 
 been over-fed, it suddenly fell violently sick. The poor 
 man jumped up, with an exclamation that reached my ear 
 through the window. And — I could not have believed it, 
 if I had not seen it with my own eyes — the mother and 
 brother burst into an uncontrollable fit of laughter, at sight 
 of the thin man and the sick baby. — It was wrong, — it was 
 inhuman, but I could not help laughing at the poor devil 
 myself; and I was the less disposed to resist, as I wanted 
 to enjoy a kind of triumph over my landlady, who was but 
 two years married, and who was taking the last dishes 
 from the table. 
 
 — Ha, ha, said I, Madame, as she came and peeped 
 over my shoulder — voyez vous, — this poor soul — ha, ha— 
 his own child 
 
 — Monsieur ! interrupted Madame, looking me fixedly 
 in the face. 
 
 — Eh, Men, Madame, je dis — mm — he, he — que cepauvre 
 diable — ce mari 
 
 — But, Monsieur, said Madame, the thin man is not the 
 husband 
 
42 Fresh Gleanings. 
 
 — And the stout man — 
 
 — Is Monsieur D , the husband of the lady, and the 
 
 father of those pretty children. 
 
 1 asked my landlady to draw the curtains, and 
 
 bring up candles. 
 
 But the time has come to leave Jersey ; and if it is ob- 
 jected by any, that I give no sufficient account of the so- 
 cial habits of the people, can I not point back triumphantly 
 with the feather-end of my quill to the last three pages, 
 where are drawn actual daguerreotypes of the inhabitants 
 of as many cottages 1 
 
 Nay, more ; have I not, forgetting my native 
 
 modesty, peeped through the chintz curtains of my win- 
 dow, and so exposed to the eye of the world, the domestic 
 secrets of my neighbor's family ] 
 
 I can only add, that the people of the island are most 
 easy and familiar in their social intercourse. There is 
 about them a bonhommie, and he artfulness that makes 
 one's feelings warm toward them. There are no foolish 
 distinctions in their society ; mere rank is not insisted on ; 
 and every where the stranger is received with a most affa- 
 ble courtesy. 
 
 It was a night in early spring, on which I had arranged 
 my leave-taking. Two months the cottage had been my 
 home ; in that time, I had gained my health once more ; 
 and in that time, too, had come to me — sad, sad news 
 from over the ocean — and I had wept bitter tears at that 
 home in the cottage. 
 
 But the parish clock of St. Hiliers has struck 
 
La Solitude. 43 
 
 — the landlady calls ; I snatch the curtain aside for a last 
 look into my neighbor's garden; — the moon lights up 
 pleasantly the brown face of the cottage, and silvers 
 the box borders and the gravel- walks ; I give a hasty final 
 glance around the parlor, — into the grate, burning so cheer- 
 fully ; and often since, — in the maisons garnics of Paris, — in 
 the dirty inns of the Apennines, and in the splendid hotels 
 of Vienna, have I longed for the quiet comforts of my 
 little home at La Solitude. 
 
&l)e toorlo of |p arts. 
 
THE WORLD OF PARIS. 
 
 Land. 
 
 T WENT down to the lee side of the vessel, and 
 **- my eyes rested on a chalky line of shore that rose 
 out of the water, four or five leagues away — Eastward. 
 I knew it must be France. 
 
 The first sight of a strange country does, somehow or 
 other, upset all of one's preconceived notions. 
 
 If a man gains knowledge from Geography, — he has the 
 position, and shape, and boundaries, and running rivers of 
 akingdominhis eye; if hehas loved History, — there stretch- 
 es out under his mental vision, great battle-fields, and de- 
 cayed castles, and scattered tombs of warriors and kings, 
 and such groups of battered turrets as are in thepictures of 
 Froissart, and tracks of armies ; if he has striven after a 
 Social and Literary idea of a kingdom, — such a kingdom as 
 France — there are thronging in his thoughts — pageants, 
 — brilliant interiors, — tall and princely forms of houses, in 
 which Mesdames Maintenon and Coulanges may have 
 
48 Fresh Gleanings. 
 
 made their wit to sparkle — golden hangings and luxurious 
 lounges, and long wainscots, and big wigs of the time of 
 the gallant Louis Quatorze — priests in embroidered robes, 
 nuns in caps, — incense rising, — lofty spires of cathedrals 
 a little of all this, had been in my mind the night be- 
 fore, and whisked through my dreams. But in the morn- 
 ing, as I looked out Eastward, there was nothing of it at 
 all ; — nothing but a low line of chalky shore, against which 
 the green waves went splashing, in the same careless way in 
 which they go splashing over our shores at home. 
 
 It seemed very odd to me that the land should be in- 
 deed France : but it was ; — and the dirty little steamer 
 " Southampton" was puffing nearer and nearer to it every 
 moment. 
 
 A Norfolk country gentleman stood beside me, who 
 like myself was visiting France for the first time ; and 
 there was that upon his countenance, which told as 
 plainly as words could tell it, that the same thoughts were 
 passing through his mind, as were passing through mine. 
 So we stood looking over the lee-rail together, scarce for 
 a moment turning our eyes from the line of shore. Pres- 
 ently we could see white buildings dotted here and there. 
 
 — Very odd-looking houses — said the Norfolk country 
 gentleman, laying down his glass. 
 
 — Very odd — said I ; only meaning, however, to assent 
 to the Englishman's idea of oddity, who counts every thing 
 odd, that differs from what he has been used to see within 
 the limits of his own Shire. It is quite beyond the com- 
 prehension of a great many English country gentlemen, 
 
Land. 49 
 
 how any people in the world can have tastes differing 
 from their own; and wherever this difference exists in 
 small things, or great, they think it exceeding odd. 
 
 I remember standing with such a man, on the Place be- 
 fore St. Peter's, on a night of the Illumination. The 
 
 lesser white lights had been burning an hour over frieze, 
 and dome, and all, — so that the church seemed as if it had 
 been painted with molten silver, upon a dark-blue waving 
 curtain ; and when the clock struck the signal for the 
 change, and the deep-red light flamed up around the cross 
 and the ball, — and along every belt of the dome, — and 
 blazed between the columns, — and ran like magic over the 
 top of the facade, — and shotup its crackling tonguesof flame 
 around the whole sweep of the colonnade, and in every 
 door-way — making the faces of the thirty thousand look- 
 ers on as bright as if it was day — all upon the instant 
 — 'Pon my soul, sir — said the man beside me-— this is 
 dev'lish odd ! 
 
 — Dev'lish odd — thought I ; though I was not in the 
 humor to say it. 
 
 But to return to the French shore : — the houses we 
 saw, were of plain white walls, and roofed with tiles. 
 They had not the rural attractiveness of English cottages 
 — no French cottages have— but they were very plainly, 
 {substantial, serviceable affairs. Presently we could make 
 out the forms of people moving about. 
 
 — Very odd-looking persons, those — said the Norfolk 
 country gentleman, looking through his glass. 
 
 — Very odd — said I, looking in my turn ; for I like to 
 
 C 
 
59 F K E SII G L E A N I N G S. 
 
 keep in liumor with the innocent fancies of a fellow-trav- 
 eller. I knew the men of Norfolk did not wear such blue 
 blouses as we saw ; but aside from this, I could not ob- 
 serve any great difference between the French coastmen, 
 and people I had seen in other parts of the world. 
 
 A little after, we made the light, and rounded the jetty, 
 and saw groups of people, among whom we distinguished 
 port officers and soldiers. 
 
 — Extraordinary looking fellows — said the Norfolk 
 country gentleman. 
 
 — Very, said I — half seriously; for the soldiers wore 
 frock-coats and crimson trowsers, and most uncouth, 
 barrel-shaped hats, and little dirty moustaches ; and had a 
 swaggering, careless air, totally unlike the trim, soldier- 
 like appearance of English troops. 
 
 In a few moments we ran up the dock, and caught 
 glimpses of narrow, strange old streets ; and two of the 
 gendarmerie came up, arm in arm, and tipped their big 
 chapeaux, and asked for our passports. 
 
 — How very absurd — said the Norfolk country gen- 
 tleman, as he handed out his passport. 
 
 — Very — said I, as I gave up mine. 
 
 The quays were crowded with porters and hotel men, 
 quarreling for our luggage ; and here we first heard 
 French talked at home. 
 
 — It strikes me it's a veiy odd language — said the Nor 
 folk country gentleman. 
 
 — Very — said I ; and we stepped ashore in France. 
 
Going into Paris. 51 
 
 Going into Paris. 
 
 ~\ T Y Norfolk friend and I stop at the same house ;— 
 <***■« and two or three mornings after, are upon the deck 
 of the same steamer that fizzes up the Seine. Together 
 we looked upon the checkered fields that spread over the 
 rolling banks of the river, and the towers of old churches 
 that were seated close down to the water. As the banks 
 shut together above Quillebceuf, the villages thickened, 
 and old timber houses, filled in with stone and mortar, 
 stretched along the river. Now, we began to see those 
 avenues, and trimmed tops of trees, which are recognized 
 by French taste, but which my Norfolk friend persisted 
 in calling most extraordinary affairs. Now, too, as we 
 lay off the larger villages, began to show itself the listless, 
 pleasure-loving air of the French peasantry. — The port- 
 el's lay down their burdens, and lean against the houses to 
 look at the steamer as it passes ; women in the doorways 
 stand with their arms akimbo, and their round faces as 
 free of thought, as if there were not a care, or a labor ir 
 life. Now and then in a larger village, there is music 
 upon the quay, and a crowd of boys, and women, antt 
 workmen, throng about it ; — the little drummer flourishes 
 his sticks, with his head thrown one side, and an eye to 
 the women, and our passing company ; — the fifer blows 
 his very loudest, and I can see his foot beating time — the 
 
»2 Fresh Gleaninos. 
 
 girls, rosy and bright, look tenderly at them — look ten* 
 derly at us ; the boys in their short, blue smock-frocks are 
 gleeful as the music ; — the boat fizzes along ; — the group 
 on the quay grows confused ; — the houses mingle into a 
 patch of white upon the shore, with an old gray towei 
 among them ; and soon a turn in the ever-winding Seine 
 shuts them wholly from our sight. So they pass us — 
 wooded shores, glimpses of forests, dells opening up 
 sweet landscapes — then change to banks rolling, and 
 waving with ripened grain. 
 
 So we pass Lillebonne, and most beautiful Caudebec, 
 and the twin towers of Jumiege. They say that under 
 these towers are the tombs of two princes, sons of Clovis 
 II., and the story of them is, that they fought against their 
 father. Their father took them prisoners, and in the 
 night went into their dungeon with a swordsman, and 
 cut the sinews of their arms and legs, as they lay in their 
 chains ; — then bound them with cords, and put them in a 
 little boat upon the swift-running Seine, to find their way 
 to the sea. Away they went whirling over the greedy 
 waters, — on and on, for there were not then many villages, 
 nor many boats upon the river — a day and two nights 
 they floated — their limbs bleeding, their mouths unfed — 
 until the monks of Jumiege spied them over against 
 their abbey and brought them to land, and tended them 
 kindly till they died. And the monks cut their effigies on 
 their tomb ; and the effigies, though worn and disfigured, 
 are in the abbey yet, and you can read their sad epitaph 
 — Les Encrvk 
 
Going into Paris. 5,3 
 
 But lo ! in the valley before us, the tall towers of 
 
 Rouen ! The Norfolk country gentleman thought it an 
 odd old town, but stopped there to learn the odd lan- 
 guage they spoke. I bade him adieu on the inn steps 
 some days after, telling him that I went on to study at 
 Paris — for which, I dare say, he thought me a very odd 
 sort of person. 
 
 Away to the left of our track, in the plain, through 
 which flows the Seine, after running hour upon hour 
 through bellowing tunnels, and by chateaux upon heights 
 — appears a tall cathedral spire, and a forest of turrets 
 under it. I know it can be no other than St. Denis, the 
 burial-place of the kings ; and by that sign I know that 
 Paris, the capital city, is near by ; for I remember how 
 Froissart said, that when King John of France, brother 
 of Edward, who died in England, was brought back for 
 burial, the clergy of Paris " went on foot beyond St. 
 Denis* to meet the bier." 
 
 And now, — out of the window, — as we glide round a 
 curve high above the river and the plain, comes a view 
 of the great capital — the longed-for Paris, gay Paris, la 
 belle viUe, enchanting city — lying in the clear sunshine 
 stretched upon the plain ; — no mist lies over it — no folds 
 of smoke rest on it — no cloud — no shadow of cloud : 
 a glittering heap it lies — the Seine glittering in its midst. 
 The valley is a great savannah, here and there rolling up 
 
 * Chronicles of England and France. Sir John Froissart, Chap. 
 222, Book I. 
 
54 F r e s h Gleanings. 
 
 waves of hills, but nowhere is there sight of mountain ; 
 fortresses pile up gray and old from the green bosom of the 
 plain ; but around, and back of all, the blue sky comes down 
 and touches the tops of the vineyards that grow in the valley. 
 
 I see two old brown towers in the town rising above 
 the- houses, and know they must be the towers of Notre- 
 Dame. I see a dome lifting above all other domes, and 
 know it must be the dome des Inv alleles ; I see a great 
 gray hulk of building, floating, as it were, in a sea of 
 trees — I know it must be the old palace in its garden ; I 
 see in the farthest cluster of the houses, where they al- 
 most fade into the horizon line, a pillar, and something 
 glittering upon its top — a winged, gilded angel — and the 
 angel stands upon the column where the tall and terrible 
 B as tile stood. I see another shaft : it is a single stone, 
 tapering and pointed, and there seems an open spot* 
 around it where the sun shines on the pavement, and 
 glistens, as it were, on two great globules of spray — 
 I know it for the column of Luxor, and though it is a 
 stone's throw away from the bank of the river, yet in 
 the dark days of France, a stream of pure blood ran all 
 the way from it, and urged its heavy, sluggish, damning 
 current through the parapet wall, and fell splashing upon 
 the thick, foul waters of the Seine! 
 
 Nothing can be imagined more luxurious in way of seat, 
 than a first-class French car : you sit upon figured white silk 
 
 * Flace de la Concorde. — The station of the guillotine during the 
 Reign of Terror. 
 
Going into Paris. 55 
 
 or damask, and cushions yielding to your slightest move- 
 ment ; — you have them at your side, you have them for 
 your head ; — Brussels carpet to tread upon — silk curtains 
 to shut out the sun ; and their construction below, is such 
 that you feel no jar, but seem to be swimming through 
 the air. 
 
 All the French roads are well constructed ; I do not 
 know that they are better essentially than the English — 
 being very similar in general appearance ; but I had 
 always a greater feeling of safety in French carriages — 
 owing, perhaps, to less rate of speed. The police regu 
 lations are admirably arranged and enforced. Speed 
 averages from twenty to thirty miles the hour; the en- 
 gines have been, hitherto, mostly of English construction, 
 but are now manufactured at Paris. There is, perhaps, 
 less of travel upon the French railways than upon any of 
 the Continent, and surely fir less than upon those of 
 Great Britain. The French travel very little for amuse- 
 ment — very little in their own country for observation; 
 this arises, in some measure, from the monotonous char- 
 acter of their roads, offering little to arrest the attention 
 of the ordinary observer, and still less to gratify the tastes 
 of those so essentially polltan in feeling as the French 
 nation; they find their resources in their capitals — they 
 neither wish nor seek for better things: a few wander 
 away during summer to the mountain towns of the Pyre- 
 nees — a few to the baths of Aix-la-Chapelle, and some to 
 the sea ; but most content themselves best with the gay- 
 eties and glitter of the city. Business negotiations are 
 
f> J FeESH G L EAN1NC S. 
 
 arrang-ed by the professed commercial travelers, and as 
 a consequence, the number of those traveling for business 
 purposes is exceedingly limited. 
 
 That restless, moving, curious spirit which is driving 
 Americans to every quarter of the earth, meets with no 
 sympathy from a Frenchman ; it is a mystery to him — he 
 believes inquietude belongs to travel, and he can not con- 
 ceive how any should enjoy inquietude. There belongs 
 to this feeling none of the Briton's cherishment of home ; 
 were it so, it would be irreconcilable with his turbulent, 
 excitable, and rebellious spirit. It is because he is essen- 
 tially gregarious in his nature, that the Frenchman can 
 not understand how the separation or dispersion that is 
 incident to travel, can be source of enjoyment. Even the 
 wild turbulency to which his restless spirit is disposed, is 
 but an extravaganza in his lifetime of pleasure, — but 
 a new scene-shifting, without any change of theatre. 
 Hence it is, that less will be seen of the French upon 
 their highways of travel, than of any nation in Europe. 
 
 Returning now to the luxurious carriage, let the reader 
 imagine himself, with all Paris in his eye, and with so 
 much French on his tongue, as will enable him to pro- 
 nounce intelligibly the words Hotel Maurice ; and with so 
 much understanding of all the questions that are addressed 
 to him, whether, " Ou hgez rous ?" or " Combien de malles 
 arez rous?" that he replies to one and all with the air of 
 a man, who knows very well what he is talking about, 
 Hotel Meurice — with such stock, I say, of ready conversa- 
 tion on hand — le?; the reader imagine himself hurtling over 
 
Going into Paris. 5? 
 
 the last bridge on the railway from Rouen, to the capital 
 city. 
 
 In the comer is a red-faced man in brown gaiters and 
 plaid trowsers, and if your knowledge of French has led 
 you to venture some trifling remark, it will have been met 
 with an ominous shake of the head, that has made you 
 inwardly curse your awkward pronunciation. And if, 
 unfortunately, you shall have made a second venture, with 
 a little previous practice under breath, you will have met 
 with a still more ominous shake of the head, and a re- 
 pulsive gesture that sets communication at defiance. Noi 
 will you, perhaps, in your ignorance of dress and habi- 
 tude, have suspected your companion for an Englishman, 
 until you hear him utter a string of stout English oaths at 
 the officers of the Octroi, who insist upon overhauling his 
 luggage now, — for the third time. 
 
 Later experiences would teach you that a first class 
 carnage is no place to study French habits, for the rea- 
 son, that French travellers in general, are bettor consulters 
 of economy, than to ride in them ; and further, that nine 
 out of ten first class passengers are English, who will not 
 speak French — often because they can not, and who do 
 not speak English, because they will not. Can stronger 
 reasons be imagined % 
 
 To return once more ; you cross the heavy, shaking 
 timber bridge — you drive through the bellowing tunnels, 
 and you come to a stop within the rich iron palisades of 
 the Station of Paris. Eager, strange faces are looking 
 through the barrier. You find your portmanteau upon 
 
58 Fresh Gleanings. 
 
 the benches of the Octroi — you unlock wonderingly ; the 
 long fingers of the officer probe it to the bottom. 
 
 — Cest jini, Monsieur — quelque chose dvotre discretion? 
 — says the Examiner ? 
 
 — Hotel Meurice. 
 
 The Examiner turns up his nose at you, as an incorri- 
 gible dog. 
 
 The porter has caught your destination, and puts your 
 portmanteau upon the Omnibus, and he has shown you a 
 seat, and pulls off his hat — Le facteur — Monsieur — quel- 
 que chose— pour boire ? 
 
 — Hotel Meurice. 
 
 The coachman cracks his whip ; the conductor takes 
 his place. 
 
 — Mais, Monsieur — says the pleading facteur — quelque 
 chose — quelqu' argent ? 
 
 — Hotel Meurice. 
 
 — Que Diable / — Mais, Monsieur — 
 
 The thought occurs, that your pronunciation may be 
 still misunderstood — and to be lost the first day in Paris ! 
 You seize your pencil, and write in plain characters upon 
 a leaf of your pocket-book — Hotel Meurice. You beckon 
 to the desponding facteur — he gathers new energy — he 
 reaches up his hand — you put in it the slip of paper. 
 
 — Sacr-r-r-r-r-r-r-e ! — says the man — you turn a corner, 
 md the poor facteur has vanished. Your companions of 
 '. le omnibus are too well bred to smile; but they look 
 rtrongly tempted. How uncomfortable to be alone for 
 the first time in Paris ! 
 
First Scenes. 59 
 
 First Scenes. 
 
 TTSTHAT strange, red, waxed floors are these in the 
 " " fifth story of the Hotel Meurice — and what a 
 queer little bed, in which a short man can not lie straight ! 
 You open the window — they open like a door, the win- 
 dows of Paris — and you look into the square court of the 
 inn. It is clean, and brightly paved ; a travelling-carriage 
 of huge dimensions, and becovered with trunks of ev.ery 
 imaginable shape, is drawn up in one corner, and a cour- 
 ier with a gilt band upon his hat is strutting back and 
 forth. A knot or two of men, looking like as possible to 
 the people you have left behind you in England, are talk- 
 ing under the archway ; and though you can not hear the 
 words they are using — the house is so high — yet surely 
 there is no mistaking that genuine British laugh. 
 
 If you go below, you will see two or three men writing 
 violently at the desks of the Bureau, and any one of them 
 will address you in English. But it is in a strange accent, 
 and the whole place seems strange. Step to the other 
 side of the court, at the ringing of the bell, and you en- 
 ter a rich saloon — la salle a manger. There is none of that 
 hurry of entrance that belongs to the dinner-call at home ; 
 every one is quite easy — quite confident that there will be 
 place, and that there will be time. Nor does one see the 
 barbarous custom of our cities, of feeding the two sexes 
 
60 F a e s li G l i: a <% j x c s. 
 
 apart; but there are elegant ladies scattered up and down 
 the table — the surest guaranties of good order, and of 
 good breeding. It may be very well to say that the busi- 
 ness habits of Americans require a haste and abruptness 
 not compatible with the presence of the gentler sex ; but 
 surely nothing so much as their absence makes a man 
 forget those finer courtesies of the table, which much as 
 any thing, in every country, mark the character of the 
 gentleman. And I suggest, for whomever it may concern, 
 if in this thing, the hot-brained haste of Americans should 
 not give place to a cultivation of some of the more attract- 
 ive graces of life 1 
 
 There are English, indeed, who choose their own par- 
 lors and seclusion, carrying abroad with them, in some 
 measure through necessity, those habits of segregation 
 which belong to their classes at home. 
 
 Flowers and fruits in pretty array stretch down the 
 French table-d'hote, and the dishes surprisingly small, to 
 one accustomed to American habits of abundance, are 
 served by English-speaking waiters. There is a charm 
 in the quiet and the nicety ; and there is an ease and free- 
 dom, without vulgar familiarity, rarely seen in France, out 
 of Paris, but which belong peculiarly to the first hotels 
 of Switzerland, and the German baths. 
 
 After dessert, for there is little sitting over wine at a 
 French table, one lounges into the coffee or smoking-room 
 the other side of the court, or out under the arches of the 
 Rue de Rivoli, or across the way into the great garden of 
 the Tuileries, among t "3 throngs that are wearing out 
 
First Scenes. 61 
 
 the after-dinner hour, in gossiping under the lindens and 
 among the oranges. Nursery-maids with flocks of chil- 
 dren, old ladies with daughters, old men with canes, aie 
 walking, sitting, laughing, reading — for the sun is yet a 
 half a degree above the top of the distant Arc de l'Etoile. 
 Its outline rises firm against the red evening sky. You 
 can almost distinguish the sculptures of its cornice, though 
 it is a mile away, and a sea of bright green foliage is 
 waving between. Or if you stand in the middle of the 
 garden — in the middle of tl A entrance-way to the palace 
 — you may see the whole arch from top to bottom, up a 
 long, smooth avenue, whose further end is dotted with 
 carnages of a hundred sizes in the long perspective. 
 The column of Luxor rises black in the middle scene ; 
 group upon group of people pass out at the gateway — 
 under the column — up the avenue ; all the while, the 
 rustling of a tall fountain — the laughs of playing children, 
 in your ear — all the while their bright faces and curling 
 locks, and the sparkle of the water in your eye; and be- 
 fore you, stretching out to where the arch, the monument 
 of Napoleon's genius, strides upon the sky — is the brilliant 
 perspective, as gay and wondrous with its moving multi- 
 tudes as a dream. 
 
 Just at the left, upon entering the gate, over against the 
 hotel, is a long, low, verandah-looking building, with 
 swarms of people at round tables in front of it, where 
 they are drinking little cups of coffee, with a thimble-full 
 of brandy — and so dissipate an hour at the cheap rate of 
 half-a-fr; nc. 
 
62 F u 
 
 E A NINO S. 
 
 Let us walk up and sit down at one of the empty tables 
 —there is no one to stare at you, be as awkward as you 
 may — your accent ludicrously strange; you may spill 
 your ice upon the ground — you may upset your chair- 
 there is no one to smile at your clumsiness, and you feel 
 that you are not among English — that you are not among 
 Americans. 
 
 So we watch the swarm of persons grouping away 
 
 into the shadows of the trees, and the vast extent of the old 
 gray palace, lengthening away into obscurity — as sombre 
 and thought-stirring, seen thus for the first time in the 
 dusk of evening, as has been its history. There are jour- 
 nals scattered over the tables, if there were not richer 
 interest in observing than in reading; and the evening 
 drums are beating as the battalion moves down from the 
 Place Vendome, and their noise dies upon the ear, as they 
 scatter over the city. The loungers lessen at the little 
 tables — the crowd go out of the iron gates one by one, and 
 the tall sentinels permit none to come in. The lamps of 
 the Cafe, where I have been sitting, are put out — the 
 white-aproned waiter gathers up the journals — and it is 
 night in the garden, though in the city it has hardly be- 
 gun. 
 
 At going out of the gate, is a man with a strange tin 
 temple upon his back, covered with crimson satin, and 
 from under each arm are peeping out silver-tipped watei- 
 spouts, like the keys of a Scotch bag-pipe, and he tinkles 
 a bell, which means (for he says nothing) that for a couple 
 of sous, he will draw you from his temple, a glass of what 
 
First Scenes. 63 
 
 he has the assurance to call lemonade. Perhaps an old 
 woman is hanging off a yard or two, with a tray of very 
 indigestible-looking cakes, which will be needed by who 
 ever ventures the lemonade, and the last doubly needed, 
 by whoever favors the old lady's cakes. There is an un- 
 derstanding between the dealers. Gateways are favorite 
 stations for them, and at all the gateways in Paris you 
 may find them. Sometimes one saunters up the Boule- 
 vard des Italiens — sometimes under the obelisk of Luxor, 
 and on occasions they are adventurous enough to appear 
 within the aristocratic precincts of the Place Vendome. 
 Their customers are, — workpeople in blouses, — small and 
 unruly boys, who are led about by nursery-maids, and 
 families of provincial tourists. 
 
 I stroll along the heavy palisade of the garden, looking 
 into the faces of the passers, and following with my eye 
 the red, green, and blue lights of the heavy coaches for 
 Neuilly, and Passy, and the Arch of Triumph, which go 
 thundering by. As if in a quiet, but a strange dream, I 
 wander on ; — here I meet a sergent-de-ville in his heavy 
 chapeau, with his light long-sword, becoming his tall, 
 erect figure ; — he gives me one glance — I Can read in it — 
 un Anglais — and he passes on ; but his presence, even 
 for the moment, makes me feel safe. Before T am aware 
 I am on the great, glittering Place de la Concorde ; — the 
 lamps on their brazen columns are glittering on every side, 
 and the giant fountains are throwing up with a roar their 
 torrents of water. One way I catch a glimpse, through 
 an avenue of lights, of the classic front of the Madeleine — 
 
04 Fresh Gleanings. 
 
 the other way, over the bridge, are the heavy colurnns of 
 the Chamber of the Deputies ; and the obelisk, beneath 
 which I stand, lifts its mysterious tapering finger into the 
 blue heavens above me. 
 
 On this spot sprang up that quarrel between the peo- 
 ple and the soldiery in 1789, which ripened into the 
 darkest days the modern world has known. Here had 
 its station the dreadful guillotine ; — down that avenue 
 went the carts lumbering with the headless bodies of the 
 dead ; — there, under those trees of the Champs Elysees, 
 skulked the devils of the Reign of Terror to see the 
 blood shed, a sacrifice to their madness ; — there skulked 
 too, men with forms bent forward, and trembling with ea- 
 gerness — looking at the up-turned faces of the dead ones, 
 to see if by chance, there was the face of some brother, 
 or son ; — there were the frightfully pale faces of women, 
 with eyes fixed and tearless — never lifting their feet from 
 the wandering currents of blood — their natures changed 
 by horror, in those days of the Reign of Terror. 
 
 — — Ah, Robespierre, and Danton, and brother Dumas, 
 and Desmoulins who gloated at the blood running here — 
 devils as you were, and as you are — your own gory heads 
 went tumbling and thumping after all, over these stones, 
 and your dead tongues protruded, tasted the blood you 
 had made to flow ! Poor Louis XVJ. ! poor Marie An- 
 toinette — so gentle — so beautiful — with such an impas- 
 sioned eulogist as Burke — no sword sprung from its scab- 
 bard to defend husband or wifo on this terrible spot ! 
 The age of chivalry had gone. 
 
First Scenes. 65 
 
 Brissot, Charlotte Corday, Louis Duke of Or- 
 leans, Marie Helene, — h.ow little I thought, when read- 
 ing your sad stories, that on my first night in Paris — so 
 bright and beautiful a night as it was — I should stand 
 upon the very spot where the clanging and glittering 
 knife came down upon your necks ! 
 
 I remembered too, how at a later day — when the blood- 
 stains were dried upon the spot, an altar* had been built, 
 and the Austrians, and Prussians, and Russians had gath- 
 ered here — and I thought how glorious a thing it must 
 have been, to have listened to a Te Deum sung in the 
 midst of them, and to have heard the click of ten thou- 
 sand swords upon the pavement, as the armies knelt down 
 in prayer ! 
 
 With vague recollections haunting me, I wandered round 
 and round the obelisk, and went down to the parapet wall 
 by the Seine, and saw the dark shadow of the bridge, and 
 the moon reflected in the water — never thinking now of 
 the crowds passing me, — my thoughts busy with the 
 past; but I noticed that the steps were growing fewer, 
 and the moon was getting higher, as I strolled back to the 
 Inn. 
 
 And these were the first scenes, and these my first 
 thoughts in Paris. 
 
 * 1814 I/Histoire de Napoleon. 
 
66 Fresh Gleanings. 
 
 The Valet and the Merchant. 
 
 A MONG the first, and most interesting acquaintances 
 -*-■*- which the stranger finds at Paris, — and they may 
 be found in other parts of the world, — are the valets de 
 place. The court and neighborhood of the Hotel Meu- 
 rice, are, I am enabled to say from experience, particu- 
 larly favored in this respect. They talk English to a 
 charm, — they can understand the very worst of French, 
 and say with an air that goes quite^to the heart: — 
 Monsieur parle fort Men ; sa jyrononciation est v raiment 
 charmante. 
 
 How is there any resisting the advances of such a 
 man ] Besides, he knows the town throughout : — the 
 best eating-houses — the best shops, and the churches to a 
 fault. His conversation is piquant ; he overflows with a 
 fund of light and lively anecdote ; he is a perfect chroni- 
 cler of dates and events — not barely those commonplace 
 ones which have crept into printed histories, but his 
 observations are more recondite ; what forsooth, cares he 
 for such notable truths, as that in 1770 a thousand per- 
 sons were crushed to death upon the Place de la Con- 
 corde — or that a company of lancers were cut to pieces 
 about the Porte St. Martin 1 But when he tells you, with 
 all the energy of inspiration, some piivate details of the 
 massacre of St. Bartholomew — or that the surgeons in the 
 
The Valet and the Merchant. 67 
 
 Hotel Dieu cut off, regularly, two legs a-day before break- 
 fast, and gives you sundry memoirs of the dead bodies at 
 the Morgue — you may well congratulate yourself on find- 
 ing so efficient an aid for exploring the wonders of 
 Paris. 
 
 What is five francs a-day to a man of such resourceful 
 spirit ] You want a book — who can do without Galig- 
 nani's Paris Guide ] He takes you to the first shop of 
 the town, and at the naming of the price, your valet 
 whispers you, in an under tone, and confidentially, — 
 fery sheep — fery sheep indeed. 
 
 Meekly you pay the price, and as you go out, our 
 shopkeeper puts a franc or two in the hands of the valet 
 — which is neither here nor there. Whatever may be 
 wished, you will find the same obliging willingness on the 
 part of the valet, and the same business knowledge of 
 localities. You may find, indeed, from some good-natured 
 friend or other, who knows the city better than yourself, 
 that you have been paying double prices, no small part 
 of which was in commissions to your valet ; and that you 
 have been listening to a great many cock-and-bull sto- 
 ries. But all this only adds to your lively experience of 
 the gay capital, and should neither put you out of humor 
 with yourself, or your worthy domestic ; — for to be out of 
 humor with one's self, is always profitless ; — and to be 
 out of humor with your conductor, would only give scope 
 for renewed politeness in the form of apologies, on the 
 part of that individual, — afford him some private amuse- 
 ment, and in no way lessen his disposition to pursue a 
 
68 Fresh Gleanings. 
 
 profession, in which he is duly educated, and for which 
 he has been duly licensed. 
 
 Indeed, whoever passes three days for the first time in 
 Paris, without being thoroughly and effectually cheated, 
 — so that he has an entire and vivid consciousness of 
 his having been so cheated, — must be either subject to 
 some strange mental hallucination which denies him the 
 power of a perception of truth, or he is an extraordinary 
 exception to all known rules. And the sooner a man 
 leams this, and learns to take it good-naturedly, the 
 better for his sleep, — and the better for his appetite. I 
 thought two visits to the capital had opened my eyes to 
 this ; yet, on the first morning after my last arrival in 
 Paris, I was foolish enough to get angry, for only having 
 to pay four francs for a bed — in which I could not sleep, 
 and four more for bad ham, and wine which I could not 
 drink. I tried to scold : — but it is what a man of shrewd- 
 ness should never try to do at Paris, — most of all, for so 
 ordinary a circumstance as being cheated : the Parisian 
 smiles — and bows, and thinks you may have a colic ; but 
 never once fancies a stranger can be so foolish as to 
 resent being cheated at Paris : — make a bow — thank the 
 garcon — ask for a match to light- your cigar, and he 
 will see you are a man who knows the world, and are 
 to be respected accordingly. 
 
 To return to the valet, — the sooner one can get rid 
 
 of him the better. I remember crowding my way into a 
 tent-booth on a fair-day at Strasburg, and waiting 
 inside until an Amaam in short petticoats, had finished a 
 
The Valet and the Merchant. 69 
 
 fencing-match with a soldier of the garrison— to see a 
 panoramic view of the chief cities of the world, among 
 which were New York and New Haven. And on com- 
 paring the canvas with my recollections, I think the 
 burghers of Strasburg may have had very nearly as 
 correct an idea of those American cities, as the stranger 
 may have of Paris, who makes his point of observation 
 the Hotel Meurice, and employs as exponents of the 
 scene, (corresponding to the magnify ing-glasses of the 
 panorama,) the English-speaking valets-de-place. They 
 will indeed, show the stranger the more prominent 
 objects of curiosity — the technical " sights" of the city, 
 the palaces, the churches, the galleries, — they may take 
 him to some strange ball scenes at evening ; but of the 
 lesser, every-day features — the unobtrusive things which 
 give color to a correct picture of the Parisian world — 
 they will show little or nothing. What, pray — will the 
 valet-guided stranger know of all the hotels garnis, which 
 make up the living quarters of thorough bred Parisians 1 
 
 Or what of the families of concierges living — ten souls 
 
 — in a ready furnished room six feet by nine 1 ? What 
 would he know of the world within a house, — each floor 
 a country — each suite a town, as unknown to the next, 
 as if one were in Mexico, and the other in Yucatan ? 
 What knows he of the whole world of restaurants 
 scattered up and down, in which Prince and peasant 
 find their dinner, — and where he may pay two sous or as 
 many Napoleons ; — and the cafes, from those brilliant 
 with gold and mirrors to the dingy salons of St. Antoine 1 
 
70 Fresh Gleanings. 
 
 What knows he of the eccentricities of cabmen, and the 
 dealers in wines and small stores, and the students' 
 dinners, and the garden of the Luxembourg — of the 
 intricacies of the Palais Royal — or Bal Montesquieu ! 
 
 In short, he knows of nothing but the exteriors of 
 things ; — nothing of the omnibus, but its noise — of the 
 Boulevards, but their crowds — of the shops, but their 
 prices — of the Chatelet, but its height — of the Latin 
 quarter, but its mud — or of Montfaucon, but its smells. 
 
 There are indeed, many travellers, who content them- 
 selves with the mere shadows of things, as it were — with 
 seeing this palace or that palace — this assemblage or that ; 
 who compares his daily observations with the printed 
 data of his guide-book, caring for nothing beyond the 
 coincidence of the two. I remember being in company 
 with such a Vandal for a time in the south of Italy — a 
 man who went to Virgil's tomb, out by the huge grotto 
 of Persilippo, as he would go to take up a note of hand, 
 — a man who ticked off, day by day, such objects of visit 
 as Baie, or Herculanum, — Cape Mysene, and the Elysian 
 Fields, — and slept a Christian sleep after it, as if he ha J 
 achieved the object of Travel ! I never want the con 
 pany of such another. 
 
 Abjure then, I would say, the valet, and take instead 
 the map, the dictionary, the grammar, and a pocket 
 history. If there be possessed no knowledge of the 
 language, there might be safely advised further, a garret 
 upon the sixth floor, looking upon a small court — late 
 hours (at home), and close study. Without a speaking 
 
T he Vale t a nd the Merchan t. 71 
 
 acquaintance with the language, one is obliged to give 
 nimself up too much to the direction of others, — loses the 
 benefit of his own sagacity and observation, and exposes 
 himself (cxperto crede) to almost innumerable vexations 
 
 Fancy, for instance, the absurdity of a man, with a 
 
 minimum of bad French, getting red in the face, and dis- 
 puting prices with a Parisian shopkeeper ! And the 
 shopkeeper is all politcsse ; — there is no matter-of-fact 
 disputing air about him ; he catches your eye the very 
 moment you enter ; he gives you a word of welcome, as if 
 . you were the dearest friend on earth ; he shows you the 
 best of his stock ; he is never ruffled ; dispute his terms 
 and he puts on his blandest smile : — Trop chcr ? Bon 
 Dicu ! e'est une 2?laisanterie, Monsieur, n'est ce pas ? I 
 sthink you pay forty times so much at Londrcs. Tenez 
 voycz-vous, ah ! sacre ! quelle etoffe — la meillcurc fahrique 
 de la France — parole dlionneur, Monsieur, fy perds — oui, 
 fy perds. 
 
 But if it be good philosophy to bear meekly with the 
 cheateries of the shopmen — it is doubly so with the shop- 
 girls. 
 
 The high-heeled shoes, and high head-gear, that turned 
 the soul of poor Lawrence Sterne have, indeed, gone by; 
 but the Grisette presides over gloves and silks yet, and 
 whatever she may do with the heart-strings, she makes 
 the purse-strings yield. You will find her in every shop of 
 Paris — (except those of the exchange brokers, where are fat, 
 middle-aged ladies, who would adorn the circles of Wall- 
 street) — there she stands, with her hair laid smooth as 
 
72 Fresh Gleanings. 
 
 her cheek, over her forehead — in the prettiest blue muslin 
 dress you can possibly imagine, — a bit of narrow white 
 lace running round the neck, and each little hand set oft* 
 with the same — and a very witch at a bargain. — He who 
 makes the shop-girl of Paris bate one jot of price, must 
 needs have French at his tongue's end. 
 
 There may be two at a time, there may be six, she is 
 nothing abashed ; she has the same pleasant smile — the 
 same gentle courtesy for each, and her eye glances like 
 thought from one to the other. You may laugh, — she 
 will laugh back; you may chat, — she will chat back; 
 you may scold, — she will scold back. She guesses your 
 wants : — there they are, the prettiest gloves, she says, in 
 Paris. You can not utter half a sentence, but she under- 
 stands the whole ; you can not pronounce so badly, but 
 she has your meaning in a moment. She takes down 
 package upon package ; she measures your hand — her 
 light fingers running over yours, — Quelle jolic petite 
 main ! — She assists in putting a pair fairly on : — and how 
 many pair does Monsieur wish ? 
 
 But one! — ah, Monsieur is surely joking. See 
 
 what pretty colors, — and she gathers a cluster in her fin- 
 gers, — and so nice a fit, — and she takes hold of the glove 
 upon your hand. 
 
 Only two, ah, it is indeed too few, and so cheap. 
 
 Only fifteen francs for the six pair, — which is so little for 
 Monsieur, — and she rolls them in a paper, looking you all 
 the time fixedly in the eye. And there is no refusal ; and 
 you slip the three pieces of money upon the counter, and 
 
The Government of Paris, 73 
 
 she drops them into the little drawer, and thanks you in a 
 way that makes you think, as you go out, that you have 
 been paying for the Bmiles, and nothing for the gloves. 
 One wears out a great many gloves at Paris. 
 
 The Government op Paris. 
 
 AS one lingers day after day, and week after week, 
 in a strange city, whose memories have belonged 
 to his education, and whose memories haunt him night 
 after night, as he feels that he is sleeping on the storied 
 ground — as he lingers, I say, these pleasant dreamings 
 vanish. It is hard to feel them slipping away day by 
 day ; — it is a sad experience when you go by old Historic 
 scenes, and realize first, that the busy world around you 
 has swallowed up your sentiment, so that it ceases to 
 kindle, and your eye wanders over them, as the veriest 
 commonplaces of the day. 
 
 There is perhaps, some old, narrow street, with an- 
 cient buildings rising high up on either side, and dismal 
 alleys branching from it — so narrow, the sunlight scarce 
 comes between; and the street has a name — a famous 
 name, that as you read it on the blackened corner, touches 
 some chord of memory, like an electric shock. Straight- 
 way the round, rough paving is forgotten ; — the prying, 
 earnest faces are forgotten ; — all sense of danger is flung 
 aside, and the tall buildings lean over to your earnest 
 
 D 
 
7 i Fresh Gleanings. 
 
 eye, full of tales of blood and slaughter ; you can not telJ 
 if it be Froissart, — if it be Monstrelet, — if it be Jean des 
 Ursins, who, in past days at school, or at home, had given 
 you the key to the scene ; — you care not — for your brain 
 is full of one wild, tumultuous dream of memory. Recol- 
 lections may be vague and misty ; but there is something, — 
 some old fashion of the Soul, that keeps them stirring ; and 
 they change, and glitter, and fade — imagination all the 
 while wrestling with the crowding shapes, to give them 
 tangible forms and fixedness. Then it is a man exults, 
 for the presence of that active mind that is in him, and 
 "ejoices, like a boy, in the scenes of his Travel. 
 
 But, as I said, these things go by. The old street — the 
 narrow street, comes in time to be a mere dirty alley ; — 
 the sharp stones hurt your feet, and you look curiously 
 at the faces in the windows. Then it is, too, that your 
 thoughts begin to be busy with questionings about this 
 modern lifetime. The Column that had awakened 
 memories of battles, with stormy sounds of drums and 
 fifes, and the flaky presence of plumes waving in the 
 fight, begins to suggest inquiries about its size and 
 construction. The streets that were the mere ground of 
 barricades and murder, begin to be streets like those at 
 home, with pavements and gas-lights. The house you 
 live in, begins to be like a house in the New world — sub- 
 ject to the same rules of construction and decay, and 
 does not lose its idertity, as at first, in the sweet, crowded 
 dream-land of the Old City. 
 
 You begin to inquire soberly about the reasons of 
 
Teie Government of Paris. 75 
 
 things : — how it is, matters go on so quietly with a 
 million of excitable Frenchmen 1 — How it is you are 
 safe in the midst of them — as safe or safer than at home 1 
 — In short, how the great machinery of the Paris world 
 is working so noiselessly, and so effectually 1 
 
 You see a stone out of its place in the pavement, and a 
 day does not pass, but a parcel of quiet workers, without 
 any visible director, with pickaxes and shovels, restore 
 the order. You see a man run down by one of the 
 groaning Omnibusses — and appearing on the instant, you 
 know not whence, are five or six men in military dress, 
 who bear him carefully away for surgical treatment; 
 and if no friends claim him, in two hours time, he is 
 carried to one of those great Hospitals, where he has one 
 of those beds, and a share of that attendance, which is 
 daily bestowed upon seventeen thousand sick and home- 
 less souls. You hear a disturbance — a slight quarrel in a 
 thoroughfare — a few on-lookers collecting, and before you 
 have noticed his approach, a man in military cap and 
 with light sword, is among them, and takes one of the 
 brawlers by the arm — he waves his hand to the crowd, 
 and it disperses. How is it that one feels so secure 
 against every annoyance in the city he has thought of, as 
 the city of wickedness 1 
 
 The Municipal authority in the capital is the Prefect 
 of the Department of the Seine, corresponding very 
 nearly with the office of Mayoralty in the larger of the 
 American cities. There is under him, a Council of 
 Prefecture made up into different administrations, having 
 
76 Fresh Gleanings. 
 
 cognizance of various public affairs : — as for instance, of 
 Roads and Public Works, of Public Instruction, of 
 Departmental Taxes, of Post Offices, of the Poste aux 
 Chevaux. Beside this, there belongs to each of the 
 twelve Municipal arrondissements, corresponding to the 
 wards of our cities, a mairie, (mayor) and two deputy- 
 mayors ; these officers sit every clay from two to four 
 hours. But in addition to all this machinery of civil 
 administration, and what comes more nearly under the 
 eye of the stranger, is the Administration of the Police. 
 
 The head of tl is department is the Prefect of the 
 Police, holding authority directly from the ministers of 
 the crown. It is he, or some one of his thousand officials, 
 that permits you to enter the city, — it is he who permits 
 you to stay in it, and he who permits you to leave it. 
 
 He has control over the lodging-houses of the city, — 
 over the porters, the hackmen, the boatmen, the dray- 
 men; — he has an eye to the markets, that weights are 
 just, and that provisions are good ; — he fixes the price of 
 bread ; — he controls bakers, and brokers, and baths ; — he 
 is the great conservator of order, and it is he who makes 
 the stranger's way safe in any part of Paris by night 01 
 day. If you drive a cabriolet, he tells you what is to be 
 paid ; if you ride to the Opera, he tells you the streets 
 you are to pass through ; if you lose your way, he puts 
 you right ; if you lose your money, he finds it for you ; 
 if you break a law, he slips his arm in yours, and walks 
 with you down to the Palais de Justice; if you are 
 trampled down in the street, he plucks you up, and gives 
 
The Government of Paris. 77 
 
 you over to his surgeon ; if you tumble into the Seine, 
 he kindly fishes you out, and carefully lays your body 
 upon one of the slanting tables in La Morgue. 
 
 This same omnipresent officer presides every other 
 Friday over a council of health, held by the first physi- 
 cians and surgeons ; he gives to stranger-operatives their 
 certificate of right to work at their respective callings. 
 He has under him forty-eight commissaries — one in each 
 of the quartiers, into which the twelve arrondissements 
 are divided. These are the special heads of their 
 districts, and their houses may be distinguished along the 
 Rue St. Martin and Rue Richelieu at night, by a crimson 
 lantern burning at their doors. 
 
 Nor is this all; under the Prefect, and under the 
 commissaries, are two thousand sergents-de-ville, who 
 wear broad military chapeaux, and a light sword, and 
 may be seen at all hours of the day, on the Boulevards, 
 in the Garden, and the dirty alleys of the Cite. 
 
 Nor yet is this all ; — under the Prefect, and under the 
 commissaries, and holding humbler place than the ser- 
 gents-de-ville, are the Municipal guard — three thousand 
 picked men on foot, and seven hundred horse. The first 
 are stationed in all the theatres at night — they patrol 
 the streets — they rescue the injured ; and wherever 
 there is a street disturbance, there you will see the 
 black horse-hair plume of the mounted Municipal guard. 
 
 There are beside, hundreds of secret police in almost 
 every station of life ; and there are the " officers of the 
 peace" in their unsuspected citizen's dress. No portion of 
 
78 Fkebh Gleanings, 
 
 the capital is free from the presence of some officer of this 
 mighty Police. Every theatre has its regular quota — 
 every assembly has its spy. 
 
 You are going to the opera : — your carriage is stop- 
 ped two squares from the Opera-house, by a horseman in a 
 glittering helmet, with black plumes waving over it ; — he 
 directs with his drawn sword the way the coachman is to 
 take ; the order has been arranged and prescribed at the 
 Prefecture of Police. Arrived at the door of the theatre, 
 three or more of the mounted guard upon their black 
 horses direct order upon driving away ; — it may snow, or 
 it may rain — it may be early or late — still the stern-look- 
 ing horsemen are there — their helmets and swords glitter- 
 ing in the gas-light. You alight from your carnage, and 
 a couple of the sergents-de-ville are loitering carelessly 
 upon the steps ; — they run their eyes half-inquiringly over 
 you, as you enter. Each side the little ticket-box is sta- 
 tioned a soldier with musket, — two of the Municipal 
 guard. You enter a passage sentinelled by another ; and 
 within, are three or four loitering at the doorways. 
 
 Perhaps there is a slight disturbance ; some brawler is 
 in the house ; in that event, the soldier at the door disap- 
 pears a moment ; — he comes again with four or five of his 
 comrades ; — there is no need of excuses or promises now ; 
 — the brawler goes out over benches and boxes. He is 
 handed over to the sergent-de-ville. The sergent-de- 
 ville calls a carriage, and the brawler rides to the Palais 
 de Justice. 
 
 Perhaps the disturbance is more general. The soldiers 
 
The Government of Paris. 79 
 
 try to arrest it ; they press some down, they motion the 
 others : but perhaps half the company are hissing and 
 shouting so that the play can not go on. In this event — 
 and it occurred during my last visit to Paris, — a plain- 
 looking gentleman, dressed simply in black, with a bit of 
 ribbon in one button-hole, leans over from one of the 
 boxes, and tells the audience, in a quiet way, — if the 
 noise does not cease, he shall order the theatre to be 
 cleared. 
 
 There is no use in expostulation — still less in resist- 
 ance; — for the man in black, whom nobody knew till now, 
 is a commissary of police — and in twenty minutes could 
 order a thousand men upon the spot. The house was 
 quiet in a moment, and the play went on. 
 
 For a rogue — merely morally speaking, there is no safer 
 place than Paris. He may offend against every law of 
 God and man, so it be not written in the books of the 
 Prefect de Police, — and he is secure, and he may hold his 
 head with princes, and take the cushioned stalls at Notre- 
 Dame, and dine at the Cafe de Pans, and rent the first 
 loge at the Opera. But let him offend in the least 
 the statutes, and there is no corner from Notre-Dame, to 
 Mont Martre that can hold him. He may assume any 
 disguise, and change it as he will — those men in the 
 cocked hats, and with the straight swords, and worse 
 still — those men in plain suits, whom nobody knows, will 
 have their eyes and their hands upon him. 
 
