{"collection":"myth-cosmogony","full_text_available":true,"graph_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/v2/api/page/gutenberg_20124/graph","html_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/v2/page/gutenberg_20124","id":"gutenberg_20124","license":"Public Domain (US)","rights_basis":"gutenberg_metadata_copyright_false","source":"gutenberg","source_url":"https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/20124","summary":null,"tags":["B\u00e9arn (France) -- Description and travel","Category: History - European","Category: Mythology, Legends & Folklore","Category: Travel Writing","Pyrenees -- Description and travel"],"text":"E-text prepared by Janet Blenkinship, Chuck Greif, and the Project\nGutenberg Online Distributed Proofreading Team at DP Europe\n(http://dp.rastko.net/)\n\n\n\nNote: Project Gutenberg also has an HTML version of this\n      file which includes the original illustrations.\n      See 20124-h.htm or 20124-h.zip:\n      (https://www.gutenberg.org/dirs/2/0/1/2/20124/20124-h/20124-h.htm)\n      or\n      (https://www.gutenberg.org/dirs/2/0/1/2/20124/20124-h.zip)\n\n\nTranscriber's note:\n\n      The original spelling and puncturation have been retained.\n\n\n\n\n\nB\u00c9ARN AND THE PYRENEES:\n\nA Legendary Tour to the Country of Henri Quatre.\n\nby\n\nLOUISA STUART COSTELLO,\n\nAuthor of \"The Bocages and the Vines,\" \"A Pilgrimage to Auvergne,\" Etc.\n\nWith numerous Illustrations.\n\nIn Two Volumes.\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\nLondon:\nRichard Bentley, New Burlington Street,\nPublisher in Ordinary to Her Majesty.\n1844.\nPrinted by R. Clay, Bread Street Hill.\n\n\n\n\n                                 TO\n                         MISS BURDETT COUTTS,\n                           THESE VOLUMES\n             ARE DEDICATED WITH MUCH RESPECT AND AFFECTION\n                                 BY\n                        HER SINCERELY OBLIGED\n                           HUMBLE SERVANT,\n                        LOUISA STUART COSTELLO.\n                               LONDON,\n                           MARCH 16, 1844.\n\n\n\n\n\nINTRODUCTION.\n\n\nWhen I first indulged the inclination, which I had long entertained, of\nvisiting the famous castle of Chinon, and the equally interesting abbey\nof Fontevraud--the palace and tomb of our English kings--and paused on\nmy way in \"the lovely vales of Vire,\" and gathered in romantic Brittany\nsome of her pathetic legends, I thought I should have satisfied my\nlonging to explore France; but I found that every step I look in that\nteeming region opened to me new stores of interest; and, encouraged by\nthe pleasure my descriptions had given, I set out again, following\nanother route, to the regal city of Rheims, visiting the vine-covered\nplains of Champagne and Burgundy, and all their curious historical\ntowns, till I reached the _dominion_ of Charles the Seventh at Bourges,\nto become acquainted with whose gorgeous cathedral and antique palaces\nis worth any fatigue. From thence I wandered on to the beautiful Monts\nDores, and the basaltic regions of unexplored Le Vellay; and, after\ninfinite gratification, I once more turned my steps homeward; but, like\nSindbad, I felt that there was much more yet to be explored; and I had\nvisions of the romantic and delightful realms, which extend where once\nthe haughty heiress of Aquitaine held her poetical courts of Love and\nChivalry. The battle-fields of our Black Prince were yet to be traced;\nthe sites of all the legends and adventures of the most entertaining of\nchroniclers, Froissart, were yet to be discovered; and the land of\nmountains and torrents, where the Great B\u00e9arnais passed his hardy\nchildhood, was yet unknown to me.\n\nI therefore again assumed my \"cockle hat and staff,\" and, re-entering\nthe Norman territory, commenced exploring, from the stone bed of the\nConqueror, at Falaise, to the tortoise-shell cradle of Henry of Navarre,\nat Pau.\n\nNot inferior to my two former pilgrimages, in interest, did this my\nthird ramble prove. How many \"old romantic towns\" I passed through; how\nmuch of varied lore I heard and found amongst the still original and,\neven now, unsophisticated peasantry; how numerous were the recollections\nwhich places and things recalled, and how pleasant were the scenes I\nmet, I have endeavoured to tell the lovers of easy adventure--for any\ntraveller, with the slightest enterprise, could accomplish what I have\ndone without fatigue, and with the certainty of being repaid for the\nexertion of seeking for amusement.\n\nIn succession, I paused at Le Mans, the scene of the great Vend\u00e9ean\nstruggle, where the majestic cathedral challenges the admiration of all\ntravellers of taste; at Poitiers, full of antique wonders; in the region\nof _the Serpent lady_, Melusine; at Protestant La Rochelle, with all its\nbattlements and turrets, and the most beautiful bathing-establishment in\nEurope. At mysterious Saintes, and all its pagan temples and arches; at\nBordeaux, the magnificent; on the Garonne, and by its robbers'-castles;\nat Agen, with its _barber troubadour_; in the haunts of Gaston de Foix\nand Jeanne d'Albret and her son; in the gloomy valleys of the proscribed\nCagot; and where the mellifluous accents of the Basquaise enchant the\near. All the impressions made by these scenes I have endeavoured to\nconvey to my readers, as I did before, inviting them to follow my\nfootsteps, and judge if I have told them true.\n\n\n\n\nCONTENTS OF THE FIRST VOLUME.\n\n\nINTRODUCTION\n\nCHAPTER I.\n\nHonfleur--Dejazet--The Sailor Prince--Le Mari--Lisieux--La Croix\nBlanche--Arrival at Falaise--Guibray--Castle of Falaise--The little\nRecess--Arlette--The Father--The Infant Hero--The Uncle--Arlette's\nTears--Her Reception.\n\nCHAPTER II.\n\nPrince Arthur--Want of Gallantry Punished--The Recreant Sow--The Rocks\nof Noron--La Grande Eperonni\u00e8re--Le Camp-ferme--Antiquities of\nFalaise--Alen\u00e7on--Norman Caps--Geese--Le Mans--Tomb of\nB\u00e9rang\u00e8re--Cathedral--Ancient Remains--Streets--The Veiled Figure.\n\nCHAPTER III.\n\nTomb of B\u00e9rang\u00e8re--Wives of Coeur de Lion--Tombs--Abbey\nChurches--Ch\u00e2teau of Le Mans--De Craon--The Spectre of Le Mans--The\nVend\u00e9eans--Madame de la Roche-Jaquelin--A Woman's Perils--Disasters of\nthe Vend\u00e9eans--Henri--Chouans.\n\nCHAPTER IV.\n\nThe Museum of Le Mans--Venus--Mummy--Geoffrey-le-Bel--His\nCostume--Matilda--Scarron--H\u00e9lie de la Fl\u00e8che--Rufus--The White Knight.\n\nCHAPTER V.\n\nLude--Saumur Revisited--The Garden--La Petite Voisine--The Retired\nMilitaire--Les Pierres Couvertes--Les Petites Pierres--Loudun--Urbain\nGrandier--Richelieu--The Nuns--The Victim--The Fly--The Malle\nPoste--The Dislodged Serpents.\n\nCHAPTER VI.\n\nPoitiers--Battles--The Armies--King John of France--The Young\nWarrior--H\u00f4tel des Vreux--Amphitheatre--Blossac--The Great Stone--The\nScholars--Museum--The Demon's Stone--Grande Gueule.\n\nCHAPTER VII.\n\nNotre Dame--The Keys--The Miracle--Procession--St. Radegonde--Tomb of\nthe Saint--Foot-print--Little Loubette--The Count Outwitted--The\nCordelier--Late Justice--The Templars.\n\nCHAPTER VIII.\n\nCh\u00e2teau de la F\u00e9e--King Ren\u00e9--The Miniatures--The Post-Office\nFunctionary--Originality--The English Bank-note--St. Porchaire--The Dead\nChild--Montierneuf--Guillaume Guy Geoffroy--Thomas \u00e0 Becket--Choir of\nAngels--Relics--The Armed Hermit--A Saint--The Repudiated\nQueen--Elionore--The Bold Priest--Lay.\n\nCHAPTER IX.\n\nMelusine--Lusignan--Trou de la F\u00e9e--The Legend--Male Curiosity--The\nDiscovery--The Fairy's Shrieks--The Chronicler--Geoffrey of the Great\nTooth--Jaques Coeur--Royal Gratitude--Enemies--Jean du\nVillage--Wedding--The Bride--The Tragedy of Mauprier--The Garden--The\nShepherdess--The Walnut-Gatherers--La G\u00e2tine--St. Maixant--Niort--Madame\nde Maintenon--Enormous Caps--Chamois Leather--Duguesclin--The Dame de\nPlainmartin--The Sea.\n\nCHAPTER X.\n\nLa Rochelle--Les Trois Chandeliers--Oysters--Bathing\nEstablishment--Gaiety--Military Discipline--Curious Arcades--Story of\nAuffr\u00e9dy.\n\nCHAPTER XI.\n\nTowers--Religion--Maria Belandelle--Storm--Protestant Retreat--Solemn\nDinners--\"Half-and-half\"--Go to sleep!--The Brewery--Gas\nEstablishment--Ch\u00e2teau of La Font--The Mystery explained--Triumph of\nScenery over Appetite--Slave Trade--Charles le Bien Servi--Liberality of\nLouis-Philippe--Guiton--House of Le Maire Guiton--The Fleets--The\nFight--The Mayor and the Governor.\n\nCHAPTER XII.\n\nRochefort--The Curious Bonne--Americanisms--Convicts--The\nCharente--\"Tulipes\"--Taillebourg--Henry the Third--St. Louis--False\nSecurity--Romegoux--Puytaill\u00e9\n\nCHAPTER XIII.\n\nSaintes--Roman Arch of Triumph--Gothic Bridge--The Cours--Ruined\nCity--Cathedral--Coligny--Ruined Palace--St.\nEutrope--Amphitheatre--Legend of Ste. Eustelle--The Prince of\nBabylon--F\u00eate--The C\u00f4teau--Ste. Marie\n\nCHAPTER XIV.\n\nFr\u00e8re Chr\u00e9tien--Utility of Custom-house Search--Bold\nVoyager--Pauillac--Blaye--The Gironde--Talbot--Vines--The\nLandes--Phantom of King Arthur--The Witch-finder--The Landes--Wreckers\n\nCHAPTER XV.\n\nPorts--Divona--Bordeaux--Quinconces--All\u00e9es--First\nImpression--Chartrons--Bahutier--Bacalan--Quays--White Guide--Ste.\nCroix--St. Michel--St. Andr\u00e9--Pretty Figure--Pretty Women--Palais\nGallien--Black Prince's Son, Edward.\n\nCHAPTER XVI.\n\nThe Garonne--The Lord of Langoyran--Miracle of the Mule--Castle of the\nFour Sons of Aymon--The Aged Lover--Gavaches--The Franchimans--Count\nRaymond--Flying Bridges--The Miller of Barbaste--The Troubadour\nCount--The Count de la Marche--The Rochellaises--Eug\u00e9nie and her Song.\n\nCHAPTER XVII.\n\nAgen--La Belle Esther--St. Caprais--The Little Cherubs--Zo\u00e9 at the\nFountain--The Hill--Le Gravier--Jasmin, the Poet-Barber--The\nMetaphor--Las Papillotas--Fran\u00e7onnette--Jasmin's Lines on the Old\nLanguage--The Shepherd and the Gascon Poet--Return to Agen--Jasmin and\nthe King of France--Jasmin and the Queen of England.\n\n\n\n\nB\u00c9ARN AND THE PYRENEES. VOL. I.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER I.\n\n     HONFLEUR--DEJAZET--THE SAILOR PRINCE--LE MARI--LISIEUX--LA CROIX\n     BLANCHE--ARRIVAL AT FALAISE--GUIBRAY--CASTLE OF FALAISE--THE LITTLE\n     RECESS--ARLETTE--THE FATHER--THE INFANT HERO--THE UNCLE--ARLETTE'S\n     TEARS--HER RECEPTION.\n\n\nWITHIN ten leagues of the interesting town of Caen, where William of\nNormandy and his queen lie buried, the traveller, who devotes a short\nspace of time to a search after the picturesque, may, without straying\ntoo far a-field, find what he desires in the clean, bright, gay town of\nFalaise, where the hero of the Conquest was born.\n\nFrom Southampton to Havre it requires only twelve hours to cross, and,\nas was the case with myself and my companions, when, at the end of\nAugust 1842, we began a journey, whose end was \"to be\" the mountains\nwhich divide France from Spain, if the city of parrots is already\nfamiliar to the tourist, he has only to take the steam-packet, which in\nfour hours will land him at Caen, or enter the boat which crosses the\nfine bold river to Honfleur. In an hour you arrive at Honfleur, after a\nvery pleasant voyage, which the inhabitants of Havre are extremely fond\nof taking: a diligence starts from the quay, and proceeds through an\navenue of a league's length between beautiful hills, orchards, and\ncorn-fields, to the strange old town of Lisieux, to which we proceeded.\n\nOne of our fellow-travellers in the diligence was a smart, lively\nlooking young woman, whose resemblance to the celebrated actress\nDejazet, whom we had very lately seen in London, was so striking as to\nbe quite remarkable. Her tone of voice, her air and manner, as well as\nher features, reminded us strongly of the _artiste_ whose warm reception\nin England, where we are supposed to be correct even to fastidiousness,\nhas not a little amused the Parisians at our expense. Whatever may be\nthe objections to Dejazet's style, certain it is that her imitation of\nthe manners of the class of _grisettes_ and peasants is inimitable; not\na shade, not a tone, is forgotten, and the _truth_ of her\nrepresentations is proved at every step you take in France, either in\nthe provinces or in Paris.\n\nOur little talkative companion had much to relate of herself and her\nhusband, whom she described as a piece of perfection; he had just\nreturned from a whaling expedition, after several years' absence, and\nthey were now on their way to Lisieux to visit her relations, and give\nhim a little shooting. He had brought back, according to her account, a\nmine of wealth; and, as she had incurred no debts during his absence,\nbut had supported herself by opening a little _caf\u00e9_, which she assured\nus had succeeded admirably, they were proceeding, with well-filled\npurses, to see their only child who was in the keeping of its\ngrandmother. She told wondrous histories of his exploits amongst the\nice, of his encounters with the natives--\"_les Indiens_,\" of the success\nof all his voyages, and the virtues of his captain, who was an\nEnglishman and _never spoke to his crew_, but was the most just man in\nthe world, and ended by saying that when she met with English people she\nfelt _in Paradise_.\n\nAlthough we listened to her continued chattering with amused attention,\nit was far otherwise with some quiet, silent, women who sat beside us;\nwe soon gathered, by certain contemptuous glances which they exchanged,\nthat they did not give credit to half our little Dejazet was telling;\nand when to crown the whole, she related a story of a beautiful maiden\nof Lisieux, who had been distinguished by the notice of the Duke de\n_Nemours_ when he visited that place on his way to join _his ship_ at\nHavre, they could support their impatience no longer, and broadly\ncontradicted her on the ground that the Prince de Joinville and _not_\nNemours was the sailor.\n\nNothing daunted, our gay whaler's wife insisted on every part of her\nhistory being true, asserting that she must know best, and if the young\nprince had _left the navy_ since, it was not her affair.\n\nAs she approached Lisieux she became more and more animated, darting her\nbody half way out of the window every minute to look out for her _papa_\nor her other relations;--at length, with a scream which would have\nsecured Dejazet three rounds of applause, she recognised her parent in a\npeasant _en blouse_, trudging along the road carrying his bundle--on his\nway, no doubt, as she assured us, to see her sister, who lived at a\nvillage near. Tears and smiles alternately divided the expression of her\ncountenance, as she now feared her sister was ill, and now rejoiced at\nseeing her father. All was however happily settled when the coach\nstopped and she sprang out into the arms of her papa, who had followed\nthe diligence, and came up out of breath; and it was then that we became\naware that a remarkably ill-looking, dirty, elderly, Jewish featured\nman, to whom she had occasionally spoken on the journey, was the\nidentical perfection of a _mari_, of whom she had been boasting all the\nway. The incredulous listeners, whom she had so annoyed, now revenged\nthemselves by sundry depreciatory remarks on the appearance of this\nphoenix, whom they pronounced to have the air of a tinker or old\nclothesman, and by no means that of the hero he had been represented.\n\nAs it was raining violently on our arrival at Lisieux, the town\npresented to us but an uncomfortable appearance; and as we had to search\nfor an hotel, and were at last obliged to be content with one far from\ninviting, our first impression was by no means agreeable; nor does\nLisieux offer anything to warrant a change in the traveller's opinion\nwho considers it dreary, slovenly, and ruinous. There is much, however,\nto admire in the once beautiful cathedral, and the church of St.\nJacques, both grand specimens of the massive architecture of the twelfth\ncentury.\n\nIn this town lived and died the traitor Bishop of Bayeux, Pierre\nCauchon, who sold the heroic Jeanne d'Arc for English gold. An\nexpiatory chapel was erected by him in the cathedral, where it was\nhoped the tears of the pious would help to wash his sins away; but no\none now remembers either him or his crime, for we asked in vain for the\nspot; and when prayers are offered at the shrine of the Virgin in the\nchapel dedicated to her, which we eventually discovered to be its site,\nnot one is given to the cruel bishop, whose ill-gotten money was\ntherefore expended in vain; for the centuries it must have required to\nrescue his soul from purgatory cannot have expired by this time. The\nchurches are being restored, and building, as usual in all French towns,\nis going on: when numerous ugly striped houses are removed, and their\nplaces filled up, the principal square of Lisieux may deserve to be\nadmired, though whether it will ever merit the encomium of an old lady\nwho resides in it, and who assured us it would in a short time be\n_superbe_, time will determine. The public promenades are good, and the\nviews round the town pretty, but we did not feel tempted to wait for\nfiner weather, and took our departure for Falaise with little delay.\n\nThe drive from Lisieux to Falaise is charming; and, although the\nappearance of the hotels is not in their favour, there is nothing to\ncomplain of in regard to cleanliness or attention: at least so we found\nit at La Croix Blanche, where the singular beauty of our hostess added\nto the romance of our position, perched, as we were, on a balcony\nwithout awning, in a building which had evidently been part of an old\ntower. It is true that we should have preferred something rather less\nexposed when we found ourselves confined for a whole day, in consequence\nof the pouring rain, and found that a stream of water had made its way\nfrom our balcony into each of our rooms; whose bricked floors were\nlittle improved by their visit. Our suggestion of covering the way, in\norder that, in wet weather, both the dinner and its bearers might be\nsheltered, appeared to excite surprise, though our attendants came in\nconstantly with their high caps wet through and their aprons soaked.\n\nOur nearly exhausted patience, as we gazed hopelessly on the dull sky of\nan _August_ day, was at length rewarded; and the sun, which had\nobstinately concealed himself for several days, burst forth on the\nsecond morning of our arrival, and changed by its power the whole face\nof things at Falaise. We lost no time in taking advantage of the fine\nday which invited us, and sallied forth, all expectation, into the\nstreets, which we found, as well as the walks, as dry as if no rain had\nfallen for months; so fresh and bright is the atmosphere in this\nbeautiful place.\n\nThe town is clean and neat; most of the ruinous, striped houses, with\nprojecting stories, such as deform the streets of Lisieux, being\ncleared away; leaving wide spaces and pure air, at least in the\ncentre-town, where the best habitations are situated. There are other\ndivisions, less airy and more picturesque, called the fauxbourgs of\nGuibray and St. Laurent, and le Val d'Ante; where many antique houses\nare still standing, fit to engage the pencil of the antiquarian artist.\n\nThe churches of Falaise are sadly defaced, but, from their remains, must\nhave been of great beauty. The Cathedral, or Eglise de St. Laurent, is\npartly of the twelfth century; the exterior is adorned with carving, and\ngargouilles, and flying-buttresses, of singular grace; but the whole\nfabric is so built in with ugly little shops, that all fine effect is\ndestroyed. The galleries in the church of La Trinit\u00e9 are elaborately\nornamented, as are some of the chapels, whose roofs are studded with\npendants. Much of this adornment is due to the English, under Henry V.,\nand a good deal is of the period of the _renaissance_.\n\nThe church of Guibray was founded by Duke William, as the Norman windows\nand arches testify; but a great deal of bad taste has been expanded in\nendeavouring to turn the venerable structure into a Grecian temple,\naccording to the approved method of the time of Louis XIV. A statue of\nthe wife of Coeur de Lion was once to be seen here, but has long\ndisappeared. That princess resided in this part of Falaise, at one\nperiod of her widowhood, and contributed greatly to the embellishment of\nthe church.\n\nThere are many columns and capitals, and arches and ornaments of\ninterest in the church of St. Gervais, defaced and altered as it is; but\nit is impossible to give all the attention they deserve to these\nbuildings, when the towers of the splendid old castle are wooing you to\ndelay no longer, but mount at once the steep ascent which leads to its\nwalls.\n\nRising suddenly from the banks of a brawling crystal stream, a huge mass\nof grey rocks, thrown in wild confusion one on the other, sustains on\nits summit the imposing remains of the castle, whose high white tower,\nalone and in perfect preservation, commands an immense tract of smiling\ncountry, and seems to have defied the attacks of ages, as it gleams in\nthe sun, the smooth surface of its walls apparently uninjured and\nunstained. This mighty donjon is planted in a lower part of the height;\nconsequently, high as it appears, scarcely half of its real elevation is\nvisible. Its walls are of prodigious thickness, and seem to have proved\ntheir power through centuries of attack and defence to which it has been\nexposed; careless alike of the violence of man and the fury of the\nelements. Adjoining the keep are ranges of ruined walls, pierced with\nfine windows, whose circular arches, still quite entire, show their\nearly Norman construction. Close to the last of these, whose pillars,\nwith wreathed capitals, are as sharp as if just restored, is a low door,\nleading to a small chamber in the thickness of the wall. There is a\nlittle recess in one corner, and a narrow window, through whose minute\nopening a fine prospect may be seen.\n\nThis small chamber, tradition says, was once adorned with \"azure and\nvermilion;\" though it could scarcely have ever presented a very gay\nappearance, even when used as the private retreat of the luxurious\nmaster of the castle. However, such as it is, we are bound to look upon\nthis spot with veneration; for it is asserted, that here a child was\nborn in secrecy and mystery, and that here, by this imperfect light, his\nbeautiful mother gazed upon the features of the future hero of Normandy.\n\nHowever unlike a bower fitted for beauty and love, it is said that here\nArlette, the skinner's daughter, was confined of William the Conqueror.\nIt is said, too, that from this height, the sharp-sighted Duke his\nfather, gazing from his towers, first beheld the lovely peasant girl\nbathing in the fountain which still bears her name. In this retreat,\nconcealed from prying eyes, and where inquisitive ears found it\ndifficult to catch a sound, the shrill cry of the wondrous infant was\nfirst uttered,--a sound often to be repeated by every echo of the land,\nwhen changed to the war note which led to victory.\n\nLittle, perhaps, did his poor mother exult in his birth, for she was of\nlowly lineage, and had never raised her eyes to the castle but with awe,\nnor thought of its master but with fear; her pleasures were to dance, on\nholidays, under the shade of trees with the simple villagers, her\ncompanions; her duties, to wash her linen on the stones of the silver\nstream, as her townswomen do still at the present day--that silver\nstream which probably flowed past her father's cottage, as it still\nflows, bathing the base of cottages as humble and as rudely built as his\ncould have been. There might, perchance, have been one, amongst the\nyouths who admired her beauty, whom she preferred to the rest; her\nambition might have been to become his bride, her dreams might have\nimaged his asking her of her father, whose gracious consent made them\nboth happy: in her ears might have rung the pealing bells of St.\nGervais--the vision of maidens, in bridal costumes, strewing flowers in\nher path, might have risen before her view--her lover with his soft\nwords and smiles--his cottage amongst the heath-covered rocks of\nNoron--all this might have flitted across her mind, as she stood beside\nthe fountain, beneath the castle walls, unconscious that eyes were\ngazing on her whose influence was to fix her destiny. A mail-clad\nwarrior, terrible and powerful, whose will may not be resisted, whose\ngold glitters in her father's eyes, or whose chains clank in his ears,\nhas seen and coveted her for his own, and her simple dream must be\ndispersed in air to make way for waking terrors. The unfortunate father\ntrembles while he feebly resists, he listens to the duke's proposal, he\nhas yet a few words of entreaty for his child: he dares not tell her\nwhat her fate must be, he hopes that time and new adventures will efface\nArlette from the mind of her dangerous lover; but, again, he is urged,\nheaps of gold shine before him, how shall he turn from their tempting\nlustre? Is there not in yonder tower an _oubliette_ that yawns for the\ndisobedient vassal? He appeals to Arlette, she has no reply but tears;\nmen at arms appear in the night, they knock at the skinner's door and\ndemand his daughter, they promise fair in the name of their master; they\nmount her on a steed before the gentlest of their band, his horse's\nhoofs clatter along the rocky way--the father hears the sobs of his\nchild for a little space, and his heart sinks,--he hides his eyes with\nhis clenched hand, but suddenly he starts up--his floor is strewn with\nglittering pieces--he stoops down and counts them, and Arlette's sorrows\nare forgotten.\n\nArlette returns no more to her father's cottage. She remains in a turret\nof the castle, but not as a handmaiden of the duchess; her existence is\nnot supposed to be known, though the childless wife of Duke Robert weeps\nin secret, over her wrongs.\n\nAll this is pure fancy, and may have no foundation in reality.\n\n    \"Look here upon this picture and on that.\"\n\nPerhaps Arlette did not repine at her fate; she might have been\nambitious and worldly, vain and presuming, have possessed cunning and\nresolve, and have used every artifice to secure her triumph. Some of the\nstories extant of her would seem to prove this, and some to exculpate\nher from blame, inasmuch as she believed herself to have fulfilled a\nsacred duty in conforming to her master's will. When she told her lover\nthat she had dreamt \"a tree sprang from her bosom which overshadowed all\nNormandy,\" there was more evidence of policy than simplicity in the\ncommunication which was so well calculated to raise the hopes of a great\nman without an heir; and perhaps it was she herself who dictated the\nsaying of the _sage femme_ at her son's birth, who, having placed him\n_on straw_ by her side, and observing that the robust infant grasped in\nhis tiny hands as much as he could hold, cried out--\"_Par Dieu_! this\nchild begins early to grasp and make all his own!\" At all events the\nlittle hero was \"honourably brought up,\" and treated as if legitimate.\n\nAnother version of the story of Arlette is given by an ancient\nchronicler, (Benoit de St Maur,) which is certainly a sufficient\ncontrast to the view I ventured to take of the affair, probably with but\nlittle correctness, considering the manners of the period.\n\nIt appears that the scruples of the fair daughter of _Vertpr\u00e8s_, the\nskinner, for his name seems to be known, were dispersed by the advice\nand injunction of her uncle, a holy personage, of _singular_ piety, who\ndwelt in a hermitage in the wood of Gouffern. Convinced, by his\narguments, that Heaven had directed the affection of the duke towards\nher, she no longer resisted her father's wish, and made preparations as\nif for a bridal, providing herself with rich habiliments calculated to\nenhance her beauty. When the messengers of the duke came to fetch her,\nthey requested that she would put on a cloak and cape, and conceal her\nrich dress, for fear of the jeers of the common people, who would\nperhaps insult her if she appeared publicly with them; but she replied\nboldly and proudly, \"Does the duke send for me after this manner, as if\nI were not the daughter of an honourable man? Shall I go secretly, as if\nI were but a disgraced woman? That which I do is in all honour and\nrespectability, not from wickedness or weakness, and I am not ashamed\nthat men should see me pass. If I am to be taken to the duke, it shall\nnot be on foot and hidden--fetch, therefore, your palfrey, and let me go\nas it becomes me.\" Her dress is thus described:--\"She had clothed her\ngentle body in a fine shift, over which was a grey pelisse, wide and\nwithout lacings, but setting close to her shape and her arms: over this\nshe wore a short mantle conformable and of good taste; her long hair was\nslightly bound with a fillet of fine silver. It was in this guise,\nbeautiful to behold, that she mounted the courser which was brought for\nher, and saluted her _father and mother_ as she rode away; but at _the\nlast moment she was seized with a trembling, and burst into weeping,\ncovering her fair bosom with her tears_.\"\n\nWhen she arrived, \"by a fine moon-light,\" at the castle gate, her\nattendants made her alight, and opened a wicket for her to enter, but\nshe drew back, saying, \"The duke has sent for me, and it would seem that\nhe esteems me little if his gates are not to be opened for my passage.\nLet him order them to give me entrance, or send me back at once. _Beaux\namis, ouvrez-moi la porte_.\"\n\nThe messengers, awed by her dignity, hesitated not to obey her, and she\nwas presently conducted into the presence of Duke Robert, who awaited\nher coming in a vaulted chamber, adorned with gilding, where \"fine\nimages were represented in enamel and colours.\" There he received her\nwith great joy and honour, and from that time she possessed all his\nlove.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER II.\n\n     PRINCE ARTHUR--WANT OF GALLANTRY PUNISHED--THE RECREANT SOW--THE\n     ROCKS OF NORON--LA GRANDE EPERONNI\u00c8RE--LE CAMP-FERME--ANTIQUITIES\n     OF FALAISE--ALEN\u00c7ON--NORMAN CAPS--GEESE--LE MANS--TOMB OF\n     B\u00c9RANG\u00c8RE--CATHEDRAL--ANCIENT REMAINS--STREETS--THE VEILED FIGURE.\n\n\nCLOSE to the natal chamber of Duke William may be seen another recess in\nthe thick walls, still smaller and more dismal, to which a ruined window\nnow gives more light than in the days when poor young Arthur of Brittany\nlooked sadly through its loop-holes over a wide extent of country, now\nall cultivation and beauty, but probably then bristling with forts and\ntowers, all in the hands of his hard-hearted uncle John. After having\nmade his nephew prisoner in Anjou, John sent him to Falaise, and had him\nplaced in this dungeon in the custody of some severe but not cruel\nknights, who treated him with all the respect they dared to show. An\norder from their treacherous master soon arrived, directing that he\nshould be put to death; but they refused obedience, and indignantly\nexclaimed, that the walls of the castle of Falaise should not be sullied\nby such a crime. Arthur was therefore removed to Rouen, and there less\nconscientious men were found to execute the tyrant's will, if tradition,\nso varied on the point, speak true.\n\nStephen maintained himself in the castle of Falaise against the father\nof Henry II., and these walls have probably echoed to the lays of\nminstrels, whose harps were tuned in praise of the beautiful and haughty\nheiress of Aquitaine. The fair wife of Coeur de Lion had this castle for\nher dower, and, for some time, is said to have lived here. Philip\nAugustus accorded some singular privileges to Falaise, two of which\ndeserve to be recorded.\n\nIf a woman were convicted of _being fond of scandal_, and known to\nbackbite her neighbours, they had the right of placing cords under her\narms and ducking her three times in the water: after this, if a man took\nthe liberty of reproaching her with the circumstance, he was compelled\nto pay a fine of ten sous, or else he was plunged into the stream in a\nsimilar manner.\n\nIf a man were so ungallant as to call a woman _ugly_, he was obliged to\npay a fine. This offence was indeed worthy of condign punishment, if the\nwomen of Falaise were as pretty formerly as they are now: with their\nneat petticoats, smart feet in sabots, high butterfly or mushroom caps,\nas white as snow, scarlet handkerchiefs and bright-coloured aprons, with\ntheir round healthy cheeks, lively eyes, and good-humoured expression\nof countenance, the Falaisiennes are as agreeable a looking race as one\nwould wish to see, and more likely to elicit compliment than insult.\n\nMany curious customs prevailed in the middle ages in this old town; and\none was formerly portrayed on the walls of a chapel in the church of the\nHoly Trinity. It was the representation of an execution: the delinquent\nhad injured a child, by disfiguring its face and arms, and suffered in\nconsequence. The culprit was no other than a sow; and when the crime\ncommitted was brought home to her, the learned judges assembled on the\noccasion pronounced her as guilty of malice prepense; and in order to\nhold her up as an example to all sows in time to come, her _face_ and\n_fore legs_ were mutilated in a similar manner to those of her victim.\nThe spectacle of her punishment took place in a public square, amidst a\ngreat concourse of spectators, the father of the child being brought as\na witness, and condemned to stand by during the infliction, as a due\nreward for not having sufficiently watched his infant. The\n\"viscount-judge\" of Falaise appeared on the solemn occasion \"on\nhorseback, with a plume of feathers on his head, and _his hand on his\nside_.\" The sow was dragged forth dressed in the costume of a citizen,\nin a vest and breeches, and \"_with gloves on_, wearing a mask\nrepresenting the face of a man.\"\n\nWhat effect this wise judgment had is not related; probably it produced\nas salutary a result as most of those exhibitions designed for the\namusement or instruction of an enlightened multitude.\n\nThe chain of the rocks of Noron, on part of which the castle is\nsituated, is singularly picturesque; and from those opposite, rising\nfrom the side of Arlette's fountain, the fine ruins have a most majestic\neffect; and the prospect for leagues round is extremely beautiful. A\nsoft turf, covered with wild thyme, heath, and fern, makes the\nmeandering walks amongst the huge blocks of moss-mantled stone, tempting\nand delightful, in spite of their steepness; and the delicious perfume\nof the fragrant herbs, growing in great luxuriance everywhere, is\nrefreshing in the extreme. The snowy tower of strength, rising from its\nbed of piled up rock--the broad high walls, and their firm buttresses\nand circular windows, through which the blue sky gleams--the nodding\nfoliage and garlands of ivy which adorn the huge towers--and, far\nbeyond, a rich and glowing country, altogether present a scene of\nbeauty, difficult to be equalled in any part of Normandy, rich as that\ncharming province is in animated landscape.\n\nWe spent many hours of a brilliant summer's day, climbing amongst the\nrocks, and making sketches of the castle in its different phases, all of\nwhich offer studies to an artist: here the majestic donjon forms a fine\nobject; there the ruined arsenal; and farther off the battered walls,\nseparated and hurled down by the cannon of Henri IV. when through this\nbreach his white plume was seen triumphantly waving as he cheered his\nwarriors on to the attack, changing the _six months_ proposed by Brissac\ninto _six days_, during which he took the fortress and the town.\n\nAn anecdote is related of a heroine of Falaise, whose exploits are\nrecorded with pride by her countrymen, by whom she is called _La Grande\nEperonni\u00e8re_. She had headed a party of valiant citizens, who defended\none of their gates, and fought with such determination, as to keep her\nposition for a long time against the soldiers of Le Vert Galant.\n\nThe king, when the town was in his power, summoned her before him: she\ncame, and approaching with the same undaunted air, interrupted him, as\nhe was about to propose terms to her, and demanded at once the safety of\nall the women and aged men of the town of Falaise. Henry was struck with\nher courage, and desired her to shut herself up in a street with the\npersons she wished to save, together with all their most precious\npossessions, and gave her his word that no soldier should penetrate that\nretreat. He, of course, kept his promise; and she assembled her friends,\ntook charge of most of the riches of the town, closed the two ends of\nthe street in which she lived, and, while all the rest of Falaise was\ngiven up to pillage, no one ventured to enter the sacred precincts. The\nstreet is still pointed out, and is called _Le Camp-fermant_, or\n_Camp-ferme_, in memory of the event. The heroic Eperonni\u00e8re was\nfortunate in having a chief to deal with, who gladly took advantage of\nevery opportunity to exercise mercy.\n\nThe town of Falaise is well provided with water, and its fountains stand\nin fine open squares: a pretty rivulet runs through the greatest part,\nand turns several mills for corn, oil, cotton and tan; it is called the\nAnte, and gives name to the valley it embellishes as it runs glittering\nalong amongst the rugged stones which impede its way with a gentle\nmurmur, making a chorus to the voices of the numerous Arlettes, who,\nkneeling at their cottage doors, may be seen rubbing their linen against\nthe flat stones over which the stream flows, bending down their heads\nwhich, except on grand occasions, are no longer adorned with the high\nfly-caps which are so becoming to their faces, but are covered with a\nsomewhat unsightly cotton nightcap, a species of head-gear much in vogue\nin this part of lower Normandy, and a manufacture for which Falaise is\ncelebrated, and has consequently obtained the name of _the city of\ncotton nightcaps_. However, there is one advantage in this usage--the\nwomen have better teeth than in most cider countries, owing perhaps to\ntheir heads being kept warm, and, ugly as the cotton caps are, they\ndeserve admiration accordingly.\n\nA house is shown in one of the streets, called the House of the\nConqueror, and a rudely sculptured bust is exhibited there, dignified\nwith his name. Some few tottering antique houses still contrive to keep\ntogether in the oldest parts of the town, but none are by any means\nworthy of note; one is singular, being covered with a sort of coat of\nmail formed of little scales of wood lapping one over the other, and\npreserving the remains of some carved pillars, apparently once of great\ndelicacy. One pretty tower is still to be seen at the corner of the Rue\ndu Camp-ferme, which seems to have formed part of a very elegant\nbuilding, to judge by its lightness and grace; it has sunk considerably\nin the earth, but from its height a fine prospect may be obtained. There\nis a public library at Falaise, that great resource of all French towns,\nand several fine buildings dedicated to general utility; but the boys of\nthe college the most excite the envy of the stranger, for their abode is\non the broad ramparts, and their playground and promenades are along the\nbeautiful walks formed on the ancient defences of the castle.\n\nOur way to Alen\u00e7on, where we proposed to stop a day, lay through\nArgentan on the Orne, a pretty town on a height commanding a fine view\nof plain and forest; the country is little remarkable the whole way, but\ncultivated and pretty. At Seez the fine, delicate, elevated spires of\nthe Cathedral mark the situation of the town long before and after it is\nreached; but, besides that, it possesses no attractions sufficient to\ndetain the traveller.\n\nAlen\u00e7on, the capital of the department of Orne, is a clean, open,\nwell-built town, situated in a plain with woods in all directions, which\nentirely bound its prospects. The public promenades are remarkably fine,\nlaid out with taste, and a great resource to the inhabitants, who\nconsider them equal to those of Paris, comparing them to the gardens of\nthe Luxembourg. The cathedral, once fine, is dreadfully defaced, and the\nboasted altars and adornments of the chapels are in the usual bad taste\nso remarkable at the present day.\n\nA few fine round towers remain of the ancient ch\u00e2teau, now a prison,\nwhich is the only vestige of antiquity remaining. There was an\nexhibition of works of industry and art going on, which we went to see,\nand were much struck with the extreme beauty of some specimens of the\nlace called Point d'Alen\u00e7on. The patterns and delicate execution of this\nmanufacture are exquisite, equalling ancient point lace and Brussels.\nSome very fine stuffs in wool, transparent as gossamer and of the\nsoftest colours, attracted us, but the severity of an official\nprevented our examining them as closely as we wished, and as there was\nno indication of the place where they could be beheld at liberty, we\nwere obliged to content ourselves with the supposition that they were\nthe produce of the workshops of Alen\u00e7on. As the large gallery in which\nthe exhibition took place was principally filled with peasants in\nblouses and women with children, perhaps the vigilance of the attendants\nmight not be useless; but whether their proceeding was judicious in\nrefusing information to strangers or persons who might be able to\npurchase goods which pleased them, is questionable.\n\nAmongst the customary Norman caps to be seen here, we remarked one which\nwe recognised at once as Breton. The girl who wore it was very pretty,\nand in spite of the grave demeanour peculiar to her country and a\ndistinguishing trait, was pleased at my wishing to sketch her\nsingular-shaped head-dress, _en cr\u00e8te de coq_: she was from St. Malo, as\nI had no difficulty in guessing.\n\nThrough alleys of crimson-apple trees our road continued, and we were\nforcibly, and not very agreeably reminded, at almost every step, that\nthere is a large trade carried on in this part of the country in goose\ndown, for flocks of these unfortunate animals were scattered along the\nroad, their breasts entirely despoiled of their downy beauties, offering\na frightful spectacle; the immense numbers exceed belief, and all appear\nof a fine species. At every cabaret we passed, notices were stuck up\ninforming those whom it might concern, that accommodation for four or\nfive hundred oxen was to be had within; but we met no private carriages,\nnor, even in the neighbourhood of large towns, horsemen or pedestrians\nabove the rank of peasants. This is a circumstance so universal in every\npart of France, that it becomes a mystery where the other classes of\nsociety conceal themselves--on the promenades, in the streets and shops,\nto see a well-dressed person is a prodigy, and the wonder is to whom the\ngoods are sold, which are certainly sparingly enough exhibited.\n\nWe had looked forward to much pleasure in a visit to the ancient town\nof Le Mans, and its treasure, the tomb of B\u00e9rang\u00e8re, for the discovery\nof which, although a benefit unacknowledged, France and the curious are\nindebted to the zeal and perseverance of the late lamented Stothard, who\nsought for and found one of the most beautiful statues of the time under\na heap of corn in an old church formerly belonging to the convent of\nEpau, but converted into a granary in 1820, when, by his entreaties and\nresolution, the lost beauty was restored to daylight and honour. Not a\nword of all this is, however, named by any French chronicler, although\nB\u00e9rang\u00e8re is now the heroine and the boast of Le Mans, the object of\ninterest to travellers, the gem of the cathedral, and the pride of Le\nMaine.\n\nNothing can be more majestic, more imposing, or more magnificent than\nthe huge and massive building which towers above the town of Le Mans,\nand now adorns one side of a wide handsome square, where convents,\nchurches, houses, and streets have been cleared away, without remorse,\nto leave a free opening in front of this fine cathedral. The _place_ is\nnamed _des Jacobins_, from one of the vanished monasteries, which a\nbeautiful theatre now replaces, one of the most elegant I ever saw in\nFrance, and yet unopened, at the back of which spreads out a promenade\nin terraces, the site of a Roman amphitheatre. All the houses round\nthis square are handsome, and a broad terrace before the arcades of the\ntheatre completes its good effect. Numerous flying buttresses and\ngalleries and figures combine to give lightness to the enormous bulk of\nthe cathedral, which, being without spires, would otherwise be heavy;\nbut the want of these graceful accessories is scarcely felt, so grand is\nthe general character given to it by the enormous square tower, which\nappears to protect it, and the smaller ones, its satellites. Statues of\nthe countesses of Maine, of nuns, and queens, may still be seen in\nniches at different heights of the tower, and the portals are enriched\nwith saints and bishops, angels and foliage astonishing the eye with\ntheir elaborate grace and beauty. There are thirteen chapels projecting\nfrom the main building, that which forms the termination towards the\nsquare being the largest. One rose window is remarkable for the elegance\nof its stone-work, and the form of all the windows is grand and\nimposing.