 It is no use — the going backward, or forward, or talk- 
 ing about rank, or money, or position ; — he may as well 
 
SO Feesh Gleanings. 
 
 march at once quietly down to the old Palais de Justice — 
 walk straight into the court — take off his hat to the Com- 
 missariot, and ask politely for a room on the first floor, 
 a bottle of old Macon, and a few pipes. 
 
 There is something in the constant surveillance of such 
 a police, not altogether reconcilable with an American's 
 idea of freedom ; yet at the same time is there a secret 
 and indefinable charm, in feeling the presence and secu- 
 rity of order, — order unfailing and almost perfect. It 
 makes up, indeed, a great part of the luxury of Paris life, 
 — this quietude amid all the gayety. Nor is it wholly the 
 false serenity, which hangs like a summer atmosphere 
 over the scenes of Boccacio's story ; — it is guarantied by 
 arms, and the nicety of complete military organization. 
 It gives a home feeling in the gayest, and so to speak, 
 most Cosmopolitan city of the world ; — and when I came 
 back toward it, from the great Eastern cities — there was a 
 yearning at my heart, as if it was half a home ; and I 
 welcomed the broad chapeaux of the Sergents-de-ville, 
 with a little of the same feeling, with which I welcomed, 
 at a later day, — the high gateway, the wide-branching 
 elms, the gray porch — covered with its green, flowering 
 creeper — of my country home. 
 
Les Ma iso Na Garni ks. 81 
 
 Les Maisons Garnieh. 
 
 "T^TTHAT visions of dimity curtains, and waxed 
 floors, and winding escaliers, and dark courts, 
 and little conciergeries, and fat women with huge bunch- 
 es of keys at their girdles, come up to my mind's eye, in 
 recalling a day's search through the furnished houses of 
 Paris ! They are the homes of the native, and the homes 
 of the stranger. — Not a quarter — not a street is without 
 them. They are adapted to princes, and to the poorest ; 
 — from the first floor in the Rue Lafitte, to the fourth in 
 the Rue des Mauvais Garcons. The order of the city at- 
 taches also to them, and you may find in them the retire- 
 ment of a home, in the midst of the bustle of a city. 
 
 You may, if it please you, know no one but your con- 
 cierge, to whom you pay your bill, and who cleans your 
 room. At meal times you go where you will. 
 
 The very search for such quarters as may please your 
 fancy, offers a pleasant kaleidoscopic view of Paris life ; 
 — here is a busy valet-de-chambre, with a white apron, in 
 the larger houses, who takes six steps at a jump, and in- 
 sists upon the ban local ; — there, a prim little daughter of 
 the concierge, trips a long way before you, and insists 
 upon showing you every vacant room in the house ; and 
 laughs at your bad French in a way that makes you talk 
 infinitely worse — and throws open the window, and pulls 
 
82 Fresh Gleanings. 
 
 back the muslin curtains — descanting all the while in the 
 prettiest possible language upon the prospect. Then, 
 again — obstinate old women with spectacles, who put down 
 their knitting work, and drop tremendous courtesies — who 
 would be charmed to have Monsieur for a lodger — who 
 give the best of linen ; and who — say what you will — in- 
 sist upon understanding you to accept their terms uncon- 
 ditionally; and when you would undeceive them, over- 
 whelm you with explications, that only make matters 
 worse, and you are fain to make all sorts of excuses to be 
 fairly rid of them. What array of broken promises and 
 prices, of subterfuges and solicitations, throng over the 
 memorial of a single day's search for lodgings ! 
 
 And what a happy rest from all, on my first visit, 
 
 in the little, wax-floored, white-curtained chamber, on the 
 second floor of a maison particuliere under the shadow of 
 the Cathedral of St. Roch ! 
 
 There was a quiet old lady in the conciergerie, who 
 made the bed, and brought up the water, and kindled the 
 fire. And the corset-maker next door had all sorts of vis- 
 itors ; and in the mourning shop opposite, every day the 
 shop-girls new arranged the ?aces, and caps, and cross- 
 barred muslins, so that I came lo be, in less than a month, 
 a connoisseur of Modes. Many a quiet afternoon, too, 
 have I leaned out of the window, and watched the goers- 
 in at the Cathedral — up the same steps where was gath- 
 ered, in the unfortunate days of France, the ruthless lab- 
 ble, to see poor Marie Antoinette go by to execution; 
 or looking the other way, I could see the gay throngs go 
 
L e s Maisoks G a r n i e s. 83 
 
 trooping through the garden of the Tuileries ; and over, 
 at night, from high over the weather-stained, bullet-scar- 
 red front of the church, I used to hear the loud, full- 
 sounding bells chiming over the silent city. And their 
 sounds so near, and so clear, crowded strange dreams 
 into my mind, and pleasant dreams, because they were 
 wild and vivid, and I came to love the sounds of the bells, 
 as a familiar lullaby. 
 
 fra le piu care 
 
 Gioje del mondo, e '1 suone delle campane. 
 
 The old Italian had listened to the sweet Florentine 
 bells, and I — thanks to this wandering American spirit— r 
 have dreamed under those of San Giovapni, and of San 
 Roch. 
 
 There attach other recollections to other neighborhoods 
 in which I have been a sojourner. Who could forget the 
 
 happy Madame C , in the Rue Neuve St. Augustin, 
 
 who serves her lodgers with coffee, up six pair of stairs, — 
 sometimes at the hands of the little mischievous Pierre, 
 in the blue smock-frock, and sometimes at the hands of 
 the stumpy little girl who called her — ma tante 1 
 
 There was, beside, the happy-looking shoemaker, in 
 the dark corner of one of the many hotels of the Rue de la 
 Harpe — and the little iron wicket with its tinkling bell, — 
 and the dim corridor — and in the room at the end, sitting 
 before the meagre grate, the ever-cheerful Abbe G . 
 
 And it is in that old, quaint, dim quarter of the Sor- 
 bonne, where are narrow alleys and dirty, and student 
 
84 Fresh Gleanings. 
 
 faces, and bent-over old men, and doubtful Restaurants, that 
 one may learn fullest, the character of the furnished houses 
 of the city. Once dwell in them for ever so little time, and 
 you — if you have any thing like this madcap, truant fancy 
 of mine — you are borne straight back to a crowded dream- 
 land, — you tremble at the slam of your own door at night. 
 
 Oh, Philip de Comines — your secret chronicles of 
 
 kings are barren to the grouping fancies of a New-world 
 dreamer, in some old maison garnie beyond the Seine ! 
 
 What a history of mysteries might be made out of a 
 single one in the old quarters of Paris ! What would I 
 not give for the revelations of an octogenarian concierge 
 in some of the hotels of the Rue de Seine, or of the An- 
 cient Comedy ! 
 
 Passing along the narrow sideways of either of these 
 streets, or of the lesser ones which branch from them in 
 every direction, and you will see, here and there, at each 
 hand, heavy double doors opening upon a stone-paved, 
 dismal, little court. In the farther corner is a dark, ill- 
 lighted box, over the window of which, is written Concierge- 
 tie. An old man and his wife are sitting upon stools within ; 
 perhaps they are stitching busily upon old clothes; or if 
 it be four o'clock, they have their dinner — a savory mess, 
 in one bowl between them. A bed, dusty and dirty, fills 
 up the farther side of the room ; — a long line of keys 
 hang under the window; — two or three old, torn books, 
 and a half a page of a National, with a programme of 
 the Opera Comique lie on the low table : a pen and ink, — a 
 dog-leaved note-book, — a stone pitcher, and two tumblers 
 
L e s M a i a o n s Garnies, 85 
 
 — a gray cat squatted in the only spare chair, — a colored 
 lithograph of the Due d'Orleans, and a pewter crucifix in 
 the corner, make up all the furnishings of the dismal little 
 home of the concierge and his wife. If you are a lodger, the 
 man takes, mechanically, your key from its nail, and gives it 
 you, with a good-day. — If a stranger in search of a home, 
 the old lady gathers up five or six of the keys, and ushers 
 you up dim stairways, and along ill-lighted corridors to 
 the vacant rooms. The crooked and abrupt turns con- 
 found one ; the blind stair-cases, the concealed doors, the 
 windows looking — nowhere, the voluble strange-talking 
 tongue of the old lady, and the jingling of her keys in the 
 door-locks, all raise curiosity to the tip-toe. 
 
 Nor will your curiosity be satisfied, though you stop 
 a month, or a year. The stair-cases are just as dim, and 
 look as full of old men's tales ; — the corridors are just as 
 sombre, — just as crooked ; — your neighbor's door opens and 
 shuts in just such a silent way ; — the faces you meet upon 
 the stairs, look just as strange and distant ; — the man in 
 the chamber above you paces about in the same mysterious 
 manner as when first you took the key at the Concierge- 
 rie, and left your card for the police. You may sometimes 
 catch a glimpse, by a half-opened door in the entresol 
 of waxed floors, and glass ornaments of the mantel, and 
 possibly of the maid scrubbing the table, — you never see 
 more of its occupants. Sometimes you may see your 
 neighbor — a tall man in a long cloak, opening his door — 
 it is all you know of him. And perhaps, the concierge 
 knows no more— except a name. 
 
86 F it i: s ii G l r a n i no s. 
 
 Sometimes you meet the garcon of a cook or baker in 
 the court, with a cover in his hand that smells of dinner : 
 he disappears down one of the corridors — you never 
 know where. Sometimes you meet a fair-faced girl, and 
 she goes tripping up the slanting and crooked stairway 
 a long way before you — and as you pass, the doors are all 
 shut — not a lock stirs — not even her light foot-fall is to be 
 heard. Sometimes, in the first blush of the morning, you 
 may hear steps passing your door, — perhaps whispers, — 
 you dress in haste to have a peep through the key-hole, — 
 the gray corridor is empty, and still as death ; you look 
 out the window — if by chance, it looks upon the court, — 
 nothing is stirring. You go down the stairs at your 
 breakfast time, in half expectation that your concierge's 
 look will be full of revelations; — he bids you good-morning 
 with the same nonchalance as on the first day you saw 
 him, and takes your key and hangs it on its nail; — and you 
 stroll down the court, biting your lip. Sometimes, late at 
 night, when you have been two hours asleep, you hear a 
 heavy tramp come up the stairway, and a heavy foot go 
 shaking the corridor ; — tramp — tramp, it mounts the stairs 
 at the end, — tramp — tramp, along the corridor above : 
 who it is, where it goes, you know as little when you 
 come away, as when you enter a Hotel Garni. 
 
 The month or the year ended, you pay your bill, — no- 
 body is looking to see you off, — nobody knows you are 
 going — nobody knows you had come ; the concierge bids 
 you bon-jour — hangs your key on its peg, and all goes on 
 as strangely, as silently, as mysteriously as before. Come 
 
Les Maisons Gaenies. 87 
 
 again in a year — come in two years — come in five years, 
 and ten to one the same concierge is eating his dinner in 
 
 the corner yet. The old lady takes four or five keys 
 
 and shows you the vacant rooms ; — the same leaning 
 stairways — the same crooked corridors — the same steps 
 in the morning — the same tramp at night — the same 
 strange mystery confounds you as before. 
 
 The rooms I held on one of my visits to Paris, in 
 the Rue St. Thomas du Louvre, though not so much 
 in the strange, old quarter, as those of which I have 
 been speaking, yet had a story-telling air of their own. 
 The house was old, very old — so that the stair-cases 
 were all upon a slant ; and the heavy, black stones of 
 which they were formed, were in some places, sprung 
 an inch or two from the wall, and disclosed yawning 
 gaps. And the courts about the old house were dropped 
 here and there, never, that I could discover, with any 
 order; — and the stairways led ofF so blindly in some 
 directions, that I never had the courage to follow them to 
 an end. 
 
 My rooms were near the top of the house ; I mounted 
 five pair of stairs — went through a short corridor with 
 a painted and waxed brick floor, where I entered the 
 first of my suite. This was an anteroom, opening upon 
 a narrow court, which had very narrow windows peep- 
 ing into it, up and down. Out of the anteroom, opened 
 a kitchen and pantry with all the cooking paraphernalia 
 attached — these rooms looked into another court, still 
 smaller and more dismal than the other. From the 
 
83 F u e s ii Gleanings. 
 
 kitchen opened a bedroom, in which there was no win- 
 dow at all — simply a low, French bedstead, and mattrass. 
 Beside the bedroom, ran a corridor from the anteroom, 
 which conducted to my little parlor, with still another 
 bedroom, and another court adjoining. The window of 
 the parlor commanded a look over an angle of the 
 Place du Carrousel, and the noise that came up from 
 its pavement, was all that met my ear ; — since I was so 
 far from the stair-case and corridor, that the steps of 
 my fellow-lodgers were lost in coming through the long 
 range of rooms, over which I held control. There were, 
 however, plenty of lodgers ; — for I had met strange- 
 looking people on the stairs, and seen them fingering 
 the door-locks, and sometimes heard steps above me, 
 
 toward midnight. Once or twice, too, from the win- 
 
 1 J 
 dow of the wash-room, I had seen a grizzly face peep- 
 ing out of a narrow slit, far above, in the court — but whose 
 it was I never knew. 
 
 There is something that is the very reverse of cheer- 
 fulness about empty rooms, and above all, — an empty 
 kitchen ; — and when I heard, as I sometimes did, the most 
 trifling noise about the old, ricketty grate at night, I 
 have waked up with a start, and felt, — shamed as I am 
 to confess it, — something very like fear. 
 
 My concierge was a brisk, little man, more communi- 
 cative than most of his class, — who served as facteur to the 
 neighborhood, and who came up at nine every morning 
 to make my bed, and to wax my floors. I sometimes led 
 him into conversation upon former occupants of the 
 
Stoiiy cp Le Merle. 80 
 
 house ; but all I could gain from him, only afforded 
 strange, wild glimpses of the mysteriously moving and 
 changing hotel life. Some things, however, that lie told 
 me of a lodger, two or three years before, in the very 
 rooms I occupied, impressed me strongly at the time ; 
 and as they seem to offer good illustration of what I have 
 said about the maison garnie, I shall take the liberty of 
 setting them down here, at the risk of being thought too 
 much of a Romancer. 
 
 Story of Le Merle. 
 
 /^VNE September morning, of 183-, — said he, — and a 
 ^~^ Sergent-de-ville tapped at the little door of the 
 Conciergerie, and handed a slip of paper to my wife, ask- 
 ing, at the same time, if the persons whose names were 
 written upon it, were lodgers in the house. My wife put 
 on her spectacles, and read these names — Jean et Lucie 
 Le Merle. There were no such persons among the 
 lodgers. 
 
 The Sergent-de-ville asked if there had been surli 
 within the month past 1 ? My wife ran her eye over the 
 little book she keeps for names — there were none like 
 those upon the slip of paper which the officer had handed 
 her. He seemed disappointed : — he asked her the 
 number of the house, and the name of the owner; ar.d 
 pulling a small tablet from his pocket, compared, ] 
 
00 F R K Sll G L E A X I N C S. 
 
 suppose, what he had written, with the answers my wife 
 
 had given him. He still seemed dissatisfied, and wanted 
 
 to see my wife's book of names. 
 
 The Sergent-de-ville did not succeed in his search : 
 — he ordered that any persons with such names coming 
 within the month, should be immediately reported to the 
 Prefect of the Police, — enjoined secrecy for the time, and 
 went away, leaving the slip of paper, and a piece of five 
 francs at the Conciergerie. The last day of the month 
 my wife and I dined upon a Fricandeau dc veau, au 
 sauce tomate, — omelette au confiture, — a Strasburg pie, 
 and drank the health of the Sergent-de-ville, with a 
 bottle of Chablis wine. No lodgers of the names on the 
 paper had come. 
 
 A year after, in the month of September, when we 
 had quite forgotten the names, — the five francs, and the 
 dinner, — and there came up to me in the court of the 
 Messageries Generales, a pale, thin man, leading a little 
 girl of ten years, and asked me to take his portmanteau 
 to number 26 Rue St. Thomas du Louvre. 
 
 — Trcs Tolontiers, Monsieur, — said I, — since it is my 
 home. 
 
 My wife showed him the very rooms Monsieur occu- 
 pies at present. He glanced over the little courts upon 
 which the windows look, seemed satisfied with ap- 
 pearances, and took the chambers. He handed my 
 wife a card, on which was wiitten — Jean Le Merle et 
 file. ^ 
 
 As I said, we had quite forgotten the Sergent-de-ville, 
 
8 T O H Y F L E M E R I. E. 91 
 
 and the incident of the last September. Still it occurred 
 to us, that there was something about the name, which 
 the new lodger had given, not unfamiliar. So one even- 
 ing, we rummaged the book, to see if we had had no 
 such lodger before. We could find none like it ; but just 
 *as we were shutting the book, and were wondering what 
 made the name so familiar, a slip of paper fell out from 
 between the leaves, on which was written Jean et Lticie 
 
 Le Merle. On the instant, we remembered all about 
 
 the Sergent-de-ville and the five francs, and the dinner. 
 
 Here was one of the persons whom we were to have 
 reported ; — but the time had gone by, a full twelvemonth. 
 Besides, it seemed to us that the poor man had suffered 
 enough of disquietude already ; so we determined to send 
 in the name as he had written it, with those of the other 
 lodgers, — as is our usual way, without any mention of the 
 occurrence of the year before. The police, we thought, 
 could not expect that five francs should make us, who see 
 so many names, remember a single one, from one year's 
 end to the other. Nor did we dare say any thing about 
 the slip of paper to our new lodger ; in fact, we burnt it 
 the same evening, and kept the matter wholly between 
 ourselves. 
 
 The little girl who came with the new lodger was beau- 
 tiful. She had long, black, glossy hair, that hung in curls 
 over her neck, and an eye jet black, but with a strange 
 look of sadness in it, for one so young. We saw little of 
 her, however. Of a morning, they would go out togeth- 
 er, — the little girl clasping firmly the hand of the pale 
 
92 Fresh Gleanings. 
 
 gentleman, as if she were afraid to lose it one moment, 
 and they would turn down across the crowded Plctce du 
 Palais Royal, — and for two hours we would see no more 
 of them. By and by they would saunter back, — the gentle- 
 man would take his key, without passing a word with my 
 wife, and no more would be seen of them, until two or 
 three hours after noon. In passing by the barriers of the 
 Tuileries at this hour, I have sometimes seen them sit- 
 ting on a stone bench in the garden, or strolling under 
 the trees, — av " sometimes, though very rarely, I used to 
 see the little girl playing with the other children about 
 the green boxes of the orange-trees. She was always 
 dressed richly and prettily ; and my wife used to wonder 
 if she could arrange her curls and her little gipsy bonnet 
 eo well, or if Monsieur himself arranged them for her. 
 Often did the lodgers in the entresol, — an old man and his 
 wife, who had lived in the same room for seven years, — 
 ask who was the little black haired girl in the gipsy bon- 
 net, that went tripping every day over the Place du 
 Carrousel, clinging so firmly to the hand of the new 
 lodger ] 
 
 No one ever asked after Monsieur Le Merle ; — no let- 
 ters ever came for Monsieur Le Merle. Once only, a 
 package was left by a facteur, addressed simply " Le 
 Merle, 26 St. Thomas du Louvre." The next morning, 
 I saw a casket on the table, and afterward, on a day when 
 it chanced to be open, I saw in it a rich pearl necklace. 
 On Sundays, and on days of fete, the little girl wore it, 
 and it was rich enough for a Countess. 
 
Story of Le Merle. 93 
 
 Sometimes, when I was waxing the floors in the corri- 
 dor, I heard snatches of a soft song from these rooms, 
 and it seemed to me, though I do not certainly know, 
 that it was in a strange language. My wife, too, has said, 
 that the talk of the little girl had a strange accent, as if, 
 some day, she had spoken in another tongue. Her eye, too, 
 was larger, and fuller, and sadder, than are the eyes of 
 Parisian girls, and seemed to belong to a country farther 
 to the South. A few books were always lying on the 
 table of Monsieur, but were all of them in French ; only 
 once I saw upon the bureau a beautiful little volume with 
 gold clasps, and a miniature of a lady in the cover, — 
 and it was written in a language that I did not know. 
 And once, only once that I remember, on a Sunday, 
 when they went out — Monsieur said to N6tre-Dame — 
 the little girl carried the book with the gold clasps, and 
 wore the same day the beautiful pearl necklace. On 
 some days, Monsieur would go out for a time alone ; 
 and then we always noticed that the little girl, — whether 
 from fear, or what I do not know, — took the key out of 
 the door and fastened it from within. 
 
 Meantime we heard nothing from the police ; every 
 thing went on quietly ; — we should have thought no more 
 about Monsieur Le Merle than any other of our lodgers, 
 had it not been for the dark-haired girl, who seemed to 
 have no other friend in the world. 
 
 One day it happened, that Monsieur had been gone 
 longer than his usual time, and my wife heard a gentle 
 tap at the window of the Conciergerie. It was the little 
 
94 Fresh Gleanings. 
 
 girl of the Attic ; — she had put on her bonnet, and cowe 
 alone down the stairs ; — she was afraid, she said, to stay 
 so long alone in the great chamber ; — she wanted to go 
 out to find her papa. She did not know where he was 
 gone, but she was sure she would find him. My wife 
 persuaded her to put off her bonnet, and sit with her in 
 the Conciergerie ; and when it grew late, and still Mon- 
 sieur Le Merle did not cume, I brought her some dinner 
 from a Restaurant, but she would scarce eat any thing 
 for her fear. 
 
 At length, just at dusk, and while Monsieur Le Merle 
 was still away, a carriage drove up to the door, and thu 
 footman tapped at the window-pane, and asked if it was 
 26 St. Thomas du Louvre ? 
 
 — Oui, Monsieur. 
 
 — Madame wishes to see Lucie Le Merle. 
 
 — It is I — said the little girl : — till then we had not 
 known her name. My wife led her out to the carriage. 
 She said two ladies elegantly dressed were seated in it. 
 One of them whispered a few words in the ear of Lucie. 
 The poor child looked wonderingly in her face a moment 
 — shook her head, and turning round to my wife, said — 
 Qui est elle — Jc ne sais pas — moi. 
 
 The lady whispered to the child again : — this time she 
 touched a chord in the little girl's heart. A tear or two 
 dropped from her young eyes — Qui etes vous, done, Ma- 
 dame, dites moi, je vous en prie. 
 
 The lady whispered something more in Lucie's ear — 
 what it was, my wife could not hear. Our little lodger 
 
Storv or Le Merle. 95 
 
 ran up stairs, and came down with the casket, which had 
 stood always upon the table under the mirror, and caught 
 up her bonnet from the Conciergerie, and presently was in 
 the carriage with the ladies. 
 
 — Your father 1 — said my wife, doubtingly. 
 
 — Je vais le voir — said our little lodger, and the car- 
 riage drove off, under the arch of the Louvre toward the 
 Quay. 
 
 My wife and I were troubled : we sat up till midnight 
 hoping to see Monsieur and the child again. I went up 
 to lock the chamber, — on this table was lying the book 
 with the gold clasps ; and it seemed to me, as I look- 
 ed at it by the light of the candle, that there was some- 
 thing in the face painted upon it, like that of the black- 
 eyed girl. 1 undid the clasps, and found written on the 
 first leaf — Lucie a sa Jille, Lticie. 
 
 The next morning appeared Monsieur Le Merle. His 
 face was haggard, as if he had not slept. His first inqui- 
 ries were for Lucie ; and when we had told to him all 
 that had happened the day before, he was made frantic. 
 That very afternoon, he made me go with him, and 
 stop by him, upon a seat up the Champs Elysees, to 
 see if by chance, I could detect the carnage, or the 
 ladies who had taken his treasure from him. We 
 stopped until it was dark, but could see nothing of 
 either. 
 
 The next morning a note was dropped through the 
 window — by whom, my wife did not see, addressed simply 
 Le Merle, and I remembered it was in the same hand, 
 
96 Fresh Gleanings. 
 
 — at least so it seemed to me, — with the line on the first 
 leaf of the book with the gold clasps. 
 
 Our lodger seemed startled when he read the note, — 
 he paid us what was due for the rooms, and I took his 
 portmanteau in the afternoon, and put it upon a coach in 
 the Place du Palais Royal. He bade me good-day, slip- 
 ped a piece of five francs in my hand, and I shut the 
 ioor of the Jlacre. 
 
 That very evening, at a little past ten, as my wife and 
 I were enjoying a small cup of coffee, which we had 
 ordered in from the Cafe du Danemarck, there was a 
 slight tap at our window. It was a Sergent-de-ville. He 
 handed us a slip of paper, and asked if the persons 
 whose names were upon it, were lodgers at the house. 
 My wife sat by the candle. She put on her spectacles 
 and read — Jean he Merle etfillc. 
 
 Odd things come in our way every day — what with 
 changes of lodgers and bad characters — but this was 
 very odd. We told the Sergent all we knew of our 
 lodgers on this floor, and he took me with him to 
 the Place du Palais Royal. We inquired of every 
 cabman upon the stand, but not one could tell us 
 any thing of Monsieur Le Merle. One only had seen 
 me close the door of the coach; but it was not now 
 \ipon the stand, nor did he know the number. The 
 Sergent-de-ville asked particularly of the note of the 
 morning, but I could tell him nothing : — he left 
 me. 
 
 About a month after, the Officer called at our door, 
 
Story of Le Merle. 97 
 
 and asked mo to go with him over the Pont Neuf. 
 On the way, he told me that a body had been found 
 that morning in the Seine, and in the coat pocket 
 was found a note, crumpled and blurred, but they 
 fancied they could make out the name — Le Merle. 
 He led me straight to the Morgue. Three bodies 
 were lying upon the tables, and a dozen or two 
 of people were looking through the grating. The 
 Sergent-de-ville pointed to me a body in the corner; 
 — it must have been many days in the water. It 
 was bloated to near twice its natural size, and the skin 
 was of a dirty green color. Over the head of the 
 body, against the wall, hung the simple dress of a 
 gentleman — the dress that had been found on him. I 
 could judge of nothing by the appearance of the body 
 — it was a dreadful sight to look at. 
 
 The Sergent-de-ville asked the officer to pass the 
 coat through the grating; — as he did so, and I took 
 hold of it, I felt something hard in the breast pocket, 
 and putting my hand in, pulled out a small book with 
 gold clasps. There had been a little miniature set in 
 the binding, but the water had destroyed it. I opened 
 
 the clasps, and found on the first leaf — Lucie a sa 
 
 fillc, Lucie. 
 
 I was then sure it was the book I had seen upon this 
 table. I feared that it was truly the body of poor Le 
 Merle, and told the Sergent-de-ville what I had known 
 of the book. I ventured to ask him about Le Merle ; — 
 Mon Dieu ! these officers of the Police have a short way 
 
 E 
 
OS Fresh Gleanings 
 
 with them, Monsieur ! — he gave me a piece of five 
 francs, and said it was all he wanted of me. 
 
 I felt a little sad when I got home about poor Le 
 Merle — so did my wife. So at five o'clock, we spent the 
 money of the Sergent for a good dinner of baeuf braise 
 aux pommes — two slices of melon, and a bottle of old 
 Macon — c'est bon, Monsieur, ce vieux Macon — c'e&t trcs 
 ban. 
 
 — Yes, said I, — but did you never hear again of the 
 little Lucie 1 ? 
 
 * — Jamais, Monsieur, jamais. My wife thought she saw 
 her two years after, in a carriage, upon the Place de la 
 Concorde; she, said that she had grown more beautiful, 
 but looked more sad. She thought she could not have 
 mistaken her large, full eye, and said she saw on her 
 neck, the same brilliant chain of pearls that used to lie 
 in the casket. 
 
 — I should like very much to know her history, — 
 said I. 
 
 — Et moi aussi — said the little concierge, as he gath- 
 ered up his brushes to go below: — Ah, elle etait char- 
 viante, Monsieur, je vous assure; — and he left; me to think 
 about the strange things he had told me, — things which I 
 had not the least reason to distrust, since stranger ones 
 are happening every year, and every month, in the great 
 world of Paris. 
 
The Cafe. 99 
 
 The Cafe. 
 
 "|% yCORE can be learned of Parisian life and habits in 
 ■W** one week at the Cafe, than in a year at your 
 English Hotel. — To go to Paris without seeing the Cafe, 
 would be like going to Egypt without seeing the 
 Pyramids, or like going to Jerusalem, without once 
 tarrying at the Holy Sepulchre. The Cafes are dis- 
 tributed in every part of the French capital. They are 
 the breakfast-houses of the inhabitants of the maison 
 garnie : — but not like any other breakfast-houses on earth 
 are those of Paris. 
 
 I remember, that in the old Geographies, the gayety 
 of the French character used to be represented by a 
 homely wood-cut, of a group of men and women dancing 
 violently around a tree : — now, I can not imagine a 
 better type of Parisian life and habitude, than would be 
 an interior view of a Parisian Cafe, — with a gay and 
 motley company loitering at the little marble tables, 
 gossipping, — reading the journals, — and sipping their 
 morning coffee. 
 
 The Parisian takes there his chocolate, and his paper 
 — his half-cup and his cigar — his mistress and his ice ; 
 the Provincial takes his breakfast and his National — his 
 absinthe and his wife : even the English take there their 
 Galignani and their eggs, and the German his beer and 
 
100 Fresh Gleanings. 
 
 his pipe. It is the arena of the public life of Paris. What 
 the Exchange is to a strictly commercial people, the Cafe 
 is to the French people. 
 
 There the politics and amusements of the day meet 
 discussion. Each table has its party, and so quietly is 
 their conversation conducted, that the nearest neighbors 
 are not disturbed. At one, — two in the dress of the Na- 
 tional Guard are magnifying M. Thiers; and an old gen- 
 tleman at the next table, with gold spectacles and a 
 hooked nose, is dealing out anathemas upon his head. 
 
 Opposite the Porte St. Martin, whose foot ran blood 
 during the three days of July, is the Cafe de Make : 
 there are more stylish cafes, but nowhere do they make 
 better coffee between the Madaleine and the fountain of 
 
 the Chateau. There F and myself breakfasted many 
 
 a morning — strolling down from the Rue de Lancry, a 
 half-mile upon the Boulevards — turning in at the corner 
 door upon the Rue St. Martin — touching our hats to the 
 little blue-dressed Grisette at the dais, who presided over 
 spoons, sugar, and sous — and took our seats at one of 
 the marble slabs, upon the crimson cushions. 
 
 We were, in general, but two of the forty frequenters 
 of the Cafe de Malte. 
 
 Beside us, would be some Lieutenant in scarlet 
 
 breeches, blue coat, and ugly cap, — very like the tin-pail 
 in which New England housewives boil their Indian-pud- 
 dings — with his friend — some whiskerado, who is tickling 
 his vanity by looking at his epaulettes, and listening ap- 
 plausively to his critiques upon the army in Algiers. 
 
The Cape. W\ 
 
 They are drinking a dose of absinthe to whet their appe 
 tites for dinner — a thing only to be accounted for, from 
 the fact that the Officer dines at mess, and so cares little 
 how much he eats ; — and that the whiskerado has an in- 
 vitation to dine with a friend, and so wishes — by double 
 eating, to do away the necessity of dining to-morrow. 
 On another side of us, is perhaps an old. man of sixty, 
 who wears a wig, and looks very wisely over the columns 
 of the Presse, and occasionally very crossly at a small 
 dog, which an old lady next him holds by a string, and 
 which seems to be playing sundry amusing, and very 
 innocent, tricks over the old gentleman's boots. 
 
 The lady, — his neighbor, looks fondly at her dog, sip- 
 ping now and then at her chocolate, — throwing bits of 
 crumbs to her canine companion, — all the while looking 
 anxiously at every new comer through her glasses — 
 possibly watching for some old admirer ; — for no circum- 
 stance, nor age, nor place, nor decrepitude can dissipate 
 a French woman's vanity. 
 
 Another way, are three talkers — each with his half-cup, 
 discussing the National. Their ages are from twenty to 
 eighty. There are characters — from the impudent sans- 
 culottes — to the dignified man of the school of the Girond. 
 
 Here is a man, just opposite, with dirty hands — 
 
 dirty nails — uncombed hair, and dirty beard, who has finish- 
 ed his coffee, and sits poring over a bit of music — altering 
 notes, humming a tune, and drumming on the table with 
 his fingers. He is doubtless an employe of the orchestra 
 of the Theatre of the Porte St. Martin over the way. 
 
; I Q% . F.ft * s.z* Gleaning s. 
 
 I, meantime, — over my coffee, rich as nectar, — a little 
 pyramid of fresh radishes, — a neat stamped cake of 
 yellow butter, and bread such as is comparable with 
 nothing but itself, — am employing the intervals in study 
 of the characters around me, or glancing through the 
 windows upon the carts, and coaches, and omnibusses, 
 and soldiers, and market-women, and porters, and gliding 
 Grisettes, — all of which suck, like a whirlpool, around 
 the angles of the Porte St. Martin. 
 
 Who that has seen the gay capital, knows not the 
 Cafe de Paris 1 — at least its outward show of a summer's 
 evening, when the Boulevard before it is full of loungers, 
 and the salons full within ; — and the Cafe Anglais upon 
 the corner, — and the Vefour, — and the Rotonde of the 
 Palais Royal 1 
 
 1 see before me, now, — though the hills and 
 
 woods of home are growing green around me, — the nice- 
 looking, black-haired French girl of twenty, who used to 
 come in, with her mamma, every morning, at eleven pre- 
 cisely, to the Vefour, and hang her mischievous-looking, 
 green sherd bonnet upon the wall above her head, and 
 arrange the scattered locks, and smooth the plaits upon 
 her forehead with the flat of her white, delicate hand, — 
 giving, all the while, such side looks from under it, as 
 utterly baffled the old lady's observation. 
 
 Do they take their coffee there yet 1 — and does the 
 middle-aged man with the red moustache, who sat oppo- 
 site, bow as graciously as ever — to Madame first, and to 
 Mademoiselle last 1 — And does he steal the sly looks over 
 
The Cafe. 103 
 
 the upper columns of the Constitutionel, as if all the news 
 were centered along the top lines, — and as if I were not 
 looking all the while between the rim of my coffee-bowl, 
 and my eyebrows, for just such explications of Paris life? 
 
 And does the little, cock-eyed man at the De Lormo, 
 who breakfasted on two chops and coffee, still keep 
 Galignani till every English reader, and I among them, 
 despaired 1 
 
 Even now, the reader has not half so definite an idea 
 of a Paris cafe as I could wish he had — of the mirrors 
 multiplying every thing to infinity — of the gilt cornices — 
 of the sanded floors — of the iron-leered tables — of the Ger- 
 man stove with its load of crockery — of the dais, with its 
 pyramids of sugar — of the garcons in their white aprons, 
 shouting to the little woman at the desk, — dixneuf- — 
 qu.ara.nte — trcizc — cinq francs — vingt-et-un — vingt-cinq. 
 
 If one wants coffee at near sunrise, or on to six or 
 seven, he must not look for it in the more stylish cafes. 
 He must find his way to the neighborhood of the dil- 
 igence bureaux, or the Railway ; or he must dash boldly 
 into the dim salons of St. Antoine, or beyond the Pont 
 St. Michel, or round the Halle au Ble, or Marche des 
 Innocens. There he will find men in blouses, — mechan- 
 ics — country people, cab-drivers, and journeymen tail- 
 ors, discussing the news of yesterday, or perhaps six — 
 looking over the Constitutionel of the day. Such men 
 count by the thousands, and make up a large part of the 
 tone of popular feeling, — with influence which, how- 
 ever much it may be derided in the salon, is felt in the 
 
104 Fresh Glean in q -s. 
 
 government, — an influence which, when inflamed, has 
 brought King and Queen to execution. 
 
 And here I can not help indulging, for a moment, 
 
 in a quiet kind of triumph at thought of the liberty to mingle 
 in all such scenes, which one possesses, who travels — as I 
 had the good fortune to travel — alone. He is bound 
 to sustain no aristocratic family pretensions ; — he is tied 
 to no first floor at the hotel ; — he has to consult no fas- 
 tidious taste, except his own ; — he bears about with him 
 but a single pair of curious eyes, that do not blink at 
 dirt or smoke, if they are only seeing some new phase of 
 the strange world they have come to see; — throwing 
 off the flimsy role of respectability, with a stout pair 
 of English shoes he may wander over the city, mind- 
 less of the mud of St. Antoine, or the He St. Louis. 
 
 Your traveling party are discussing over a cold break- 
 fast in the salon of their hotel, — where they shall go, — 
 what among the thousand sights they shall see, while I — 
 two hours ago have finished my coffee at some quiet table 
 of the town — it was a different one yesterday, it will be 
 a different one still to-morrow, — and am ready for the 
 glories of the Louvre, or the mass at Notre-Dame. 
 
 There are those whom the Cafe does not satisfy. Fat 
 old Bourgeois from Lyons, — wool-merchants from Cha- 
 '.eauroux, or apple-sellers of Normandy, are not con- 
 tent with such mimicry of the provincial breakfast, 
 whose abundance would rival a German dinner. Such 
 — and American breakfast-eaters would come within 
 the category, until Paris air has supplied Paris habits— 
 
The Cap! 105 
 
 must give their orders at home, or step into the Re- 
 staurants within the Palais Royal, where morning meals 
 of two dishes and dessert, and half a bottle of wine, are 
 eaten for a franc and fifty centimes, — and down the 
 Rue St. Honore, real English breakfasts may be eaten 
 for the same. 
 
 Does F , I wonder, remember the bread that used 
 
 to stand on end like a walking-stick, in one corner of the 
 salon, at the boarding-place in the Rue Beaurigard — and 
 the sour wine — and the old Madame with her snuff-box at 
 her elbow, and her fingers and nose bebrowned — and what 
 a keen eye was hid under her spectacles, and what blue- 
 looking milk, and what sad, sad chops, — and what a meek 
 Monsieur — our old teacher — for help-meet 1 
 
 Yet it was passable, — for there was Mademoiselle, 
 blithe as a cricket all the day. 
 
 But there are better boarding-places than that in the 
 Rue Beaurigard. 
 
 Par exemplc, la Rue de Bussy. 
 
 How neatly little Marie arranges the rooms — not a 
 speck of dirt anywhere ; and for table management, who 
 can surpass Madame C 1 
 
 I shall see them all again by and by — at least I hope 
 it, and hope for a deep, rich bowl in the Cafe Vefour, and 
 a crisp little loaf of the Vienna bread, and the Journal, and 
 sugared water, and all. It may be that on another visit, 
 I may not be so free as at the last; it may be, — since the 
 American, like the Frenchman, is somewhat gregarious 
 in his nature, — that incumbrances may lie in the way of 
 
 F* 
 
i06 Fresh Gleanings. 
 
 a resumption of the old rambling humor ; — but sure I am, 
 that now and then of a morning, I shall steal away from 
 whatever pleasant or painful circumstances may environ 
 me, and hunt up, with a child's mind, — the old scenes, — 
 the youthful scenes, — the dearly-remembered scenes, — 
 of which I am now writing. 
 
 After midday at the Cafe, the small half-cup gains 
 upon the bowl of the morning; and for three hours after 
 noon, there is a sensible falling off of visitors ; and the trim 
 presidente leaves her place to dress for the evening. 
 
 Then drop in the sorry old single men, and quarrelling 
 maiTied men, and such curious observers as myself, to 
 look at the fresh-faced, bright-eyed, neatly-dressed fair 
 one who presides. As the hours pass, — after-dinner 
 loungers come in : old women with white lap-dogs wad- 
 dle to the tables, and take their thimble-full of coffee. 
 The seats outside the door fill up; they laugh and 
 lounge, and sip, and talk ; — some stroll away to the the- 
 atres ; — their places fill up. The lamps are lit. Young 
 men call for ices — old men call for punches. At half the 
 tables is the rattle of dominoes. Nine, ten, eleven, and 
 twelve o'clock come over the Paris world. The Omni- 
 busses have stopped thundering by ; — the garcons put up 
 the shutters. The people lounge away — not home — there 
 is no such word in their language, but — chez eux. 
 
 So, another day is gone from their lifetime of pleasure, 
 and they are twenty -four hours nearer the end. 
 
The Restaurant. 107 
 
 The Restaurant. 
 
 f I^HE Parisian does not take his coffee at home, nor his 
 -*- dinner. The Frenchman is sociable to excess ; but 
 his socialities are all out-of-door socialities. He will talk 
 with you in the Diligence, — he will talk with you in the 
 theatre, or at the cafe, but you rarely see him at home. 
 Friends meet at the Opera, — in the Garden of the Tuile- 
 ries, or dine together at the Restaurant, — and ten to one, 
 they do not know each other's lodgings. 
 
 Nothing is known practically, by the Parisian, of our 
 glorious Saxon home-spirit — that spirit which finds its de- 
 velopment around the domestic fireside. What such 
 book as the " Winter Evenings at Home" is there, in the 
 whole range of French literature 1 — What such poem 
 as the "Cotter's Saturday Night 1" — What such home- 
 painter — in verse, as Crabbe, — or in colors, as Wilkie 1 
 
 Christ mas- dinner rejoicings, and the Yule-log — glori- 
 ous tokens of the old Northern feeling, which we in our 
 New-land, are by half too slack in sustaining — are to the 
 Parisian, like the ballads of the Norsemen to unlearned 
 ears. 
 
 Go with your letter to a French gentleman of the Capi- 
 tal, and he may overwhelm you with his protestations of 
 friendship ; — he may invite you to his box at the Opera ; 
 —he may ask you to dine with him at the Restaurant , but 
 
1 08 Fresh Gleanings. 
 
 you will rarely be asked to make part of his family circle. 
 And this is not from distrust altogether — not that he 
 holds his family too sacred ; — it is because his social feel- 
 ings do not, like the Englishman's, and like the American's 
 — centre there. They are too much out of doors. His 
 pleasures are out of his own house, and to participate in 
 them, you must go with him abroad. 
 
 His social spirit is of larger circumference than that 
 belonging to the Anglo-Saxon blood, but it is less fixed 
 and strong. Home is the place to make that spirit fixed, 
 and strong, and pure. And as 1 recall now the seemingly 
 superficial state of a Society, which has no such rallying 
 point — I thank God that my lot is cast in a comer of the 
 world, where such an institution is cherished. And if it 
 were possible, without being too venturesome, I would 
 break away from the thread of this foreign talk, to pro- 
 test against the wrong doing of such as would lessen the 
 attractions of Home, by introducing the public frivolities 
 of the French school in their stead. 
 
 Nothing seems to me to have borne so strong a part in 
 sustaining the integrity, and unity, and energy of the Brit- 
 ish nation, as the firm cherishment of a Home feeling. 
 The French have, indeed, a noisy love of country — but it 
 is entirely separable from any domestic love. They wor- 
 ship Jupiter — they have no Penates. 
 
 But to return : — some at Paris, whose means know no 
 limit, will perhaps, dine in their own apartments, giving 
 their orders to the Furnisher of the King, in the Palais 
 Royal; — before whose windows a crowd of soldiers 
 
The R k s t a u r a n t. 10t> 
 
 in crimson breeches, and of men in blouses, are always 
 looking upon the swimming terrapins, and the salmon, 
 and the fruit of every name and country. 
 
 But, choosing to interpret the more general tone of the 
 city habits, let us turn to the first of Restaurants — the 
 Trois Freres — where go such misguided peers as would 
 seem rich, and such rich, as would seem peers; — where 
 go, in short, all who, by paying high, would wish to seem 
 of the elite. No window in the Palais Royal shows richer 
 stock of game and meats, than the Trois Freres. 
 
 Twenty francs will pay for an exceeding good dinner ; 
 besides, one has the honor of looking upon men with 
 red ribbons in their button-holes, and of ogling the 
 prettiest Grisettes of Paris. As good dinners may be 
 had elsewhere, it is true, — but the eclat of extravagance 
 belongs to such as the Cafe de Paris, or Trois Freres. 
 And really, it is surprising how much it aids a man's 
 good opinion of himself, to be the envy of all the small 
 boys with paper parcels, and hungry-looking newspaper 
 venders, who see him going in or out of those brilliant 
 Restaurants. *The cooking is superb ; as Goldsmith used 
 to say, — " they will make you five different dishes from a 
 nettle-pot, and twice as many from a frog's haunches." 
 
 There are two or three along the Boulevard which 
 rank little lower, — and there is the British Tavern, where 
 mock-turtle is always ready, and where English ale may 
 be drank, and English mustard eaten on English steaks — 
 saving only the horse-radish. 
 
 The Parisian, however, is never too aristocratic to econo- 
 
110 Fresh Gleanings. 
 
 mize, and even at the Cafe de Paris, have I seen a dinner 
 for two, ordered for five living souls — mother, father, maid, 
 and children. How the five quotients out of these two 
 dividends, with a hungry man for divisor, satisfy five 
 stomachs, is a matter which one, who knows Paris better 
 than myself, might be puzzled to answer. The steaks 
 are none of the largest, as every man who has walked the 
 Boulevard for an appetite very well knows ; indeed, I am 
 inclined to think, that the higher the dinner ranks in fash- 
 ion, the less it will rank in the scales. 
 
 Where do they give more heaping plates than at 
 Martin's, under the shadow of the Odeon ? Yet there, a 
 man may fill himself for his eighteen sous, and enjoy the 
 society of professional men, at least, the neophytes, who 
 cut into the fricandeaux, in a way that would do credit 
 to the dissecting-room. True, the wainscoting is not of 
 mirrors, and the cloths do not " smell of lavender," and 
 the wine is neither old Macon, nor Madere, — and the 
 stews are of doubtful origin ; but here, as everywhere 
 else, — 
 
 II saper troppo quasi eempre nuoce. 
 
 nreen-eyed persons say the same of Tavernier's stews ; 
 but it can hardly be credited. Madame T. thrives too 
 well, to have thriven on cat's flesh ; and there is surely 
 nothing of the Grimalkin about the sparkling Demoiselle, 
 who presides over apricots and oysters. 
 
 It is a splendid saloon on the first floor of the Palais 
 
 Royal, — overlooking the whole court, with its crowds of 
 
The. Restaurant. Ill 
 
 loungers, and lime-trees, and sparkling fountains, that 
 has over its doors the name of Tavernier. 
 
 I have eaten a great many two-franc dinners at the 
 neat, little tables, — of soup, three dishes, dessert and 
 wine, and wish I had by me a bill of fare, to set down 
 some among its hundred dishes. Still more, do I wish 
 for some Cruikshank, who would drop in, just at this 
 juncture, an illustration of the brilliant interior of that 
 Palais Royal Restaurant, on a December evening at 
 five. 
 
 How nicely would come into the foreground, 
 
 those two old men — Cheeryble Brothers — who have 
 dined at the same table, at the same hour, and on 
 nearly the same dishes — Martin tells me, for half a dozen 
 years. One is as precise as a Mademoiselle of sixty; 
 and the other wears always a happy, jovial, bachelor 
 look. One tucks his napkin carefully unfolded in his 
 vest; — the other wipes it with both hands across his 
 mouth, and drops it carelessly in his lap. One eats 
 weak broth ; — the other pea soup. 
 
 What a group would that long family of English 
 make ! 
 
 F will remember I am sure — and have a 
 
 hearty laugh at the remembrance, of the tall boy in the 
 jacket, with a collar that covered his shoulders, — and of 
 the red-faced Miss (Heaven spare us both again such co- 
 quetries of look !) by half longer than her dress, and who 
 spoke execrable French. There was, besides, the oldest 
 scion of the family, who stalked up to our fat Madame 
 
112 Fresh Gleanings. 
 
 Tavernier every day for payment; no such hat was 
 surely ever seen on the head of a Frenchman, and he 
 wore a coat that pinched him under the arms. 
 
 — Sacre, — whispered the thick-moust ached man at the 
 next table, — Quel Anglais ! — quel chapeau ! — quel habit! 
 — oh, Mon Dieu ! 
 
 With what a calm dignity the manager used to pace 
 up and down, with his napkin white as snow, folded 
 over his left arm ! — and with what infinite grace did he 
 meet the salutations of every new comer ! 
 
 After a year's absence from Paris, on my return, 
 
 1 went one day, for old remembrance' sake, into the gay 
 Restaurant again. The friends with whom I used to 
 
 dine were scattered. F , the companion of my Swiss 
 
 travel, was long ago gone home, and was breaking his 
 bachelor bread in the quiet of New England. Sidney 
 was boating it, with a Maltese dragoman, upon the 
 " uttermost parts of the rivers of Egypt." The last I 
 had seen of Sorsby, was at Venice, where I went down 
 with him to his gondola, and waved him a good-bye, as he 
 glided off over the broad, shining Lagoon, — straight on 
 for Padua. 
 
 The tables, however, were full. Old Madame Taver- 
 nier still held the dais with the same expression of 
 matronly rule as a twelvemonth back. Tavernier himself, 
 though grown a trifle older, still kept his stand before the 
 desk, and slid occasionally about, to say a word to some 
 Did customer, or to show civilities to some new one. 
 Mam'selle, the brunette, still presided over apricots and 
 
T H E Restaurant. 113 
 
 oysters ; even the old, white dog pattered about, 
 soliciting favors, and came to give me a welcome, by- 
 rubbing against my leg. 
 
 The long Englishers were gone, I suspect, to summer 
 at Harrowgate, and to talk to the shabby gentility of that 
 watering-place, about the delights of the Paris world. 
 But the two old Cheeryble Brothers were at the same 
 table yet — as happy, as precise as ever. What a mono- 
 tone of life ! There, day after day, the host, for six or 
 seven hours, had stirred about his hall, with his napkin on 
 his arm, — the dame had held the same seat, — Mam'selle 
 wore the same coquettish looks over her plums, — the old 
 frequenters at the same hour, had puffed up the stairs, 
 and ordered their little dinners, — while I had been 
 counting cities instead of dishes, — had tried the cooking 
 of different nations, instead of different meats, — had 
 coquetted with Nature, when and where she was 
 prettiest, instead of ogling the brunette, or looking after 
 the tidy Grisettes who eat their dinners at the Palais. 
 
 I came back from cities whose History furnishes theme 
 for the frescoes on Western palaces — and there the occu- 
 piers of the old Restaurant were still driving their gains, 
 and discussing calves' head, and tomatoes. 
 
114 Fresh Gleanings. 
 
 Le Grand Vatel. 
 
 f INHERE is, not far away from Tavernier's — the oppo- 
 -*- site side, Le Grand Vatel. There is something 
 iike romance in eating under the name of such a patron 
 of the Kitchen. 
 
 Vatel lived in the time of Louis XIV.,* when 
 
 flourished everything that could quicken appetite, and 
 excite desire. Poor man — he did not see the end of it ! 
 
 He had gone to Chantilly, to prepare a fete. The king 
 arrived ; the supper was served. By some mistake, two 
 tables were without roasts. It cut Vatel to the quick. 
 — My honor is ruined — said he. Fortunately, the table 
 of the king was served. This restored courage to poor 
 Vatel. Still, for twelve nights he did not sleep. He told 
 his friend Gourville, and Gourville told the Prince. The 
 Prince came to console Vatel ; — nothing could be finer, 
 said his Highness. 
 