\n\nThis glorious fabric, equal to that of Beauvais, which it resembles, and\nmore extensive, is sufficient of itself to render Le Mans interesting,\nbut it is a town full of objects that delight and please. The streets\nare all wide, clean, and well-paved; there are good squares and handsome\nhouses; and its position on the pretty, clear river Sarthe, from which\nthe banks rise gracefully, crowned with foliage and adorned with towers\nand churches, makes the place really charming. There is a promenade,\ncalled Du Greffier, formed evidently on the ramparts of an old castle,\npart of whose massive walls may still be traced among the trees, which\nare planted in terraces above the river, whose water is as bright and\nglittering as those of the Loire itself: green meadows and pretty _aits_\nadorn the stream, and the usual picturesque idleness of fishing is\ncarried on by its banks, while groups of wading washerwomen, in\nhigh-coloured petticoats and white caps, enliven the little quays.\n\nThe weather was very propitious while we were at Le Mans, and all\nappeared attractive and agreeable, and we enjoyed our unwearied walks,\nboth in the environs, and in the town, extremely. Although there is a\ngreat deal that is entirely new in the principal quarter of the town,\nwhere our Hotel du Dauphin, in the spacious Place aux Halles, was\nsituated, yet, to the antiquarian, there is no lack of interest in the\nantique parts, where much of the original city remains even as it might\nhave been in the earliest times. Roman walls and towers extend in every\ndirection between the three bridges of Ysoir, St. Jean, and Napoleon;\nand, in the old quartiers of Gourdaine and du Pr\u00e9, arches, pillars, and\nruins, attest the antiquity of the spot. We hesitated not to enter these\nsingular old streets, where the lowest of the population reside, and,\nas is almost invariable in France, we always found civility and a\ncheerful readiness to afford us information. The inquisitive stranger is\ngenerally, however, obliged, after going through several of the narrow\nways which excite his curiosity, to abandon his search after uncertain\nantiquities, from the inodorous accompaniments which are sure to assail\nhim; and so it was with us when we had visited the Rue _Danse Renard_,\nRue _de la Truie qui File_, _Vert Galant_, the _Grande_ and _Petite\nPoterne_, &c. We found ourselves wandering in circles, amongst dwellings\nthat looked as if they must be the same inhabited by the original\nGaulish inhabitants, and at length, anxious to pay our daily devotions\nat the shrine of B\u00e9rang\u00e8re, we ventured on the ascent of an apparently\ninterminable flight of stone steps, between immensely high massive\nwalls, called _Les Pans de Gorron_.\n\nWe paused every now and then, on our ascent, to wonder at the appearance\nof the town, of which, and the river, we caught glimpses at intervals,\nand to gaze upwards at the strange old Roman walls above us, and the\nhigh houses, some with five and six rows of windows in their shelving\nroofs. At length, after considerable toil, we reached the platform where\nonce stood the ch\u00e2teau, and where still stands a curious building, all\ntowers and tourelles, some ugly, and some of graceful form, the latter\napparently of the period of Charles VI. Immediately before the steps in\nthe square above us rose the cathedral, which we came upon unawares;\nand, exactly in front of us, in an angle, partly concealed by the broad\nshadow, we perceived a figure so mysterious, so remarkable, that it was\nimpossible not to create in the mind of a beholder the most interesting\nspeculations. This extraordinary figure deserves particular description,\nand I hope it may be viewed by some person more able than myself to\nexplain it, or one more fortunate than I was in obtaining information\nrespecting it. To all the questions I asked of the dwellers in Le Mans,\nthe answers were exclamations of surprise at a stranger having noticed\nthat which had never been remarked at all by any one of the passers by,\nwho classed it with the stones of the church or the posts of the square.\nYet surely the antiquarian will not be indifferent to the treasure\nwhich, it appears to me, he should hail with as much delight as the\ndiscovery of a Druidical monument or a Roman pavement.\n\nSeated in an angle of the exterior walls of the cathedral, on a rude\nstone, is a reddish looking block, which has all the appearance of a\nveiled priest, covered with a large mantle, which conceals his hands and\nface. The height of the figure is about eight feet as it sits; the feet,\nhuge unformed masses, covered with what seems drapery, are supported on\na square pedestal, which is again sustained by one larger, which\nprojects from the angle of the building. The veil, the ample mantle, and\ntwo under-garments, all flowing in graceful folds, and defining the\nshape, may be clearly distinguished. No features are visible, nor are\nthe limbs actually apparent, except through the uninterrupted waving\nlines of the drapery, or what may be called so. A part of the side of\nwhat seems the head has been sliced off, otherwise the block is entire.\nIt would scarcely appear to have been sculptured, but has the effect of\none of those sports of Nature in which she delights to offer\nrepresentations of forms which the fancy can shape into symmetry.\n\nThere is something singularly Egyptian about the form of this swathed\nfigure, or it is like those Indian idols, whose contours are scarcely\ndefined to the eye; it is so wrapped up in mystery, and is so surrounded\nwith oblivion, that the mind is lost in amazement in contemplating it.\nDid it belong to a worship long since swept away?--was it a god of the\nGauls, or a veiled Jupiter?--how came it squeezed in between two walls\nof the great church, close to the ground, yet supported by steps?--why\nwas it not removed on the introduction of a purer worship?--how came it\nto escape destruction when saints and angels fell around?--who placed it\nthere, and for what purpose?--will no zealous antiquarian, on his way\nfrom a visit to the wondrous circle of Carnac and the gigantic Dolmens\nof Saumur, pause at Le Mans, at this obscure corner of the cathedral,\nopposite the huge Pans de Gorron, and tell the world the meaning of this\nfigure with the stone veil?\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nSince I left Le Mans, a friend, who resided there some years, informs me\nthe tradition respecting this stone is, that an _English Giant_ brought\nthe block from the banks of the river, up the steep ascent of the Pans\nde Gorron, and cast it from his shoulders against the wall of the\ncathedral, where it now stands.\n\nImagination may easily, here in the country, where the sage bard, the\ngreat Merlin, or Myrdhyn, lived, induce the belief that this mysterious\nstone represents the Druid lover of the fatal Viviana;--may this not be\nthe very stone brought from Brociliande, within, or under, which he is\nin durance; or rather is not this himself transformed to stone? Thus\nruns the tradition:--\n\nTHE DRUID LOVER.\n\n\"Myrdhyn the Druid still sleeps under a stone in a forest in Brittany;\nhis Viviana is the cause; she wished to prove his power, and asked the\nsage the fatal word which could enchain him; he, who knew all things,\nwas aware of the consequences, yet he could not resist her entreaties;\nhe told her the spell, and, to gratify her, condemned himself to eternal\noblivion.\"\n\n      I know to tell the fatal word\n      Is sorrow evermore--\n      I know that I that boon accord\n      Whole ages will deplore.\n    Though I be more than mortal wise,\n    And all is clear to gifted eyes;\n    And endless pain and worlds of woe\n    May from my heedless passion flow,\n    Yet thou hast power all else above,--\n    Sense, reason, wisdom, yield to love.\n\n    I look upon thine eyes of light,\n    And feel that all besides is night;\n    I press that snowy hand in mine,\n    And but contemn my art divine.\n    Oh Viviana! I am lost;\n    A life's renown thy smile hath cost.\n    A stone no ages can remove\n    Will be my monument of love;\n    A nation's wail shall mourn my fate,\n    My country will be desolate:\n\n    Heav'n has no pardon left for me,\n    Condemn'd--undone--destroy'd--by thee!\n    Thy tears subdue my soul, thy sighs\n    Efface all other memories.\n    I have no being but in thee;\n      My thirst for knowledge is forgot,\n    And life immortal would but be\n      A load of care, where thou wert not.\n\n    Wouldst thou but turn away those eyes\n    I might be saved--I might be wise.\n    I might recal my reason still\n    But for that tongue's melodious thrill!\n    Oh! wherefore was my soul replete\n      With wisdom, knowledge, sense, and power,\n    Thus to lie prostrate at thy feet,\n      And lose them all in one weak hour!\n    But no--I argue not--'tis past--\n      Thus to be thine, belov'd by thee,\n    I seek but this, even to the last,\n      For all besides is vain to me.\n    I gaze upon thy radiant brow,\n    And do not ask a future now.\n\n    Thou hast the secret! speak not yet!\n      Soon shall I gaze myself to stone,\n    Soon shall I all but thee forget,\n      And perish to be thine alone.\n    Ages on ages shall decline,\n    But Myrdhyn shall be ever thine!\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER III.\n\n     TOMB OF B\u00c9RANG\u00c8RE--WIVES OF COEUR DE LION--TOMBS--ABBEY\n     CHURCHES--CH\u00c2TEAU OF LE MANS--DE CRAON--THE SPECTRE OF LE MANS--THE\n     VEND\u00c9EANS--MADAME DE LA ROCHE-JAQUELIN--A WOMAN'S PERILS--DISASTERS\n     OF THE VEND\u00c9EANS--HENRI--CHOUANS.\n\n\nHOWEVER interesting the exterior of the Cathedral of St. Julien may be,\nthe interior entirely corresponds with it. The windows of painted glass\nare of the very first order, and of surpassing beauty, nearly entire,\nand attributed to Cimabue. The double range in the choir, seen through\nthe _grille_, or from the exterior aisle--for there are two on each\nside--present a magnificent _coup d'oeil_. The architecture is of\ndifferent periods; specimens may be observed belonging to the 12th\ncentury and reaching to the 17th; but some of the finest is that of the\nNorman era; the zigzags of the portals, and the billets, rose\nmouldings, &c., being of peculiar delicacy and boldness. There is a\ngreat deal of ornament composed of those extravagant forms of animals\nwhich, at a distance, are confounded with the foliage to which they are\nattached, but which, viewed nearly, are mysteriously extraordinary. The\ncircular arch reigns throughout, but many in _ogive_ also occur in\ndifferent parts. The arcades and galleries of the choir are of the\nutmost delicacy and elegance of form; but the chief attraction is the\ntomb of the widow of Richard Coeur de Lion, placed in one of the wings\nof the cross. The Lady Chapel is undergoing repair, and is being\nrestored in the very best style. The new screen is beautiful, and the\nfigures of the Virgin and Child in very good taste, as are all the\nornaments, which exactly follow the fine originals. The exterior repairs\nare carried on with equal skill; and this precious monument will soon be\nin perfect order.\n\nAs I looked at the pure, dignified, and commanding outline of the face\nof B\u00e9rang\u00e8re, she appeared to me to have been a fitting wife for the\nhero whose effigy had inspired me with so much admiration when I visited\nit a few years since, at Fontevraud. Her nose is slightly aquiline, her\nupper lip short and gracefully curved, her chin beautifully rounded, as\nare her cheeks; her eyebrows are clearly marked, and her eye full though\nnot large; but, even in stone, it has a tender, soft expression,\nextremely pleasing, and there is a sadness about the mouth which answers\nwell to the tenderness of the eye. The forehead is of just proportion,\nand shaded by a frill which passes across, over which an ample veil is\ndrawn: the whole confined by a diadem, the only part of the statue\nrather indistinct. Round her fine majestic throat is a band, to which a\nlarge ornament is attached, which rests on her chest; her head reclines\non an embroidered pillow; her drapery falls over her figure and round\nher clasped hands in graceful folds, and the dog and lion at her feet\ncomplete the whole of this charming statue, which is of workmanship\nequal to that of the exquisite _four_ in the little vault at\nFontevraud.[2]\n\nB\u00e9rang\u00e8re was daughter of Sancho VI., king of Navarre--not, as some\nhistorians say, a princess of Castile or Arragon. After Richard's death,\nPhilip-Augustus confirmed to her the dominion of Maine, in exchange for\npart of Normandy, which had been settled on her as her dower. She lived\nfor more than twenty years in the town of Le Mans, where her memory was\nlong preserved as _La Bonne Reine B\u00e9rang\u00e8re_. She founded the monastery\nof Epau, near Le Mans, where the mausoleum was erected which now adorns\nthe Cathedral of St. Julien.\n\n[Footnote 2: See a description of the statues of Coeur de Lion, Henry\nand Elionor, and Isabella of Angoul\u00eame, in \"A Summer amongst the Bocages\nand the Vines.\"]\n\nTwo houses are pointed out in the Grande Rue, said to have formed part\nof her palace; and the singularity of the ornaments which can be traced\namidst their architecture, makes it probable that the tradition is not\nincorrect.\n\nThe abbey of Epau formerly stood about half a league from Le Mans, on\nthe banks of the river Huisne, in the midst of a fertile plain; the\nwidow of Richard founded it, in 1230, for Bernardins of the order of\nCiteaux.\n\nThe inhabitants of Le Mans destroyed the monastery, after the battle of\nPoitiers, in 1365, fearing that the English would take possession of it\nand render it a place of defence; and it was reconstructed early in the\nfifteenth century. The church alone remains, which, after the\nRevolution, was desecrated, as has been related, and the tomb of the\nfoundress treated so unceremoniously.\n\nThere seems a question, which has not yet been fully resolved, as to the\nidentity of the wives of Richard; by some authors a certain Rothilde,\notherwise called B\u00e9rang\u00e8re of Arragon, is described as his queen; who,\n\"owing to some misunderstanding, caused a part of the city of Limoges to\nbe destroyed, and salt strewn amongst the ruins; three days after which\nshe died, and was buried under the belfry of the abbey of St. Augustine,\nin 1189 or 1190. Her mausoleum and statue were afterwards placed\nthere.\"\n\nThis could scarcely be _our_ B\u00e9rang\u00e8re of Navarre, since mention is made\nof her in public acts as late as 1234. In the annals of Aquitaine, by\nBouchet, it is set forth, that, \"in 1160, Henry, Duke of Aquitaine, and\nRaimond, Count of Barcelona, being at Blaye, on the Gironde, made and\nswore an alliance, by which Richard, surnamed Coeur de Lion, second son\nof the said Henry, was to marry the daughter of the said Raimond, when\nshe should be old enough, and Henry promised to give, on the occasion of\nthe said marriage, the duchy of Aquitaine to his son. This Raimond was\nrich and powerful, being Count of Barcelona in his own right, and King\nof Arragon in right of his wife.\" The Princess Alix of France--about\nwhose detention from him, Richard afterwards quarrelled with his\nfather--never became his wife; but whether it is she who is meant by the\nqueen buried at Limoges, in 1190, does not appear.\n\nThat he married B\u00e9rang\u00e8re in 1191, in the island of Cyprus, seems an\nascertained fact; and that she died at Le Mans appears also certain; but\nwhether Richard really had two wedded wives it is difficult to\ndetermine.\n\nOn the Monday of Pentecost, the Abbey of Epau was for centuries the\nscene of a grand festival, in honour of the patron saint, and the\nceremony was continued, to a late period, of passing the day there in\ngaiety and amusement. All the families of the neighbourhood sought the\nspot on foot, and every kind of country entertainment was resorted to.\nAlthough the object is now changed, an expedition to the remains of the\nAbbey of Epau is still a favourite one with the inhabitants of Le Mans;\nit is a kind of _Longchamps_, where all the fashion and gaiety of the\ntown is displayed.\n\nThe only tombs, besides that of B\u00e9rang\u00e8re, remaining in the cathedral of\nLe Mans, are those in white marble, of Charles of Anjou, Count of Maine\nand King of Jerusalem and Sicily, who died in 1472. Opposite this, is a\nfinely-sculptured tomb, worthy of the school of Jean Goujon, of Langey\ndu Bellay; the carving of the fruits and flowers which adorn it is\nattributed to Germain Pilon. There is some good carving, also, in a\nneighbouring chapel, by Labarre, done in 1610; but little else of this\nkind remarkable in the church; all the other tombs of countesses, dukes,\nand princes, having long since disappeared. However, B\u00e9rang\u00e8re, perhaps,\nappears to the greater advantage, reigning, as she does, in solitary\ngrandeur in this magnificent retreat.\n\nThe abbey churches of La Couture and Du Pr\u00e9, are fine specimens of early\narchitecture. In the chapel of the former, an inscription was once to be\nfound on the walls, to the memory of a certain innkeeper and postilion,\nwho, wishing that his name should be handed down to posterity, had set\nforth the fact of his having conducted the carriages of four kings of\nFrance, and after passing sixty-four years as a married man, died in\n1509: he adds a prayer to this important record, that Heaven would\nprovide a second husband for his widow, whose age appears to have\nreached not less than _sixteen lustres_. The subterranean church of La\nCouture is very remarkable, and is, no doubt, of Roman construction; the\ncapitals of the pillars are extremely curious, and its height and\ndryness are peculiar. The famous warrior, H\u00e9lie de la Fl\u00e8che, so often\nnamed in the wars of the eleventh century, was here buried; and here, it\nis said, was deposited the body of the blessed St. Bertrand. It is a\nvery grand and interesting church in all its parts, and preserves some\ncurious memorials of Roman and early Norman architecture.\n\nThe abbey church of Du Pr\u00e9 is equally curious, and its circular arches,\nstrange capitals, niches and ornaments, prove its extraordinary\nantiquity.\n\nThere are a great many houses still existing in the oldest part of Le\nMans which retain part of their original sculpture, and are of great\nantiquity, though it is not likely that they reach so far back as the\ntime of B\u00e9rang\u00e8re, or La Reine Blanche, as she is traditionally\ncalled--a designation always given to the widowed queens of France.\n\nThe house in the Grande Rue--one of the most dilapidated streets in the\ntown--said to have formed part of her palace, is now divided into two\npoulterers' shops; and when we visited it, the chamber called that of\nthe widow of Coeur de Lion, was occupied by seven women, not employed in\nweaving tapestry or stringing pearls, but in plucking fowls. The\nchimney-piece is curious, adorned with two fine medallions of male\nheads, in high relief, very boldly executed. The outside of the house\nhas some curious carving of eagles with expanded wings, strange\nmonkey-shaped figures, lions _couchant_, crosslets and scrolls; but the\nfa\u00e7ade is so much destroyed, that it is difficult to connect any of\nthese ornaments. The crosslets were the arms of Jerusalem, of which the\ncounts of Anjou called themselves kings; but to what period all these\nsculptures belong it is difficult to say.\n\nThe Grande Rue is full of these remains; in the Rue des Chanoines, some\ncircular-arched windows, ornamented with roses, stars, and _toothed_\ncarving, indicate that here once stood the church founded by St. Aldric,\nin the ninth century; and some pieces of wall and brick still prove its\noriginal Roman construction.\n\nIn the Place St. Michel, a stone house of ancient date is shown as\nhaving been inhabited by Scarron; and in almost every street of the old\ntown, some curious bits, worthy of an artist's attention, may be found;\nbut the search after them is somewhat fatiguing, and involves a visit to\nnot the most agreeable part of the pretty city: all of which is\ninteresting, whether new or old.\n\nOf the once famous Ch\u00e2teau of Le Mans, erected long before the time of\nWilliam the Conqueror, who destroyed it in part, nothing now remains but\nthe Pans de Gorron, and a few _tourelles_. Yet it was, in the turbulent\ntimes when such fortresses were required, a place of enormous strength;\nand its two forts, one called Mont Barbet, and one Motte Barbet, defied\nmany an attack.\n\nIt appears that the Manceaux were impatient of the yoke of the\n_conquering hero_, who endeavoured to make all the territory his own\nwhich approached his domains; and three times they gave him the trouble\nof besieging their town; he, at length, having raised fortifications\nsufficient to intimidate them, placed in command in the ch\u00e2teau a\nfemale, whose warlike attainments had rendered her famous even in those\ndays of prowess. She was an English woman by birth, the widow of a\nNorman knight, and called Orbrindelle. The fort in which she took up her\nhead quarters, and from whence she sent forth the terror of her power,\nwas called after her; but, by corruption, was afterwards named\nRibaudelle.\n\nThis castle was destroyed by royal order in 1617, and at its demolition\nseveral Roman monuments and inscriptions were found on the walls and\nbeneath the foundations.\n\nKing John of France was born in the Ch\u00e2teau of Le Mans, and several\nmonarchs made it their temporary abode. The Black Prince sojourned\nwithin its walls till Duguesclin, the great captain, disturbed his\nrepose. The unfortunate Charles VI., whom fate persecuted to the ruin of\nFrance, was at Le Mans when that fearful event occurred to him, which\ndecided his future destiny. From the alleys of a great forest, now no\nlonger existing, issued forth that mysterious vision which no sage has\nyet entirely explained. It is impossible to be at Le Mans, without\nrecollecting the curious story connected with the poor young king,\nthough the town is too light and cheerful-looking at the present day, to\nallow of its being a fitting scene either for so gloomy a legend, or for\nthe sad events which modern days brought forth within its precincts.\n\nThe circumstances which caused the madness of the son of Charles the\nWise, may not, perhaps, be immediately present to the reader's mind:\nthey were as follows:--\n\nPierre de Craon, lord of Sabl\u00e9 and Fert\u00e9 Bernard, an intriguing man, who\nheld a high place in the consideration of Mary of Brittany, the regent\nof Anjou and Maine in the absence of her husband, who was prosecuting\nhis designs against Naples and Sicily, had proved himself a faithless\ntreasurer of large sums of money confided to him by his mistress; which\nsums had been wrung from the two provinces of Maine and Anjou. De Craon\nhad dissipated this money in extravagance, instead of supplying the\narmy of Prince Louis, who died in consequence of disappointed hope and\nhis unsuccessful struggles. The traitor made his appearance in Paris\nwithout fear; for he was protected by the powerful duke of Orleans,\nbrother of the king.\n\nShortly afterwards, however, having had a dispute with the Constable,\nOlivier de Clisson, he laid wait for him, accompanied by a set of\nwretches in his pay, and fell upon the great captain unawares, wounding\nhim in the head, and leaving him for dead. After this cowardly exploit,\nDe Craon fled, and threw himself under the protection of the Duke of\nBrittany, who, although not his accomplice, was weak enough to take his\npart.\n\nPierre de Craon was condemned for contumacy; several of his people were\npunished with death, in particular a poor curate of Chartres, who was\nentirely innocent: his dwelling was razed to the ground, and its site\ngiven to a neighbouring church for a cemetery: and the Duke of Brittany\nwas summoned by King Charles to deliver up the craven knight to justice.\n\nThis command, however, was treated with contempt, and the king\naccordingly put himself at the head of his troops, and set forth to\nattack the duke: it was at Le Mans that he arrived with his army.\n\nCharles was greatly excited, and his nerves appear to have been agitated\nat this time, owing to various causes. The weather was intensely hot,\nand the sun struck full upon him as he rode in advance of his army,\nsurrounded by his guard of honour. He entered the Forest of Le Mans, and\nwas proceeding down one of its glades, when suddenly a gigantic black\nfigure, wild, haggard, and with hair floating in dishevelled masses over\nhis face, darted suddenly from a deep recess, and, seizing the bridle of\nthe king's horse, cried out, in a sepulchral voice, \"Hold,\nking!--whither ride you?--go no further!--you are betrayed!\" and\ninstantly disappeared amidst the gloomy shades of the wood, before any\none had time to lay hands on him.\n\nCharles did not turn back, but continued his way in silence; he emerged\nfrom the forest on to a wide sandy plain, where the heat was almost\nintolerable, and where there was nothing to shelter him from the burning\nrays. A page was riding near him, who, overcome with fatigue, slept in\nhis saddle, and let the lance he held fall violently on the helmet of\none of his companions. The sharp sound this occasioned roused the king\nfrom his gloomy reverie: he started in sudden terror; his brain was\nconfused and heated; he imagined that the accomplishment of the\nspectre's denunciation was at hand, and, losing his senses altogether,\nhe drew his sword, and, with a wild cry, rushed forward, hewing down all\nbefore him, and galloping distractedly across the plain, till,\nexhausted by fatigue and excitement, he fell from his horse in a swoon.\n\nHe was instantly surrounded by his people, raised from the ground, and\nconveyed with all care to Le Mans, where he remained till he was thought\nsufficiently recovered to be removed to Paris.\n\nThe storm about to fall on the head of the Duke of Brittany was thus\nturned aside, and the troops who had received orders to attack him were\nwithdrawn. Whether this was a scene got up by the Duke of Brittany, in\norder to work on the diseased mind of the unfortunate monarch, or was\nmerely the effect of an accidental meeting with a maniac, or whether the\nking's uncles, who disapproved of his just indignation at De Craon's\nconduct, had arranged the whole, it is impossible to say: but poor\nCharles was surrounded by traitors, foreign and domestic, and evidently\nhad no good physician at hand, whose timely skill might have saved years\nof misery and bloodshed to France.\n\nThroughout the deadly wars of the League, and the contentions between\nCatholic and Protestant, which desolated France, Le Mans and the whole\nof the department of Maine took a prominent part, and its streets,\nhouses, churches, and villages were burnt and destroyed over and over\nagain. The last stand of the unfortunate Vend\u00e9eans was at Le Mans. \"Sad\nand fearful is the story\" of the fight there, as it is told by Madame\nde la Roche-Jaquelin, whose pictures draw tears from every eye, and\nwhose narrative, read at Le Mans, is melancholy indeed.\n\nAfter dreadful fatigues and varying fortune, during which the devoted\ntown was taken and retaken several times, the harassed Vend\u00e9eans, more\nremarkable for their valour than their prudence, remained in possession\nof the town on the night of the 10th of December, 1793, and gave\nthemselves up to the repose which they so much needed, but without\narranging any means of security, though a vigilant enemy was on the\nwatch to take advantage of their state. They abandoned themselves, with\ncharacteristic superstition, to the care of Heaven alone; placing no\nsentinels, no out-posts, no guard whatever: and, although the next day\nthe chiefs visited the town and its issues, no precaution was taken\nagainst the possibility of an attack,--no measures to secure a retreat,\nnor council held as to whither their course should be directed in case\nof such a necessity. The time was consumed in disputes, as to whether\nthe wearied Vend\u00e9ean army should pursue its transient success, and go on\nto Paris, or yield to the desire of the generality of the soldiers, and\nreturn to their beloved home, by crossing the Loire, which so many\nregretted ever to have passed. It appears that there were from sixty to\nseventy thousand persons in Le Mans, of the royalist party; including\nwomen, children, and servants, with baggage and money to a large amount.\n\nThe republican army, commanded by Marceau and Westermann, surprised the\ntown at night. In spite of the active bravery of La Roche-Jaquelin, and\nthe energy he displayed when the danger was so apparent, a fearful\nslaughter ensued. Street by street, and square by square, the Vend\u00e9eans\ndisputed every inch of ground, till the corpses of the slain lay in\nheaps in the narrow ways; every house was a fortress,--every lane a pass\ndesperately defended. The intrepid young leader had two horses killed\nunder him, and was obliged to absent himself a moment to seek for\nothers. No sooner did his people lose sight of him than a panic took\npossession of them; they thought all lost,--became confused and\ndisordered. Many of them, waked from sleep, or from a state of\ninebriety, in which the Britons are too apt to indulge, horrified at the\nshrieks of their women, stunned by the sound of the cannon, which roared\nthrough the dark streets, and startled at the glare of artillery\nsuddenly blazing around them,--entirely lost all presence of mind, and\nfled in every direction; killing and wounding friends and foes in their\nprecipitous retreat. Horses, waggons, and dead bodies impeded their\nflight, and Le Mans was one scene of carnage and terror. Their leaders\nstood their ground, and kept the great square of Le Mans for more than\nfour hours, performing prodigies of valour. But the republicans at last\nwere victors: and horribly did they pursue their advantage; sparing\nneither age nor sex, and exulting in the most atrocious cruelties. The\npeasants of Le Mans and its environs, taking part with the stronger\nside, pursued the vanquished with disgraceful energy, and murdered the\nunfortunate Vend\u00e9eans in the woods and fields, and in every retreat\nwhere those devoted people sought shelter and safety.\n\nThe state of the unfortunate women, whose husbands, sons, and fathers\nwere being slaughtered with every volley which rung in their ears, is\nhorrible to imagine. Madame de la Roche-Jaquelin thus describes her own\nposition in moving language:\n\n\"From the beginning, we foresaw the result of the struggle. I was lodged\nat the house of a lady who was very rich, very refined, but a great\nrepublican. She had a large family, whom she tenderly loved, and whom\nshe carefully attended. I resolved to confide my daughter to her, as one\nof her relations had already taken charge of little Jagault. I entreated\nher to protect her,--to bring her up as a mere peasant only,--to instil\ninto her mind sentiments of honour and virtue. I said that, should she\nbe destined to resume the position in which she was born, I should\nthank Heaven for its mercy; but I resigned myself to all, provided she\nwas virtuously brought up. She assured me that, if she took my child,\nshe would educate her with her own. I used all the arguments a mother\ncould in such circumstances, and was interrupted by the cry that\nannounced retreat. She quitted me instantly; and I, losing at once all\nhope, but trusting at least to save my daughter's life, placed her\nsecretly in the bed of the mistress of the family, certain that she\ncould not have the cruelty to abandon the innocent little creature. I\nthen descended the stairs: I was placed on horseback; the gate was\nopened; I saw the square filled with a flying, pressing crowd, and in an\ninstant I was separated from every one I knew. I perceived M. Stofflet,\nwho was carrying the colours: I took advantage of his presence to try to\nfind the road; I followed him across the square, which I supposed was\nthe way; I kept close to the houses; and at length reached the street\nwhich led in the direction I sought, towards the road of Laval. But I\nfound it impossible to advance; the concourse was too great,--it was\nstifling: carts, waggons, cannon, were overturned; bullocks lay\nstruggling on the ground, unable to rise, and striking out at all who\napproached them. The cries of persons trodden underfoot echoed\neverywhere. I was fainting with hunger and terror: I could scarcely see;\nfor daylight was nearly closed. At the corner of a street I perceived\ntwo horses tied to a stake, and they completely barred my passage; the\ncrowd pressed them against me; and I was squeezed between them and the\nwall: I screamed to the soldiers to take and ride off with them; but my\nvoice was not heard or attended to. A young man on horseback passed by\nme, with a mild and sad countenance: I cried out to him, catching his\nhand, 'Oh! sir, have pity on a poor woman, near her confinement, and\nperishing with want and fatigue: I can go no further.' The stranger\nburst into tears, and replied: 'I am a woman, too: we shall perish\ntogether; for nothing can penetrate into yonder street.' We both\nremained expecting our fate.\n\n\"In the meantime, the faithful Bontemps, servant of M. de Lescure, not\nseeing my daughter, sought for her everywhere,--found her at length, and\ncarried her off in his arms. He followed me, perceived me in the crowd,\nand called out, 'I have saved my master's child!' I hung down my head,\nand resigned myself to the worst. In a moment after I saw another of my\nservants: I called to him; he caught my horse by the bridle; and,\ncutting his way with his sabre, we entered the street. With incredible\ntrouble, we reached a little bridge in the faubourg, on the road to\nLaval: a cannon was overturned upon it, and stopped up the way: at\nlength we got by, and I found myself in the road; where I paused, with\nmany others. Some officers were there, trying to rally their soldiers;\nbut all their efforts were useless.\n\n\"The republicans, hearing a noise where we were, turned their cannon\nupon us from the height of the houses. A bullet whizzed past my head: a\nmoment afterwards a fresh discharge startled me; and, involuntarily, I\nbent myself low upon my horse. An officer near reproached me bitterly\nfor my cowardice. 'Alas!' replied I, 'it is excusable in a wretched\nwoman to crouch down when a whole army has taken to flight!' In fact,\nthe firing continued so violently that all of our people who had paused\nrecommenced flying for their lives. Had it been daylight, perhaps they\nmight have been recalled.\n\n\"A few leagues from Le Mans, I beheld the arrival of my father. He and\nHenri had been for a long time vainly endeavouring to reanimate the\nsoldiers. Henri hurried towards me, exclaiming, 'You are saved!'--'I\nthought you were lost,\" cried I, 'since we are beaten.' He wrung my\nhand, saying, 'I would I were dead!'\n\n\"About twelve leagues from Le Mans, I stopped in a village: a great part\nof the army had also halted there. There was scarcely any one in the\ncottages: the road was covered with poor wretches, who, fainting with\nfatigue, were sleeping in the mud, without heeding the pelting rain. The\nrout of Le Mans cost the lives of fifteen thousand persons. The greatest\npart were not killed in the battle; many were crushed to death in the\nstreets of Le Mans; others, wounded and sick, remained in the houses,\nand were massacred. They died in the ditches and the fields: a great\nnumber fled on the road to Alen\u00e7on, were there taken, and conducted to\nthe scaffold.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\n\"Such was the deplorable defeat of Le Mans, where the Vend\u00e9ean army\nreceived a mortal blow: it was an inevitable fatality. The day that they\nquitted the left bank of the Loire, with a nation of women, children,\nand old people, to seek an asylum in a country unknown, without being\naware what route they should take, at the beginning of winter, it was\neasy to foretell that we should conclude by this terrible catastrophe.\nThe greatest glory that our generals and soldiers can claim is that they\nretarded its accomplishment so long.\n\n\"The unfortunate and intrepid Henri did not abandon his cause till not a\nhope was left; and even at the last he lingered at Le Mans, and fought\ndesperately in the Place de l'Eperon, establishing a battery of cannon\nwhich long kept the enemy at bay. But all was unavailing, and he yielded\nto necessity. He arrived at Laval at the close of day, spent and\nexhausted, and entered a house where he entreated to be allowed to rest.\nHe was warned that he might run the risk of being surprised by\nWestermann,--'My greatest want,' said he, 'is not to live, but to\nsleep.'\"\n\nThe Vend\u00e9eans had left behind them so much gold and merchandize, so much\nfurniture, and such precious possessions, that, far from these sad\nevents being a cause of ruin to the inhabitants of Le Mans, they were\nthe means of establishing prosperity in the town in many instances, and\nits commercial influence increased very sensibly from that period. It is\nat this moment a town which appears in a very flourishing state, and is\non the whole one of the most agreeable and interesting in this part of\nFrance.\n\nThe misfortunes and troubles which the ill-fated army of royalists\nexperienced, did not prevent their renewal a few years after, when the\nsad events of the wars of the Chouans brought back all the miseries\nwhich the desolated country was but little able to contend with.\n\nHowever high-sounding the supposed motives might be which re-illumed the\nwar, it is now generally acknowledged that only a few enthusiastic men\nacted from a sense of honour and patriotism: the greatest part being\ninfluenced by less worthy ideas. Had it not been so, the excesses\ncommitted by the Chouans would never have disgraced the annals of\nwarfare: wretches without religion, morality, or feeling, mere brigands\nand marauders, under the sacred banner of patriotism, ravaged the\ncountry, burning, torturing, and destroying, pillaging, and committing\nevery crime, dignified meantime by the appellation of heroes, which one\nor two amongst them might have deserved if they had fought in better\ncompany, and been better directed. It is strange that any one,\nparticularly at the present day, can be found to magnify into heroism\nthe misguided efforts of a set of turbulent school-boys, who, again, at\na later period, were made the tools of villains for their own purposes\nof plunder; yet, very recently, works have appeared in which the _petite\nChouannerie_ is exalted into a praiseworthy community. Pity for the\nsacrificed children who were betrayed, and the bereaved mothers who wept\nover the disobedience of their sons, is all that belongs to those\nconcerned in the useless revolt which caused ruin to so many.\n\n\"The intention of the Chouans in taking arms,\" says M. de Sc\u00e9peaux, in\nhis letters on the Chouans of Bas-Maine, \"was to _defend and preserve_,\nnot _to attack and destroy_; and, like the soldiers of Pelayo, who kept\nthe rocks of Asturias as a last stronghold against their besiegers, the\nChouans made their Bocages a last asylum for the French monarchy.\" This\nis a fine _phrase_, but the facts are very far removed from this\nassertion. The Chouans were a terror and a scourge to their\nfellow-citizens: farms burnt, unoffending citizens robbed and murdered,\nall their possessions seized on and appropriated, stabbing in the dark,\nand cowardly cruelties of all kinds characterized these \"honourable\nmen,\" who were _guerillas_ and nothing more. They took names such as in\nformer times distinguished the bands of brigands who were the terror of\nthe middle ages, and their acts rendered the similitude more striking.\nSome of these chiefs signed themselves, Joli-coeur, Sans-peur,\nMonte-\u00e0-l'assaut, Bataillon, &c.\n\nIt was a fearful time, and violence and cruelty reigned triumphant\nwhichever party took the field. The province of Le Maine suffered\nseverely in the struggle. Le Mans was again the scene of contention, and\nthe streets of the town the theatre of slaughter.\n\nWho, to look at the quiet, tranquil town now, would think how much it\nhas suffered! and who but must feel indignant at the pretended patriot\nwho is not grateful to the existing government, under whose wise sway\nthe cities of France are recovering their beauty and importance after\nlong years of torture and desolation!\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER IV.\n\n     THE MUSEUM OF LE MANS--VENUS--MUMMY--GEOFFREY LE BEL--HIS\n     COSTUME--MATILDA--SCARRON--H\u00c9LIE DE LA FL\u00c8CHE--RUFUS--THE WHITE\n     KNIGHT.\n\n\nTHE Museum of Le Mans is in the H\u00f4tel de la Prefecture, and as we heard\nthat the famous enamel of Geoffrey Plantagenet, formerly on his tomb in\nthe cathedral, was preserved there, we hastened to behold so interesting\na remain of early art. A remarkably obtuse female was the exhibitor on\nthe occasion, and, on my asking her to point out the treasure, she took\nme to a collection of Roman coins and medals, assuring me they were very\nold and very curious. It was impossible not to agree with her, and to\nregard these coins with interest, particularly as they were all found in\nthe immediate neighbourhood of Le Mans; however, as a glance at them was\nsufficient, we proceeded to examine all the cases, hoping to discover\nthe object of our search.\n\nWe were arrested before a case filled with objects of art found\nprincipally at the ruins of Alonnes, near Le Mans, which commune is a\nperfect emporium of Roman curiosities, where no labourer directs his\nplough across a field, or digs a foot deep in his garden, without\nfinding statues, pillars, baths, medals, &c., in heaps. All these things\nare of fine workmanship, and thence, lately, two little wonders have\nbeen rescued from oblivion, which are really gems. One is a small female\nbust of white marble, perfect, and of singular grace; the other the\nentire figure, having only one arm wanting, of a Venus twenty-one inches\nhigh, and of exquisite proportion; she sits on the trunk of a tree; her\nbeauty is incomparable, and she must owe her birth to an artist of very\nsuperior genius.\n\nAs if to prove how worthless is that beauty which attracts and rivets\nthe attention, even in stone, close by is one of the finest and most\nperfectly-preserved female mummies I ever beheld,--hideous in its\nuninjured state, grinning fearfully with its rows of fine ivory teeth a\nlittle broken, glaring with its still prominent eyes, and appalling with\nits blackened skin drawn over the high cheekbones. Why might not this\ncarefully-attended and richly-adorned queen be the beautiful and fatal\n\"serpent of old Nile\"--the fascinating Cleopatra herself?\n\nThe features are fine and delicate in spite of the horrible hue of the\nskin, and though it revolts the mind at first, one can even fancy that\nmass of horror might, in life, have been beautiful. This valuable\nspecimen was brought from Egypt by M. Edouard de Montul\u00e9, a zealous and\nenterprising young traveller, too early snatched from science and the\nworld at the age of thirty-six.\n\nA gentleman, drawing in the museum, who had arrived after us, hearing\nour questions to our guide, very politely stepped forward and offered to\nshow us the objects of interest which he saw we might otherwise miss. He\nled us at once to the enamel we so much desired to see, and we had ample\ntime to contemplate one of the most remarkable curiosities of art which\nperhaps exists anywhere.\n\nGeoffrey le Bel, surnamed Plantagenet, the second husband of the haughty\nEmpress Matilda, who considered her dignity compromised in being obliged\nto marry a simple Count of Anjou, was, nevertheless, the handsomest man\nof his day, and apparently one of the most distinguished _dandies_.\nJean, the monk of Marmontier, in his description of the f\u00eates given by\nthe count at Rouen, speaks of the splendid habiliments of this\nprince--of his _Spanish barb_, his helmet, his buckler, his lance of\n_Poitou steel_, and his celebrated sword taken from the treasury of his\nfather, and renowned as the work of \"the great _Galannus_, the most\nexpert of armourers.\" Even in this very guise does Geoffrey appear.\n\nHe holds the sword, considered as magical, unsheathed in his right hand;\nhis shield or target covers his shoulders, and descends in a point to\nhis feet. It is charged azure, with four rampant golden leopards; only\nthe half of the shield appears, consequently all its blazonry is not\nvisible. He wears a sort of Phrygian cap ornamented with a golden\nleopard; he has a dalmatic robe, and a capacious mantle edged with\nermine, his scarf and waistband are of the same form, and all are of\nrich colours--red, green, and purple--such as appear in stained glass.\nIt is painted with great detail, and the features are very distinct;\nthey convey very little idea of beauty, but have sufficient character to\nindicate likeness. The copy, which Stothard made with great care, is\nextremely correct, much more so than the drawing he gave of B\u00e9rang\u00e8re,\nwhose beauty he entirely failed to represent: none but an accomplished\nartist, indeed, could do so, and the indefatigable antiquarian, who lost\nhis life in his zeal for his pursuit, was more accustomed to the quaint\nforms exhibited on windows and brasses. The inscription formerly to be\nread beneath the effigy of Geoffrey, on the tomb, was as follows:--\n\n\"Thy sword, oh! Prince, has delivered our country from the hordes of\nbrigands who infested it, and given to the Church entire security under\nthe shadow of peace.\"\n\nThere is something of melancholy and quiet about this portrait, which\naccord with the character given of the prince by historians, who\nrepresent him mild and good, generous, brave, and magnanimous; an\nencourager of the arts and poetry, and a lover of order; but forced into\nwars by the haughty temper of his wife, and obliged to distress his\nsubjects for supplies in consequence. His marriage with Matilda took\nplace in 1127, with great pomp, at Le Mans, in the palace of the Counts\nof Anjou; and the solemnities attending it lasted for three weeks. All\nthe vassals of Henry I. of England, father of the bride, and of\nFoulques, father of Geoffrey, were summoned to attend under pain of\nbeing considered enemies of the public good. As Henry delayed putting\nhis son-in-law in possession of Normandy, as had been agreed on, Matilda\nexcited her husband to go to war with him, and a series of conflicts\nensued which entailed much misery on the country.\n\nGeoffrey le Bel died in 1151, of pleurisy, in consequence of bathing\nimprudently in the Loire. His body was brought to Le Mans and buried in\nthe cathedral, and his son, the illustrious Henry II. of England,\nsucceeded him; a prince superior to his time, but destined to continued\nvexations from his family and his friends. The proud Matilda, too,--so\nlike the haughty heiress of Aquitaine,--need not have murmured at the\nlot which made her mother and grandmother of such kings as Henry and\nCoeur de Lion.\n\nThe pictures in the museum of Le Mans possess no sort of merit: there is\na series of paintings coarsely done from the \"Roman Comique\" of Scarron,\nrepresenting the principal scenes in his strange work; but they have no\nother value than that of having been painted at the period when he was\npopular, and being placed there in consequence of his having resided at\nLe Mans, though I believe it was not the place of his birth. It was\nhere, at all events, that his imprudence caused his own misfortune; for\nin the exuberance of his gaiety, he resolved, on occasion of a f\u00eate,\nwhich annually takes place on the route of Pontlieue, to amuse himself\nand the Manceaux, by a childish exhibition of himself _as a bird_. To\nthis end, he actually smeared himself with honey, and then having rolled\nin feathers, and assumed as much as possible the plumed character he\nwished to represent, he sallied forth and joined the procession\nastonishing all beholders; but he had not reckoned on the effect his\nappearance would produce on the boys of the parish, ever ready for\nmischief. Delighted at such an opportunity, they pursued the unfortunate\nwit without mercy, pelting and chasing him. His fear of being\nrecognised, and his anxiety to escape them, caused him to fly for\nrefuge, heated as he was with his extraordinary exertions, under an arch\nof the old bridge, where he was exposed to a severe draught. The cold\nstruck to his limbs, and the consequence was that he became paralysed\nfor the rest of his life, an affliction which he names at the beginning\nof his famous romance.\n\nThe commune of Alonnes, from whence so many antique treasures are\nderived, is about a league from Le Mans, and is looked upon with much\nsuperstitious veneration by the inhabitants of the neighbouring\nvillages. Not only are fine Roman remains discovered there, but, by the\nrude pottery continually turned up, it appears to have been a\nconsiderable city of the Gauls; for the singular forms exhibited on\ntheir vases and stones are altogether different from those of a more\nrefined people. To neither of these nations, however, was Alonnes\nsupposed to belong, but to one more powerful and mysterious still: no\nother than the fairies, who may, even now, on moon-light nights, be seen\nhovering round their _Tour aux f\u00e9es_, of which a few stones alone\nremain. A subterranean way (aqueduct) is supposed to have communicated\nwith the ancient castle; and no doubt its recesses are the scene of many\na midnight revel carried on by those unseen visitants of ruins.\n\nNumerous baths of Roman construction have been found, and more yet\nremains to be discovered. About fifty years since, some workmen making\nexcavations observed the opening of a covered way which they followed\nfor some distance, expecting to find treasure. They had not gone far,\nwhen they were surprised by suddenly entering vast chambers, covered\nwith the remains of columns, vases, and ornamental architecture: instead\nof continuing their search, they were seized with a panic, and fled from\nthe spot without attempting to penetrate further. If more valorous\nseekers were to prosecute the adventure, at the spot where they left it,\nno doubt very interesting discoveries might be made, which would repay\nthe attempt.\n\nOne of the chief heroes of Le Mans and Maine, and he who is the most\ncontinually spoken of in its history, is H\u00e9lie de la Fl\u00e8che. He was one\nof the most generous and valiant knights of his time, and to him his\nsupine and cowardly cousin, Hugues, tired of the frequent struggles\nwhich he found it necessary to sustain in order to keep in possession of\nhis rights, resigned the dominion of Maine, much to the delight of the\nManceaux, who received their young lord with open arms. H\u00e9lie showed\nhimself a friend to his new people, and entered into an alliance with\nGeoffrey IV. Count of Anjou. After which, being ready to set out for the\ncrusades, according to the fashion of the times, and finding that Robert\nof Normandy had already departed, he went to Rouen, to William Rufus,\nin the hope of obtaining his acknowledgment of his rights to the county\nof Maine. He, however, failed in this expectation, and put himself in\narray to contend with this formidable adversary, in whose alliance was a\nvery unpleasant and dangerous neighbour, the perfidious Count of Belesme\nand Baron du Saosnois, Robert II., called Talvas, generally known as\n_Robert le Diable_. This treacherous prince laid a snare for H\u00e9lie, into\nwhich he fell, and he delivered him up to William Rufus.\n\nKept prisoner at Rouen, and fearing that the Count of Anjou would enter\ninto an accommodation with William Rufus, which would compromise the\ninterests of his patrimony of La Fl\u00e8che, which he knew had long been\ncoveted by those of Anjou, H\u00e9lie made up his mind to treat for his\nransom, by which he consented to give up the province of Maine to the\nKing of England, and to do him homage for his lordship of La Fl\u00e8che, as\nhis father had done before. He obtained his liberty at this price, and\nwas brought before William, who ordered the chains with which he was\nbound to be removed, as Wace relates--\n\n    \"Dunc le fist li Reis amener\n    Et des _buies_ le fist oster.\"\n\nHe then offered to attach himself to William, as one of his most\nfaithful officers; but this being declined, murmurs escaped him, which\nroused the king's anger, as the old chronicler has recounted.\n\n    \"Count H\u00e9lie's steed he ordered forth,\n    With housings dight of regal worth;\n    'Mount straight, sir knight, and go,' he cried;\n    'Wherever it may list you ride,\n    But guard you well another tide.\n    My prison shall be deep and strong\n      If you again my thrall should be,\n    And trust me 'twill be late and long\n      Ere, once my captive, you are free.\n    In future, Count, I bid you know\n    I am your ever-ready foe;\n    Where'er you go, it shall not lack,\n    But William shall be on your back!'\n\n    I know not if Count H\u00e9lie found\n    Words to reply. He turned him round,\n    And little he delayed, I ween,\n    To make their distance great between!\"\n\nAs might be anticipated, H\u00e9lie was not content to sit down patiently\nwith so bad a bargain as he had made. He had yielded his right in Le\nMaine, and by resisting he placed himself in the position of a rebel to\nhis liege lord; nevertheless, scarcely had William returned to England,\nthinking himself secure, than H\u00e9lie began to make a struggle to recover\nwhat he had lost. No sooner, however, did William hear of his proceeding\nthan he hurried back from England, and in an incredibly short space of\ntime was at Le Mans: he found his vassal more powerful than he expected,\nand much violence ensued. Obliged to return to England, not long after\nthis his sudden death ensued. H\u00e9lie, aided by the Count of Angers,\nattacked and took possession of Le Mans, and besieged the castle: two\nNorman officers in command had, in the meantime, received orders from\nthe new King of England to treat with H\u00e9lie; and when he presented\nhimself before the walls, they requested him to clothe himself in his\nwhite tunic, which had gained him the surname of the White Knight. With\nthis he complied; and on his re-appearance before them, they received\nhim with smiles, saying,--\n\n\"Sir White Knight, you may now rejoice to good purpose, for we have\nreached the term so long desired by you; and if you have a good sum of\nmoney for us, we will make a good bargain. If we chose to resist we have\nstill arms, provisions, and valour; but the truth is, we want a\nlegitimate master to whom we can dedicate our service. For which reason,\nnoble warrior, knowing your merit, we elect and constitute you\nhenceforth Count of Le Mans.\"\n\nH\u00e9lie, after this, took part against Robert and the Count of Mortain at\nthe battle of Tinchebray, where he commanded an army composed of Bretons\nand Manceaux. He distinguished himself wherever he appeared in battle,\nand died in 1110, and was buried in the abbey church of La Couture,\nwhere his tomb was formerly seen. He was the hero of his age. Pious,\nloyal, and valiant, his device expressed his qualities:--\"No glory\nwithout honour, and no honour without glory.\" He was active, vigilant,\nand just, says one of his biographers, as great in his reverses as in\nhis successes; he added to the merit of a great captain the talents of a\nsound politician, and the enlightened mind of a statesman; but his\nhighest praise is that he merited and obtained the affection of his\nvassals.\n\nHis memory was long cherished in Le Mans, even till the events of the\ngreat Revolution swept away all records but that of the crimes then\ncommitted.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER V.\n\n     LUDE--SAUMUR REVISITED--THE GARDEN--LA PETITE VOISINE--THE RETIRED\n     MILITAIRE--LES PIERRES COUVERTES--LES PETITES\n     PIERRES--LOUDUN--URBAIN GRANDIER--RICHELIEU--THE NUNS--THE\n     VICTIM--THE FLY--THE MALLE POSTE--THE DISLODGED SERPENTS.\n\n\nLEAVING Le Mans, and all its recollections, we continued our way towards\nthe Loire, which we proposed crossing at Saumur, not only with a\npleasing memory of our former visit there, when the sight of Fontevraud\nand its treasured tombs of our English kings first delighted us, but\nbecause, with all my wish to leave nothing unnoticed in the interesting\ntowns of France, I had quitted Saumur without having made a _pilgrimage_\nto some of its most singular and important monuments. It was only on\nreading a passage in Michelet's History of France, when he alludes to\nthe \"_prodigious Dolmen_\" of Saumur, that I found there was still\nsomething of interest which I had neglected. Doubtless this has often\nbeen the case in my wanderings; and, probably, there is scarcely a town\nwhere some new treasure may not be discovered by some fresh traveller,\nwhere there is so much to excite attention.\n\nI determined, therefore, to pause at Saumur, to enjoy its beauties once\nmore, and pass a day with its Druids.\n\nLude was in our way, where, on the banks of the Loire, stands a\nmagnificent castle; now a private residence, kept up in great style, and\nsurrounded with beautiful gardens, better attended to than any I ever\nsaw in France, where the name of _Jardin Anglais_ is, usually, another\nterm for a wilderness. Lude belonged to a Breton nobleman, M. de\nFaltr\u00f6et, and now to his son, for the inhabitants were just deploring\nhis recent death, and, what is sufficiently unusual in France, naming a\nman of rank with respect and affection. He appears to have been one of\nthe most amiable and considerate of men, and to be sincerely lamented.\nThe young woman from the inn, who was our guide there, spoke of his\ndeath with great sorrow, and was eloquent in his commendation, as the\nfriend of the people and the poor.\n\nThe castle is very extensive and in high preservation: we could not see\nthe interior, which I am told is very interesting: rooms being named\nafter Francis I. and Henry IV., who are both said to have visited here;\nand the furniture of their time is preserved or introduced. The exterior\nwalls are adorned with medallions of extraordinary size, in the style\npeculiar to Francis I., and the huge round towers are similarly\ndecorated: much of the building between these towers is of more modern\ndate, but all is in good keeping and handsome. Several fine willows dip\ntheir boughs into the river, which bathes one side--but what was the\nmoat on all the others, is now filled up with flowering trees and\nshrubs, and the ramparts laid out in terraces, covered with a luxuriant\ngrowth of every kind of rare and graceful plant. There is a charming\nview from the gardens, and the abode altogether is delightful.\n\nThe country is rich and fertile, covered with fields of Indian corn,\nflax, and hemp; here and there are large plantations of fir-trees; the\nchestnut-trees we observed were very luxuriant, loaded with fruit; the\napples thickly clustered in the numerous orchards, and everything\nabundant and smiling.\n\nWe rejoiced at once more beholding the Loire at the spot where, on our\nformer visit, we most admired it. Saumur is, however, greatly increased\nand improved during the three years which had elapsed since we first\nmade its acquaintance. New houses are built, old ones pulled down, and\nactive measures taken to beautify and adorn the town. The same\nslovenliness struck us as before on the promenade by the river, where\nthe idea of sweeping up fallen leaves, or cleaning steps, never seems to\nhave occurred, and the theatre walls look as desolate and\nill-conditioned as formerly. The baths, which attracted my admiration\nbefore, seated on an islet amidst flowering shrubs, had lost the\nbrightness of their then newly-painted outside, and had rather a forlorn\neffect; the old H\u00f4tel de Ville and its towers and turrets looked as\nvenerable as ever, and the Loire showed much less sand and more of its\ncrystal water. The magnificent Donjon towered majestically on its\nheight, and all the caves of the chain of rocks beneath showed their\nmysterious openings as when they first excited my surprise.\n\nWe visited almost all our old friends--the venerable monuments of times\ngone by--in the town, and discovered several towers which the removal of\nhouses have rendered evident. We were remarking a building of this kind,\nwhose turrets could have been erected only by Foulques Nera himself,\nwhen we were invited into a garden opposite by the proprietors, who took\nan interest in our curiosity. This garden, and the family that owned it,\nwere quite _unique_ in their way; the master was a retired _militaire_,\nthe mistress a smart, managing woman; and their delight and treasure a\nlittle boy of about ten, and a tiny garden enclosed between two walls,\nwith a pavilion at each end, and filled with shrubs and flowers\nexquisitely beautiful, and tended as garden never was tended since Eve\nherself spent all her time in restraining the growth of her garlands.\nTea-scented roses, roses of all hues and perfumes, rare plants, seldom\nseen but in hot-houses, all fresh and flourishing, occupied every nook\nof this little retreat, the _d\u00e9lices_, as they assured us, of this\ncouple, whose content and satisfaction at the perfection of their\ndwelling overflowed at every word. \"You see,\" said the hostess, as she\nled us through the little alleys, and made us pause at the minute\nalcoves--\"nothing can be more complete; we have a perfect little\nparadise of flowers, and a little world of our own; we have no occasion\nto go out to be amused, for, let us throw open our _jalousies_ in our\n_salon_ at the corner of this tower, and we see all the world without\nbeing seen; when we shut it we are in solitude, and what can we require\nbeyond? My little son,\" she continued, pointing to the other object of\nher care, who was seated beside a pretty little girl, tuning a small\ninstrument, \"occupies himself with his violin, and he can touch the\nguitar prettily, also; he is now playing to a _petite voisine_ who often\ncomes to keep him company: he has considerable parts, and is well\nadvanced in his Latin. We let our large house to M. le Cur\u00e9, and live in\nthe small one at the other end of our garden; it is large enough for us,\nand nothing can be so convenient.\"\n\nWhile she continued to converse, setting forth the advantages of her\nposition, the _bon gar\u00e7on_ of a husband, who seemed second in command,\nfollowed with assenting smiles. I asked if he smoked in his little\nsummer-house sometimes, but saw that my question was _mal-\u00e0-propos_, for\nhis wife replied quickly, that he had not that bad habit, and, indeed,\nwould not endure smoking any more than herself. He looked somewhat slily\nas he remarked, that since he had left the army he had never _indulged_\nin it.\n\nWe returned to our inn laden with bouquets, forced upon us by these\nhappy, hospitable people, whose content, and the beauty of their little\ngarden, so like numerous others in charming Saumur, confirmed our notion\nof its being the most agreeable place in France to live at.\n\nThe evening was oppressively hot, and we walked on the fine bridge,\nhoping to meet a breeze. The shallow river was like glass, so\ntransparent, that every pebble seemed clearly defined at the bottom.\nSunset made the sky one sheet of ruby colour, and the stars, rising in\ngreat splendour, shone with dazzling brilliancy; the deep purple of the\nglowing night which succeeded was like sapphire, every building, every\ntower, every hill, was mirrored in the waters, and the spires of every\nchurch threw their delicate lines along the still expanse. The gigantic\ncastle looked down from its height as if protecting all; and the few\nwhite motionless sails at a distance, pausing near the willowy islands,\nwhere not a leaf moved, made the whole like enchantment. I never beheld\na more exquisite night, nor saw a more beautiful scene.\n\nThe next day was brilliant; but the stillness of the air had given place\nto a fresh wind, which made our long walk across the Roman arched\nbridge, towards the famous _Pierres Couvertes_, less fatiguing. Though\nthe way to it is by nearly a league of hot dusty road, yet the surprise\nand pleasure of the sight on arriving at this extraordinary monument\nquite repays all toil.\n\nIn a woody dell, not far from the main road, stand these wonderful\nstones, in all their mysterious concealment, puzzling the mind and\nexciting the imagination with their rude forms and simple contrivances.\nBefore we left England we had made an excursion to Stonehenge, that most\ngigantic of all Druidical remains, and had carried with us a perfect\nrecollection of all its proportions. The temple of Saumur is not a\nquarter its height, but is _entirely covered_ in, and apparently of\n_ruder_ construction, there being no art whatever used to keep the\nstones together except that of placing them one over the other. We\nmeasured the length and height in the best way we could, and found it to\nbe eighteen yards long, from the entrance to the back, which is closed\nin by a broad flat stone, five yards and a-half in length within and\neight yards without. The height is not more than three yards from the\nground; but it has evidently sunk in the earth considerably. The sides\nincline inwards, leaving the covering stones projecting like a cottage\nroof, and the great stone at the back has also lost its perpendicular;\nnevertheless, there are none displaced of this chamber. It appears, by\nseveral broad slabs which lie scattered about, that there must have been\nmore compartments of the temple: an outer court existed, and a narrower\npart at the entrance, the stones of which are still upright.\n\nThis treasure is preserved from injury by a palisade round the piece of\nground on which it stands, in its little grove, and a wooden door shuts\nit in, which is in the custody of an old woman who keeps a school close\nby and receives the offerings of the curious. Her pupils, of tender age,\npursue some of their studies in a small hall where she presides; but\ntheir chief pursuit seems to be amusement, to judge by the laughter and\ngeneral hilarity which prevailed, as they ran gambolling amongst the\nvenerable shades, peeping slily at the strangers, whose contemplations\nthey were commanded not to interrupt.\n\nFrom the _Grandes Pierres Couvertes_, we continued our way, through\nvines and fields, to the top of a neighbouring hill, which commanded a\ncharming view of the town and castle, and fine country round. There, in\nthe midst of heath and wild thyme and nodding harebells, at the\nextremity of a ploughed field, overhanging a deep rocky road, stands\nanother temple of the Gauls. It is called _Les Petites Pierres\nCouvertes_, and is similar in construction to the large one, but not a\nquarter its size. Its position is most picturesque, and the landscape\nspread out before its rugged arch exquisite. It is covered in, and its\nwalls are firm and close; though, from its exposed situation, one would\nexpect that it must long ago have fallen. Remains of large stones lie\naround, partly covered with vegetation, and many, no doubt, are embedded\nin the earth. Perhaps the two temples communicated once on a time, and\ncovered the whole space between; where probably waved a gigantic forest.\nThe wind had risen violently as we sat, in the sun, beside the _Petites\nPierres_, and our walk back to Saumur promised us a great deal of dust,\nfor we saw it eddying in the valleys beneath, like wreaths of mist. We,\nhowever, contrived to avoid the high road, and found our way, by a very\npleasant path, to the town, before the threatened storm arrived which\nnight brought.\n\nBy a fine star-light evening of the following day, which we had spent\namongst the hills and in visiting the fortifications of the castle, we\ntook our departure for Poitiers--the next great object of our interest.\n\nWe reached Loudun in the dark, consequently had no opportunity of\njudging of its appearance; but, as far as we could observe, there seemed\nlittle to please the eye. The place itself is no further interesting\nthan as having been the scene of that frightful tragedy which disgraced\nthe seventeenth century, and which, though a story often told, may not\nbe familiar to every reader; at least, its particulars may not\nimmediately recur to all who hear the name of Loudun. The revolution\nwhich destroyed so much, has left scarcely any traces of the famous\nconvent of Ursulines, where the scenes took place which cast a\ndisgraceful celebrity on its community.\n\nThe cur\u00e9 and canon of St. Peter of Loudun, was a young man, named Urbain\nGrandier, remarkable not only for his learning and accomplishments, but\nfor his great beauty, and the grace of his manners, together with a\ncertain air of the world, which was, perhaps, an unfortunate distinction\nfor one in his position. His gallantry and elegance would have graced a\nCourt, but his lot had cast him where such _agr\u00e9mens_ were not only\nunnecessary, but misplaced. Urbain had, besides, been favoured by\nfortune, in having obtained two benefices; a circumstance witnessed\nwith envy by several of the ecclesiastics, his contemporaries; who felt\nthemselves thrown constantly into the shade by his superiority in this\nas in other respects. The priests, his companions, were not inclined to\nbe indulgent to any weakness shown by their young and admired rival; the\nhusbands of some of his fair parishioners looked on him with an evil\neye, while the ladies themselves could see nothing to blame in his\ndeportment, ever devoted and amiable as he was to them. All the learned\nmen of the country sought his society; all the well-meaning and generous\nspirits of the neighbourhood found answering virtues in Urbain Grandier,\nand he was not aware that he had an enemy in existence.\n\nHe had forgotten that he had once been so unfortunate as to offend a man\nwho never forgave, and who, from being merely the prior of Coussay, had\nrisen to a high rank in the church, and was now all-powerful, and able\nto take revenge for any petty injury long past, but carefully treasured,\nto be repaid with interest when occasion should serve.[3]\n\n[Footnote 3: A wretched and pointless satire had appeared under the\ntitle of _La Cordonni\u00e8re de Loudun_, in which the Cardinal figured: P\u00e8re\nJoseph insinuated that Grandier was the author, and the supposed insult\nwas readily credited.]\n\nThe Cardinal de Richelieu, from the height of his grandeur, suddenly\ncondescended to remember his old acquaintance, the cur\u00e9 Grandier, and\nwas only on the look-out for a moment at which to prove to him that\nnothing of what had once passed between them had escaped his\nrecollection. A means was soon presented, and, without himself appearing\ntoo prominently in the affair, the cardinal arrived at his desired end.\n\nIt happened that some young and giddy pupils of the Convent of\nUrsulines, bent on a frolic, resolved to terrify the bigoted and\nignorant nuns of the community, by personating ghosts and goblins, and\nthey succeeded to their utmost wishes, having acted their parts to\nadmiration; but they were far from dreaming of the fatal consequences of\ntheir success.\n\nThe disturbed nuns, worried and frightened from their propriety, went in\na body to a certain cur\u00e9, named Mignon, one of the most spiteful and\nenvious of Grandier's rivals, and related to him the fact of their\nconvent being disturbed by ghostly visitants, who left them no peace or\nrest. The thought instantly occurred to Mignon, that he might turn this\naccident to account at the expense of the handsome young priest whom he\ndetested.\n\nInstead of ghosts and spirits, he changed the mystery into witchcraft\nand _possession by the devil_, and contrived so artfully, that he\ninduced many of the nuns to imagine themselves a prey to the evil one,\nand to assume all the appearance of suffering from the influence of\nsome occult power. His pupils became quite expert in tricks of\ndemoniacal possession, falling into convulsions and trances, and going\nthrough all the absurdities occasionally practised at the present day,\nby the disciples of Mesmer. These foolish, rather than wicked, women,\nwere led to believe that, by acting thus, they were advancing the\ninterests of religion, and they allowed themselves to fall blindly into\nthe scheme, devised for the purpose of ruining the devoted cur\u00e9. A\npublic exorcism took place, at which scenes of absurdity, difficult to\nbe credited, took place, and when the possessed persons were questioned\nas to how they became a prey to the evil spirit, they declared that the\ndevil had entered into them by means of a bouquet of roses, the perfume\nof which they had inhaled; when asked by whom these flowers had been\nsent them, they replied that it was Urbain Grandier! This was enough to\nseal his doom; on the 3d of December, 1633, the Councillor Laubardemont\narrived secretly at Loudun, caused the young cur\u00e9 to be arrested, as he\nwas preparing to go to church, and had him carried off to the castle of\nAngers. The devils, supposed to possess the nuns, were severally\nquestioned, _and replied_, they were Astaroth, of the _order of_\nSeraphins, the head and front of all, Easas, Celcus, Acaos, Cedon,\nAsmodeus, _of the order_ of Thrones, Alez, Zabulon, Nephtalim, Cham,\nUriel, Achas, of the order of Principalities! In the following April he\nwas brought back to Loudun, and consigned to the prison there. The farce\nof exorcism was now recommenced; but the fatigue of sustaining the parts\nthey had assumed, and perhaps a conviction of the fearful nature of the\ndeceptions they had practised, caused some of the actors in this drama\nto rebel, and they actually made a public retractation of what they had\nbefore advanced.\n\nIt was, however, now too late; no notice was taken of their denial of\ntheir former charges against the victim whose fate was agreed upon, and\nin August, 1634, a commission was duly appointed, at the head of which\nwere Laubardemont and his satellites, who pronounced Urbain Grandier\nguilty, and convicted of the crime of magic. His sentence condemned him\nto be burned alive, but, resolved to carry vengeance to the utmost\nextent, he was made to undergo the torture, suffering pangs too horrible\nto think of. He was then conveyed to Poitiers, where he suffered at the\nstake, and by his unmerited fate left an indelible blot on the age in\nwhich such monstrous cruelty could be perpetrated, or such ignorant\nbarbarity tolerated. He endured his torments with patience and\nresignation. While he was suffering, a large fly was observed to hover\nnear his head. A monk, who was enjoying the spectacle of his execution,\nand who had heard that B\u00e9elz\u00e9bub, in Hebrew, signified _the God of the\nFlies_, cried out, much to the edification of all present, \"Behold\nyonder, the devil, Beelzebub, flying round Grandier ready to carry off\nhis soul to hell!\"[4]\n\n[Footnote 4: A very excellent picture on this subject, by Jouy, is in\nthe Mus\u00e9e at Bordeaux: I did not see it, but it has been described to me\nby a person on whose judgment I can depend, who considers it of very\nhigh merit, and worthy of great commendation.]\n\nThe unpleasant recollections raised by the neighbourhood of Loudun were\ndispelled as we hurried on to the next post, which was at Mirebeau,\nwhere we were not a little entertained at the primitive manner in which\nour _malle poste_ delivered and received its despatches. The coach\nstopped in the middle of the night in the silent streets of Mirebeau,\nand the conductor, stationing himself beneath the window of a dwelling,\ncalled loudly to the sleepers within; no answer was returned, nor did he\nrepeat his summons; but waited, with a patience peculiar to\n_conducteurs_, who do not care to hurry their horses, till a rattling on\nthe wall announced the approach of a basket let down by a string. Into\nthis he put the letters he had brought, and it re-ascended; after\nwaiting a reasonable time, the silent messenger returned, and from it a\nprecious packet was taken; nothing was said, the _conducteur_ resumed\nhis seat on the box, the horses were urged onwards, and we rattled\nforward on our way to Poitiers.\n\nMirebeau, though now an insignificant bourg, was formerly a place of\nsome consequence. Its ch\u00e2teau was built by Foulques Nera, the redoubted\nCount of Anjou; and here, in 1202, Elionor of Aquitaine sustained a\nsiege directed against her by the partisans of the Count of Bretagne,\nher grandson. Close by is a village, the lord of which had an hereditary\nprivilege sufficiently ludicrous.\n\nIt appears that at Puy Taill\u00e9 there must have been a remarkable number\nof serpents, who refused to listen to the voice of the charmer until the\nlord of the castle, _wiser_ than any other exorciser, took them in hand.\nHe was accustomed, at a certain period, to set forth in state, and,\nplacing himself at a spot where he presumed he should be heard, raised\nhis voice, and, in an authoritative tone, commanded the refractory\nanimals to quit his estates. Not one dared to refuse; and great was the\nrustling, and hissing, and sliding, and coiling as the serpentine nation\nprepared to _d\u00e9m\u00e9nager_, much against their inclination no doubt, but\nforced, by a power they could not withstand, to obey. None of these\ncreatures interrupted our route, although there has long ceased to be a\nlord at Puy Taill\u00e9, and we arrived before day-break safely at the H\u00f4tel\nde France, at Poitiers.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER VI.\n\n     POITIERS--BATTLES--THE ARMIES--KING JOHN OF FRANCE--THE YOUNG\n     WARRIOR--H\u00d4TEL DU VREUX--AMPHITHEATRE--BLOSSAC--THE GREAT\n     STONE--THE SCHOLARS--MUSEUM--THE DEMON'S STONE--GRANDE GUEULE.\n\n\nPOITIERS is a city of the past: it is one of those towns in which the\nlast lingering characteristics of the middle ages still repose; although\nthey do so in the midst of an atmosphere of innovation. Modern\nimprovement, slowly as it shows itself, is making progress at Poitiers,\nas at every town in France, and quietly sweeping away all the records of\ngenerations whose very memory is wearing out. If new buildings and walks\nand ornamental _alentours_ were as quickly erected and carried out as\nthey are conceived, it would be a matter of rejoicing that whole cities\nof dirt and wretchedness should be made to disappear, and new ones to\nrise shining in their place; but, unfortunately, this cannot be the\ncase. There are too many towns in France in the same position as\nPoitiers, all requiring to be rebuilt from the very ground to make them\n_presentable_ at the present day; blocks of stone strew every road,\nbrick and mortar fill every street; a great deal of money is expended,\nbut a great deal more is required; and, in the meantime, the new and the\nold strive for mastery, the former growing dull and dirty by the side of\nthe latter, and, before the intended improvements are realized, becoming\nas little sightly as their more venerable neighbours.\n\nMuch of _old_ Poitiers has been destroyed; and _new_ Poitiers is by no\nmeans beautiful. It is better, therefore, except in a few instances, to\nforget that modern hands have touched the sacred spot, and endeavour to\nenjoy the reminiscences still left, of which there are a great number\nfull of interest and variety.\n\nWhen we sallied forth into the streets of Poitiers, our first impression\nwas that of disappointment; but we had not long wandered amongst its\ndilapidated houses and churches before the enthusiasm we expected to\nfeel there was awakened, and the spirit of the Black Prince was appeased\nby our reverence for everything we met.\n\nPoitiers belongs to so many ages--Gaul, Roman, Visigoth, Frank,\nEnglish--that it holds a place in every great event which has occurred\nin France during the last nineteen centuries. Four important battles\nwere fought in its neighbourhood: those of Clovis, of Charles Martel, of\nEdward of England, and of Henry III. of France; all these struggles\nbrought about results of the utmost consequence to the country. The\nfields where these battles were fought are still pointed out, though the\nsite of each is violently contested by antiquarians.\n\nThat between Clovis and Alaric is now _said to be_ determined as having\noccurred at Voulon, on the banks of the Clain, instead of Vouill\u00e9, which\nhas long been looked upon as the scene. In the same manner, furious\ndisputes have prevailed as to where the defeat of Abderraman, by Charles\nMartel, took place; but we are bound now to believe that it was neither\nnear Tours, Amboise, nor Loches, but at Moussais-la-Bataille, close to\nPoitiers, in the _delta_ formed by the waters of the Vienne and the\nClain.\n\nThe fatal fight, in which King John and all his chivalry were defeated\nby the Prince of Wales, is said, in like manner, to be between Beauvoir\nand Nouaille, and not at Beaumont, as has been asserted. There no longer\nexists a place called _Maupertuis_, which once indicated the spot; but\nit is ascertained that the part called La Cardinerie was once so\ndesignated, and, hard by, at a spot named _Champ-de-la-Bataille_, have\nbeen found bones and arms; which circumstance seems to have set the\nmatter at rest. It matters little where these dreadful doings took\nplace; all round Poitiers there are wide plains where armies might have\nencountered; but it would seem probable that the spot where the battle\nso fatal to France was really fought, must have been situated so as to\nhave afforded the handful of English some signal advantage; or how was\nit possible for a few hundred exhausted men to conquer as many\nthousands! The English crossbows, which did such execution, were most\nlikely stationed at some pass in the rocky hills of which there are\nmany, and their sudden and unexpected onset must have sent forth the\npanic which caused the subsequent destruction of the whole French army.\n\nIn fact, Froissart describes their position clearly enough. He names\nMaupertuis as a place two leagues to the north of Poitiers, and the spot\nchosen by the Black Prince as a hill full of bushes and vines,\nimpracticable to cavalry, and favourable to archers: he concealed the\nlatter in the thickets, connected the hedges, dug ditches, planted\npallisades, and made barricades of waggons; in fact, formed of his camp\na great redoubt, having but one narrow issue, guarded on each side by a\ndouble hedge. At the extremity of this defile was the whole English\narmy, on foot, compact and sheltered on all sides; while, behind the\nhill that separated the two armies, was placed an ambuscade of six\nhundred knights and cross-bowmen.\n\nThe French army was divided into three parts, and disposed in an oblique\nline. The left and foremost wing was commanded by the king's brother,\nthe Duke of Orleans, the centre by the king's sons, and the reserve by\nthe unfortunate monarch himself. Already the cry of battle was heard,\nwhen two holy men rushed forward to mediate between the foes; but in\nvain. The Prince of Wales,--that mighty conqueror,--knowing his\nweakness, and feeling his responsibility, would have even consented to\ngive back the provinces he had taken--the captives of his valour--and\nagreed to remain for seven years without drawing the sword. But King\nJohn demanded that he should yield himself prisoner, with a hundred of\nhis knights; and, confident in his strength, he had no second proposal\nto make.\n\nSixty thousand warriors, full of pride, hope, and exultation, had\nspread themselves over the plains, confident of success, and looking\nforward to annihilate at a blow the harassed enemy which had so long\nannoyed them, but which were now hunted into the toils, and could be\nmade an easy prey. The redoubtable Black Prince would no longer terrify\nFrance with his name: he knew his weakness, and had sent to offer terms\nthe most advantageous, provided he and his impoverished bands might be\npermitted to go free; but, with victory in their hands, why should the\ninsulted knights of France agree to his dictation? it were better to\npunish the haughty islanders as they deserved, and at once rid their\ncountry of a nest of hornets which allowed her no peace.\n\nThe king, his four sons, all the princes and nobles of France were in\narms, and had not followed the English to listen to terms at the last\nmoment. King John,--the very flower of chivalry, the soul of honour and\nvalour,--rode through his glittering ranks, and surveyed his banners\nwith delight and pride. \"At Paris, at Chartres, at Rouen, at Orleans,\"\nhe exclaimed, \"you defied these English; you desired to encounter them\nhand to hand. Now they are before you: behold! I point them out to you.\nNow you can, if you will, take vengeance for all the ills they have done\nto France; for all the slaughter they have made. Now, if you will, you\nmay combat these fatal enemies.\"\n\nThe signal was given: the gorgeous troops rushed forth, their helmets\nglittering with gold and steel, their swords bright, and their\nadornments gay; their hearts full of resolve, and their spirits raised\nfor conquest. A short space of time sufficed to produce a strange\ncontrast: twenty thousand men, with the Dauphin of France at their head,\nflying before six hundred tattered English! Chandos and the Black Prince\nbehold from a height the unexpected event: they follow up the advantage;\nthe hero of so many fights rouses himself, and becomes resistless as\nAlexander:\n\n    \"See how he puts to flight the gaudy Persians\n     With nothing but a rusty helmet on!\"\n\nOf all his hosts,--of all his friends, and guards, and warriors, and\nnobles, what remains to the French king? He stands alone amidst a heap\nof slain, with a child fighting by his side: their swords fall swiftly\nand heavily on every one that dares approach them; their armour is\nhacked and hewn; their plumes torn; the blood flows from their numerous\nwounds; but they still stand firm, and dispute their lives to the last.\nThe boy performs prodigies of valour; he is worthy to be the son of\nEdward himself; but he is at last struck down, while his frantic father\ndeals with his battle-axe blows which appal the stoutest heart. No one\ndares to approach the lion at bay: they hem him in; they call to and\nentreat him to lay down his arms; he is blinded with the blood which\nflows from two deep wounds in his face; and, faint and staggering, he\ngazes round on the slaughtered heaps at his feet, and gives his weapon\ninto the hands of an English knight.\n\nOver and over again has the story of this defeat been told, yet is the\nrelation always stirring, always exciting, and the remainder full of\nromance and glory to all parties concerned. The only blot upon the\n_ermine_ is, that the valorous boy who so distinguished himself should,\na few years later, forget the lesson of honour and magnanimity he then\nlearnt, and, by his disgraceful breach of faith, expose the father he\ndefended to so much sorrow and humiliation.\n\nThe _Roman_ remains at Poitiers claim the first attention of the\ntraveller; and we, therefore, soon after our arrival, walked down the\nrugged Rue de la Lamproie to an _auberge_ which has for its sign a board\non which is inscribed, \"Aux _Vreux_-Antiquit\u00e9s Romaines.\" The meaning of\nthis mysterious word, which has puzzled many people, is this: Here\nformerly existed a house which belonged to a bishop of Evreux; and was,\nconsequently, called H\u00f4tel d'Evreux. The last proprietor, imagining that\nthe word _Evreux_ meant _Roman Antiquities_, was seized with the happy\nthought of changing it to _Vreux_, as simpler and more expressive; and\nso it has remained.\n\nThe _Vreux_ are very curious, and give a stupendous idea of the size of\nthe amphitheatre which once existed on this spot. The whole of the court\nand large gardens of this inn offer remains of the seats, steps,\ntemples, and vaults. One huge opening is fearful to look at, and\npreserves its form entire: it appears to have been an entrance for the\nbeasts and cars and companies of gladiators, which figured in the arena.\n\nGarlands of luxuriant vines, with white and black grapes in clusters,\nnow adorn the ruined walls; and fruit-trees and flowering shrubs grow on\nthe terraces. It requires some attention to trace the form of the\namphitheatre; as so many houses and walls are built in, and round about\nits site.\n\nThe foundation is attributed to the Emperor Gallienus, and occurred\nprobably in the third century. Medals of many kinds of metal have been\nfrequently found in excavating, which prove the period; but the learned\nhave not been silent on so tempting a theme, and the history of the\nAr\u00e8nes de Poitiers has occupied the attention of all the antiquaries of\nFrance. It appears that the size was greater than that of Nismes.\n\nIt is strange that so much of the ruins should still remain of the\namphitheatre in spite of so many centuries of destruction acting upon\nit, and, notwithstanding its having been constantly resorted to as a\nquarry, whenever materials were required for construction. In one of the\nquarters of the town, the Rue des Ar\u00e8nes and the Bourg Cani, where the\npoorest people live, almost all the houses are formed of the chambers\nbelonging to a Roman establishment. The roofs of almost all are Roman:\nthe cellars, the stables, and the granaries. No doubt Poitiers was a\nplace of the greatest importance under their sway, as these extensive\nruins indicate.\n\nThe park of Blossac is the most attractive promenade of Poitiers: it is\nbeautifully laid out, and well kept. An intendant of Poitou, M. de la\nBourdonnaye-Blossac, established it in 1752, with the benevolent intent\nof giving employment, in a hard winter, to the poor. In constructing it,\na great many sepulchres of the Gauls, and funereal vases, were\ndiscovered; some of which are preserved in the museum.\n\nThe view is charming from the terrace of Blossac above the Clain, and\none is naturally led to pursue the agreeable walks which invite the\nsteps at every turn. We found that, by following as they pointed, we\nshould arrive at most of the places we desired to see; and, as the\ninterior of the town has few attractions in itself, we resolved to skirt\nit, and continue our way along the ramparts. They extend a long way, and\nare extremely pleasant in their whole extent. Remnants of ancient towers\nand rampart walls appear here and there, the river runs clear and\nbright beneath, and beyond are gently undulating hills; while,\noccasionally, heaps of grey rocks, of peculiar forms, some looking like\ntemples, others like towers, rise suddenly from their green base,\nsurprising the eye.