 — Monseigneur, — replied Vatel, — your goodness over- 
 powers me ; but I know very well that two of the tables 
 were without roasts. 
 
 * Madame de Sevigne tells pleasantly the story of this mishap of 
 Le Grand Vatel, — dont la bonne tele itait capable de contenir tout le 
 tain d'un itat. — The cooks of the present day guard as scrupulously 
 their honor, as in the luxurious age of Vatel. 
 
Le Grand Vatel. 115 
 
 A royal breakfast was to be served toward the close of 
 the fete. Vatel was all anxiety. He had ordered the 
 choicest dishes of the kingdom. 
 
 The morning came, and Vatel was up at four. All 
 were asleep ; no one stirring, except one fish-dealer who 
 brought two small parcels ofmaree. 
 
 — Is this all, said Vatel. 
 
 — Yes sir, said the man ; — not knowing that orders 
 had been sent to every Port along the coast. 
 
 Vatel sought his friend. Gourville, said he, mon ami, 
 I shall never survive this. 
 
 — Pooh, said Gourville. 
 
 Vatel went to his chamber, and placing his sword 
 against the door, he pushed it through his body, and fell 
 upon the floor. 
 
 La marte arrives. They search for Vatel ; they go to 
 his chamber ; they knock — there is no answer ; they 
 break open the door. They find him bathed in blood, 
 and stone dead. 
 
 — Pauvre Vatel ! said the Prince. And now they sell 
 dinners for a franc and a half at the sign of Le Grand 
 Vatel. I ate of maree at the little tables, but it was not 
 fresh. 
 
116 Fresh Gleaninqu, 
 
 Cheap Dinners. 
 
 ROWNE the philosopher, says, whatever may be a 
 man's character, or complexion, or habits, he will 
 
 find a match for them in London. Whatever may be 
 
 a man's taste, or his means, he may find the gratification 
 of them, at some rate, at Paris. 
 
 If the Palais Royal, from the little tobacco women to 
 the furnisher of the King, be too extravagant for one's 
 means ; — if he can neither pay two sous for his chair 
 under the trees, nor take a six sous half-cup at the Ro- 
 tonde, nor a dinner at such as the Grand Vatel, he finds 
 another neighborhood that ranges lower ; but be sure, he 
 will indulge himself, on Sunday afternoons, with the stone 
 .benches along the borders of the court, and very possibly, 
 luxuriate in a cent cigar. Other days, he may be seen 
 stealing his way cautiously down the Rue St. Honore, and 
 turning into some of those streets that branch off toward 
 the Quay, and the other side of the river. He knows 
 every alley that ramifies from the street of the School of 
 Medecine, and may even venture on fast-days, into the 
 neighborhood of the long shadowing Pantheon. 
 
 And there may be picked up dinners, such as 
 
 they are, for twelve and eight sous, not a stone's throw 
 from the towers of St. Sulpice. 
 
 And what shall be said of the chop-houses of St. Denis 
 
Cheap Dinners. 117 
 
 and Mont Martre 1 Curious-looking chops, surely, that 
 would puzzle a Cuvier to work on the skeleton of a beast 
 that bleats or grunts ; — but cheap for all that — chop, po- 
 tato, and bread, for five sous ! 
 
 There may be seen luscious dinners at five, not. far 
 from the Pont St. Michel, and in the neighborhood of the 
 Halle au Ble, — the building of the Medici Column.* 
 
 And in the Faubourg St. Martin — the number escapes 
 my memory, but the police will direct the curious, and 
 the savory smells will guide the hungry — there is a huge 
 pot boiling from twelve to six, filled with such choice 
 tit-bits as draw, every day, scores of adventurers. A 
 huge iron fork lies across the mouth of the cauldron, and 
 whoever wishes to make the venture, pays two sous for 
 a strike. If he succeeds in transfixing a piece of beef 
 — (or what passes for beef, in the dialect of the quarlier) 
 he has achieved his dinner, and at a. low rate — albeit 
 he has it in his fingers, without sauce or corrective. 
 
 Unfortunately, however, many poor fellows ruin their 
 hopes by striking too strongly, and dashing all before 
 them ; and they are mortified at seeing the fragments 
 of some huge bit of meat which their energy has shat- 
 tered, floating in savory morsels to the top. 
 
 They say lhat once upon a time, there came up 
 upon the end of the fork, after a vigorous thrust, a 
 heavy, black-looking substance, which proved to be the 
 
 * James. I think, in one of his hundred romances, makes this 
 Cblumn notable. It was a part of the old Medici Pafoce. 
 
118 Fresh Gleanings. 
 
 front of a soldier's cap. It came to the ears of the 
 police, and a posse of officers came down upon the luck- 
 less Restaurateur, and made seizure of all the bones 
 about his establishment. For though there was no law 
 forbidding use of hats for soups, yet suspicion was ex- 
 cited of there being some missing man in the mess. 
 
 Indeed, as offering precedent for such suspicion, some 
 of the old chronicles of Paris, soberly relate the following 
 story : — 
 
 The Barber and the Cook. 
 
 ¥ N a certain rue of the He de la Cite, now nearly 
 -*- obliterated by changes, stood, many centuries ago, 
 side by side, the houses of a barber and of a pastry cook. 
 Their situation was in the centre of the old world of 
 fashion, and no barber shaved more faces, and no pastry 
 cook sold more, or better pates, than the two neighbors. 
 And they grew rich ; — so rich, that every one who knew 
 anything of common tradesmen's gains, wondered at it. 
 
 The butchers wondered how the pastry cook made 
 
 so many pies, and bought so little meat. And, by and by, 
 it was observed that many who went into the barber's 
 shop to be shaved, never came out again. Then, on 
 a sudden, the excited people said that the barber cut 
 the throats of his customers, and that the pastry cook 
 chopped them into pies. 
 
The Modern Cook. 119 
 
 The Parisians are by no means fastidious in respect 
 of their food ; — nor were they so, if we may credit co- 
 temporaneous writers, in the time of St. Louis ; — but 
 even the Parisians were disgusted at the horrible idea 
 of eating the livers of their dirty neighbors, instead of 
 those of Strasburg geese. The thought was no soonei 
 suggested to that excitable populace, than they rushed 
 en masse to the shops of the tradesmen — hung them upon 
 poles before their own doors, and pulled down their 
 dwellings. 
 
 If the Abbe G and myself were light in our inves- 
 tigations, — an old lodging-house stands at present over 
 the spot, where lived the murderous barber, and the can- 
 nibal cook. 
 
 The Modern Cook. 
 
 fi^HE lront of the soldier's cap, however, in the Fau- 
 bourg St. Martin, proved a false alarm, since no 
 human bones were found in the Restaurateur's collection, 
 and no soldier was missing from the Casernes. 
 
 It is by no means reputable to be found venturing one's 
 chance for dinner in such places; and I was credibly 
 assured that some medical students, and barbers had 
 lost caste with their profession, for cultivating too great 
 familiarity in such neighborhoods. 
 
 Better dinners, and safer, may be had in the great 
 
120 Fresh Gleanmngs. 
 
 square of the Marche" ties Innocens. — What more glorious 
 salon ! — the bright, blue sky of a Paris summer is over- 
 head ; — tall, old buildings lift their quaint gables, min- 
 gled with elegant modem fronts on every side ; — the 
 fountain in the middle pours over in streaming floods, 
 its bubbling and sparkling torrents, making the air cool 
 even in the heats of July; and around, are scattered 
 rich stores of richest vegetables from the fine gardens 
 of Normandy ; — and dotted among them are the people 
 of Brittany in their queer caps and petticoats ; — and 
 honest, ruddy faces that have ripened on the sunny banks 
 of the Loire. 
 
 Just around the edge of the basin that catches within 
 its lips of stone, the waters of the fountain, are arranged 
 some half dozen deal tables, and here and there pots 
 are boiling, and bowls and spoons in readiness, and 
 an old lady with a huge handkerchief upon her head, to 
 serve you. 
 
 You will find beans, or potatoes, or meat, and you 
 may have a bowl of either of the two first for a sou ; but 
 bread and salt are extras ; — meat ranges a trifle higher, 
 and few but the aristocrats of the neighborhood presume 
 upon the meat. No better place, for the price, can be found 
 
 in Paris ; — my investigations with the good Abbe Gr 
 
 have quite satisfied me on this point. If it rains, of 
 course an umbrella must be earned, or the broth, which 
 is not the least part of the dinner, will be cooled. One 
 may end with a handful of rich plums, and as cheap as 
 the broth. 
 
The Modern Cook. 121 
 
 Outside the barriers of the Octroi,* up and down the 
 Seine, and at the Barrier du Tione, are restaurants for 
 6uch as choose to walk farther, and pay less: or who 
 prefer a poor rabbit, to a fat cat Little stands of fruit, 
 and wine, and cake, abound, where they escape the tithe 
 of the tax-gatherer, and on Sundays are thronged by 
 thousands from the Capital, 
 
 We have hardly yet done with dinners within the city. 
 Many a poor fellow is, at this very hour, — five of the af- 
 ternoon, — perspiring over a chafing-pan of coals, whose 
 fumes escape at a broken pane of glass, and over which 
 is sissing and steaming a little miserable apology for 
 a rump-steak. These are the single men, who wish 
 to keep up appearances; and you might see one of 
 them upon the Boulevard, and never guess but he was a 
 diner at a reputable restaurant ; — except you might ob- 
 serve that his wristbands were turned carefully up out of 
 
 sight, and his collar covered with a black cravat. 
 
 Poor fellow ! he has no shirt, — though the coat is a good 
 one in its way, and so with the hat. 
 
 On fete days he shows linen, and calls for a bottle of 
 
 * The city of Paris is surrounded by an iron palisade called the 
 Barrier. There are fifty entrances, some of them of splendid archi- 
 tectural effect ; and at each is collected the so-called Octroi duty, on 
 all consumable matter entering the capital. Every person entering 
 is examined. Guizot himself stops his carriage and submits to offi- 
 cial inspection. Nearly ten millions of dollars are realized annually 
 from this source alone. It is strictly a Municipal tax, and obtains in 
 all the large t.ywns of France. 
 
 F 
 
122 Fkesii Gleanings. 
 
 ordinary beer at one of the cafes up the Champs Elysees. 
 On other days, his means oblige him to cut the restau- 
 rants, and take a small cut of the butcher off the fore- 
 quarter, and near the knuckle. Sometimes he takes the 
 -knuckle itself for a bit of soup ; and with a little potato, 
 and parsley, and salt, followed by a piece of bread, it 
 really makes a very palatable dinner. 
 
 There are poor artists, and Americans among them, 
 who, for worthier motives than occasional dress, eat their 
 dinners thus, rather than risk the doubtful meats in the 
 lower class of restaurants. Indeed no dinner of ordinary 
 bulk, ranging much under thirty sous, can be eaten in 
 Paris without suspicion ; — unless, indeed, it be of those 
 vegetable potages which are served up under the rich 
 old fountain of the Marche des Innocens. 
 
 None understand the economy of eating better than 
 the French. A knuckle will serve a Frenchman farther 
 than a haunch an ordinary man. 
 
 All the arts of securing nutrition from that which chem- 
 ists might, by the weak tests of their laboratory, declare 
 to have no nutritious matter at all, belong peculiarly to 
 the alchemy of French cooking. There is no part of the 
 brute structure, but yields something in the form of digest- 
 ible dishes to their rigorous investigations. 
 
 Whatever will season a soup, or flavor a pudding, in 
 the vegetable or animal world, is known. It has been 
 submitted to their kitchen analysis j and the synthesis — to 
 use the language of the schools — is even more wonderful 
 than the strange results of their analysis. Compounds 
 
The Modern Cook. 123 
 
 without number, — amalgamations of qualities as opposite 
 as nature could form them, — combination heaped upon 
 combination, and a name for each successive product, 
 chosen with the same skill that directs the formation of 
 the object to be named: — so that, poor as the French 
 language is in general terms, none is richer in table vo- 
 cabulary ; and their omelette, andfricandcau, and pate pass 
 muster in nearly all the languages of Europe. 
 
 Many strangers in Paris search English restaurants, in 
 the hope (a vain one) of finding the rich mottled beef of 
 Hereford, or the banks of the Tweed. There was an old 
 lady who cooked beef-sirloins, and made plum-pudding 
 under the West side of the Madaleine ; and her tables 
 were always full. The only real English roast beef in 
 Paris, I found there ; they pretend to it at the Royal, and 
 the British tavern; but the meat has no smell of the 
 shambles. I give the palm to the old lady ; — without, 
 however, great cause to remember her little rooms with 
 favor, since it was in them I lost a fair-made bet for a 
 couple of bottles of Chablis. 
 
 I declared one day to my friend G that the red- 
 faced man over opposite me was an Englishman. The 
 evidence was, — he ate mustard with his beef, and called 
 for a hot plate. Could there be better] 
 
 G said no ; thereupon we staked the wine, and ap- 
 pealed across the table. The bet was lost : but the man 
 had lived fifteen years in England. 
 
 We drank one bottle of the Chablis two evenings after, 
 before the little grate, — in the room at the end of the long 
 
124 Fresh Gleanings. 
 
 corridor, — in a hotel garni of the Rue de Seine ; — and friend 
 
 Abbe G ! — sitting there before your grate, — in your 
 
 room at the end of the corridor, — in the hotel garni of the 
 dark Rue de Seine, — pray, when shall we drink the 
 other 1 
 
 The Religion of Paris. 
 
 OJ PEAKING of my friend the Abbe, brings to mind 
 *^ his character and pursuits. He used to remind me 
 of that good Abbe of the He de France, who advised and 
 condoled with the widowed mothers, and who figures in 
 a long black robe, and broad-brimmed hat, in all the illus- 
 trated copies of " Paul and Virginia." But, my friend 
 did not wear habitually his Church uniform, for his care 
 had been a large one in the country, and he had come 
 like all Frenchmen to the city for relief: he has even ven- 
 tured upon a nice haunch of mutton with me upon Fri- 
 day. For all this, he had far higher respect, and love for 
 the spirit and observances of the Religion of the Metropo- 
 lis, than I ever had myself. 
 
 Religion at Paris, always seemed to me more of a sen- 
 timent than a principle : — that is to say, their Religion 
 has more the liveliness of a feeling, than the earnestness 
 of absorbing duty. Except at times of funeral, one sees 
 few earnest faces in the Parisian churches ; they, the wor- 
 shippers, do not leave wholly their gayety at the door. 
 
The Religion of Paris. 125 
 
 They listen to the prayer and to the discourse, attentively 
 — rarely can you see more of attention ; but it seemed to 
 me always an attention fixed upon the eloquent lapse of 
 words, or some sweet mental image of the Virgin ; — an 
 attention made grateful by the presence of the pictures, 
 and the groined arches overhead, and the fragrant odors 
 of burning herbs ; — an attention, it may be most devout, 
 with some fancied or real presence of God in the soul, — 
 but very rarely the attention of what Protestants call " a 
 broken and a contrite heart." 
 
 No people would be so intolerant of unadorned church- 
 es and poor preaching, as the Parisians. Nor would they 
 altogether fancy the scolding habit of the Scotch presby- 
 ters ; they mean to be happier after a service than before 
 it. Why a sad man should go to church to come away 
 sadder, is what they can not comprehend. I remember 
 that Madame de Sevigne, in one of her letters to her 
 daughter, gives this admirable comment upon one of the 
 sermons of the great men of her time : — " II fit le signe de 
 la croix, il dit son texte ; il ne nous gronda jwint ; il ne 
 nous dit point d'injures ; il nous pria de ne point craindre 
 la mort, puis qu'elle c'tait le seul passage que nous eus- 
 
 sions pour ressuciter avec Jesus Christ nous JTimes 
 
 tous contents" Ninon d'Enclos might have heard the same 
 doctrine, and said as much of it, and as truthfully. And 
 it is true of a great many discourses, which have not the 
 redeeming excellences of Bourdaloue. 
 
 There is no such thing as Religious bigotry known at 
 Paris ; — this would seem strange to a man fresh from such 
 
126 Fresh Gleanings. 
 
 pleasant reading as the Chronicle of St. Bartholomew. 
 St. Germain 1'Auxerrois is still standing, and its tower is 
 standing, from which, on that dreadful August night of 
 1572, went out the first signal for slaughter ; — but at the 
 foot of it now, as you enter the door, an old man with a 
 gray shock of hair is standing, and sprinkles Holy water 
 on you, from his horse-hair brush. Innocent-looking 
 priests glide up and down upon the pavement, and the 
 sunlight streams through the stained windows, — and it 
 seemed to me, as I saw it flickering in rainbow colors 
 over the gray columns, — a sort of token, a new " cove- 
 nant with promise" that no such Bartholomew slaugh- 
 ters should come again. 
 
 Every man in Paris seems satisfied with his own Reli- 
 gion, and very careless about his neighbor's. Every sect 
 follows its peculiar observances without hindrance ; nay 
 — the very church where the most zealous Calvinists 
 worship, was granted them by the crown, and enjoys a 
 stipend from the Government. Scarce is there a Protes- 
 tant church in the kingdom but receives some degree of 
 administrative support. Even the first man in authority 
 in the realm, — M. Guizot, is a Protestant. And amid all 
 the hatred to which that minister is subjected, by his 
 peace policy, one hears no odium thrown upon his Reli- 
 gious belief. — This is a thing apart — a thing speculative — 
 a thing for noble reflections — a thing to lend a little mys- 
 tery to verse — a sublime episode to life — a thing to ren- 
 der beauty attractive by adding devotional sentiment — a 
 thing to add a little grace to companionship, by an un- 
 
The Religion of Paris. 127 
 
 seen, but fully accredited tie j — little else of Religion is 
 recognized at Paris.* 
 
 The Sunday at Paris is richly illustrative of the 
 Religious tendencies of the people. It is the festive day 
 of the week. The authorities give their finest military 
 displays in the court of the palace ; — the fountains of the 
 Garden play in their best style ; — the shop windows 
 wear their richest appearance ; — the theatres show their 
 best pieces ; — and the galleries of art are crowded with 
 their gayest company. Yet it is not forgotten by the 
 Parisians that the day has a sacred purpose. At the 
 morning mass, — at an hour when many good Protestant 
 people are dallying with sleep, — the pavement of Notre- 
 Dame, and the Madaleine is covered thick with kneeling 
 worshippers, who say their beads, and say their prayers 
 with the earnestness of true devotion. 
 
 I have many a time leaned against one of the beaded 
 columns of the Madaleine, when the sun was just begin- 
 ning to throw slanting rays through the windows of the 
 roof, and listened meditatively to the broken chantings 
 by the altar, or watched the comers, as they dipped their 
 fingers in the Holy font, and stepped lightly along the 
 marble floor,— crossing themselves as they passed opposite 
 
 * In his argument for the support of Christianity, Chateaubriand 
 uses this remarkable language : — La Religion Chretienne est la plus 
 poitiqnc. la plus humaine, la plus favorable a la liberte, aux arts et 
 aux lettres, que le monde moderne lui doit tout, depuis l'agri culture 
 jusqu'aux sciences abstraites; depuis l'hospice pour les malhereux, 
 jusqu'aux temples batis par Michel Ange, est decores par Raphael. 
 
*28 Fresh Gleanings. 
 
 the altar, and bowing to the sacred image, — throwing a 
 single rapid glance over the kneeling company, then 
 stooped gently till their knees met the marble pavement, 
 and began their silent Worship. 
 
 Perhaps it would be some poor girl seizing those early 
 hours, before the employ of the shop began, and hoping by 
 favor of the Virgin, under whose image she prays, for a 
 happy stroll at evening with her lover, under the trees of 
 the Champs Elysees. Perhaps it is some lady in rich 
 dress, with gold-clasped service book, — for there is this 
 Religious beauty in the Catholic Church, that rank and 
 wealth lose themselves amid the " crowd of witnesses," 
 and there — the Countess kneels, with a begging woman 
 kneeling beside her, — and they beg together for Grace. 
 
 Perhaps it is a gay postillion, in his crimson-faced 
 coat, who now comes tip-toeing along, looking grave, 
 and crossing himself, and kneeling in a humble place, 
 and gazing steadfastly upon the image of Christ that is 
 over the altar. For a little time, his soul seems absorbed 
 in the view, but now his eye wanders over the frescoes 
 of the ceiling, — the little bell tinkles, — he remembers 
 himself, and bows his head. Now he rises and wanders 
 stealthily to the door; — dips his hand in the Holy water; 
 — turns his face to the Virgin, — bows, — goes softly out, — 
 and in an hour thereafter, is shouting French oaths to his 
 horses, on his way to the borders of France. 
 
 Perhaps it is a stout Sergent-de-ville, striding about 
 with his chapeau under his arm, that meets your eye. 
 His looks wander over the kneeling forms. He is least 
 
The Religion of Paris. 129 
 
 religious of all. If he prays, it is hurriedly, as if it were 
 not his business, and he kneels, as if he rarely knelt. 
 The people come and go, till the sun is fairly up in the 
 sky, and the crowd disperses. 
 
 Sunday is the great day at the Cafe, and the Restau- 
 rant; on no other day are their gains so great. The 
 savings of the week are lavished upon the indulgences of 
 Sunday. Whoever dines upon a knuckle other days, 
 luxuriates in a fricandeau on the Dvmanche. Whoever 
 dines at moderate prices the six days, dines at the Trois 
 F re res the seventh ; and who drinks ordinary wine the 
 rest of the week, on Sunday orders the best. 
 
 The garden of the palace is full to overflowing ; — Ver- 
 sailles is crowded with Parisian company, and the Gallery 
 of the Louvre on no other day is so thronged with 
 visitors. The stall-men of the Champs Elysees, with 
 their cakes, and games, and swings, drive their best 
 bargains upon Sundays, — the necromancers, and sleight- 
 of-hand men under the trees, are always at work upon 
 Sunday. The public balls are fullest; — soldiers are 
 plentiest along the walks ; — omnibusses charge double 
 prices ; — and the public conscience seems lighter upon 
 Sunday than any day of the week. 
 
 Parisian Religion with all that is good in it, — and its 
 tender devotional sentiment is good, and its charity and 
 liberality are good, — has yet very little about it of 
 that sturdy self-denial for " conscience' sake," which 
 makes the Protestant Religionist moral. Indeed, so much 
 is Religion at Paris a sentiment, and so little a principle. 
 
130 Fresh Gleanings. 
 
 that it seems to adorn even profligacy ; and the poor girl, 
 thrown loose upon that luxuriously rolling tide of Pans 
 life, with eyes tearful before the Virgin in Notre-Dame, 
 — prays for constancy ; and would as soon be without her 
 crucifix, as without her lover. 
 
 Of the priesthood, there are without doubt very many 
 who are vicious, and perhaps as many — certainly many, 
 who are pure. — There are, it may be, many worthy, 
 and well-meaning souls, in valleys of New England — 
 possibly in other valleys — looking ever on Papacy as a 
 scarlet-clad harlot, or a spotted beast, who will not 
 accept even my Protestant testimony, to the fact, that 
 human sympathies sometimes dwell under a Papal priest- 
 robe. Yet however sad the truth may seem, — it is even 
 so. Nay, — Orthodoxy itself, sometimes lifts up its voice 
 in Papal pulpits at Paris; and I am sure I have heard as 
 honest doctrine as that of Massillon, in the discourses of 
 to-day ; and he who looks on Massillon as an unbeliever, 
 has something to unlearn. 
 
 But the strong Protestant may find pure doctrine 
 at Paris, beside such as may be winnowed from Romish 
 sermons, through the colander of his prejudices ; — in the 
 very heart of the city, at the Oratoire, may be heard, 
 every Sunday, the sternest Calvinism. The seats are 
 always full : there are Swiss faces, and Saxon faces, 
 and not a few French faces; and the hymns that are 
 sung so quietly, and yet in so heartfelt a way, offer grate- 
 ful contrast to the astounding music of the church of St. 
 Euslache. 
 
The Religion of Paris. 131 
 
 There is the little chapel of that Church of England 
 which sends its Chaplains to every capital of Europe, and 
 which offers up its prayers for Her Majesty, and the 
 realm, under every sky, and on every sea. A bishop 
 reads those prayers at Paris ; and one may listen — an 
 American wanderer may listen, to good, sweet, home- 
 sounding English, in performance of those sacred offices, 
 which, if he be of New England education, are bound 
 up in some measure with his being. 
 
 Religious truth is not so closely treasured in the hearts 
 of the Parisian world, as that its ministers can exercise 
 any considerable control over the public feeling. Inter- 
 course between clergy and laity, seemed friendly and fa- 
 miliar, — rarely dictatorial on the one side, or slavish on 
 the other. 
 
 Many a time have I been with the good-natured Abbe, 
 of whom I have spoken, on his parochial visits ; — for there 
 were some sheep of his old flock, who had found their 
 way, like himself, to the Capital. 
 
 At the top of five pair of stairs in a dark street, near 
 the Louvre, in a very old hotel, lived a quiet, deaf man, 
 who had seen the Swiss guard shot down in the palace 
 balcony, from his own window, — who wore a grizzled 
 brown wig, and the seams of sixty years in his cheeks ; 
 yet the old gentleman always bustled about in the liveliest 
 possible welcome, whenever the Abbe paid him a visit. 
 A matronly-looking woman, in spectacles, the mistress 
 of the house, always arranged a big arm-chair for the 
 Abbe, and the thiee friends used to discourse together, 
 
1 32 Fresh G l e a n i k g s. 
 
 and the tabby cat to pur upon the hearth, — for all the 
 world, as if they were true New England gossips ; and 
 just as three old people might do, who study Canticle 
 and Catechism, instead of Confessional and Creed. 
 
 The old, deaf man, prided himself on speaking six 
 or seven words of English very fluently ; but whenever I 
 got beyond — good night, Sir, — or — fine day, Sir, — his 
 deafness grew upon him wonderfully. 
 
 A letter had come in one evening from a young 
 English girl, who had been a protege of the old man's, 
 but who had now gone back to her home. The Abbe 
 translated it for him : it was a sweet letter, and touched 
 the old man's heart ; and I shall never forget the expres- 
 sion, with which, when the letter was ended, he repeated 
 her name after tha Abbe, and said — chcrefille ! 
 
 I did not then know the story of her association 
 with the old man, or it would not have seemed so 
 strange ; — it was told me afterward, and if I was not 
 writing notes of travel, I should take the trouble to set it 
 down. 
 
 Clerie was a noble-hearted young fellow, — another 
 friend of the Abbe's, the only son of a wealthy gentle- 
 man, who lived some thirty leagues in the country. He 
 was studying for the priesthood at one of the Paiisian 
 colleges ; — poor fellow ! he never served his priesthood 
 here. 
 
 1 had come back from the Auvergne, full of life, 
 
 and went through the old corridor in the Rue de 
 Seine, to see my fr.end the Abbe. He opened the 
 
The Religion of Paris. 133 
 
 door softly, and wore his priest-robe, and a solemn look ; 
 he shook my hand warmly, but pointed to a gray-haired 
 man who was writing in the corner, and put his finger on 
 his lip. 
 
 — Who is it ? — said I. 
 
 — Clerie's father, — said he. 
 
 — And where is Clerie ] — said I. 
 
 — He died last night! — and the Abbe put his finger 
 on his lip, and turned to the old man. The old man 
 was writing to his wife, — telling the mother how her 
 
 only boy was dead. It was hard work to do it. No 
 
 wonder that he bit the end of his quill ; — no wonder 
 that he pressed his hand hard upon his forehead; — 
 no wonder the Abbe put his finger on his lip. 
 
 So, thought I, Death's gripe is very much the same thing 
 here, that it is everywhere else ; — and Religion, whatever 
 it be, and however it soften, can not take away wholly 
 the edge from human sorrow. 
 
 — Mais il est hcitreux — but he is happy, — said the 
 Abbe, — il avail un bon cceur, — he had a good heart. 
 
 And so there are a great many good hearts in Paris, 
 though the Religion, as I said at the beginning, — and the 
 Abbe must pardon me, — always seemed to me more of a 
 Bentiment, than a principle. 
 
134 Fresh Gleanings. 
 
 Le Physique de Paris. 
 
 Q TRANGE— said I, to my friend Sidney, whom \ 
 
 *>? met very unexpectedly, my second day in Paris, 
 and who kindly offered to conduct me along the Boule- 
 vards, — strange that the descriptions of these tourists give 
 a man so inadequate an idea of places. I dare say, — con- 
 tinued I, — that I have read in my lifetime some dozen 
 descriptions of these very Boulevards we are going to 
 see ; and yet I do not know whether they are most like 
 Broadway, or Boston Common, or Pennsylvania Avenue. 
 
 — Not so strange as you think, — said he, — since they 
 are no more like one than the other. 
 
 — Pray, then, what are they like? — said I 
 
 At that, he commenced a long rigmarole about Paris 
 having been limited, through its early years, to the island 
 of La Cite, in the middle of the Seine, — how it grew over 
 upon the Northern and Southern banks in after time, — 
 how walls were built around it to protect it, and how, 
 after it had extended a long way beyond the walls, Louis 
 XIV., who loved women better than wars, had given 
 orders to pull down the walls, and plant a broad street in 
 place of them around the city. This street they call Les 
 Boulevards. But the city grew faster on the Northern 
 than on the Southern bank, so that the old Northern ram- 
 part or Boulevard has come to be near the middle of the 
 
Le Physique de Paris. 135 
 
 modern city, while the Southern is still in the suburbs. 
 This last, with its double rows of lindens, its tall houses 
 with their gardens, and its quiet, has something the air 
 of the park of our Eastern city. Again, that portion of 
 the Boulevards connecting the two toward the East, is 
 the haunt of jugglers, and sellers of old books — has its 
 rows of trees, its small theatres, its Column of the Bas- 
 tille, — a medley which, with its breadth, makes it not 
 unlike the Avenue at Washington ; while the North 
 Boulevard, overgrown with city palaces, and swallowed 
 up by the town, has ten times the gayety and glitter of 
 Broadway. 
 
 As you may see for yourself, — said he — for just 
 
 then we turned the corner of the Rue Richelieu, and were 
 standing, — he smiling, and I staring, — upon the Boulevards 
 of Paris. 
 
 At least, — said I, — they might have told us that 
 
 the paving-blocks were square, and of granite — that the 
 houses were of a yellowish-brown stone, with sculptured 
 cornice, and that they were a half higher than Broadway 
 houses, and the windows by half larger — that the walks 
 had rows of trees, and that under them thronged people 
 of every size, and dress, and country, and condition ; and 
 that the shop windows glittered with every conceivable 
 brilliancy. 
 
 Ten times as much might be said, without carrying into 
 the mind of the reader one spark of that feeling of pleased 
 amaze, with which the stranger looks through a pair of 
 greedy, untamed, Western eyes, upon the splendors of 
 
136 Fresh Gleanings. 
 
 the French metropolis. Yet the reader shall sit down 
 upon one of the stone benches along the walk, a single 
 half hour with us, if it please him, and we will see who 
 passes. 
 
 It was an old amusement for me ; — sometimes my eye 
 would follow a stout Sergent-de-ville with light sword and 
 cocked hat, glancing cautiously around — never giving oc- 
 casion for remark, yet seeing all he wishes to see ; — an 
 eye now upon the row of cabmen along the street, 
 then upon the window of that Restaurant, and a snuff 
 at the grating in the cellar below ; — a side glance at an 
 elegant woman in a cashmere, who comes dashing along, 
 and a quick eye upon two or three fellows in ragged 
 blouses, who are stealing round the jeweller's shop at tne 
 corner ; — so with his hands carelessly locked behind him, 
 and his glances every where, he saunters on. 
 
 Next come two or three short soldiers in their red pan- 
 taloons, newly arrived at Paris. They look at every thing, 
 and have not yet learned enough of Paris ways, not to 
 look at persons. They read the theatre bills on the posts, 
 and sigh that they have not a few spare sous for the par- 
 terre. One of the mounted municipal guard catches their 
 eye, and they turn short around to look at his long plume 
 of waving horse-hair, and brazen helmet, as he gallops 
 by; — you can see their significant smiles of admiration, 
 and you can fancy — if you have any fancy at all — what a 
 magnificent story they will make of it when they go back 
 to the vineyards of Gascoigne. 
 
 Presently a little shop-girl, a Grisette, comes stealing 
 
L i Physioue d e Paris. 137 
 
 her quick paces through the throng of passers ; — swing- 
 ing, with the happiest air in the world, her brown 
 paper parcel, and arranging, from time to time, the 
 hair parted over her forehead ; she looks at you with- 
 out seeming to look ; she enjoys all the flattery of your 
 stare, without allowing you to suspect it. You may ogle 
 her, or you may not look at all — it is all one ; on she 
 trips, — happy, seemingly, as innocence. She stops yon- 
 der just one moment before the window of jew T els; hei 
 desires are only hopes, and her hopes do not disturb her ; 
 she is a true philosopher; she knows what her means 
 will command, and she may wish, — but she sighs for 
 nothing more. Yonder, again, at the window of a Mo- 
 diste, she passes a running glance ; a coquettish little hat 
 of white sherd, trimmed with green, with a sprig of white 
 lillies within, excites half a sigh ; and as quick as thought 
 — the price is imagined — her stock run over — the old bonnet 
 discussed, and on she goes ; — there, she turns half round 
 to look at the lady's shawl who passes — on again she 
 trips, now a little pride in her step ; — she gives the hand- 
 kerchief upon her shoulders a twitch, that seems to say — 
 if Madame could only arrange it. 
 
 Trip) — trip — trip ! go her small, twinkling feet ! — a 
 
 glance here, and a glance there, and she vanishes round a 
 corner — turning half back as she goes out of sight, to see 
 if, by any possibility, admiring eyes shall have followed 
 her motion. 
 
 Here comes now a puffing old woman of forty, seem- 
 ing very anxious that no one should see how very red her 
 
13} Fkesh Gleanings. 
 
 exertions have made her face, and jerking violently on 
 occasions at a small white dog, which she leads by a string. 
 She fancies a great many more people are looking at her 
 — (a common error with women of forty), than really are ; 
 she appears to attract the notice of no one save the cab- 
 drivers, who think she is in heat for a " fare," and some 
 country women more uncouth than she, who wonder 
 what Madame paid for her satin pellerin — and sundiy 
 roguish-looking boys, with caps very low on their heads, 
 who watch anxiously the little dog, and the string that 
 holds him. She is the matron of some unpretending 
 suburban house. 
 
 Next comes a stoutish man of five-and-forty, with a 
 wife on one arm, and a daughter on the other ; — he has a 
 beard long and dirty ; one collar is up, and the other is 
 down ; — he talks very loud to his wife, who talks very 
 loud back ; and you may hear plentifully sprinkled the 
 words — -joli — magnifique — un miracle. — He is fresh from 
 the Provinces ; and it is his first visit to Paris, and first for 
 Madame, and first for the wondering Mademoiselle, — who 
 can never cease wondering aloud at the splendid shops, 
 and of wondering to herself, at the charmans jeunes gens. 
 Poor girl ! if she stop in Paris long enough to learn it 
 fully, she will perhaps wonder still more, but her wonder 
 will be full of vain, and bitter regrets. Poor girl of four- 
 teen ! it is an age at which your head will turn in the 
 
 streets of Paris ! 
 
 Following so closely, that he almost raps their shoulders 
 with his tray of images, is an Italian boy, with a face that 
 
L e P n y s i a u e d e Paris. 1 39 
 
 has ripened to its pleasing brownness, on the rich banks 
 of Como. 
 
 Now who comes sauntering along, with the easiest 
 
 air in the world, and face that could not express a care if 
 one were felt — which shows no earnestness of thought or 
 of endeavor ; — who looks as if the most trying of vexa- 
 tions would be totally eclipsed by the loss of a suspender 
 button, and the most weighty afflictions forgotten in the 
 irremediable grief of wearing a boot out of mode ] It is 
 the true Parisian ; — no matter if rich or poor, — the genus 
 is the same. His dress is perfection ; — not extravagant or 
 outre, but so adjusted, that it seems made on him piece 
 by piece; and he walks as if locomotion were a mere sec- 
 ondary purpose, and the great aim to give to his dress 
 propriety of action. So he passes easily along the Boule- 
 vard — the regular round of his life. 
 
 Such make the best population in the world for a des- 
 potic government. Unfortunately, the race is growing 
 with us at home ; and there is this difference, — that while 
 under European governments, where inducements to men- 
 tal exertion are comparatively limited, the fop is the sub- 
 ject of every good man's pity, — with us, on the contrary, 
 he is the worthy object of every thinking man's contempt. 
 
 Another comes, who apes the last, — smoking, and 
 flourishing a stick ; — his coat is very well, and his boots 
 are well enough, but ah, his hat, poor fellow ! is a month 
 behind the mode ; he must live longer in Paris, — he 
 will perfect himself in time ; — he is only a year from the 
 Provinces. 
 
140 Fresh Gleanings. 
 
 Here comes a man worthy to be noted well. He is ill 
 a blouse, old and dirty — his whole dress slouching ; — his 
 hands are clasped one in the other behind his back ; his 
 cap hangs low over his face, but you can see by glimpses 
 the hair and eye of a man of fifty ; he holds his head 
 down, and walks slowly, searching for what may have 
 been dropped along the walk. Yonder he stoops to pick 
 up — the remnant of a cigar. He raises his eye, as he 
 lifts his blouse, to drop it in his pocket ; but there is no 
 expression of pleasure in his look. Sulkily he strolls 
 on, and strolling he thinks, and thinking men unguided by 
 principles of justice, and ignorant, are the most dangerous 
 of all. 
 
 He is one of those sans-culottes, who if he had been 
 living when Marie went sorrowfully to her execution, 
 would have shouted like a mad devil. He would be 
 foremost in a tumult of to-day. 
 
 There are few earnest faces, — few intent upon present 
 employment, — little of the haste of an American throng. 
 
 The priests glide softly by, in their long, black robes ; 
 — the porters jostle on with burdens on their heads ; — 
 old men in threadbare coats, and with gold-headed canes 
 pick their way slowly along; — little bare-legged boys go 
 pattering by, and little girls in the fashions of their 
 grandmothers ; — and if we follow them on down the 
 great thoroughfare — through the quiet Rue de la Paix, 
 we shall see them go trooping with the swarms of chil- 
 dren, that play every sunny day in the palace garden. 
 
 So — 1 used to watch those eddies, in that current, of 
 
Le Physique de Paris. 141 
 
 the moving world of Paris, which sweeps every day- 
 through the Northern Boulevard. Day after day, the 
 current moves on ; — the same in essentials yesterday, that 
 it was to-day, and it will be the same to-morrow. Yet 
 go half a league Eastward upon that winding thorough- 
 fare, and you have a different company : rich dresses are 
 rarer, — loiterers are fewer, — book-stalls are in place of 
 shops, — blouses in place of broadcloth, — beer-shops in 
 place of the brilliant Cafes. 
 
 Nor is this great circular line of old rampart all : — 
 outside the Barrier is another line of Boulevards, con- 
 centric nearly with the interior, and embracing all that 
 may be fairly called the city. Trees are planted on it, 
 and beyond it, stretch fields of wheat and of vine- 
 yards. Upon this exterior Bouvelard — to the West — rises 
 the gigantic Arch, commemorative of Napoleon's victo- 
 ries. From its top you may see a rich panorama of the 
 city and the country : straight down into the Metropolis 
 from its middle aperture stretches a street in a wood — 
 Les Champs Elysees, — and beyond it the palace garden, 
 — and beyond the garden, the palace — Les Tuileries — 
 two miles away from the Arch, with its long, stone 
 gallery pushing back upon the Quay, and fastened upon 
 a corner of the quadrangular court of the Louvre. 
 
 To the right, beyond the river, among trees, are the 
 monuments of Paris militant — the Hotel des Invalides, 
 and the Ecole Militaire, and the broad Champ de Mars, 
 where in 1790 Louis took the oath of the Federation, and 
 which in a famous month of May — 'your guide up the 
 
142 Fresh Gleanings. 
 
 Arch remembers it well — bristled with muskets, and 
 waved with tossing plumes — the last great gathering of 
 the armies of France, before Waterloo. 
 
 To the left, is Mont Martre with low houses and wind 
 mills, in place of temple to Roman Mars — to the right 
 the two towers of St. Sulpice, its telegraphic fingera 
 working orders to Cherbourg; you can see besides, far 
 off Northward, the two towers of St. Vincent de Paul, 
 and in the thickest of the city — the two towers of 
 Eustache, and in the middle of the river — the two 
 towers of Notre-Dame. Cropping out of the houses, the 
 South side of the stream, is the dome of the Pantheon, — 
 built for a church, but when France was made delirious 
 by the " hot spirit drawn out of the alembic of hell,"* 
 transformed into a heathen temple. Modem France 
 strikes between the extremes ; — they have not restored 
 the Cross to the cupola, but they have put up an image 
 of Immortality ; Rosseau and Voltaire are in the vaults ; 
 Charity and Righteousness are in the transepts. 
 
 Of palaces, you can see the Bourbon, where Napoleon 
 passed his last night of rule; — you can see the Royal 
 Palace — that has been the scene of so much important 
 history — a city of open-sided houses, and a park with 
 flashing waters in the court. You can distinguish in the 
 
 * " But if, in the moment of riot, and in a drunken delirium from the 
 hot spirit drawn out of the alembic of hell, which in France is now 
 so furiously boiling, we should uncover our nakedness by throwing 
 otF that Christian religion which has hitherto been our boast and 
 tQpmfort, Sic."—r'Bnrke's Reflections on the Revolution in Franc*. 
 
Le Physique de Paris. 143 
 
 distance North and East the classic Bourse, and the still 
 more classic Madaleine; — you can see the Column of the 
 Chatelet, and the Column of the Angel, and the Column 
 of Napoleon. You can see the clean Quays crowd- 
 ed, — the winding strip of the Northern Boulevard, 
 dotted with ten thousand moving things, — half-darkened 
 with shadows of princely houses, half-bright with sun- 
 light ; — you see a wilderness of roofs sharp and high, — 
 tile roofs red — metal roofs shining, and glass glittering ; — 
 and the yellow flood of the Seine, you see sweltering 
 along through the middle of the whole, — it would be 
 rich in tales if it would speak, for scarce a day passes, 
 but it floats up the body of a man : — Pont Neuf parts 
 the waters after they have swept the base of Notre- 
 Dame, and circled the two islands of St. Louis and La 
 Cite ; — straight on toward you it rolls its yellow tide,- — 
 gurgling through the wood rafts of Lorraine, and rocking 
 the wine barges of Bourgogne ; — it roars under the feet 
 of the thousand walkers upon the Pont Royal — on one 
 side, it splashes the foot of the Palace of the Deputies, — 
 on the other, it splashes the foot of the Palace of the 
 King; — it bears away to your right — Westward, over 
 the tops of the Wood of Boulogne, — then pushes North, 
 straight through the city of St. Denis; — away again 
 Westward, under the full glow of the sun, it leaves your 
 straining eye, — a white streak in the meadows of St. 
 Germain. 
 
 Such is that new Paris, — the brilliant Paris, — the 
 Capital of Europe, which the traveler brings back in 
 
1 44 Fresh Gleanings. 
 
 his mind ;— and where, then, is that old Paiis, — dirty 
 Paris, — narrow-streeted, dim-lighted, mysterious Paris, 
 which the traveler hugged to hi-3 thought, when first 
 he turned his glad steps thitherward 1 
 
 Alas, it is going by! The old houses of the Island 
 are tottering to their fall. The narrow streets are thrown 
 two in one, and the sunlight comes down on the pave- 
 ment, that never saw it before. They have brushed 
 up the Sorbonne, and torn away the old lumbering pal- 
 ace of the bishops behind Notre-Dame, and put a park 
 and fountain in its place. The busy hands of the Mu- 
 nicipality are at work in every quarter, widening, and 
 lighting, and paving. But thank Heaven 1 there is some- 
 thing left for day-dreams yet ! 
 
 There is the Pont Neuf, with a grizzled head at each 
 arch, and each has its story to tell. There -is the Palais 
 de Justice, throwing the gloomy shadows of its towers 
 over the narrow Quay, and down upon the foul waters. 
 I have loitered many a time under the heavy arch of its 
 Conciergerie, and looked trembling through the iron grat- 
 ing, where they counted over the chalked cells, and 
 by which, went out each morning the cart-loads of vic- 
 tims to the knife. The street is narrow between its 
 walls and the Seine, and quiet. Leaning back upon 
 the gray parapet, you can see the little window, out 
 of which Marie Antoinette looked for two long months 
 over the stormy city ; there is the cell too of Robespierre, 
 and of the murderer of the Due de Berri. Along the 
 very Quay — the paving-stoues have not been renewed 
 
Le PiiYsiauE de Paris. 145 
 
 since 1815 — passed Lavalette in the dress of his young 
 wife, who staid in the prison behind, so long,"she became 
 a maniac* 
 
 There are remnants of narrow streets still left around it 
 — and by the Sorbonne, with gloomy houses, and gloomy- 
 looking people, which, if your fancy be ripened with 
 a few hap-hazard recollections, will prove as rich in 
 tragic story, as the murmurs of the fabled Cocytus. 
 Indeed, it is those recollections — floating like summer 
 clouds, over the mind, that will make an old city start 
 from the new ; and if in some such dim street as I 
 have spoken of, or on the Pont Neuf itself, or under the 
 shadow of Notre-Dame, you can seize upon some kin- 
 dred recollection, and bind it to your brain, you will find 
 your brain growing hot under the pressure, and a rich 
 world of visions starting to your earnest gaze. 
 
 Stand, if you will, under one of the trees near 
 
 the Place de la Bastille : — build up the old, frowning, 
 terrible towers again, and if you have but a spark of 
 imagination, you shall see the old, white-haired man,t set 
 free by the clemency of Louis XVI., groping over the 
 
 * The story of Lavalette's escape will be familiar to every histori- 
 cal reader. He was the husband of Mademoiselle Beauharnais, 
 niece of Josephine ; — was aid-de-camp to Napoleon, made Count, and 
 commander of the legion of honor; — in the month of November, '15, 
 he was tried and condemned to death, but escaped in the dress of 
 Madame Lavalette ; he remained concealed a fortnight in the city, 
 and afterward made his way out of the kingdom in safety. 
 
 t Vid. Tableau de Paris, par Mercier. 
 G 
 
14G Fresh Gleanings. 
 
 dra \v -bridge, — shading his eyes with his hand, and at 
 length breaking forth in entreaty that he may go back 
 to his dungeon. 
 
 Or you shall see the unknown prisoner of Fou- 
 
 quet, in his black mask, through the grating j you shall 
 see him write upon his silver plate, and throw it in 
 the ditch at the foot of the tower ; you shall see the poor 
 peasant-finder of the plate, trembling before the governor 
 of the prison, and murdered because he had read the 
 writing ; you shall see the physician come to serve the 
 Unknown, and the priest to shrive him, but never is the 
 black mask lifted ; he is served like a prince, but can not 
 uncover his face ; he dies, and his cell is torn in frag- 
 ments, that no morsel may reveal the secret of the Iron 
 Mask* 
 
 Or you may conjure up the presence of the old 
 
 Abbe Leseur, whose story is so simple, it must be true ; 
 —at least you shall judge for yourself. 
 
 An Old Chronicle of the City. 
 
 JT1HE Abbe Leseur lived in the same century with 
 
 -*- the sad-fated Maria Henrietta, — the extolled of 
 
 Bossuet, — the beautiful sister of Louis XIII. He was 
 
 * Hist, du Masque de Fer, par Delortj also Voltaire's Age of 
 Louis XIV.. and Philosop) . Diet., Art. Anecdotes. 
 
An Old Chronicle of the City. 147 
 
 curate of the Church of St. Mederic, or as it is now 
 called, St. Mery, — which stands upon the corner where 
 the dirty Rue des Lombards crosses the Rue St. Martin 
 — a corner around which more blood was spilled in the 
 days of the last Revolution than in almost any other 
 quarter of Paris. It is a queer old Gothic building, with 
 rich tracery about its windows, but the walls are stained 
 with the damps of three or four centuries, and the out- 
 side is heavily scarred by the bullets that flew around 
 it in 1832. 
 
 The people who say mass at St. Mery to-day, are 
 of the vilest population of the city; the beggars who 
 loiter at its steps are the most wretched of beggars ; and 
 the priests who assist at the worship at St. Mery, are, if 
 one may judge from their looks, the worst of priests. 
 
 It was different in the time of the good Abbe Leseur; 
 for then there were rich houses even along the Rue St. 
 Antoine ; and noble lords and ladies came to say their 
 prayers at the shrine of St. Mederic. 
 
 The Abbe was dozing one evening, for he had stayed 
 later than was his wont, in his confessional box, when ho 
 was roused by the rustling of a dress just beside him ; — 
 turning his eyes to the grating through which he had lis- 
 tened to the confessions of his back-slidden people, he 
 saw the delicate, jewelled hand of a lady clinging to the 
 bars. The Abbe put his head nearer the grating to see 
 who was the owner of the fair hand. He saw a light, 
 graceful form, and presently met the eyes, bending ear- 
 nestly on his own, of the lovely Mademoiselle d'Estral, 
 
148 Fresh Gleanings. 
 
 daughter of the powerful Baron d'Estral, — she who had 
 been long the sweetest lamb of his flock. 
 
 Now it had been some time rumored in the city, — and 
 the rumor had come to the Abbe's ears, — for there were 
 gossips then, as there are gossips now, — that the beauti- 
 ful Isabel d'Estral was bound by her father's oath, to 
 marry the Chevalier Verhais. 
 
 — Methinks it is somewhat late for Mademoiselle — said 
 the Abbe — what can she wish at such an hour 1 
 
 — Your blessing, Father, — said the girl, firmly. 
 
 — It is always yours, child ; but tell me first why at 
 this hour ! 
 
 — I want your blessing ; there is no time for words ; — 
 why, I dare not tell. 
 
 — Then, child, I dare not bless you. 
 
 — And you will not 1 
 
 — I can not — and the Abbe heard the step of Made- 
 moiselle moving from the confessional. He opened his 
 box, and overtaking her before she had reached the door, 
 drew her into one of the side chapels, which may yet be 
 seen each side the great aisle of St. Mery. 
 
 — Mademoiselle, — said the Abbe solemnly, — you have 
 some strange purpose in your thought ; — is it right that 
 it stay unrevealed 1 
 
 The form of the daughter of d'Estral trembled undei 
 the touch of the Abbe. 
 
 — Is ii strange I want your blessing, good Father, 
 when to-night is my last on earth 1 
 
 The Abbe trembled in his turn : — It can not be, 
 
An Old Chronicle op the City. 149 
 
 — It must be, — said the d'Estral. — You know the 
 Baron, — that he does not yield: 
 
 — And you will not obey, child ? 
 
 — Never ; — you know the Chevalier Verhais — why do 
 you ask] 
 
 — And the nuptials 1 
 
 — Are fixed for to-morrow night. 
 