\n\nIn the direction of the most remarkable of these, may be found a _pierre\nlev\u00e9e_, said, by veracious chroniclers, to have been raised on the spot\nby the great saint of Poitiers, Sainte Radegonde, who is reported to\nhave brought the great stone on her head, and the pillars which support\nit in the pockets of her _muslin apron_: one of these pillars fell from\nits frail hold to the ground, and the devil instantly caught it up and\ncarried it away, which satisfactorily accounts for the stone being\nelevated only at one end. Unfortunately the same legend is so often\nrepeated respecting different saints, and in particular respecting\n_Saint_ Magdalen, who has often been known to establish herself in wild\nplaces, bringing her rugged stool with her, that it would seem some or\nother of these holy people _plagiarised_ from the other.\n\nRabelais attributes this stone to Pantagruel, who, \"seeing that the\nscholars of Poitiers, having a great deal of leisure, did not know how\nto spend their time, was moved with compassion, and, one day, took from\na great rock, which was called Passe-Lourdin, an immense block, twelve\ntoises square, and fourteen _pans_ thick, and placed it upon four\npillars in the midst of a field, _quite at its ease_, in order that the\nsaid scholars, when they could think of nothing else to do, might pass\ntheir time in mounting on the said stone, and there banqueting with\nquantities of flagons, hams, and pasties; also in cutting their names on\nit with a knife: this stone is now called La Pierre Lev\u00e9e. And in memory\nof this, no one can be matriculated in the said University of Poitiers\nwho has not drunk at the cabalistic fountain of Croustelles, been to\nPasse-Lourdin, and mounted on La Pierre Lev\u00e9e.\"\n\nBouchet's opinion is, that the stone was placed by Ali\u00e9nor d'Aquitaine,\nabout 1150, to be used at a fair which was held in the field where it\nstands.\n\nIt is, no doubt, one of the Dolmen, whose strange and mysterious\nappearance may well have puzzled both the learned and unlearned in every\nage since they were first erected.\n\nOne of the most interesting monuments in Poitiers is the museum; for it\nis a Roman structure--a temple or a tomb--almost entire, and less\ninjured than might have been expected, serving as a receptacle for all\nthe antiquities which have been collected together at different periods,\nin order to form a _mus\u00e9e_. They are appropriately placed in this\nbuilding, and are seen with much more effect in its singular walls than\nif looked at on the comfortable shelves of a boarded and white-washed\nchamber.\n\nAs is usual in those cases, disputes run high respecting the original\nfounder and the destination of this building, unique in its kind. Some\ninsist that it is a tomb erected to Claudia Varenilla, by her husband,\nMarcus Censor Pavius; others see in it a pagan temple, transformed into\na place of early Christian worship; others, the _first cathedral_ of\nPoitiers.\n\nIt has undergone numerous changes of destination, at all events, having\nbeen used as a church, as a bell-foundry, as a dep\u00f4t for _economical\nsoup_, and as a manufactory. The Society of Antiquaries have at length\ngained possession of it, and it is to be hoped that it will know no\nfurther vicissitudes.\n\nIn this temple may be seen numerous treasures of Gaulic and Roman and\nMiddle-age art of great interest: sepulchral stones inscribed with the\nnames of Claudia Varenilla, Sabinus, and Lepida; Roman altars, military\nboundary-stones, amphor\u00e6, vases, capitals, and pottery, all found in the\nneighbourhood of Poitiers: a good deal of beautiful carving from the\ndestroyed castle of Bonnivet, fine specimens of the Renaissance, and\nnumerous relics of ruined churches.\n\nAmong the treasures is a block of stone, said to be one on which the\nMaid of Orleans rested her foot when she mounted her horse, in full\narmour, to accompany Charles VII. on his coronation. A piece of stone\nfrom the old church of St. Hilaire is exhibited, which, when struck,\nemits so horrible an effluvia as to render it unapproachable. The church\nis said to have been built of this stone; if so, the workmen must have\nbeen considerably annoyed while constructing it, and deserved\n_indulgences_ for their perseverance in continuing their labour. It\nwould appear that this is a calcareous[5] rock, which has been described\nby several French naturalists who have met with it in the Pyrenees, at\nthe Br\u00e8che de Roland, and on the height of Mont Perdu, and whose odour\nof _sulphureous hydrogen_ is supposed to arise from the animal matter\nenclosed in its recesses. Some marbles have the same exhalation, yet are\nemployed in furniture: as the smell does not appear to be offensive\nunless the stone is struck with some force, it may, perhaps, be\nunobserved; but I could scarcely regret that the church of St. Hilaire\nwas almost totally destroyed when I heard that such disagreeable\nmaterials entered into its construction. No doubt the presence of the\narch-enemy was considered as the cause of this singular effluvia in\nearly times, and the monks turned it, as they did all accidents, to\ngood account.\n\n[Footnote 5: Calcaire h\u00e9pathique. The stone used for the casing of the\nexterior of the Great Pyramid, and for the lining of the chambers and\npassages, was obtained from the Gebel Mokattam, on the Arabian side of\nthe valley of the Nile. It appears to be similar to that named above, as\nit is described as being \"a compact limestone,\" called by geologists\n\"swine stone,\" or \"stink-stone,\" from emitting, when struck, a fetid\nodour.]\n\nThe Grand Gueule, a horrible beast, discovered in the caverns of the\nabbey of Sainte Croix, who had eaten up several nuns, was probably found\nout by the smell of sulphur which pervaded his den, and brought forth to\npunishment by the holy men who were guided to his retreat by this\nmeans,--their instrument being a criminal condemned to death, who\ncombated the beast, and killed him. The dragon was usually carried in\nprocessions, following the precious relic of a piece of the true cross\nwhich had vanquished him; and his effigy in wood, with the inscription,\n_Gargot fecit_, 1677, exists still, though it has ceased to be used.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER VII.\n\n     NOTRE DAME--THE KEYS--THE MIRACLE--PROCESSION--ST. RADEGONDE--TOMB\n     OF THE SAINT--FOOT-PRINT--LITTLE LOUBETTE--THE COUNT OUTWITTED--THE\n     CORDELIER--LATE JUSTICE--THE TEMPLARS.\n\n\nPOITIERS is one of the largest towns in France, but is very thinly\ninhabited; immense gardens, orchards, and fields, extend between the\nstreets; the spaces are vast, but there is no beauty whatever in the\narchitecture or the disposition of the buildings. The squares are wide\nand open, but surrounded by irregular, slovenly-looking houses, without\nan approach to beauty or elegance; the pavement is rugged, and\ncleanliness is not a characteristic of the place.\n\nThe churches are extremely curious, although, in general, so battered\nand worn as to present the aspect of a heap of ruins at first sight.\nThis is particularly the case with Notre Dame, so revered by Richard\nCoeur de Lion, in the great _place_, before which a market is held. I\nnever saw a church whose appearance was so striking, not from its beauty\nor grace, but from the singularly devastated, ruined state in which it\ntowers above the buildings round, as if it belonged to another world.\nNothing about it has the least resemblance to anything else: its heaps\nof encrusted figures, arches within arches, niches, turrets covered with\nrugged scales, round towers with countless pillars, ornaments, saints,\ncanopies, and medallions, confuse the mind and the eye. All polish is\nworn from the surface, and so crumbling does it look, that it would seem\nimpossible that the rough and disjointed mass of stones, piled one on\nthe other, could keep together; yet, when you examine it closely, you\nfind that all is solid and firm, and that it would require the joint\nefforts of time and violence to throw it down, even now.\n\nThe peculiar colour of the stone of which it is built, assists the\nstrangeness of its effect; for it has an ancient, ivory hue, and all its\nelaborate carving is not unlike that on some old ivory cabinet grown\nyellow with age. A long series of scriptural histories, from the scene\nin Eden, upwards, are represented on this wonderful fa\u00e7ade; besides much\nwhich has not yet been explained. Its original construction has been\nattributed to Constantine, whose equestrian statue once figured above\none of the portals.\n\nSt. Hilaire, St. Martin, and all the saints in the calendar, still fill\ntheir niches, more or less defaced; row after row, sitting and standing,\ndecorate the whole surface, in compartments; choirs of angels, troops of\ncherubims, surround sacred figures of larger size; and when it is\nrecollected that all this was once covered with gilding and colours, it\nis difficult to imagine anything more splendid and imposing than it must\nhave been.\n\nThe interior suffered dreadfully from the zeal of the Protestants, who\ndestroyed tombs and altars without mercy. One group--the Entombment of\nChrist--common in most churches, is remarkable for the details of\ncostume it presents, and the excellence of its execution. It belonged\nformerly to the abbey of the Trinity, and has been transferred to Notre\nDame. The date seems to be about the end of the fifteenth century; the\nfigures are of the natural size, and the original colouring still\nremains; the anatomical developments are faithful to exaggeration, and\nthe finish of every part is admirable.\n\nSome of the female heads are charming, with their costly ornaments,\nhoods, and embroidered veils; and the male figures, with the strange\nhats of the period, like that worn by Louis XI., have a singularly\nbattered and torn effect, in spite of the smart fringed handkerchiefs\nbound round them, with ends hanging down and pieces of plate armour\ndepending from their sides.\n\nSeveral of the adornments of the altars are those formerly belonging to\nthe church of the Carmelites, now the chapel of the _grand seminaire_.\nAbove the crucifix which surmounts the tabernacle, is attached to the\nroof a bunch of keys: these are, according to tradition, the same\nmiraculous keys taken from the traitor who proposed to deliver them to\nthe English. The history of this transaction is as follows:--\n\nIn 1202, Poitou had risen against John Lackland, of England, Duke of\nAquitaine and Count of Poitou, taking the part of young Arthur, whom he\nhad just made prisoner at Mirebeau. The town of Poitiers had closed its\ngates against John, warned by the example of Tours, which he had lately\nsacked and burnt. The King had posted his troops in the towns of\nLimousin and Perigord, with orders to his captains to endeavour to take\nPoitiers by surprise.\n\nThe mayor of Poitiers had a secretary who was both cunning and\navaricious, who, bribed highly by the English, had consented to deliver\nthe town to them. Accordingly, on Easter eve, a party of the enemy,\nunder false colours, arrived at the Porte de la Tranch\u00e9e; the secretary\nrepaired instantly to the chamber of the mayor, to which he had access,\nexpecting, as usual, that the keys would be found there; but, to his\nsurprise, they were removed, nor could he find them in any other\naccustomed place. The traitor hastened to inform the English of the\nfact, by throwing a paper to them from the ramparts, requesting that\nthey would wait till four o'clock in the morning, when he should be able\nto execute his purpose. At this hour he re-entered the mayor's chamber,\nand telling him that a gentleman wished to set out on a mission to the\nking of France at that early hour, begged that the keys might be\ndelivered to him. The mayor sought for the keys, but they were nowhere\nto be found: he suspected some treason; and without loss of time\nassembled the inhabitants, and required that they should go at once to\nthe Porte de la Tranch\u00e9e, in arms, to be ready in case of surprise.\n\nThe report soon spread that the English were at the Tranch\u00e9e, and the\nbelfry sent forth its peals to summon all men to arms: in a very short\nspace the whole town was roused, and every one hurried to the gates,\nwhere a strange spectacle met their view from the turrets. They beheld\nupwards of fifteen hundred English, dead or prone on the ground, and\nothers killing them! The gates were thrown open, and the inhabitants\nsallied forth, making the remainder an easy prey, and taking many\nprisoners: the which declared to the mayor and the dignitaries of the\ntown all the treason which had been arranged; and further related, that\nat the hour agreed on, they beheld before the gates a queen more richly\ndressed than imagination can conceive, and with her a nun and a bishop,\nfollowed by an immense army of soldiers, who immediately attacked them.\nThey instantly became aware that the personages they saw were no other\nthan the Blessed Virgin, St. Hilaire, and Ste. Radegonde, whose\nbodies were in the town, and, seized with terror and despair, they fell\nmadly on each other and slaughtered their companions.\n\nAll the towns-people, on hearing this, offered thanks to God, and\nreturned to keep their fast with great devotion. As for the disloyal\nsecretary, his fate was not known, for he was never seen afterwards;\nand, says the chronicler, \"it is natural to suppose that by one of the\nother gates he cast himself into the river, _or_ that the devil carried\nhim off bodily.\"\n\nThe miracle had not ended there; for while these things were going on at\nthe gates, the poor mayor, in great perturbation, had hurried to the\nchurch of Notre Dame la Grande, and throwing himself before the altar,\nrecommended the town to the protection of God and the Mother of Mercy.\n\"While he was praying, all on a sudden _he felt the keys in his arms_;\nat which he returned thanks to Heaven, as did many pious persons who\nwere with him.\"\n\nBouchet, who relates this _fact_, adds:--\"In memory of this _fine\nmiracle_, the inhabitants of the said Poitiers have ever since made, and\ncontinue, a grand and notable procession of all the colleges and\nconvents, every year, all round the walls of the said town, within, the\nday before Easter: the which extends for more than a league and a half.\nAnd in memory of the said miracle, _I have made these four lines of\nrhythm_:--\n\n    \"L'an mil deux cens deux comme on clame,\n    Batailla pour ceux de Poietiers,\n    Contre les Anglois nostre Dame,\n    Et les garda de leurs dangiers.\"\n\nIn commemoration of this event, statues of the three saviours of the\ntown were erected above the gate, and in a little chapel near: chapels\nto the Virgin were placed in every possible nook, and a solemn\nprocession was instituted to take place every year, on Easter Monday,\nwhen the mayor's lady had the privilege of presenting to the Virgin the\nmagnificent velvet robe, which she wore on the occasion. This ceremony\nwas continued as late as 1829, since when the _cort\u00e8ge_ no longer goes\nround the town as formerly, but a service is performed in the church.\n\nThe belief of this miracle seems to form an article of faith; for the\nstory was told me by three persons of different classes, all of whom\nspoke of it as a tradition in which they placed implicit credit.\n\nSainte Radegonde seems to hold, however, the highest rank of the three\ndefenders of Poitiers. \"She is a great saint,\" said the exhibitor of the\nMuseum to me, \"and performs miracles every day.\" \"Ste. Radegonde,\"\nsaid the biblioth\u00e9caire--\"is a great protectress of this town, and has\npersonally interfered to assist us in times of need--but, perhaps, you\nare not Catholic.\"\n\n\"The great saint,\" said a votaress, who was selling _chapelets_ at her\ntomb, \"does not let a month escape without showing her power; only six\nweeks ago a poor child, who was paralyzed, was brought here by its\nmother, having been given up by the doctors; and the moment it touched\nthe marble where it was laid, all its limbs became as strong as ever,\nand it walked out of the church.\"\n\nWe, of course, lost as little time as possible in paying our _devoirs_\nto so wondrous a personage. The church is a very venerable structure,\nsurmounted by a spire covered with slate. The Saint was the wife of\nClotaire the First, and quitted her court to live a religious life,\nhaving built a monastery in honour of the true cross, a piece of which\nhad been sent to her from Constantinople by the Emperor Justinian. She\nerected a church in honour of the Virgin, which should serve for a\nburial-place for her nuns; this was beyond the walls of her monastery,\nand a college of priests was added to it to supply religious instruction\nto her community. The church was finished, and its foundress died in\n587. She was interred there by the celebrated Gregory of Tours. The\ntomb, of the simplest construction of fine black marble, still exists in\na subterranean chapel, the object of religious pilgrimages without end;\nand when, in the fourteenth century, it was opened by Jean, Duc de\nBerry, Count of Poitou, brother of Charles the Wise, the body was found\nin perfect preservation. In 1562 the Protestants took possession of the\nchurch, and broke open the tomb, scattering and burning the bones; but\nsome of them were, nevertheless, gathered together and replaced in the\nmarble, which was joined by iron cramps, and does not exhibit much\ninjury.\n\nThis huge mass of black marble has a very disgusting appearance, from\nbeing entirely covered (except at one little corner, kept clean to show\nits texture) with the runnings of the countless candles perched upon it\nby the pilgrims, who arrive in such crowds at some periods of the year,\nthat the vault becomes so hot and close as to be unsafe to remain in\nlong. These candles are kept constantly burning, and the devotion to the\nSaint also burns as brightly as ever. St. Agnes and St. Disciolus repose\nnear their abbess. Pepin, King of Aquitaine, lies somewhere in their\nneighbourhood; but the exact spot is not ascertained.\n\nA miraculous foot-print is still shown, which it is recorded that Jesus\nChrist left _when_ he visited the cell of the holy abbess: the stone,\ncarefully preserved, is called Le Pas de Dieu, and was formerly in the\nconvent of St. Croix.\n\nWe had some difficulty to escape from the earnest exhortations of\nnumerous devout sellers of rosaries, who insisted on our buying their\nmedals, _chapelets_, &c., assuring us that they were of extraordinary\nvirtue; and we could scarcely believe that we had not been transported\nseveral centuries back, when we saw the extreme devotion and zeal they\nshowed, both towards the Saint, and the money she might bring from\ndevotees.\n\nClose to Ste. Radegonde is the cathedral church of St. Pierre,\nprincipally built by Henry II. of England, a very fine specimen of the\ngrandest style of art; vast and beautiful, but with its naves rather too\nlow. The principal portals are very much ornamented, and its towers have\nmuch elegance: but the restorations it has undergone have been\ninjudicious, and the modern painted glass which replaces the old is\nextremely bad; but many of the windows are of fine forms, and, on the\nwhole, there is a good deal to admire in St. Pierre.\n\nBut little vestige remains now of the once famous convent of St. Pierre\nle Puellier, which owed its foundation to a miracle: it is one very\noften told as having occurred on like occasions; but is apparently still\nbelieved in Poitiers, where devotees of easy credence seem to abound.\n\nLoubette was a young girl in the service of the Empress Helena, mother\nof Constantine, and had been witness in Jerusalem of the discovery of\nthe true cross. She was a native of Brittany; and how she came to the\nholy city does not appear; suffice it that she wished to return to her\nown country. The empress, in dismissing her, made her a present of a\npiece of the true cross, and a part of the crown of thorns. Loubette\nplaced the relics in her _little bag_, and set out on her journey _on\nfoot_. She was of very small stature, lame, and crooked, extremely weak,\nand hardly able to move; however, such as she was, she took her way from\nJerusalem to Poitiers, where _having arrived_, and feeling fatigued, she\nlay down before she entered the town under a willow, hanging her little\nbag (_gibeci\u00e8re_) on a branch, and went to sleep. When she awoke she\nlooked for her bag; but the branch she had hung it on--similar to the\nsteeple to which the horse of the Baron, of veracious memory, was\nattached--had risen in the night to such a height, \"that,\" says the\nchronicler, \"the said virgin could not reach her said _gibeci\u00e8re_.\"\n\nShe immediately sought the Bishop of Poitiers, who, struck with the\nmiracle, recommended her to present herself to the Count of Poitou, and\nsolicit of his piety the means of raising a church, and supporting a\nchapter of clerks and priests to do duty there. The Count of Poitou is\nsaid to have been joyous and pleased when he heard her relation; but it\ndoes not appear that his generosity equalled his delight, for he did not\nseem disposed to grant anything to Loubette for the establishment of her\nchurch; however, unable at last to resist her entreaties, he agreed to\ngive her as much ground as so lame and weak a creature could creep over\nin a day: it appears that he was not aware of her expedition from the\nHoly Land.\n\nHe soon had cause to repent of his jest, for scarcely had Loubette\ncommenced her walk, accompanied by the servants of the Count, than she\ndistanced them all, and got over so much ground that they were\nterrified; for, wherever she stepped, the ground rose and marked what\nwas hers. The Count hurried after her in great alarm, and, stopping her\nprogress, entreated her to be content with what she had already gained,\nas he began to think she would acquire all his domain.[6]\n\n[Footnote 6: The same legend is told as having happened in England on\nthe domains of the family of Titchborne.]\n\nOn the banks of the Clain is still pointed out a mound of earth on the\nspot where _Saint_ Loubette crossed the river without wetting her feet.\n\nThere is no end to the miracles wrought in this favoured city: one is\ntold so remarkable that it deserves to be recorded. It occurred in\nfavour of Gauthier de Bruges, bishop of Poitiers--a very virtuous and\nlearned man, who had from a simple _cordelier_ been placed on the\nepiscopal throne by Pope Nicholas III. A question of supremacy having\narisen between the archbishops of Bourges and Bordeaux, Gauthier\ndeclared for the former, and was charged by him to execute some acts of\necclesiastic jurisdiction against his rival. The archbishop of Bordeaux\nafterwards became pope, under the name of Clement V., protected by\nPhilippe le Bel, and in memory of his opposition deposed Gauthier,\nenjoining him to retire into his convent.\n\nThe bishop of Poitiers was obliged to submit to the authority of the\nsovereign pontiff; but at the same time protested against the abuse of\npower of which he was the victim; and he appealed against the sentence\nof deposition _to God and the council to come_. He died shortly after,\nand desired to be buried with his act of appeal in his hand.\n\nWhen Clement V. came to Poitiers to treat with Philippe le Bel on\n_important and secret_ affairs--nothing less than the suppression of the\norder of the Templars--he lodged at the Cordelier convent, in the very\nchurch where Gauthier was buried. Being informed of the act of appeal\nwhich the unfortunate bishop would not part with at the time of his\ndeath, he had a great desire to see it, and commanded that his tomb\nshould be opened. Accordingly, in the dead of night, by the light of\ntorches, his desire was fulfilled. One of the pope's archdeacons\ndescended into the vault, and in the dead hand of the bishop beheld the\nscroll: he endeavoured to take possession of it, but found it impossible\nto do so, so firmly was it grasped by the bony fingers. The pope ordered\nthe archdeacon to enjoin the dead man to give it up on pain of\npunishment, which the other having done, and added, that he pledged\nhimself to restore the paper when the pope had read it, the hand relaxed\nits grasp, and the act was released. The archdeacon handed it up to the\npope; but when he tried to leave the vault, he found that a secret power\nprevented him from stirring from the place, and he was forced to remain\nthere as hostage till the scroll was read and replaced in the hand of\nthe bishop; he then found that his limbs had resumed their power, and he\nwas able to quit the spot. Clement V., anxious to repair his injustice,\nafterwards paid extraordinary honours to the memory of Bishop Gauthier.\n\nIt was at this time, in 1306, the interview took place which decided\nthe fate of the Templars; the pope lodged with the Cordeliers, the King\nwith the Jacobins, and, in order that they might confer more readily, a\nbridge was thrown across the street, forming a communication between the\ntwo convents. For sixteen months Clement remained at Poitiers on this\nimportant business; and here he had interviews with the master of the\nTemplars, summoned from Cyprus for the occasion: here, most of the\nplans, destined to overthrow their dangerous power, were concocted, with\nless reference to justice than expediency.\n\nThe ancient palace of the Counts of Poitou is now the Palais de Justice.\nA fine Grecian portico which we had passed several times in our search\nfor what we expected would be a Gothic entrance, leads to the only part\nwhich remains of the ancient building: namely, a magnificent hall of\nvery large dimensions, surrounded by circular arches and delicate\npillars, and having a good deal of fine carving, and an antique roof of\nchestnut wood. The exterior, which is adorned with figures of the\nsovereigns of Poitou, we could not get a glimpse of, as the palace is so\nhemmed in by buildings that it is only from the gardens and windows of\nsome private houses that any view of it can be obtained. Elionore of\nAquitaine, her husband and sons, often inhabited this abode; and it was\nin the great hall that Charles VII. was proclaimed King of France. One\ncan but regret that so little remains of the original structure, and\nthat the buildings which modern taste and necessity have added, should\nso ill accord with the old model; for nothing can be more misplaced than\nthe _classic temple_ which conducts to a Norman hall.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER VIII.\n\n     CH\u00c2TEAU DE LA F\u00c9E--KING REN\u00c9--THE MINIATURES--THE POST-OFFICE\n     FUNCTIONARY--ORIGINALITY--THE ENGLISH BANK-NOTE--ST. PORCHAIRE--THE\n     DEAD CHILD--MONTIERNEUF--GUILLAUME GUY GEOFFROY--THOMAS \u00c0\n     BECKET--CHOIR OF ANGELS--RELICS--THE ARMED HERMIT--A SAINT--THE\n     REPUDIATED QUEEN--ELIONORE--THE BOLD PRIEST--LAY.\n\n\nONE of the most remarkable houses in Poitiers, of which not many ancient\nremain, is one now used as a school by the Christian Brothers. It is in\nthe Rue de la Pr\u00e9v\u00f4t\u00e9, close to the Place de la Pilori, and has been a\nprison. The door and windows are finely ornamented, as is the whole\nfa\u00e7ade, with curiously-carved figures and foliage. Melusine, with her\nserpent's or fish's tail, and her glass and comb, appears amongst\nthem--that inexplicable figure so frequently recurring in almost every\npart of France, and even yet requiring her riddle to be solved. As we\nknew that this part of the world was her head-quarters, we resolved to\nvisit her at her own castle of Lusignan, which would be in our way when\nwe left Poitiers. In this we were confirmed when we went to the\nBiblioth\u00e8que, for the gentleman to whom we were indebted for much\nattention in showing us the chief treasures there contained, recommended\nus not to pass by without seeing the ruins of the _ch\u00e2teau de la F\u00e9e_.\n\nThe university of Poitiers formerly held a very high rank, and was\nfrequented by scholars from every part of the world. France, England,\nScotland, Ireland, and Germany, sent their students: it was founded by\nCharles VII., and Pope Eug\u00e8ne IV., and was in great esteem in spite of\nthe jests of Rabelais and others at its expense. One old author speaks\nsomewhat irreverently of the learned town; calling its students \"the\nflute-players and professors of the _jeu de paume_ of Poitiers.\"\nCorneille makes his Menteur a pupil of the college of Poitiers; but\nMenot, a preacher of the period of the League, has a passage in one of\nhis sermons which is sufficiently complimentary: in relating the\nJudgment of Solomon, he makes him say to one of the women, \"Hold your\ntongue, for I see that you have never studied at Angers or Poitiers,\nand know not how to plead.\" It is now the head of an academy which\ncomprises the four departments of Vienne, Deux-S\u00e8vres, La Vend\u00e9e, and\nCharente Inf\u00e9rieure.\n\nThe public library is very extensive, and possesses many valuable\nvolumes. The first library named in French history is that of William\nthe Ninth, Count of Poitiers and Duke of Aquitaine, which was preserved\nin his palace at Poitiers. At the revolution, all that ages had\naccumulated was dispersed, but much has since been recollected, and\namongst the twenty-five thousand volumes there are many very precious.\nThere are more than fifteen hundred works relative to the history of\nPoitou, and it has, within a few years, been enriched by a present from\nthe British government of a fine collection of historical and legal\ndocuments connected with this part of the country.\n\nThat which, however, interested me most, was a beautiful manuscript,\nsaid to have been executed by no other hand than the royal one of the\ngood King Ren\u00e9. I have no doubt it was done by a very skilful artist\nwhom his munificence protected; but if, as is probable, he painted the\nwork on chivalry now in the King's library at Paris, he did _not_ paint\nthe beautiful leaves of the Psalter which is attributed to him; there is\ntoo much knowledge of art in the latter to permit one to imagine that\nthe same person could do both; for though the work on chivalry has\ngreat merit, it is of an inferior kind to this. The birds, the flowers,\nthe foliage, and the miniatures, are in perfection, and betray an\nItalian touch; true it is that the celebrated partridges, which King\nRen\u00e9 loved so well to paint, are frequently repeated, and the legend is\ntold while the manuscript is being looked at, of his occupation in\ndepicting his favourite bird, when he was informed of the loss of his\nkingdom, and so interested was he in his work that he never laid down\nhis pencil, but proceeded to finish it off as if nothing had happened.\nStill, I think, whoever painted this book was the royal amateur's master\nin the art; it appears certain that the beautiful volume was presented\nby him to Jeanne de Laval, his wife: it is decorated with the arms of\nAnjou, Sicily, and Laval, and the gold and azure are brilliant beyond\ndescription, the doves and other birds are of glittering plumage, and\nthe flowers charming. Another psalter, of still more exquisite\nexecution, is of later date, 1510; and though the gold is far less\ndazzling than that which adorns Ren\u00e9's book, nothing can exceed the\nbeauty of the birds and flowers introduced on the margins. One leaf,\n_all owls_, has a peculiarly _feathered_ appearance; the solemn birds\nsit on wreaths in the most elegant attitudes, and at the top of the page\none _Grand Duke_, larger and more dignified than the rest, seems to look\ndown on his people with satisfaction. The lupins, monkshood,\nmarguerites, and other simple flowers, so often introduced in\nilluminated borders, are done with infinite skill, and _strewn_ about\nthe gold ground as if scattered there by chance: some with their stalks\nupwards and in disorder, evidently showing that they were painted from\nnature, probably from the artist's own garden in his convent.\n\nWe found in Poitiers amongst the people, very little pride of their\ntown; they seem in fact to be inspired with a spirit of depreciation,\nwhich surprised me; and I have seldom found in any French town so much\ndifficulty in discovering old houses and sites. \"Ah, \u00e7a ne vaut pas la\npeine, ma foi! c'est bien vieux!\" was the general answer given to any\ninquiry.\n\nI had occasion to go to the post-office for letters from England, having\nsent the _commissionnaire_ of the inn in vain. I knew that several were\nwaiting for me, but being positively told that there were none, was\ngoing away, much disappointed, when a man ran after me across the great\nsquare, begging that I would return, as the director wished to speak to\nme. I did so immediately, when I was accosted by a person I had not\nbefore seen, who, instead of producing my letters, began a conversation\non the subject of Poitiers, and my journey to it; having informed\nhimself where I came from, with all the minuteness of an American\nquestioner, he proceeded to say there were letters for a person of my\nname; but as he required my passport, which I found to my vexation I had\nleft at the inn, I was tantalized with a view of the handwriting of my\nfriends through a grating. The functionary, however, detained me still\nto entreat that I would satisfy his curiosity as to what we could\npossibly have been admiring the evening before on the ramparts near the\nPorte du Pont Joubert, on the banks of the Clain. \"I observed you,\nladies,\" said he, \"pointing to the opposite hills, which are nothing but\nblocks of grey rocks, ordinary enough, and leaning over the walls\nwatching the course of the river, which is but a poor stream; and\nremarking the trees on the promenades, which, after all, are but trees;\nin fact, it puzzled me to think what strangers could find at Poitiers to\nlike.\"\n\nMuch amused at his originality, and the singular way in which he showed\nit, I replied that we found much to admire in the walks, the scenery,\nand the churches, and were surprised that he thought so little of his\nnative town. He seemed, as well as several of his assistant clerks, and\na person who patiently waited for his letters till the interview was\nconcluded, to think me much the most original of the two; and, having no\nmore to say, handed me my letters with the remark that I need not fetch\nmy passport, as he had no doubt they were really destined for me. It was\nthen evident to my mind that he had laid this plan to detain the\ninquisitive travellers who had excited his curiosity, till he could\ncatechise them himself, and to that end had lured us _in person_ to the\npost-office, and detained us and our letters till his pleasure was\nsecured. We were not sorry that nothing more was likely to arrive at\nPoitiers for us, as we were to pay so much for the delivery. It appears\nthat strangers rarely remain more than a few hours here, which may\naccount for so much interest being excited in the solitary town by our\nstrolling.\n\nWe had delayed changing some English money, and thinking it best to do\nso in case of necessity, inquired the way to a banker's. We were\ndirected to several; but, apparently, business was not very urgent with\nthem, for at most of the houses we found the head person gone into the\ncountry, and no delegate left. At last, we met with one at home; but he\nappeared utterly at a loss when he looked at the unlucky English\nbank-note which we presented to be changed, never, as he assured us,\nhaving seen such a _bit of paper_ before; but kindly offering, if we\nwould leave it a few hours, to have it seen and commented on, and then,\nif approved, and we liked to pay a somewhat unreasonable number of\nfrancs, the sum should be delivered to us. We thought the whole\ntransaction so _bizarre_ that we declined his offer, resolving\nrather to trust to chance till we reached La Rochelle,--our next\ndestination--than put ourselves to the charges he recommended. He\nreturned our note with a mortified air, saying, \"Very well; as you\nplease; but there are people in Poitiers who would not give two sous for\nyour bit of paper.\" The house in which he lived had a very antique\nappearance, and we had mounted a curious tower with winding-staircase to\nreach his bureau; I therefore asked him if there was anything remarkable\nattached to its history; but he seemed never to have thought about it,\nand merely remarked that it was \"bien vieille; mais rien de plus.\" He\nlooked after us with pity, as we took our leave, and probably\nentertained himself afterwards at our expense with his townsman of the\npost-office: \"Ces Anglais! sont-ils originaux! par exemple!\"\n\nNothing daunted, we proceeded to visit the curious old church of St.\nPorchaire, once a monastery dependent on the chapter of St. Hilaire le\nGrand. The church of the priory is that part which remains. The interior\nis quite without beauty; but what is worthy of note is its fine Roman\ntower, and a portal of great singularity. The latter is ornamented with\nmedallions of the rudest workmanship; one capital represents Daniel and\nthe prophet Habakkuk, with lions of a strange shape; but, in order that\nno mistake may arise as to their identity, besides the inscription which\nsurrounds the medallion, _Hic Daniel Domino vincit coetum leonum_, the\nartist has engraved, in conspicuous letters, between the animals, the\nword _Leones_.\n\nThe church of St. Hilaire--a great saint in Poitiers--has been so much\naltered as to leave little very interesting of its original\nconstruction. This saint was much distinguished for the miracles he\nperformed; the memory of one is still preserved by a pyramid, with\nmutilated bas-reliefs, recording the facts thus related by the annalist\nof Aquitaine:--\n\n\"When St. Hilaire visited the churches of the city, as he went through\nthe streets he was followed by so many people that he could hardly be\nseen, for he was on foot. A woman, who lived in a house now situated\nbefore the _Grands Escolles_, knowing that he was passing her dwelling,\nwhile she was bathing her infant, seized with an ardent desire to behold\nthe saint, left it in the bath, and ran out; when she returned she found\nher child drowned. Whereupon she called out, 'Oh, my God! shall I lose\nmy child for having done that which was praiseworthy!' and in a rage of\ngrief took her little dead child in her arms, covered with a piece of\nlinen, and carried it to St. Hilaire, to whom she declared the case and\nthe accident, praying him, in great faith and hope, to entreat of God\nthat her child might be restored to life.\n\n\"St. Hilaire, seeing the grief of the poor mother, who had but this\nonly child, and also her great reliance, and considering that the infant\nhad died in consequence of the mother's great desire to see him, set\nhimself to pray, prostrating himself on the earth with great humility\nand tears, where he remained a long time. And he, who was of a great\nage, would not rise from that posture till God had, at his request,\nresuscitated the child. He then, taking it in his arms, presented it to\nthe mother, who gave it nourishment before all the people, who, full of\nwonder, gave thanks to God and St. Hilaire.\"\n\nThe church of Montierneuf is one of the most ancient in Poitiers. It\ncontains the tomb of its founder, Guillaume Guy Geoffroy, Count of\nPoitiers and Aquitaine; who, having led a very irregular life, thought\nto atone for all, by erecting a magnificent monastery for Cluniac monks.\nExcept this tomb, there is little remaining of interest; but the effigy\nof Guillaume is well executed and curious, as he lies with his long\ncurled hair and his crown, his _aum\u00f4ni\u00e8re_, and his singularly-shaped\nshoes. He was one of the most daring of those wild Williams who\ndistinguished themselves for profligacy; but this pious act of his seems\nentirely to have redeemed his memory.\n\nIt is recounted that, while the abbey was in progress, the King of\nFrance, Philippe I., came to Poitiers, hoping to induce William to\nassist him against the Duke of Normandy. The monarch, struck with the\ngrandeur of the new constructions, exclaimed that they were \"worthy of a\nking;\" to which the Count replied, haughtily, \"Am I not, then, a king?\"\nPhilippe did not see fit to make any further rejoinder on so delicate a\nsubject.\n\nThe tomb of this redoubted prince was opened in 1822, and the body found\nquite perfect; as this circumstance, which is by no means unusual, was\nin former times always considered as a proof of the sanctity of the\nperson interred, it is to be hoped all the stories of Count William's\nvagaries are mere scandals, invented by evil-disposed persons; and that\nthe history of his having established a convent, all the nuns of which\nwere persons of more than suspected propriety, and having placed a\nfemale favourite of his own at their head, had no foundation in truth.\nSomething similar is told of several powerful princes, so it may well be\na fable altogether.\n\nThe botanical garden of Poitiers now occupies the place where the abbey\nof St. Cyprian stood, with all its dependencies; we sat on some reversed\ncapitals, which now form seats in a flowery nook, and climbed a stair of\na tower where seeds are dried,--the only morsel of the great convent now\nexisting. Bouchet tells one of his strange stories of a monk of this\nmonastery, which is curious, as it relates to that dangerous and\npowerful subject of the harassed King of England, Henry II., who must\nhave had enough to do to circumvent the art and cunning of the wily\narchbishop who was always working for his ruin and the exaltation of the\nChurch. The annalist relates that--\n\n\"At this period, Thomas, Archbishop of Canterbury, in England, was a\nfugitive from his country, because the English princes desired to kill\n_and_ put him to death: for that he would not agree to certain\nconstitutions, statutes, and ordinances, that Henry II. and the princes\nof England had made against the liberties and privileges of the Church,\nand the holy canons thereof. For they wished to confer dignities and\nother benefices and take the fruits, thereby profaning the sanctuary of\nGod. And the said archbishop was seven years, or thereabouts, in France,\nwhich land is the refuge of popes and holy personages; and he had great\ncommunication and familiarity with the said Pope Alexander, he being in\nthe town of Sens, where he chiefly staid while in France. And the\narchbishop was sometimes at the abbey of Pontigny, and sometimes at the\nmonastery of St. Columbe. Now, I read what follows in an ancient\n_pancarte_ of the abbey of St. Cyprian of Poitiers, brought there by a\nmonk of the said, called Babilonius, who, for some grudge owed him by\nhis abbot, was driven from his abbey, and went to complain of his wrong\nto Pope Alexander at Sens, while the Archbishop Thomas sojourned there;\nfrom whom this monk received a holy vial to place in the church of St.\nGregory, where reposes the body of the blessed Saint Loubette. I have\ntranslated the said writing from Latin into the vulgar tongue, seeing\nthat it contains some curious things. It begins, 'Quando ego Thomas\nArchiepiscopus,' &c.\n\n\"When I, Thomas, Archbishop of Canterbury, exiled from England, took\nrefuge with Pope Alexander, who was also fugitive, in the town of Sens,\nand there represented to him the bad habits and abuses that the King of\nEngland had introduced into the Church; one night as I was in the church\nof Sainte Colombe, engaged in prayer, supplicating the Queen of Virgins\nthat she would vouchsafe grace to the King of England and his\nsuccessors, that they might have power and will to be obedient to the\nChurch as her children, and that our Lord Jesus Christ would cause them\nmore fully to love the said Church, suddenly appeared to me the Blessed\nVirgin Mary, having on her breast a drop of water, glittering like fine\ngold, and holding in her hand a little vial (_ampoule_) of stone. And\nafter she had taken from her breast the drop of water and put it in the\nvial, she spoke to me these words: 'This is the unction with which the\nkings of England shall be anointed; _not those who reign now, but those\nwho are to reign_; for those who reign now are wicked, and so will be\ntheir successors, and, for their iniquity shall lose many things.\nHowever, kings of England shall come, and shall be anointed with this\nunction, and shall be benign and obedient to the Church, and shall not\npossess their lands or lordships until they are so anointed. The first\nof these shall recover, without violence, the countries of Normandy and\nAquitaine, which their predecessors had lost. This king shall be great\namongst kings, and it will be he who shall re-edify many churches in the\nHoly Land, and drive all the pagans from Babylon, where he shall erect\nrich monasteries, and put all the enemies of religion to flight. And\nwhen he wears about his neck this drop of golden water, he shall be\nvictorious and augment his kingdom. _As for thee, thou shall die a\nmartyr for sustaining the rights of the Church._' I then prayed the holy\nand sacred Lady to tell me in what sanctuary I should place this sacred\ndeposit; and she replied, that there was in this city a monk of the\nmonastery of St. Cyprian of Poitiers, named Babilonius, who had been\nunjustly driven forth by his abbot, where he desired to be reinstated by\napostolic authority; to him I was ordered to give this vial, in order\nthat he might carry it to the city of Poitiers, and place it in the\nchurch of St. Gregory, which is near the church of St. Hilaire, and put\nit at the extremity of the said church, towards the east, under a great\nstone, _where it would be found_ when the proper hour arrived to anoint\nthe kings of England, and _that the chief of the Pagans should be the\ncause of the discovery of the said golden drop_. Accordingly I enclosed\nthis treasure in a leaden vessel, and gave it to the said monk,\nBabilonius, to bear to the church of St. Gregory, as it was commanded.\"\n\nWhat object _Saint_ Thomas of Canterbury had in thus mystifying the\nmonks of Poitiers, or to what _prince_ or _pagan_ he pointed at, remains\na secret: whether the holy vial ever was found cannot now be known; or,\nif any discovery of such was made in that period of discoveries, the\ngreat Revolution, it was probably consigned to destruction with numerous\nother equally authentic relics. The most remarkable sentence in this\n_pancarte_ is, perhaps, the prophecy of his own death by the martyr,\nalways admitting that the whole was not composed and arranged after the\nevent had happened.\n\nBouchet, glad of the opportunity of dwelling on wonders, finishes his\ntale by relating the circumstances of Becket's murder, and how at his\nburial a choir of angels led the anthem, which the monks followed: also\nhow the cruel homicides by the judgment of God were suddenly punished;\nfor some of them _ate their own fingers_, others became mad and\ndemoniacs, and others lost the use of all their limbs.\n\nThe relics in the churches of Poitiers were of the most extraordinary\nvalue; each vied with the other in wonders of the kind, until all the\nbones of all the saints in the calendar seemed gathered together in this\nfavoured city. Whenever a prince had offended the Church, he made his\npeace by presenting some precious offering which was beyond price; as,\nfor instance, in 1109, the Duke of Aquitaine, father of Elionore, after\nhaving been pardoned for one of his numerous offences, caused to be\nenclosed in a magnificent shrine of gold, _two bones_ and _part of the\nbeard_ of the blessed Saint Peter, prince of apostles, which St. Hilaire\nhimself had brought to his church. Soon after, to prove his repentance\nof some new peccadillo, Guillaume gave certain _dismes_ to the monks and\npriests of St. Hilaire, with the use of the forest of Mouli\u00e8re.\n\nSt. Bernard himself was obliged on one occasion to come to Poitiers to\nadmonish the refractory duke, who chose to have an opinion of his own in\nacknowledging the pope, and many miracles were performed during his\nstay. Once St. Bernard severely reprimanded the duke at the altar, in\nthe cathedral, who was for the moment terrified at his denunciations;\nbut no sooner had he left the church than he ordered the altar at which\nthe saint had stood to be demolished; and a priest to proclaim and\ncommand the adherence of all persons to whatever pope their duke had\nadopted; but this impiety was signally visited, for the priest fell down\ndead at the altar as he was uttering the words. Also the dean, under\nwhose auspices St. Bernard's altar had been destroyed, _fell sick_\nimmediately, and died mad and in despair, for he cut his throat in his\nbed: besides which, one of the refractory bishops--he of Limoges--fell\nfrom his mule to the ground, and striking his head against a stone, was\nkilled on the spot; and for these _reasons_ and _evident signs_, Duke\nWilliam acknowledged his error, and replaced the Bishop of Poitiers,\nwhom he had deposed, in his chair.\n\nThis is the William, known by his romantic adventures as \"The Armed\nHermit,\" who, no doubt, disgusted with the tyranny of the Church, whose\nmembers at that time never ceased to interfere with the monarchs of\nEurope, resolved to abandon his kingdom, and embrace a life of quiet, as\nhe supposed, \"in some _horrible desert_.\" He was encouraged in the idea\nby interested persons, and _feigning to die_, left a will, by which his\nyoung daughter, Elionore, became the heiress of Aquitaine; he then\nsecretly quitted the court, directing his steps to the shrine of St.\nJames, in Galicia, where he joined a holy hermit, and put himself under\nhis tuition. By _diabolic temptation_ it seems, however, that he could\nnever be content in any of the deserts; where, still clothed in armour,\n_cap-\u00e0-pi\u00e9_, he endeavoured in vain to forget his belligerent\npropensities, for, every now and then, when he heard of a siege toward,\nhe would suddenly sally forth, and having assisted in the skirmish,\nagain seized with a fit of repentant devotion, would hurry back to some\ndesolate retreat, and endeavour, by penitence and fasts, to obliterate\nthe sin he had committed.\n\nHis death was attended by so many miracles that it became necessary to\ncanonize him; and orders of hermit monks rose up in every quarter,\nbearing his name of Guillemins, the chief of which were the Blanc\nManteaux of Paris. The example of sanctity he had set in the latter part\nof his life seemed to have been lost on the turbulent and coquettish\nQueen of the Court of Love, his daughter, Elionore, and to have been\nalso sufficiently disregarded by his grandsons. Not that Elionore\nneglected to build and endow churches and monasteries in every part of\nher dominions, particularly at Poitiers; and, probably, she considered\nall offences wiped out by so doing: not excepting her criminal project,\nrecorded by Bouchet, of quitting her husband, Louis of France, and\n\"_espousing the Sultan Saladin_, with whose image and portraiture she\nhad fallen in love.\"\n\nWhatever motives Louis le Jeune had in getting rid of his powerful wife,\npolicy could not be one; for never was a more foolish business; he did\nnot, perhaps, contemplate, in his shortsightedness, that she would marry\nhis rival, and carry all her possessions to the crown of England; but he\nwas sure that by dissolving his marriage he was injuring France. The\naccount of the state of the great heiress, insulted and injured in so\nvital a point, is piteous enough, and not unlike, in position, to the\ncase of Queen Catherine when repudiated by Henry VIII.\n\n\"This dissolution and separation was signified to Queen Elionore by the\nbishops, who undertook the task with great regret, for they knew it\nwould be very displeasing to the poor lady, who, as soon as the decision\nwas announced to her, fell in a swoon from the chair on which she sat,\nand was for more than two hours without speaking, or weeping, or\nunclosing her clenched teeth. And when she was a little come to herself,\nshe began, with her clear and blue (_vers_) eyes, to look around on\nthose who brought her the news, and said, 'Ha! my lords, what have I\ndone to the king that he should quit me? in what have I offended him?\nwhat defect finds he in my person? I am not barren, I am not\nillegitimate, nor come of a low race. I am wealthy as he is by my means.\nI have always obeyed him; and if we speak of lineage, I spring from the\nEmperor Otho the First and King Lothaire; descended in direct line from\nCharlemagne; besides which we are relations both by father and mother if\nhe requires to be informed of it.'\"\n\n\"Madam,\" said the Archbishop of Limoges, \"you speak truth indeed. You\nare relations; but of that the king was ignorant, and it is for that\nvery cause that he finds you are not in fact his wife, and the children\nyou have borne him are not lawful; therefore is this separation\nnecessary, much to the king's discomfort; he laments it as much or more\nthan you can do; but he finds that for the safety of your souls this\nthing must be done.\"\n\nThe poor queen could only reply that the pope had the power to grant a\ndispensation; but she had no longer any relations to support her, and\nstill less had she friends; and was obliged to submit. She was then\nabout six-and-twenty, and the most beautiful woman in France. Henry of\nNormandy lost no time in making his proposals to her, which she at first\nrejected, being, as she said, resolved never to trust another man; but\nhis eloquence, and other qualities, and the policy of placing herself in\na powerful position as his queen, heir as he was of England, caused her\nto alter her mind; and Henry gained the richest wife in Europe and lost\nhis happiness for ever.\n\nThere is a frequently-repeated story told of one of the most celebrated\ncounts of Poitiers, though attributed sometimes to William VIII. and\nsometimes to William IX. The series of _Williams_ all appear to have\nbeen more or less _de rudes seigneurs_, who were divided between the\nvices and virtues of their period. There is William _T\u00eate d'Etoupes_,\nWilliam _Fier-\u00e0-bras_, William _the Great_, and William _the\nTroubadour_; the latter--now pious, now profane--was at one time\nfighting foremost in the christian ranks against the Paynim; at another,\n\"playing on pipes of straw and versing love\" to fair ladies, to whom he\nhad no right to make himself captivating. He is said to have repudiated\nhis wife, Phillippa, or Mahaud, and espoused Malberge, the wife of the\nViscount de Ch\u00e2telleraud, in the life-time of her husband. For this\noffence the Bishop of Poitiers resolved to punish him, and, accordingly,\non occasion of a grand public solemnity, in the face of the assembled\nmultitude, he began the formula of excommunication against the offending\ncount, regardless of consequences. When William heard, as he sat with\nhis bold and beautiful lady-love, the first words of the anathema, he\nstarted from his seat, in a transport of surprise and rage, and, drawing\nhis sword, rushed upon the unflinching churchman, who entreated him to\nallow him a short delay. The count paused, and, taking advantage of the\ncircumstance, the bishop raised his voice, and finished the form of\nexcommunication in which he had been interrupted. \"Now,\" said he, \"you\nmay strike; I have done my duty and am ready.\" William was abashed and\nhumbled, and, returning his sword to its scabbard, exclaimed, \"No,\npriest, I do not love you well enough to send you straight to Paradise.\"\nHe had not, however, the grace to pardon the intrepid priest, for he\nbanished him to Chauvigny, where he shortly afterwards died, in 1115.\nThe following is one of the lays of this famous Troubadour, whose songs\nare the earliest extant:\n\n    Anew I tune my lute to love,\n      Ere storms disturb the tranquil hour,\n    For her who strives my truth to prove,\n      My only pride, and beauty's flower;\n    But who will ne'er my pain remove,\n      Who knows and triumphs in her power.\n\n    I am, alas! her willing thrall;\n      She may record me as her own:\n    Nor my devotion weakness call,\n      That her I prize, and her alone:\n    Without her can I live at all,\n      A captive so accustom'd grown?\n\n    What hope have I?--Oh lady dear!\n      Do I then sigh in vain for thee;\n    And wilt thou, ever thus severe,\n      Be as a cloistered nun to me?\n    Methinks this heart but ill can bear\n      An unrewarded slave to be!\n\n    Why banish love and joy thy bowers--\n      Why thus my passion disapprove?\n    When, lady, all the world were ours\n      If thou couldst learn, like me, to love.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER IX.\n\n     MELUSINE--LUSIGNAN--TROU DE LA F\u00c9E--THE LEGEND--MALE CURIOSITY--THE\n     DISCOVERY--THE FAIRY'S SHRIEKS--THE CHRONICLER--GEOFFROY OF THE\n     GREAT TOOTH--JACQUES COEUR--ROYAL GRATITUDE--ENEMIES--JEAN DU\n     VILLAGE--WEDDING--THE BRIDE--THE TRAGEDY OF MAUPRIER--THE\n     GARDEN--THE SHEPHERDESS--THE WALNUT GATHERERS--LA G\u00c2TINE--ST.\n     MAIXANT--NIORT--MADAME DE MAINTENON--ENORMOUS CAPS--CHAMOIS\n     LEATHER--DUGUESCLIN--THE DAME DE PLAINMARTIN--THE SEA.\n\n\nFULL of anxiety to visit the famous Ch\u00e2teau of Lusignan--the very centre\nof romance and mystery--we left Poitiers in the afternoon, and, in two\nhours, reached the prettily-situated bourg on the banks of the river\nVanne. We looked out constantly for the towers of the castle of\nMelusine, but none appeared. At last I descried a building on an\neminence, which I converted at once into the object desired; but, as\nthe rain had come on violently and the atmosphere was somewhat dull, I\nwas not surprised that I did not obtain a better view of the turrets and\ndonjon, which no doubt frowned over the plain beneath.\n\nOur vehicle stopped in the middle of a very unpromising stony street,\nbefore a house which presented no appearance of an inn. Here, however,\nwe were told that we were to alight; and, having done so in a somewhat\ndisconsolate mood, for the storm had increased in violence, our baggage\nwas to be disengaged from the huge pile on the top of the diligence,\nwhile we stood by to recognise it. The whole town, meantime, seemed to\nhave arrived in this, the principal street; and a host of men in blouses\npaused round us, all looking with wonder on our arrival, apparently\namazed at our absurdity in stopping at Lusignan; in which reflection we\nbegan to share, as they took possession of our trunks, and examined them\nwithout ceremony, while the conducteur searched his papers, in a sort of\nfrenzy, to find our names inscribed, and convince himself that we were\nthe persons named there as his passengers. As we had only been \"set\ndown\" as \"Dames Anglaises,\" he seemed inclined to dispute our identity;\nand he, and a man who acted as post-master, conned over the paper\ntogether, while all the inhabitants who could get near endeavoured to\ncatch a peep, not only at the scroll, but the suspected persons. At\nlength, as we protested against lingering in the rain any longer,\nfurther enquiries were abandoned; the conducteur mounted his box; the\npost-master called porters; and the crowd made way for us, while we\nfollowed half-a-dozen guides, who made as much of their packages as they\ncould; and we at last found shelter. The aspect of affairs now changed:\na very neat landlady, and a smart waiting-maid, ushered us into a\npretty, clean, decorated, raftered room,--the best in the Lion d'Or,--up\na flight of tower stairs; our porters disappeared; the street was\ncleared; curiosity seemed amply gratified; and we were left to a good\ndinner, and in comfortable quarters. The sun broke forth, and all looked\npromising; but where were the towers of the castle?\n\nThis question we repeated frequently, and the answers assured us that\n_l\u00e0 haut_ we should see the castle and the \"_Trou Meluisin_.\" We slept\nwell in our snow-white beds; occasionally hearing, during the night, the\ncracked, hollow, unearthly sound of the great church bell of the\nLusignans, to which an equally ghost-like voice on the stair replied. At\nday-break the noise of hilarity roused us, and we found that a rural\nmeeting was taking place below, in the _grand salon_. Our friends of the\nday before seemed all met previous to setting out to begin the walnut\ngathering; and they uttered strange jocund sounds, more wolfish than\nhuman, without a word which could be, by possibility, construed into the\nFrench language.\n\nWe hurried up the rugged way which was to lead us to the castle; but,\nhaving reached the height, I rubbed my eyes, for I thought the fairy had\nbeen busy during the night, and, by a stroke of her wand, had swept away\nevery vestige of the castle. Certain it was that not a stone was\nleft,--not a solitary piece of wall or tower, to satisfy our curiosity!\nA pretty little girl of fifteen, who had hurried after us, now\napproached, and offered to be our _guide_. We accepted her civility, as\nwe hoped something would ensue: she led us to a heap of bushes, and,\nstooping down and pulling them aside, proclaimed to us, as she pointed\nto a dark chasm beneath, that we stood at the entrance of the \"Trou de\nla F\u00e9e.\" \"This,\" said she, \"is the hole which she used to enter, and it\nhas a way which leads to the wood yonder: she could there rise up at her\nfountain, where she bathed; and from thence there is another way leading\nas far as Poitiers itself.\" We asked her if the fairy ever appeared now;\nbut she laughed, and said, contemptuously, \"Oh! no, that is all fable:\nit was a great while ago.\" She had a tragical story of a soldier who\ndescended, resolving to attempt the adventure; but he was never seen\nafterwards, as might easily be expected. She, however, accounted for\nhis fate without attributing it to supernatural causes: the superstition\nof Melusine has disappeared with the turrets of her castle.\n\nThe church is curious, though very much defaced: in the sacristy is a\ncircular-arched door, elaborately sculptured with the signs of the\nZodiac; but the formerly-existing stones on which the effigy of the\nfairy appeared have been entirely swept away.\n\nThe castle of Lusignan was once one of the most beautiful and powerful\n_ch\u00e2teaux forts_ in France; so strong and so singular in its\nconstruction that it was attributed to an architect of a world of\nspirits,--the famous witch, or fairy, Melusine; about whom so much has\nbeen written and sung for ages, and who still occupies the attention of\nthe curious antiquary. Her story may be thus briefly told:\n\nShe was married to the Sire Raymondin, of Poitiers; who, struck with her\nsurpassing beauty, and aware of her great wealth and possessions, had\nwon her from a host of suitors. He was, however, ignorant that her\nnature was different from that of others; and, when she informed him\nthat, if she consented to be his wife, he must agree that she should,\nonce a week, absent herself from him, and must promise never to attempt\nto penetrate the retreat to which she retired, he gave an unconditional\nassent. They had been married some time, and their happiness was\ncomplete; but at length Raymondin's mind began to be disturbed with\nuneasy thoughts, and the demon of curiosity took possession of him. His\nwife disappeared every week for a single day--some say Saturday--and he\nhad no idea where she went, or what she occupied herself about. Was it\npossible, thought he, that she had some other attachment? Could she be\ncapable of deceiving his affection? Every time she returned to him she\nlooked more lovely than ever; and there was a satisfaction in her aspect\nthat was far from pleasing him. She never alluded to the circumstance of\nher retreat; but redoubled her tenderness and kindness to him; and, but\nfor the growing and increasing anxiety he felt to know the truth, he\nmight have been the happiest of men.\n\nMelusine had, according to her wont, taken leave of him on the\naccustomed night of her retirement; and he found himself alone in his\nchamber. He mused, long and painfully, till he could endure his thoughts\nno longer; and, catching up his sword, he rushed to the tower, at the\ndoor of which he had parted with his mysterious lady. The door was of\nbronze, elaborately ornamented with strange carvings: it was thick and\nstrong; but, in his frenzy of impatience, he did not hesitate to strike\nit violently with his sharp sword; and, in an instant, a wide cleft\nappeared, disclosing to him a sight for which he paid dear.\n\nIn the centre of the chamber he beheld a marble basin, filled with\ncrystal water; and there, disporting and plunging, was a female form\nwith the features of his wife. Her golden hair, in undulating waves,\nfell over her white bosom and shoulders, and rested on the edge of the\nbasin, and on the surface of the water; her hands held a comb and a\nmirror; and in the latter she occasionally gazed intently as a series of\nfigures passed across it. Down to her waist it was Melusine; but below\nit was no longer the body of a woman, but a scaly marine monster, who\nwreathed a glittering tail in a thousand folds; dashing and casting the\nsilver waves in every direction, and throwing a veil of shining drops\nover the beautiful head above, till the walls and ceiling shone with the\nsparkling dew, on which an unearthly light played in all directions!\n\nRaymondin stood petrified, without power to speak or move. An instant\nsufficed to disclose to him this unnatural vision; and an instant was\nenough to show the fairy that her secret was discovered. She turned her\nlarge lustrous eyes upon him, uttered a loud, piercing shriek, which\nshook the castle to its foundation, and all became darkness and silence.\nThe lord of the ch\u00e2teau passed the rest of his life in penitence and\nprayer; but the lady was never afterwards seen by him.\n\nShe had not, however, abandoned her abode; and, always, from that time\ntill within a few years, she returned whenever any misfortune threatened\nthe family of Lusignan, screaming round the walls, and rustling with her\nserpent folds along the passages, announcing the event. In 1575 the\ncastle was razed, by order of the Duke de Moutpensier, and for several\nnights previous to its demolition, Melusine startled the country round\nwith her piercing cries. It is even said that certain ancient women in\nLusignan hear her occasionally; but we were not so fortunate as to meet\nwith any who had been so favoured.\n\nBouchet, in his chronicle, acknowledges himself greatly puzzled to\naccount for the legend of Melusine; for, though he does not hesitate to\nbelieve anything advanced by the Church, he does not feel bound to put\nentire faith in a book of romance. \"As for me,\" he says, \"I think and\nconjecture, that the sons of Melluzine performed many fine feats of\narms; but not in the manner related in the romance; for it must be\nrecollected that at the period of 1200 were begun to be made many books,\nin gross and rude language, and in rhythm of all measure and style,\nmerely for the pastime of princes, and sometimes for flattery, to vaunt\nbeyond all reason the feats of certain knights, in order to give courage\nto young men to do the like and become brave; such are the said Romance\nof Melluzine, those of Little Arthur of Brittany, Lancelot du Lac,\nTristan the Adventurous, Ogier the Dane, and others in ancient verse,\nwhich I have seen in notable libraries: the which have since been put\ninto prose, in tolerably good language, according to the time at which\nthey were written, in which are things _impossible to believe, but at\nthe same time delectable to read_. But, in truth, all that romance of\nMelluzine is a dream, and cannot be supported by reason. You may see, in\nthe said romance, that the children of Melluzine, Geoffrey la\ngrande-dent, and Guion, and Raimondin, her husband, a native of Forez,\nwere Christians, and that they fought against, and conquered, the Turks,\nand that the said Raimondin was nephew to a Count of Poictou, named\nAymery, who had a son called Bertrand, who was count after him, and a\ndaughter, Blanche. Now I have not been able to find in any history,\nletter, nor _pancarte_, _though I have carefully searched_, that, since\nthe passion of our Lord, there has been a duke or count in Poictou,\ncalled either Bertrand or Aymery; nor that there have been any such but\nwhat I have enumerated. And as for those events having happened before,\nit could not be; for there were then no Christians living, our Lord and\nRedeemer not being then on earth.\"\n\nThe confused chronicler then proceeds to tell the whole serpent-story,\nhinting his suspicions that the lady was discovered by her husband to\nbe unfaithful, and giving an etymology to her name, similar to one we\nheard on the spot, namely, that she was lady of _Melle_, a castle near.\nOur village arch\u00e6ologist added, however, that this castle was called\nUzine, and as both belonged to her, she was so called, Melle-Uzine.\n\nIn the fourteenth century, the estates of Lusignan passed into royal\npossession. Hugues le Brun left in his will great part of the estates to\nthe King of France, Phillippe le Bel. His brother, Guy, irritated at\nthis disposition of the property, cast his will into the fire; on which\nthe king had him accused of treason, and took possession of the county\nof Lusignan, which became confiscated to the crown. It was on this sad\noccasion that, for twelve successive nights, the spirit of Melusine\nappeared on the platform of the castle, wailing and lamenting in a\npitiable manner, and making the woods and groves re-echo with her\nsorrows.\n\nThere is another account, that the castle was greatly added to by a\npowerful lord, called _Geoffrey of the Great Tooth_, son of Melusine,\nwhose effigy might once be seen over the principal entrance of the\ndonjon-tower; but his existence is as great a problem as that of the\nfairy herself.\n\nHenry II. of England took the castle, and came here in triumph with his\nwarriors. Louis XII. when Duke of Orleans, passed several sad years in\nthese walls as a prisoner. It was taken by Admiral de Coligny, in 1569;\nbut it was lost soon after, and again and again retaken, partially\ndestroyed, and rebuilt, and at length swept away altogether, leaving\nnothing but recollections, a piece of old tower, and Le Trou de\nMelusine.\n\nIt once had three circles of defence, bastions, esplanades, moats, and\nwalls; embattled gates, one called the Gate of Geoffrey of the Great\nTooth, one the Gate of the Tour Poitevine, and the gigantic Tour de\nMelusine in the centre of all; its subterranean ways, strange legends,\nmysterious passages, and enormous strength, made it a marvel in all\ntimes, and a subject for romance from the earliest ages.\n\nM. Francisque Michel is the last who has endeavoured to collect its\ncurious records, and throw some light on its strange history.\n\nIn this castle was imprisoned, during his iniquitous trial, which is an\neternal blot on the name of his ungrateful _friend_, Charles VII. of\nFrance, the rich and noble merchant of Bourges, Jacques Coeur, whose\npurse had been opened to the destitute king in his emergencies, and who\nhad devoted all the energies of his mind to save his country from the\nruin which the idle favourites who surrounded the throne were assisting\nas much as possible. His princely liberality, his foresight, and\npromptitude, had rescued Charles from perils which seemed\ninsurmountable. He had come forward with a sum of great magnitude, at\nthe moment when his royal master was so distressed that he could not\nundertake the conquest of Normandy, then possessed by the English. He\npaid and supported an army, and Normandy was restored to France. He\nrescued the country from poverty and misery, placed its finances in a\nflourishing condition, drove marauders from the desolated land, and saw\nthe little King of Bourges the powerful monarch of regenerated France.\nThen came his reward. His inveterate \"adversary and enemy, the wicked\nHaman,\" who had been for years watching to accomplish his downfal,\nbecause his evil was not good in the sight of the right-minded and\ntrue-hearted friend of his country,--the detestable Antoine de\nChabannes, Count of Dammartin, rightly judging that Charles would be\nglad to rid himself of so enormous a burthen of gratitude as he owed to\nJacques Coeur, concerted with other spirits as wicked as himself, and\nsucceeded but too well.\n\nThe first step was to shake the public faith in those at the head of the\nfinancial department; but they feared to attack the friend of Charles,\nand the acknowledged benefactor of France, _at first_. Money they were\nresolved to have, at any rate, without delay, and their first victim was\nJean de Xaincoings, receiver-general. A series of charges were got up\nagainst him, which he was unable to overcome; he was convicted,\nsentenced, imprisoned, and his property confiscated. Great was the\nexultation of the dissolute lords of the Court, when, in the scramble,\neach got a share of the spoil. Dunois--_Le Gentil Dunois_!--the hero of\nso many fights--was one of the first to profit by the downfal of this\nrich man: his magnificent h\u00f4tel at Tours was bestowed on the warrior,\nwho did not blush to receive it.\n\nEncouraged by this success, and becoming more greedy as they saw how\neasy it was to work on the king, when money was in view, the foes of\nJacques Coeur set about accomplishing a similar work, with his colossal\nfortune in view as their prize.\n\nAt first, there seemed danger in proposing to the weak monarch to\ndespoil his friend, and to annihilate a friendship of years, and\nobligations of such serious moment; but, to their surprise and delight,\nthey found his ears open to any tales they chose to bring; and having,\nin a lucky hour, fixed on an accusation likely to startle such a mind,\nthey found all ready to their hands.\n\nDammartin brought forward a woman, base enough to swear that the fair\nand frail Agnes Sorel had been poisoned by his treasurer. The infamous\nJeanne de Vend\u00f4me, wife of the Lord of Mortagne sur Gironde, was the\ninstrument of Chabannes, and her accusation was believed and acted upon.\nA host of enemies, like a pack of wolves eager for prey, came howling\non, and the great merchant was dragged from his high seat and hunted to\nthe death.\n\nIn this very castle of Lusignan, where the fairy Melusine might well\nlament over the disgrace of France, in a dungeon, removed from every\nhope, languished the man who had, till now, held in his hand the\ndestinies of Europe; whose galleys filled every port, whose merchandise\ncrowded every city, who divided with Cosmo de Medici the commerce of the\nworld. Here did Jacques Coeur reflect, with bitter disappointment, on\nall the selfishness, cruelty, meanness, and ingratitude, of the man he\nhad mainly assisted to regain the throne of his ancestors. It was here\nhe was told that the falsehood of the charge against him had been\nproved; but when he quitted this, the first prison which the gratitude\nof the king had supplied him with, it was but to inhabit others; while a\ncrowd of new accusations were examined, one of which was enough to crush\nhim. The game was in the hands of his foes; his gold glittered too near\ntheir eyes; their clutches were upon his bags; their daggers were ready\nto force his chests; they were led on by one whose avarice was only\nequalled by his profligate profusion, and he was a prisoner kept from\nhis own defence.\n\nThe wealth of Jacques Coeur was poured into the laps of _Charles_ and\nhis harpy courtiers, and the victim was consigned to oblivion. Of all he\nhad saved and supported, one man alone was grateful--_Jean du Village_,\n_his clerk_, devoted himself to his master's interests, and his life,\nand part of his property abroad, were saved.\n\nThe fate of the great merchant is still a mystery. His mock trial was\ndecided by the commission appointed to examine him at the castle of\nLusignan, in May, 1453, and judgment was pronounced by Guillaume\nJouvenel des Ursins, chancellor of France, after the king _had taken\ncognisance of and approved it_![7]\n\n[Footnote 7: For account of Jacques Coeur and his dwelling at Bourges,\nsee \"Pilgrimage to Auvergne.\"]\n\nA wedding was going on while we were wandering between the castle and\nthe church, and we met the party on our way, preceded by the usual\nviolin accompaniment. Our young guide was greatly interested in the\nproceedings, and told us the names and station of the parties concerned.\n\"What an odd thing it is,\" said she, \"to be married. For two or three\ndays everybody runs out of their houses to stare at the bride and\nbridegroom, as if they were a king and queen, though one has seen them a\nthousand times before, and, after that, they may pass in the street and\nnobody thinks of looking at them.\"\n\nMarie Poitiers and Ren\u00e9 Blanc were the happy pair on this occasion; the\nname of the bridegroom amused me, as I was reminded of the perfumer and\npoisoner of Queen Catherine, Ren\u00e9 Bianco, who had lately furnished me\nwith a _hero_ for a romance. This Ren\u00e9 was, however, a very\nharmless-looking personage, a daily labourer, but \"bien riche,\" as was\nhis bride, who also worked in the fields, but had a very good property\nnear Lusignan. \"All the family are very well off; but, they work like\nother people. Only you see,\" said our guide, \"that the bride's sister,\nwho is so pretty, dresses in silk like a _grande dame_, and does not\nwear the peasant's cap like the rest.\" The cap of the bride was worthy\nof attention, as were those of most of the party. As they were amongst\nthe first of the kind we had seen, they attracted us extremely, though\nwe afterwards got quite familiar with their strange appearance. In this\npart of the country, the peasants wear a cap, large, square, and high,\nof a most inconvenient size, and remarkably ugly shape: they get larger\nand squarer as you approach La Rochelle, and cease before you arrive at\nBordeaux. The bride's was of thin embroidered muslin, edged with lace,\nplaced in folds over a high, square quilted frame, which supported it as\nit spread itself out, broad and flaunting, making her head look of a\nmost disproportionate size. Silver ribbon bows and orange flowers were\nnot omitted, and she wore a white satin sash tied behind, which floated\nover her bright gown and apron. A large silver cross hung on her breast,\nher handkerchief was richly embroidered, and her stockings very white\nand smart, though her feet and legs were somewhat ponderous, and did not\nseem accustomed to their adornment of the day, _sabots_ of course being\nher ordinary wear. She was led by her father, whom I mistook for the\nmayor, he was so decorated with coloured ribbons, and strode along with\nso dignified an air, his large black hat shading his happy, florid face.\n\nThe bridegroom closed a very long procession, as he led the bride's\nmother along: they were going to the Mairie, where, after signing,\nMade. Blanc would take her husband's arm, and walk back again through\nthe town to hear mass, when _ses bagues_ would be presented to her by\nher lord. Great excitement seemed to prevail in Lusignan, in consequence\nof this event, and smiles and gaiety were the order of the day.\n\nOur hostess proposed accompanying us to a ch\u00e2teau not far distant, in\norder that we might see the country, and as it was fine and not very\ndamp we set out with her, having stopped in the town at a little\nchandler's shop for her sister who wished to be of the party.\n\nTheir mother--a dignified old lady, who looked as if she had been a\nhousekeeper at some ch\u00e2teau--welcomed us into her shop, and set chairs\nwhile her daughter was getting ready, when she resumed her knitting, and\nconversed on the subject of their metropolis, Poitiers, with which she\nappeared partially acquainted. She detailed to us several of the\nmiracles of Ste. Radegonde, for whom she had an especial respect, and\nassured us there was no saint in the country who had so distinguished\nherself. I was surprised, after this, that she treated the story of\nMelusine as a fable, though she believed in the existence of the\nsubterranean way, and told us of the riches supposed still to exist\nbeneath the castle and in the ruins. One man, lately, in taking away\nstones to build a house, stumbled on a heap of money which had evidently\nbeen placed for concealment beneath the walls, and coins of more or less\nvalue, and of various dates, are found, from time to time, as the large\nstones are removed for building, any one being at liberty to demolish\nwhatever ancient wall they find in the neighbourhood.\n\nOur walk was an extremely pleasant one, for the country round is very\npretty and rural; it terminated at the Ch\u00e2teau de Mauprier, a private\nresidence, which appears to have been formerly a fortified manor-house,\nto judge by its moat and the square and round towers which still remain.\nThe \"park\" leading to it is a series of beautiful alleys, some of the\ntrees of which are allowed to grow naturally, others are cut into form,\nwith fine grassy walks between, covered with rich purple heath here and\nthere in nooks. The walks branch off from space to space in stars,\nleaving open glades of emerald turf between.\n\nAs we approached the lodge through the slovenly gate half off its\nhinges, the sound of wailing reached us from within, and, entering the\nroom whence it proceeded, we became witnesses of a sad scene of\ndesolation. There was no fire on the hearth, all looked dismal and\nwretched; a great girl of twelve stood sobbing near the table, a younger\none sat at the door, and, with her feet on the damp earthen floor,\nrocking herself backwards and forwards on a low chair, sat a small, thin\nwoman, moaning piteously, and wringing her hands.\n\nOf course we thought she was bewailing some severe domestic bereavement,\nand our companions, who were full of friendly commiseration, began to\nquestion her, but could obtain no answer but tears and cries. At length,\nby dint of coaxing and remonstrance, we discovered that the tragedy\nwhich had happened was as follows:\n\nThe gardener-porter was entrusted by his master with the care of the\nlive stock of the farm; his wife had sent a child of about eight years\nof age into the woods with a flock of turkeys; the young guardian had\nbeen seduced by fruit or flowers to wander away, forgetting her charge,\nand they followed her example, and dispersed themselves in all\ndirections. The consequence was, that an ill-disposed fox, who was lying\nin wait, took the opportunity of way-laying them, and no less than seven\nhad become his victims: the little girl had returned to tell her loss,\nwas beaten and turned out of doors; the husband's rage had been fearful,\nand, though a night and day had elapsed, and the second evening was\ncoming on, the disconsolate wife had not risen from her chair, nor\nceased her lamentations. The turkeys must be replaced; the little girl\nwas not her own, but an _enfant trouv\u00e9e_, whom she had nursed and loved\nas her own--and how was she to be received after her crime! the husband\nwas irate, the children were miserable, neither cookery nor fire were to\nbe seen, and despair reigned triumphant. A small present, and a good\ndeal of reasoning, brought her a little to herself; and we persuaded the\neldest girl to light the fire, and give her mother something to revive\nher; the father was sent for; but the poor woman fainted, and we lifted\nher into bed; where we at length left her now repentant husband\nattending her, and promising to reproach no one any more about the fox\nand the turkeys.\n\nNothing could possibly do less credit to the gardener than the\nappearance of the grounds, where liberty reigned triumphant; every\nthing, from enormous gourds of surprising size to grapevines in\nfestoons, being allowed to grow as it listed; yet the original laying\nout was pretty, and if half-a-dozen men were employed, as would be the\ncase in England, the gardens might be made very agreeable. The\nproprietor is, however, an old man who spends a great deal of his time\nin Poitiers; and, as all French people do when at their country places,\nmerely conceals himself for a few months, and cares little about\nappearances, provided his fruit and vegetables are produced in the\nrequired quantity. We heard that he was a most excellent and indulgent\nman, very liberal to the poor, and generous to his people; and our\nhostess assured us, that if he knew of the wretchedness the loss of his\nturkeys had caused in his gardener's family, it would give him real\npain, and he would at once forgive them their debt to him. Perhaps the\nknowledge of his kindness might be one reason of his servant's vexation;\nbut though that feeling was honourable to him, we could not forgive him\nfor his severity to his poor, silly terrified little wife.\n\nAs we returned by another, and a very pretty way, we met a young girl,\nto whom our guides, who were zealous in the cause, told the story of her\nneighbour's illness; she promised to go to her and offer her aid as soon\nas she could, and expressed her disgust at the cruelty of the husband,\nwhose character, she said, was brutal in the extreme. While they were\ntalking, I remarked the appearance of the shepherdess, who was certainly\none of the most charming specimens of a country Phillis I ever beheld.\nHer age might be about eighteen; she was tall, and well made, with a\nhealthy, clear complexion, a good deal bronzed with the sun; teeth as\nwhite as pearls, and as even as possible; rather a wide, but very\nprettily shaped mouth; fine nose; cheeks oval and richly tinted; fine\nblack eyes filbert shaped, and delicately-pencilled eyebrows, perfectly\nCircassian; a small white forehead, and shining black hair in braids:\nthe expression of her smile was the most simple and innocent\nimaginable, and the total absence of anything like thought or intellect,\nmade her face a perfect reflection of that of one of her own lambs. Her\ncostume was extremely picturesque; and her head-dress explained at once\nthe mystery of the cap of Anne Boleyn, of which it was a model, no doubt\nan unchanged fashion from the time of, and probably long before,\nMarguerite de Valois. It was of white, thick, stiff muslin, pinched into\nthe three-cornered shape so becoming to a lovely face, precisely like\nthe Holbein head, but that the living creature was much prettier than\nthe great master usually depicted his princesses. Her petticoat was dark\nblue, her apron white, and so was her handkerchief, and round her\nhandsome throat was a small hair chain, or ribbon, with a little gold\ncross attached. Her feet were in _sabots_; and she held a whip in her\nhand, with which to chastise her stray sheep; on her arm hung a flat\nbasket, in which were probably her provisions for the day, or she might\nhave filled it with walnuts which were being gathered close by. I never\nsaw a sweeter figure altogether, and her merry, ringing laugh, and\ncurious _patois_ sounded quite in character; she was just the sort of\ngirl Florian must have seen to describe his Annette from; but I did not\nmeet with any peasant swain in the neighbourhood worthy to have been her\nLubin. Her beauty was, however, rare, for we were not struck with any of\nthe peasants besides, as more than ordinarily good-looking; but, seen\nanywhere, this girl must have attracted attention.\n\nWe soon, on entering a long avenue, came upon a party of\nwalnut-gatherers, to whom the tragedy of the fox was again detailed,\nwhile groups came round us to hear and comment on the event, which\nappeared to be formed to enliven the monotony of a country existence as\nmuch as a piece of scandal in a town.\n\nSeated on the ground, quietly eating walnuts, in the midst of a ring of\nother children, sat the little delinquent of the tale, as unmoved and\nunconscious as if she had not caused a perfect hurricane of talk and\nanxiety in the commune; she turned her large gypsy black eyes on me with\nan expression almost of contempt, as I asked her a few questions, and\nrecommended her caution in future. As one of the reports we had gathered\non our way was, that the child, after being beaten, had run away into\nthe woods and had not since re-appeared, we were not sorry to find her\nhere; but as she looked saucy and careless, and able to bear a good deal\nof severity, and was besides several years older than had been\nrepresented, our sympathy was little excited in her favour. \"She has\nacted in this way often before,\" said a bystander, \"and cannot be made\nto work or to do anything she is told.\" She had strangely the appearance\nof a Bohemian, and her fondness for the _dolce far niente_ increased my\nsuspicions of her parentage. The tenderness of her foster-mother for her\nwas, however, not to be changed by her ill-conduct, for she was said to\nprefer her to her own children, in spite of her faults: so capricious is\naffection.\n\nThe road from Lusignan to Niort is through a very pleasing country,\nsometimes _bocage_, and sometimes _g\u00e2tine_: the latter term being\ngenerally applied to a country of rocks, where the soil does not allow\nof much cultivation. This is, however, not always the case, for on\nseveral occasions I have heard, as at Chartres, a little wood called _la\ng\u00e2tine_; and once at Hastings was surprised, on inquiring my way in the\nfields, to be directed to pass the _gattin_ hard by; namely a small\ncopse. The word is said to be Celtic, and may be derived either from\n_geat_, which means a plot of ground, or _geas_, a thick branch.\n\nWe were much struck with the town of St. Maixant; which is approached by\nbeautiful boulevards, and the environs are very rich and fine; the road\ndoes not lead within the walls, but outside; and there was no reason to\nregret this, as the streets are narrow and ill-built, while the\npromenades round are charming. The S\u00e8vre Niortaise bathes the foot of\nthe hill on which St. Maixant stands, and beyond rises the forest of\nHermitaine, once part of the celebrated Vauclair, where some famous\nhermits took up their abode, and made the spot holy. Clovis assisted the\nrecluses who had chosen this retreat as their abode, and granted them\nland and wood; a monastery was soon formed and the town grew round it.\nThere is a fine cascade near La Ceuille, of which, or rather of the\nstream which flowed from it, we caught a glimpse on approaching St.\nMaixant; it falls from the _c\u00f3teau_ called Puy d'Enfer, and it is one of\nthe wonders of the neighbourhood. The old walls of the town now appear\nto enclose gardens, and all looks smiling and gay; but they have\nsustained many a rude siege at different periods, and suffered much\nduring the wars of La Vend\u00e9e.\n\nAt mid-day we reached Niort, a fine, clean, good-looking new town, with\nscarcely any antiquity left, though of ancient renown: a Celtic city\nwith a Celtic name; a castle whose date cannot be ascertained; a palace\ninhabited by the great heroine of the country, Elionor; and convents and\nmonasteries of infinite wealth and celebrity. That singular and famous\ncommunity established by the Troubadour Count of Poitou, Guillaume IX.,\nwas at Niort, and was replaced by the holy Capuchin brothers, who must\nhave been sufficiently scandalized at the conduct of the fair devotees\nwho preceded them in their cells.