 — Child, I can serve you. 
 
 — With your blessing, Father. 
 
 — Nay — not yet: I will conceal you where not even 
 the powerful Baron can find you. 
 
 Mademoiselle hesitated a moment, — then lifted the 
 hand of the Abbe to her lips. 
 
 The Abbe threw his cloak over her, and they passed 
 out. 
 
 Along the dim streets — there were no lamps then — 
 they passed, keeping close in the shadow of the houses. 
 Many people met them ; one only had known or saluted 
 the Abbe. None knew, or seemed to know Mademoi- 
 selle. 
 
 Turning into a dark by-way, out of what is now the 
 Rue St. Antoine, they stole cautiously in the direction of 
 the frowning towers of the Bastille. At length the Abbe 
 stcj ped at a low door in an abutment of the outer walls, 
 and leading his charge through a low, dark passage, left 
 her in a little room at the end, in the guardianship of an 
 old woman — his foster-mother. 
 
 Two days thereafter, it was noised through the city 
 that Isabel d'Estral, the beautiful daughter of the Baron 
 
150 Fresh Gleanings. 
 
 of the name, had suddenly disappeared the night before 
 the one set for her marriage, with the Chevalier Verhais. 
 The Baron had made for many days unsuccessful search, 
 and vain inquiries in every direction : — he had offered re- 
 wards for the smallest tidings, and had given descriptions 
 of the person of his daughter. At length there appeared 
 one who had seen a female figure, of the form described, 
 passing along the Rue St. Antoine at a late hour, on the 
 day upon which Mademoiselle disappeared ; and he fur- 
 ther testified that she was in company with a man in the 
 dress of a priest. Another gave testimony to having seen 
 the curate of the church of St. Mederic on the evening in 
 question, and in company with a female ; and what was 
 doubly suspicious, the curate himself had been recognized 
 in the Rue St. Antoine. None had ever before suspected 
 the Abbe Leseur of wrong doing. The archbishop sum- 
 moned him to appear at N6tre-Dame. 
 
 Two persons appeared, who swore to the fact of seeing 
 the Abbe Leseur walking with a lady in the Rue St. 
 Antoine, upon the evening of the disappearance of the 
 daughter of the Baron. There was, however, no evidence 
 to identify this lady with Mademoiselle d'Estral. Still- 
 to the surprise of all, the Abbe frankly avowed that the 
 person with whom he had been seen, was none other 
 than the missing daughter of the Baron. He would tell 
 nothing more. 
 
 The Baron was powerful both at court, and in the old 
 palace of Notre-Dame. The next day the Abbe Leseur 
 was shown his dungeon in the Bastille. At intervals for a 
 
An Old Chronicle op the City. 151 
 
 month, he was urged to reveal the hiding-place of Made- 
 moiselle, but he steadily refused every solicitation. 
 
 A year passed away, and the Abbe was still in his dun- 
 geon; a new curate sat in the confessional stall of St. 
 Mederic. Meantime, the Chevalier Verhais had gone 
 out of the kingdom — still nothing was heard of the lost 
 Isabel. 
 
 Three years after, and there had been great changes at 
 the court ; the Baron was no longer powerful ; a new 
 governor was set over the Bastille, and it was crowded 
 with prisoners of state. Both the lost daughter of d'Es- 
 tral, and the Abbe were nearly forgotten. 
 
 A lad came one evening, and demanded to see the old 
 Abbe Leseur ; and when the turnkey came to close the 
 cells for the night, he asked to stop with the Abbe. 
 There was little care of such a prisoner, and the lad stay- 
 ed in the cell. 
 
 An hour after, when it had grown dark, the turnkeys 
 in the great hall of the Castle were startled by a piercing 
 shriek. They searched the cells, and the dungeon of the 
 Abbe was found empty ; but out of the window was hang- 
 ing a broken ladder of ropes, and below, there appeared 
 something moving upon the edge of the fosse. 
 
 They ran down with torches ; they found the poor 
 Abbe crushed to death by the fall. The lad had just 
 strength enough to say the curate was innocent, and 
 fainted. They tore open his doublet, to give him air, 
 and found to their astonishment, that it was a woman. 
 They put the torches close to her face, and one of the 
 
152 Fresh Gleanings. 
 
 bystanders cried out that it was Mademoiselle d'Estral. 
 The poor girl opened her eyes at the sound, — seemed re- 
 calling her senses, — uttered a faint shriek, and fell dead 
 upon the body of the Abbe. 
 
 The remains of the poor Abbe" were buried in the clois- 
 ters of the old palace, that stood behind Notre-Dame : 
 and if it is not removed — you can still read upon a slab 
 in the pavement of the church of St. Mery, the name of 
 Isabel d'Estral. 
 
&l)e Countrj) totuit© ano %xms 
 of JTrcmce. 
 
THE COUNTRY TOWNS AND 
 INNS OF FRANCE. 
 
 Gazetteers. 
 
 r ALWAYS felt a strong curiosity to learn something 
 -*- about those great inland cities of France, which main- 
 tain a somewhat doubtful, and precarious existence in the 
 public mind, by being set down in the books of Geogra- 
 phers. I had been whipped to learn in my old school a 
 long paragraph about Lyons, I dare say, ten times over ; 
 and yet, when bowling down the mountains in a crazy 
 Diligence, at midnight, between Geneva and the city of 
 silks, I could not tell a syllable about it. 
 
 I had a half memory of its having been the scene of 
 dreadful murders in the time of the Revolution, and shud- 
 dered at thought of its bloody and dark streets ; I knew 
 the richest silks of the West came from Lyons, and so, 
 thought it must be mil of silk-shops and factories; I re- 
 membered how Tristram Shandy had broke down his 
 chaise, and gone " higgledy-piggledy" in a cart into Lyons, 
 
156 Fresh Gleanings. 
 
 and so, I thought the roads must be very rough around 
 the city ; my old tutor, in his explication of the text of 
 Tacitus,* had given me the idea that Lyons was a cold 
 city, far away to the North ; and as for the tourists, if I 
 had undertaken to entertain upon the midnight in ques- 
 tion, one half of the contradictory notions which they had 
 put in my mind from time to time, my thoughts about 
 Lyons, would have been more " higgledy-piggledy" than 
 poor Sterne's post-chaise, and worse twisted than his 
 papers, in the curls of the chaise-vamper's wife. 
 
 I had predeteraiined to disregard all that the tourists 
 had written, and to find things (a very needless resolve), 
 quite the opposite of what they had been described to be. 
 
 I nudged F , who was dozing in the corner under 
 
 the lantern, and took his pocket-gazetteer, and turning to 
 the place where we were going, read : " Lyons is the 
 second city of France. It is situated on the Rhone, near 
 its junction with the Saone ; it has large silk-manufacto- 
 ries, and a venerable old Cathedral." We shall see — 
 thought I. What a help to the digestion of previously ac- 
 quired information, is the simple seeing for one's self! 
 
 The whole budget of history, and of fiction — wheth- 
 er of travel-writers or romancers, and of Geographers, 
 fades into insignificance in comparison with one glance 
 of an actual observer. Particular positions and events 
 may be vivid to the mind, but they can tell no story 
 
 * Cohortem duodevicesiroam I*ugduui, solitia sibi hybernis, relin- 
 qui placuit. — Tacitus, Lib. I., Cap, 64, 
 
Inns and Cafes of Lyons. 157 
 
 of noise and presence — of rivers rushing, wheels rolling, 
 6un shining, voices talking. And why can not these all 
 be so pictured, that a man might wake up in a far off 
 city, as if it were an old story 1 Simply because each ob- 
 server has his individualities, which it is as impossible to 
 convey to the mind of another by writing, as it would 
 have been for me to have kept awake that night in the 
 Diligence, after reading so sleepy a paragraph as that in 
 the Gazetteer. 
 
 I dreamed of silk cravats, and gaping cut throats, until 
 
 F nudged me in his turn at two in the morning, and 
 
 said we had got to Lyons. 
 
 Inns and Cafes of Lyons. 
 
 "I TOTEL du Nord — I say to the porter who has 
 
 * r, ' my luggage on his back, and away I follow 
 through the dim and silent streets to where, opposite the 
 Grand Theatre with its arcades running round it, our fac- 
 teur stops, and tinkles a bell at the heavy doors, opening 
 into the court of the Hotel du Nord. At first sight, it seems 
 not unlike some of the larger and more substantial inns 
 which may be met with in some of our inland towns, but 
 in a street narrower and dimmer by half than are Ameri- 
 can streets. Up four pair of stairs the waiter conducts 
 me, in his shirt sleeves, to a snug bedroom, where, in ten 
 minutes, I am fast asleep. The porter goes off satisfied 
 
158 Fresh Glganmngs. 
 
 with a third of his demand, and I have just fallen to 
 dreaming again, the old Diligence dreams, when the noise 
 of the rising world, and the roll of cars over the heavy- 
 stone pavement below, shakes me into broad wakefulness. 
 
 A fat lady in the office Hoes the honors of the house. 
 Various companies are seated about the salon, which in 
 most of the Provincial hotels, serves also as breakfast- 
 room. Yet altogether, the house has a city air, and might 
 be — saving the language, with its mm Dieus, up the five 
 pair of stairs, and the waxen brick floors, and the open 
 court, a New- York hotel, dropped down within stone's 
 throw of the bounding Rhone. 
 
 White-aproned waiters, like cats, are stealing over the 
 stone stair-cases, and a fox-eyed valet is on the look-out 
 for you at the door. There are very few towns in France, 
 in which the stranger is not detected, and made game of. 
 But what, pray, is there worth seeing, that an eye, though 
 undirected can not see, even in so great a city as Lyons 1 
 
 Besides, there was always to me an infinite deal of sat- 
 isfaction in strolling through a strange place, led only by 
 my own vagaries ; — in threading long labyrinths of lanes, 
 to break on a sudden upon some strange sight ; — in losing 
 myself — as in the old woods at home, in the bewilder- 
 ment that my curiosity and ignorance always led me into. 
 
 What on earth matters it, if you do not see this queer 
 bit of mechanism, or some old fragment of armor, or 
 some rich mercer's shop, that your valet would lead you 
 to 1 — do you not get a better idea of the city — its houses, 
 noise, habits, position and extent, in tramping off witli 
 
Inns and Cafes of Lyons. 159 
 
 your map and guide-book, as you would tramp over 
 fields at home, — lost in your own dreams of comparison 
 and analysis 1 
 
 You know, for instance, there are bridges over the 
 river worth the seeing, and with no guide but the 
 roar of the water, you push your way down toward 
 the long, stately Quay. The heavy, old arches of stone 
 wallowing out of the stream, contrast strongly with the 
 graceful curves of the long bridges of iron. Steamers 
 and barges breast to breast, three deep, lie along the # 
 margin of the river, and huge piles of merchandise are 
 packed upon the Quay. 
 
 The stately line of the great hospital, the H6tel Dieu, 
 stretches near half a mile, with heavy stone front along 
 the river. Opposite is a busy suburb, which has won 
 itself a name, and numbers population enough for a city, 
 were it not in the shadow of the greater one of Lyons. 
 
 You would have hardly looked — if you had no more 
 correct notions than I — for such tall, substantial ware- 
 houses, along such a noisy Quay, deep in the country, 
 after so many days of hard and heavy Diligence-riding. 
 Yet here are customs-men with their swords hung to 
 their belts, marching along the walks, as if they were 
 veritable coast-guard, and wore the insignia of govern- 
 ment, instead of the authority of the city — and were 
 in search of smugglers, instead of levying the Octroi dues 
 upon the corn and wine of the Saone, and the olives of 
 Provence. Soldiers too, are visible at every turn, for 
 the people of Lyons have oyer been disposed to question 
 
160 Fresh Gleanings. 
 
 earliest the lights of the constituted authorities ; and the 
 liberal government of the charter, reckon nothing better 
 preventive of the ill effects of this prying disposition, than 
 a full supply of the small men in crimson breeches, who 
 wear straight, sharp swords upon their thigh, and man 
 the great fortification upon the hill above the city, which 
 points its guns into every alley, and street. 
 
 There is more earnestness in faces in this town of 
 Lyons, than one sees upon the Boulevards — as if there 
 was something in the world to do, beside searching for 
 amusement. There is a half English, business-look graft- 
 ed upon careless French habit of life ; and blouse, and 
 broad-cloth, both push by you in the street, as if each 
 was earning the dinner of the day. But the blouse has 
 not the grace of the Paris blouse ; — nor has the broad- 
 cloth the grace of the Paris broad-cloth. Both have 
 a second-rate air; and they seem to wear a con- 
 sciousness about them of being second-rate ; — whereas 
 your Parisian, whether he be boot-black to a coal 
 seller of the Faubourg St. Denis, or tailor in ordi- 
 nary to the Count de Paris, feels quite assured that 
 nothing can possibly be finer in its way, than his blouse, 
 or his coat. Even the porter can not shoulder a trunk 
 like the Paris porter; the waiter can not receive you 
 with half the grace of a Paris waiter ; and the soi-disant 
 Grisettes, who are stirring in the streets, are as much 
 inferior to those of the Rue Vivienne, in carriage and 
 air, as Vulcan would have been inferior to Ganymede, 
 as cup-bearer to Jove. Even the horses in the cabs 
 
inns and Cafes of Lyons. 1G1 
 
 have a dog-trot sort of jog, that would not at all be 
 countenanced in the Rue de la Paix ; and carters shout 
 to their mules in such villain patois Lyonnais, as would 
 shock the ear of the cavalry grooms at the School Mili- 
 taire. 
 
 Yet all these have the good sense to perceive their 
 short comings ; and nothing is more the object of their 
 ambition than to approach near as may be, to the forms 
 and characteristics of the beautiful City. If a carman 
 upon the quay of the Rhone, or the Saone, — which romps 
 through the other side of the city, could crack his whip 
 with the air and gesture of the Paris postman, he would 
 be very sure to achieve all the honors of his profession. 
 And if a Lyonnaise milliner woman could hang her 
 shawl, or arrange it in her window, like those of the 
 Place Vendome, or Lucy Hoquet, her bonnets would 
 be the rage of all the daughters of all the silk mercers of 
 Lyons. 
 
 They have Paris Cafes at Lyons, — not indeed, arranged 
 with all the splendor of the best of the capital ; but out 
 of it, you will find no better, except perhaps, at Mar- 
 seilles. Here you will find the same general features that 
 characterize the Paris Cafe ; in matters of commercial 
 transaction, perhaps the Exchange overrules the Cafe ; 
 and in military affairs, probably the junto of the Caserne 
 would supersede the discussions at breakfast; but yet, 
 I am quite assured, that the most earnest thinking 
 here, as in nearly every town of France, is done at the 
 Cafe. 
 
1 G2 Fresh Gleanings. 
 
 The society of the Lyons Cafes is not so homogeneous, 
 as in their types of Paris. Here, blouses mingle more 
 with the red ribbon of the legion of honor ; and a couple 
 of workmen may be luxuriating at one table over a 
 bottle of Strasburg beer, while at another a young 
 merchant may be treating his military friend in the blue 
 frock coat, and everlasting crimson pantaloons, to a pint 
 of sparkling St. Peray. 
 
 The Cafe too, does not preserve so strictly its generic 
 character, and half merges into the Restaurant. At any 
 rate, I remember seeing the marble slabs covered with 
 napkins at five, and stout men with towels under their 
 chins, eating stewed duck and peas. And later in the 
 evening, when I have dropped into the bright-lighted 
 Cafe, just on the quay from which the Pepin steamer 
 takes its departure for Avignon, I have seen strong meat 
 on half the tables. 
 
 As there is more work done in a Provincial city, so 
 we may safely presume there is more eating done : my 
 own observation confirms the truth. So it is that the 
 breakfast comes earlier, and those who loiter till twelve 
 in a Lyons Cafe, are either strangers or playactors, or 
 lieutenants taking a dose of absinthe, or workmen 
 dropped in for a cup of beer, or some of those young- 
 sters, who may be found in every town of France, who 
 sustain a large reputation with tailors and shop-girls, by 
 following, closely as their means will allow, the very 
 worst of Pans habits. 
 
 The coffee itself is shi. rt, as every where else, of Paris 
 
Inns and Cafes of Lyons. 1C3 
 
 excellence; but the nice mutton chops are done to a 
 charm, and there is so much of broad country about 
 you, — to say nothing of the smell of the great land- water- 
 ing Rhone at the door, that you feel sure of eating the 
 healthy growth of the earth. 
 
 The chief of the Paris Journals may be found too in 
 the Lyons Cafe; — and what aliment are they to poor 
 Provincials ! It were as well to deprive them of the 
 fresh air of heaven, as to deny them such food : — even 
 the garcons would pine under the bereavement. The 
 spiritless Provincial journals are but faint echoes of 
 detached paragraphs from the capital; they aid the 
 digestion of the others, not from a stimulus supplied, but 
 rather as a diluent of the exciting topics of the city. 
 Nothing but local accidents, and the yearly report of the 
 mulberry crop could ever give interest to a journal of 
 Lyons. In consequence they are few and read rarely. 
 Still the Provincial editor is always one of the great men 
 of the town ; but newspaper editing is on a very different 
 footing, as regards public estimation, in France, from 
 that in America. And in passing, I may remark further, 
 that while our institutions are such, from their liberality, 
 as ought to render the public journal one of the most 
 powerful means of influencing the popular mind, and as 
 such, worthy of the highest consideration, in view of the 
 opinions promulgated, and the character of the writers, 
 yet there seems to be no country, in which men are less 
 willing to give it praise for high conduct, or reproach for 
 what is base. 
 
104 .tresh Gleanings. 
 
 The restaurants of such a city are not far behind those 
 of Paris, except in size and arrangements. Lyons, like 
 Paris, has its aristocratic dinner-places, and its two-franc 
 tables, and its ten-sou chop-houses. In none, however, is 
 any thing seen illustrative of French habitude, but is seen 
 better at Paris. 
 
 As in the Cafes, so you will find larger eaters in the 
 Restaurants of the provinces ; and the preponderance of 
 stewed fillets and roast meats, over fries and confits, is 
 greater than at even the Grand Vatel. You will find 
 too, that many of the Paris dishes, which appear upon 
 the bill of the day are unfortunately consumed ; but if 
 you order them, you will be sure of the compassionate 
 regards of the old widow lady sitting next table to you 
 with three blooming daughters; for if a stranger but 
 smack of Paris in ever so slight a degree, he is looked 
 upon in every corner of France, as one of the fortunate 
 beings of the earth. 
 
 It is presumed, — nay, it is never even questioned, — by 
 a thorough-souled Frenchman, especially such as have 
 never journeyed up to Paris, that whoever has visited la 
 belle ville has reached the acme of all worldly pleasures ; 
 — that every other city, and the language of every other, 
 are barbarous in the comparison. A Paris lover would 
 break as many hearts in the Provinces, as a Pans 
 advocate would write codicils, or a Paris cobbler make 
 shoes. None harbor the hallucination so entirely as the 
 women of the Provinces, — hint only that they have the 
 air of Parisians, and you make friends of shrewish land- 
 
Snows of Lyons. 165 
 
 lailies, and quizzing shop-girls ; — though their friendship, 
 I am sorry to say, is no guarantee against being cheated 
 by both. 
 
 Shows op Lyons. 
 
 FT would be very hard if Lyons had not its share of 
 •*- those sights, which draw the great world of lookers- 
 on, — who travel to see the outside and inside of churches, 
 and palaces, but who would never think of walking out 
 of their hotel at dinner-time, to try a meal in such snug 
 restaurants, as may be found on the square by the Hotel 
 de Ville, — to look the people fairly in the face. And a 
 very quiet and fine old square is that, upon which the 
 rich black tower of the Hotel de Ville of Lyons throws 
 its shadow. Its pavement is smooth and solid, its 
 buildings firm, tall, and wearing the sober dignity of years. 
 Civil carriage-men hold their stand in the middle, and 
 toward mid-aftemoon, loiterers group over the square, 
 and ladies are picking . their way before the gay shop- 
 windows at the sides. 
 
 The proud old Hotel itself is not a building to be slight- 
 ed; and the clock that hammers the hours in its dingy, 
 but rich inner court, could tell strange stories, if it would, 
 of the scenes that have transpired under its face, in the 
 cruel days of the Directory. Nowhere was murder more 
 rife in France, than a : Lyons ; and the council that or- 
 
166 Fresh Gleanings. 
 
 tiered the murders held their sittings in a little chambei 
 of the same Hotel de Ville, whose windows now look 
 down upon the quiet, gray court. It is still there now ; 
 you may see a police officer hanging idly about the door- 
 way, and at the grand entrance is always a corps of sol- 
 diers. Two colossal reclining figures, that would make 
 the fortune of any town in Ameiica, still show the marks 
 of the thumping times of the Revolution ; — it was the old 
 story of the viper and the file, for the statues were of 
 bronze, and guard yet in the vestibule, their fruits and 
 flowers. 
 
 The fame of the cathedral will draw the stranger on a 
 hap-hazard chase of half the steeples in the town ; nor 
 will he be much disappointed, in mistaking the church of 
 Notre-Dame for the object of his search. And abundantly 
 will he be rewarded, if his observation has not extended 
 beyond the French Gothic, to wander at length under 
 the high arches of the Cathedral of St. John. Shall I de- 
 scribe it 1 — then fancy a forest glade — (you, Mary, can do 
 it, for you live in the midst of woods) — a forest glade, I 
 say, with tree trunks huge as those which fatten on the 
 banks of our streams at home ; — fancy the gnarled tops 
 of the oaks, and the lithe tops of the elms, all knit togeth- 
 er by some giant hand, and the interlacing of the boughs 
 tied over with garlands ; — fancy birds humming to your 
 ear in the arbor- wrought branches, and the gold sunlight 
 streaming through the interstices, upon the flower-spotted 
 turf, — and the whole bearing away in long perspective to 
 an arched spot :f blue sky, with streaks of white cloud, 
 
Snows of Lyons. 167 
 
 that seems the wicket of Elysium. Then fancy the 
 
 whole, — tree trunks, branches, garlands, transformed to 
 stone — each leaf perfect, but hard as rock ; — fancy the 
 bird-singing the warbling of an organ — the turf turned to 
 marble, and in place of flowers, the speckles of light com- 
 ing through stained glass, — in place of the mottled sky at 
 the end of the view, a painted scene of glory, warmed by 
 the sunlight streaming through it, — and you have before 
 you the Cathedral of St. John. 
 
 In front of the doors, you may climb up the dirty and 
 steep alleys of the working quarter of the town ; and you 
 will hear the shuttle of the silk-w T eavers plying in the dingy 
 houses, six stones from the ground. The faces one sees at 
 the doors and windows are pale and smutted, and the air 
 of the close, filthy streets reminds one of the old town of 
 Edinburgh. The men too, wear the same look of despe- 
 ration in their faces, and scowl at you, as if they thought 
 you had borne a part in the rueful scenes of '94. 
 
 The guillotine even did not prove itself equal to the 
 bloody work of that date ; and men and women were tied 
 to long cables, and shot down in file ! A little expiatory 
 chapel stands near the scene of this wholesale slaughter, 
 where old women drop down on their knees at noon, and 
 say prayers for murdered husbands, and murdered fathers. 
 
 The Rhone borders the city; the Saone rolls boldly 
 through it, and each of its sides are bordered with princely 
 buildings ; and on a fete day the quays and bridges 
 throng with the population turned loose ; — the Cafes upon 
 the Place dcs Celc:-tins are thronged, and not a spare box 
 
168 Fresh Gleanings. 
 
 of dominoes, or an empty billiard-table, can be found in 
 the city. 
 
 The great Place de Bellecour, that looked so desolate 
 the morning of my arrival, is bustling with moving people 
 at noon. The great bulk of the Post Office lies along its 
 Western edge, and the colossal statue of Louis XIV. is 
 riding his horse in the middle. The poor king was dis- 
 mounted in the days of La Liberie, and an inscription 
 upon the base commemorates what would seem an unpal- 
 atable truth, that what popular frenzy destroyed, popular 
 repentance renews ; — not single among the strange evi- 
 dences one meets with at every turn, of the versatility of 
 the French nation. 
 
 Lyons has its humble pretensions to antiquity ; but the 
 Lugdunensem aram of Roman date, has come to be spill- 
 ed over with human blood, instead of ink ; making four- 
 fold true the illustration of Juvenal : — 
 
 Accipiat, sane mercedem sanguinis et sic 
 Palleat, ut nudis pressit qui calcibus anguem, 
 Aut Lugdunensem rhetor dicturus ad aram. 
 
 (Juv. Sat. L, v. 42 et seq.) 
 
 There is an island in the river, not far from the city 
 where Charlemagne is said to have had a country seat ; — 
 if so, it was honorable to the old gentleman's taste, for the 
 spot is as beautiful as a dream ; and Sundays and fete 
 days, the best of the Lyons population throng under its 
 graceful trees, and linger there to see the sun go down in 
 crimson and gold, across the hills that peep out of the 
 further shore of the Rhone 
 
Shows of Lyons. 169 
 
 1 doubt now, if tLe reader has a definite idea of 
 
 the proud, old, irritable city of Lyons ; — of the narrow 
 streets, and tall, substantial houses ; — of the silk-workers 
 upon the hill-sides, up six and seven pair of stairs, " rat- 
 tling, rattling, rattling," all day long ; — of the two towers 
 of the great Cathedral, and the tracery of the Gothic arch 
 between ; — of the Cafe with the tinkling bell of the lady 
 in the dais, and clean, white chops ; — of the gray, old 
 Hotel de Ville, looking capable of the mischief its council- 
 lors have wrought ; — of the broad and business-like quays, 
 with bales of silk, and barrels of wine ; — of the teeming 
 and bounding rivers rushing by in a flood ; — of the broad 
 valley that is almost a plain, save the sharp rising hill of 
 Fouvieres, from which you may look down over the 
 crowded and noisy city — the gray of the houses, the green 
 of the meadow, the blue of the river, all mellowed by the 
 soft, warm sunlight of central France. 
 
 If not, he must consult the Gazetteer again. 
 
 But Lyons is not the country ; and it seems oddly, to 
 call that city with its two hundred thousand inhabitants, 
 a town. There are towns, however, in France ; and the 
 best way to get to them — for a bachelor, is by Diligence 
 — the desobligeant and post-chaise having mostly gone 
 by. 
 
 H 
 
170 Fresh Gleanings. 
 
 The Messageries Generales. 
 
 "\7^0U brush past a sentinel at 130 Rue St. Honore, at 
 ■*- Pans, — go through the archway, and you are in the 
 great court of the Messageries Generales. A dozen of 
 the lumbering Diligences are ranged about it, and you 
 seek out, amid the labyrinth of names posted on the doors, 
 the particular end of your travel. There is a little poetic 
 license in the use of names, and you will find Russia, and 
 Syria, and Gibraltar posted, — which means only that you 
 can be booked at that particular desk, the first stage upon 
 the way. 
 
 Before each office is drawn up its particular coach or 
 coaches; and a multitude of porters, with coat-collars 
 trimmed with lace, are piling upon them such tremendous 
 quantities of luggage, as make you tremble for the safety 
 of the roof — to say nothing of your portmanteau, with 
 your nicest collars, and shirts, and dress-coat, and bottle 
 of Macassar oil, — all in its bellows top, and perhaps at the 
 very bottom of the pile. 
 
 As the mass accumulates, the travelers begin to drop 
 into the court, and range themselves about the Diligence. 
 The heavy leather apron at length goes over the top ; the 
 officer comes out with his list of names, and as they are 
 numbered, each takes his place. Ik. Marvel, for instance, 
 has number three o** the Coupee, in which he is jammed 
 
The Messageries Generales. 171 
 
 between a frightfully large French lady, and a small 
 man with a dirty moustache, and big pacquet, which he 
 carries between his legs, so as to make himself to the full 
 as engrossing a neighbor, as his more gentle companion at 
 the other window. These three seats make the complement 
 of that particular apartment of the Diligence which faces 
 the horses, and is protected by glass windows in front. 
 
 The Interior counts six by the official roll : there are, 
 perhaps, a little French girl and " Papa," who have been 
 speaking a world of adieus to the city friends, that have 
 attended them up to the last moment, as if they were 
 about setting sail for the Crosettes in the South Pacific. 
 There are young men — students, perhaps — who have had 
 their share of lasses and adieus, and there are one or two 
 more inside-travelers, over whom tears have been shed in 
 the court. 
 
 Even these do not make us full. The Rotonde has its 
 eight more : — here are men in blouses, farmers, dealers 
 in provisions, stock drivers, women-servants and German 
 bagmen. Nor is this all : three mount the top, and puff 
 under the leathern calash in front. The coachman next 
 takes his place, after having attached his six horses with 
 rawhide thongs. The conductor lifts up his white dog — 
 then mounts himself. Adieus flow from every window. 
 There are waving hands in the court, and dramatic hand- 
 ling of umbrellas ; and the whip cracks, — and the machine 
 moves. 
 
 The little guard with his musket, at the entrance, stands 
 back ; — we thunder through. The conductor shouts, the 
 
172 Fresh Gleanings. 
 
 cabmen wheel away, the dog barks incessantly, the horses 
 snort and pull, and the way clears. One poor woman 
 with cakes, upsets all in her haste to get away ; two or 
 three hungry -looking boys prowl about the wreck ; a po- 
 liceman comes up, and the boys move off — all this in a 
 moment, for in a moment we are by. 
 
 — Ye-e-e — says the coachman, as he cracks his whip, 
 — Gar-r-re — says the conductor to the crowds crossing ; — 
 wow- wow-wow — yells the snarly, white dog; — Pardi 
 — exclaims the fat lady ; — le diable ! — says the man with 
 the dirty moustache, — and down the long Rue St. Honore 
 we thunder. 
 
 French Roadside. 
 
 F INHERE are no such pretty little half-town, half-coun- 
 -*- try residences in the neighborhood of the French 
 cities, as one sees in the environs of all the British 
 towns. First, outside the Banners, come the guinguettcs 
 and eating-houses ; — then great slattern maisons garnies 
 for such as choose a long walk, and dirty rooms, before 
 paying town prices. These lessen in pretensions as you 
 advance, and lengthen into half villages of ill-made, and 
 ill-kept houses. The inns are not unfrequent, and are 
 swarmed by the wagon-men on their routes to and from 
 the city. These pass at length, and the open country of 
 wide-spreading grain-fields appears. 
 
French Roadside. 173 
 
 Perhaps it is nearly dark (for the Diligence takes its 
 departure at evening) before the monstrous vehicle clat- 
 ters up to the first inn of a little suburban town for 
 a relay. The conductor dismounts, and the coachman is 
 succeeded by another, — for each has the care and man- 
 agement of his own horses. 
 
 Of course there is a fair representation of the curious 
 ones of the village, and if a passenger dismount, perhaps 
 a beggar or two will plead in a diffident sort of way, — as 
 if they had no right, and hoping you may not suspect 
 it. The conductor is the prime mover, and the cyno- 
 sure of all country eyes ; and his tasseled cap and em- 
 broidered collar are the envy of many a poor swain 
 in shirt sleeves. Even the postmaster is on the best of 
 terms with him, and bids him a hearty bon soir, as the 
 new coachman cracks his whip, and the dog barks, and 
 we find ourselves on the road again. A straggling line 
 of white-washed houses each side a broad street, with 
 one or two little inns, and a parish church looking older, 
 by a century, than the rest of the houses, make up the 
 portraiture of the village. 
 
 Whoever travels in a French Diligence, must prepare 
 himself to meet with all sorts of people, and must, more 
 especially, fortify himself against the pangs of hunger, 
 and want of sleep. Those who have jolted a night on a 
 French road pave, between a fat lady, and a man who 
 smells of garlic, will know what it is to want the latter ; 
 and twelve hours' ride, without stopping long enough for 
 a lunch, has made many persons, more fastidious under 
 
174 Fresh Gleanings. 
 
 other circumstances, very ready to buy the dry brown 
 buns, which the old women offer at the coach windows, 
 
 the last relay before midnight. How wishfully is the 
 
 morning hoped for, and how joyfully welcomed, even the 
 first faint streak of light in the East ! 
 
 The man in the corner rubs open his eyes, and takes 
 off his night-cap ; the fat lady arranges her head-dress as 
 best she may ; — and soon appears over the backs of the 
 horses, evidences of an approaching town. We pass 
 market-people with their little donkeys, and queer-dress- 
 ed women in sabots, with burdens on their heads ; and 
 heavy- walled houses thicken along the way. 
 
 Soon the tower or spire of some old cathedral looms 
 over crowds of buildings, and we bustle with prodigious 
 clatter through the diity streets of some such Provincial 
 town as Auxerre. Along a stone building stuccoed and 
 whitewashed, with the huge black capitals — Hotel de 
 Paris — over the door, is announced a breakfast-place. 
 The waiter or landlord is far more chary of his civilities 
 than at an English country inn; all, including the fat 
 lady, are obliged to find their own way down, and to the 
 breakfast-room. 
 
 The first attempt will bring one, perhaps, into a 
 huge kitchen, where a dozen people in white aprons 
 and blue, are moving about in all directions, and 
 take no more notice of you, than if you were the 
 conductor's dog. You have half a mind to show your 
 resentment, by eating no breakfast at all ; but the 
 pangs of hunger are too strong; and they unfortu- 
 
French Roadside. 175 
 
 natcly know as well as you, that he who rides the night 
 in the Diligence, finds himself at morning in no humor 
 for fasting. 
 
 If you ask after breakfast-quarters, you arc perhaps 
 civilly pointed to the door. A rambling table set over 
 with a score of dishes, and a bottle of red wine at each 
 place, with chops, omelettes, stewed liver, potatoes, and 
 many dishes whose character can not be represented by 
 a name, engross the lively regards of the twenty passen- 
 gers who have borne us company. Commands and 
 counter-commands, in the accentuation of Auvergne or of 
 Provence, — calling for a dozen things that are not to be 
 had, and complaining of a dozen things that are, make 
 the place a Babel. 
 
 — Garqon, — says a middle-aged man from the interior, 
 with his mouth full of hot liver, — is this the wine of the 
 country ] 
 
 — Oui, Monsieur, and of the best quality. 
 
 — Mon Dieu ! it is vinegar ! — and of what beast, pray, 
 is this the liver 1 (taking another mouthful.) 
 
 — Cest de veau, Monsieur, and it is excellent. 
 
 — Par bleu! garqon, you are facetious; it is like a 
 bull's hide. 
 
 The fat lady is trying the eggs : — Bonne, — she pipes to 
 the waiting- woman, — are these eggs fresh ] 
 
 — They cannot be more fresh, Madame. 
 
 — Eh bien, — (with a sigh) — one must prepare for 
 such troubles in the country; but, mon Dieu, what 
 charming eggs one finds at Paris !" 
 
1 7*> Fresh Gleanings. 
 
 — Ah, Jest vraiy Madame, — says a stumpy man 
 opposite, — Jest Men vrai ; je suis de Paris, Madame. 
 
 — Vraiment ! — replies the lady, not altogether taken 
 with the speaker's looks, — I would hardly have thought 
 it. 
 
 If the stranger can, by dint of yoice among so many 
 voices, and so much gesticulation, get his fair quota of 
 food, he may consider himself fortunate ; and if he has 
 fairly finished, before the conductor appeal's to say all is 
 ready, he is still more fortunate. 
 
 At length all are again happily bestowed in their 
 places ; — the two francs paid for the breakfast, the two 
 sous to the surly garc.on, and we roll off from the H6tel 
 de Paris. 
 
 Every one is manifestly in better humor: — they are 
 talking busily in the Interior; and the fat lady delivers 
 herself of a series of panegyrics upon the Boulevards and 
 Tuileries. 
 
 Meantime we are passing over broad plains, and 
 through long avenues of elms, or lindens, or poplars. 
 The road for breadth and smoothness is like a street, 
 anu stretches on before us in seemingly interminable 
 length. 
 
 There are none of those gray stone walls by the 
 wayside, which hem you in throughout New England ; — 
 none of those crooked, brown fences which stretch by 
 miles along the roads of Virginia; — none of those ever- 
 lasting pine woods under which you ride in the 
 Carolines, — your wheels half buried in the sand, and 
 
French Roadside. 177 
 
 nothing green upon it, but a sickly si rub of the live oak, 
 or a prickly cactus half reddened by the sun; — nor yet 
 are there those trim hedges which skirt you right and 
 left in English landscape. Upon the plains of Central 
 France you see no fence ; — nothing by which to measure 
 the distance you pass over, but the patches of grain and 
 of vineyard. Here and there a flock of sheep are 
 watched by an uncouth shepherd, and shaggy dogs ; or a 
 cow is feeding beside the grain, tethered to a stake, or 
 guarded by some bare-ancled Daphne. 
 
 There are no such quiet cottage farm-houses as gem 
 the hill-sides of Britain ; — no such tasteless timber 
 structures as deface the landscape of New England : — 
 but the farmery, as you come upon it here and there, is a 
 walled-up nest of houses ; you catch sight of a cart, — you 
 see a group of children, — you hear a yelping dog, — and 
 the farmery is left behind. Sometimes the road before 
 you stretches up a long ascent ; — the conductor opens the 
 door, and all, save the fat lady, dismount for a walk up 
 the hill. Now it is, you can look back over the grain 
 and vineyards, woven into carpets,— tied up with the 
 thread of a river. The streak of road will glisten in the 
 sun, and perhaps a train of wagons, that went tinkling 
 by you, an hour ago, is but a moving dot, far down upon 
 the plain. The air is fresher as you go up ; glimpses of 
 woodland break the monotony ; here and there you spy 
 an old chateau ; and if it be spring-time or early autumn, 
 the atmosphere is delicious, and you go toiling up the 
 hills, — rejoicing in the sun. 
 
178 Frebh Gleanings. 
 
 In summer, you pant exhausted before you have half 
 risen the hill, and turning to look back — the yellow grain 
 looks scorched, and the air simmers over its crowded 
 ranks ; — the flowers you pluck by the way are dried up 
 with heat. 
 
 In winter, the roads upon the plains are bad, and it 
 will be midnight perhaps before you are upon the hills, — 
 if you breakfast as I did at Auxerre ; — and I found the 
 snow half over the wheels, and with eight horses our 
 lumbering coach went toiling through the drifts. 
 
 Such is the general character of the great high-roads 
 across France ; but there is something more attractive on 
 the retired routes. 
 
 F will remember our tramp in summer-time unaer 
 
 the heavy old boughs of the forest of Fontainbleau ; — and 
 how we looked up wonderingly at tree-trunks, which 
 would have been vast in our American valleys; — he 
 will remember our lunch at the little town of Fossard, 
 and the inn with its dried bough, and the baked pears, 
 and the sour wine. He will remember the tapestried 
 chamber at Villeneuve du Roi, and the fair-day, and the 
 peasant girls in their gala dresses, and the dance in the 
 evening on the green turf: — he will remember the 
 strange old walled-up town of St. Florentin, and the 
 pretty meadows, and the canal lined with poplars, when 
 our tired steps brought to us the first sight — (how grateful 
 was it !) of the richly-wrought towers of the Cathedral of 
 Sens. He will remember, too, how farther on toward the 
 mountains, in another sweet meadow where willows were 
 
Limoges. 179 
 
 growing, I threw down my knapsack, and took the scythe 
 from a peasant boy, and swept down the nodding tall 
 heads of the lucerne, — utterly forgetting his sardonic 
 smile, and the grinning stare of the peasant, — forgetting 
 that the blue line of the Juras was lifting from the hori- 
 zon, — or that the sun of France was warming me, and 
 mindful only of the old perfume of the wilted blossoms, 
 and the joyous summer days on the farm-land at home. 
 
 Limoges. 
 
 "¥yl"TE wish to take our stop at some — not too large 
 * " town of the interior ; and which shall it be, — Cha- 
 lons sur Saone, with its bridge, and quays, and meadows ; 
 — or Dijon lying in the vineyards of Burgundy; — or Cha- 
 teauroux in the great sheep plains of Central France ; — 
 or Limoges, still more unknown, prettily situated among 
 the green hills of Limousin, and chief town of the De- 
 partement Haute Vienne ? 
 
 Let it be just by the Boule d'Or, in the town last named 
 that I quit my seat in the Diligence. The little old place 
 is not upon any of the great routes, so that the servants 
 of the inn have not become too republican for civility ; 
 and a blithe waiting-maid is at hand to take our luggage. 
 A plain doorway in the heavy stone inn, and still plain- 
 er and steeper stairway conduct to a clean, large cham- 
 ber upon the first floor. Below, in the little salon, some 
 
ISO Fresh Gleanings. 
 
 three or four are at supper. Join them you may, if you 
 please, with a chop nicely done, and a palatable vin du 
 fays. 
 
 It is too dark to see the town. You are tired with 
 eight-and-forty hours of constant Diligence-riding, — if 
 you have come from Lyons as I did, — and the bed is 
 excellent. 
 
 The window overlooks the chief street of the place; it 
 is wide and paved with round stones, and dirty, and there 
 are no sidewalks, though a town of 30,000 inhabitants. 
 Nearly opposite is a Cafe, with small green settees ranged 
 about the door, with some tall flowering shrubs in green 
 boxes, and even at eight in the morning, two or three are 
 loitering upon their chairs, and sipping coffee. Next 
 door is the office of the Diligence for Paris. Farther up 
 the street are haberdashery shops, and show-roome of the 
 famous Limoges crockery. Soldiers are passing by twos, 
 and cavalry-men in undress, go sauntering by on fine 
 coal-black horses ; — and the guide-book tells me that from 
 this region come the horses for all the cavalry of France. 
 
 The maid comes to say it is the hour for the table d'hote 
 breakfast. One would hardly believe, that there are 
 travelers who neglect this best of all places for observing 
 country habits, and take their coffee alone, with English 
 grimness. What matter if one does fall in with manner- 
 less commercial travelers, or gnuff-taking old women, and 
 listen to such table-talk as would make good Mrs. Un- 
 win blush % You learn from all, — what you can not learn 
 anywhere else, — the every-day habits of every-day peo- 
 
Limoges. 181 
 
 pie. — Do not be frightened at the room full, or the clatter 
 of plates, or the six-and-twenty all talking at the same 
 moment : — go around the table quietly, take the first 
 empty chair at hand, and call for a bowl of soup, and 
 half a bottle of wine. 
 
 This is no Paris breakfast, with its rich, oily beverage, 
 and bread of Provence ; nor Lyons breakfast with its 
 white cutlets, but there are as many covers as at a dinner 
 in Baden. One may, indeed, have coffee, if he is so odd- 
 fancied as to call for it ; but I always liked to chime in 
 with the humors of the country ; and though I may possi- 
 bly have stepped over to the Cafe to make my breakfast 
 complete, it seemed to me, that I lost nothing in listening 
 and looking on — in actual experience of the ways of living. 
 
 Whoever carries with him upon the Continent a high 
 sense of personal dignity, that must be sustained at all 
 hazards, will find himself exposed to innumerable vexa- 
 tions by the way, and at the end — if he have the sense to 
 perceive it — be victim of the crowning vexation of re- 
 turning as ignorant as he went. 
 
 It is singular too, that such ridiculous presumption 
 upon dignity is observable in many instances — where it 
 rests with least grace — in the persons of American trav- 
 elers. Whoever makes great display of wealth will en 
 joy the distinction which mere exhibition of wealth, will 
 command in every country — the close attention of the 
 vulgar ; its display may, besides, secure somewhat better 
 hotel attendance ; but, whoever wears with it, or without 
 it, an air of hauteur, whether affected or real, whethei 
 
182 Fresh Gleanings. 
 
 due to position, or worn to cover lack of position, will 
 find it counting him very little in way of personal comfort, 
 and far less toward a full observation and appreciation of 
 the life of those among whom he travels. 
 
 In such an out-of-the-way manufacturing town as Limo- 
 ges, one sees the genuine Commis voyageur — commercial 
 traveler* of France, corresponding to the bagmen of 
 England. Not as a class so large, they rank also beneath 
 them in respect of gentlemanly conduct. In point of gen- 
 eral information, they are perhaps superior. 
 
 The French bagman ventures an occasional remark 
 upon the public measures of the day, and sometimes with 
 much shrewdness. He is aware that there is such a 
 country as America, and has understood, from what he 
 considers authentic sources, that a letter for Buenos 
 Ayres, would not be delivered by the New- York post- 
 man. None know better than a thorough English com- 
 mercial traveler, who has been " long upon the road," the 
 value of a gig, and a spanking bay mare, or the character 
 of leading houses in London or Manchester, or the quali- 
 ity of Woodstock gloves, or Worcester whips ; but, as for 
 knowing if Newfoundland be off the Bay of Biscay, or in 
 the Adriatic — the matter is too deep for him. 
 
 The Frenchman, on the other hand, is most voluble on 
 a great many subjects, all of which he seems to know of, 
 
 * A class of men who negotiate business between town and country 
 dealers — manufacturers and their sale agents— common to all Euro- 
 pean countries. 
 
Limoges. 183 
 
 much better than he really knows ; and he will fling you 
 a tirade at Thiers, or give you a caricature of the king, 
 that will make half the table lay down the mouthful they 
 had taken up — for laughing. 
 
 Modesty is not in his catalogue of virtues. He knows 
 the best dish upon the table, and he seizes upon it with- 
 out formality ; if he empties the dish, he politely asks your 
 pardon — (he would take off his hat, if he had it on), and 
 is sorry there is not enough for you. He will serve him- 
 self to the breast, thighs, and side-bones of a small chick- 
 en, dispose of a mouthful or two — then turn to the lady 
 at his side, and say with the most gracious smile in flie 
 world, — Mille pardons, Madame, mats vous ne mangez 
 pas de volatile — but you do not eat fowl 1 
 
 His great pleasure, however, after eating, is in enlight- 
 ening the minds of the poor Provincials as to the wonders 
 of Paris : — a topic that never grows old, and never wants 
 for hearers. And so brilliantly does he enlarge upon the 
 splendors of the capital, with gesticulation and emphasis 
 sufficient for a discourse of Bossuet, as makes his whole 
 auditory as solicitous for one look upon Paris, as ever 
 a Mohammedan for one offering at the Mecca of his 
 worship. 
 
 A corner seat in the interior of the Diligence, or the 
 head place at a country inn table, are his posts of tri- 
 umph. He makes friends of all about the inns, since his 
 dignity does not forbid his giving a word to all ; and he is 
 as ready to coquet with the maid of all work, as with the 
 landlady's niece. His hair is short and crisp ; his mous- 
 
1 31 F R E R II GlEANl N G S. 
 
 tache stiff and thick ; and his hand fat and fair, with a 
 bignet-ring upon the little finger of his left. 
 
 You can not offend his dignity ; his flow of good spirits 
 and self-conceit, make it the most idle thing in the world 
 to attempt to shake him off by an insult ; and hence, he is 
 a very thorn in the sides of those stiff-necked Englishmen, 
 who, as a fat, old German once puffed to me — consider 
 all the rest of the world as domestics. 
 
 Such characters make up a large part of the table 
 company in towns like Limoges. In running over the 
 village, you are happily spared the plague of valets-de- 
 place. Ten to one, if you have fallen into conversation 
 with the commis voyageur at your side, he will offer to 
 show you over the famous crockery-works, for which he 
 has the honor to be traveling agent. Thus, you make a 
 profit of what you were a fool to scorn. 
 
 There are curious old churches, and a simple-minded, 
 gray-haired verger, to open the side chapels, and to help 
 you spell the names on tombs — not half so tedious will 
 the old man prove, as the automaton Cathedral-showers 
 of England ; and he spices his talk with a little wit. 
 There are shops, not unlike those of a middle-sized town 
 in our country : — still, little air of trade, — and none at 
 all of progress. Decay seems to be stamped on nearly 
 all the country -towns of France ; — unless so large as to 
 make cities, and so have a life of their own ; — or so small 
 as to serve only as market-towns for the peasantry. 
 
 Country gentlemen are a race unknown in France, as 
 they are nearly so with us. Even the towns have not 
 
Limoges. 185 
 
 their quota of wealthy inhabitants, except so many as are 
 barely necessary to supply capital for the works of the 
 people. There is no estate in the neighborhood, with its 
 park and elegantly cultivated farms and preserves ; there 
 are no little villas capping all the pretty eminences in the 
 vicinity ; and even such fine houses as are found within 
 the limits of the town wear a deserted look. The stucco 
 is peeling off — the entrance-gate is barred — the owner is 
 living at Paris. You see few men of gentlemanly bear- 
 ing, unless you except the military officers, and the priests. 
 You wonder what resources can have built so beautifui 
 churches ; — and as you stroll over their marble floors, lis- 
 tening to the vespers dying away along the empty aisles, 
 — you wonder who are the worshippers. 
 
 Wandering out of the edge of the town of Limoges, 
 you come upon hedges and green fields ; — for Limousin 
 is the Arcadia of France. Queer old houses adorn some 
 of the narrow streets, and women in strange head-dresses 
 look out of the balconies that lean half way over. But 
 Sunday is their holyday time, when all are in their 
 gayest, and when the green walks encircling the town, 
 — laid upon that old line of ramparts which the Black 
 Prince stormed, — are thronged with the population. 
 
 The bill at the Boule d' Or is not an extravagant one : 
 for as strangers are not common, the trick of extortion is 
 unknown. The waiting-maid drops a courtesy, and 
 gives a smiling bon jour — not surely unmindful of the 
 little fee she gets, but she never disputes its amount, and 
 Beems grateful for the least. There is no " boots" or 
 
] 8G Fresh Gleanings. 
 
 waiter to dog you over to the Diligence ; — nay, if you 
 are not too old, or ugly, the little girl herself insists upon 
 taking your portmanteau, — and trips across with it, — and 
 puts it in the hands of the conductor, — and waits your 
 going earnestly, — and waves her hand at you, — and gives 
 you another " bon voyage'' that makes your ears tingle 
 till the houses of Limoges, and its high towers have van- 
 ished, and you are a mile away, down the pleasant banks 
 of the river Vienne. 
 
 Rouen. 
 
 Ol HALL we set a foot down for a moment in the 
 *--* queer, interesting, busy, old Norman town of Rouen, 
 — where everybody goes, who goes to Paris, but where 
 few stop, for a look at what in many respects, is most 
 curious to see, in all France ] The broad, active quays, 
 and the elegant modern buildings upon them, and the 
 bridges, and the river with its barges and steamers, are, 
 it is true, worth the seeing, and exposed to the eye of 
 every passer, — and give one the idea of a new and enter- 
 prising city. But back from this, is another city — the 
 old city, infinitely more worthy of attention. 
 
 Out of its midst rises the corkscrew iron tower of the 
 Cathedral, — under which sleeps Rollo, the first Duke 
 of Normandy ; and if one have the courage to mount 
 to the dizzy summit of that corkscrew winding tower of 
 
Rouen. 187 
 
 iron, he will see such a labyrinth of ways, — shut in by such 
 confusion of gables, and such steep, sharp roofs, glittering 
 with so many colored tiles, as that he will seem to dream 
 a dream of the Olden Time. 
 