\n\nThe Duchess Elionor was married to Henry II. at Niort, and lived here\nfrequently. We hoped to see some remains of her palace, but found only\na large square building which might have formed a part of it; though its\nform, which is an isolated tower, makes it difficult to imagine how it\ncould be in any way connected with the rest of the palace; this tower is\nnow used as the H\u00f4tel de Ville; its lozenge and circle ornaments appear\nnot to be of older date than Francis I.; and we could scarcely persuade\nourselves, however ready to believe in antiquities, that the\nall-powerful lady of Aquitaine, or her warrior husband, ever sat within\nthese walls.\n\nA curious privilege was granted by the pope, in 1461, to the mayor,\naldermen, sheriffs, councillors, peers, and citizens of Niort, to be\nburied in the habit, and with the cord round their waists, of the\nCordeliers: it is not recorded that the ladies of the town petitioned to\nbe dressed as well in their coffins as the nuns whose beauty delighted\nWilliam the Ninth, or they might have gone to their last f\u00eate in--\n\n    \"A charming chintz and Brussels lace.\"\n\nThe most remarkable recollection connected with Niort, is that, in the\nprison of the town, called La Conciergerie, where her father was\nconfined for the crime of forgery, was born Fran\u00e7oise D'Aubign\u00e9,\nafterwards the wife of Scarron, and by the favour of Louis XIV.,\nMarquise de Maintenon, in whom the triumph of hypocrisy was complete.\nOne of the streets is called by her name; but it is not recorded that\nshe ever did anything for her native town; probably she was not anxious\nto perpetuate the memory of any part of her early life, not seeing fit\nto be quite so communicative on the subject as her brother, whose tongue\nshe had so much difficulty in keeping quiet.\n\nNiort is a very pleasant, lively-looking town--that is, for a French\ntown, where the nearest approach to gaiety is the crowd which a weekly\nmarket brings, or the groups of laughing, talking women, which the\nceaseless occupation of washing collects on the banks of the river. We\nwere much amused here with the latter, and stood some time on the bridge\nbelow the frowning round towers, of strange construction, which serve as\na prison, to observe the manoeuvres of the washerwomen, who, in their\nenormous, misshapen, towering, square caps, were beating and scrubbing\naway at their linen. Nothing can appear so inconvenient as this\nhead-dress when its wearer is engaged in domestic duties; yet the women\nare constantly to be seen with it; rarely, as in Normandy, contenting\nthemselves with the under frame alone, and placing the huge mass of\nlinen or muslin over it when their work is done. On one occasion we\ntravelled with a _bourgeoise_ whose cap was so enormous, that she could\nscarcely get into the coach, and when once in had to stoop her head the\nwhole time to avoid crushing the transparent superstructure of lace and\nmuslin, which it is the pleasure of the belles of Poitou to deform\nthemselves with. We were, however, assured that this costume was\nbecoming, and that many a girl passed for pretty who wore it, who would\nbe but ordinary in a plain, round, every-day cap. Sometimes this\nmonstrosity is ornamented with gold pins, or buttons, all up the front,\nand the variety of arrangement of the muslin folds, both before and\nbehind, is curious enough. It has occasionally frilled drapery depending\nfrom its height, hanging about half way down behind, or crossed over and\nsticking out at the sides, making it as wide as possible; I have seen\nsome that could not be less than a foot and a half wide, and about a\nfoot high; but some are even larger than this, extravagant as the\ndescription appears. The pyramidal Cauchoise caps are as high, it is\ntrue, or even higher, but there is an approach to grace in them, while\nthose of Poitou are hideous as to form, even when the materials are\nlight; those of the commonest sort are of coarse linen or cotton, and\nreach the very acme of ugliness.\n\nOne of the great articles of commerce here is the preparation of chamois\nleather, which is said to be brought to great perfection; but, perhaps,\nlike the cutlery so celebrated in so many towns, and boasted of as\n_equal to the English_, this famous production might be looked upon by\nan English tradesman as mere \"leather and prunella.\"\n\nThere is an attempt at a _passage_ here--the great ambition of country\ntowns which think to rival Paris; but, as usual, it appears to be a\nfailure, the shops looking common-place and shabby, and the place\ndeserted and dismal. The public library is good, and there are several\nhandsome public buildings; the churches are without interest, except one\nportal of Notre Dame, where we observed some mutilated, but very\nbeautiful, twisted columns, whose wreaths were continued round a pointed\narch in a manner I never recollect to have seen before, and which seems\nto indicate that the church must once have been extremely elaborate in\nits ornament.\n\nNiort was a great object of contention during the wars of the Black\nPrince. The famous Duguesclin is said to have taken the town by\nstratagem from the English.\n\nAt the siege of Chisey, where Duguesclin had been successful, he had\nkilled all the English garrison; and, taking their tunics, had clothed\nhis own people in them, over their armour: so that, when those of Niort\nsaw his party approaching, and heard them cry, \"St. George!\" they\nthought their friends were returning victors, and readily opened their\ngates; when they were fatally undeceived; being all taken or put to the\nsword.\n\nHere Duguesclin, and his fortunate band, remained for four days;\nreposing and refreshing themselves. After which they rode forth to\nLusignan: where they found the castle empty; all the garrison having\nabandoned it as soon as the news of the taking of Chisey reached them.\nThe French, therefore, without trouble, took possession of \"this fine\nand strong castle,\" and then continued their way to that of\nChatel-Acart, held by the Dame de Plainmartin, for her husband Guichart\nd'Angle, who was prisoner in Spain.\n\nWhen the lady found, says Froissart, that the constable Duguesclin was\ncome to make war upon her, she sent a herald to him, desiring to be\nallowed a safe conduct, that she might speak with him in his tent. He\ngranted her request; and the lady accordingly came to where he was\nencamped in the field. Then she entreated him to give her permission\nthat she might go safely to Poitiers, and have audience of the Duke de\nBerry. Duguesclin would not deny her, for the love of her husband,\nGuichart; and, giving her assurance that her lands and castle should be\nrespected during her absence, she departed, and he directed his troops\nto march on Mortemer.\n\nSuch good speed did the lady of Plainmartin make, that she soon arrived\nin Poitiers; where she found the Duke de Berry. He received her very\ngraciously, and spoke very courteously to her, as was his wont. The lady\nwould fain have cast herself on her knees before him; but he prevented\nher. She then said: \"My lord, you know that I am a lone woman, without\npower or defence, and the widow of a living husband, if it so pleases\nGod; for my lord Guichart is prisoner in Spain, and in the danger of the\nking of that country. I therefore supplicate you, that, during the\nenforced absence of my husband, you will grant that my castle, lands,\nmyself, my possessions, and my people, shall be left at peace; we\nengaging to make no war on any, if they do not make war on us.\"\n\nThe Duke de Berry made no hesitation in granting the prayer of the lady;\nfor, although Messire Guichart d'Angle, her husband, was a good and\ntrue Englishman, yet was he by no means hated by the French. He,\ntherefore, delivered letters to her, with guarantee of surety; with\nwhich she was fully satisfied and much comforted. She then hastened back\nto her castle, and sent the orders to the constable, who received them\nwith much willingness and joy. He was then before the castle of\nMortemer; the lady of which at once yielded it to him, out of dread, and\nplaced herself in obedience to the king of France, together with all her\nlands and the castle of Dienne.\n\nWe left Niort at day-break and continued our way through a very\ncultivated and rich country, admirably laid out, neatly enclosed, and\nwith a great extent of very carefully-pruned vines, which had here lost\nthe grace which distinguishes them in the neighbourhood of the Loire,\nwhere they are allowed to hang in festoons, and grow to a reasonable\nheight. Here they are kept low, and seem attended to with care. The road\nis level, but the scenes pleasing and the air fine; though, as you\nadvance in the ancient Aunis, towards the sea, low grounds, which have\nbeen marshes, extend to a considerable distance. As we approached La\nRochelle this was very apparent; but still all looked rich and\nagreeable, and the idea of soon feeling the sea-breeze was so comforting\nthat our spirits were greatly raised; and when on a sudden a broad\nglare, at a distance, of bright sunshine on an expanse of water broke\non our view, we were quite in ecstasies. We could distinguish white\nsails, and towers, and spires, on the shore; and all the memories of the\nProtestant town came crowding on our minds, as we turned every windmill\nwe saw into an ancient tower formerly defended by a brave Huguenot\nagainst a host of besiegers. There are no want of these defences round\nLa Rochelle; and every windmill has a most warlike aspect, as they are\nall built in the form of round towers, of considerable strength;\nprobably owing to the necessity of making them strong enough to resist\nthe gales which frequently prevail.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER X.\n\n     LA ROCHELLE--LES TROIS CHANDELIERS--OYSTERS--BATHING\n     ESTABLISHMENT--GAIETY--MILITARY DISCIPLINE--CURIOUS ARCADES--STORY\n     OF AUFFR\u00c9DY.\n\n\nON arriving at La Rochelle, early in a bright morning at the beginning\nof September, we found the town so full that we had immediately to\ninstitute a search for an hotel, as that at which we stopped had no\naccommodation. We judged so before we alighted from the _coup\u00e9_, by the\nair of indifference visible on the face of every waiter and\nchambermaid, to whom our arrival seemed a matter of pity, rather than\ncongratulation. After seeking through the greatest part of the town, we\nwere conducted to a curious-looking street, from the roofs of almost\nevery house in which projected grinning _gargouilles_, whose grotesque\nfaces peeped inquisitively forth from the exalted position which they\nhad maintained for several centuries; and, glaring in inviting grandeur,\nswung aloft a board on which was depicted three golden candlesticks. At\nLes Trois Chandeliers, accordingly, we applied, and found admission; the\nslovenly, but good-humoured landlady bestirring herself instantly to get\nready the only room she had vacant. She was assisted in her various\narrangements, or rather attended, by a sulky-looking girl with a hideous\nsquare cap; who stood by while her mistress heaped mattress upon\nmattress, and bustled about with zealous noise and clatter. She gave us\nto understand that certain of her neighbours were apt to give themselves\nairs, and accept or refuse visitors as their caprice dictated; but, for\nher part, she had no pride, and never acted in so unkind a manner: she\nalways attended to everything herself; so that every one was satisfied\nin her house, and the Trois Chandeliers maintained its reputation of a\ncentury, during which time it had always been kept by one of the family.\nConsidering these facts, the state of the entrance and kitchen, through\nwhich, as is usual in France, visitors must pass to arrive at the\n_salon_, somewhat surprised us. The wide, yawning, black gulf, down\nwhich we had dived from the street, reminded us strongly of the entrance\nof the Ar\u00e8nes, at Poitiers, which gave passage to the beasts about to\ncombat: it was a low, vaulted passage, encumbered with waggons and\ndiligences and wheelbarrows, with no light but what it gained from the\nstreet and a murky court beyond; it was paved with uneven stones,\nbetween which were spaces filled with mud; dogs and ducks sported along\nthe gutter in the centre, following which, you arrived at some dirty\nsteps leading to the kitchen, or, if you preferred a longer stroll\namidst the shades, you might arrive at a low door which led through\nanother court to the dining-room, which was a handsome apartment adorned\nwith statues and crimson-and-white draperies, with a flower-garden\nopening from it. This room we were not sorry to enter, lured by the\npromise of some of the finest oysters in Europe. We had heard their\neulogium before from a very talkative artist of Poitiers, who described\nthem as of enormous, nay incredible, size, but delicate as _natives_: we\nwere, therefore, surprised to see perfect miniatures, not larger than a\nshilling, very well-flavoured, but _unfed_. They form the _d\u00e9lices_ of\nall this part of the world, at this season, and are eagerly sought for\nfrom hence to the furthest navigable point of the Garonne.\n\nWe were particularly fortunate in the weather, which was bright, warm,\nand inspiriting; and when we reached the walk which leads to the baths,\nwe were in raptures with the whole scene which presented itself. The\nfine broad sea, smooth and green, lay shining in the sun, without a\nripple to disturb its serenity; and for about a quarter of a mile along\nits margin extended one of the most beautiful promenades I ever beheld.\nThe first part of it is planted with small young trees, on each side of\na good road, which extends between verdant plains where _glacis_ are\nthrown up. This leads to the great walk; a thick grove of magnificent\ntrees, shading a very wide alley of turf of _English_ richness. Here and\nthere are placed seats, and all is kept with the greatest neatness. The\nestablishment of the baths is ornamental, and pretty, and very\nextensive. About half way up this promenade, next the sea, grounds laid\nout with taste, and affording shade and pastime in their compartments,\nsurround the building. A Chinese pagoda, a Grecian temple, numerous\narbours and seats are there for strollers; and swings and see-saws for\nthe exercise of youthful bathers after their dips. Altogether, it is the\nmost charming place of the kind I ever saw: the warm baths are as good\nas possible, and the arrangement of those in the sea are much better\nthan at Dieppe, Havre, or Granville. There is a row of little pavilions\non the edge of the sea, where bathers undress; and a paved way leads\nthem to an enclosed space where are numerous poles fixed, with ropes\nreaching from one to the other at different depths. The bathers hold by\nthese ropes: and a large company can thus assemble in the water\ntogether, and take as much of the sea as they please, unaccompanied by\nguides; but, if they are timid, there are _men_ ready to attend and\nprotect them. The costume is a tunic and trowsers of cloth or stuff,\nwith a large handkerchief over the head. Hour after hour will the\nadventurous bathers continue in the water; dancing, singing, and\ntalking, while the advancing waters dash, splash, and foam all round\nthem, exciting peals of laughter and screams of delight.\n\nSeparated by a high partition, and at a little distance, overlooked,\nhowever, by the strollers in the gardens above, is the gentlemen's\ncompartment. These bathers usually run along a high platform,\nconsiderably raised, and leap into the sea beneath them; diving down,\nand re-appearing, much to the amusement of each other; while a guide\nsits on a floating platform near, ready to lend assistance, or give\ninstruction in natation, if required.\n\nThe season, we understood, had been particularly brilliant this year,\nand was scarcely yet over; though the ball-room and reading-rooms were\nless crowded than a few weeks before, when we were told that all that\nwas gay and splendid in France _et l'Etranger_ was to be seen beneath\nthe striped canopies of the sea-baths of La Rochelle. Certainly a more\nenjoyable place cannot be found anywhere; and I was not surprised that\nanything so rare and really comfortable and agreeable should meet with\nsuccess. With any of the brilliant _toilettes_ which were described to\nme I did not, however, meet; as all the bathers I saw were in cloaks and\nslouch bonnets, and the company we met appeared by no means\ndistinguished; peasants forming a great proportion. However, the season\nwas nearly over, and one could not expect to see the _\u00e9l\u00e9gans_ so late;\nbut I have always observed that the accounts I have heard of the\nbrilliancy of French fashionable meetings are by no means borne out by\nthe reality. At N\u00e9ris, at the Monts Dores, and other places, I have been\nequally disappointed on seeing the manner of French living at\nwatering-places; but it always appears to me that, except in Paris,\nthere is no attempt at out-of-door style or gaiety anywhere. A solitary\nequipage, filled with children, met us every day in our walks, and a\nhired barouche, for the use of the baths, toiled backwards and forwards,\nhour after hour; but, except these, we saw no carriages at all, and the\nwalkers were principally tradespeople in smart caps and shawls. One\nmorning, indeed, we were surprised by the sound of musical strains and\nthe appearance of an officer or two on horseback, followed by a\nregiment, on their way to exercise; every man of one company was singing\nat the top of his voice, joined by the officer who marched in front, and\nwho kept beating time, a very merry song and chorus, which we stopped to\nlisten to, _only a moment_, as the words were not quite so much to be\nadmired as the air. This seemed to us a strange, and not very decorous\nscene, and was so little in accordance with our ideas of propriety or\ngood taste that we turned away in disgust. However, since it is the\ncustom for officers and men in France to sit together in _caf\u00e9s_,\nplaying at dominos, drinking wine and beer, and putting no restraint\nupon their conversation, or acknowledging any superiority, there was\nnothing extraordinary in the familiarity I had witnessed. How this sort\nof association can be relished by officers of gentle breeding I cannot\nconceive; and many of them must be so, though a great part are men who,\nhaving risen from the ranks, have not been accustomed to more refined\ncompanionship. If it be true that\n\n    \"Strict restraint, once broken, ever balks\n     Conquest and fame,\"\n\nand that it is dangerous for those under command to\n\n                                            \"----Swerve\n    From law, however stern, which tends their strength to nerve,\"\n\nit is difficult to comprehend how the French army is regulated.\n\nThe next company which followed the vocal party, came hurrying along,\nhelter-skelter, as if no drilling had ever been thought necessary in\ntheir military education; but, while we were remarking the \"admired\ndisorder\" of their march, we heard their commanding officer's voice loud\nin reprobation; we could scarcely help comparing the whole scene to that\nwhich a militia regiment might present in some country town in England:\n\"What are you all about?\" cried the commander; \"Eh, mon Dieu! One would\nsay it was a flock of sheep instead of a party of soldiers!\" This\nadmonition brought them into some order, and they advanced a little less\nirregularly, but still in as slovenly a manner as could well be\nconceived. If the French were not known to be good soldiers, one would\nthink this laxity of discipline little likely to make them so; but they\nare, like French servants, good enough in their way, though careless in\nthe extreme, and too tenacious to be spoken to.\n\nLa Rochelle is a more remarkable town, from the characteristic features\nit exhibits, than any we had met with since we set out on our tour.\nAlthough there is a great deal new in the streets and outskirts, yet\nmuch that originally existed remains. For instance, almost the whole\ncentre of the town is built in the same manner: namely, in arcades.\nThese arcades project from the ground-floors, are more or less high and\nbroad, and more or less well paved; but they run along uninterruptedly,\nforming a shelter from sun or rain, as it may happen, and extending\nalong the whole length of the streets on each side. They are generally\nof stone, with heavy pillars and circular arches, quite without grace or\nbeauty, but peculiar, and giving an Oriental character to the place. In\nsome streets arcades, higher and wider, have been newly erected, which\nare tolerably ornamental; but the more antique they are, the lower,\nnarrower, and closer. The Rochellois are very proud of their arcades,\nboasting that they are, by their means, never kept prisoners or annoyed\nby either rain or sun; they forget that these heavy conveniences\ncompletely exclude the light in winter from the lower part of their\nhouses, and, confining the air, must make the town damp and unwholesome.\n\nWhen we first walked along beneath these awnings we found it extremely\ndifficult to distinguish one street from another, and were continually\nlosing ourselves, as they branch off in all directions, with no change\nof aspect to distinguish them:\n\n                     \"Each alley has a brother,\n    And half the _covered way_ reflects the other,\"\n\nbut we got used to them by degrees. There is a sort of _Palais Royal_\neffect in the pretty shops under the neatest piazzas; and from the\nbeautiful wooded square, the Place d'Armes, the range which forms one\nside looks remarkably well. This Place is peculiarly fine and\nagreeable; it was formed on the sites of the ancient ch\u00e2teau, demolished\nin 1590, of the chapel of St. Anne and its cemetery, of the grand\nProtestant temple, and the old H\u00f4tel des Monnaies; it, therefore,\noccupies a large space, and is planted on two sides with fine trees,\ncalled the _Bois d' Amourettes_, and closed on the fourth by the\ncathedral; part of the ramparts of the town, open towards the sea, are\nbehind, and thus a good air is introduced into the square. On moon-light\nnights it is a charming promenade; for the effects of the sky here are\nadmirable: a range of handsome _caf\u00e9s_ extends along one part, whose\nlights, gleaming between the trees, have a lively appearance, and the\ngroups of lounging citizens seated under the shades give a life to the\nscene which the rest of the town does not possess. La Rochelle is,\nhowever, infinitely less dull than the generality of French towns; and\nthe quays and shipping, and the constantly-changing sea, prevent it from\nwearing the sad aspect which distinguishes France in her country places.\nNotwithstanding all that travellers are in the habit of saying about the\nliveliness of France, I never can cease to think that it is a dull\ncountry; for, except Paris in its season, there is no movement, no\nactivity, no bustle, in its towns, save, now and then, the confusion of\nmarket-days. Why England is considered _triste_, either in town or\ncountry, I cannot imagine: the brilliancy of its shops alone, compared\nto the little dark, dingy cells always met with abroad, even in the most\nfashionable quarters, might rescue our much-maligned country from the\nreproach which does not belong to it.\n\nThe cathedral of La Rochelle is a modern building; still unfinished, and\npossessing no interest: it is very vast, for it stands where once stood\nthe antique church--older than the town itself--of Notre Dame de\nCougnes. Here and there, outside, a projecting buttress and part of an\narch, built up, betrays its venerable origin; but, besides this, nothing\nremains of the original foundation.\n\nAt the back of the cathedral we remarked, as we passed through the\nstreet, a very large building, with a great many windows, above the\nportal of which were inscribed the words, _H\u00f4pital M. Auffr\u00e9dy_. We were\npuzzled to make out what this could mean, as the hospital was so large\nand important that it scarcely would appear to be the institution of a\nprivate person. Our inquiries gained us no information, and we continued\nto pass and repass still wondering who this _Monsieur Auffr\u00e9dy_ could be\nwhose name was so conspicuous. When, at length, I found how much\ninterest attached to this place I reproached myself that I should have\ngone near it without reverence, or have carelessly named its institutor;\nwhose romantic story is as follows, as near as I have been able to\ngather it:\n\n\nSTORY OF ALEXANDER AUFFR\u00c9DY.\n\nAt the time when the beautiful and wealthy, the admired and\naccomplished, heiress of Aquitaine, presided over her courts of Love,\nnow in one city of her extensive dominions, now in another, delighting\nand astonishing the whole troubadour world with her liberality, her\ntaste, her learning, grace, and gaiety, lived, in the city of La\nRochelle, a rich merchant, named Alexander Auffr\u00e9dy, young, handsome,\nesteemed and envied. His generosity and wealth, added to his personal\nattractions, made him an object of observation and remark, and it was\nnot long before his name reached the ears of Queen Elionore, who, always\ndesirous to surround herself with all that was gay, brilliant, and\ndistinguished, sent an invitation, or rather a command, to the young\nmerchant to appear at her Court at Poitiers.\n\nAuffr\u00e9dy went; and but a short time elapsed before he became the\nfavourite of that brilliant circle where beauty and genius reigned\ntriumphant; for it was discovered that his talent for music was of the\nhighest order; his voice, in singing, of rare perfection; his verses\nfull of grace and fire, his manners equal to those of the most finished\ncourtier; and his judgment in the weighty decisions of the courts of\nLove, sound and good. Even the poets and musicians, who saw him\ndistinguished for the time above themselves, felt little envy towards\nhim, since they shared his profuse liberality, and were encouraged by\nhis generous admiration, loudly expressed. He was passionately attached\nto literature, and had so correct a taste that whatever he admired was\nthe best in its kind, and his criticisms were so judicious that not a\ndoubt could remain on the minds of any who listened to his opinion; yet\nhe was never harsh, and, wherever it was possible, showed indulgence; it\nwas only to the presuming and superficial that he was severe; and\namongst that class he was by no means beloved; for, after his expressed\ncontempt and censure had laid open to view the faults of many\ncompositions, whose false glare had attracted praise, their authors sunk\nat once into the obscurity which they deserved.\n\nHis chief friends were Bernard de Ventadour, whose lays, mysteriously\naddressed to _Bel Viser_ and _Conort_, had gained him so much fame;\nRudel, the enthusiast, who devoted his life to an imaginary passion;\nAdhemar and Rambaud d'Aurenge, whose songs were some of the sweetest of\ntheir time; and Pierre Rogiers, who sighed his soul away for \"Tort\nn'avetz;\" and, amongst them all, his poems were held in the greatest\nesteem. The beautiful and coquettish mistress of the revels was not\ninsensible to his qualities, and was anxious to appropriate him to\nherself; greedy of praise, and ever desirous of admiration, she used\nevery art to enthral him, and to render the passion real, which it was\nthe fashion at her Court to feign, towards herself; but, though\nflattered and delighted at the preference shown him by her whom all were\ntrying to please, it was not towards the Queen that Auffr\u00e9dy turned the\naspirations of his soul. There was at Court a young and beautiful girl,\nthe orphan of a knight who had fallen in the holy wars, and who was\nunder the guardianship of her uncle, the Baron de Montlu\u00e7on; she was as\namiable in disposition as lovely in person. Auffr\u00e9dy soon found that his\nliberty was gone while he gazed upon her, but his modesty prevented his\nattempting to declare his passion, though in his lays he took occasion\nto express all the feelings he experienced, and he saw with delight, not\nonly that the charming Beatrix listened with pleased attention when he\nsung, but was even moved to tears when he uttered the lamentations of an\nunhappy lover.\n\nUpon one occasion he sang a lay which Queen Elionore imagined was\ninspired by herself; but which, in reality, he intended should convey to\nBeatrix his timid passion; it was as follows--in the style of the\nEastern poets, then so much imitated and admired:--\n\n\n                LAY.\n\n    \"I only beg a smile from thee\n      For all this world of tenderness;\n    I let no eye my weakness see,\n      To none my hopes or fears express;\n    I never speak thy praises now,\n    My tongue is mute, and cold my brow.\n\n    \"Even like that fabled bird am I\n      Who loves the radiant orb of night,\n    Sings on in hopeless melody\n      And feeds upon her beams of light;\n    But never does the planet deign\n    To pity his unceasing pain.\"\n\nAs he sung he would observe the eyes of Beatrix fixed on him with a\ntender expression; but their meaning was still obscure; for her thoughts\nappeared pre-occupied, and it might be more the sentiment than the\nauthor which attracted her.\n\nJust at this time he was suddenly astounded by the information, that the\nuncle of her he loved had announced his intention of marrying her to a\nman of noble lineage and great wealth, and Auffr\u00e9dy woke from his dream\nof happiness at once. His strains were now all gloom and sadness, and\nElionore heard, with something like astonishment, the melancholy and\ndespairing lays, to which alone he tuned the harp that all delighted to\nhear. Beatrix, too, whose wishes had not been consulted on a subject so\nimportant to herself, appeared quite changed from the tune the tidings\nfirst reached her; and her pale cheek and starting tears proved too\nplainly her aversion to the proposed union. Still did she linger near\nwhen Auffr\u00e9dy sung; and when, in a passion of sorrow, he poured forth\nthe lay here given, Beatrix betrayed an emotion for which he feared to\naccount.\n\n                   LAY.\n\n    \"Like that fair tree whose tender boughs\n      Wave in the sunshine green and bright,\n    Nor bird nor insect e'er allows\n      To seek its shelter morn or night,\n    My heart was young, and fresh, and free,\n      And near it came nor care nor pain;\n    But now, like that same tender tree,\n      When once rude hands its fruit profane,\n    Ill-omen'd birds and shapes of ill\n    Troop to its branches, crowding still,--\n    And sorrows never known till now\n    Have cast their shadows on my brow:\n    A ruin is my heart become\n    Where brooding sadness finds a home;\n    See--those bright leaves fall, one by one,\n    And I--my latest hopes are gone!\"\n\nThis was the last time he had ever an opportunity of pouring forth his\nfeelings in the presence of Beatrix; for she disappeared suddenly from\nCourt, and, to the amazement of all, it was announced by her uncle, that\nher vocation for a religious life had been so decidedly manifested, that\nhe had yielded to her entreaties, and permitted her to enter a convent.\n\nThis news made a strange impression on the mind of Auffr\u00e9dy,--could it\nbe possible, after all, that she loved him? yet, he argued, even if it\nwere so, it was evident that her pride of birth had overcome her\npreference, and she had sacrificed the feelings of her heart rather\nthan descend to be the bride of a merchant, who, though wealthy beyond\nall the nobles of the land, was yet no match for one born in her exalted\nrank. From that time the troubadour sang no more; and as the Queen found\nhe had no longer incense to lay on her shrine, her preference for him\nwaned away, and he found that the permission he asked, to absent himself\nfrom her Court was not withheld. \"Poor Auffr\u00e9dy,\" said Elionore,\nsomewhat contemptuously, as he departed; \"he has seen a wolf and has\nlost the use of speech; let him go, we have many a young poet who can\nwell replace him.\"\n\nThe admired favourite of a capricious beauty accordingly returned to La\nRochelle, changed in heart and depressed in spirits. \"And this, then,\"\nhe mused, \"is the reward which the world offers to genius, taste, truth,\nand feeling! and this is all the value set on qualities which excite\nadmiration, enthusiasm, rapture!--a brief season suffices to weary the\nmost zealous and devoted--a few months, and that which was deemed wit\nand talent, and wisdom and grace, is looked upon as flat, tame, and\nunworthy attention. As long as vanity is pleased, and novelty excites\nnew ideas, the poet is welcomed and followed; but, let sadness or sorrow\novertake him, of all his admirers not one friend remains! How childish\nis the thirst for such trivial fame as that a poet gains! It is like the\npursuit of the gossamer, which the least breath sweeps away. I will\nsing no more. I will forget the brilliant scenes that have bewildered me\ntoo long; but to what do I now return? Alas! I have no longer a relish\nfor that which interested me before--to what end do I seek to gain\nwealth? for whom should I hoard treasure? I shall in future take no\ninterest in my successes; all appears a blank to me, and my existence a\ncold, monotonous state of being. These heaps of gold that fill my\ncoffers are worthless in my eyes; these crowding sails that return to\nharbour, bringing me ceaseless wealth, are fraught only with care. Why\nwas I born rich, since I must live alone and unblest!\"\n\nStill he could not help, in spite of his professions of indifference,\nbeing flattered by the manner in which his return to his native town was\ncelebrated. The bells of the churches sounded to welcome him, the young\ngirls of the villages round, came out, in their holiday costumes, to\ngreet him on his way, they strewed flowers in his path and sang verses\nin his praise: the people of La Rochelle even went so far as to offer\nprayers at the shrine of the Virgin, to thank Heaven for restoring to\nthem so honoured and beloved a citizen. Full of gratitude for all this\nkindness and affection, Auffr\u00e9dy bestowed liberal presents upon all: he\npresented dowers to several of the young maidens who were foremost in\ndoing him honour: he gave large sums to the town, to be laid out in\ncharities and in erecting new buildings, and he sent donations to the\nchurches and convents. His mind was calmed, and his heart touched when\nhe saw in what esteem he was held. \"It is something yet,\" said he, \"to\ngain the good-will of one's fellow-men, and to witness their attachment.\nWealth is certainly a blessing, since it enables one to show gratitude.\"\n\nAbout this period great preparations were being made for an expedition\nto the Holy Land, which was to be led by young Prince Henry, the heir of\nAquitaine, Normandy, and England; and all the lords and knights of the\nthree countries vied with each other in splendid equipments. They\nborrowed money in all directions, and, amongst those who were capable of\nlending, it was not likely that the rich merchant of La Rochelle would\nbe forgotten. On the contrary, from numerous quarters came applications\nfor assistance; even Queen Elionore condescended to request that he\nwould contribute to the splendour of those who should accompany her son,\nand the generous and ever ready hand of Auffr\u00e9dy was employed from\nmorning till night, in lending and giving to those whose means did not\nkeep pace with their desires. Still, therefore, did he repeat to himself\nthat wealth had its advantages, as he cheerfully dispensed his benefits\non all sides. At length he was fairly obliged to desist, for his\nliberality had brought him to the end of his stores, and he could not\nbut smile, as he remarked to a friend that, if he did not expect in a\nfew weeks the return of all his vessels which were trading in the East,\nand regularly brought back increased wealth at every voyage, he should\nbe a poor man. \"I have nothing left now,\" said he, \"but my plate and\njewels, and the furniture of my house; and, should my fleet delay, I\nwill sell all rather than a single knight should be kept from joining\nthe glorious expedition.\"\n\nAs if he had foreseen the event, it so happened: although there were no\nstorms to prevent it, the return of the expected vessels was indeed\ndelayed, and, fresh and pressing applications pouring in upon him,\nAuffr\u00e9dy found himself actually under the necessity of disposing of his\npersonal possessions, in order to advance the ready-money required.\n\nHe was now in a novel position, without money altogether, and he had\nsold all he possessed of land and houses. \"It matters not,\" said he to\nthe friend at whose house he was staying, at his earnest and\naffectionate entreaty; \"in a day or two I shall have more than I ever\nyet could call my own; for my last advices, brought by a pilgrim from\nthe country of Manchou Khan, tell me, that all my ventures have been\nsuccessful, and that this time my faithful agent, Herbert de Burgh, has\nexcelled himself in ability.\"\n\n\"And even should it not be so,\" said his friend, \"think you that the\ngrateful town of La Rochelle would not be proud to support for years,\nnay, for ever, if need were, the benefactor to whom every citizen is\nmore or less indebted?\"\n\n\"I doubt it not,\" returned the merchant, \"and it would be even a\ngratification to me to be reduced to poverty, which such generous\nfriends would relieve.\"\n\nBut a great and most unexpected change was about to take place in the\nfortunes of Auffr\u00e9dy: a change which neither he nor his friends had ever\ncontemplated, and which put quite a different face upon everything. The\nfleet from the East did not arrive. Day after day, week after week,\nmonth after month, the first, the second, year had passed, and the chain\nat the harbour of La Rochelle was not loosened to give passage to his\nvessels. Hope had slowly faded, expectation declined, and, at length,\nexpired,--and the powerful, wealthy, and beloved Auffr\u00e9dy was a beggar.\n\nWhere was he at the expiration of the second year? What friend's mansion\ndid he still honour with his presence, and which of his admirers was\nmade happy by seeing him partake of his hospitality? Who, of all those\nhe had rescued from poverty, danger, and affliction, was so blest as to\nshow how strong the tide of gratitude swelled in their hearts? Auffr\u00e9dy\nwas heard of no more! His native town had forgotten his name: to speak\nof him was interdicted; he was a reproach to La Rochelle, a disgrace to\nthe city whom his misfortune left without a merchant able to assist\nmonarchs and fit out armies. Every individual felt injured, every one\nresented his affront. Not a door but was closed against the bankrupt\nspendthrift--the deceiver who spoke of wealth which was but a vision,\nwho encouraged hopes which had no foundation. Vessel after vessel\narrived from different quarters, but none had met with Herbert de Burgh\nor his charge; it was doubtful if he had ever even sailed: it was\npossible, nay probable, indeed it soon was received as a certainty, that\nthe fleet which was talked of had no existence but in the crazed\nimagination of a profuse dreamer, who fancied argosies and made the\nworld believe he possessed them. It was enough that the drama was ended,\nand no one cared now, after so long a time, to ask what was become of\nthe principal actor.\n\nOne bright summer morning, when the sun shone with dazzling lustre on\nthe dancing waves outside the harbour of La Rochelle, and, inside, the\nwater was as calm as glass, a little fishing-boat came gliding along,\nher red sail gleaming in the light. She was guided by a single sailor--a\nyoung man whose remarkably handsome face and figure was little set off\nby his rough habiliments, which were of the meanest kind; indeed, his\nboat and all belonging to it indicated little wealth, and seemed to\nhave seen, like himself, much service; but there was a cheerful sparkle\nin his speaking eye which spoke of content and happiness; and, as he\nleaped on shore and prepared to unload his little cargo of fish, his\nanimated manner and quick and ready movements showed that, if he were\npoor, he gained enough by his industry to support himself, and cared for\nnothing but the present moment, without concerning himself for the\nfuture. He had arrived but a few minutes when a slight woman, wrapped in\na long black cloak, with the peaked hood tightly drawn over her head and\nquite concealing her face, emerged from a neighbouring street, and,\nbounding forward, stood by the side of the young man, who, with a joyful\nexclamation, caught her in his arms, and embraced her tenderly. Together\nthey collected the fish, which filled his boat, into baskets, and placed\nthem on the edge of the path where frequenters of the markets must pass,\nand before long their little stock was sold, and they were in possession\nof a small sum of money, which the young fisherman put into his purse\nwith an air of satisfaction, as, fastening his boat to the shore, and\ngathering up his baskets, he gave his arm to the girl, who apparently\nwas his wife, and they left the quay. Just as they were entering the\nsmall narrow Rue de la Vache, they observed, standing under an archway,\na man, of ragged and miserable appearance, who, approaching, offered to\nbe the bearer of their baskets to their home; he spoke in a low, hollow\nvoice, and said, \"Employ me: it will be a charity; I have not tasted\nbread these two days.\" Although the young couple, linked arm in arm,\nclose together, and looking in each other's eyes, were talking in gay,\ncheerful accents, and, apparently, exclusively occupied with each other,\nyet there was something so sad, so desolate, in the tone of the poor\nman's voice who addressed them, that they both stopped and turned\ntowards him. \"Good friend,\" said the young man, \"you seem in great\nstraits; the blessed Virgin knows I am little able to help you; but take\nthe baskets my wife is carrying, though you look but ill able to bear\nthem. We live hard by, and we have a morsel of bread to give you, if you\nwill.\" The man made no reply, but took the burthen from the young woman\nand followed the merry pair, who resumed their talk and their cheerful\nlaugh as they went on. \"I need not go out again for at least three\ndays,\" said the husband, \"since this venture has been so lucky; you see\nhow well we can live, and how happy one can be, after all, on nothing.\"\n\"Yes,\" answered the wife; \"but, at least, while the weather is so fine,\nI see no reason why I should be left at home. I could be so useful in\nthe boat, and it would make me so happy. I know when it blows hard, it\nis useless to ask you, but now\"--\"Well, you shall go, dearest, next\ntime, if this lasts,\" was the answer; \"what a good sailor you will\nmake, as well as a housekeeper!\" They both laughed, and at this moment\nthey reached the door of a very humble dwelling, with only just\nfurniture enough to prevent its being called empty; but they stepped\ninto it, and, the porter placing the baskets on the floor, they sat down\nand invited him to do the same, while they shared with him a cake and\nsome water, which was already placed on a table.\n\nThe poor man, after eating a morsel, appeared suddenly faint, and,\nuttering a deep sigh, fell on the ground motionless: they raised him up,\nand, with the utmost kindness, endeavoured to restore him: his worn and\nhaggard countenance told of long and hard suffering; his white hair,\nthat hung in matted locks on his shoulders, seemed blanched by misery,\nnot age; for he appeared a young man, and his emaciated hands were white\nand more delicate than is usual in his station. After some time he\nrecovered a little, and, thanking them for their help, attempted to rise\nand leave the house; but both, moved with compassion, insisted on his\nlying down on their only bed and taking some repose. \"You are ill,\" said\nthe husband, \"and have been too long without food--rest quiet--we will\nget you some more suitable nourishment, and when you are better, we will\nhear of your leaving us.\"\n\nFrom that day the sick man remained a guest with these poor people,\ntill, his illness increasing, he begged they would procure him\nadmittance into some hospital, if possible, that he might cease to be a\nburthen on their benevolence: finding their means running very short,\nowing to the uncertain success of the fisherman's trade, they consented\nto attempt getting him admitted to the hospital established by the monks\nof St. Julien, who kindly received the unfortunate man: but, not content\nwith doing this, it was agreed between the young couple that, during the\nhusband's absence, the wife should be his nurse, and attend to him while\nin the asylum which was afforded him. For several weeks he lay,\napparently, at the point of death; but after that time began to recover,\nand, though weak and emaciated, appeared to have escaped danger. As soon\nas he was sufficiently recovered to attempt it, he resumed the\noccupation of porter on the quay, which his sickness had interrupted,\nand, as he grew daily in strength and health, he was able to gain a\nlittle, which he insisted on adding to the small stock of the charitable\npersons who had saved his life by their kindness. Sometimes he\naccompanied the husband on his expeditions, and was serviceable to him\nin his perilous ventures, for his nautical knowledge seemed great, and\nhis skill and readiness made themselves apparent. Though full of\ngratitude in all his actions, he never expressed in words the feelings\ntheir conduct naturally inspired: he was silent and thoughtful, and\nseemed labouring under some overwhelming grief which no consolations\ncould soften: he never spoke of any person in the town, nor seemed to\nknow anything belonging to it, by which they judged he was a stranger;\nbut, as he evidently did not desire to be communicative, they never\nurged him with questions, nor required to be informed of his former\nlife. It sufficed to them that he was unfortunate, and that they had\nameliorated his condition, and all three lived together, happy and\ncontent, without knowing any circumstances of each other's previous\ncondition.\n\nSeveral months passed in this manner, winters and summers fled away, and\nthe returning seasons found them still poor, still labouring, and still\ncontent. The porter improved, not only in strength, but in spirits; for\nhe felt that he was able to be of service to those who had befriended\nhim, and the gloom which chained his tongue and clouded his brow, wore,\nin a great degree, away. They had no friends in the town, nor sought for\nacquaintances; the young woman always concealed her face when she went\nout, which she never did, but to meet her husband, or to buy necessaries\nfor their simple household. His boat had been replaced by one larger and\nmore commodious, and his gains were greater; by degrees their\ncircumstances improved, and, as they sat by their fireside, they were\naccustomed to say that they were rich enough, and desired nothing more.\n\nAlthough the fisherman and his now constant companion had been out in\nall weathers, they had never yet encountered any dangerous storms, and\nthe wife was now quite tranquil, from the constant habit of seeing them\nreturn safely, and complaining little. One day, in early spring, they\nhad set out with a clear sky and fair wind, and had had one of the most\nfortunate voyages of any they had yet made on the Breton coast, when,\njust as they were within sight of the Point de Ray, which raises its\nbare and jagged head three hundred feet above the noisy waves which\nbrawl at its base, an ominous cloud suddenly overspread the heavens, and\nthe symptoms of a coming storm were but too apparent. With silent awe\nthe solitary mariners beheld, sailing heavily along the darkening sky,\ntwo birds, of sable plumage, whose flight seemed directed towards the\nfatal Baie des Tr\u00e9pass\u00e9s, so often the grave of the adventurous seaman.\n\"Alas!\" said the young husband, as he marked their flight, \"those birds\nbode no good: they are the souls of King Grallon and his daughter, who\nappear always before a storm; if we escape the perils of the Isle de\nSein, we shall be indeed fortunate.\"\n\n\"Is this coast, then, indeed, so dangerous?\" asked the porter.\n\n\"It is the abode of spirits,\" answered the young man; \"and was the\ncradle of Merdynn the Bard; the city where he lived, is engulphed below\nthose black rocks yonder, whose spires, like those of churches, are\nonly visible when destruction threatens those who are found on the\ncoast. We have, hitherto, been fortunate in all our undertakings; but\nthere must come an evil day, which generally arrives when one is least\nprepared.\"\n\n\"It is too true,\" said his companion; \"for me, I thought all my\nmisfortunes were past, and death alone could be the ill left to reach\nme. I have, of late, felt it _would_ be an ill since I have lived again\nin you and yours--before that time, I prayed for it in vain.\"\n\nA furious gust of wind at this instant swept past them, their frail\nvessel shook in every timber, and, mounting on a sweeping wave that came\nhowling along, was sent forward with frightful impetuosity to a great\ndistance; when, as if the angry billow disdained its weight, it was\nprecipitated into a gulf of foam which dashed above the sunken rocks\nwhose points received it. \"Oh, Beatrix!\" exclaimed the young fisherman;\n\"it is all over; we shall meet no more; our fate has overtaken us at\nlast! My friend,\" he added, grasping the arm of his companion; \"if you\nsurvive, promise to protect her. We have suffered much, and borne our\nfortune as we could. I have brought this wretchedness upon her by my\nlove; but neither she nor I have ever repented the lot we chose. She\nwill tell you our story, and you will continue to comfort and support\nher when I am no more.\"\n\n\"Be not cast down,\" answered his friend; as, buffeted by the storm, they\nclung together to the creaking mast; \"I know your story already, and\nhave known it from the first. You are the troubadour, Anselm, once the\nornament of the Court of Elionore, and Beatrix de Montlu\u00e7on is your\ndevoted wife. She was said to have died in the convent of St. Blaise,\nand you to have perished in the Holy Land.\"\n\nThe shrieking of the wind, and the roaring of the awakened thunder,\ndrowned the reply of the young man: a crash, a shock, and their boat was\nsplit into several parts; they each clung to a piece of wreck, and used\nevery effort to overcome the fury of the elements. Anselm's hold,\nhowever, was suddenly loosened by the falling of the mast upon his arm,\nand his friend saw him no more for several instants; he re-appeared,\nhowever, and a returning wave dashed him on a rock, which the porter\nreaching by a spring, he caught him by the hand and dragged him to the\nsummit. There they stood clasping each other, and expecting every moment\nto be washed off by the boiling surge. For some time they, nevertheless,\nkept their stand, and, though not a vestige of their boat was to be\nseen, they still lived and still hoped, for their hopes rose with the\ndanger, and, as they offered up their fervent prayers to the Mother of\nmercy, they felt not altogether abandoned. All night were they in this\nperilous position, hearing the waters around them howling, and climbing\nto reach the spot where, almost by miracle, they were placed. Day broke,\nand with morning came a brightened prospect; by degrees the sea sank,\nthe winds subsided, and all trace of the storm was gone. But their\nsituation seemed still little better than before; must they not perish\non this barren rock, without food or shelter, if not washed off by the\nnext tide, which might bring back the sleeping vengeance of the enraged\nelements? While they hung exhausted on the perilous edge of the peak,\nsomething in the distance caught their view. It grew more distinct; it\ncame nearer; and they were aware that a sail was passing: not one,\nhowever, but many; like the glittering of the wings of a flight of\nsea-birds, sail after sail hove in sight, and a gallant fleet came full\nin view almost as soon as they had descried the first.\n\nLoud and long were their cries; hope gave them fresh force, and their\nvoices were sent over the now quiet waves, echoing till they reached the\nears of those in the foremost vessel.\n\nThe mariners, directed by the continued sound of distress, were able to\nsteer towards them; and having at length discovered in the specks at a\ndistance, amidst the waves, the unfortunate friends, a boat was sent\nthrough the sea to the rock, and at once received the rescued pair. They\nwere taken on board and tended carefully; and, the wind being fair, the\nvessels continued their course, which they declared was to La Rochelle,\nmuch to the delight of those they had delivered from death.\n\nThe port so much desired was almost reached; and the high towers of the\nCh\u00e2teau de Vauclair, of the cathedral, and the Grosse Tour de la Chaine,\nshone boldly forth against the clear blue sky. The captain walked the\ndeck, and gazed long and anxiously forth; every now and then tears\nstarted into his eyes, which he brushed away; at length his feelings\nappeared to overcome him, and, burying his face in his hands, he sobbed\naloud. The two grateful friends whom he had saved were standing by; he\nraised his head and addressed them; \"You who are of La Rochelle,\" said\nhe, \"can you not, perchance, tell me if one whom I left ten years ago in\nthat town still lives and is well? Fears and forebodings oppress me as I\napproach the shore, for it is long since I have heard tidings of him,\nand much does it import me to know that he exists, and that my enforced\nabsence has not caused him misfortune. Is the great merchant, Alexander\nAuffr\u00e9dy, still, as he once was, the ornament and benefactor of his\nnative town?\"\n\n\"Alas!\" replied the youngest of the shipwrecked men, \"you ask after one\nlong since forgotten in La Rochelle. It is now ten years since he was a\nruined man, and, having nothing more to give to his ungrateful\nfellow-citizens, was abandoned to his fate, and has been no more heard\nof.\"\n\n\"Unhappy destiny!\" cried the captain, turning pale and clasping his\nhands; \"but he was rich, and his stores were immense; not twice ten\nyears' absence of his fleets could have caused him to become bankrupt.\"\n\n\"But he gave all he had to the knights bound for the Holy Wars; his\nagent, Herbert de Burgh, was either faithless, or the fleets entrusted\nto him were lost; he never returned from his last voyage to the East,\nand the unfortunate merchant, reduced to penury and driven to despair,\nis said to have destroyed himself.\" As Anselm uttered these words the\ncaptain became convulsed with agony; his face was livid, his eyes\nrolled, his teeth were clenched. \"Wretch that I am!\" cried he; \"who am\nthe cause of all! I wrote to my dear master and told him of my intention\nto attempt a new discovery in a new world filled with riches unheard of\nbefore; but I waited not his permission; I set out without his leave,\nand, not content with what I had already gained for him, I resolved to\nseek more wealth; to what end have I gained it--to what end have I\nreturned with riches enough to purchase Europe; all of which these\nvessels bear, if he, the generous, trusting, kind, indulgent, and\ndeceived owner is no more? Where shall I hide my head?--where lose my\nshame?--and how survive his loss!\"\n\nThey entered the harbour of La Rochelle; and as the gallant train of\nships swept proudly along, the whole population of the town came forth\nuntil they lined the shores in every direction. It was soon known, by\nthe ensigns they bore, that they were the long-lost vessels of Auffr\u00e9dy;\nand many a conscious cheek turned pale, and many an eye glared with\namazement as the gorgeous galleys covered the waters.\n\nBut the captain was lying prone on the deck; his face was haggard, his\nlook wild, and he tore his hair in distraction. \"My master, my poor\nmaster!\" cried he; \"I have murdered thee by my mercenary wickedness; oh,\nholy Virgin! forgive me, for I am a sinner!\" \"Look up, Herbert de\nBurgh,\" said a voice beside him; \"the Mother of mercy is never appealed\nto in vain; she can restore the dead to life; she can, though late,\nre-illume joy in the heart; she can revive long-abandoned hope. Look up\nand say if in this wretched, wasted, meagre form you can recognise one\nwhom you loved; one who loved and trusted you with reason; who never\ndoubted your integrity, and who mourned you lost more than all his\nwealth, which you restore!\"\n\nHerbert de Burgh looked up and beheld, leaning over him, the form of\nAlexander Auffr\u00e9dy.\n\nA few words sufficed of explanation: joy took the place of despair,\nexultation of tears, and the minstrel, Anselm, heard, with feelings of\nemotion difficult to describe, that the wretched man whom he had saved\nfrom starvation was the rich merchant of La Rochelle.\n\nLoud and joyous were the notes of triumph which sounded from every\nvessel as the news became known; the clarions and trumpets rent the air;\nwild exclamation of happiness and congratulation rose above the pealing\nmusic which ushered in the fleet to its haven; and strange was the\nrevulsion of feeling on shore when the despised porter stepped from his\nboat, attended by Herbert de Burgh, who proclaimed him as his master.\n\nThose who had shunned and injured the now wealthy merchant were\nastounded; and who were there, amongst the whole population, who had\nbefriended him, or who deserved aught but contempt and hatred at his\nhands? There was _but one_, and she is clasped in her husband's arms,\nand sees, in the man she had protected, her lover, whose songs she had\nso often sung to her husband!\n\nAuffr\u00e9dy kept their secret, and to none but himself was it ever known\nthat the rich man who afterwards became governor of La Rochelle, and his\nbeautiful wife, supposed to be a native of some foreign land, were the\ntroubadour, Anselm, and Beatrix of Montlu\u00e7on.\n\nAll the revenge Auffr\u00e9dy took upon his townsmen was to reject their\noffers of friendship, to refuse to take his place amongst them, and to\navoid appearing in their sight. The bulk of his great wealth was\ndedicated to the foundation of a hospital for naval and military\npatients, and the rest of his days he passed in attendance on the sick.\n\nThis is the story of Auffr\u00e9dy, the great merchant, the Jacques Coeur of\nthe thirteenth century; and this is the history of the magnificent\nHospital of La Rochelle, which he founded, and which is to be seen at\nthe present hour, the most conspicuous object in the town.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XI.\n\n     TOWERS--RELIGION--MARIA BELANDELLE--STORM--PROTESTANT\n     RETREAT--SOLEMN DINNERS--\"HALF-AND-HALF\"--GO TO SLEEP!--THE\n     BREWERY--GAS ESTABLISHMENT--CH\u00c2TEAU OF LA FONT--THE MYSTERY\n     EXPLAINED--TRIUMPH OF SCENERY OVER APPETITE--SLAVE TRADE--CHARLES\n     LE BIEN SERVI--LIBERALITY OF LOUIS PHILIPPE--GUITON--HOUSE OP LE\n     MAIRE GUITON--THE FLEETS--THE FIGHT--THE MAYOR AND THE GOVERNOR.\n\n\nIT appears that, from the position of the town of La Rochelle, it was\nnot difficult for the vessels of an enemy to reach its walls, and even\nto penetrate its harbour; the latter was formed outside the town, and\nthe access to it was by numerous gates. The entrance, nevertheless, was\ndefended by two towers, which still exist, if not in all their original\nstrength, yet exhibiting an aspect of defiance, and recalling\nrecollections of times long past, such as few towns in France can now\ndo. These towers, which stand, like Sir Bevis and Sir Ascapart, bold and\nmenacing, and forbidding the entrance to any but a friend, are called La\nTour de la Chaine and La Tour de St. Nicolas.\n\nThe first is a rugged, round tower of great height and bulk, apparently\nof Roman construction; it was formerly called La Petite Tour de la\nChaine, because it assisted its opposite sister, La Grosse Tour, to\nsustain the enormous chain which still, on occasion, closes the mouth of\nthe harbour. The latter is now called St. Nicolas, and presents a most\nextraordinary and _old world_ appearance: higher than the first, its\nform is so irregular, that it would be difficult to decide what shape it\ncould be called: round on one side, square on another, with little\nround, square, and octagon turrets rising out of it, the whole mass has\nthe strangest effect imaginable. Within it is just as mysterious, having\nchambers built up and down, and communicating with each other in the\nmost unexpected manner, so that the whole interior is a perfect\nlabyrinth of galleries, cells, hiding-places, and rooms on different\nstages. This is just the sort of tower which seemed fitted for that\ninscrutable tyrant, Louis XI.; who wrote upon one of the windows, with a\ndiamond, these words: \"_O la grande Folie_!\" alluding, it was believed,\nto what he considered his weakness, in having abandoned Guienne to his\nbrother.\n\nThe fortifications of La Rochelle were very extensive formerly, the\ngates numerous. La Porte Malvaut or Maul\u00e9on, La Porte Rambaud, du Petit\nComte, de St. Nicolas, de V\u00e9rit\u00e9, des Canards, de Mauclair, de la\nVieille Poterie, de la Grande Rue du Port, de la Petit Rue du Port, de\nP\u00e9rot and du Pont-Vert, tell their age by their antique names. There\nare but few vestiges of any of these gates, except that of Cougnes, of\nthe ancient Porte Neuve, and la Porte Maubec: but, besides all these,\nthere are seven still existing. To complete the defences, there were\nformerly, _without_ the gates, two forts of great strength, one called\nSt. Louis and Des Deux Moulins, the ruins of which still exist near the\nfine pyramidal Tour de la Lanterne, the most conspicuous of all, now\nused as a prison, which raises its head far above every tower and spire\nof La Rochelle, and which must show its _pharos_ at a great distance at\nsea. The architecture of this tower is remarkable, and its ornaments\nvery beautiful: the spire that sustains its lantern is like that of a\nchurch adorned with graceful foliage to the top: it dates from 1445, and\nhas been repaired at different periods. Medals were struck at the time\nof the siege, in 1628, which represent this tower, having the following\nmotto round:--_Lucerna impiorum extinguetur_ (the light of the impious\nshall be extinguished). It was at this time that Cardinal Richelieu\ncaused the great _digue_, as it is called, to be made to the south-west\nof the town, with enormous labour and expense, in order to prevent\nsupplies reaching the Rochellois who held out against him. At low water\nthis _digue_ is visible, and remains a memorial of the cruelty and\nharshness of the tyrant priest who ruled France.\n\nOne of the numerous towers which formerly protected the town is called\nthe Demi-bastion _des Dames_, so named from its having been defended by\nthe ladies of La Rochelle, whose heroic devotion at the time of the\nsiege by the duke of Anjou, in 1573, has rendered them famous in\nhistory. They were not less active half a century later, when, for\nthirteen months, La Rochelle withstood the united forces of Catholic\nFrance bent on its destruction. The scenes which took place at these\nperiods have made this interesting town classic ground: there is not a\nwall, a tower, or a street, which has not some tale of heroism attached\nto it, and some noble trait may be recounted as having occurred in every\nquarter.[8]\n\n[Footnote 8: In the Romance of the Queen Mother, I have given a detailed\naccount, from the most correct chroniclers, of the siege of La Rochelle,\nand its defence, in 1573.]\n\nThere are no interesting churches in La Rochelle, the wars of religion\nhaving destroyed all the antique buildings of worship, both Catholic and\nProtestant. Nothing now remains of the extensive possessions of the\nTemplars, or the Knights of Malta, who both had _commanderies_ here.\n\nThe reformed religion, of which La Rochelle afterwards became the\nstronghold, is said to have been first introduced by a young girl of\nhumble station, Maria Belandelle, into this part of the country. Strong\nin her conviction, and anxious to spread the truth, this person, more\nzealous than prudent, ventured to come forward, in 1534, as antagonist\nto, and disputant against, a Franciscan friar. However good her\narguments might be, the result of the controversy had of course been\npreviously decided on by the strongest party. She was convicted of\nheresy and impiety, and condemned to the stake; which _righteous_\njudgment was carried into effect, and poor Marie was publicly burnt in\nthe great square, to the refreshment and edification of her _soi-disant_\nfellow-Christians!\n\nCalvinism, however, gained ground in spite of this example of its\ndangers, and many were the secret meetings held in concealed places;\nsometimes under-ground, like the early Christians; till in 1558 a\nminister, previously a priest of the diocese of Agen, named David,\npreached in the church of St. Barth\u00e9lemi (ominous name!) the new\ndoctrines, in the presence of the King and Queen of Navarre, parents of\nHenry IV. A few years later, under these powerful auspices, other\nministers ventured to emerge from their hiding-places, and proclaim the\n\"glad tidings\" to their brethren. With more or less danger and\nindulgence, the Protestants pursued their reform for some time--now\npersecuted, now permitted--till, by the edict of pacification of 1570,\nit was agreed that persons of both religions should in future _live\ntogether in good intelligence_. The immortal horrors of St. Bartholomew,\nhowever, changed the face of things, and a long straggle ensued; during\nwhich, at different times, the Rochellois showed themselves undaunted\ndefenders of the faith. Always opposed and persecuted, the Protestants\nwere never publicly allowed, by the State, to follow the exercise of\ntheir religion, till the great revolution swept away all barriers; and,\nfrom that time alone, those who professed that faith could do so openly.\nSeveral houses are shown in the town where the Calvinists were\naccustomed to meet secretly, and to one of them an accident introduced\nus.\n\nEvery morning before breakfast we were accustomed to go down to the\nbaths of the beautiful _Mail_, and as the walk through the town, under\nthe interminable arcades, was both hot and tedious, we always chose a\nlonger, but very agreeable, way, by the boulevards of the ancient\nramparts; which are extremely pleasant, varied, and delightful, offering\nhere and there fine views of the country beneath, and affording thick\nshade under their magnificent trees; some of the best houses open at the\nback on these ramparts, from whence their fine gardens, full of flowers\nand vine-trellices, can be occasionally seen. We had been a week at La\nRochelle; every morning enjoying our walk, for the weather was\nperfection, a warm, bright sun and fresh sea-breeze inspiriting us to\ntake so very long a promenade twice a day, in order that we might lose\nnothing of the splendour of the sea. One day the sun deceived us; we set\nout as usual; but had not got half to the end of the ramparts, when a\nseries of dark clouds came creeping over the blue sky; a hollow wind\nbegan to sigh amongst the leaves, and the light became fitful and lurid,\ntill, on a sudden, a loud crack in the sky was heard, and in an instant\ndown rushed the rain in a perfect deluge. We had reached the most\nexposed part of the boulevard; all the trees here were young; indeed, as\nwe observed the quick flashes of lightning, we were scarcely sorry to be\nat a distance from the larger ones. We stood close to the old wall, and\ncovering ourselves with our parasols as well as we could, paused, hoping\nthe fury of the storm would soon subside. We were wet through instantly;\nfor it seemed as if the Spirits of the shower took a pleasure in\ndrenching us without mercy; such a roaring, and creaking, and flashing\nechoed around us, that it was impossible not to fancy they were enjoying\nour distress. Finding that there was no chance of the storm abating, we\ndetermined to continue our way, and, by getting into the streets, escape\nthe danger of the lightning; accordingly, at the first opening, which\nwas near the Ecluse de la Verdi\u00e8re, we hurried down; but here the\nstorm-fiend became so furious, the wind so terrific, and the rain so\npersevering, that, seeing an open door, we darted into it, and in an\ninstant found ourselves under shelter. When we could breathe we looked\nround, and could not help laughing to see where we had been so lucky as\nto place ourselves. It was a huge dark cavern, where coals and other\nfuel were heaped in all directions; long aisles seemed to diverge from\nit with low arches leading further into the building, and apparently\ndescending. A small, pointed window at the back just gave light enough\nto show its retreats, and we became convinced that this was one of the\nvery places where of old our Protestant brethren were accustomed to meet\nto exercise their religion. It answered precisely to a description I had\nread of one of them, situate beneath the ramparts, and it was a great\ncomfort in our emergency to think that we had thus discovered a secret\nhaunt which must otherwise have escaped us.\n\nThe owner of the shed, or a workman, soon arrived, and seemed somewhat\namused, as well as astonished, to see how we had taken possession of his\ngrot; we had not Imogen's excuse--\n\n    \"Before I entered here I called;\"\n\nbut he gave us welcome, nevertheless, till the storm disappearing, as\nsuddenly as it had arrived, we were able to pick our way home to Les\nTrois Chandeliers.\n\nOne of the least agreeable things which we encountered in our inn, was\nthe manner in which our dinners were conducted; we were not allowed the\nprivilege, which we generally claimed, of dining in our own apartments;\nbut were given to understand that at the _table d'H\u00f4te_ we should meet\nwith the best attendance and entertainment. Accordingly, we became\nguests in the fine _salon_ I have before described, where a party were\nassembled in solemn silence, as if a serious meeting, instead of one\nsomewhat lively, was on the _tapis_. The cross-looking, silent damsel of\nthe huge square cap slowly placed the dishes on the table, and every one\nsat down; but not a single individual, male or female, attempted to help\nhis neighbour to anything; not a word was spoken, except in whispers;\nand very soon she of the square cap began to remove several of the\nuntouched viands; as the soup, for which we had ventured to ask, was\nparticularly bad, we did not interfere to prevent this proceeding. The\nnext course appeared; but still, except a solitary individual, who made\na desperate move, and cut up a fowl which he handed round, no one put\nout a finger; as we were quite at the lower end of the table, and saw\nwith consternation that our appetites, sharpened with the fine air of\nthe sea, were not likely to be satisfied, and not relishing this\nGovernor Sancho's fare, we beckoned to a mute female, who had entered\nwith the second course, and stood by as if a spectator of the solemnity,\nand remonstrated on the absurdity, entreating to have something brought\nus; she answered gravely, that _in our turn_ we should be attended to;\nand in the end we were fortunate enough to procure a little cream, of\nwhich we took possession; and then, wearied out with the tedium of the\nproceeding, rose and made a retreat, leaving the rest of the taciturn\ncompany to wait for and contemplate their dessert. It was not so much\nthe supineness of the attendants as the apathy of the guests that amazed\nus; having generally observed in France, that _mauvaise honte_ by no\nmeans stood in the way of hungry persons, and that a French appetite is\nwith difficulty appeased, even after partaking of every dish on the\ntable: a fact of which we had lately been reminded at Poitiers, where a\nset of men, who ate in a most prodigious manner, after the last\ncondiment had disappeared exclaimed, one to the other, \"_Eh, mon Dieu!\non ne fait que commencer, il me semble._\"\n\nOur desertion being reported to the lady of the Three Candlesticks, she\ncame to apologise; fearing that her enforced absence had caused\nsomething to go wrong at the dinner. She told us that she was obliged to\nattend to the domestic arrangements of her hotel, and to superintend\nfifteen workmen who were busied in some necessary duties; but, _as she\nalways saw to everything herself_, we should have no cause to complain\nanother day. We had meditated finding out another place to dine at, but\nthis disarmed us; and, day after day, we were obliged to submit to\nsomething very similar, being forced to make a perfect struggle for our\ndinner, and submit to the studiedly tedious movements of the Breton\ngirl, whose frowns and scowls accompanied every action. We found, one\nday, a champion in an old gentleman, who, a stranger and traveller, like\nourselves, endeavoured to create a reform; but was only partially\nsuccessful. This person had been to England, and preserved pleased\nrecollections of London \"_half-and-half_\" which he seemed to consider\nlittle short of nectar, and was astonished at my ignorance when,\nappealed to, I was obliged to plead guilty of not being acquainted with\nits virtues. He was the first Frenchman I ever heard refute the\ncalumnies against our climate; for, though he agreed that we had fogs in\nLondon occasionally somewhat denser than in Paris, he had not fallen\ninto the error,--which it is thought heresy to dispute,--that, at\nBrighton, Richmond, or Windsor, the blue sky is never seen. A very\nsupercilious man who sat near him, annoyed at his praises of England,\nand his raptures at the Tunnel,--that great object of foreign\nadmiration,--endeavoured to silence him by pronouncing that London had\nno monuments, and was not half as big as Paris; for, though he lived in\nPoitou, he had seen the capital. The comic look which our champion gave\nus when this oracle was pronounced was irresistible.\n\nWe had inquired for the fountain and castle of La Font, famous in the\nannals of the Liege; and our hostess, finding that we were bent on\nseeing all the sights that La Rochelle could furnish, when she met us\none morning at her door, where we had been greeted by her husband, who\nofficiated as cook in the dark retreat which we had to cross on our\nexit, with the salutation of \"_Go to sleep_;\"--which English phrase he\nconsidered as expressive as any other,--proposed to show us the way to\nthe village of La Font, and its ch\u00e2teau--a short walk from La Rochelle.\nWe accepted her offer; and, accompanied by her little girl--a forward,\nclever child of about seven years old, and two friends,--in one of whom\nwe recognised one of the solemn officials of the dinner-table, who, it\nseems, was playing only an amateur part on that occasion,--we set out.\nThe ideas of all French people, in every part of France, it appears to\nme, are the same respecting sights and views: to take a walk means, with\nthem, to put on your best gown and cap, take your umbrella, and proceed,\nat a sauntering pace, talking all the way, down some hot, dusty road,\nwhere the _monde_ is expected to be met with. The end of the journey is\nusually at some shabby cottage, or _cabaret_, where seats are set out in\nthe sun, and refreshments are to be had. I think lanes and meadow-paths\ndo not exist in France; or, if they do, they are carefully avoided by\nall but shepherds and shepherdesses, who are obliged to take them\noccasionally; but who much prefer, as do their charges, the sheep and\ncows, the high road, all dust and bustle.\n\nThe first place we stopped at, we were assured, was very interesting:\nthe permission to see it had been graciously granted to our hostess, for\nus, by the proprietor, who usually dined at the _table d'h\u00f4te_,--one of\nour silent _companions_, no doubt;--and we could, consequently, do no\nless than appear grateful for the favour. Our patience was, however, put\nto the test when what we hoped, by its ruinous appearance, would turn\nout an antique church or tower was announced to be an infant _brewery_,\nin a very early stage of its existence. We stood by while our companions\ntalked to a very pretty, indolent-looking woman, surrounded by\nblack-eyed children, whose ages and habits were dilated on, and all of\nwhom were scattered about the premises--sitting or lying on tubs and\nheaps of wood; while the husband and father sauntered through something\nlike work, which was to bring the erection, in the course of time, to a\nclose. He seemed glad of an opportunity of leaving off what he was\nsupposed to be doing, to show us the garden of the establishment,--a\nwilderness full of mignionette, and cabbages, and vines, and pumpkins.\n\nAs an excuse for the failure of this sight, we were told that the\nprincipal works could not be shown, which, had we seen, would have\namazed us not a little; but, to make up for the disappointment, we\nshould be introduced to another _fabrique_, which should well repay us.\nWhen near the Porte Dauphine, we found this treat was no other than a\ngas establishment; and, terrified at the odour which spread from it far\nand wide, which, added to the heat of a very sunny day, warned us to\nforego the temptation of becoming acquainted with the method of meting\nout gas to the town of La Rochelle, we protested against being forced to\nenter; contenting ourselves with admiring the tall pillar, which, being\nnew, is an object of great exultation to the inhabitants. The air, in\nthis part, was quite poisoned with the effluvia from the gas; and we\nwere not surprised to hear that the soldiers, in the barracks close\nbeneath, suffered continually from sickness since the period when the\ngas-works had been established. Unpleasant smells, however, seldom seem\nto distress French organs; and our disgust only amused our companions,\nwho seemed now, for the first time, to perceive that it was not as\nagreeable as the mignionette beds we had left.\n\nWe were not sorry to reach the beautiful promenade of the Champ de Mars\nand the Fontaine de la Mar\u00e9chale; a fine walk planted with numerous\ntrees, with alleys diverging towards the village of La Font. Gardens,\nwith high walls, extend for half a league in this direction; for here\nall the rich merchants of the town have their country-houses, and here\nthey usually spend the summer months. Being enclosed, however, the\nperfume of the flowers alone, and an occasional opening, betray their\nexistence; and the walk is hot and dusty, without any view of sea, or\nlandscape, to repay the toil. At length we found ourselves at the end of\nthe longest village I ever was in; all composed of good square houses,\nthe backs only of which were visible.\n\nWe turned aside, along an avenue planted with young trees, to the\nch\u00e2teau of La Font; but what was our vexation to find at its extremity a\nrange of little huts, and a black, soapy pool, at which numbers of\nwasherwomen were busy at their ceaseless occupation. \"_Voil\u00e0_!\"\nexclaimed our hostess, in exultation, and with an air which said, You\nmust be gratified now; \"_Voil\u00e0_! this is the famous fountain _where all\nthe linen of La Rochelle is washed_! and there is the ch\u00e2teau where my\nwasherwoman lives,--a very respectable mother of a family;--and there\nare her turkeys and her farm-yard; and there is her market-garden! Oh!\nit is a sweet spot!\"\n\nBeyond the group of _blanchisseuses_--to whom she stopped to talk about\nher household arrangements,--we saw a ruined tenement flanked with round\ntowers, very much dilapidated, and preserving but little of their\nancient character, owing to having been pierced with modern windows;\ncertainly sufficiently ruinous, if that was to be an object of\nattraction, but not otherwise worthy of note. Girls and women, in wooden\nshoes, were sitting about in a slovenly yard before it, and we were\nwelcomed as guests by one who got chairs and placed them in sight of the\nfarm-yard wonders for our accommodation: after which she disappeared\nwith our hostess to show the washing establishment, which we declined\nvisiting, in spite of repeated invitations, given with all the\n_bonhommie_ in the world, as if there had really been anything to see\nbut dirty water and soap-suds. We comprehended, afterwards, as we sat\nmusing in the farm-yard, watching the vagaries of some angry turkeys,\nwhose combs became perfectly white with passion, as they contended with\ntheir fellows, that the reason of so much pride and admiration on the\npart of our hostess and the mistress of the _Ch\u00e2teau_ de La Font was,\nthat the washing here was carried on _under cover_; whereas, that\noperation usually takes place by the side of rivers and brooks, in the\nopen face of nature, without hot water or tubs. No wonder that our\napathy annoyed the parties, who had so just a reason to \"be vaunty\" of\nso expensive an establishment!\n\nThis, then, is all that remains of the castle of La Font, once a place\nso contended for during the numerous sieges, and which the Duke of\nAnjou, afterwards Henry III., took possession of, when he ordered his\nsoldiers to destroy all the fountains which supplied the besieged town\nof La Rochelle with water. On this spot, where Protestants and Catholics\nfought deadly battles, and disputed every inch of ground, the battle of\na couple of turkeys, and the splashing and thumping of a group of\nwasherwomen, were all that existed to interest the beholder.\n\nWe walked round the towers and into the field at the back, but scarcely\na bit of old wall repaid our trouble; and finding that the subject of\nwashing became all engrossing to our hostess, who seemed to have\nforgotten that the hotel of the Three Candlesticks and its dinner-hour\nhad existence, we rose and left the party, directing our way back to the\ntown.\n\nWe had managed to make our escape quietly, but our defection once\nperceived, consternation ensued, and the departure of La Noue from the\nProtestant camp could scarcely have created more sensation. We were\npursued, and accompanied home to the hotel, with repeated apologies for\nhaving been allowed to remain alone until we became _ennuy\u00e9es_; and so\npersecuted were we with politeness, that we were not sorry to take\nrefuge in the solemn _salle-\u00e0-manger_, where, though nearly two hours\npast dinner-time, we found no preparations yet on foot for our relief.\nIt was impossible, considering the well-meant intention of our hostess,\nto be angry at anything; but, without exception, the whole arrangement\nat this most unique of all inns, was the least comfortable that any\nunfortunate traveller ever had to put up with. Every day we meditated\nleaving, and every day her good-humour, and a bath and walk at the\ndelicious sea-side, made us abandon our resolve, and--\n\n            \"Tempered us to bear;\n    It was but for a day.\"\n\nIndeed, it was impossible to be otherwise than content, to find oneself\nseated in one of the pretty alcoves of the Bath gardens, with a\nmagnificent expanse of sparkling sea before the eye, a gentle murmur of\nwaters at the feet, a hundred gleaming sails, white and red, gliding\nalong the surface of the glittering wave, the towers of the distant town\nshining out from the mass of buildings which surround them, the full\nharbour, the green alleys, the superb trees, the pretty shrubs, the\ndistant island shores, everything, in fact, smiling and gay and\nbeautiful around. To forget Les Trois Chandeliers, and to grudge the\ntime necessary for finding a new domicile, was a natural consequence;\nand the want of _mat\u00e9riel_ to satisfy the sea-side appetite--sure to be\ngained after a whole day's sojourn on the beach--became an after\nconsideration, our domestic privations were therefore constantly\nneglected, bewailed, and forgotten again next day while eating grapes\nand bread in the beloved alcove.\n\nThere appears to be much ease in the circumstances of the inhabitants of\nLa Rochelle: we understood that there were not many persons of very\nlarge fortune, but few positively poor. The commerce is inferior now to\nwhat it has been; as, for instance, in the _glorious_ time of the _slave\ntrade_; but there appears still to be a good deal of bustle on the\nquays: however, to an English eye, all French trade seems dull when\ncompared to the movement in our own ports. There is always building\ngoing on here, as in every other town in France, where one might imagine\neverything had been at a stand-still for a century, and had suddenly\nbeen endowed with new life and activity. The cities of France seem--like\nthe enchanted domains of the marble prince of the Arabian Nights--to\nhave been doomed to a long inaction, and restored to existence by an\ninvisible power. The magic which changed the blue and red fishes into\nmen, was less potent than the wise rule of the present sovereign of the\nkingdom, under whom his country flourishes; not a town or village being\nforgotten in his endeavours to rescue them from the long night of\nwretchedness into which war and misrule had cast them. Everywhere his\ndonations and encouragement cause ruins and filth to disappear, and\nsplendour and neatness to take their place: yet, in spite of all this,\nand obvious as the benefit is to a traveller who hears of his\nbenefactions wherever he passes, few of the subjects of this\nconsiderate and liberal monarch seem sufficiently grateful for his\npatriotic endeavours to exalt their position. \"He has not done _much_\nfor _us_,\" is the general remark; a rather startling one, when one\nrecollects the hundreds of towns, villages, and bourgs which his care\nhas reached.\n\nThe French are certainly neither grateful nor just; for they seldom\nremember or acknowledge obligation either to individuals or kings. They\nseem, also, wilfully blind to the blessings of the peace, which Louis\nPhilippe so offends their warlike propensities by insisting on: even\nwhile they are restoring all their battered towns and erecting new\nedifices, of which they are proud enough, they would willingly leave\nthem half done to draw the sword against some windmill giant, and buckle\non their armour to encounter some puppet-show termagant.\n\nThe public buildings of La Rochelle are fine, but the narrowness of most\nof the streets in which they are placed, prevents their showing to\nadvantage. If the Palais de Justice stood in the fine square opposite\nthe cathedral, for instance, it would have a very imposing effect; but,\nas it is, one passes under its arcades, and under the arcades opposite,\nhalf-a-dozen times before its beauties become apparent. It is a modern\nbuilding of great taste and delicacy, in the style of the Renaissance;\nthe friezes and entablatures being executed with extreme skill and\ngrace. The Bourse is also a beautiful building, having a gallery\nsupported by a colonnade, which connects two of its wings, and which\nseparates the court from a pretty plantation of ornamental trees, which\nagreeably adorns the edifice. But the ancient building of the H\u00f4tel de\nVille is that which most attracts, both for its beauty and its\nrecollections. The taste of Francis I. and Henry II. is evident in its\narchitecture. Henry IV.'s additions are also obvious, and more modern\n_improvements_ have considerably altered its original appearance.\n\nThe entrance is comparatively modern and ugly; which is the more to be\nregretted, since, from this spot the Maire Guiton--the great hero of La\nRochelle, spoke to the people when obliged to consent to the\ncapitulation of the town. However, the site itself cannot but be\ninteresting; and all that surrounds it remains as it must have been at\nhis time. The singular gallery, and its ornamented roof in compartments,\nwith a thousand interlaced letters and devices, as mysterious as those\nat the house of Jacques Coeur, at Bourges, the fa\u00e7ade, and statues, and\nfoliage, and ornamental mouldings, the curious windows, the ancient\nscreen, the outer walls, and _tourelles_ of the thirteenth, and\nbattlements and door-ways of the fifteenth century, all are singular and\nattractive.\n\nIt was, probably, in this palace that the accident happened to Charles\nthe Seventh, _Le Bien Servi_, told with so much characteristic\nsimplicity by Mezeray.\n\nWhen the news of the death of his father, the unfortunate Charles the\nSixth, was brought to the Dauphin, says the Chronicler, \"he was then at\nEspally, in Auvergne, a castle belonging to the Bishop of Le Puy. He\nwore mourning only one day; and the next morning changed this sad colour\nto scarlet. In this habit he went to hear mass in the chapel of the\ncastle; as soon as it was over he ordered the banner of France to be\ndisplayed, at the sight of which all present cried out, _Vive le Roy_!\nAnd from that time he was recognised and called king by all good\nFrenchmen. But as he had neither Paris nor Rheims in his possession, he\nrepaired to Poitiers to be crowned, where his parliament then was, and\nthere received the oaths and homage of all who acknowledged him as\nsovereign. From Poitiers he took his way to La Rochelle, on a warning\nwhich was given him that the Duke of Brittany had secret designs, and\nthat he was making warlike and powerful preparations to take possession\nof this province.\"\n\n\"There he nearly lost his life by a strange invention--the machination\nof some of his enemies; for, as he was holding his council in a great\nhall, the beams having been sawn asunder, the ceiling gave way and fell,\nburying every one beneath the ruins. Jacques de Bourbon, Seigneur de\nPreaux, died in consequence, several others were grievously wounded,\nbut the king, by a good fortune, almost miraculous, escaped. This was a\ncertain presage, that, after great danger, Divine Providence, in the\nend, would save him, and draw him forth from the ruins of his empire\nagainst all human expectation.\"\n\nThus was saved the most ungrateful of all monarchs; one who suffered his\nfriends to exert every nerve in his favour, while he sat carelessly by\nand saw them betrayed and slaughtered for his sake, of him Lahire said,\n\n    \"On ne pouvait perdre son royaume plus gaiement.\"\n\nHe was urged to action only, at last, by superstition; and when all was\ngained for him, had nothing with which to reward his devoted friends but\nbanishment and confiscation, as in the case of Jacques Coeur, his\nill-used friend, whose money had gained him back his kingdom. Yet, at\nlast, his death was as wretched as if he had perished in the hall at La\nRochelle, for he died of famine, to avoid being poisoned by his\nunnatural son.