 And if he have an Agricultural eye, it will wander 
 
 delightedly over the broad, rich plains that there border 
 the Seine, — rich in all manner of corn-land, and in 
 orchards. And if he have an Historic eye, it will single 
 out an old castle or two that show themselves upon 
 the neighbor hills ; — and the ruins, and the Seine, and the 
 valley, and the town, will group together in his imagina- 
 tion, — and he will bear away the picture in his mind 
 to his Western home in the wilderness ; — and it shall serve 
 him as an illustration — a living illustration to the old 
 chronicles of wars — whether of Monstrelet, or Turner, or 
 Anquetil, or Michelet — down through all the time of 
 his thinking life. So, when he readeth of Norman plain 
 blasted with battle, and knightly helmets glittering in the 
 crash of war, he shall have a scene — a scene lying clear as 
 mid-day under the eye of steady memory, in the which 
 he may plant his visions of Joan of Arc, or of stout 
 Henry V., or of driveling Charles VI., or of Jean sans 
 peur — for these — all of them, he knows, have trodden the 
 valley of Rouen. 
 
 Whoever may have seen English Worcester or Glou- 
 cester, will have a foretaste of what comes under the eye 
 at Rouen ; — but to one fresh from the new, straight thor- 
 oughfares of America, nothing surely can seem stranger 
 than the dark, crowded ways of the capital of Normandy. 
 
1 88 Fresh GhEANMNog. 
 
 How narrow, how dirty, how cool ! for even in sum- 
 mer the sun can not come down in them — for the pro- 
 jecting balconies, and the tallness of the houses; and 
 between the fountains in the occasional open places, and 
 the incessant washings, it is never dry. There is no 
 pavement for the foot-goer but the sharp, round stones 
 sticking up from side to side, and sloping down to 
 the sluiceway in the middle. Donkeys with loads of 
 cabbages, that nearly fill up the way, — women with 
 baskets on their heads, and staring strangers, and gen 
 d'armerie in their cocked hats — marching two by two, and 
 soldiers, and schoolboys (not common in France), and 
 anxious-faced merchants (still rarer out of the North) — 
 all troop together under gables, that would seem to tot- 
 ter, were they not of huge oak beams, whose blackened 
 heads peep out from the brick walls, like faces of an Age 
 gone by. 
 
 What quaint carving ! — what heavy old tiles, when you 
 catch a glimpse of the peaked roofs ! — what windings and 
 twists ! There are well-filled, and sometimes elegant 
 shops below, with story on story reeling above them. 
 
 Away through an opening, that is only a streak of 
 
 light at the end, appears the ugly brown statue of the 
 Maid of Orleans. There she was burned, poor girl ! — 
 and the valet, if you have the little English boy of the 
 Hdtel de Rouen, will tell you how, and when, and why, 
 they burned her; — and he will ring the bell at the gate 
 of a strange, old house close by, and beckon you into the 
 court, where you will see around the walls, the bas- 
 
Rouen. 189 
 
 reliefs of the Cloth of Gold. St. Owens too, which after 
 Strasburg Cathedral, is the noblest Gothic church in 
 France, is in some corner of the never-ending curious 
 streets. And on a fete day, what store of costume on its 
 pavement ! "What big, white muslin caps, — flaring to left 
 and right ! What show of red petticoats, and steeple- 
 crowned hats, and clumping sabots, and short-waisted 
 boys, and little, brown men of Brittany ! 
 
 But there is style in Rouen : — and now and then in 
 the narrowest ways, you must jump aside to give room 
 to some dashing equipage. There are Cafes brilliant 
 with gas and mirrors, and there are Paris Restaurants 
 where one may initiate himself in the forms of the 
 C apital. 
 
 There is a middle-aged lady at the office of the Hotel 
 de Rouen, — and what a charming specimen of French 
 urbanity is that woman ! You ask for a room, — she will 
 give you a room and salon to boot ; — you want lunch, — 
 she will give you a dinner; — you want your bill, — she 
 will give you as good as two. 
 
 Rouen is favorably situated for all the innocent 
 extortions of porters and innkeepers; it catches the 
 stranger fresh in the country, — nine in ten English, — and 
 in consulting in some degree the measure of English 
 comforts, — the landlord consults yet more scrupulously the 
 measure of English pockets. 
 
 There is no such array of parlors, and smoking-rooms, 
 and reading-rooms, as belong to New York hotels; — 
 the dining salon is the unum ad omnia, and there is 
 
190 Fresh Gleanings. 
 
 nothing beside. Your bed is served with fresh linen and 
 clean, and you may look out from your window, over 
 the busy Quay, and its fleet of flat-boats lying along its 
 side, and the bridges from stone to chain ; — but as I said, 
 — the charms of the place rest in the old town. 
 
 Step back into the Palais de Justice, which 
 
 comes as near the extravagantly-rich Gothic of Belgic 
 Louvain, as reality can come to dreams : — listen to the 
 pleasantly modulated voice of the Norman magistrate 
 floating under the black oaken, gold-embossed ceiling ; — 
 see the groups of strange dressed scribes and advocates, 
 and the people listening. Never mind being jostled by 
 some dirty fellows in blouses ; — never mind the short, 
 stout woman with two babies; — never mind the long, 
 greasy-haired man with a Hebrew eye, that elbows you 
 one 6ide ; — nor the close smells of the chamber, — until at 
 least you can carry away some definite idea of the noble 
 old hall, and the motley groupings of a Provincial court- 
 room. 
 
 Rouen wears no symptoms of decay, — except such as 
 are seen in the gables of five or six centuries ago. It is 
 among the few interior cities of France which is upon 
 the increase, — which wears the American air of progress, 
 — which is alive with the bustle of business, — which has 
 devotees enough to fill its proud old churches, — and 
 which has successful commerce enough to keep them in 
 repair. It has its fashions . and fashionable people : 
 and though Paris ranks with them as the sun in the 
 firmament, still their nearness, and wealth enable them to 
 
Rouen. 191 
 
 look down on most other Provincials. Indeed there is 
 more of the air of Parisians about the shop-keepers, and 
 shop-girls, and the street loungers, than can be seen in 
 most cities of the kingdom. It has its little suburban 
 residences, — in this, coming nearer an English town, than 
 even Paris itself. It has its public walks, — and alone, of 
 French cities (excepting Pau in the South), has its 
 environs. 
 
 One might pass months at Rouen not unpleasantly, 
 provided he could forget Paris. Here, as every where 
 else in France, the Capital with its amusements, is the 
 absorbent of all the ambitious designs in life. The manu- 
 facturer contents himself with Normandy, only in the 
 hope of acquiring means that will enable him to establish 
 his roof-tree in the Faubourg St. Germain: or if he dies in 
 the height of his employ, the wealth .that his industry has 
 amassed is transferred to an atmosphere, more conge- 
 nial to the widow, and her children. The shop-boy 
 of Rouen is hoping always for an occasion upon the 
 Boulevard or Rue Richelieu. The carman sighs for St. 
 Antoine ; — the Grisette — for Rouen nurtures a branch of 
 the family — dreams of the Chaumiere and Mabil. Even 
 the barber would williugly shave for two sous less at 
 Paris, than in the Norman city of his birth. 
 
1 <>2 Fses ii Gleanings. 
 
 NlSMES. 
 
 ]% J["ANY — many dull Diligence-days lie between 
 -!-"-■- Rouen, and the sunny Southern town of Nismes : 
 yet with the wishing, we are there at once. 
 
 Where was born Guizot, — where are Protestant 
 
 people, — where are almost quiet Sundays, — where is a 
 Roman Coliseum, dropped in the centre of the town, — 
 there are we. On a December day, when I was there, 
 it was as warm and summerlike, — the sunny side of that 
 old ruin, — and the green things peeped out from the 
 wall, as fresh and blossoming, as if Merrie May had com- 
 menced her time of flowers. And the birds were chat- 
 tering out of all the corridors, and the brown stone looked 
 as mellow as a russet apple, in the glow of that rich South- 
 ern atmosphere. 
 
 The trees along the Boulevard, — running here through 
 the town, — wore a spring-like air (there must have been 
 olives or evergreen oaks among them), and though I can 
 not say if the peach-trees were in bloom, yet I know I 
 picked a bright red rose in the garden by the fountain, — 
 the great Roman fountain which supplies the whole town 
 with water, — and it lies pressed for a witness in my 
 journal yet. And there were a hundred other roses in 
 bloom all around, — and a little girl was passing through the 
 garden at the time, with one in her hair, and was playing 
 
Nismes. 193 
 
 with another in her hand. And the old soldier who limps, 
 and lives in the little cottage at the gate of the garden — as 
 patrol, was sunning himself on the bench by the door; and 
 a Canary bird that hung over it, was singing as blithely in 
 his cage, as the sparrows had been singing in the Ruin. 
 
 And what was there in that charming garden spot of 
 Nismes, with its wide walks and shade of trees, and fresh 
 with the sound of running water, and the music of birds ? 
 There was an old temple of Diana, and fountain of the 
 Nymphs. Both were embowered in trees, at the foot of 
 the hill which lords it over the town. 
 
 The fountain rises almost a river, and alone supplies 
 a city of 40,000 inhabitants. The guide-books will tell 
 one that it is some fifty or sixty feet in depth, and sur- 
 rounded with walls of masonry, — now green with moss, and 
 clinging herbs ; — and that from this, its source, it passes 
 in a gushing flood over the marble floors of old Roman 
 baths, as smooth and exact now, as the day on which 
 they were laid. The old soldier will conduct you down, 
 and open the doorway, so that you *hiay tread upon the 
 smooth marble, where trod the little feet of the unknown 
 Roman girls. For none know when the baths were built, 
 or when this temple of Diana was founded. Not even 
 of the great Arena, remarkable in many respects as the 
 Roman Coliseum, is there the slightest classic record. 
 Nothing but its own gigantic masonry tells of its origin. 
 
 Upon the top of the hill, from whose foot flows the 
 fountain, is still another ruin — a high, cumbrous tower. 
 And as I wandered under it, full of classic fervor, and 
 
 J 
 
1 y 1 Fresh Gleanings. 
 
 looked up, — with ancient Rome In my eye, and the gold 
 u-Egis, and the banner of triumph, — behold, an old woman 
 with a red handkerchief tied round her head, was spread- 
 ing a blue petticoat over the edge of the tower, to dry. 
 
 But from the ground beneath, was a rich view over the 
 town and the valley. The hill and the garden at its base, 
 were cloaked with the deep black green of pir»s and firs ; 
 beyond, was the town, just veiled in the light smoke of 
 the morning fires; — here peeped through a steeple, — 
 there, a heavy old tower, and looming with its hundred 
 arches, and circumference of broken rocks — bigger than 
 them all — was the amphitheatre of the Latin people, whose 
 language and monuments alone remain. Beside the city, 
 — through an atmosphere clear as a morning on the valley 
 of the Connecticut, were the stiff, velvety tops of the olive- 
 orchards, and the long, brown lines of vineyards : — away 
 the meadows swept, with here and there over the level 
 reach, an old gray town, with tall presiding castle, or a 
 glittering strip of the bright branches of the Rhone. 
 
 But not only is there pleasant December sun, and sunny 
 landscape in and about the Provencal town of Nismes 
 — there are also pleasant streets and walks; there is a 
 beautiful Roman temple — La Maison Carre — than which 
 there is scarce a more perfect one through all of Italy, — 
 among the neat white houses of the city. Within it are 
 abundance of curiosities, for such as are curious about 
 dates and inscriptions, that can not be made out; and 
 there are Roman portals still left in the vestiges of the 
 Roman walls. 
 
N i s m e s. 195 
 
 As for the new town, there are clean, good Cafes, and 
 not uncomfortable hotels, and Restaurants where one may 
 learn at his leisure, to eat the oil, and the onions of Pro- 
 vence. For after-dinner recreation, one may stroll into 
 the Cafes along the miniature Boulevards, or take his seat 
 under the trees in front, and watch the gayly-dressed till- 
 ers of the olive and the vine. And the traveler will find 
 at Nismes — an American needs it — the impetus of party 
 feeling, stronger than in most towns of France ; and he 
 may join himself to the Protestant, or the Catholic fac- 
 tion — the Guelphs and Gh:bellines of the little town. Or 
 he may hold aloof from both, and play the quiet looker- 
 on ; and he will find the ladies of the Cathedral side, as 
 pretty as their neighbors across the way. 
 
 There is the Grand Theatre for such as wish a stall 
 for a month ; and there is the grander Theatre of the old 
 Roman Arene. True, the manager is dead, and the act- 
 ors are but bats and lizards, — with now and then a grum 
 old owl for prompter. But what scenes the arched open- 
 ings blackened by the fires of barbarians,* and the stunt- 
 ed trees growing where Roman ladies sat, — paint to the 
 eye of fancy ! What an orchestra the birds make at twi- 
 light, and the recollections make always ! 
 
 It was better than Norma, — it was richer than Robert 
 le Diable, to sit down on one of the fragments in front of^ 
 
 * In the eighth century, Charles Martel, after filling the corridora 
 of the Amphitheatre with combustible materials, set them on fire- 
 vainly hoping to destroy the structure. {Murray, /\ 471.) 
 
196 Fresh Gleanings. 
 
 where was the great entrance, and look through the iron 
 grating, and follow the perspective of corridors opening 
 into the central Arena, where the moonlight shone on a 
 still December night, — glimmering over the ranges of 
 seats, and upon the shaking leaves. And there was a 
 rustle, — a gentle sighing of the night wind among the crev- 
 ices, that one could easily believe was the echo of a dis- 
 tant chorus behind the scenes : — and so it was — a chorus 
 of Great Dead Ones — mournful and slow — listened to by 
 no flesh-ear, but by the delicate ear of Memory. 
 
 Provence. 
 
 fTMHERE are rides about Nismes. There is Avignon 
 •*- with its brown ramparts, and its gigantic Papal tow- 
 ers bundling up from the banks of the Rhone, only a half 
 day's ride away ; and half a day more will put one 
 down at the fountain of Vaucluse ;— where, if it be sum- 
 mer-time,-~and it is summer-time there three quarters of 
 the year, — you may sit down under the shade of a fig-tree, 
 or a fir, and read, — undisturbed save by the dashing of 
 the water under the cliff, the fourteenth Canzonet of Pe- 
 trarch, commencing,— 
 
 Chiare, fresche e dolci acque, 
 Ove le belle membra 
 Pose colei che sola a me par donna ; 
 Gen til ramo, ove piacque 
 
Provence. 197 
 
 (Con sospir mi rimembra) 
 
 A lei di far al bel fianco colonna ; 
 
 Erba e fior, cbe la gonna 
 
 Leggiadra ricoverse 
 
 Con l'angelico seno ; 
 
 Aer sacro sereno, 
 
 Ov' Amor co' begli occhi il cor m' aperse ; 
 
 Date udienza insieme 
 
 Alle dolenti mie parole estreme. 
 
 And if the poor traveling swain be cursed with the same 
 griefs, and shall have left some heart-killing Laura in his 
 Home-land, he can there disburden himself, and run on 
 — it is a quiet place — nelle medesime dolenti parole. 
 
 Coming back at nightfall, he will have a mind to hunt 
 through the narrow, dim-lighted streets of Avignon, in 
 search of the tomb of Laura. And he will find it embow- 
 ered with laurels, and shut up by a thorn-hedge and 
 wicket ; — and to get within this, he will ring the bell of 
 the heavy, sombre-looking mansion close by, when a 
 shuffling old man with keys will come out, and do the 
 honors of the tomb. He will take a franc, — not absolutely 
 disdainfully, but with a world of sangfroid, since it is not 
 for himself, (he says,) but for the poor children within the 
 mansion, — which is a foundling hospital. He puts the 
 money in his red waistcoat pocket, suiting to the action a 
 sigh — " mes pauvres enfans /" Perhaps you will add in 
 the overflowing of your heart — " poor children !" 
 
 As you go out of the garden, a box at the gate, which 
 had escaped your notice, solicits offerings in behalf of the 
 institution, from strangers visiting the tomb. The box 
 
198 Fresh Gleanings. 
 
 has a lock and key, — the old man does not keep the 
 key. You have a sudden suspicion of his red waistcoat 
 pocket, and sigh as you go out, — les pauvres enfans ! 
 
 Pont du Gard is the finest existing remain of a Roman 
 acqueduct. It spans a quiet, deep stream, — good for 
 either fishing or bathing. Profusion of wild flowers grow 
 about it and over it, and fig-trees and brambles make a 
 thicket together, on the slope that goes down the water. 
 
 One may walk over the top of the ruin, — two yards 
 wide, without parapet or rail, and look over into the 
 depth three hundred feet below. The nerves must be 
 strong to endure it — then the enjoyment is full. Less 
 than half a day's ride will bring one from the Pont du 
 Gard, to the Hotel du Luxembourg of Nismes. 
 
 Montpellier is in Provence, — the city of summer-like 
 winters; and upon the river is Aries, with its Arena 
 — larger even than that of Nismes, but far less perfect : 
 and its pretty women — famous all over France — wear a 
 mischievous look about them, and the tie of their red 
 turbans, as if coquetry were one of their charms. 
 
 It is a strange, mixed-up town, — that of Aries, — ruins 
 and dirt, and narrowness, and grandeur — an old church 
 in whose yard they dig up Roman coffins, and a rolling 
 bridge of boats. Not any where in France are there 
 dirtier and more crooked streets; not any where such 
 motley array of shops- amid the filth, — red turbans and 
 meat, bread and blocks, old coin and silks. Within the 
 Museum itself, are collected more odd scraps of anti- 
 quity than can be found elsewhere together : there are 
 
Provence. 199 
 
 lead pipes, and stone fountains, — old inscriptions, and iron 
 spikes, and the noblest monument of all is a female head 
 that has no nose; — but the manager very ingeniously 
 supplies with his hand the missing feature. 
 
 Opposite the doors of this Museum stands an obelisk 
 of granite, which was fished out of the Rhone, and boasts 
 a high antiquity ; and upon its top is a brilliant sun with 
 staring eyes. To complete the extraordinary grouping, 
 — upon another side of the same square, is a church with 
 the strangest bas-relief over its central doorway, that 
 surely madcap fancy ever devised. It is a representation 
 of the Last Judgment ; on the right, the angels are leading 
 away the blessed in pairs ; and on the left a grinning 
 Devil with horns, and with a stout rope passed over his 
 shoulder, and clenched in his teeth, is tugging away 
 at legions of condemned souls. 
 
 There is rare Gothic sculpture within some; old clois- 
 ters adjoining ; and a marble bas-relief within the church, 
 with a Virgin and Child in glory, was — I say it on 
 the authority of an ingenious valet-de-placc — of undoubt- 
 ed Roman origin. 
 
 Ancient sarcophagi may be seen here and there in the 
 streets, serving as reservoirs at the fountains ; and many 
 a peasant of the adjoining country makes the coffin of a 
 Roman noble his water-trough. 
 
 There belongs another antiquity to Provence, besides 
 that of Roman date :— it is that of the gay, chivalrous 
 times of William IX., Count of Poitou, and all the gallant 
 Troubadours who came after him. Then, helmets glit- 
 
200 Fresh Gleanings. 
 
 tered over the Provencal plains, and ladies wove silken 
 pennants in princely halls. Then, the tournament drew 
 its throngs, and knights contended not only with their 
 lances for martial fame, but with their songs for the ears 
 of love. Even monarchs, — Barbarossa, and Cceur de 
 Lion — vied with Troubadours ; and the seat of the Pro- 
 vencal court, was the great centre of Southern chivalry. 
 Aries had its court of love,* — more splendid than now, 
 and its arret d? amour was more binding than the charms 
 of the brightest eyes, that shine in Provence to-day. 
 
 Little remains of the luxurious tastes of the old livers 
 at Aries. The Cafe, dirty and dim, assembles the chivalry 
 of the city ; and a stranger Western knight, in place of 
 baronial hall, is entertained at the Hotel du Forum; — 
 where, with excess of cheatery, they give him, — for St. 
 Peray, — a weak, carbonated Moselle. 
 
 Let no one judge of the flat, sand surface of Provence, 
 by the rich descriptions of the Mysteries of Udolfo ; nor let 
 the lover of ballad poetry, reckon upon the peasant patois, 
 as having the sweet flow of Raymond, or Bertrand de Born. 
 
 * The reader may form an idea of the old court of love, by a 
 decision I will quote of a Countess of Champagne, in the time of 
 Louis XIV. 
 
 The question to be decided, was — whether a married couple could 
 love each other truly? — "Nous disons," — said the Countess, — "et 
 assurons par la teneur des presentes, que l'amour ne peut etendre ses 
 droits sur deux personnes mariees. En efFet, les amants s'accordent 
 tout mutuellement et gratuitement, sans etre contraints par aucune 
 necessity, tandis que les epoux sont tenus par devoir," &c. A very 
 comfortable doctrine for married men ! 
 
Marseilles. 201 
 
 Marseilles. 
 
 It MARSEILLES is the old Massilia, — Rome's client, 
 -*-»-■- and Rome's ally. Cicero has rolled the encomium 
 of its ancient people into his round-sounding genitives ; — 
 fortissimorum, fidelissimorum, sociorum, most brave and 
 faithful friends.* 
 
 One way in which they showed themselves faithful, 
 was in shipment of Gallic slaves to adorn the feasts anc 
 the fights of Rome : — hence Macauley in his blazing lay 
 of Horatius : — 
 
 From the proud mart of Pisae, 
 
 Queen of the western waves, 
 Where ride Massilia's tiremes, 
 
 Heavy with fair-haired slaves. 
 
 A hundred and fifty years ago, and Madame de 
 Sevigne, in speaking of the city, was pleased to call 
 Marseilles la plus jolie ville de France. It must have 
 changed very much since the daughter of Madame kept 
 her home at Chateau Grignan. It certainly is not the 
 prettiest city in France now; — besides, it enjoys the 
 
 * Est enim urbs Massiliu, de qua ante dixi, fortissimorum, 
 
 fidelissimorumque sociorum, qui Gallicorum bellorum pericula, po- 
 pulo Romano coriis, remisque compensarunt. (Oratio pro M. Four 
 tcjo, Sec. I.) 
 
 »* 
 
202 Fresh Gleanings. 
 
 reputation of having the most extravagant hotels, and 
 the most execrable climate in the kingdom. I am 
 inclined to think it a reputation as well deserved, as its 
 reputation for beauty in the time of Louis, — or for fidelity 
 in the time of the Great Consul. A bill, as long as that of 
 the Becace* they give you at dinner, is evidence of the first ; 
 and my recollection of swelteiing up the hill above the 
 town, under a sun that scorched in December, — not twen- 
 ty-four hours after landing shiveringly with two overcoats, 
 from the Aries Diligence, — is testimony for the climate. 
 
 It runs in short-hand, with a classical annotation from 
 the prologue to Plautus, in my journal ; and it will serve 
 to show how a careless traveler's journal is made up ;-— 
 thus : — 
 
 Marseilles ; wretched climate, — hotels dear. 
 
 An empty pocket, and cold in the head : — j 
 
 Vos, vos mihi testes estis me verum loqui. 
 
 Yet Marseilles is not without a character of splendor 
 amid its barrenness. For barren its country surely is. 
 It is situated, — not as some suppose, at the mouth of the 
 Rhone, — but some distance Eastward ; and in place of the 
 salt marshes which stretch around the low-lying mouths 
 of the river, are bleak hills sweeping semicircularly 
 about the city. These hills show only here and there, 
 patches of stinted olive trees, and there is no healthy 
 
 * A sort of snipe, common in Provence, and very good eating, — 
 oetter digested, than the account you get of them in the " reckoning." 
 
Marseilles. 203 
 
 greenness visible — save the sea. The basin in which the 
 
 town lies is but a bed of sand. Imagine now, tne most 
 
 accessible portion of this sand level, covered thick with 
 houses, and they piling back to the first lift of the bare 
 hills behind ; — imagine those hills spotted all over white 
 with the little country -places of merchants, where they go 
 in summer-time, in the hope, — an extravagant one, — of 
 escaping the mosquitoes, and catching at odd intervals, a 
 breath of the sea air ; — imagine further, the hill bearing 
 back, and breaking on the sky in bold, bare outline, with 
 here and there a gray-green streak of olive trees, — and 
 you have that general appearance of the place, which 
 one gets from the edge of the harbor — looking Landward. 
 
 In winter, the Mistral, a cold Nor'wester, blows over 
 the hills, and in ten hours time, may be succeeded by a 
 soft, Southern, insinuous breeze, — coming straight over 
 the Middle Ocean, with all its Afric temperature. In 
 summer-time there is scarce wind at all, and as little of 
 summer rain as of summer wind ; the hills grow brown 
 and are scorched, — the olive-leaves turn yellow and drop 
 in July, — the sun is reflected hot from the hot sand, and 
 hotter from the white-sided houses, — the water in the 
 port is shut up and foul, for there is no tide to move it ; 
 — indeed, I am quite sure, there must have been more 
 shade or less sun at Marseilles in the time of Sevigne\ 
 or she would never have called it, "a pretty city !" 
 
 It is not however, as I said, without its splendor; — 
 there is a long thoroughfare lined with lofty houses, and 
 ending Northward with a triumphal arch ; — there is its 
 
204 Fresh Gleanings. 
 
 port, in the very centre of the town, and filled with ships 
 of every colored flag ; — there are the quays, thronged 
 with all the costliness of the East and the West ; — there 
 are hotels — in exterior furnishing perhaps the most ele- 
 gant of France, and the Cafes are palaces. 
 
 The character of those who visit Marseilles is essential- 
 ly cosmopolitan ; and at the Hotel d'Orient, you may sit 
 at its magnificent table-d'hote, with sallow-faced Dons 
 from Barcelona, — with illustrissimi Signori of Naples 01 
 Genoa, — with fat, blubbering old Turks, with long mous- 
 tache and turbans, — with tall, athletic Moors, — with 
 Greeks in crimson and blue-tasseled caps, — with sober, 
 gray-coated Scotchmen ; and you may hear every lan- 
 guage, from the mellow flow of Provencal, and the dolcis- 
 s'mii accenti of Tuscany, to the cracking consonants of 
 Russia, and business-talking Dutch. Gifted in tongues 
 must the pilot be, who would have intercourse with all 
 the ship-masters that sail into the harbor of Marseilles. 
 And the captain who pushes his vessel out of the crowded 
 port, where all is confusion, will listen to oaths in Dutch, 
 and bravado in Basque. 
 
 There is a little chapel upon a rocky hill overlooking 
 all the city, and the port, and the bay, and a long vista of 
 blue sea, stretching over toward the Spanish shores, 
 where eveiy stranger in the city goes, to see the votive 
 offerings that have been made to the Virgin, who presides 
 at its shrine. 
 
 The sailors call her Notre-Dame de la Garde, and he* 
 image of olive-wood is preserved at the chapel. They 
 
Marseilles. 205 
 
 pray to her in times of difficulty, whether by sea or land , 
 and in the event of a happy issue to their prayers, they 
 bring up some token, — it may be a picture of the sick- 
 bed, — it may be the rope's end that saved one from drown- 
 ing, — it may be the crutch of a healed cripple, — and de- 
 posit it at her shrine. The walls are covered with such 
 offerings, — and many is the poor sailor's mother that toils 
 up that rocky hill-side on evenings that threaten storm, to 
 drop a prayer before the Virgin, for her wandering boy. 
 
 It was a sunny day, and quiet when I was there, 
 
 and a light, warm, blue haze lay over the city, and over the 
 bay ; and the waters of the Mediterranean scarce rippled, 
 and the old monks that dwell up there, were chatting bare- 
 headed under the fig-trees that grow out of the terrace by 
 the chapel, — and the goats and white kids that live upon 
 the hill were lying downin the shadows of the rocks, — 
 panting. Still there were old and feeble worshippers, 
 who had toiled up from the town, and were kneeling on 
 the damp pavement within, giving utterance to their 
 hearts' wishes, in simple Faith — common attribute of us 
 all — an inward sense of a Divinity, that shapes our ends, 
 
 Rough hew them how we will,—" 
 
 and if it be strong in those who seem weak by reason of 
 Ignorance, — it only shames the more, those in whom it is 
 weak, though they seem strong by reason of Knowledge. 
 There is the Prado at Marseilles, where one may walk, 
 when the sun is going down over the dim line of the 
 shores that stretch Westward, — or the moon rising out of 
 
206 Fresh Gleanings. 
 
 the bosom of the sea ; but the trees are small, and the 
 ground sandy. They are however busy, — and have been 
 for years, bringing down a river from the country, — the 
 unruly Durance, — into the heart of the city, and enough 
 of it to water the sides of all the hills, and cover them with 
 a little of that healthful greenness, which surely does not 
 belong to them now. 
 
 When this is'effected, and the plane-trees of the Prado 
 are grown larger, and streams of water lay the dust of the 
 thoroughfares, Marseilles will have charms which not an- 
 other European city of 180,000 inhabitants is without. 
 
 Possibly in that time I may be there again, — and go 
 down again to the rocky heights, Southward of the town, 
 where a brigade of soldiery, fitting for the Algerine war- 
 fare, was making a mimic war among the cliffs; — their 
 battalions scattered over level and height ; — their forces 
 retreating and dispersing, and gathering to the sound of 
 a bugle, and their musketry crackling against the faces 
 of the bare limestone, with double sound. Perhaps, too, 
 I may see again the happy, bright-eyed boy, who was 
 with me then, and who played along the edge of the blue 
 rolling Mediterranean, and clapped his hands at the dis- 
 charges of the musketry, and shouted when the troops ran 
 to the attack. 
 
 Ah, he will have grown older, — and I, perhaps, 
 
 grown old ! 
 
France Rural. 207 
 
 France Rural. 
 
 A belle France has little of what we call country. 
 - 1 — beauty, of which to boast. The pride of its Provin- 
 cial cities, is to approach, near as may be, the splendors of 
 the capital ; and no town is esteemed beautiful, except it 
 have its H6tel de Ville, its Boulevards, and its theatre. 
 Many a man who has worried away days and nights in 
 traversing French territory, has his memory haunted only 
 with vast plains, seemingly of interminable extent. The 
 pretty country of the Auvergne, with its Puy de Dome, 
 and mountain streams, is half unknown to the traveler; 
 the wildness of the Pyrennean scenery is grafted upon 
 his recollections of Spain ; and the richness of the Juras, 
 piling with their mantles of fir, out of the fair plains of 
 Burgundy, is all forgotten amid the crowning magnifi- 
 cence of Switzerland. 
 
 The Frenchman is not a lover of the country ; and the 
 men are every where — 
 
 Who never caught a noontide dream 
 From murmur of a running stream. 
 
 Even the peasant has scarce begun to love the fields on 
 which he was born, and on which he reaps, when a wave 
 of Conscription comes rolling along ; — he is enlisted in the 
 Grand Army, and is borne away on the soldier-billow to 
 
208 Fresh Gleanings. 
 
 Paris, or Bordeaux, or Brest ; and comes back, if at all, 
 with such visions of cities in his mind — such gorgeous 
 tales for the young country folk, as utterly destroy what- 
 ever may have existed in their bosoms, of rural love. 
 
 One meets with no such grand old parks, as are scatter- 
 ed over the surface of England ; and where you see some 
 pretending chateau of a court favorite under the Old 
 Regime, — decay is upon it. Its grounds are rank of neg- 
 lect ; — the weeds are growing in the court ; — the entrance 
 gates are off their hinges ; and the pheasants go sneaking 
 through the shrubbery of the terrace. 
 
 Sometimes, indeed, you may happen upon some such 
 old bit of forest, as that of Fontainbleau, — but it is rarely ; 
 and it is rare that you catch a glimpse of the wild eye of 
 a deer peering through a thicket ; it is rare that you start 
 up a whirring covey of partridges, from under shelter of 
 a hedge; — rare that you see a hare go galloping over 
 new-started grain. 
 
 As for wayside brooks, the ordinary traveler finds none 
 of them. Even to French literature, is fresh landscape 
 almost unknown ; scarce one is to be found in its great 
 Epic — the Henriad. Delille has indeed, sung of Gar- 
 dens, but he quitted the beautiful Auvergne, to make 
 Paris his Eden ;* and left the Georgics for "La Con- 
 versation :" and Bernardin St. Pierre crossed the ocean, 
 
 * After the death of Delille appeared his " Depart d'Eden" (Paris.) 
 His " Homme des Champs," a more strictly rural poem than " Les 
 Jardins," was written during a residence in Switzerland. 
 
France Rural. 209 
 
 to find a grass-plat for his sweet story of Paul and 
 Virginia. 
 
 The French are a people of socialities ; retirement 
 would slay them. To know them, one must go to their 
 cities ; and to know them best, one must go to the city of 
 their cities. 
 
 Not so of their neighbors the other side of the 
 
 channel ; and I can not help recurring a moment, in view 
 of the contrast, to the green fields of England. For I love 
 them ; — and I love the quiet by-ways, and the white blos- 
 soming hawthorn hedges, and the little stiles, that take 
 you over by smooth-beaten paths, under proud old trees, 
 into the shadow of tall, ivy-covered mansions ; — and I love 
 the gray roofs of cottages, that are covered half over with 
 stores of woodbine, and the clean-kept shrubbery, and the 
 high trees, with flocks of bold, black rooks, circling round 
 and round. Who that has seen such scenes along the 
 Exe, or the Plym, or the Wye, or by the banks of Der- 
 wentwater, or Windermere, but feels his heart leaping 
 beyond control at the remembrance 1 
 
 Who that has seen an English cottage, in the lap of an 
 English landscape, but — if he has not yet irreparably 
 lost his hold upon his unfettered, fortunate youth-age — 
 finds its image stealing, — whether he will or no, — into all his 
 wildest and maddest pleasure dreams about the future 1 
 Who but cherishes a dreamy hope to plant it in a Home- 
 land, and to plant with it, — let him have been, long as 
 he may, a Wanderer — a home feeling ; — to have paths 
 smoothed by his tread, — gates opening at his touch, — to 
 
210 Fresh- Gleanings. 
 
 have dog bounding to his call, — to have horse, and gun, 
 
 and rod, aye, and better than all, to have under the 
 
 gray roof of the cottage, a quiet hearth -place, that shall 
 own him, — and him only, for Master? 
 
 You smile, Mary. 
 
 Yet it is even so, that we travelers dream ; and for my 
 part, I dream on, — of fire craokling upon a clean hearth, 
 as it used to do in our country-home ; and (still dream- 
 ing,) Carlo stretches his glossy-coated limbs before it, 
 upon the Chamois-skin, which I brought away on my 
 shoulders, out of the Valley of Chamouni ; — and the light 
 of the blazing fire goes wavering over the well-swept 
 floor, and twinkles on the varnished oak beams, and flick- 
 ers across the portraits of the loved ones — gone ! 
 
 Whither, pray, am I running] 
 
 I was saying of the French, that they had no rural feel 
 ingj I have said before, that they had little home-feeling 
 The two feelings, where they exist, — as you see, — touch 
 each other. 
 
 Now, France, adieu ! 
 
21 (Gallop ttyrougl) 0outl)ern 
 Austria, 
 
A GALLOP THROUGH SOUTHERN 
 AUSTRIA. 
 
 Illyria, Carynthia, Styria. 
 
 OIOUTH and East of Vienna, stretches a great and fer- 
 **-' tile country, little known to the trading world ; — and 
 save at the hands of some few such old-fashioned travelers 
 as Clarke, and Bright, and Beaudant, little known to the 
 reading world. On the North, it is bounded by the Car- 
 pathian mountains, which here and there thrust down 
 their rocky fingers, and lay their league-wide, giant grasp 
 upon the plains. Eastward, — Wallachia and Moldavia lie 
 between it, and Russia, and the Sea. South and West it 
 stoops down to the level of the Adriatic, and follows the 
 rugged bank of the Save as far as Belgrade ; and sweeps 
 along the North shore of the Danube, till the Danube 
 turns into the Turkish land, and turbans and sabres are 
 worn on the North and the South banks of the river. To 
 the Northwest, this country leans its fir-clad shoulder on 
 the magnificent mountains of the Tyrol ; — and beyond the 
 
214 Fresh Gleanings. 
 
 Tyrol, is the kingdom of Bavaria, whose capital is fair 
 Munich, seated on the lifted plains. 
 
 Hungary, — fbr that is the name of this country, is popu- 
 lated with an industrious, well-made, hardy, adventurous 
 people. They speak a rich, musical, flowing language, 
 of Eastern forms, under Roman dress — not easy to be 
 learned. They have a nobility and a peasantry, and the 
 last can not be land-owners ; so that a system obtains of 
 dependence so entire, as to make a curious little relic of 
 the old feudal socialism, — a very tit-bit for the philosoph- 
 ical harangues of Governor Young and the Anti-renters. 
 There is a king, too. who rules by courtesy, through a 
 chancery at Vienna . 
 
 The kingdom has records not ignoble, — for it has reach- 
 ed even to the Black Sea, and sometime to the Baltic. It 
 has had Sigismund for ruler, — a sort of Edward the Con- 
 fessor, — and Matthias Corvinus, of whom this glorious 
 memory remains, in way of proverb,—" King Matthias is 
 dead, and Justice is dead with him." 
 
 Pesth, a city of 50,000 inhabitants, is the capital of 
 Hungary ; it lies along the Danube, over against the old 
 capital — Buda. Both cities have their libraries and 
 learned men. 
 
 But the true Hungarian belongs to the country, and 
 not to the city. Agriculture is his profession, and for its 
 pursuit he has as rich fields as are to be found in Europe. 
 He cultivates maize, besides the grains of the North. He 
 has the richest of pasturage ; and when a herdsman, his 
 flocks count by thousands. As a hunter, he has bears, 
 
Illyria, C a r y n t u i a, Styria. 215 
 
 and foxes, and deer, upon the mountains, — and salmon and 
 otter in the rivers. As a miner, he has every mineral of 
 ordinary traffic, as well as the opal and chalcedony. 
 
 In this trade he is fleeced by German Jews, and 
 Greeks ; and if some enterprising New Englander could, 
 under favor of Prince Metternich and the king, introduce 
 American " knick-knacks" to that simple people, loving 
 hunting and dancing better than trade, — I am quite sure 
 he could negotiate such exchanges for alum, and Cor- 
 dova boots, and zinc, and chalcedony, as would speedily 
 make his fortune. 
 
 But the country will charm a New England eye, be 
 sides such as is quickened with the furor of trade ; for its 
 hills and its valleys will make for it, a home-like image. 
 
 There are the same green glades — the same spurs 
 
 of old forest standing out upon the mountains — the same 
 valleys with gravel-bottomed books — the same spots of 
 orchard land, and checks of grain, and lines of tufted corn 
 — the same loose boulders lying in meadows — and the 
 same peaks of gray granite, cropping loftily up — stark 
 through Secondary, and Tertiary, and Alluvion. 
 
 There belongs a simple quietude to this people, which 
 is not less charming. They go little abroad. You scarce 
 see them, — save the tall grenadiers enrolled for defence of 
 the Lombard kingdom, and an occasional braided coat in 
 the streets of Prague, or of Vienna. They fish, — they 
 hunt, — they cultivate their land. The corrupt civilization 
 which sweeps in the track of travel has not overrun them. 
 Those intent upon the glories of the East, indeed pass 
 
216 Fresh Gleanings. 
 
 down to Belgrade ; but it is upon the Austrian boats of 
 the Danube. 
 
 Their dress has simple quaintness ; — you lose sight of 
 the method of enlightened Europe. Habits too, are old, 
 and partake of their earnest character. Old legends live 
 in night-songs ; — old wrongs are redressed with usury. 
 
 A traveler brings always home with him, go where 
 
 he will, a multitude of regrets ; and this is one of mine, — 
 that I could not have ranged through the Eastern valleys 
 of Hungary, — down to Semlin, — up to Transylvania, — 
 back through the vineyards of Tokay, and the worm- 
 eaten libraries of Pesth. 
 
 But it is noted down, against the time when another 
 rambling humor shall make me acquainted with the dress 
 of the Osmanlee $ and my knapsack in the corner, that has 
 been wetted with me under the snows of the great St. 
 Bernard, — that has served me as seat on the dreary pass 
 of the Furca, and that has clung to my back in kind com- 
 panionship, as I looked over from the Gemmi, upon 
 Monte Rosa — rolling its swelling base under clustered 
 hamlets, far down into the Savoyard valley, — shall per- 
 haps one day, serve me as well upon the blue Carpathians. 
 
 Meantime,— until the journey be made, — until a laurel- 
 leaf or two be gathered, to add to this poor Sheaf, — until 
 I appear in the dignity of sober octavo, made up from the 
 wildnesses of that wild Hungarian region, and the mouldy 
 Legend-books of Buda, the reader may whet his appetite 
 with only this swift, crazy gallop through the Western 
 provinces of Illyria, — Carynthia, — Styria. 
 
The Post Coach. 217 
 
 The Post Coach. 
 
 FT1 HERE was a frouzy-haired, stout man, not a year 
 -*" ago, at the Hdtel Mettemich, at Trieste, who se- 
 cured for our party — Cameron, Monsieur le Comte B., 
 and myself — one of the Government post-coaches, to 
 go on to the Austrian capital, just as lazily as we wished. 
 The two-headed black eagle ou the yellow coach door, 
 gave us the dignity of Government patronage : — a huge 
 roll of paper we earned, would secure us relays of horses 
 in every post-town between Trieste and Gratz \ and our 
 profound ignorance of the language, would insure to 
 every begging, red-coated postillion, a plump '* Go to the 
 devil," from our wicked friend Cameron. 
 
 Our coach was chartered for the whole route, and 
 we could loiter as long as we chose, provided we could 
 make the postman understand our wretched German, or 
 ourselves understand their wretched French or Italian. 
 
 Every European traveler has heard of the awful caves 
 of Adelsbeig in Illyria, — and to the awful caves of Adels- 
 berg we wanted to go. 
 
 There was a fourth seat to our coach, and it was 
 not filled. We were on the look-out for a good-humored 
 fellow, to make up our number, and to pay his fourth of 
 the footing. We broached the subject to a table full at 
 the Mettemich, who had just come in, with terribly 
 
 K 
 
218 Fresh Gleanings. 
 
 bronzed faces and queer Egyptian caps, from the Alex- 
 andria steamer. Whether it was that Vienna did not 
 really lie in their paths, or whether they had grown 
 in the East, distrustful of proposals so peremptorily 
 made, I do not know, — but not one of them would 
 listen to us. In this dilemma, our Sancho, the frouzy- 
 haired man, offered us the services of a Polish courier, 
 who had just left the suite of a Russian princess in Sicily, 
 and who was now making his way back to the North. 
 But on consideration, we were unanimously of opinion, 
 that our equipage would not suffer by denying the royal 
 applicant ; and that the gratuity of the vacant seat would 
 be better kept in reserve, than squandered in so sudden 
 chanty, as helping the poor devil of a Pole, on his way to 
 Cracow. 
 
 We refused him. We paid the stout man his fees, and 
 bade him good morning. The porter waved his hand to 
 the postillion ; the postillion cracked his whip ; and so, 
 we dashed out of the court of the great inn of Met- 
 ternich. And so, we passed, — slow and toilingly, over 
 those mountains that shut up the city of Trieste and 
 its bay, from that part of Southern Austria which is 
 called Hungary. The long, blue waters of the Adriatic 
 stretched out in the sunshine behind us, and the shores 
 of Dalmatia lifted out of their Eastern edge. We made 
 the rascal that drove us stop his horses a moment, when 
 we had gained the full height. Thence we could see — 
 one side, the little dot of a city where we ate so villainous 
 a dinner the day before at the Metternich — glistening by 
 
Beggar Boys. 219 
 
 the side of the Gulf of Venice. The othei way, — looking 
 North and East, we saw green Hungary. Down, down 
 we went galloping into its bosom — beautiful-hill-sided — 
 sweet-sounding Illyria. 
 
 In the caserne at Venice, and all through Austrian 
 Lombardy, I had seen the tall, Hunnish grenadiers with 
 their braid-covered coats ; now I saw them loitering at 
 home. And at each post station, they sat on benches 
 beside the log cottages, and stretched their fine muscular 
 limbs lazily into the sunshine. While I was looking at 
 the grenadiers, Cameron was feasting his eyes on the full 
 proportions of the ruddy Hungarian girls. He told me 
 they had bright, open faces, and a dashing air, and moved 
 off under the trees that embowered the cottages, with the 
 air of princesses. 
 
 Beggar Boys. 
 
 4 T the very first stopping-place after we had gone 
 -^*- over the hills, there came up to me such a winning 
 little beggar as never took my money before. Italy, with 
 all its carita, and pel y amore di Santa Maria, makes one 
 hard-hearted. I kept my money in my breast-pocket, 
 buttoned tight over my heart. I had learned to walk 
 boldly about, without loosing a button for a pleading eye. 
 The little Hungarian rogue took me by surprise : I had 
 scarce seen him, before he walked straight up beside me, 
 
220 Fresh Gleanings. 
 
 and took my hand in both his, and kissed it ; and then, 
 as I looked down, lifted his eye timidly up to meet mine ; 
 — and he grew bolder at the look I gave him, and kissed 
 my hand again — molle meum Icvibus cor est violabile tells 
 — and if I suffer this I shall be conquered, thought I ; and 
 looked down at him sternly. He dropped my hand, 
 as if he had been too bold ; — he murmured two or three 
 sweet words of his barbarian tongue, and turned his eyes 
 all swimming upon me, with a look of gentle reproach 
 that subdued me at once. I did not even try to struggle 
 with the enemy, but unbuttoned my coat, and gave him a 
 handful of kreitzers. 
 
 Now before I could put my money fairly back, there 
 came running up one of the wildest-looking, happiest- 
 hearted little nymphs that ever wore long, floating ring- 
 lets, or so bright a blue eye ; and she snatched my hand, 
 and pressed her little rosy lips to it again and again — so 
 fast that I had not time to take courage between, and 
 felt my heart fluttering, and growing, in spite of myself, 
 more and more yielding, at each one of the beautiful 
 creature's caresses; and then she twisted the little fin- 
 gers of one hand between my fingers, and with the other 
 she put back the long, wavy hair that had fallen over her 
 eyes, and looked me fully and joyously in the face — ah ! 
 semper — semper causa est, cur ego semper amem / 
 
 If I had been of firmer stuff, I should have been to this 
 day, five kreitzers the richer. She ran off with a happy, 
 ringing laugh that made me feel richer by a zwanziger ; 
 — and there are twenty kreitzers in a zwanziger. 
 
Beggar Boys. 221 
 
 I had buttoned up my coat, and was just about getting 
 in the coach, when an old woman came up behind 
 me and tapped me on the shoulder, and at the same 
 instant a little boy she led, kissed my hand again. I 
 do not know what I might have done, in the current of 
 my feelings, for the poor woman, if I had not caught 
 sight, at the very moment of this new appeal, of the red 
 nose, and black whiskers, and round-topped hat of Cam- 
 eron, with as wicked a laugh on his face, as ever turned 
 the current of a good man's thoughts. — It is strange how 
 feelings turn themselves by the weight of such trifling im- 
 pulses. I was ten times colder than when I got out of the 
 coach. I gave the poor woman a most ungracious refusal 
 — Ah ! the reproaches of complaining eyes ! Not all the 
 pleasure that kind looks or that kind words give, or ha*v r e 
 given in life, can balance the pain that reproachful eyes oc- 
 casion — eyes that have become sealed over with that lead- 
 en seal which lifts not; how they pierce one by day time, and 
 more dreadfully by night — through and through ! Words 
 slip, and are forgotten ; but looks, reproachful looks, fright- 
 ful looks, make up all that is most terrible in dreams. 
 
 I hope Cameron in some of his wanderings over the 
 moors, in his blue and white shooting jacket, had his 
 flask of " mountain dew" fail, when the sun was straight 
 over his head — and that between that time and night, 
 gray night, damp night, late night, there came never a 
 bird to his bag — not even a wandering field-fare^because 
 he laughed me out of my charity to the old beggar-wom- 
 an of Illyria. 
 
222 Fresh Gleanings. 
 
 He insisted, however, that there was nothing unchari- 
 table in laughing, and that there was no reason in the 
 world, why genuine benevolence should not act as freely 
 in the face of gayety, as of the demure-looking faces, with 
 which the Scotch presbyters about the West Bow, drop 
 their pennies into the poor-box. Ten thousand times in 
 life, one is ashamed of being laughed out of a course of 
 action, and never stops to think whether the action after 
 all, is good or bad. I never yet met a man who hadn't 
 pride enough to deny his sensitiveness to ridicule. It 
 will be seen that I was in quarreling humor with Cam- 
 eron, and we kept the beggars fresh in our minds and on 
 our tongues for an hour or more, when we appealed 
 to Monsieur le Comte, who looked very practically 
 on even the warmer feelings of our nature. 
 
 Monsieur le Comte thought the money to the boy was 
 well enough bestowed ; to the girl, he would have given 
 himself, had she been a trifle older — 
 
 — And she had kissed your hand, as she did mine — 
 
 — But as for the old woman, she did not deserve it. — 
 He was behind the coach, while I was in front, and had 
 seen the mother send forward — first the boy — then the 
 little girl — and after taking the kreitzers from both, had 
 come up with a third ! 
 
 Happily, Cameron's laugh of triumph was drowned by 
 the noise of the postillion's bugle, as we dashed into the 
 court-yard of the inn of Adelsberg. 
 
Adelsberg Inn. 223 
 
 Adelsberg Inn 
 
 f I ^ ROOPS of the Illyrian peasantry, in tall, Steeplc- 
 -*■ crowned hats, came staring about us ; and the maids 
 of the inn, dressed for a fair day, overwhelmed us with a 
 flood of their heathenish dialect. A short, wild-looking 
 fellow, with a taller hat than any in the crowd, could 
 interpret for us in a little of Italian. He was to be our 
 guide for the Caves. The great hall of the inn had a 
 deal table stretching down the middle, and from this 
 hall opened a corridor, out of which were our sleeping- 
 quarters for the night. 
 
 The sun had gone down when we had finished the dm- 
 ner of broth and chops, and our steeple-crowned gmJe 
 came in with his — Scrvitore Signori. 
 
 Now, the Count's idea of the Cave, was formed by cas- 
 ual recollections of the dim catacombs under the capi. j.1, 
 and of the Pont Neuf, when the Seine was so low a^; to 
 leave dry ground between the pier and the shore, on *\e 
 side of the Cite; — Cameron was thinking of Rob R^y's 
 Cave under the lea of Ben Lomond, which — though a vury 
 fair sort of cave in its way, might, if the stories of some 
 Edinbro' bloods were true, be stowed away — Inversnaid, 
 Loch Lomond and all — in the crevices of the great Illy:'»n 
 cavern we were going to see. 
 
 My own notions had a dreamy vagueness ; and tho T gh 
 
224 Fkesh Gleanings. 
 
 I was fuller of faith than the French Count, yet my hopes 
 were not strong enough to stave ofFthe fatigue that came 
 upon us, even before we had reached the grated door, in 
 the side of the hill, that opens to the first corridor. 
 
 We had wound, by the star-light, along the edge of a 
 beautiful valley : Boldo — that was the guide's name— 
 and myself in front, and Monsieur le Comte with Came- 
 ron behind, when we came to where the path on a sudden 
 ended in the face of a high mountain ; — so high, that in 
 the twilight neither Cameron, nor myself, nor Le Comte, 
 who was tallet than both, could see the top. 
 
 The Cavern, 
 
 TJOLDO pulled a key out of his pocket, and opened 
 -*-* the door of the mountain. 
 
 This sounds very much like a faiiy story ; and it would 
 sound still more so, if I were to describe, in the extrava- 
 gant way of the story- writers, how the guide, Boldo, lit 
 his torch just within the door, and with its red light shin- 
 ing over his wild, brigand face, and flaring and smoking 
 in great waves of light over the rocky roof, led us along 
 the corridor. It was a low and dismal den, and even the 
 splash of a foot into one of the little pools of water that 
 lay along the bottom, would make us start back, and look 
 into the bright light of Boldo's torch for courage. By 
 and by, the den grew higher, and white stalactites hung 
 
Thk Caver n. 225 
 
 from it, and as the smoke laid its black billows to the roof, 
 their tips hung down below it, like the white heads of 
 crowding Genii. 
 
 Gradually the corridor grew so high, that the top was 
 out of sight ; and so broad, that we could not see the sides. 
 Presently, over the shoulders of the guide I saw a dim, 
 hazy light, as if from a great many lamps beyond us, and 
 soon after, Boldo turned round with his finger on his lip, 
 and we heard plainly a great roar — as if of a river falling. 
 
 Then we walked on faster, and breathing quick, as the 
 light grew stronger, and the noise louder. We had not 
 walked far, w r hen we found ourselves upon a narrow 
 ledge, half up the sides of a magnificent cavern : fairy 
 tales could not depict so gorgeous a one, for the habita- 
 tion of fairy princes. Above our heads, sixty feet and 
 more, great, glittering stalactites hung down like the teeth 
 of an JEnean hell : below us, by as many feet, upon the 
 bottom of the cavern, a stream broad and black was rush- 
 ing, and in the distance fell into some lower gulf, with a 
 noise that went bellowing out its echoes among the 
 ghostly stalactites of the dome. Across the water, a nar- 
 row bridge had been formed, perhaps eighty feet in length, 
 and two old men in cloaks, whom we now and then 
 caught sight of, groping on the opposite cliffs, had lighted 
 tapers along its whole reach ; and these were flickering 
 on the dark waters below, and were reflected upon the 
 brilliant pendants of the vault, so as to give the effect of a 
 thousand. 
 
 There we stood— trembling on the edge of the cOT— 
 
226 Fresh Gleanings. 
 
 the red light of Boldo's torch flaring over our little group ; 
 Le Comte had for some time banished his habitual sneer, 
 and his eyes wandered wondering up and down, with 
 the words at intervals escaping him — Cest magnifique ! 
 — vraiment magnifique ! 
 
 Cameron stood still, scowling, and his eye flashing. 
 
 — Non e una meraviglia Signore 1 — said Boldo. 
 
 My eye wandered dreamily, — now over the earnest 
 faces of the Illyrian, the Frenchman, the Scotchman — 
 now over the black bridge below, mouldering with moist- 
 ure, on which the tapers glistened, throwing the shadows 
 of the frame-work darkly down upon the waters. The 
 two old men were moving about like shadows ; their 
 tapers shed gleams of light upon the opposite side of the 
 cavern : Boldo's torch glared redly on the side that was 
 nearest us ; the lamps upon the bridge sent up a reflected 
 ray, that wavered dazzlingly on the fretting of the roof: — 
 but to the right and to the left, dark, subterranean night 
 shut up the view ; and to the right and to the left, the 
 waters roared — so loudly, that twice Boldo had spoken to 
 us, before we heard him, and followed him down the shelv- 
 ing side of the cliff, and over the tottering bridge we had 
 seen from above. 
 
 The old men gathered up the lights, and we entered 
 the other side a little corridor, and walked a mile or more 
 under the mountain ; — the sides and the roof all the way 
 brilliant as sculptured marble. Here and there, the cor- 
 ridor spread out into a hall, from whose top the stalactites 
 hung down and touched the floor, and grouped together 
 
The Cavern. 227 
 
 in gigantic columns. Sometimes, the rich white stone 
 streamed down from the roof in ruffles, brilliantly transpa- 
 rent ; — sometimes, as if its flintiness had wavered to some 
 stalking hurricane, it spread out branches and leaves, and 
 clove to the crevices of the cavern, like a tree growing in 
 a ruin. Sometimes, the white stone in columnar masses, 
 had piled up five or six feet from the floor, and stood sol- 
 emnly before us in the flare of the torch, like sheeted sen- 
 tinels. Sometimes, among the fantastic shapes would be 
 birds, and cats, and chandeliers hanging from the rocf ; 
 and once we all stopped short, when Boldo cried, **. Leo- 
 ne !" — and before us lay crouching, a great white Lion ! 
 
 Farther on — two miles in the mountain — one of the old 
 men in the cloaks appeared in a pulpit above us, gesticu- 
 lating as earnestly as the Carmelite friar who lifts up his 
 voice in the Coliseum on a Friday. Presently, he ap- 
 peared again, — this time behind the transparent bars of a 
 prison-house, with his tattered hat thrust through the cifv- 
 ices, imploring carita ; and I will do him the justice* to 
 say, that he played the beggar in the prison, with as much 
 naivete as he had played the friar in the pulpit. 
 
 We had not gone ten steps farther, when Boldo tun: 3d 
 about and waited until Cameron and Le Comte had cc^ie 
 fairly up; then, without saying a word, but with a flour- 
 ish of the torch that prepared us for a surprise, whetted 
 suddenly about, — turned a little to the right, — then left, — 
 stepped back to one side, — lowered his torch, and so ush- 
 ered us into the splendid Salon du Bal. The old rren 
 had hurried before us, and already the tapers were Paz- 
 
228 Fresh Gleanings. 
 
 ing in every part — and the smoke that rose from them, 
 was floating in a light, transparent haze, over the surface 
 of the vault. 
 
 The fragments of the fallen stalactites had been broken 
 into a glittering sand, over which the peasantry come 
 once a year, in May, to dance. Masses of the white rock 
 formed seats along the sides of the brilliant hall. 
 
 Now, for the last mile, we had been ascending in the 
 mountain, and the air of the ball-room was warm and soft, 
 whereas before, it had been cold and damp; so we sat 
 down upon the flinty and the glittering seats, where, once 
 a year, the youngest, the most charming of the Illyrian 
 girls do sit. The two old men had sat down together in 
 a distant corner of the hall. 
 
 Boldo laid down his torch, and put it out among the 
 glittering fragments of the stalactites at his feet ; and then 
 it was, that he commenced the recital of a strange, wild 
 story of Hungarian love and madness, which took so 
 strong a hold upon my feelings, that I set down my re- 
 membrance of it that night, in the chamber of my inn. 
 
 I know very well, that it may not appear the same sort 
 of tale to one sitting by a glowing grate full of coals, in a 
 rocking and be-cushioned chair, that it did to me, in the 
 depths of the Illyrian cavern, sitting upon the broken sta- 
 lactite columns — to say nothing of a brain gently warmed 
 by a good glass of Tokay at the inn. Still does it show, 
 like all those strange legends, that stretch their deep, but 
 pleasing shadows over the way of a man's travel, strong 
 traits of the wild Hungarian character — mad in loving-^- 
 
Boldo's Story. 229 
 
 quick in vengeance — headstrong in resolve, and daring in 
 execution. In short, after thinking, if possibly I should 
 not lose more than I should gain, by giving it to the 
 world, I have determined to let the tale come in, as a lit- 
 tle episode of travel. 
 
 o 
 
 Boldo's Story. 
 
 NCE a year, — said he, — the peasantry come 
 to the cavern to be merry ; — for days before, 
 you may see them coming, — from the mountains away 
 toward Salzburg, where they sing the Tyrolese ditties, 
 and wear the jaunty hats of the Tyrol ; and from the 
 great plains, through which the mighty arms of the 
 Northern River — the Danube — wander; and from the 
 East, where they wear the turban, and talk the language 
 of the Turk ; and from the South, as far as the hills, on 
 which you may hear the murmur of the waters, as they 
 kiss the Dalmatian shore — from each quarter they come 
 — vine-dressers and shepherds, young men and virgins — 
 to dance out in the cavern the Carnival of May. 
 
 — A whole night they dance : — for they go into the 
 mountain before the sunlight has left the land ; and 
 before they come out, the next day has broke over the 
 earth. But the light and the joy make day all the time 
 they are in the cavern . Tapers are blazing every 
 where • and the great stalactite you see in the middle, is 
 
230 Fit 
 
 ESH ULEANINC8. 
 
 so hung about with torches, that it seems a mighty 
 column of fire, swaying and waving under the weight of 
 the mountain. 
 
 — Ah, Signori, could you see them — the Illyrian 
 maidens, with their pretty head-dresses, and their little 
 ancles, go glancing over the glistening floor, — Signori, — 
 Signori, — you would never go home ! 
 
 — Cert bien — c'est tres bien ! — said Le Comte. 
 Boldo went on. 
 
 — A great many years ago, and there was a beautiful 
 maiden, the daughter of a Dalmatian mother, who came 
 on the festal day to the cavern ; — and her name was 
 Copita. She had three brothers, and her father was an 
 Illyrian shepherd. She had the liquid eye, and the soft 
 sweet voice of the Southern shores, whence came her 
 mother ; but she had the nut-brown hair, and the sunny 
 cheek of the pasture lands, on which lived her father. 
 Their cottage was on a shelf of those blue mountains, 
 which may be seen rising along the Southern and 
 "Western sky from the inn-door at Laibach. The cottage 
 had a thatched roof, and orchard-trees and green slopes 
 around it ; — -just such an one as may be seen now-a-days, 
 by the traveler toward the Northern bounds of the Illyrian 
 kingdom. The smoke curls gracefully out of their deep- 
 throated chimneys ; the green moss speckles the thatch ; 
 the low sides made of the mountain fir, are browned with 
 storms. 
 
 — Copita ioved flowers; — and flowers grew by the 
 door of her father's home. 
 
Boldo's Story. 231 
 
 — Copita loved music; — and there were young 
 shepherds, who lingered in the gray of twilight 
 about the cottage, — nor went away till her song was 
 ended. 
 
 — The brothers loved Copita, as brothers should love 
 a sister. For her they gathered fresh mountain flowers, 
 and at evening the youngest braided them in garlands for 
 her head, while she sang the songs of Old days. And 
 when they went up to the cavern in May — which all 
 through Illyria is time of summer — they twisted green 
 boughs together, and so, upon their shoulders, they bore 
 the beautiful Copita over the roughest of the mountain 
 ways. 
 
 — During the nights of winter, — for in this region 
 there is winter through the time of four moons, — she 
 spun, and she sang. But not one of all the young shep- 
 herds, or the vine-dressers in the valleys, who came to 
 listen to her song, or to watch her small, white hand, as 
 it plied the distaff, — not one had learned to make her 
 sigh. Twice had she been with her brothers — the fair- 
 haired Adolphe, the dark, piercing-eyed Dalmetto, the 
 stout Rinulph, with brown, curling locks, — to the Cavern 
 in spring-time. And often she would dream of the 
 column of fire in the middle, and the sparkling roof, and 
 the gloomy corridors, and the roar of the waters, and 
 wake up shaking with fear. For she was delicate and 
 timid as a fawn, and there were memories that frightened 
 her. 
 
 — Strange it was, that so good a virgin should ever 
 
232 Fresh Gleanings. 
 
 wake up affrighted. Strange it was, that so beautiful 
 a maiden should not be wooed and won. 
 
 — Now Copita had a cousin, of wild Hungarian 
 blood. Their eyes had met, but their souls had not. 
 For Otho was passionate and hot-blooded, and often 
 stem : — he loved the boar-hunts of the forests of the 
 Juliennes. But he had seen Copita, and he loved her 
 more than all besides. Once, when wandering in early 
 winter with his boar-spear, he had come to her cottage ; 
 and once he had seen her at the dance of the Cavern. 
 Otho was not loved of his kinsfolk in his home — for he 
 was cruel. None struck the boar-spear so deeply ; and 
 if he met a young fawn upon the hills, lost and crying 
 piteously, he would plunge the rough spear in its throat, 
 and bear it home struggling on his shoulder, and throw it 
 upon the earth floor of his cottage, and say, — "Ho, 
 my sisters, here is a supper for you !" — and the fawn not 
 yet dead ! 
 
 — It is no wonder Otho was not loved at home ; — it is 
 no wonder he was not loved of Copita. And whom 
 Copita loved not, — Adolphe did not love, — Rinulph did 
 not love, — Dalmetto did not love. 
 
 Now in those old days, where there was not love 
 between men, there was hate. So there was hate 
 between the three brothers, and the Hungarian cousin 
 of the wild locks and the dark eye. 
 
 — What should it be, but those wild locks and that 
 dark eye of her Hungarian cousin, that made Copita 
 ever wake in a fright, when she dreamed of the great 
 
Boldo's Story. 233 
 
 Illyrian Cavern] Adolphe was ever by her side to 
 defend her, but Adolphe was young and innocent of all 
 the wiles of manhood ; the eye of Dalmetto was quick 
 and watchful, but the eye of Otho had watched the flight 
 of the vultures, and seen them bear away kids even from 
 the flock, over which the father of Copita was shepherd ; 
 Rinulph was strong, but Otho had struggled with the 
 wild boar, and conquered it, — and was the brown-haired 
 brother of Copita stronger than the wild boar? 
 
 — Was it strange, then, that Copita, the daughter of a 
 Dalmatian mother, should sometimes tremble when she 
 thought of the passionate eyes of the cruel and 
 determined Otho, bending fixedly on her, from out the 
 shadows of the Cavern, — for Otho loved the shadow, 
 better than the light. 
 
 — But dreams, though they be unpleasant, make not 
 dim the happy lifetime of an Illyrian peasant girl. The 
 shuttle — it rattled merrily; — the song — it rose cheerily; 
 — and the father, and the mother, and the brothers, were 
 light-hearted. Copita dreamed less of the last year's 
 fete, and she dreamed more of the fete of the one that 
 was coming. She dreamed less of eyes scowling with 
 hate and love ; — and she dreamed more of eyes that were 
 full of admiration. 
 
 — Ah, Signori, it is pleasant — lifetime in the mountains 
 — the mountains of Illyria ! The green fir-trees cover 
 them, summer and winter ; — ihe deer, wild as we, 
 wander uuder them, and crop their low branches, when 
 the snow covers the hills ; — and when the spring comes, 
 
234 Fresh Gleanings. 
 
 the grass is green in a day.* Then what frolicking of* 
 boys and maidens! — what smiles upon old faces ! — 
 Boldo drew his coat sleeve over his eyes. For one 
 moment — one little moment — his heart was in his 
 mountain home. 
 
 Monsieur Le Comte, who was old and unmarried, 
 drew a long breath. 
 
 Boldo thrust the end of his torch deeper in the shining 
 sand, and went on. 
 
 — May was coming; — Copita sang at evening gayer- 
 hearted; — Copita danced with the fair-haired Adolphe 
 on the green sward before the door of the cottage. The 
 father played upon his shepherd's pipe; the mother 
 looked joyously on, and thanked Heaven, in her heart, 
 for having given her such a daughter as Copita, to make 
 glad their mountain home. 
 
 — She shed tears though, and the father almost as 
 many, when their children set off for the festive meeting 
 in the Cavern. Down the mountains they went singing, 
 and the mother strained her eyes after them, till she 
 could see nothing but a white speck — Copita's dress — 
 gliding down, and gliding away among the fir-trees. 
 There was no singing in the cottage that night — nor the 
 next — nor the next — nor the next 
 
 — Scusatemi, Signori! 
 
 * Nothing can be richer than the verdure of the hills of Southern 
 Austria ; and I have seen, on the tops of the mountains, the snow and 
 the grass lying under the same sun, and close together. 
 
Boldo's Story. 235 
 
 — Two days they were coming to the Cavern. At 
 night they stayed with friends, in a valley ; and in the 
 morning, doubled their company, and came on together. 
 As they walked, sometimes in the valleys, sometimes 
 over spurs of the hills, there came others to join them, 
 who went on the pleasant pilgrimage. But of all the 
 maidens not one was so beautiful as Copita. None 
 walked with a statelier or freer step into the village 
 below the mountain. 
 
 — Ah, Signori, could you but see the gathering upon 
 such a day, of the prettiest dames of Illyria — the braided 
 hair, dressed with mountain flowers, and sprigs of the 
 
 fir-tree, and the heron's plumes! and in old days, the 
 
 gathering was gayer than now. 
 
 — In a street of the village — in the throng, Copita had 
 caught sight of the dark face of her Hungarian lover. 
 Perhaps it was this, perhaps it was the cold, but she 
 trembled as she came with her brother Adolphe into the 
 Cavern. The waters roared as they roared the year 
 before — as they are roaring now. The noise made her 
 shudder again. 
 
 — ■ Adolphe/ said she, ' I wish I was in our cottage 
 upon the mountain.' 
 
 — 'What would Rinulph say, what would Dalmetto 
 say, what should I think, who love you better than both, 
 if our beautiful sister were not of the festal dance V 
 
 — Just then the noise of the music came through the 
 corridor, and Copita felt her proud mountain blood stir- 
 red, uim 3 went on with courage. 
 
236 Fresh Gleanings. 
 
 — The night had half gone, when Copita sat down 
 where we sit. The fawn upon the mountains sometimes 
 tires itself with its gambols; Copita was tired with 
 dancing. Adolphe sat beside her. 
 
 — Copita had danced with Otho, for she had not dared 
 deny him. She had danced with a blue-eyed stranger, 
 who wore the green coat of the Cossacks, and a high 
 heron's plume — whose home was by the Danube; for 
 who of all the maidens would choose deny him 1 
 
 — When Adolphe spoke of Otho, Copita looked 
 thoughtful and downcast, but turned pale. And when 
 Adolphe spoke of the stranger from the banks of the 
 Great River, with the heron's plume in his cap, Copita 
 looked thoughtful and downcast, but the color ran ove> 
 her cheek, and temple, and brow, like fire. 
 
 — Ah ! for the poor young shepherds, and the vine- 
 dressers, who had watched her white hand as it plied the 
 distaff, and had listened to her voice as she sang in her 
 mountain home — Adolphe knew that their hopes were 
 gone! 
 
 — Now it was a custom of the fete, that in the intervals 
 of the dance, the young men and virgins should pass hand 
 in hand around the column of fire in the middle, in token 
 of good will between them. But if a second time a virgin 
 went round, with her hand wedded to the same hand as 
 before, then was the young man an accepted lover. But 
 if a third time they went round together, it was like giving 
 the plighted word, and young man and virgin were be- 
 trothed. 
 
Boldo's Story. 237 
 
 — It \V2s the custom of old days; and all the company 
 of the cave shouted greeting. 
 
 — Once had Copita gone round the column with cousin 
 Otho, of the dark locks and wild eye. 
 
 — Once had Copita gone round the column with the 
 blue-eyed stranger, of the heron's plume. 
 
 — A second time the stern Hungarian had led forth the 
 beautiful Copita. She hesitated, and she looked pale, 
 and she trembled : for there were many eyes upon her. 
 Adolphe looked upon her, and bit his lip. Rinulph look- 
 ed, and he stamped with his foot upon the sand. Dal- 
 metto looked, and his eye seemed to pierce her through ; 
 — but more piercing than all, was the sad, earnest look 
 of the stranger of the heron's plume. Copita shook: the 
 memory of her dreams came over her, and she dared not 
 deny Otho. 
 
 — Copita sat down trembling ; Otho walked away with 
 a triumphant leer. 
 
 — A second time came up the blue-eyed stranger, 
 doubting and fearful. A second time went the beauti- 
 ful Copita with him round the flame. This time she 
 trembled : for many eyes were upon her. The eyes of 
 Adolphe, of Rinulph, of Dalmetto, looked kindly, but 
 half reprovingly ; there were eyes of many a virgin that 
 seemed to say, * Is this our gentle Copita, who has two 
 lovers in a day V There was the vengeful eye of Otho, 
 that seemed to say, * Two lovers in a day she shall not 
 have.' It was no wonder Copita trembled. 
 
 — - The music went on, and the dance ; but the soul of 
 
238 Fresh Gleanings. 
 
 the mountain girl was with her father and with her moth- 
 er at home. 
 
 — ' Why is that tear in your eye V said Adolphe, as he 
 put his arm around her. 
 
 — ■ I wish I was in our cottage upon the mountains, 
 with the distaff in my hand, and singing the old songs,' 
 said Copita. 
 
 — The dance ceased. Copita trembled like an aspen 
 leaf. 
 
 — A third time came up Otho. Copita turned pale, 
 but Otho turned away paler. 
 
 — A third time came up the blue-eyed stranger — whose 
 home was on the Danube — who wore in his cap a heron's 
 plume. 
 
 — Copita blushed; Copita trembled — and rose up and 
 stood beside him. Hand in hand they stood together; 
 hand in hand they went round the column of flame — the 
 gentle Copita, and the stranger of the heron's plume. 
 
 — A wild song of greeting — a Hungarian song — burst 
 over the roof of the Cavern. You would be afraid, Sig- 
 nori, to listen to the shaking of the Cave, when the mount- 
 ain company lift up their voices to a mountain song. 
 There is not a corner but is filled ; there is not a stalac- 
 tite but quivers ; there is not a torch-flame but wavers to 
 and fro, as if a strong wind w»re blowing. 
 
 — Now the face of the Hungarian Otho, as he looked, 
 and as he listened, was as if it had been the face of a 
 devil. 
 
 — Copita went with Adolphe into the cool corridor, 
 
Boldo's Story. 239 
 
 for the night was not yet spent, and other dances were to 
 follow. Adolphe left his sister a little time alone. Otho's 
 eyes had followed, and he came up. 
 
 — 'Will my pretty cousin Copita walk with me in the 
 Cavern V said he. 
 
 — She looked around to meet the eye of Adolphe, 01 
 Rinulph, or Dalmetto. The dance had begun, and they 
 two were unnoticed. 
 
 — She said not no : she made no effort to rise, for the 
 strong arm of Otho lifted her. 
 
 Boldo rose, and lit his torch, and the two old men came 
 behind, as we went out of the Salon du Bal into the cor- 
 ridor. 
 
 — Along this path, — said Boldo, — they went on. Co- 
 pita's mind full of shadows of dreams — she dared not go 
 back ; Otho's mind full of dark thoughts — his strong arm 
 bore her on. 
 
 — She had not a voice to shout ; besides the music was 
 louder than the shouting of a frighted maiden. Otho 
 pushed on with cruel speed. Copita's faltering step stay- 
 ed him no more than the weight of a young fawn, which, 
 time and time again, he had borne home upon his shoul 
 der, from the wild clefts of the mountains. 
 
 The roar of the waters was beginning to sound. Brave- 
 ly led Boldo on, with his broad torch flaring red. The 
 road was rough. The rush of the waters nearer and 
 nearer, and the damp air chilled us. Cameron was for 
 turning back. 
 
 — No, no, — said Boldo, — come and see where 
 
240 Fresh Gleanings. 
 
 Otho led Copita, — where he stood with her over the 
 gulf. 
 
 And now we could hardly hear him talk for the roar ; 
 but he beckoned us from where he stood upon a jutting 
 point of the rock, and as we came up, he waved his long 
 torch twice below him. The red glare shone one mo- 
 ment upon smooth water, curling over the edge of a 
 precipice, far below. The light was not strong enough 
 to shed a single ray down where the waters fell. 
 
 — ' My cousin Copita,' said Otho, ' has given her hand 
 to the proud stranger of the heron's plume ; will she here, 
 upon the edge of the gulf, take again her promise V 
 
 — ' The stranger is not proud,' said Copita, ' and my 
 word once given, shall never be broken.' And as if the 
 word had given life to her mountain spirit, her eye look- 
 ed back contempt for the exulting smile of Otho. Like a 
 deer she bounded from him ; but his strong arm caught 
 her. She called loudly upon each of her brothers ; but 
 the dance was far away, and the roar of the waters was 
 terriWe. 
 
 — Her thoughts flew one moment home — her head was 
 pillowed as in childhood, upon the bosom of her Dalma- 
 tian mother. 
 
 — With such memories, who would not have force to 
 struggle 1 She sprung to the point of the rock — it is very 
 slippery: again the strong arm of Otho was extended to- 
 ward her — another step back — poor, poor Copita ! 
 
 — Look down, Signori, — and Boldo waved his red 
 torch below him. 
 
Boldo's Story. 241 
 
 — The cottage of the Illyrian shepherd — of the Dalma- 
 tian mother— was desolate upon the mountains ! The 
 voice of singing was no more heard in it ! 
 
 — Otho heard a faint shriek mingling with the roar of 
 the waters, and even the stern man was sorrowful. He 
 trod back alone the corridors. None know why he made 
 not his way to the mountains. The stones stirred under 
 his feet, and he looked behind to see if any followed. 
 The stalactites glistened under the taper that was fasten- 
 ed in his bonnet, and he started from under them, as if 
 they were falling to crush him. 
 
 — Now in the hall of the dance, there was search for 
 Copita, when Otho came in. 
 
 — There are three ways by which one can pass out of 
 the hall, aud after Otho had come in alone, Adolphe stood 
 at one, Rinulph at one, and Dalmetto at one. The Hun- 
 garian could look the wild boar in the eyes, when they 
 were red with rage— but his eyes had no strength in them 
 then, to look back upon the eyes of virgins. He would 
 escape them by going forth ; but when he came to where 
 Rinulph stood, Rinulph said, ' Where is my sister Copita V 
 and Otho turned back. And when he came to where 
 Dalmetto stood, Dalmetto said, ' Where is my sister Co- 
 pita ]' And Otho was frightened away. 
 
 — And when he came to where Adolphe stood, 
 Adolphe said, ' Tell us, where is our sister Copita V 
 
 — And Otho, that was so strong, grew pale before the 
 blue-eyed Adolphe. 
 
 — When Otho turned back, the young stranger, with 
 
 L 
 
242 F it e s ii Gleanings. 
 
 the cup of the heron's plume, walked up boldly to him, 
 and asked. 'Where is the beautiful Copitaf 
 
 — And Otho trembled more and more, and the faces 
 grew earnest and threatening around him, so he told them 
 all ; and he was like a wild boar that is wounded, among 
 fierce dogs. 
 
 — The three brothers left not their places, but the rest 
 spoke low together, and bound the Hungarian hand and 
 foot. Hand and foot they bound him, and took up 
 torches, and bore him toward the deep river of the 
 Cavern. The brothers followed, but the virgins joined 
 hands, and sung a wild funeral chaunt — such as they sing 
 by a mountain grave. Adolphe, and Rinulph, and Dal- 
 metto, stood together in the mouth of the way, that goes 
 over the bridge, and out of the mountain. It was well 
 the three brothers were there : for as they bore Otho on, 
 and as they neared the gulf, he struggled, as only a man 
 struggles, who sees death looking him in the face. He 
 broke the bands that were around him ; he pushed by 
 the foremost — he rushed through those who were behind 
 — he leaped a chasm — he clung to a cliff — he ran along 
 its edge — but, before he could pass out, the brothers met 
 him, and he cowered before them. 
 
 — They bound him, and bore him back, and hurled 
 him headlong, and the roar of the waters drowned his 
 cries. 
 
 — One more song — a solemn song around the column 
 of fire, and the night was ended. 
 
 — At early sunrise, Adolphe, Dalmetto, and Rinulph 
 
JBoldo's Story. 243 
 
 had set off over the mountains, with heavy hearts, home- 
 ward. They picked no flowers by the way for the gen- 
 tle Copita. Copita sang no songs to make gay their 
 mountain march. 
 
 — The blue-eyed stranger had torn the plume of the 
 heron from his cap, and with a slow step, and sad, was 
 going by the early li^ht, down the mountains, to his 
 home upon the banks of the mighty Danube. 
 
 — They say that in quiet evenings, in the gulf, — and 
 Boldo swayed the red torch below him, — may be seen a 
 light form, that angels bear up. And when it is black 
 without, and the waters high, may be seen a swart form, 
 struggling far down, — and again Boldo swung his torch 
 — this time too rapidly, for the wind and the spray put it 
 out. We were on the edge of the precipice. — Santa 
 Maria defend us ! 
 
 The two old men were groping in the distance — two 
 specks of light in the darkness. Boldo shouted, but the 
 waters drowned the voice. 
 
 Thrice we shouted together, and at length the old men 
 came toward us. After the torch was lit, we followed 
 Boldo over the bridge, and through the corridor, out 
 into the starlight. Four hours we had been in the 
 mountain, and it was past midnight when we were back 
 at the inn. 
 
 I am not going to say — because I can not — whether 
 the story that Boldo told us was a true story. 
 
 Cameron said — it was a devilish good story. 
 
 And story or no story — the Cavern is huge and wild, 
 
244 Fresh Gleanings. 
 
 And many a time since, have I waked in the middle 
 of the night, and found myself dreaming of the pretty 
 Copita, or the cap with the heron's plume. 
 
 Roadside. 
 
 4 T six next morning, a red-coated Jehu had mounted 
 ***M- our coach-box. 
 
 I had been deputed to pay Boldo for his hundred flam- 
 beaux (I would advise the economical traveler to order 
 but fifty), and as we set off, he waved his tall crowned hat 
 at me, with an Addio — Carissimo ! that kept me in good 
 humor for an hour. 
 
 It is very pleasant — the memory of the little chit-chat 
 of travel ; — to tell the truth, when my eye runs over the 
 old notes, and my thought wanders to the time and the 
 place — straightway my fancy conjures up jolly-faced Cam- 
 eron, lying against the yellow leather of the coach, and 
 the tall red-bearded Count; and my mind leans back, 
 easily as a cloud passes, into that sweet indolence, in 
 which we rolled away the fresh morning hours, and in- 
 dulged in our good-tempered talk ; pleasant disquisitions, 
 and bon-?nots, and repartees, float along my memory like 
 a summer stream, and I forget utterly that the reader 
 cares nothing about these things, but is expecting me all 
 the time, — a vain, very vain expectation, — to paint with 
 this poor stub of a pen, the glories of the Illyrian scenery. 
 
Roadside. 245 
 
 The mountains of the cavern grew blue behind us, and 
 other mountains were growing nearer and greener before 
 us. The cultivation had a careless air, like that of the 
 interior districts of New England. Clumps of orchard 
 trees lay scattered about in the game disorderly pretti- 
 ness ; the fences, even, were of the familiar New England 
 sort — posts and rails. The cottages were of wood, and 
 had the only shingled roofs I met with in Europe. 
 
 The road was hard and smooth— too good, to let me 
 harbor the illusion that the mountains in my eye were 
 the Green Mountains, — or the valley, the valley of the 
 Connecticut. Great wagon-loads of lumber, and boxes, 
 were toiling by us ; — the bells jingling on the staunch 
 horses, and the drivers bowing low, with a lift of their 
 hats ; — but whether from respect to us, or to the black 
 eagle of the coach-door, we could not determine. 
 
 The Illyrians have a peculiarity in their cottage archi- 
 tecture, which a little surprised me : it is that of building 
 without chimneys, so that the smoke escapes in a very 
 picturesque way, at the door. The method will com- 
 mend itself, I should think, to such as have a fancy for 
 adopting European notions. 
 
 Through all this country, one sees very rarely the 
 embellished property of a large proprieter; in this 
 respect, it yet more assimilates with the character of New 
 England scenery. 
 
 An hour before noon, and when we had forgotten the 
 coffee and toast of the morning, we clattered into the 
 great court-yard of an inn at Laibach. 
 
246 Fresh Gleanings. 
 
 And of Laibach, I can really say very little, — except 
 that it is a great, broad, rambling town, with a monster 
 of a tavern, — that has a court large enough for a village 
 square, — where we ate a very good breakfast, by means 
 of a French bill of fare ; — for not one of all the servants 
 could play interpreter. We ended by having the land- 
 lady's daughter, — a buxom, black-eyed, pretty girl, for 
 waiting-maid. 
 
 Even she was puzzled with some of Cameron's ges- 
 ticulations ; and matters were growing more and more 
 perplexing, when an old Viennois at another table, inter- 
 posed in a little of Italian. And he went on to speak of 
 the rich country we were going through on our way to 
 Cilli ; — it was wild, he said (he had never seen the Alps), 
 — it was scattered over, he said, with fragments of noble 
 old castles (he had never sailed up the Rhine) ; and he 
 hinted at some of those strange spirit stories which hang 
 about them, and which I treasured gladly in my mind, for 
 they added double to the interest of the afternoon's ride 
 among them. 
 
 There is in my book of flowers — graceful souvenirs of 
 tmvel — a little bunch, tied up with a brown silk thread, 
 that I brought away from the hands of our pretty waiting- 
 maid — the landlady's daughter at the inn; and I should be 
 unjust to Cameron, if I intimated that he had not received 
 a like show of favor; — though mine, as I insisted at the 
 time, was prettier and fresher by half. As for the Count, 
 he not only had no such fragrant memento, but he will 
 remember quarreling with us, on the absurd plea, that 
 
Roadside. 247 
 
 the flowers increased the amount of the bill, — of which, 
 notwithstanding his years and red beard, he came in for 
 a full third. 
 
 Well — we set off, as I have said, quarreling, — through 
 lines of wagons of merchandise, which traverse this great 
 artery of Austrian commerce — the highway from Vienna 
 to Trieste. But no sooner were we quit of the straggling, 
 but clean-kept town, than the exceeding beauty of the 
 country broke our quarrel. The Count forgot his losses ; 
 and we forgot our triumphs. 
 
 We were riding in the valley of a river ; sometimes it 
 spread into a plain, with cottages and clumps of trees 
 scattered over it ; sometimes it narrowed, or was split 
 crosswise into side valleys, that opened up blue and 
 shadowy distance; and sometimes the hills staggered 
 out boldly, all armed with broken-topped pine-trees, 
 and crowded us down to the very brink of the river. 
 Then came the bits of ruin, — looking old as the rocks, 
 and hung their heavy, time-battered walls, like the 
 broken armor of a giant, along the sides of the mount- 
 ains. 
 
 No wonder that seated as they are, high up among 
 -hick fir-trees, that make such a sighing by night, — no 
 wonder that spirit-stories belong to them all. I pity the 
 sober-made man, who does not love to listen to them, in 
 view of the old feudal rule, — the knight fearful in armor 
 — the hall shadowy with tall flame, — the loop-holes 
 guaged for the cross-bow, — the bottomless oubliettes, — 
 the hundred serving-men, — the thousand vassals tramping 
 
243 F u e s h Gleanings, 
 
 to their lord's banner, — the lady Andromache-like, at the 
 rich figures of old 'broidery, — sweet-voiced damsels at the 
 songs, tender and plaintive, — and now, nothing of it all — 
 knights, armor, love, vassal, or banner, but that strange 
 bit of ruin among the firs — pray, who can not lend an ear 
 of half belief to the spirit stories, if they shed only a light- 
 ning gleam over the Olden Time ? 
 
 As it grew dark, — for we rode long after nightfall, 
 and I grew sleepy with the swift roll of the coach, and 
 the black turrets lifted stronger against the sty, and 
 our talk had wearied us to silence, my fancy grew busier 
 with the hints of the old Viennois. And the Wasser- 
 man of Laibach* appeared to me in a comer of the 
 coach. 
 
 What was it but the sweet school-boy Mythology 
 again, grown rude in Gothic North-land] Not now, 
 Blue-eyed Pallas, with Gorgon shield, — not goat-footed 
 Pan, king of Arcady, — nor Endymion, nor Ida shaking to 
 the tread of Jove, nor Diomed, nor yet Aprodite, but in- 
 stead, dragons, — giants, undines, wild hunters, and talking- 
 birds ; — in place of Danae of the golden shower, floating 
 on brazen-studded ark, — clasping her purple-clad Perseus, 
 and lifting her simple plaint — Olov e%co novov — a flax- 
 haired young waterman, living under the banks of North- 
 ern river — swimming under the surface, and coming on 
 
 * — A Leybach. dans la riviere du meme nom, habita autre-fois 
 tin ondia, qu'on appelait Waesermann (homme aquatique) —Veillies 
 A lie ma ndes — > Valvassor. 
 
Roadside. 249 
 
 festal days to the shores, to link his cold, clammy hand,* 
 to that of a Northern Ursula in the dance. 
 
 On the brown school-benches, under the eye of my 
 stern old master, — years back, — I had fed my mind for 
 hours together on the vulture-torn liver of Prometheus, and 
 Homeric verse had started fancies, that yearned to follow 
 winged Mercury to banquet-places, where gods drank 
 
 nectar ; no Andromeda, no Perseus now, — no Galatea 
 
 riding in sea-shell, drawn by many-colored dolphins — no 
 Ganymede, no Hyacinth, no chirping Silenus on his ass ; 
 
 Europa none Diana none. Yet, like a warped and 
 
 twisted fancy of the same School age, came round me the 
 new creatures of the North Mythology. 
 
 The difference between the two is just that between 
 
 polish and barbarism. In the peopling of Hellas were 
 
 nymphs : — among barbarians, gnomes. In Greek let- 
 ter, were sea-gods — in Gothic, dragons. In the antique, 
 the thyrsus was wrapped in garlands ; — in the Hunnish, 
 the spear is sharp and naked. 
 
 * Une main toute molle et froide comme la glace. — Puis il invita a 
 danser une jeune fille bien faite, bien paree, mais aussi pen sage, 
 qu'on appelait Ursule. Eufin, ils s'ecarterent de plus en plus de la 
 place ou avait lieu ce bal champetre, et arrives a la riviere, tous les 
 deux, s'y precipiterent et disparurent. — Une Danse avec V Homme 
 Aquatique. 
 
250 Fresh Gleanings. 
 
 HlNZELMANN. 
 
 A BRAVE, good spirit was Hinzelmann, who once 
 habited an old castle of the Illyrian country. 
 It lay on our road that night; the moon was shining 
 through the crevices of the ruin. There seemed to be 
 nothing stirring about it, but I could see the tops of the 
 pine-trees waving in the night wind, and brave as I boast 
 to be, I was thankful to be in the coach, galloping 
 on, and not under the deep shadow of the crumbling 
 wall. 
 
 They say it is a terror to the villagers after nightfall ; 
 and it is told of a young and bold peasant, that in a fit of 
 drunkenness, he made a boast that he would go at mid- 
 night, and bring away a stone from the wall. He reach- 
 ed the chateau safely, and had plucked up his trophy^ 
 and was making his way back to his village, when he 
 heard the paces of a horse. He had but just time to con- 
 ceal himself behind a clump of brushwood, when a mount- 
 ed knight clad in steel, with a lady before him, in his 
 arms, came clattering by ; but scarce had he passed the 
 bridge below the peasant, when a pacquet fell from the 
 rider into the stream. 
 
 When the horse's steps had died away, the bold peas- 
 ant sought the pacquet ; but scarce had he found it, and 
 mounted the bank of the stream, when he heard with ter- 
 
H I N Z E L M A N N. 251 
 
 ror the returning paces of the mounted knight. He ran 
 fast as his legs would cany him toward his village. 
 
 The horseman gained upon him; — he heard him 
 tramp over the shaking bridge, and presently the ground 
 trembled behind him ; — he turned a moment, arjd saw 
 the armor of the knight shining like silver, in the light 
 of the moon. j 
 
 The poor man 6taggered on till he felt the hot breath 
 of the strange charger, and fell to the ground half dead 
 with fright. 
 
 The villagers sought him next morning, and ifound 
 him where he had fallen. His looks were haggard, and 
 his body bruised. The pacquet, and the stone from the 
 ruin were both gone. He could give no account of 
 either, except what I have written; but they say, that 
 for the rest of his life, he was a wiser and better 
 man* 
 
 Centuries ago, Hinzelmann was the guardian spirit of 
 the baron who inhabited the castle. A plate was al- 
 ways set at the table in the long hall, for the invisible 
 guest; and the second goblet of red wine was always 
 in honor of Le Bon Esprit. 
 
 But the Baron, upon a time, grew tired of the mis- 
 chievous pranks of Hinzelmann, who sometimes upset 
 the goblets of his guests, and would sing, in the fullest 
 company, this bit of chanson : — 
 
 * Chateau de Blumenstcin (237, L'Herifier) has something in 
 common with this story. 
 
252 Fresh Gleanings. 
 
 Maltre, ici laisse-moi venir, 
 Et du bonheur tu vas jouir ; 
 Mais de ceans, si Ton me chasse, 
 Le malheur y prendra ma place.* 
 
 — So the Baron, one morning at light, saddled a fa- 
 vorite horse, and went out from his castle unattended, 
 hoping to reach, unbeknown to Hinzelmann, his estate 
 in Bohemia. As he rode down the mountain, he noticed 
 a white plume floating in the air behind him. He 
 finished his day's ride safely, and stopped at night at 
 a solitary house by the way. 
 
 In the morning, when the Baron rose to go, he missed 
 his heavy gold chain, that he had worn upon his neck. 
 The host was grieved, and called up his household to 
 question them ; none knew any thing of it. When the 
 servitors had withdrawn, the Baron heard the voice 
 of Hinzelmann, telling him to look for his chain under 
 his pillow. 
 
 The Baron was enraged that he could not rid himself 
 of his invisible attendant. Hinzelmann laughed — (not a 
 
 Ortgies lsesst du mick hier gan, 
 Gliicke sallst du han ; 
 Wultu mick aver verdrieven 
 Ungliick warst du kriegen. 
 
 From Grimm's Hinzelmann, — Le Multiforme Hinzelmann — H*3> 
 toire Merveilleuse cfun Esprit, icrite par le Curt Feldmann. The 
 curious reader will perceive that the old history has been only sug 
 gestive of the present — little being left of it but the name, and the 
 chanson. 
 
HlNZELMANN. 253 
 
 Satyr's laugh, nor yet that of a Bacchante, but a Gothic, 
 man's laugh) — and told the Baron it was needless to 
 try to escape him, that he had floated behind him in 
 the shape of a white plume, and could follow wherever 
 he went. 
 
 The Baron, like a good philosopher, went back to his 
 castle. 
 
 Honors were duly drank, month after month, to the 
 Good Spirit, and he served the Baron many a good 
 office. He teased his troublesome guests — spilled their 
 wine — pinched their elbows, and was invaluable for keep- 
 ing off such visitors as annoyed the Baron. 
 
 A Cure of the neighborhood offered to exorcise the 
 Spirit, and the master of the castle suffered him to try 
 his conjurations. Hinzelmann forgave the Baron, but 
 ducked the Cure in the ditch. 
 
 A knight proposed to drive away the Spirit with sword, 
 or slay him. He shut the great hall of the castle, — even to 
 the latch-hole, and hewed the air in every corner. Hin- 
 zelmann laughed when he had exhausted himself, and 
 told the knight he would meet him at Magdebourg. The 
 knight went away trembling, and a month after was slain 
 at the siege of Magdebourg: and they say that a white 
 plume floated over him, as the sword fell upon his head. 
 
 Hinzelmann was angry with the Baron for this breach 
 of confidence ; that night he chanted in the hall this bit 
 of the old chanson, — 
 
 Si l'on me chasse, 
 Le malheur y prendra ma place. 
 
254 Fresh Gleanings. 
 
 The next day it was found that a pacquet in which 
 were the family jewels was gone. The Baron's vassals 
 dropped off one by one, and the cattle died. Nothing 
 was known now of Hinzelmann at the chateau : — noth- 
 ing had been known for a month, when one night a 
 loud scream was heard from the apartment occupied by 
 the two daughters of the Baron. 
 
 They ran with torches to the chamber, and found 
 that Anna, which was the name of one of the sisters, 
 had fallen from the window into the moat. They could 
 see her struggling in the water. But before they could 
 unbar the castle-gates to go to her rescue, a man-at-arms 
 upon the wall reported that a knight in full armor, had 
 snatched her from the fosse, and put her upon his horse, 
 and rode away into the forest. 
 
 For weeks after, the Baron's vassals scoured the 
 country ; — they saw a strange hoof-mark on the turf, but 
 never caught sight of the stranger knight. 
 
 The Baron was maddened with sorrow and rage. It 
 had long been his custom to make a feast on his birth- 
 night, and when the night came, and he was preparing 
 himself in his chamber, at the first coming on of darkness, 
 it happened that he saw a white figure, and heard a 
 rustling in the corner of his apartment. The Baron was 
 a bold man, but trembled at sight of the apparition, — 
 and trembled more and more, when he heard the words, 
 slowly pronounced, as it seemed, in a familiar tone, 
 — " Let the second goblet to-night be drained in honor of 
 Hinzelmann." And what was the horror of the old 
 
H I N Z E I, M A N N. 255 
 
 Baron, when fixing his eyes intently on the spectre, he 
 seemed to recognize the face of his own lost Anna ! 
 
 A moment more, — and with a gentle sigh, — such a 
 sigh as the fir-trees make now about the ruin, — the figure 
 had vanished. 
 
 The old Knight went down, pale, to his feast; and 
 the guests noticed that his hand shook at the lifting of the 
 first goblet. 
 
 At the second, he tried to rise, but trembled in his 
 place : — a young guest at the bottom of the table, who 
 had been a favored suitor of the lost Anna, proposed 
 defiance to the knight, who had stolen the Baron's 
 daughter. There was a clatter on the stair, and the 
 hall-door burst open, and the stranger knight in glittering 
 armor strode straight up to the daring guest, and threw 
 down his gauntlet, and whispered in his ear a place of 
 meeting. 
 
 The Baron could give no order for his terror: — the 
 stranger went to the old place of Hinzelmann, and filled 
 a goblet with red wine, and drained it in honor of The 
 Good Spirit ; — then strode haughtily from the Hall. The 
 men-at-arms stood back, and the porter had seen nothing, 
 he said, but a white plume floating over the wicket. 
 The young guest was brave, and went to meet the 
 stranger knight, but came not again to the castle. 
 
 The Baron grew silent and moody ; and by his next 
 birth-night, the hairs had whitened on his forehead. He 
 was in his chamber, the evening of the feast, when he 
 was startled by a rustling in the corner, and the spectre 
 
256 Fresh Gleanings. 
 
 of the year before met his eyes as he turned. The same 
 slow, sepulchral tones issued from the shadowy figure, 
 conjuring him to pledge in the second goblet, The Good 
 Spirit, Hinzelmann. This time there was entreaty in the 
 voice, that made the old man forget his terror; and 
 mindful only of his lost daughter, he sprang forward to 
 clasp her ; — a breath of cold air, — a gentle sigh, and the 
 vision fled from his touch. 
 
 At the hour of the opening of the feast, the Seneschal 
 announced, that a stranger knight, with a lady veiled in 
 white, asked admission to the hospitalities of the cha- 
 teau. 
 
 The Baron placed them — one on his right, the other 
 on his left. There was a fearful whisper among the 
 guests, — that the knight was like the haughty challenger 
 of the year before ; and the host trembled, for he thought 
 the voice of the veiled lady, was like the voice in his 
 chamber. 
 
 At the filling of the first goblet, the knight put up his 
 visor, and the lady drew aside her veil. The company 
 started to their feet in horror, for within the helmet of 
 the stranger, was a white skull, and under the veil of the 
 lady, were the death-white features of the lost daughter 
 of the Baron. He took her hand, but it was like ice, and 
 he heard the slow voice of the chamber in his ear, — 
 " Remember !" 
 
 He filled the second goblet, and pledged Le Bon 
 Esprit. 
 
 The skull turned to dust, and the armor fell clanging 
 
HlNZELMANN. 257 
 
 to i ie floor; the death-face of the virgin bloomed with 
 life, and she threw her arms — warm now — round the 
 neck of her old father ; and the door burst open, and in 
 strode the valiant young knight, who had fought the 
 strange challenger, and he clasped his Anna once more ; 
 — and the laugh of Hinzelmann was heard, and his voice 
 chanting the old song : — 
 
 Maltre, ici Iaisse-moi venir, 
 Et du bonheur tu vas joulr. 
 
 It was a gay night at the castle; the Baron's youth 
 came back, and flagon after flagon of the best red wine 
 was drained, and it was morning when the feast was 
 ended. 
 
 The Baron lived to a good old age ; the young knight 
 and the daughter were united, and by and by a new 
 Baron was born, and the old Baron died. Hinzelmann 
 was held still in honor, and for three generations kept his 
 place at the hall-board. Then there came a vicious and 
 wrong-headed Baron, who hated Hinzelmann because he 
 was honest, and chid him for his wickedness. 
 
 Hinzelmann chanted louder and louder the last 
 couplet of the old chanson, but the Knight heeded it not. 
 His vassals dropped away one by one — his deer died in 
 the valleys. Finally the old turrets began to crumble 
 and fall. The Baron fell one night, half drunken, into 
 the oubliette of the castle, and was lost. The servitors 
 were frightened away from the ruined walls by spectres. 
 Some said they saw a tall horseman in armor, with a 
 
258 Fresh Gleanings. 
 
 virgin in white; others said they saw a white plume 
 floating over the ruins, and heard a voice chanting, — 
 
 Mai3 de ceans, si Ton me chasse, 
 Le malheur y prendra* ma place. 
 
 Few of the peasantry wander there now after nightfall, 
 If it had been the day-time, I thought I would have liked 
 to have gone up, and rambled over the ruin, and brought 
 away a flower or two ; but as it was — dark, with only a 
 little cold moonlight, I was very glad to be in the coach, 
 with Cameron and the Count, — who both fell fast asleep 
 before we got to Cilli. 
 
 Cilli. 
 
 "T7CTE drove into a dim archway at midnight, after 
 crashing half through the paved streets of a town. 
 We had eaten nothing from the time we had left Lai- 
 bach in the morning. The only two persons who were 
 6tirring, either could not, or would not understand any 
 thing of the language and gestures we used, to convey 
 our wishes for something to eat. We had learned their 
 dinner terms, but it is not very surprising, I have since 
 thought, that they did not understand their purport 
 under Scotch, French, and American accentuation — all 
 uttered together, by three half-starved foreigners, at 
 twelve at night. 
 
A Night Scene. 259 
 
 The stupid fellows stared at us, with an occasional 
 half smile, — as if of pity for such ignorant dogs, and were 
 not disposed to show the least attention to the Sacre, 
 and Diable of the Count, or the unexceptionable En- 
 glish oaths of Cameron. At length, when in despair we 
 had determined to find our way to the kitchen in a body, 
 a person put his night-capped head out of the top window 
 of the inn, and said, in as good English as you would 
 hear in the court of the " Ship" at Dover, — Be there 
 directly, gentlemen. 
 
 Had the voice come from heaven, we would scarce 
 have been more surprised. It proved to be a cast-away 
 valet of an English traveler, who was serving for the 
 time, as head waiter of the inn. 
 
 We managed to procure a cold supper, and a bottle or 
 two of tolerable wine ; and on that, fell to dreaming of 
 sweet English voices. 
 
 A Night Scene. 
 
 /^~\UR waiter called us at eight ; he should have called 
 ^-^ us at six. It gave occasion for a sharp quarrel, 
 which, being in English, was quite a luxury to all of us, 
 but chiefly to Cameron, who conducted it very effectively 
 on the part of the Count and myself. 
 
 The result was — a sorry breakfast — an extravagant bill, 
 and a shower of Hungarian oaths, as we dashed out of 
 
2C>0 Fresh Gleanings. 
 
 the inn court ; and in ten minutes we were in the wild 
 scenery of Styria. 
 
 Though it was hardly mid-May, the women in their 
 picturesque hats, — which were no more than broad brims, 
 with a round knot in the middle, — were at hay-making, 
 through all the grass-fields. Immense teams, of from 
 fifteen to twenty horses each, passed us on the way. The 
 cottages had an exceedingly neat air. There were oc- 
 casional beggars, but they had not the winning ways of 
 the little fellow in the Southern country. 
 
 The posts were long, and the rain threatening, and 
 thirty to forty wearisome leagues lay between us and 
 Gratz. We had hoped to reach it the same night. At 
 four, we took a miserable dinner in the dirty town of 
 Marburg; and it was near six, when we set off in a 
 driving rain. In a half hour more it was dark. Fifteen 
 leagues lay yet between us and Gratz. 
 
 At Marburg they had told us there was an inn at the 
 second post. 
 
 We discussed long, and at the first angrily, the ques- 
 tion, whether we should hold on our way spite of rain 
 and darkness to the Styrian Capital, or should stop the 
 night out at the inn of the second post. At length our 
 empty stomachs, and our fatigue, added to a little fear 
 of the wild country, and a crazy-headed driver, decided 
 us on the earliest practicable stop. 
 
 The next point was — no unimportant one — to make 
 the postmen, and stupid postillions understand our 
 new disposition. We determined to try our vocabu- 
 
A Night Scene. 261 
 
 lary of language at the first post station, — hoping, if the 
 intelligence could be in any way communicated to any 
 human tenant of the house, it might be transmitted by the 
 postillion. 
 
 Unfortunately, nobody appeared but an old woman, in 
 a night-cap. 
 
 We complimented her in French ; — nein — said the 
 old woman. 
 
 We explained ourselves in Italian ; — niclits — said the 
 old woman. 
 
 We entreated her in our phrase-book German ; — 
 niclits — said the old woman. 
 
 Cameron asked her in good Scotch, — what the D 1 
 
 she meant ; — nein — said the old woman ; and slammed 
 the door in our face. And a postillion in oil-skin jumped 
 upon the box, and we rattled away. 
 
 A church clock struck ten. 
 
 The rain increased, and an occasional burst of light- 
 ning blazed over the steep, fir-covered sides of mountains 
 that stretched beside us ; and at intervals a brighter gleam 
 would shine along the black surface of a raging stream, 
 that for the last half hour we had heard below us. The 
 dim light of the lanterns glimmered, — now upon the drip- 
 ping branches of fir-trees that hung half over the road — 
 now broke strongly upon a gray cliff, as if we were riding 
 in some monster cavern ; — then it would glinter out in 
 feeble rays into the deep darkness, lighting nothing but 
 the scuds of rain ; and the roar of the waters below, told 
 us we were on the edg ;>f a precipice. 
 
262 Fresh Gleanings. 
 
 Most anxiously we looked out for some tokens of a 
 town ; still the lightning broke over nothing but tall for- 
 ests, or savage dells below us. 
 
 The postillion drove like a madman ; and his wild Styrian 
 oaths, added to the rattle of the coach, — to the clattering 
 of the horses' hoofs, and the rolling of the thunder among 
 the hills, made us up a concert as wild, as it was fearful. 
 
 At every glimpse of smooth land, which the lightning 
 opened to view, we uttered a fervent hope, — the Count, 
 Cameron, and myself, — that the ride was nearly ended. 
 Nor did we remember for a moment, that the same diffi- 
 culties of interpretation might occur at the coming post 
 station, as at the last. 
 
 Finally, when we were half exhausted, the postillion 
 blew a shrill blast on his bugle. It sounded strangely 
 mingled with the mutterings of the thunder. 
 
 He drew up to the door of the post station : it was all 
 dark and closed. He blew again, and again. Finally, a 
 light appeared at one of the windows ; a bell tinkled in 
 an out-building; and presently a fat old Styrian, half 
 dressed, appeared at the door, and a new postillion with a 
 fresh pair of horses. 
 
 We addressed the old Styrian, as we had addressed 
 the woman of the back station. The old fellow stared, — 
 rubbed his eyes, as if he thought he was not thoroughly 
 awake, and was again all attention. 
 
 We played him a perfect pantomime by the light of 
 the lanterns. The old man gave a grim smile, and turn- 
 ed to chat with our postillion. The result of his inquiries 
 
A Night Scene. 263 
 
 seemed to be, a determination to get rid of us as soon as 
 possible. 
 
 Meantime the postillion was fast removing the panting 
 horses, and the fresh relay was waiting. 
 
 — Un hotel, — said the Count, emphasizing with a ven- 
 geance, — est ce qu'il y a un hdtel ici ? 
 
 — Yah, yah, — said the fat old Styrian, at the same time 
 hitching up his breeches. 
 
 — Eh Men — (like a flash), — nous voulons nous y arretcr. 
 
 — Yah, — said the postman; and the postillion had 
 taken away his horses, and the others were nearly on. 
 
 — Vogliamo trovar una Locanda, Signor — subito. 
 
 — Yah — yah, yah, — said the half-dressed Styrian. The 
 new postillion was nearly ready. 
 
 — Ein Gasthof, — yelled Cameron. 
 
 — Yah, yah, — said the old fellow, and gave his breeches 
 another hitch. 
 
 The postillion jumped on the box. 
 
 — D n it, we want to stop, — shouted Cameron. 
 
 — Yah, — said the fat old rascal, and shut the door ; and 
 the coach started. 
 
 It may seem very simple in us, that we did not get out 
 of our carriage ; but the truth was, we should have been 
 no nearer the hotel out of the carriage than in, beside the 
 inconvenience of being pelted by the rain. We knew 
 merely from our informant at Marburg, that we should 
 find a hotel shortly before reaching the second post sta- 
 tion. 
 
 And whatever difference of opinion had previously ex- 
 
C64 Fresh Gleanings. 
 
 iited among us, in regard to stopping, or going on to 
 Gratz, there was now a manifest coincidence upon the 
 former course ; and our three opinions formed an aggre- 
 gate of determination, which we thought it would be dif- 
 ficult, for either postman or postillion to resist. 
 
 We restrained for a moment or two the furw of our 
 resolve, hoping the coach might yet turn back. It was a 
 vain hope. At a desperate speed we rattled along the 
 brink of the river, on whose tumbling surface an occa- 
 sional gleam of the lantern shone dismally. 
 
 The Count screamed a volley of imprecations at the 
 postillion, who at length stopped his headlong pace, 
 though muttering as angrily in reply. 
 
 The Count put his head out of the window. It was an 
 odd scene — a mad Frenchman berating an impudent 
 knave of a postillion, in a merciless rain, at midnight, and 
 neither understanding a word that the other said. The 
 Count gesticulated furiously — Que diable J — un Hotel — 
 unc Aubcrge, nous disons / 
 
 The postillion swore ; — the Count drew in his head. 
 The knave hesitated a moment, — muttered something, 
 evidently intended for our ignorant ears, and drove on at 
 the same mad pace 
 
 The Count shouted again : the postillion muttered 
 louder, and gave his horses a new thwack. 
 
 We all screamed together, and broke open the coach 
 door. The postillion swore again, and drew up his 
 team. 
 
 Cameron jumped out into the rain, and ran to the 
 
A Night Scene, 265 
 
 horses' heads. The Count surveyed from one window, 
 and I from the other. Cameron talked very impressive 
 Scotch, and his pantomime would have done honor to the 
 witches in Macbeth. Uncomfortable as was our position, 
 we could not resist breaking into a roar of laughter. 
 
 This disturbed the poor postillion more and more 
 With a madman before, and two crazy fellows inside, as 
 it must have seemed to him, he was sorely perplexed. 
 He expostulated, he entreated, he explained, — I dare say 
 in very good Styrian dialect. Cameron instructed, con- 
 futed, threatened, in equally good English. We at- 
 tempted to assist matters, by throwing in a little French 
 and Italian denunciation. 
 
 The postillion in despair, uttered what seemed a round 
 oath, and put the whip to his horses. Cameron caught 
 them by the bit ; — they started back. There was no room 
 for any fancy evolutions, there on the brink of the river. 
 The postillion jumped from his seat, and ran to his 
 horses' heads. Cameron caught him by the collar, and 
 pointed back; and whether it was the gripe or the ex- 
 pression of his eye, I do not know, but the knave became 
 convinced that there was no going farther that night. 
 
 We found our way back to the post station ; the grum- 
 bling old Styrian was roused again ; we left him grum- 
 bling, and hitching up his breeches, and drove to the 
 inn. > 
 
 Two or three half-dressed servants received us. We 
 were in no humor for long interpretations. We made 
 our own way to the kitchen, and took possession of a 
 
 M 
 
2b'G Fresh Gleanings. 
 
 large dish of milk, and a loaf of bread; and slept the 
 night out quietly, on sheets fringed with lace, just over 
 the banks of the wild Styrian river. 
 
 G R A T Z. 
 
 "j^TEXT day by noon, we were in the old town of 
 -L- ^ Gratz. Thence a railway goes to Vienna, so we 
 dismissed our Post coach, and spent the afternoon ram- 
 bling about the town. There was a good Hotel, and peo- 
 ple with Christian tongues to serve one. 
 
 It was the old Styrian Capital. It lies on a spur of 
 mountains, that lie like a long, blue cloud-bank on the 
 horizon, hours before you reach them. A fortress is on 
 a rock in the middle of the city, and there is a mouldy 
 old cathedral, into which I wandered, and saw the women 
 praying at noon, before the altar. The streets are broad, 
 and on the hill the grass grows between the paving-stones ; 
 the houses are ancient, and gray and strong; and the 
 townspeople stare one in the face prodigiously; — and 
 this is all I know about them. For in the evening, the 
 Count, and Cameron and I, counted it better spending 
 of time, to talk about the events of the post ride, over 
 some ices ordered up from the Restaurant, — than to b© 
 wandering over the gloomy old city. 
 
An Austrian Railway. 267 
 
 An Austrian Railway. 
 
 TT was as if I was in America again, when I got, next 
 -*- morning, into a rail-carriage of American fashion, and 
 found myself drawn — I could hardly believe my eyes — 
 by one of Norris's Philadelphia engines. You do not 
 know, — unless you have experienced the same thing, — ■ 
 how some such accident of travel, linking the distant, and 
 the Home-known, by a sudden slip-knot, to the strange 
 and beguiling Present of Foreign scene, — you do not 
 know, I say, how it bewilders, and how your thought 
 that has flowed in one steady current of quiet admiration, 
 is all at once stirred into a thousand eddies, and a multi- 
 tude of memories come crowding on your soul, that play 
 the deuce with all your searching and traveler-like ob- 
 servation. 
 
 I could, however, see that the Austrians have yet much 
 to learn in way of engineering ; for though every thing is 
 arranged with the greatest attention to safety, there is little 
 scientific grading. The precautions taken to prevent col 
 lision, or indeed accident of any kind, are almost num 
 berless ; and I felt as safe going through the rugged 
 defiles of middle Austria — some twenty-five miles in the 
 hour — as here in my elbow-chair. 
 
 We entered at once into scenery of exceeding beauty 
 
268 Fresh Gleanings. 
 
 The road went up the valley of a mountain river — wind- 
 ing among hills covered with richest vegetation. It re- 
 minded me strongly of Switzerland. There were the 
 same wild forms of firs sweeping down whole sides of 
 mountains. There were the same green slopes of hills, — 
 sunny, and soft, and blossoming with tillage far up along 
 the heights. Sometimes too, they broke into cliffs of 
 bald, gray limestone, — rough and jagged, and tumbled out 
 into the valley, — and piled aloft, like Gothic-wrought 
 Sphinxes, to awe the weak prattler of a stream that gur- 
 gled below. 
 
 Nor was this all to make the scenery picturesque ; for 
 again and again, Cameron from one side of the coach, 
 and I from the other, called attention to some old rem- 
 nant of a castle seated upon the tops of the hills; — the 
 blue sky, or a bit of black cloud — for clouds were scud- 
 ding thick and fast — would break through the ruined 
 loop-holes with magical effect. Sometimes the ruin 
 sat proud and scornful upon a peak of rock ; at other 
 times upon a green eminence, with trees half hiding 
 it, and ivy hanging tresses over the stones. Once 
 too, we saw in the very face of the cliff, a little cavern, 
 where a hermit had placed his home ; — the smoke 
 was oozing from one of its small windows as we 
 passed. 
 
 The road is not continuous to Vienna ; for a chain 
 of mountains stretches right athwart the route. We 
 took carriages to cross over. It grew wild as we 
 approached the top; — and there, amid pine-trees that 
 
An Austrian Railway. 269 
 
 climb up on either side, a cloud of snow came over 
 us. But between the scattered flakes we could see 
 out over an immense country ; — first low hills, that 
 sloped away gradually to plain, on which, in broad, 
 bright spots of grain-fields, and of grass, the sun was 
 playing, as in Summer, — while we were shivering in 
 the winter of a mountain Spring. 
 
 The Danube would have added to the picture, but 
 unfortunately, it lay too far away; and Vienna, with all 
 its spires, did not even glimmer on the horizon. Grain- 
 fields ran away to mist and sky, except where the low- 
 lying, and driving snow-clouds came down to cover them 
 up. 
 
 Down two leagues of zig-zag descent we went like the 
 wind. The pine-trees hemmed us in, though not so 
 closely, but that we could see gems of valleys in the sides 
 of the mountains, with their groups of gray-thatched 
 houses, and flocks of goats, and bridges leaping frightful 
 chasms below us, and the same, by and by, hanging 
 fearfully above our heads. 
 
 Away we went sailing again over the carelessly 
 
 cultivated plain-land that stretches on toward the Capital. 
 We passed villages, and broad market-towns lying in the 
 flat ; and we passed the baths of Baden, on a lip of the 
 hills, that there come curling into the plain ; — and present- 
 ly glimmering on the level, were the housetops of a great 
 and crowded city. From the midst of them rose a lofty 
 and beautiful spire ; — heavily crusted with Gothic sculp- 
 ture, it rose above the houses; — solid, anil fair in its 
 
$70 Fresh Gleanings. 
 
 proportions it rose, and bore up griffin, and angel, and 
 turret, and golden saint, — high over the city. 
 
 The spire was the spire oflSt. Stephens, in the middle 
 of the city of Vienna. 
 
 You know, I believe, what it is, when a boy — 
 
 long time away from home, at school — first comes in sight 
 again of the remembered place; the letters he has received 
 have been carefully read, and reread; the warm expres- 
 sions of affection he regards little — he knows all that ; but 
 he bears in his topmost thought the new things he will 
 see; — he longs to see Ben's new rocking-horse, and the 
 little boat — Tom's birth-day gift; — and to have a ride 
 upon the poney that has been bought for sister Kate; 
 and he remembers — for they have written him — that the 
 trees which he left bare at Christmas, will be all tufted 
 with foliage, and will sweep down upon the walks ; — and 
 that the old yard will have become a leafy paradise ; — 
 and he fancies himself rambling over the wooded hill- 
 side, — building up the stone fort on a ledge of the cliffs, 
 and looking around to see if the chestnut-trees be promis- 
 ing a store of nuts ; — You know, I say, how these fancies 
 throng on him, as he comes in sight of the tree-tops, and 
 yet how he half trembles to think — it is all so near — and 
 
 that the dream is almost ended : Just so, as I sat in the 
 
 carriage before Vienna, with my thought full of what had 
 been heard, and read, and fancied, of its stately streets — 
 its princely mansions — its palaces — its Great Congress — 
 its entry of Napoleon — its crown of Charlemagne — its 
 splendid cabinets — its stores of art — its glorious music — its 
 
An Austrian Railway. 271 
 
 luxurious gardens 1 half trembled that it was all so 
 
 near, — and that that very night I should compose myself 
 to sleep, within the wall-encircled city of the august Mon- 
 arch of the ancient House of Hapsburg. 
 
% |)tpe toitl) % Dutchmen. 
 
A PIPE WITH THE DUTCHMEN. 
 
 The Upper Elbe. 
 
 /^\LD Prague is left behind. Its quaint houses, its 
 3£T. garnet jewels, its colored glass, its house of Tycho 
 Brahe — from which you looked over the battle-field — 
 glorious in the rays of sunset, are dimmed to memoiy, 
 by the fresher recollections (Heaven giant they be 
 always fresh !) of that beautiful river, on which you 
 glided down to the pleasant Capital of Saxony. 
 
 In Europe, or our own country, I have nowhere 
 seen richer river scenery than that along the Elbe, in 
 its progress through Saxon Switzerland : if a comparison 
 is to be made, — it is only less rich in association than 
 the Rhine, and only less beautiful than the Hudson. 
 
 Undines, young and fair, inhabit its watei-s, and fabu 
 lous giants stride over from bank to bank. And gray, 
 giant rocks pile up by its shores, hundreds of feet into 
 the air. At their foot, a little debris sloping to the 
 water is covered with forest trees ; and upon the small, 
 
276 Fresh Gleanings. 
 
 level summits are straggling firs. Between these isolated 
 towers, you sometimes get glimpses of undulating coun- 
 try, backed by a blue pile of mountains. At other 
 times, these towers are joined by a rocky wall — not so 
 smooth, but wilder than the Palisades, and far more 
 fearful to look on — for you sail close under the threaten- 
 ing crag, and the dark tree-fringe at the top shuts off 
 the light, and you know that if one of the loosened 
 fragments were to fall, it would crush the little steamer 
 you are upon. 
 
 Now you are free of the frowning terrors of the 
 
 cliff, and go gliding down straight upon a grassy 
 
 knoll that stretches, or seems to stretch, right athwart 
 the stream. Nearer and nearer you go, until you can 
 see plainly the bottom, and the grass growing down into 
 the water ; and while you are looking upon the pretty 
 pebbled bed of the river, the boat, like a frightened duck, 
 shies away from the grassy shore, and quickens her speed, 
 and shoots back to the shelter of the brown ramparts 
 again. Directly under them — not seen before — though 
 you thought it was the old line of rampart, a white 
 Village nestles among vines and fruit-trees; and you 
 pass so near it, that you can see the old women at their 
 knitting in the cottages, and hear the pleasant prattle of 
 children. 
 
 The prattle of the children dies away, and you glide 
 into forest silence again. No sound now, save the plash- 
 ing of your boat in the water, — or the faint crash of a 
 fir-tree, felled by some mountain woodsman, on a distant 
 
The Lower Elbe. 277 
 
 height, — or the voice of some screaming eagle, circling 
 round the pinnacled rocks. 
 
 Koningstein, the virgin fortress, never yet taken in war, 
 throws its shadow black as ink across the stream j and 
 as you glide under its overhanging cliffs — looking straight 
 up, you can see the sentinel, on the highest bastion, 
 standing out against the sky — no bigger than your 
 thumb. 
 
 And this is not the half, that one can see, in go- 
 ing down the Elbe, from Leitmeritz to the Saxon 
 Capital. 
 
 The Lower Elbe. 
 
 TTVRESDEN too, is left behind — a beautiful city. It 
 -*- , reminds one who has been in the Scottish Highlands 
 of Perth. The mountains of the Saxon Switzerland 
 take the place of the blue line of Grampians ; — the valley 
 of the Elbe, in surface and cultivation, brings vividly to 
 mind the view of the Scotch valley, from the heights 
 above the castle of Kinfauns ; — and just such a long, 
 stone-arched bridge as crosses the * silvery Tay,' may be 
 seen spanning the river at Dresden. 
 
 It made me very sad to leave Dresden. It has just 
 that sort of quiet beauty that makes one love to linger, — 
 and made me love to linger, though Cameron and our 
 Italian companion, 11 Mercante, who had joined us in 
 
278 Fresh Gleanings. 
 
 place of Le Comte, were both urging on toward the 
 Northern capitals. 
 
 So we left the Elbe, and for a long month saw no more 
 of it. 
 
 We came in sight of it again at Magdebourg — where, 
 if the old legends are true, (and I dare say there is more 
 truth in them than people think, if they would but get 
 at the bottom of the matter) there lived in the river a 
 whimsical water-sprite. She was pretty — for she ap- 
 peared under likeness of a mischievous girl, — and used 
 to come up into the village to dance with the inhabitants, 
 at all the fetes; — and she wore a snow-white dress and 
 blue turban, and had a prettier foot and more lan- 
 guishing eye, than any maid of Magdebourg. 
 
 The result was — she won the heart of a youngster of 
 the town, who followed her away from the dance to the 
 liver's brink, and plunged in with her. The villagers 
 looked to see them appear again ; but all they saw, was a 
 gout of blood floating in a little eddy upon the top of the 
 water. 
 
 They say it appears every year, on the same day and 
 hour ;* — we were, unfortunately, a month too late ; and I 
 saw nothing in the river but a parcel of clumsy barges 
 — a stout washerwoman or two, and a very dirty steamer, 
 on board which I was going down to Hamburg. 
 
 * Tradition Orale de Magdebourg. MM. Grimm. This, and 
 the following legend will remind the reader of Carleton's ballad of 
 Sir Turlough, or the Church Yard Bride ; and also of Scott's Glen* 
 finlas. 
 
The Lower Elbe. 279 
 
 Another old story runs thus : 
 
 A young man, and beautiful maiden of Magdebourg, 
 were long time betrothed. At length, when the nuptials 
 approached, he who should have been the bridegroom, 
 was missing. Search was made every where, and he was 
 not to be found. 
 
 A famous Magician was consulted, and informed the 
 bereaved friends, that the missing bridegroom had been 
 drawn under the river by the Undine of the Elbe. 
 
 The Undine of the Elbe would not give him up, except 
 the bride should take his place. To this, the bride, like 
 an exemplary woman, consented, — but her parents did 
 not. 
 
 The friends mourned more and more, and called upon 
 the Magician to reveal the lost man again to their view. 
 So he brought them to the bank of the river — our steam- 
 er was lying near the spot — and uttered his spells, and 
 the body of the lost one floated to the top, with a deep 
 red gash in the left breast. 
 
 It seems there were stupid, inquiring people in those 
 days, who said the Magician had murdered the poor soul 
 of a lover, and used his magic to cover his rascality ; but 
 fortunately, such ridiculous explanations of the weird 
 power of the Undine, were not at all credited. 
 
 I should think the Undine had now and then a dance 
 upon the bottom of the river ; — for the Elbe is the muddiest 
 Btream, all the way from Magdebourg to Hamburg, that 
 I ever sailed upon. 
 
280 Fresh Gleanings. 
 
 Traveling Companions. 
 
 T SHOULD say, if I have not already said as much, 
 -■- that half the advantage of European travel, consists 
 not so much in observation of customs of particular cities 
 or provinces, as in contrast and comparison of different 
 habits, — characteristics of different countries, as repre- 
 sented in your fellow-voyageurs, on all the great routes of 
 travel. 
 
 You may see Cockney habit in London, and Parisian 
 habit at Paris, a -•! Danish habit at Copenhagen, and 
 Prussian habit at lettin, and Italian habit at Livourne ; 
 — but you shall se« Jhem all, and more, contrasted on the 
 deck of the little bV, imer that goes down the lower Elbe 
 to Hamburg. And it is this Cosmopolitan sort of obser- 
 vation, by which you are enabled to detect whose habit is 
 most distinctive in character, — whose habit most easily 
 blends with general or local habit, that will give one an 
 opportunity for study of both individual and national pecu- 
 liarity — not easily found elsewhere. 
 
 The Englishman in his stiff cravat, you will find in all 
 that regards dress, manner, companionship, and topic of 
 conversation, the most distinctive in habit of all. 
 
 He can not wear the German blouse, or the French 
 sack ; he can not assume the easy manner of the Parisian, 
 nor the significant carriage of the Italian. In choosing 
 
Traveling Companions. 281 
 
 his companions, he avoids the English, because they are 
 countrymen, and every one else, because they are not 
 English. The consequence is, if he does not cross the 
 Channel with a companion, or find one at Paris, he is 
 very apt to go through the country without one. 
 
 Whatever may be his conversation — its foci are British 
 topics. If he discusses the hotel, he can not forbear al 
 luding to the " Bell" at Gloucester, or the " Angel" at 
 Liverpool : — if of war, it is of Marlborough, and Welles- 
 ley. He seems hardly capable of entertaining an en- 
 larged idea, which has not some connection with Eng- 
 land ; and he would very likely think it most extraordi- 
 nary, that a clever man could sustain any prolonged 
 conversation, without a similar connection. 
 
 The Frenchman, bustling and gracious, is distinctive in 
 whatever regards his language or food, and also in some 
 measure, in topic. 
 
 He would be astonished to find a man in Kamtschatka 
 who did not speak French ; and if a chattering Undine 
 had risen above the surface of the Elbe, our little French 
 traveler would not have been half as much surprised at 
 the phenomenon of her rising, as to hear her talking Ger- 
 man, 
 
 He is never satisfied with his dinner ; — he can neither 
 eat English beef, nor German pies, nor Italian oil. — Mon 
 Dieu ! quelle mauvaise cuisine ! — is the blessing he asks 
 at every meal ; and — Mon Dieu ! c'est fini. J 'en suis 
 bien aise, — are the thanks he returns. 
 
 His politesse will induce him to follow whatever topic 
 
282 Fresh Gleanings. 
 
 of conversation may be suggested ; but this failing, his 
 inexhaustible resources, as you meet him on travel, are 
 Les Femmes, and La France. 
 
 The Russian, if he has only been in a civilized country 
 long enough to shake off a little of his savage manner, is 
 far less distinctive than either. He cares little — how he 
 dresses — what he eats, or in what language he talks. In 
 Rome you would take him for an Italian, — in the Dili- 
 gence for a Frenchman — at sea for an Englishman ; and 
 in trading only, for a Russian. 
 
 The German — setting aside his beard and his pipe— - 
 (which last is not easily set aside) is also little distinctive 
 in conversational, or personal habit. You will detect him 
 easiest at table, and by his curious questionings. 
 
 The Italian leams easily and quickly to play the Cos- 
 mopolite in dress, speech, action, and in conversation too 
 — so long as there is no mention of Art. Touch only this 
 source of his Passion, and he reveals in a twinkling his 
 Southern birth. 
 
 The American — and here 1 hesitate long, knowing that 
 my observation will be submitted to the test of a more 
 rigorous examination — is in disposition least wedded to 
 distinctiveness of all. In lack of aptitude he betrays him- 
 self. His travel being hasty, and not often repeated, he 
 has not that cognizance of general form, which the Rus- 
 sian and Italian gain by their frequent journeyings. 
 
 Nor in point of language will he have the adaptiveness 
 of the Russian ; — both from lack of familiarity with con- 
 versational idiom, and lack of that facility in acquisition, 
 
Traveling Companions. 283 
 
 which seems to belong peculiarly to the holders of the 
 Sclavonic tongue. 
 
 Again, — in way of adaptation to European life, there is 
 something harder yet, for the American to gain : — it is the 
 cool, half-distant, world-like courtesy which belongs to 
 a people among whom rank obtains, and which is the 
 very opposite to the free, open, dare-devil, inconsiderate 
 manner, that the Westerner brings over the ocean with 
 nim. 
 
 Nor is the American, in general, so close an observer 
 of personal habit as the European. Those things natu- 
 rally attract most his attention, to which he is most un- 
 used ; he can tell you of the dress of royalty, — of the Pa- 
 pal robes, and of the modes at an Imperial ball ; but of 
 the every-day dress and manner of gentlemen, and their 
 after-dinner habit and topics, he may perhaps know very 
 little. 
 
 Still, in disposition he is adaptive : what he detects he 
 adopts. He is not obstinate in topic or dress like the En- 
 glishman, nor wedded to his speech or his dinner, like the 
 Frenchman. He slips easily into change. In England 
 he dines at six, with roast beef and ale. At Paris, he 
 takes his cafe, and fricandeau, and vin ordinaire, and 
 thinks nothing can be finer. At Rome he eats macca- 
 roni al burro, and sets down in his note-book — how to 
 cook it. At Barcelona he chooses rancid butter, and 
 wonders he ever loved it fresh ; and on the Rhine, he 
 takes a bit of the boiled meat, a bit of the stew, a bit of 
 the tart, a bit of the roast, a bit of the salad, with a bottle 
 
284 Fresh Gleanings. 
 
 of Hocheimer, and the memory of all former dinners is 
 utterly eclipsed. 
 
 In Vienna he will wear a beard, — in France a mous- 
 tache, — in Spain a cloak, — and in England a white cra- 
 vat. And if he but stay long enough to cure a certain 
 native extravagance of manner, — to observe thoroughly 
 every-day habit, and to instruct himself in the idioms of 
 speech, he is the most thorough Worlds-man of any. 
 
 It has occurred to me, while setting down these obser- 
 vations, that their faithfulness would be sustained by an 
 attentive examination of the literary habit of the several 
 nations, of which I have spoken. Thus, Russia — careless 
 of her own literature, accepts that of the world ; England, 
 tenacious of British topic, is cautious in alliance with 
 whatever is foreign. 
 
 But I have no space to pursue the parallel further. 
 The curious reader can do it at his leisure, while I go 
 back to our floating bateau on the Elbe. 
 
 The Elbe 
 
 A DAY and a night we were floating down the river. 
 The banks were low and sedgy — not worth a look. 
 A chattering little Frenchman detailed to us his adven- 
 tures in Russia. A clumsy Englishman was discoursing 
 with a Norwegian merchant upon trade 
 
 It was the sixteenth day of June, and the air hot aa 
 
The Elbe. 285 
 
 hottest summer. Night came in with a glorious sunset. 
 For every thing that we could see of the low country- 
 Westward was gold-yellow ; the long sedge-leaves waved 
 glittering, as if they had been dipped in golden light, and 
 fields following fields beyond them : and Eastward, save 
 where the black shadow of our boat, and its clouds of 
 smoke stretched a slanted mile over the flat banks, the 
 color of grass, and shrub, and every thing visible was 
 golden, — golden grain-fields, and fields far beyond them, 
 golden and golden still, — till the color blended in the pale 
 violet of the East — far on toward Northern Poland ; — and 
 the pale violet — clear of clouds — rolled up over our heads 
 into a purple dome. By and by the dome was studded 
 with stars ; — the awning of our boat was furled ; — and 
 we fay about the deck, looking out upon the dim, shad- 
 owy shore and to the West, where the red light lin- 
 gered. 
 
 Morning came in thick fog ; but the shores, when we 
 could see them, were better cultivated, and farm-houses 
 made their appearance. 
 
 Presently Dutch stacks of chimneys threw their long 
 shadows over the water; and with Peter Parley's old 
 story-book in my mind, I saw the first storks' nests. The 
 long-legged birds were lazing about the house-tops in the 
 sun, or picking the seeds from the sedgy grass in the 
 meadow. 
 
 The Frenchman had talked himself quiet. Cameron 
 was asleep. 
 
 Two or three Dutchmen were whining silently and 
 
286 Fresh Gleanings. 
 
 earnestly at their pipes, in the bow of the boat, — looking 
 out for the belfries of Hamburg. 
 
 To relieve the tedium, I thought I could do no 
 
 better myself; — so I pulled out my pipe that had bome 
 me company all through France and Italy, (it lies yet in 
 my writing-case,) — and begged a little tobacco, and a 
 light, — —it was my first Pipe with the Dutchmen. 
 
 Hamburg. 
 
 /CAMERON would not go with me to Bremen: — so I 
 ™* left him at Hamburg — at dinner — at the table of 
 the Kronprinzen Charles, on the sunny side of the 
 Jungfernstieg . 
 
 There was, it is true, a great deal to detain him in the 
 old free city : — there was the Alster, stretching out under 
 our chamber windows in a broad sheet, with elegant 
 new houses flanking it, — with little skiffs paddling over it, 
 from which the music floated up to our ears at eventide ; 
 and beyond it was the belt of road, along which dashing 
 equipages ran all day, and from which rose up out of the 
 very edge of the water, the great windmill that flung the 
 black shadows of its slouching arms, half way to the 
 " Maiden's walk," when the sun was riding over the tops 
 of the gardens of Vierland. 
 
 Jenny Lind was coming to sing to the Hamburgers, 
 and Cameron had secured a seat: besides there were 
 
Hamburg. 287 
 
 two beautiful Russian girls sitting vis a vis at the table 
 where I left him, and a Swedish bride, as pretty as the 
 picture of Potiphar's wife, in the palace of Barberini at 
 Rome. And there was a gay little Prussian girl, who 
 could speak just enough English to enlist the sympathies 
 of my Scotch friend, and to puzzle prodigiously her staid 
 German Papa. I know very well, by the mischief that 
 was in her eye, that she did not translate truly to her 
 Papa, all the little gossip that passed between her and 
 fun-loving Cameron, or my friend would have had, as 
 sure as the world, a snatch of the old man's cane. 
 
 Whether it was such company, or the "hung beef" 
 that held him, Cameron would not go with me to 
 Bremen. 
 
 1 could have staid at Hamburg myself. It is a 
 
 queer old city, lying just where the Elbe, coming down 
 from the mountains of Bohemia, through the wild gaps of 
 Saxony and everlasting plains of Prussia, pours its 
 muddy waters into a long arm of the Mer du Nord. 
 
 The new city, built over the ruins of the fire is elegant, 
 and almost Paris-like ; and out of it, one wanders, before 
 he is aware, into the narrow alleys of the old Dutch 
 gables. And blackened cross-beams and overlapping 
 roofs, and diamond panes, and scores of smart Dutch 
 caps, are looking down on him as he wanders entranced. 
 It is the strangest contrast of cities that can be seen in 
 Europe. One hour, you are in a world that has an old 
 age of centuries ; — pavements, sideways, houses, every 
 thing old, and the smoke curling in an old-fashioned way 
 
288 Fresh Gleanings. 
 
 out of monstrous chimney-stacks, into the murky sky : — 
 five minutes' walk will bring one from the midst of this 
 into a region where all is shockingly new : — Parisian 
 shops, with Parisian plate-glass in the windows — 
 Parisian shopkeepers, with Parisian gold in the till. 
 The contrast was tonnenting. Before the smooth-cut 
 shops that are ranged around the basin of the Alster, I 
 could not persuade myself that I was in the quaint old 
 Hanse town of Jew brokers, and storks' nests, that 1 had 
 come to see ; or when I wandered upon the quays that 
 are lined up and down with such true Dutch-looking 
 houses, it seemed to me that I was out of all reach of the 
 splendid hotel of the Crown Prince, and the prim porter 
 who sports his livery at the door. The change was as 
 quick and unwelcome as that from pleasant dreams, to 
 the realities of morning. 
 
 Quaint costumes may be seen all over Hamburg: — 
 chiefest among them, are the short, red skills of the flower- 
 girls, and the broad-brimmed hats, with no crowns at all, 
 set jauntily on one side a bright, smooth mesh of dark 
 brown hair, from which braided tails go down half to 
 their feet behind. They — the girls — wear a basket hung 
 coquettishly on one arm, and with the other will offer you 
 roses, from the gardens that look down on the Alster, 
 with an air that is so sure of success, one is ashamed to 
 disappoint it. 
 
 Strange and solemn-looking mourners in black, with 
 white ruffles and short swords, follow coffins through the 
 streets ; and at times, when the dead man has been re- 
 
Hamburg. 289 
 
 nowned, one of them with a long trumpet robed in black, 
 is perched in the belfry of St. Michael's, — the highest of 
 
 Hamburg, — to blow a dirge. Shrilly it peals over the 
 
 peaked gables, and mingles with the mists that rise over 
 the meadows of Heligoland. The drosky-men stop, to 
 let the prim mourners go by ; — the flower girls draw back 
 into the shadows of the street, and cross themselves, and 
 for one little moment look thoughtful ; — the burghers take 
 off their hats as the black pall goes dismally on. The 
 dirge dies in the tower; and for twelve hours the body 
 rests in the sepulchral chapel, with a light burning at the 
 head, and another at the feet. 
 
 There would be feasting for a commercial eye in the 
 old Hanse houses of Hamburg trade. There are piles 
 of folios marked by centuries, instead of years— corre- 
 spondences in which grandsons have grown old, and be- 
 queathed letters to grandchildren. As likely as not, the 
 same smoke-browned office is tenanted by the same re- 
 spectable-looking groups of desks, and long-legged stools 
 that adorned it, when Frederic was storming over the South 
 kingdoms — and the same tall Dutch clock may be ticking 
 in the comer, that has ticked off three or four generations 
 past, and that is now busy with the fifth, — ticking and 
 ticking on. 
 
 I dare say that the snuff-taking book-keepers wear the 
 same wigs, that their grandfathers wore ; and as for the 
 snuff-boxes, and the spectacles, there is not a doubt but 
 they have come down with the ledgers, and the day-books, 
 from an age that is utterly gone. 
 
 N 
 
290 F ii e B u Gleanings. 
 
 I was fortunate enough to have made a Dresden Coun- 
 selor my friend, upon the little boat that came down from 
 Magdebourg; and the Counselor took ice with me at 
 the Cafe on the Jungfernsticg, and chatted with me at 
 table; and after dinner, kindly took me to see an old 
 client of his, of whom he purchased a monkey, and two 
 stuffed birds. Whether the old lady, his client, thought 
 me charmed by her treasures, I do not know ; though I 
 stared prodigiously at her and her Counselor; and she 
 slipped her card coyly in my hand at going out, and has 
 expected me, I doubt not, before this, to buy one of her 
 long-tailed imps, at the saucy price often louis-d'or. 
 
 All this, and a look at the demure-faced, pretty 
 
 Danish country girls toward Altona, and a ride in a one- 
 horse gig through the garden country of Vierland, — cot- 
 tages peeping out on each side the way, upon a true 
 English road, and haymakers in the fields at sunsetting, 
 with their rakes on their shoulders, throwing long shadows 
 over the new-mown turf — all this, I say, I had to leave 
 behind me on going to Bremen. 
 
 But my decision was made ; my bill paid ; the drosky 
 at the door. I promised to meet Cameron at the Oude 
 Doelen at Amsterdam, and drove off for the steamer for 
 Harbourg. 
 
Ride to Bremen. 291 
 
 Ride to Bremen. 
 
 1 NEVER quite forgave myself for leaving Cameron 
 to quarrel out the terms with the valet- de-place at the 
 Crown Prince ; for which I must be owing him still, one 
 shilling and sixpence ; for I never saw him afterward, and 
 long before this, he must be tramping over the Muirs 
 of Lanarkshire in the blue and white shooting jacket, we 
 bought on the Quay at Berlin. 
 
 It was a fete day at Hamburg ; and the steamer that 
 went over to Harbourg was crowded with women in 
 white. I was quite at a loss among them, in my sober 
 traveling trim, and I twisted the brim of my Roman hat 
 over and over again, to give it an air of gentility ; but it 
 would not do; — and the only acquaintance I could make, 
 was a dirty-looking, sandy-haired small man, in a greasy 
 coat, who asked me in broken English, if I was going to 
 Bremen. As I could not understand one word of the 
 jargon of the others about me, I thought it best to secure 
 the acquaintance of even so unfavorable a specimen. It 
 proved, that he was going to Bremen too, and he advised 
 me to go with him in a diligence that set off immediately 
 on our arrival at Harbourg. As it was some time before 
 the mail carriage would leave, I agreed to his proposal. 
 
 It was near night when we set off, and never did I pass 
 over duller country, in duller coach, and duller company. 
 
292 Fresh Gleanings. 
 
 — Nothing but wastes on either side, half covered with 
 
 heather ; and when cultivated at all, producing only a light 
 crop of rye, which here and there, flaunted its yellow 
 heads over miles of country. The road, too, was execra- 
 bly paved with round stones, — the coach, a rattling, crazy, 
 half made, and half decayed diligence. A shoemaker's 
 boy and my companion of the boat, who proved a Bremen 
 Jew, were with me on the back seat, and two little win- 
 dows were at each side, scarce bigger than my hand. 
 Three tobacco-chewing Dutch sailors were on the middle 
 seat, who had been at Bordeaux, and Jamaica, and the 
 Cape; and in front was an elderly man and his wife — 
 the most quiet of all, — for the woman slept, and the man 
 smoked. 
 
 The little villages passed, were poor, but not dirty, 
 and the inns despicable on every account but that of filth. 
 The sailors at each, took their schnapps ; and I, at inter- 
 vals, a mug of beer or dish of coffee. 
 
 The night grew upon us in the midst of dismal land- 
 scape, and the sun went down over the distant rye fields, 
 like a sun at sea. Nor was it without its glory : — the 
 old man who smoked, pulled out his pipe, and nudged 
 his wife in the ribs; and the sailors laid their heads 
 together. The Sun was the color of blood, with a strip 
 of blue cloud over the middle ; and the reflections of light 
 were crimson — over the waving grain tops, and over 
 the sky, and over the heather landscape. 
 
 Two hours after, it was dark, and we tried to sleep. 
 The shoemaker smelt strong of his bench, and the Jew of 
 
Bremen. 293 
 
 his old clothes, and the sailors, as sailors always smell, 
 and the coach was shut ; so it was hard work to sleep, and 
 I dare say it was but little after midnight, when I gave it 
 up, and looked for the light of the next day. 
 
 — It came at last, a white streak along the horizon, 
 but disclosed no better country; nor did we see better 
 until the Jew had put on his bands, and said his Hebraic 
 service by the fair light of morning, in the outskirts of the 
 city of Bremen. 
 
 Bremen. 
 
 j" NEVER want to go to Bremen again. There are 
 -*- pretty walks upon the ramparts, and there is old hock 
 under the Hotel de Ville in enormous casks, and there 
 are a parcel of mummied bodies lying under the church, 
 that for a silver mark, Hamburg money, the sexton will 
 be delighted to show one; but the townspeople, such of 
 them as happened about the Linden-hof, upon the great 
 square, seemed very stupid ; and not one could tell me 
 how I was to get to Amsterdam. 
 
 In this strait, I had a wish to find the Consul ; and the 
 garqon, a knowing fellow, took me to a magnificent 
 portal, on which were the blended arms of all the South 
 American States. I told him it would not do — that there 
 must be stars and stripes ; at which he stared very pite- 
 ously at me, seeming to think I was a little touched in 
 
29 1 Frksh Gleanings. 
 
 the brain. But after some further inquiries, I found my 
 way to a cockloft, where a good-natured Dutchman 
 received me, and took me to the Exchange, and the wine- 
 cellar, and left me at the Poste, with my name booked for 
 Oldenburg the same afternoon. The mail line was the 
 property of the Duke of Oldenburg; and a very good one 
 it was, for we went off in fine style in a sort of drosky 
 drawn by two Dutch ponies. 
 
 Oldenburg. 
 
 npiHERE is a dreamy kind of pleasure in scudding so 
 -*- fast, over so smooth and pretty roads as lay between 
 us that afternoon, and the capital of the Duchy of Olden- 
 burg. There was a kindly-looking old man sat opposite 
 to me in the drosky, who would have talked with me 
 more — for we mustered a little of common language — but 
 for a gabbling Danois, who engrossed nearly the whole 
 of his time. I met him again in the park of the Duke, 
 and arm in arm the vielliard and I rambled over it 
 together, under the copper-leaved beech-trees, and by 
 the stripes of water that lay in the lawn. 
 
 Sometimes we would meet a family of the town at 
 their evening stroll — the youngsters trooping it over the 
 greensward, and the half-grown girls shading their faces 
 with the roses, that grow so profusely in the park. Then 
 would come along, laughing, a company of older ones. I 
 
The Drinking-Hor n. 295 
 
 would button up my coat, and put on my cleanest glove, 
 and make the best appearance I could with my traveling 
 trim; but for all that, there were a great many wicked 
 glances thrown at me ; and half a dozen times, I vowed I 
 would be looking better on my next visit to Oldenburg. 
 It would e11 be veiy well on the great routes of travel, 
 where every third man you meet is a voyageur like your- 
 self, and where a sort of traveling etiquette prevails. Not 
 so in the out of the way, quiet, and home-like towns, 
 where a new comer is at once an object of attention, and 
 put down in the tattle-books of the gossips. 
 
 It was in Oldenburg I saw first the Dutch taste for 
 flowers. Every house had its parterre of roses and 
 tulips ; and the good old custom of taking tea in the midst 
 of them, before the door, was zealously maintained. And 
 I could see the old ladies lifting their teapots, and the 
 girls smirking behind their saucers, as I walked before 
 the houses, still chatting with the old gentleman of the 
 drosky. 
 
 The Drinking-Horn. 
 
 TTTTE led me into the great court-yard of the Ducal Pal- 
 !' P «" ace. The doors were shut — only a sentinel or two 
 were pacing about. 
 
 I was sorry not to go within the Palace, for my com- 
 panion told me something of an old drinking-horn, guard- 
 
24*6 Fresh Gleanings. 
 
 ed as a precious relic by the Oldenburg family, which 
 made me very curious to see it. He told me it was a 
 stag's horn, curiously carved over, in an antique style, 
 with dragons and fairies, — that it was tipped at the bot- 
 tom with pearl, and lined throughout with pure gold. 
 
 It seems that many centuries ago, when things were 
 different from what they are now, and men were tempted 
 by Satan in the shape of goblins and elfs, as they are 
 tempted now by him in the shape of men and women — 
 there lived a pious and brave Baron of Oldenburg — 
 Hilderick by name, who was kind to his vassals, and said 
 his prayers, in spite of all the Devil could do. 
 
 Hilderick had gone out one day to hunt, and excited 
 by the chase, had rode away from his companions, and 
 lost himself in the forest. For hours he rode on, not 
 knowing which way he was going. At length, when he 
 was nearly exhausted by fatigue and thirst, he espied 
 through an opening in the trees, a tall hill. 
 
 He spurred his jaded horse toward the eminence, think- 
 ing that possibly he might see from the top, either the 
 turrets of his castle, or some sign of his comrades. 
 
 But he was doomed to be disappointed ; he could see 
 from the top neither turret nor horseman ; — and heard only 
 the wind rushing through the openings of the forest, 01 
 the howl of a bear from some dark thicket. 
 
 The Baron was near falling from his horse, exhausted 
 by hard riding, and a raging thirst, when suddenly there 
 appeared behind him — as if she had come up the othei 
 side of the mountain — a beautiful damsel, in white, bear 
 
The Drinking-Horn. 297 
 
 ing a drinking-horn full of sparkling liquor. Softly she 
 approached the Baron, and put the horn in his hand. 
 Hilderick murmuied a word of thanks — his fatigue would 
 allow him to do no more, — and put the rim of the horn to 
 his lips, — when suddenly he remembered that he had 
 been warned against a strange lady, who should come to 
 him with a goblet of wine. 
 
 His thirst was raging, but he implored the aid of his 
 patron saint, and dashed the liquor behind him. His 
 horse reared and plunged, for where so much as a drop 
 had touched his flank, the skin was raw and bloody. 
 
 The eyes of the strange lady shot out glances of fire. 
 She demanded the horn of the Baron, but he refused to 
 give it her. 
 
 Hilderick's eyes started in fright, and his frame shook, 
 for the eyes of the woman changed to the red eyes of a 
 dragon, and her hair grew coarse and stiff, and her fair 
 bosom became coated with ugly scales, and her arms be- 
 came sharp claws. 
 
 The horse of Hilderick bounded down the mountain — 
 the Baron clutching his trophy, and hearing with dread, 
 the bushes crackling behind him under the tread of the 
 great she-dragon. 
 
 On and on — straight as an arrow, flew the horse of Hil- 
 derick — his flanks all bloody — his nostrils panting with 
 rage. And on as fast, through the terrible forest, came 
 the roaring paces of the maddened dragon. 
 
 The Baron uttered his prayers, and saw at length, that 
 he was approaching the bounds of his kingdom ; but his 
 
29S Fresh Gleanings. 
 
 foe was near upon him, and he felt }*er hot breath like the 
 blasts of a furnace. 
 
 At length the horse of Hilderick fell exhausted. The 
 knight uttered a prayer, and looking around, saw that he 
 was within the bounds of his own kingdom, and that the 
 dragon had vanished. 
 
 When the horse of Hilderick had recovered himself, 
 the Baron rode home to his castle, and ordered prayers 
 to be said for his deliverance. His people rejoiced as 
 much as he, for he was kind to his vassals. It was, with- 
 out doubt, they said, an attempt on the part of Satan, to 
 buy the allegiance of the Baron. And it was a boast 
 with them in years after : — the Good Knight Hilderick, 
 who, though dying with thirst, would not take drink from 
 the Evil One. 
 
 Whether some of his successors have not sold them- 
 selves to the Devil, on much cheaper terms, is more than 
 I know. 
 
 The proof of the stoiy is ; — that there is still a race of 
 horses in the neighborhood, with white spots on their 
 flank — called the breed of the Dragon. And what is still 
 stronger — indeed irrefragable, is the fact that the drink- 
 ing-horn is still hanging in an old cabinet of the Palace 
 of Oldenburg. 
 
 At least, my companion told me it was; and I 
 
 find the same thing attested by Messieurs Grimm* — from 
 
 * Les viellees Allemandes : Traduction par L'Heritier (de L'Ain) 
 Tmp. Mme Huzard. Paris. 
 
A Short Sermon. 299 
 
 whom, indeed, I suspect the vielliard had taken the prom- 
 inent ideas of the story : though he amplified it to excess ; 
 for, whereas in Grimm, it is embraced in two short para- 
 graphs, the old gentleman had occupied a full half hour 
 in the recital. 
 
 A Short Sermon. 
 
 "WTTTHEN we had rambled back to his inn, we had 
 ™ " grown quite familiar, and wholly forgot, until we 
 told each other of it, that our paths diverged on the mor- 
 row, forever. 
 
 It is sad, and it is pleasant, this experience of solitary 
 wayside travel ! An hour — you interchange thought with 
 a man of different language, different religion, and differ- 
 ent ideas of what is moral. You unite with him only on 
 a common social ground — you grow into his thoughts, — 
 you look out through his eyes. Your sympathies chime 
 together on some common subject ; your feelings toward 
 him grow warm, — your familiarity increases ; you take 
 him, in words, to your home; you extend the sympa- 
 thies, that grow and kindle into a flame at the recollec- 
 tion, around the new heart, that seems to pulsate with 
 yours; and he takes you to 7iis home, and your affec- 
 tions, warmed, take the impulse and bound under it ; and 
 you are united to him by ties pure as blood ties ; and yet, 
 when you shake his hand, as I shook the hand of that old 
 
300 Fresh Gleanings. 
 
 gentleman that evening, on the banks of the little stream 
 that runs into the Weser, an uncontrollable sadness comes 
 over you, — for it is the last shaking of hands that you, or 
 he will know. 
 
 His sentiments may be as different from yours on some 
 subjects, that have a shape formed by education, as light 
 from darkness. What on earth matters it, if he be Jew, 
 or Catholic, or German 1 There will be words, and warm 
 words, as common to him as to you ; and he who shrinks 
 them into little words, that have meaning so limited, they 
 can not touch feelings, except they are biased just as his 
 on every point, does not know how to use words well, or 
 as the God of nature meant they should be used. 
 
 In familiar life, and in a world we know, we shape 
 words to characters : insensibly we make an estimate of 
 what a man's opinions may be, and we shape conduct to 
 the opinions — either to combat them or to humor them, 
 but all the while with them in view. In a strange world, 
 of creeds so variant and curious, as scatter over the sur- 
 face of the Continent, one meets man as a man, and a 
 man only ; and he tempers thought and intercourse upon 
 a grand range — a range limited only by human sympa- 
 thies ; and he does not think to jar on this opinion or that, 
 but embraces opinions that must belong to every human 
 feeling soul. The mind and the heart expand on this 
 great ground. Sensibilities lake quicker impulse where 
 there are no codes to regulate them : affections break out 
 free and evenly divided : prejudice is bewildered, for the 
 landmarks are lost. 
 
The Drosky and Dutchman. 301 
 
 What glorious openness and evenness of feeling grow 
 out of such experience ! How one towers up, and towers 
 up, until he feels that he can look down on the wranglers 
 about differences of opinion — there they squabble away, 
 the poor creatures ! about thinking unlike, and can never 
 agree to do it : they are defining charity, and can not lift 
 themselves to the nobleness of its practice. 
 
 I believe, on my honor, I should have preached a very 
 good sort of a sermon that night (if I have not done so al- 
 ready), with no better text than the cheerful talk the gray- 
 haired man of Bremen and I had together, along the 
 pretty paths of the park of Oldenburg. I could not do 
 justice to my chops and wine at the H6tel de Russie : so 
 I went off early to bed. 
 
 The Drosky and Dutchman. 
 
 |"T was a good drosky, and good horses put to it, that 
 rPi was standing at the door of the bureau de poste next 
 morning, to take me on my way to Amsterdam. The 
 back seats and front seats were both empty, and I dread- 
 ed near a two days' ride alone. But just as I got in, 
 there came up a young man of nineteen or twenty, and 
 took a place beside me. Company was agreeable ; but 
 two days together, with no common language to talk in, 
 would be worse than no company at all. 
 
 Presently it came — just as I thought, — infernal Dutch. 
 
302 Fresh G l e a x i x g s. 
 
 I shook my head in a sour way : and so, thought I, he 
 takes me for a Dutchman ; and partly nettled with this 
 notion, and partly annoyed at not being able to talk, I 
 muttered — le (liable ! 
 
 The exclamation was out of all place, for my com- 
 panion spoke French better than I. He had French 
 communicativeness, too, and in a half hour we were old 
 friends. 
 
 He was the oldest of nine children of a merchant of 
 Amsterdam. Eight years he had sucked the ink from the 
 quills in his father's counting-room. But two years back, 
 there had come under his father's patronage an Italian 
 skipper. The skipper and he had passed many a quiet 
 afternoon together over the tall desks, and while the old 
 Meinheer was puffing at his meerschaum, in the leather- 
 bottomed chair of the inner office, the young Meinheer 
 had lolled over the long stools, killing flies with the end 
 of his ruler, and listening to the skipper's stories of those 
 parts of the world which lie beyond the Zuyder Zee. 
 His youthful imagination became inflamed, and with it, 
 his love of knowledge. He added Italian to French, and 
 begged his father to let him change his position. He was 
 tired of the old counting-room down by the Amstel, and 
 tired of looking forever into the dirty Keizers Gracht. 
 The children at home were good children and quiet chil- 
 dren : but little Frans, and Girard, and Jans would catch 
 hold of his coat-tails when he came in from the office 
 tired, and would pull his hair if he did not take one in 
 his lap, and ride the other on his foot ; — all which, — said 
 
The Drosky and Dutchman. 303 
 
 my companion, — took up my evenings ; which young 
 men like you and I want to themselves. 
 
 I gave him an affirmative nod, and he went on- — 
 
 — For six months my father considered the subject. 
 Meantime little Frans was growing up to be as high at 
 the desk as I. The skipper became more eloquent of 
 other lands ; and I listened and grew enamored. At 
 length one day — a week Monday — my father called me 
 in the office, and put a batch of letters in my hand, and 
 counted out a hundred guilders, and told me I might go, 
 and see what could be done in Bremen. 
 
 — In Bremen 1 — said I. 
 
 — Bremen, Monsieur. 
 
 — It is a little way, — said I. 
 
 — Pardon, Monsieur, pardon, it is a long way from 
 Amsterdam. 
 
 — I am come farther within a month — even from Vienna. 
 
 — Monsieur — Quel grand chemin ! 
 
 — And before that, from Rome. 
 
 — Par bleu / 
 
 — And from Paris. 
 
 — del ! 
 
 — And from America. 
 
 — Mon Dieu ! — mon Dieu ! 
 
 When he had recovered a little from his good-natured 
 astonishment, I inquired after his success. It could not 
 have been better : the second day in the strange city he 
 had secured a place, he had lived like a prince at the inn, 
 had drunk a bottle of Hockheimer a dav, and was 
 
304 Fresh Gleanings. 
 
 now, with fifteen guilders left, going back to arrange his 
 final departure from his home and kindred. 
 
 I felt interested in my companion's story, as showing 
 the simplicity and quietude of the Dutch character ; and if 
 the reader has been as much so, he will care nothing 
 about the country we passed over, before stopping to 
 dine. 
 
 The postillion had given two blasts on his bugle; I 
 gulped down the last glass of wine, — seized a piece of the 
 old lady's cheese in my hand, and we settled the cost 
 between us, my companion and I, on the back seat of the 
 coach. My Dutch friend had well improved his one 
 trip over the road, for I noticed that the maid of the inn 
 at Lingen gave him a familiar nod, and a very encourag- 
 ing look — leaving me to the guidance of a middle-aged 
 woman in boots, who entertained a half-score of fat, 
 short boys, who followed us, by telling them that the 
 Meinheer in the gray hat and coat, was a live American ; 
 nor did I get rid of the troop, until I went in to supper at 
 that town on the Ems. 
 
 Here, our post arrangements underwent a change; and 
 we were reduced to choice of seats in a wretched old dili- 
 gence. It was dark when we got in the coach, and 
 I could not make out what sort of companions we had. 
 At eleven and a half we were fairly jolted asleep, when 
 there was a stop for the officers of the Customs of Hol- 
 land. All escaped except an old fellow who was dream- 
 ing before me, and who could give no satisfactory account 
 of a savory package in his lap. — He looked appealingly 
 
A Dut c i! 1 x x, 305 
 
 with his eyes half open, at the officer with the lantern ; 
 but the officer with the lantern was unfortunately wide 
 awake, and our poor fellow-traveler was at length obliged 
 to confess to — sausages : they took him and his meats out 
 of the coach, and for a half hour we waited in the cold, 
 before the poor soul came back, muttering over hia 
 prostrate hopes. 
 
 A Dutch Inn. 
 
 A LITTLE past sunrise, I took my first cup of coffee 
 in a true Dutch inn. The floor was as clean as the 
 white deal table, but made of polished tiles; the huge 
 chimney was adorned with the same. The walls were 
 fresh painted and washed ; the dishes were set on edge 
 upon the shelves, and the copper saucepans hung :ound, 
 as redly bright as in Bassano's pictures. The clock 
 stood in the corner ; the slate and the pencil were hang- 
 ing beside the casement ; a family portrait hung over one 
 end of the mantel, and the hour-glass, and the treasures 
 were ranged below. A black and white cat was curled 
 up and dozing in a straight-backed chair ; and a weazen- 
 faced landlady was gliding about in a stiff white cap. 
 
306 Fresh Gleanings. 
 
 D e v e n t E R. 
 
 "¥^7"HEN we reached Deventer, it was the middle of 
 the morning of a market day; and the short- 
 gowned women thronging over the great square, under 
 the shadow of the cathedral, seemed just come out of the 
 studios of the old Dutch painters. We ate some of the 
 eggs that were in pyramids among them, at the inn of the 
 Crown. Rich enough is the primitiveness of all this 
 region. Even the rude stares that met me and my South- 
 ern garb in the streets, were more pleasant than annoy- 
 ing. Strangers rarely come into the region, merely to 
 look about them; and so little is there even of local 
 travel, that the small silver coin I had taken the evening 
 before, was looked doubtfully upon by the ginger-bread 
 dealers of Deventer. In every other portion of Europe, 
 I had been harassed by falling in with French and En- 
 glish, in every coach and at every inn. Here I was free 
 from all but natives; and not a single post carriage had 
 I fallen in with, over all the country from Bremen to 
 Deventer. There was a spice of old habits in every 
 action. There was a seeming of being translated a cen- 
 tury or two back in life ; and neither in coaches, nor 
 horses, nor taverns, nor hostesses, was there any thing to 
 break the seeming. The eggs at the inn were served in 
 old style ; the teapot, low and sprawling, was puffing out 
 
D E V B N T E R. 307 
 
 of a long, crooked nose by the fire, in good old fashion ; 
 the maid wore a queer old cap and stomacher, and she 
 and the cook peeped through the half-opened door, and 
 giggled at the strange language we were talking. 
 
 The daughters of the market-women, were many of 
 them as fresh and rosy as their red cabbages ; and there 
 were daughters of gentlewomen, looking as innocent as 
 the morning air, out of the open casements : — in short, I 
 was half sorry I had booked for Arnheim, and what was 
 worse, that the coach was at the door of the Crown. 
 
 Many a time before and since, my heart has rebelled 
 against being packed off from bright sunny towns, whose 
 very air one seems to love, — and still more the pleasant 
 faces that look after you. What large spots in memory, 
 bright, kind-looking faces cover over ! But they pass out 
 of sight, and only come back, a long way off, in dreams — 
 blessed be Heaven for that ! And when one wakes from 
 them into the vividness of present interests, he seems to 
 have the benefit of two worlds at once — blessed be Heaven 
 for that, too ! 
 
 I should have grown very sulky in the coach, had it 
 not been for the exceedingly beautiful scenery we were 
 going through. The fields were as green as English 
 fields, and the hedges as trim and blooming as English 
 hedges. The cottages were buried in flowers and vines, 
 and an avenue embowered us all the way. A village we 
 passed through, was the loveliest gem of a village, that 
 could bless an old or a young lady's eyes in Europe. 
 The road was as even and hard as a table, and winding. 
 
398 Fresh Gleaning?, 
 
 Hedges were each side of it, and palings here and there 
 as neatly painted as the interiors at home ; and over 
 them, amid a wilderness of roses and jessamines, the 
 white faces of pleasant-looking Dutch cottages : — the road 
 throughout the village as tidy as if it had been swept, 
 and the trees so luxuriant, that they bent over to the 
 coach-top. Here, again, I would have wished to stop — 
 to stop, by all that is charming in bright eyes — for half a 
 lifetime. 
 
 An old Dutch lady, a worthy burgomaster's wife of 
 Amheim, would not leave off pointing to me the beauties 
 as they came up, with her fort joli, and charmant ; — to all 
 of which, I was far more willing in accordance, than of the 
 two thirds of the coach seat, which was surely never 
 intended for such sized bodies, as that of the burgomas- 
 ter's wife. I was sorry, notwithstanding, when we had 
 finished our ride in the clean streets of Arnheim, and 
 set oft', in a hard rain, by the first train for Amsterdam. 
 All the way down, through Naarden and Utrecht, the 
 rain was pouring so hard, that I had only glimpses of 
 water and windmills. I bade my friend of the office 
 in the Amstel, good-by, and though he promised to call at 
 my inn, I never saw him again. 
 
The Oude Doelen. 309 
 
 The Oude Doelen. 
 
 T DID not much like the little back room on the first 
 A floor, which they gave me at the Oude Doelen, for 
 it seemed I could almost put the end of my umbrella into 
 the canal ; and there was a queer craft with a long bow- 
 sprit lying close by, that for aught I knew, with a change 
 of tide, might be tangling her jib-boom in my sheets. I 
 ventured to say to my host, that the room might be 
 damp. 
 
 — Le diable, — said my host ; and without making further 
 reply to my suggestion, turned round and spoke very 
 briskly with the head-waiter. What he said I do not 
 know ; but when he had finished, the waiter clasped his 
 hands, looked very intently at me, and exclaimed, with 
 the utmost fervor, — Mon Dieu ! 
 
 I saw I had committed, however innocently, some very 
 grave mistake; so I thought to recommend myself to 
 their charities, by taking the room at once, and saying no 
 more about the dampness. 
 
 When I woke up, the sun was reflected off the water 
 in the canal into my eyes. From the time I had left 
 Florence, four months before, I had not received a letter 
 from home, and my first object was to seek out a Mr. 
 Van Bercheem, to whom I was duly accredited. God- 
 sends, in verity, are letters from home, to one wandering 
 
310 Fresh Gleanings. 
 
 alone ; and never did a wine lover break the green seal 
 off the Hermitage, as eagerly as I broke open the broad 
 red wax, and lay back in the heavy, Dutch chair, and 
 read, and thought, and dreamed — dreamed that Europe 
 was gone — utterly vanished ; and a country where the 
 rocks are rough, and the hills high, and the brooks all 
 brawlers, come suddenly around me, — where 1 walked 
 between homely fences, but under glorious old trees, and 
 opened gateways that creaked ; and trod pathways that 
 were not shaven, but tangled and wild ; and said to my 
 dog, as he leaped in his crazy joy half to my head — Good 
 fellow, Carlo ! — and took this little hand, and kissed that 
 
 other soft cheek heigho ! dreaming surely ; and I all 
 
 the while in the little back parlor of the Oude Doelen at 
 Amsterdam ! 
 
 A Dutch Merchant. 
 
 A ROSY young woman came out into the shop that I 
 -*--*- entered with the valet, upon one of the dirty canals, 
 and led me into a back hall, and up a dark stairway, and 
 rapped at a door, and Mr. Van Bercheem appeared. He 
 was a spare, thin-faced man of forty — a bachelor, — wed- 
 ded to business. At first, he saw in me a new con- 
 nection in trade ; it was hard to disappoint him, and I 
 half encouraged the idea ; but my present travel, I as- 
 sured him, was wholly for observation. 
 
A Dutch Merchant. 311 
 
 — Ah, he had tried it, but it would not do. He was 
 lost, — withering up soul and body, when he was away 
 from his counting-room. He had tried the country, — he 
 had tried society for a change, but he could find no peace 
 of mind away from his books. 
 
 He spoke of the great names upon 'Change, — the Van 
 Diepens, the Van Huyems, the De Heems ; and I fan- 
 cied there had been hours, when he had listened to him- 
 self, adding to the roll, — Van Bercheem. 
 
 The valet put his head in at the door, to ask if I 
 wished him longer; I dismissed him, and the merchant 
 thanked me. 
 
 — These fellows are devils, Monsieur ; he has been 
 keeping his place there at the door, to know what 
 business you and I can have together, and he will 
 tattle it in the town ; and there are men who disgrace 
 the profession of a merchant, who will pay such dogs ; 
 — and he lowered his voice, and stepped lightly to the 
 door, and opened it again, but I was glad the valet had 
 gone. 
 
 He asked me in with him to breakfast ; it was only 
 across the back hall, in a little parlor, heavily curtained, and 
 clean as Dutch parlors are always. The breakfast was 
 served, — I knew not by whom — perhaps the rosy wom- 
 an in the shop below. A cat that walked in, and lay 
 down on the rug, was the only creature I saw, save 
 my friend, the merchant. I tried to lead him to talk 
 of the wonders, and of the society of Amsterdam ; 
 but Jiis mind worked back insensibly to 'Change and 
 
312 Fresh Gleanings. 
 
 trade. It was a fearful enthusiasm. I thought of 
 Horace's lines : — 
 
 Quisquis 
 
 Ambitione maid, aut argenti pallet amore, 
 
 Aut alio mentis morbo calet, — 
 
 Burning, surely ! He finished his breakfast and went 
 back with me to the counting-room. He gave me a list 
 of his correspondences ; — he put in my hands a great 
 pacquet of cards o£ houses from Smyrna to Calcutta, and 
 of each he gave me a brief history, with the never-failing 
 close, that each was safe and honorable. He pressed 
 upon me thirty-five cards of the house of Van Bercheem ; 
 — be wished me success; — he hoped I would not be 
 forgetful of him, and sent a little Dutch boy in the office 
 to show me the Palace. He went back pale to his 
 books. I shall never forget him. 
 
 Amsterdam. 
 
 TN an hour, with the Dutch boy, I was on the top of 
 -*- the tower of the Palace, The view that lay under my 
 eye that July day, and one not wholly dissimilar, seen 
 three months before, from the tower of San Marco at 
 Venice, are the most strange that met my eye in 
 Europe. 
 
 Here, as at Venice, there was a world of water, and 
 the land lay flat, and the waves played up to the edges 
 
Amsterdam. 313 
 
 as if they would cover it over. At Venice, the waters 
 were bright, and green, and moving. At Amsterdam, they 
 lay still and black in the city, and only where the wind 
 ruffled them in the distance, did they show a sparkle of 
 white. The houses too, seemed tottering on their 
 uneasy foundations, as the palaces of Venice, and the 
 tower of the Greek Church had seemed to sway. 
 
 But the greatest difference between the two, was in the 
 stir of life. Beneath me, in the Dutch Capital, was the 
 Palace Square and the Exchange, thronging with 
 thousands, and cars and omnibusses rattling among them. 
 Along the broad canals, the boatmen were tugging their 
 clumsy craft, piled high with the merchandise of every 
 land. Every avenue was crowded, — every quay cum- 
 bered with bales, and you could trace the boats along the 
 canals bearing off in every direction, — even India ships 
 were gliding along upon artificial water above the mead- 
 ows where men were reaping; and the broad, high 
 dykes, stretching like sinews between land and water, 
 were studded thick with mills, turning unceasingly their 
 broad arms, and multiplying in the distance to mere 
 revolving specks upon the horizon. 
 
 Venice seemed asleep. The waves, indeed, broke 
 with a light murmur against the palace of the Doge, and 
 at the foot of the tower ; but the boats lay rocking lazily 
 on the surface of the water, or the graceful gondolas 
 glided noiselessly. The Greek sailors slept on the decks 
 of their quaint feluccas; — no roll of cart, or horses' heavy 
 tread, echoed over the Piazza di San Marco ; — a single 
 
 O 
 
314 Fresh Gleanings. 
 
 man-of-war lay with her awning spread at the foot of tho 
 Grand Canal. There was an occasional foot-fall on the 
 pavement below us ; — there was the dash of the green 
 sea-water over the marble steps ; — there was the rustling 
 of the pigeons' wings, as they swooped in easy circles 
 around us, and then bore down to their resting-places 
 among the golden turrets of St. Mark: — every thing 
 beside was quiet ! 
 
 The little Dutch boy and I went down the steps 
 together. I thanked him, and asked him my way into 
 the Jews' quarter of the town. He would not permit 
 me to go alone. He had learned French at his school, 
 where, he said, all the boys of merchants spoke it only ; 
 and a great many intelligent inquiries he made of me, 
 about that part of the world which could not be seen 
 from the top of the palace tower; — for further, poor soul, 
 he had never been. The tribe of Israel can not be clean 
 even in Dutch-land ; and though their street was broad, 
 and the houses rich, there was more filth in it, than in all 
 the rest of Amsterdam together. There they pile old 
 clothes, and they polish diamonds by the thousand. 
 
 Walking along under the trees upon the quays beside 
 the canals, one sees in little, square mirrors, that seem to 
 be set outside the windows of the houses for the very 
 purpose, the faces of the prettiest of the Dutch girls. 
 Old women, fat and spectacled, are not so busy with 
 their knitting but they can look into them at times, and 
 see all down the street, without ever being observed. It 
 is one of the old Dutch customs, and while Dutch 
 
Amsterdam. 315 
 
 women are gossips, or Dutch girls are pretty, it will 
 probably never go by. In Rotterdam, at Leyden, at 
 Utrecht, and the Hague, these same slanting mirrors will 
 stare you in the face. 
 
 Nowhere are girls' faces prettier than in Holland; 
 complexions pearly white, with just enough of red in 
 *hem to give a healthy bloom, and their hands are as fair, 
 soft and tapering, as their eyes are full of mirth, witchery, 
 and fire. 
 
 1 went through the street of the merchant princes of 
 Amsterdam. A broad canal sweeps through the centre, 
 full of every sort of craft, and the dairy- women land their 
 milk from their barges, on the quay in front of the 
 proudest doors. The houses and half the canal are 
 shaded with deep-leaved lindens, and the carnages rattle 
 under them, with the tall houses one side, and the waters 
 the other. 
 
 My boy guide left me at the steps of the Royal 
 Gallery. There is in it a picture of twenty -five of the 
 old City Guard, with faces so beer-loving and real, that 
 one sidles up to it, with his hat hanging low, as if he 
 were afraid to look so many in the face at once. And 
 opposite, are some noble fellows of Rembrandt's painting, 
 going out to shoot ; they jostle along, or look you in the 
 face, as carelessly as if they cared not one fig for you, or 
 the Dutch burgomaster's family, who were with me look- 
 ing on, that morning : — and there was a painted Candle- 
 light, and Bear-hunt how a tempest of memory 
 
 scuds over them all, here in my quiet chamber, that I 
 
316 Fresh Gleanings. 
 
 can no more control, than the wind that is blowing the last 
 leaves away ! 
 
 Would to Heaven I were gifted with some Aladdin 
 touch, to set before you — actual — only so many quaint 
 things and curious, as lie together in the old Dutch 
 Capital, — churches, and pictures, and quays, and dykes, 
 and spreading water, — sluggish and dead within, but 
 raging like a horse that is goaded without ! 
 
 Like a toad the city sits, squat upon the marshes ; and 
 her people push out the waters, and pile up the earth 
 against them, and sit down quietly to smoke * Ships 
 come home from India and ride at anchor before their 
 doors, — coming in from the sea through paths they have 
 opened in the sand, and unlading their goods on quays 
 that quiver on the bogs. 
 
 * Old Andrew Marvel gives them this bit of undeserved satire :— 
 
 " As miners who have found the ore, 
 They, with mad labor, fished the land to shore, 
 And dived as desperately for each piece 
 Of earth, as if't had been of ambergris; 
 Collecting anxiously small loads of clay, 
 Less than what building swallows bear away ; 
 Or than those pills, which sordid beetles roll, 
 Transfusing into tkem their dunghill soul." 
 
B U I K S L U T. 317 
 
 BUIKSLUT. 
 
 XT AN BERCHEEM had told me I must go ^ver to 
 " Buikslut to see the ship-canal ; so, one sunny noon, 
 I sailed over, and fell in with an India Captain, who was 
 my interpreter. He was a fat, easy talking Dutchman ; 
 hut I do not now remember the half that he said about 
 his ship, and his trip down the China Seas, and the great 
 canal we were upon. And it was something very odd, 
 and struck me very oddly, that he, a Dutchman from 
 Japan, should be describing to me, half a savage, from a 
 little nook of savage country, as far West as he had been 
 East, the strange things that were coming to our eyes 
 through the cabin windows of our boat. 
 
 One side we looked over a wild waste, with rank 
 herbage here and there, and over the far-off edge of 
 which, appeared some of the windmills of Saardam ; the 
 other side, we looked down upon a soft meadow where 
 cattle were grazing, while water that floated ships was 
 only a stone's throw away, and high over its level. 
 
 Sober -looking cottages were here and there along the 
 margin of the canal, with sober-looking burghers smoking 
 in the door-ways, — living safely enough now ; but if old 
 Ocean were to take one little madcap leap — and he has 
 done it before — they would go down into the sea, with 
 their herring. Along the great sea-dyke at Saardam, 
 
318 Fresh Gleanings. 
 
 one may see the Ocean trying to leap over ; and stand- 
 ing low down upon the meadow, one hears the waves 
 dashing against the dyke high over his head, upon the 
 other side. 
 
 From Buikslut, a little village in the trees, upon the 
 bank of the grand canal, I would go on to Broek ; — so 
 the Captain gave me over to the patronage of a little 
 skipper, who ran his boat over the cross-country canals. 
 
 Broek. 
 
 A HALF-HOUR'S sail brought us in sight of the 
 ~vV church spire, rising from among the trees ; and 
 soon appeared the chimney-tops, and finally the houses 
 themselves, of the little town of Broek, — all prettily 
 reflected in a clear side-basin of the canal. 
 
 A town it hardly is ; but a group of houses among rich 
 trees, where eight hundred neighbors live, and make 
 things so neat, that strangers come a thousand miles for a 
 look at the wondrous nicety. Passing by the basin of 
 smooth water that reflected so prettily the church and 
 the trees, we stopped before a little inn, finely shaded 
 with a beech trained into an arbor all over the front. A 
 very, very pretty blue-eyed Dutch girl of sixteen, 
 received me. We could talk nothing together; but 
 there happened a stupid old Meinheer smoking with his 
 wife at the door, through whom I explained my wants. 
 
Broek. 319 
 
 I saw by the twinkle in her eye that she comprehended. 
 If I had spoken an hour it could not have been better — 
 my dinner. There were cutlets white as the driven 
 snow, and wine with cobwebs of at least a year's date on 
 the bottle, and the nicest of Dutch cheese, and strawber- 
 ries, and profusion of delicious cream. 
 
 The blue-eyed girl had stolen out to put on another 
 dress, while I was busy with the first cutlet ; and she 
 wore one of the prettiest little handkerchiefs imaginable 
 on her shoulders, and she glided about the table so noise- 
 lessly, so charmingly, and arranged the dishes so neatly, 
 and put so heaping a plateful of strawberries before me, 
 that — confound me ! I should have kept by the dinner- 
 table until night, if the old lady had not put her head in 
 the door, to say — there was a person without, who would 
 guide me through the village. 
 
 — And who is to be my guide ] — said I, as well as I 
 could say it. 
 
 The old lady pointed opposite. I thought she misun- 
 derstood me, and asked her again. 
 
 She pointed the same way — it was a stout woman with 
 a baby in her arms ! 
 
 Was there ever such a Cicerone before? I looked 
 incredulously at my hostess; she looked me honestly 
 enough back, and set her arms a-kimbo. I tried to 
 understand her to point to her blue-eyed daughter, 
 who was giggling behind her shoulder — but she was 
 nexorable. 
 I giew frightened ; the woman was well enough, though 
 
320 Fresh Gleanings. 
 
 jogging upon forty. But the baby — what on earth should 
 it be doing ; suppose she were to put it in my arms in 
 some retired part of the village'? Only fancy me six 
 leagues from Amsterdam, with only ten guilders in my 
 pocket, and a fat Dutch baby squalling in my hands! 
 But the woman — with a ripe, red, laughing cheek, had a 
 charitable eye, and we set off together. 
 
 Not a bit, though, could we talk, and it was — nichts, 
 nichts, however I put the questions. Nature designed 
 eyes to talk half a language, and the good soul pleaded 
 to me with hers for the beauty of her village ; — words of 
 the oldest Cicerone could not plead stronger. And as for 
 the village, it needed none. It was like dreaming; it was 
 like fairy land. 
 
 Away, over a little bridge we turned off the tow- 
 path of the canal, and directly were in the quiet ways of 
 the town. They were all paved with pebbles or bricks, 
 arranged in every quaint variety of pattern ; and all so 
 clean, that I could find no place to knock the ashes from 
 my pipe. The grass that grew up every where to the edge 
 of the walks was short — not the prim shortness of French 
 shearing, but it had a look of dwarfish neatness, as if cus- 
 tom had habituated it to short growth, and habit become 
 nature. All this in the public highway — not five yards 
 wide, but under so strict municipal surveillance, that no 
 horse or unclean thing was allowed to trample on its 
 neatness. Once a little donkey, harnessed to a miniature 
 carriage, passed us, in which was a Dutch Miss, to whom 
 my lady patroness with the baby bowed low. It was 
 
B B O E K. 321 
 
 evidently, however, a privileged lady, and the donkey's 
 feet had been waxed. 
 
 Little yards were before the houses, and these stocked 
 with all sorts of flowers, arranged in all sorts of forms, 
 and so clean — walks, beds, and flowers — that I am sure, 
 a passing sparrow could not have trimmed his feathers 
 in the plat, without bringing out a toddling Dutch 
 wife with her broom. The fences were absolutely pol- 
 ished with paint; and the hedges were clipped — not 
 with shears, but scissors. Now and then faces would 
 peep out of the windows, but in general the curtains 
 were close drawn. We saw no men, but one or two 
 old gardeners and a half-a-dozen painters. Girls we 
 met, who would pass a word to my entertainer, and a 
 glance to me, and a low courtesy, and would chuckle 
 the baby under the chin, and glance again. But they 
 were not better dressed, nor prettier, than the rest of the 
 world, besides having a great deal shorter waists and 
 larger ancles. They looked happy, and healthy, and 
 homelike. 
 
 Little boys were rolling along home from school — roll- 
 ing, I mean, as a seaman rolls — with their short legs, and 
 fat bodies, and phlegmatic faces. Two of them were 
 throwing off hook and bait into the canal from under the 
 trees ; and good fishers, I dare say, they made, for never 
 a word did they speak ; and I almost fancied that if I 
 had stepped quietly up, and kicked one of them into 
 the water, the other would have quietly pulled in his 
 line — taken off his bait — put all in his pocket, and tod- 
 
322 Fresh Gleanings. 
 
 died off in true Dutch style, home, to tell his Dutch 
 mamma. 
 
 Round pretty angles that came unlooked for, and the 
 shady square of the church — not a sound any where — we 
 passed along, the woman, the baby, and I. Half a dozen 
 times, I wanted Cameron with me to enjoy a good Scotch 
 laugh at the oddity of the whole thing; for there was 
 something approaching the ludicrous in the excess of clean- 
 liness — to say nothing about my stout attendant, whose 
 cares and anxieties were most amusingly divided between 
 me and the babe. There was a large garden, a phthisicky 
 old gardener took me over, with puppets in cottages, 
 going by clock-work — an old woman spinning, dog bark- 
 ing, and wooden mermaids playing in artificial water; 
 these all confirmed the idea with which the extravagant 
 neatness can not fail to impress one, that the whole thing 
 is a mockery, and in no sense earnest. 
 
 From this, we wandered away in a new quarter, to the 
 tubs, and pans, and presses of the dairy. The woman in 
 waiting gave a suspicious glance at my feet when I 
 entered the cow-stable ; and afterward, when she favored 
 me with a look into her home, all beset with high-polished 
 cupboards and china, my steps were each one of them 
 regarded — though my boots had been cleaned two hours 
 before — as if I had been treading in her churn, and 
 not upon a floor of stout Norway plank. The press was 
 adorned with brazen weights, and bands shining like gold. 
 The big mastiff who turned the churn was sleeping under 
 the table, and the maid showed me the women milking 
 
Sailing Home. 323 
 
 over the low ditches in the fields, — for the sun was getting 
 near to the far away flat grounds in the West. 
 
 With another stroll through the clean streets of the vil- 
 lage, I returned to my little inn, where I sat under the 
 braided limbs of the beech-tree over the door. There was 
 something in the quiet and cleanliness that impressed me 
 like a picture, or a curious book. It did not seem as if 
 healthy flesh and blood, with all its passions and cares, 
 could make a part of such a way of living. It was like 
 reading a Utopia, only putting household economy in 
 place of the politeia of Sir Thomas More. I am sure 
 that some of the dirty people along the Rhone, and in the 
 Vallais Canton of Switzerland, if suddenly translated to 
 the grass slopes that sink into the water at Broek, would 
 imagine it some new creation. 
 
 So I sat there musing before the inn, looking out over 
 the canal, and the vast plain with its feeding flocks, and 
 over the groups of cottages, and windmills, and far-off 
 delicate spires. 
 
 Sailing Home. 
 
 II Y and by a faint gush of a distant bugle-note came 
 *-* up over the evening air. It was from the boat that 
 
 was to cany me back to Amsterdam. 
 
 It came again, and stronger, and rolled tremulously 
 
 over the meadows. — The sheep feeding across the canal 
 
331 Fresh Gleanings. 
 
 lifted their heads, and listened. The blue-eyed girl of 
 
 the inn came and leaned against the door-post, and listened 
 too. The landlady put her sharp eyes out of the half- 
 opened window, and looked down the meadows. The 
 music was not common to the boaters of Broek. Presently 
 came the pattering steps of the horse upon the foot- way, 
 and the noise of the rush of the boat, and a new blast of 
 the bugle. The sheep opposite lifted their heads, and 
 looked, — and turned, — and looked again, and ran away 
 in a fright. 
 
 The blue-eyed girl was yet leaning in the door- way, 
 and the old lady was looking out of the window when the 
 boat sailed slowly by, and left the inn out of sight. 
 
 I was standing by the side of the skipper, musing on 
 what I had seen : one does not get there, after all, a true 
 idea of the Dutch country character, since the village is 
 
 mostly peopled by retired citizens. This other, the true 
 
 Ostade and Teniers light upon Dutch land, is seen farthei 
 North and East, and in glimpses as we floated along the 
 canal in the evening twilight, home. The women were 
 seated at the low doors knitting, or some belated ones 
 were squatting like frogs on the edge of the canal, scrub- 
 bing their coppers, till they shone in the red light of sun- 
 set, brighter than the moon. Our skipper with his pipe 
 sitting to his tiller, would pass a sober good " eben" to 
 every passer on the dyke, and to every old Dutchman 
 smoking at his door; — and every passer on the dyke, and 
 every smoking Dutchman at his door, would solemnly bow 
 his good "eben" back. More than this nothing was said. 
 
Sailing Home. 3'<J3 
 
 One could hear the rustling of the reeds along the 
 bank, as our boat pushed a light wave among them. Far 
 in advance — a black tall figure — the boy was moving on 
 his horse, but he did not break the silence by a word. 
 The man in the bow was quiet, and we so still behind that 
 I could count every whiff of the skipper's pipe. The 
 people were coming up through the low meadows from 
 their work, and occasionally some old woman harnessed 
 to a boat-load of hay in a side canal. And soon — sooner 
 than I thought — the spires of the city were black in the 
 sky before us. 
 
 In an hour, I was in the back room at the Oude 
 Doelen, in bed. What on earth had become of Cameron ? 
 Five days, and he had not come. 
 
 1 thought of the little Prussian vixen, but her 
 
 father had a lynx's eye. 
 
 1 thought of the two pretty Russians ; but their 
 
 mamma sat between them. 
 
 I thought of the Svedoise bride, but her husband 
 
 was a Tartar. And so thinking, and my heart warming 
 with pity, toward all who have Tartars for husbands, I 
 fell gently asleep. 
 
326 F r c s n Gleanings. 
 
 Le Frauensand. 
 
 "I^TORTH of Amsterdam lies a great Peninsula, cross- 
 •*=■ ^ ed by the Ship Canal, and washed on its Eastern 
 shore by the Zuyder Zee, and on the West by the Ger- 
 man Ocean. The East shore, on which lie Broek, and 
 Purmerende — famous for its dairies — is lich and green ; 
 but the West shore is sandy and barren. The two shores 
 meet in the desolate promontory, on which stands the 
 walled town of Helder. 
 
 Bearing North by East from Helder is the island of 
 the Texel, where a few shepherds dispute occupancy 
 with greedy sea-fowl. From the Texel stretches a line 
 of islands across the opening of the Zuyder Zee — verging 
 more and more East, until they almost touch the shores 
 of Northern Friesland. 
 
 Various ingenious theories, of currents and inundations, 
 — of flux and reflux, have been from time to time set 
 forth to account for the formation of these islands, in their 
 peculiar position — all which — though I dare say, very 
 good in their way, I shall pass over to the hands of such 
 men as Lyell and De la Beche ; — reserving for my own 
 notice, a theory of another sort, which accounts most in- 
 geniously, and as will appear, most satisfactorily, for the 
 formation of a single small bank of earth, belonging to 
 this chain of Islands, and called Le Frauensand. Tt lies 
 
Lr. Frauensand. 327 
 
 only a little way from the shore, directly opposite the de- 
 cayed village of Stavoren. 
 
 The theory runs thus : — and if the author of the Ves- 
 tiges of Creation can contrive a better one, his labor 
 would be — comparatively — well bestowed : — Stavoren 
 had once its shipping, and commerce, and of course, its 
 port of entry. Its churches were few, but its private 
 mansions were splendid — even to the ornamenting of the 
 exterior walls with precious metals. The head-dresses of 
 the women were fillets of solid gold as broad as your hand, 
 and their ear-rings drooped with pearls and rubies, upon 
 shoulders as white as ivory. Their spencers were of the 
 richest silks of India, and their skirts — longer than they 
 wear them now — were of the costliest velvets of Genoa. 
 
 Their bracelets were cables of the twisted Venetian 
 chain, and their shoe-buckles were studded with Bohe- 
 mian garnets. 
 
 There were but few churches in the city, and it was 
 said of the people of Stavoren, — as is said now-a-days of 
 many rich people, — that they were very worldly, and very 
 wicked. 
 
 It was certainly true of one of the inhabitants — a very 
 beautiful woman, whose name was Bathilda — and who, 
 strange to say, was the richest of all. Her wealth (nor 
 will wealth do more now) could not secure her from re- 
 mark ; and terrible stories went abroad of her wickedness. 
 
 For instance : — there were amiable and weak-minded 
 young men in Stavoren — as there is now a very weak 
 king in Bavaria — who could do no less than fall desper- 
 
326 Fresh Gleanings. 
 
 ately in love with so beautiful a woman as Bathikla; — 
 and it was said that such, after a visit or two to her 
 house,* to which they were beguiled by fair promises, 
 suddenly disappeared. Too often now, crime and wealth 
 conspire to hide shame. The misfortune is, that the Ba- 
 thildas of our day, can not also rid the community of the 
 panders to their lust. 
 
 The fame of Bathilda spread through the region for 
 twenty leagues around — which is an almost incredible 
 distance in Dutch-land, even to this day. 
 
 Her lovers grew fewer, when they saw how dearly 
 others had paid for the wooing ; and at thirty, though 
 blooming and beautiful as she was wicked, Bathilda was 
 still unmarried. 
 
 At length — whether tired of single life — as many have 
 been tired since, or contriving some new scheme of wick- 
 edness — she caused it to be proclaimed to the Inhabitants 
 of Stavoren, that she would give her hand, and the half 
 of her wealth, to whoever should bring, within two years, 
 the richest cargo to her store-houses at Stavoren. Her 
 ships were on every ocean, and there were not wanting 
 men among the avaricious ones of the city, who inspired 
 by her money or her beauty, took command of ships to 
 bring back the coveted freight. 
 
 * The same thing is related in an old Chronicle, of a Countess who 
 inhabited a chateau of Normandy. Complaint was at length made 
 to the reigning Duke — the Countess burnt, and her lands confis- 
 cated. — La Normandie Romanesque et Merveilleuse. Par Mme 
 Bosquet. 1845. 
 
L e Frauensand. 329 
 
 Some steered for the coast of Africa, to purchase gold 
 and ivory, and others for the Indies, to bring home spices. 
 
 A year passed, and twelve of her ships were afloat 
 upon the marriage errand, but none had yet returned. 
 At the beginning of the second year, there came to Ba- 
 thilda a new applicant — unknown to the people of Stavo- 
 ren. He was of proud and noble mein ; he sailed with 
 his ship up the Baltic, and landed at Dantzic. Here he 
 caused to be procured the largest and sweetest grain of 
 all that region, which was once called Poland. 
 
 He stowed it safely in his vessel, and set sail for Stavo- 
 ren. He arrived first of all, in the eighth month of the 
 year. Bathilda came down to the port in her riches! 
 silks, her eye flashing in expectation of finding costly jew- 
 els and gold ; and when she saw nothing but the grain of 
 Dantzic, she howled with rage and disappointment. 
 
 She ordered the captain to appear, «end commanded 
 him to throw the grain into the sea. He refused, and ut- 
 tering a curse upon her avarice, which made her cheeks 
 blanch with terror, he withdrew to the shore, and disap- 
 peared. 
 
 Bathilda, ashamed of her fright, ordered the grain — 
 sack by sack, to be thrown into tl e sea. The poor peo- 
 ple collected about the port, and implored her charity — 
 mothers brought their children, who plead as children 
 will plead — with their eyes, and their little hands lifted 
 up — for some of the precious grain. 
 
 Nothing could move the wicked woman, and she sta- 
 tioned men with cutlasses — enioining upon them, with 
 
330 Fresh Gleanings. 
 
 threats, to cut off the hands of whoever should touch e. 
 kernel of the accursed corn. 
 
 Two days she stayed upon the vessel, to see the work 
 of destruction accomplished ; and after it, as the last sack 
 fell over the side, there arose a fearful storm. For three 
 days the winds howled, and the waters roared, and the 
 waves were heavy and thick with sand. 
 
 On the morning of the fourth day, another of Bathilda's 
 ships appeared entering the harbor. The wind was 
 strong, and she came swiftly up, and to the wonder of all 
 — stranded, where was ship never stranded before — over 
 the spot where the grain had fallen. In an hour, the ves- 
 sel was a wreck, and her ruined cargo was strewn along 
 the shore. 
 
 Day by day the sand accumulated over the fallen 
 
 grain three more of Bathilda's ships stranded upon it, 
 
 and were lost. None of the twelve ever came safely back ; 
 some were driven upon foreign coasts ; two were cap- 
 tured by the Moors, and one, hearing of the ruin of the 
 harbor of Stavoren, had sold its cargo in a foreign port. 
 
 Bathilda's wealth was lost, and she pawned her house 
 and jewels for bread, and these failing, died at length, the 
 miserable victim of her avarice and shame. 
 
 As the sand accumulated in the harbor of Stavoren, it 
 was observed that the nearer shore sunk, — the merchants 
 moved their goods to other cities, and gradually the 
 store -houses of Stavoren sunk under the waves. Its peo- 
 ple — those who remained, — from having been the richest, 
 became the poorest in all Holland. 
 
My Pipe Gone Out. 331 
 
 No ships could enter their port ; — their boats rotted at 
 the wharves. The pile of sand at length showed itself 
 above the water, and soon there grew upon it a false 
 grain, — green and luxuriant. — but without either blossom 
 or fruit* 
 
 And they say that now — if you dig deep enough in Le 
 Frauensand, you will find the grain of Dantzic, still fresh 
 and plump. 
 
 My Pipe Gone Out. 
 
 A MSTERDAM is not the most pleasant place in the 
 -* -*- world, when a June sun is shining hot. upon the 
 dead water of its canals, and their green surface is only 
 disturbed by the sluggish barges, or the slops of the tidy 
 house-maids. 
 
 I grew tired of its windmills, and clumsy drawbridges, 
 ^and tired of waiting for Cameron. I left him a note 
 at the Oude Doelen, telling him that we would talk 
 
 * Wunderkorn — Dftnenhelm (Arundo arenaria) a species of reed 
 not very unlike wheat, which grows upon these islands, and on the 
 Dunes of Holland. By its roots it holds the sand together, and pre- 
 vents its removal by wind or rain. It serves the same office with the 
 grass cultivated upon Cape Cod {vid. Dwight's Travels). The germ 
 of the story, lies in an old popular legend of Holland. Orabner; 
 Voyage dans le Pays Bas. 
 
332 Fresh Gleanings. 
 
 over matters some day Heaven grant that the day 
 
 some time come! — upon the green banks of wild Loch 
 Oich. 
 
 I set off toward Harlaem, and Leyden, and Historic 
 Belgium. 
 
 Not a tulip, though, did I bring away from Har- 
 laem — nor any thing but the memory of the music of its 
 organ, which tingles in my ear now, like a good reading 
 of the ballad of Chevy Chace. 
 
 Of Leyden, seated in the rich, flat country, nothing 
 but the gray walls of its University, rises now in the 
 wake of my travel. 
 
 La Hague, with its city-fed storks stalking about the 
 market-place, and its palaces and parks, is left behind. 
 And Rotterdam, with its high windmills, and ships, 
 and filthy canals, and clean door-steps, and wharfage 
 smells, is also left ; and if you would know more of them, 
 or of Dutch-land — read the books of stately Silliman, or 
 of biting Beckford.* 
 
 Meantime I am gliding down one of the winding 
 
 branches of the Scheldt toward the commercial capital of 
 Belgium. 
 
 The sun shines hot upon the deck of the little steamer 
 
 * The Journal of Professor Silliman, though now out of print, and 
 though the country has much changed since the book was written — 
 I yet found most accurate in its descriptions ; Beckford — the eccen- 
 tric nabob of Bath (author of Vathek) has shown a quick eye to the 
 peculiarities of this peculiar people. 
 
My Pipe Gone Out. 333 
 
 — and hot upon the still surface of the river, — and hot 
 upon the low banks covered with green marsh grass. 
 
 The windmills of Rotterdam long before noon, have 
 faded from the sight. The river now widens to a sea, — 
 and now narrows to a strait. Here is an old Dutch fort 
 with red brick walls, — and there a red-roofed village 
 lying on the marshes. After noon a light breeze stirs, 
 and little craft are making sail all around us. Still there 
 is no cloud to shade us, and no trees upon the shore. 
 
 I sit under the awning — the Dutchmen around me — 
 puffing quietly at the same pipe, which a month before, I 
 had lighted upon the Elbe. 
 
 At length, five hours and more past noon, there rose up 
 over the flat country, far away to the right, the top of the 
 spire of the Cathedral of Antwerp. It was the beacon of 
 a new kingdom. And straight — the old Belgic cities 
 ranged around me. 
 
 I had not seen them, then— so the images were vague 
 and uncertain, but wildly pleasant ; — for soon I would 
 
 compare them with what was real. Yet what more real 
 
 than the forms of things that Belgic History had planted 
 in my mind ] 
 
 There was a Liege of my own — the Liege of the 
 wicked Bishop of Schonwaldt (for Scott is reliable histoiy) 
 — of the Wild Boar of Ardennes, and of the hopeful 
 Quentin Durward, — as real to me, as the Belgic Birm- 
 ingham of to-day. 
 
 Ghent was before me, with its Burghers — so stout at 
 the Battle of the Spurs, — and so submissive to Charles V. 
 
334 Fresh Gleanings. 
 
 when they wore halters round their necks. And Van 
 Arte veldt — another Cola di Rienzi — poured that elo- 
 quence on my ear, which in the time of Edward III. * set 
 them of Ghent on fire.' The very market-place, the 
 stadhuis, the streets — lay mistily before me. And the 
 stout Flemings came up from the dead in troops, who ki 
 the Old Time went over to help the stout Constable of 
 Chester, against the fiery Welchmen.* 
 
 ' Fair Bruges' had its shadow in my mind, and easy 
 as a thought, came visions of its fair-faced girls.t I seem- 
 ed to see the Palace — the old Palace, and Barber 01iver,$ 
 and scheming Louis XI., and Charles the Bold, and — 
 pleasanter vision, and lingering longer than any — sweet 
 Mary of Burgundy, with the falcon sitting proudly on her 
 jewelled finger. 
 
 Now the scene of this thick host of memories, 
 
 which through the whole past time of my life, had been 
 shadowy, and uncertain, and changeful, — within one short 
 week would become definite and fixed ; — no more dreams 
 — no more shadows thereafter. But the new scene that 
 so soon was to fasten itself upon my brain, would never 
 
 * Vid. Scott's story of the " Betrothed." 
 
 t Bruges is famous for its pretty women; — thus an old verse says: 
 Gandavum laqueis, formosis Burga puellis. 
 
 The allusion in laqueis is to the halters worn by the Burghers of 
 Ghent, in obedience to command of Charles V. 
 
 t Vid. Anquetil, Hist, de France. Siecle de Louis XL Also see 
 James's romance of Mary of Burgundy. 
 
Homeward. 335 
 
 change, and — blessed be Heaven ! — it would never 
 fade. 
 
 My whiffs were growing more and more earnest, — but 
 there was now no smoke. My pipe with the Dutch- 
 men was ended. 
 
 I knocked out the ashes, and put the pipe carefully in 
 my pocket, and in a half hour more, was strolling with a 
 dreamy gladness, in the rough, narrow streets — under the 
 long, evening shadows of the Cathedral of Antwerp. 
 
 Homeward. 
 
 rjELGIUM passed like a wild dream — full of brill- 
 -*-* iancies and shadows. 
 
 Then, I went sailing under the skirts of ancient towns 
 — under vine-covered cliffs, and among pleasant islands, 
 — upon the waters of the Rhine. Up and down its 
 bounding current, by night and by day — I sailed. 
 
 In the day, the waters were bright, and there was the 
 loud hum of busy cities by the shore ; — in the night, the 
 cities were dark and silent as the dead, and the waters 
 were flecked with red furnace fires, or blazed upon with 
 the white light of God's moon. 
 
 Great and glorious Cathedrals rose up, and faded 
 away behind ; — barge-bridges opened — and closed again ; 
 mountains grew great, and frowned, — and grew smaller, 
 and smiling, left us ; — echoes rang, and fainted ; — songs 
 
336 Fresh Gleanings. 
 
 of peasant girls came to our ears, and died in the rust- 
 ling current. Towns, — vineyards, — ruins came and went, 
 and I was journeying through France again. 
 
 The people were gathering the sheaves of Harvest, and 
 the grapes were purpling on every hill-side., for the vintage. 
 
 Again the enchanting City, and the winding Seine ; 
 
 Lillebonne, and most beautiful Caudebec, — and I was by 
 the edge of the Ocean once more. 
 
 Then came the quick, sharp bustle of departure, and the 
 fading shores. My straining eye held upon them tear- 
 fully, until the night stooped down, and covered them. 
 
 With morning, came Sky and Ocean. And this petted 
 eye, which had rioted in the indulgence of new scenes, 
 each day, for years, was now starved in the close-built 
 dungeon of a ship — with nothing but Sky and Ocean. 
 Week followed week — still nothing but Sky and Ocean : 
 
 before us — behind us — around us — nothing but Sky 
 
 and Ocean. But — thanks to this quick-working memory 
 — through the livelong days, and the wakeful nights, my 
 fancy was busy with pictures of countries, and the images 
 of nations. 
 
 Yet, ever, through it all — Mary — the burden of 
 
 my most anxious thought, was drifting, like a sea-bound 
 river Homeward. 
 
 Tsb End. 
 
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