\n\nWe entered the great hall at the top of the flight of steps in the\ncentre of the building, and followed a party who were visiting the\ninterior, by which means, although the hall was otherwise closed, we\nwere able to see the great picture recently _given by the king_, with\nhis usual liberality, to the town of La Rochelle.\n\nIn this _salle_ is still seen the marble table, and the chair of the\nMaire Guiton; a mark across the marble is shown as that made by his\nsword when, in his agony, he struck the table, as he rose, indignant at\nthe proposals of surrender made to him. There is nothing else in the\nhall which is not modern, even its form, which has been changed for the\nconvenience of the meetings which take place here.\n\nThe picture is one of very exciting interest, and is very well executed;\nit is the work of M. Omer Chartel--a native, I believe, of La\nRochelle--and is a most appropriate present to the town in which the\ncircumstances it depicts took place.\n\nJean Guiton was mayor of La Rochelle at the time when, in 1628, Louis\nXIII., or rather the Cardinal de Richelieu, besieged the Protestants in\nthe town. His mysterious disappearance, the uncertainty attached to his\nfate, the suspicions of his motives,--notwithstanding the grandeur of\nhis character, and the determination of his resistance,--altogether\ninvest him with singular interest, and every particular of his history\nwhich can be collected must be eagerly sought for.\n\nHe was appointed to the office of chief-magistrate at a moment of great\ndanger; and on the occasion made this celebrated speech:\n\"Fellow-citizens, I accept the honour you design me, on this condition\nonly, that I shall have a right to pierce with this sword the heart of\nhim who shall be base enough to speak the words of peace, or who shall\ndare to talk of submission. Should I be cowardly enough to do so, let my\nblood expiate my crime, and let the meanest citizen be my executioner:\nthe sacred love of his country will exculpate him for the act. Meantime\nlet this poniard remain upon the council-table, an object of terror to\nthe craven and betrayer.\"\n\nThe siege went on, and the unfortunate Rochellois were reduced to the\nlast extremity; famine and misery brought them to the lowest ebb of\nhuman suffering; and, in spite of their valour and high resolves, it was\nevident that nothing but submission could save them from the most\nhorrible fate. Their implacable enemy had wound his coils around their\ntown, the fatal _digue_, thrown up with labour, incredible and\nimpossible to all but hate, prevented any succours reaching them; there\nit lay, circling their port like a huge constrictor waiting patiently\nfor its exhausted prey,--there was no remedy, and the chief persons of\nthe town repaired in a body to Guiton to represent the state of the\ninhabitants and to propose a surrender. They bade him look around on the\nfamishing wretches who lay about the streets; they bade him look on his\nperishing wife and dying child; they described the hopeless state of\nthings, the cruel perseverance of their foes, and they besought him to\ngive consent that they should treat with the besiegers.\n\n\"Is it even so?\" said Guiton; \"you all desire it? Take, then, this\nponiard; you know the condition on which I accepted office, you know I\nswore to stab to the heart the first man who should speak of surrender;\nlet me be the victim; but never hope that I will participate in the\ninfamy which you propose to me.\"\n\nThese words produced their effect; those most resolved on submission\nwere turned from their project, and all retired from his presence\nabashed, and determined to suffer still. But the famine continued,\nincreased, no succour arrived, and human fortitude could endure no more;\nthe Rochellois opened their gates, and Richelieu was triumphant. But\nwhere was Jean Guiton?--that question remains to be answered to this\nday.\n\nHe was never seen more; some have thought that he was assassinated by\nthose who feared his resentment or his opposition; or by those who\nconsidered him still formidable, though fallen; others imagined that the\nking, to whom his talents as a seaman were known, and who admired the\nfirmness of his character, had seduced him, by offers of great\nadvantage, to abandon his party and enter his service. There is a\ntradition that he distinguished himself in the armies of Louis, under an\nassumed name, and became a terror to the enemies of France. Again, he is\nsaid to have been condemned to perpetual imprisonment; and again, to\nhave spent his days in exile from his native land, having fled from the\ntown at the time of its reduction.\n\nWhatever his fate may have been, it is unknown; and conjecture alone\nfills up the blank. It is difficult to imagine that a man such as he\ncould listen to offers of advantage, or would have betrayed the cause\nfor which he was ready to sacrifice his life: that he died in exile,\nunable to endure to see the destruction of his hopes, is more probable.\n\nThe painter has chosen the moment when the citizens are making their\nlast appeal, and he has succeeded in conveying the feeling and interest\nof the scene in an eminent degree; it is impossible to look at the\npicture without tears, which certainly must speak a great deal in its\nfavour; criticism may come afterwards, and a few defects may make\nthemselves observed; but the first impression is, that of pity and\ncommiseration for the actors in the sad drama represented.\n\nThe Mayor of La Rochelle, with a mournful countenance, is listening to\nthe words of Etienne Gentils, who was deputed as spokesman on the sad\noccasion: the commandant, Perrot, and his son stand by, and by their\ngestures confirm his statements. The Marquis de Feuqui\u00e8res--a Catholic\nprisoner, who had become a friend of the Rochellois, and anxiously\nstrove to obtain for them favourable terms--is a prominent person. Paul\nYvon, sire de Laden, the former mayor, adds his entreaties--Madame de\nMaisonneuve, his daughter, has cast herself at the feet of Guiton, with\nher two children, and points to the pale and fainting wife of the\ninflexible citizen, who lies prostrate on the ground with his dying\nchild in her arms. The scene is fearful, and the struggle terrible; he\nholds the dagger in his hand, and his look, though full of sorrow,\nspeaks of no indecision. You feel that it must have been impossible to\ngain over such a man to the opposite party; and you cannot but thank the\nartist for rescuing his memory from the reproach endeavoured to be cast\nupon it.\n\nAltogether, the picture is most appropriate and interesting, and we\nrejoiced that we were so fortunate as to arrive at La Rochelle just at\nthe moment that it was being placed in the Grande Salle.\n\nWith infinitely more interest than before, we now walked down to the\nMarch\u00e9 Neuf, where several elegant _tourelles_, at the corners of a\nstreet of arcades, had previously attracted our attention, for we found\nthat the street was called Rue Guiton, and the tourelles formed part of\na beautifully-ornamented house, whose fa\u00e7ade runs along one side of the\nmarket-place. This was the mansion of the unfortunate mayor, and\nmagnificent it must have been; it is built in the style of the\nRenaissance, and in the same taste as parts of the H\u00f4tel de Ville; but\nthe carved ornaments are more delicate. It is to be regretted that the\nwhole house could not be preserved as a memorial; but still the little\nthat remains must be hailed with pleasure, though built into shops, and\nserving as receptacles for different wares. One _tourelle_ is\nparticularly sharp and fine, and does not seem to have sustained the\nslightest injury from time. No doubt the house was very extensive;\nprobably the gardens occupied the space where now the market is kept. In\nthe centre of the square is one of the numerous fountains, for which the\ntown is famous: this is called La Fontaine des Petits Bancs, and no\ndoubt formerly one on the same spot adorned the gardens of the\nmayoralty.\n\nNo sooner had Louis XIII. gained possession of the Protestant city, than\nhe began the work of _Reformation_. He had his monks ready in the camp,\n\"like greyhounds on the slip,\" and three Minimes from Touraine, who had\nbeen sent as almoners, immediately commenced the building of a convent,\nwhich took the place of the Huguenot temples, under the name of Notre\nDame de la Victoire. Where it stood, now stands a fort and a lazaretto.\n\nAnother convent was established at La Font, not a vestige of which\nremains.\n\nThe cathedral was once more restored to the old worship, and on the\ngreat Fontaine du Ch\u00e2teau, in the square in front of it, the enemies of\nthe Protestant party placed _brass_ tablets, full of insult to those\nwho had so nobly defended their town, and who, from a generous foe,\nwould have commanded respect. These injurious inscriptions were,\nhowever, removed one night; nor was it ever known by whom; and the\nauthorities did not think it advisable to replace them: the marks of\ntheir existence still remain.\n\nAnother mayor of La Rochelle obtained celebrity in much earlier times,\nfor conduct not quite so heroic as that of Guiton.\n\nAmongst the many scenes of war which have taken place before La\nRochelle, not the least curious is one related by Froissart, which\noccurred at the time when France was making a desperate struggle to\nrecover her towns from the power of England.\n\nThe Earl of Pembroke had been sent by his father, King Edward, with the\nfamous Captain Messire Guichart d'Angle, to Poitou, with vessels and\nmoney; they set forth, commending themselves to the grace of God and St.\nGeorge, and, wind and weather favouring them, the gallant fleet soon\nreached the coast of Poitou, with every prospect of success in their\nadventure. But the King of France, Charles the Wise, who always managed\nto get information of everything done by his enemies--whether by means\nof the prescience of his astrologers or his spies is not known,--having\nheard that Guichart had visited England with a view of getting supplies\nand a new commander, had secretly prepared a hostile fleet ready to\nway-lay the English. Forty large ships and thirteen barges, well manned\nand provided, were furnished by the King of Castile, and were commanded\nby four men whose names were a terror at the period. These were,\nAmbrosio de Bocca Negra the Grand Admiral of Spain, Cabeza de Vaca,\nFerrant de Pion, and Radigole Roux, or Riu Diaz de Rojas.\n\nThese valiant captains had moored their fleet opposite the harbour of La\nRochelle, awaiting the expected arrival of the English and their allies,\nfor whose sails they looked anxiously forth. It was on the Vigil of St.\nJohn the Baptist's Day, 1372, that the Spaniards espied the English\napproaching in gallant array, and _they_ discovered that the entrance to\nthe town of La Rochelle was stopped, and that a contest must ensue.\n\nThe English were greatly inferior in ships and numbers; but there was no\nwant of spirit amongst them. The Earl of Pembroke made several knights\non the occasion, and every nerve was strained to support the character\nof British valour. They had fearful odds to sustain, and terrible was\nthe battle which was fought, in which such deeds of arms were done, that\nPalmerin of England, and Amadis de Gaul, seemed leading on the\ncombatants. But it soon became too evident that the brave handful of\nEnglish, and the small vessels, were no match for the opposing power.\nThis, the inhabitants of La Rochelle were aware of, but they were\nill-disposed to interfere or to assist the English.\n\nWhen Messire Jean de Harpedane, the seneschal of La Rochelle, heard the\n_estrif_ and _riote_ which took place without, and found in what straits\nhis friends were placed, he implored the mayor and people of La Rochelle\nto arm and go to the relief of the English; he entreated them to send\nout the numerous vessels which crowded their quays, to aid and comfort\nthose who were so valiantly fighting against odds. But his animated\nharangue was met with silence and coldness, and he found, to his great\nvexation, that there was no sympathy for King Edward's people.\n\nHarpedane had been supported in his generous desire by three brave and\nbold knights, the Lord of Tonnay-Boutonne, Jacques de Surgi\u00e8res, and\nMaubrun de Lini\u00e8res; and when they found that no one would listen to\ntheir representations, they resolved to embark, together with all their\npeople, and go to the succour of the English. At day-break they sailed\nforth, and, with some difficulty, reached the fleet, where they were\njoyfully welcomed, notwithstanding that they brought bad news, and\nconfirmed the doubts of the English that no succour awaited them. They,\nhowever, resolved to fight to the last, and remained prepared for the\nattack of the Spaniards, who, favoured by the wind, came down upon them,\nand casting out irons, grappled with their ships and held them close.\nThen ensued a terrible contest, in which the greatest part of the\nEnglish were killed, the treasure-vessels sunk, and all the others\ndestroyed; and the day closed by the capture of the Earl of Pembroke,\nGuichart d'Angle, and all the brave knights of their company. The\nSpaniards then made great rejoicings, and sailed away with all their\nprisoners; but, meeting with adverse winds, they were obliged to put\ninto the port of Santander in Biscay, where they carried them to a\nfortress and cast them into a deep dungeon, loading them with chains:\n\"No other courtesy had these Spaniards to offer them!\"\n\nAfter this the Rochellois threw off their obedience to the English, and\ndeclared themselves friends and subjects of France: the manner in which\nthis event occurred is thus related:--\n\nThe mayor of the town, Jean Coudourier, or Chaudrier, was secretly\nfriendly to the French, and had agreed with the famous Captain Ivan, of\nWales, who was before La Rochelle, to deliver the town to him. The\nstratagem he used was characteristic, for the governor of the Castle,\nPhillippot, though a brave and good knight, was in the case of William\nof Deloraine,--\n\n    \"Of letter or line knew he never a one;\"\n\nand by this neglect in his education was he betrayed.\n\nThe artful Chaudrier, who appeared to be his intimate friend, invited\nthe governor to dine with him one day, with some of the citizens of the\ntown, and took occasion, before dinner, to say that he had just received\nnews from England which concerned him. The governor desiring to know\nthem, he replied, \"Of course you shall hear; I will fetch the letter,\nand it shall be read to you.\" He then went to a coffer and took out an\nopen letter, sealed, indeed, with the great seal of Edward of England,\nbut which, in fact, related to quite other matters; the governor\nrecognised the seal, and was satisfied that it was an official\ncommunication; but, as for the writing, \"he was ignorance itself\" in\nthat. A clerk, in the plot, was ordered to enlighten him as to its\ncontents, and read that the King desired the mayor to send him an exact\naccount of all the forces in La Rochelle and the castle, by the bearer\nof that letter, as he desired to know, and hoped soon to visit the town\nhimself.\n\nThereupon the mayor begged that on the day following a muster should be\nmade, in the grand square, of all these men-at-arms, and he offered to\nlend money to the governor, being so directed by the King, to pay his\ntroops. All this was done as was projected, and the muster took place,\nevery man-at-arms leaving the ch\u00e2teau, and only a few servants\nremaining there. Meantime the cunning mayor had provided an ambush of\nfour hundred men, who concealed themselves in _old houses uninhabited\nwhich were in the square_, and, when all the troops were assembled,\nthese issued out, and intercepting the return, took possession of the\ncastle, and became masters of the citadel.\n\nResistance was now in vain: the governor was completely tricked, and the\nartful traitor had gained his end. La Rochelle became French, and the\nfirst step that was taken for the security of the town, in case of its\nagain falling into the hands of the English, was to raze the castle to\nthe ground, and destroy that means of defence.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XII.\n\n     ROCHEFORT--THE CURIOUS BONNE--AMERICANISMS--CONVICTS--THE\n     CHARENTE--\"TULIPES\"--TAILLEBOURG--HENRY THE THIRD--ST.\n     LOUIS--FALSE SECURITY--ROMEGOUX--PUYTAILL\u00c9.\n\n\nOUR good fortune in respect to the weather, which we so much enjoyed at\nLa Rochelle, seemed to have taken leave of us when we quitted that\ncharming town and took our way southward. It rained in torrents when we\ngot into the diligence for Rochefort, and continued to do so throughout\nour journey. The country is very flat for several leagues, and possesses\nno remarkable beauties; occasionally a turn of the road brought us close\nto the sea-shore; and its fine waves, dashing against the shingles, made\nmusic to our ears, and we regretted leaving it behind us. The sea seems\nalways to me like a friend; it offers, besides, a means of escape; it\nappears to tell one that a vessel is ready to take the tired wanderer\nback to England: there is something like _home_ in its vicinity, and I\ncan well imagine with what sensations an exile might \"come to the\nbeach,\" and sigh forth his soul towards his native land. But that I had\ninterests still greater awaiting me at Bordeaux, I should have been even\nmore sorry to have quitted this coast; and every time we caught another\nglimpse of the waves, we hailed them with pleasure.\n\nWe arrived at Rochefort, as we had frequently done at other towns in\nFrance--where the climate is supposed to be better than our own--in\npouring rain; but, this time, with a little difference, inasmuch as the\ndiligence stopped in the midst of a large square outside the town,\nplanted with trees, with hotels in different directions, and the bureau\nwithin twenty yards: nevertheless, the conducteur's pleasure was to stop\nhis horses exactly midway between us and shelter: all the doors were\nthrown open, the horses were taken off, and the passengers were free to\nget out and paddle to the nearest inn as best they might. Calling and\nexclaiming were of no use; no one attended to our remonstrances; and,\nscrambling out _over the wheel_--for the coup\u00e9 has not the advantage of\na step--while a deluge of rain and a hurricane were striving against us,\nwe managed to reach the wet ground; but, being required, peremptorily,\nto show ourselves at the bureau, we were not permitted to wade to an\nopposite hotel, and, therefore, took our station, with other\ndiscontented individuals, under a shed where building was going on, and\nwhere our wet feet stuck in the lime and mortar which covered the floor.\nWhile we waited till our conducteur had ceased to rave at his horses\nand assistants, a sudden cry warned us to remove, for the diligence,\npushed in by several men, was coming upon us to discharge its baggage.\nHaving escaped this danger by flying into a neighbouring passage, we\nobeyed the summons of our tyrant; and having discharged his demands, a\nlatent pity seemed to take possession of his bosom, for he allowed us to\ndepart, having bestirred himself to send our baggage before us to the\nnearest hotel. There we found the hour of the _table d'h\u00f4te_ dinner had\narrived, and much entreaty was necessary to induce the hostess to permit\nus to dine alone, the absurdity of the wish seeming to strike her as\nextraordinary:--\"It would be so much more gay down stairs,\" she\nobserved. Wet and tired, we had no mind for the festivity which might\nreign in her halls, and at length gained our point: having served us, a\npretty young country maid, in a large cap, who had looked at us with\nwonder from the first, seemed resolved to fill up the little leisure\nleft her, by contemplating closer the extraordinary animals that chance\nhad brought to her mistress's hotel. She put her hands on her sides,\nand, opening her black eyes wide, gave us a long stare, exclaiming, \"Eh,\nmon Dieu! est-ce donc possible!\"\n\nWe asked her if many English came to Rochefort; to which she replied, as\nwe expected, that she had never _seen one_ before. We wished her good\nnight; she was some time in taking our hint, but, as she was\ngood-humoured, her determined delay did not annoy us, as a similar\nintrusion had done at La Rochelle, when the cross _bonne_, on the\nevening of our arrival, took her seat at the window, and looked out into\nthe street to amuse herself; and, on our intimating that she might\nretire, turned round fiercely, and remarked, \"You can't be going to bed\nyet.\" These _Americanisms_ are common enough in this most polite of\nnations; but are simply amusing from such unsophisticated beings as the\nattendant at Rochefort.\n\nRochefort is a handsome, clean, open, well-built town, quite without\nantiquities; but, as our next destination was Saintes--one of the oldest\ntowns in France--we were content with its more modern appearance, though\nnot with its pavement, which is particularly bad and rugged. It is\nsurrounded with very handsome ramparts, or boulevards, planted with fine\ntrees, and the principal streets have avenues, in one of which the\nlarge market is held, which has a picturesque effect--the high poplars\nand spreading acacias throwing their flickering shadows on groups of\npeasants in lively-coloured costumes, giving a brilliancy and life to\nthe scene, which is not found in the other parts of the remarkably dull\ntown of Louis XIV. Rochefort is the third important port in France; but\nas nothing can be so uninteresting to me, who do not understand these\ndetails, as to look on fortifications, and the bustle of a port when\nthere is no sea to repay one--and Rochefort is only on the Charente,\nfour leagues from the sea--I did not attempt to visit the quays; the\nhospitals are said to be fine; also, the school of artillery, and\nseveral commercial establishments of great consequence; but the trade of\nRochefort does not appear very flourishing, to judge by the desolate\nappearance of the streets and squares.\n\nThe only place we visited, was the Jardin des Plantes, which is\ncharmingly laid out in alleys and parterres; but a circumstance occurred\nwhich entirely destroyed the pleasure of our walk, and brought thoughts\nof woe and crime into the midst of beautiful nature and elegant art. As\nwe hung over the parapet of a wall, we observed a party of men passing\nbeneath, dressed in a singular costume: they were singing rather\nvociferously, and it struck me that, as they moved, a clanking sound\naccompanied their steps, for which I feared to account. As I turned\naway from these, my eye was attracted by a group of gardeners, in an\nalley near, who wore the same dress of dull yellowish red. One of them\nwas a tall, fine, handsome man, who seemed busy in his occupation; the\nothers were indolently using their spades and brooms; and as they moved,\nI saw that all had irons round their legs. A shudder came over me, and a\nsort of fear, which I could not shake off, as I looked round to see that\nwe did not share these groves alone with such companions, of whom we\nwere not long in taking our leave;--not that there was anything hostile\nor alarming in their appearance; but, though one may every day jostle a\nrobber or a murderer, ignorantly, in the streets, yet to be \"innocent of\nthe knowledge\" of his character, is much more agreeable to one's nerves,\nthan the certainty of his being a culprit.\n\nAlthough we had taken every precaution, by warning all the servants of\nour intention of departing by the steam-boat for Saintes,--had paid our\nbill, and been ready an hour before the time, yet the _gar\u00e7on_ who was\nto accompany us to the quay was nowhere to be found when we required his\naid. When a diligence is to start, it is the custom, as we well knew,\nalways to announce its time of departure an hour, or sometimes two,\nbefore it goes, as the _monde_ is supposed to be never in time; but,\neven in France, time must be kept when tide is in question; and we,\ntherefore, were very much afraid that our dilatory waiter would cause us\nto lose our passage. It would seem that the French can do nothing\nwithout being frightened into action; and that they enjoy putting\nthemselves into frights and fevers; for our porter, when he did appear,\nhad to hurry, with his great barrow, through numerous streets, calling\nall the way, and begging that the boat would stop for _des dames_, till\nhe was almost exhausted. The captain, who must have been used to these\nscenes, took compassion on him, I suppose, and we stept at length into\nthe steamer, amidst the congratulations of the crowd, and a whole host\nof porters, who brought every article of baggage singly on board, in\norder to make the most of their zeal.\n\nHenry IV., who liked to pay compliments to his people, and gain\n\n    \"Golden opinions from all sorts of men,\"\n\nwas accustomed, it is said, to call the river Charente \"the prettiest\nstream in his kingdom;\" and it certainly deserves much admiration, for\nthe borders are rich, varied, and graceful; and the voyage along its\nverdant banks is extremely agreeable on a calm, fine day: such as we\nwere fortunate enough to choose. There is no want of variety; for\nheights, crowned with towers and turrets and woods and meadows, succeed\neach other rapidly, offering pleasing points of view, and reviving\nrecollections of ancient story; and though the Charente by no means\ndeserves to be compared to the Loire, ambitious as the natives of the\ndepartment are that it should be considered equal in beauty and interest\nto that famous river; yet there is quite enough charm belonging to it to\nplease the traveller who seeks for new scenes.\n\nIn few parts of France do the English travel so little as in this\ndirection; and I believe the pretty river Charente has been rarely\nvisited. A summer at La Rochelle could, nevertheless, be pleasantly\nspent, and the facilities of steam-boats in so many directions, is a\ngreat advantage, as there is much worth seeing in this agreeable\ncountry.\n\nWe were much struck with the extremely beautiful effect produced by the\nfairy-like, delicate appearance of a sort of crocus--of a pale, clear,\nlilac colour--which entirely covered the meadows, the light as it shone\nthrough their fragile stems making them look a\u00ebrial. All along the\nbanks, for leagues, these pretty flowers[9] spread themselves over the\nground, in a perfect cloud of blossoms, reaching to the very wave, and,\nshaking their gossamer heads to the breeze, gleaming their golden\ncentres through the transparent petals, like a light in an alabaster\nvase. As we admired them, a young woman near us, in the boat, shook her\nhead, and exclaimed that we were not, perhaps, aware that those pretty\n'_tulipes_' were deadly poison, and that very lately, a man of a village\nnear this, had employed their bulbous roots as onions, and given the\nsoup made with them to his wife and a neighbour, to whom he bore a\nspite: that they both died, and he was found to be the murderer, and\nsuffered accordingly. My thoughts recurred, as she spoke, to the\nconvicts in the garden of Rochefort, and with no very pleasant\nsensations. I was sorry she had spoilt the pleasure I had taken in\nlooking at these beautiful flowers, which she seemed to regard with\nhorror.\n\n[Footnote 9: The _Iris zippium_.]\n\nThere are several fine suspension-bridges over the river; this part of\nthe country is celebrated for them; that of Charente is considered very\nremarkable of its kind, and it is a usual excursion from La Rochelle to\nvisit it.\n\nAt St. Savinien is a venerable church and tower, which make an imposing\nappearance, on a height, and the ruins of the once redoubtable castle of\nTaillebourg frown majestically from the rocky hills they cover. All this\ncoast was the scene of the contentions of our early kings; and Coeur de\nLion and his father were actors in several of the dramas here performed.\n\nThe great hero, but disobedient son, Richard, after being forced by\nHenry II. to quit Saintes where he had entrenched himself, fled to this\nvery fortress of Taillebourg, and there defied attack. Henry III. of\nEngland, more than half a century later, made this part of the river the\ntheatre of his contentions with St. Louis, as Joinville relates. Henry\nhad disembarked at Royan--now a fashionable bathing-place, at the mouth\nof the Charente--and resolved, if possible, to gain back all that John\nLackland had lost, led his army from town to town, taking possession of\nall in his way, till the sudden arrival of St. Louis stopped his career.\nThe King of France laid siege to Tonnay-Boutonne, of which strong place\nscarcely anything now remains, took it, and reconquered several other\nfortresses. At length Louis sat down before Taillebourg, then held by\nGeoffrey de Rancon for the King of England. It was here, in these\ncrocus-covered meadows, opposite the blackened walls of this crumbling\nruin, that the great monarch pitched his tents and placed his camp,\nintending from thence to attack his enemy at Saintes.\n\nHenry, meantime, felt secure that the Lord of Taillebourg would stand\nhis friend, and that his strong castle would be a powerful protection to\nthe English army, and he should be able materially to molest the French;\nbut the grim Baron de Rancon was in his heart a foe to the English, and\nhad embraced their cause upon compulsion: he waited but a favourable\nmoment to betray them; and when, from his towers, he saw the French army\nencamped in the meadows beneath them, he threw open his gates and\nsallied forth, followed by a numerous band of warriors, visited King\nLouis in his tent, and offered him his castle to abide in. His\ninvitation was accepted, and Louis and his knights returned with him to\nhis castle.\n\nHenry, hearing of this arrangement, took counsel with his general,\nHugues de Lusignan, and removed his head-quarters immediately to the\nneighbourhood of De Rancon's fortress, placing his troops in the meadows\nimmediately opposite those occupied by the soldiers of Louis; the river\nonly separated them, and across it was a long bridge, part of the ruins\nof which, evidently of Roman construction, may still be seen far away in\nthe flat meadows. Henry's force was much inferior to that of his\nopponent, and he declined coming at once to battle, as Louis desired: he\ndrew off his soldiers, leaving a strong defence on the bridge; by this\nmovement wishing to indicate that he did not intend engaging; but the\nFrench could not be restrained, and Louis, giving way to their\nimpetuosity, charged the defenders of the bridge at the head of five\nhundred knights. Immediately the river was covered with soldiers, who\nleaped into boats, and, hastening across the river, fell upon the\nEnglish with great fury. The shock was well sustained; Duke Richard,\nbrother to Henry, Lusignan, De Montford, and others, brought up their\ntroops to the conflict. St. Louis ran great risks that day; for\nJoinville says, that for every man with him the English had a hundred:\nas he was in the thick of the fray, his life was in great peril; but he\nwas successful, and remained in possession of the bridge, and the left\nbank of the Charente. Had he pursued his advantage, the English might\nhave been entirely routed; but, reflecting that the next day was Sunday,\nand should be devoted to prayer, he consented to the truce proposed by\nDuke Richard, and ordered his men to re-cross the bridge.\n\nRichard cunningly took advantage of this circumstance, and hurrying back\nto his brother's tent, exclaimed, \"Quick, quick! not a moment is to be\nlost; let us fly or we are defeated!\" As rapidly as possible the tents\nwere struck, the baggage prepared, and every man in readiness; and, in\nthe darkness of night, King Henry mounted his good steed, and never\nslackened rein till he reached the walls of Saintes, followed by his\nsoldiers, who, harassed and fatigued, were not sorry to find themselves\nonce more in security.\n\nThe astonishment of Louis was great, when, at break of day, he looked\nfrom his castle windows, and saw no vestige of the great army which had\ncovered the country on the preceding night: he very quietly ordered his\ntroops to cross the bridge, and they took possession of the spot just\nleft by the English. The next day he prepared to march on Saintes, and\nsent couriers forward to reconnoitre the country: a shepherd, who had\nobserved these movements, hastened to warn the Count de la Marche, who,\nwith his two sons, and his vassals, were in the Faubourg de St. Eutrope.\nHugues de Lusignan marched forth immediately to meet the French\n_avant-garde_, without naming his intention to the King of England who\nwas lodged in the town.\n\nCount Alfonse de Boulogne coming up at the moment with his party, joined\nthe _avant-garde_, and a furious combat took place: the first who fell\nwas the ch\u00e2telain of Saintes, who held the banner of the Count de la\nMarche. On both sides resounded the terrible war-cries of \"Aux armes!\nAux armes!\" and \"Royaux! Royaux!\" and \"Mont-joie! Mont-joie!\" according\nto the usage of both nations.\n\nThese cries, the neighing of horses, and the clash of arms, were heard\nto a great distance, and reached the ears of the King of England, who\ndemanded the cause: he was told that the Count de la Marche, resolved to\nrepair his honour, which he considered that their late retreat had\nsullied, had attacked the French. At this news Henry called for his\narmour, assembled his warriors, and hastened to the succour of his\nfather-in-law. At this juncture arrived King Louis. Mortified to be\nforestalled by an enemy, who he considered had basely quitted the field,\nhe gave the signal, and the soldiers of France fell pell-mell on the\nAnglo-Aquitainians, who received them firmly.\n\nA general m\u00eal\u00e9e then took place beneath the walls of Saintes; and in the\nmidst of the vines, amongst the groves, in the fields, on the high\nroads, a frightful carnage ensued.\n\nThe French fought with fury, increased by the resistance they met with;\nthe English ranks began to thin; overpowered by numbers, their\nbattalions became broken, the men turned their backs, and fled in\ndisorder to the gates of the town, to which the French pursued them with\nfearful slaughter. In vain Henry and Hugues de Lusignan endeavoured to\nrally the dispersed troops; their expostulations were drowned in the\nnoise and confusion, and they were themselves carried away by the stream\nof fugitives. Many of the French, in the ardour of the combat, entered\nthe town with the enemy, and were made prisoners. Louis then sounded a\nretreat, and fixed his camp a short distance from the walls.\n\nThe following days were employed in secret negotiations between the\nCount de la Marche and St. Louis, which ended in their reconciliation,\nand the Count's abandonment of the English monarch. Meantime Henry, with\nhis usual carelessness, after the first trouble was over, blindly\ndeceived himself into security, and resolved to spend the heats of the\nmonth of August in quiet and enjoyment, forgetting that he was little\nbetter than a prisoner in Saintes, and taking no heed of the treachery\nof his friends without. Four days he allowed to pass as if no enemy were\nat his gates; he even made parties of pleasure, and seemed resolved to\nthink no more of the war, when he was suddenly roused from his false\nsecurity by his brother, Richard, who had been warned of the dangers\nwhich threatened them by a French knight, whose life he had saved in\nPalestine.\n\nBy this means the self-deceiving monarch learnt that preparations were\nbeing made by Louis to invest the town with all his forces, and that the\nnext day at day-break the siege was to commence. When this intelligence\nreached Henry he was just about to sit down to table; at the same time\nhe learnt that the citizens of Saintes proposed to treat with his foes;\nand he had not an instant to lose. He promptly gave orders that the\nhouses of the _bourgeois_ should _be set on fire_, and, mounting his\nhorse, set out, hungry and fatigued as he was after a day's excursion of\namusement, towards Blaye, as fast as speed could take him. His captains\nwere soon informed of his flight; they left their half-cooked viands, as\ndid all the army, who were still fasting, and the confusion of departure\nexceeded belief; all hurried towards Blaye, where they sought refuge,\nexhausted and worn, and but for a few berries which they gathered to\nsatisfy the cravings of their hunger, they had nearly all perished on\nthe way.\n\nThe following day the citizens and clergy of Saintes, in solemn\nprocession, repaired to the camp of St. Louis, bringing with them the\nkeys of the town, and swearing oaths of fealty. The King of France\nentered in triumph, occupied all the evacuated posts, and placed a\ngarrison in the old citadel of the capital. His next care was to subdue\nall the lords of the neighbouring castles, which, having done, he\ncommenced building a new line of walls to replace the dilapidated\nAnglo-Roman line, which was falling in ruins. After this, says the\nchronicler, St. Louis returned to his dominion of France, leaving\ngarrisons in all the strong places of Saintonge and Aunis.\n\nThe ruins of the castle of Taillebourg serve, like most fortresses in\nFrance now-a-days, as promenades to the town to which they belong; all\nalong the top of the massive walls, which extend to some distance, is a\nline of open balustrades, which has, from the river, a very ornamental\nand somewhat Italian effect. Spreading trees rise above this, which\nappear to form part of a plantation within, and placed, as the castle\nis, on a very great elevation, at a turn of the river, which it must\nhave commanded, it has a peculiarly imposing and picturesque effect. The\ntown by no means answers to the beauty of its promenades; but that is\nvery frequently the case, and need not be a matter of surprise. A series\nof rugged rocks, continued for some distance along the shore, add much\nto the beauty of the scenery. The next castle is that of Bussac, which\nretains a part of its old walls and towers, though a modern building\nfills up the vacancies between. It stands well, and must have been a\nfitting neighbour to Taillebourg; beyond this is a magnificent wood, Le\nBois de Sainte Marie, which covers the hills for nearly a league, and\nhas a very grand appearance.\n\nDuring the wars of religion the river Charente, from the first fortress\nwe passed of Tonnay Charente, the site of which and a few stones alone\nremain, to the town of Saintes, was a continued theatre of contention\nand violence. One scene is curious; its hero was another of the\nredoubtable barons of Taillebourg named Romegoux, whose singular\nexpedition is thus recounted:\n\nThe town of Saintes, having changed masters several times, was in the\nhands of the Huguenot party, and the governor was the lord of Bussac\nwhen Charles IX. sent the Duke of Anjou into that part of the country;\nand, under his orders, the Sieur de la Rivi\u00e8re-Puytaill\u00e9 made several\nattempts on the town; but Bussac's vigilance foiled him continually. As\nhe was returning to his fortress of Tonnay-Charente, there to wait for\nanother occasion of molesting the enemy, in passing the castle of\nTaillebourg he was attacked by the Huguenot garrison. After a brisk\nskirmish the latter returned to his stronghold, growling like a\ndisturbed bear, and longing for an opportunity to vent his rage.\n\nMeantime, Puytaill\u00e9 was again summoned to the walls of Saintes, for the\ncitizens had risen; and fearing that an army would besiege them if they\nheld for the Protestants, they resolved to turn out those who were\nwithin their walls, and give themselves up to the king's officer. Bussac\nwas obliged therefore to yield, and was allowed to march out of one\ngate as Puytaill\u00e9 marched in at the other.\n\nWhen the Baron de Romegoux heard this he was greatly enraged, and\nresolved to make an effort to regain the place; he accordingly invited\nfive or six hundred men, whom he thought as zealous as himself, to a\nrendezvous, but only twenty-five attended his summons. This handful\nshowing themselves little disposed to attempt so perilous an adventure,\nRomegoux was almost distracted with vexation; he wept, tore his hair,\nand used every entreaty he could think of to induce them to join him,\nfor he was certain of success. At length he succeeded in inspiring them\nwith his own ardour, and they consented to accompany him wherever he\nshould lead them.\n\nArmed with axes, and furnished with ladders, they set out, in the middle\nof the night, for Saintes. They fixed their ladder near the Porte\nAigui\u00e8res; as they were mounting, Romegoux heard a patrol passing; as\nsoon as it was gone he and his companions lost no time in hurrying into\nthe town; he divided his party into two, placing them at a small\ndistance from the rampart, to protect his retreat in case of surprise;\nthen, followed by the most determined of his band, he marched straight\nto the lodging of Combaudi\u00e8re, who had been left by Puytaill\u00e9 in his\nplace to command in his absence.\n\nRomegoux broke open the door, surprised the governor in his bed, forced\nhim to rise, and, without giving him time to dress himself, obliged him\nto march before them; but so paralysed was he with terror, that he had\nscarcely the power to move. One of the Huguenots, therefore, placed him\non his shoulders, and carried him rapidly off towards the Porte\nAigui\u00e8res, intending to descend by the ladders which had given them\nentrance: but their companions had, in the meantime, broken the bar of\nthe gate, and lowered the drawbridge. Romegoux and his people made their\nexit in good order through this door, to the sound of the tocsin, the\ndrums and the cries of alarm of the garrison and citizens, who, awaked\nfrom their slumbers, were hurrying hither and thither in the utmost\nconfusion. The victorious party paused only at the end of the faubourg,\nto allow the governor to dress himself, and then went off with their\nprize.\n\nRomegoux, however, though he gained great reputation by this daring\nadventure, was unable to carry his design further, owing to want of\nmeans, and he was so disappointed and annoyed at being forced to stop in\nmid-career, that he was nearly dying with vexation.\n\nIn this castle of Taillebourg was afterwards established a Protestant\nchapel, and _there_ were buried, after the fatal battle _des Ar\u00e8nes_, at\nSaintes, the _four brothers_ Coligny, of whom d'Aubign\u00e9 says, \"They were\nsimilar in countenance, but still more in probity, prudence, and\nvalour.\"\n\nAfter a very agreeable voyage, we, at length, saw the towers and spires\nof the old town of Saintes rising from the waters, and landed, for the\nfirst time, _from a steam-boat_, without much confusion: we resigned\nourselves at once to the care of a very little boy, who bustled about\nwith great importance, and conducted us in triumph to the H\u00f4tel de La\nCouronne, by a long and beautiful boulevard of majestic trees, which\ngave a very imposing impression of the town.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XIII.\n\n     SAINTES--ROMAN ARCH OF TRIUMPH--GOTHIC BRIDGE--THE COURS--RUINED\n     CITY--CATHEDRAL--COLIGNY--RUINED PALACE--ST.\n     EUTROPE--AMPHITHEATRE--LEGEND OF STE. EUSTELLE--THE PRINCE OF\n     BABYLON--F\u00caTE--THE C\u00d4TEAU--STE. MARIE.\n\n\nOF course the earliest object which one hastens to see in Saintes, is\nthe famous Roman arch. We beheld it first by moon-light, when its large,\nspectre-like proportions, as it stood in shadow, at the extremity of the\nbridge, gave a solemn character to the scene suitable to its antiquity:\nthe uncertain light softened all the inequalities of its surface, and it\nseemed a monument of the magnificence of the days of old, which time and\ntempest had spared; but it was far otherwise in the morning, when we\npaid it our second visit, and a broad glare of sun-light brought out\nall its age and _infirmities_: then became apparent the rents and\nravages which had entirely deprived it of the original polish of its\nsurface; and it seems to totter, as if the first gale would hurl its\nruins into the waters beneath. Not a stone looks in its place; they\nappear as if confusedly heaped one on the other, after having been\ndestroyed and built up again: it is, therefore, with infinite surprise\nthat you find, on approaching nearer and nearer, that its solidity is\nstill so great--that the melted lead inserted between the stones, which\nbinds it so firmly, is as strong as ever, and that parts of the interior\nof the arch are even and smooth; much, however, of this has been\nrestored. After looking at this magnificent arch a little while, you\nbegin to imagine it, in the glare of day, as perfect as it appeared when\nthe moon-beams played above, and showed it in such perfection; and all\nthe modern buildings round, look like houses built of dominos compared\nto its gigantic form. It is as if an old Roman were standing at the\nentrance of the town, silent, stern, and proud, and gazing with contempt\non the ephemeral creatures of an age he knew nothing of, and who were\nunworthy to pass him by.\n\nEverything about this singular monument is mysterious: it seems\ndifficult to determine how it came in its present position, for the\nbridge on which it stands is of considerably later date than itself,\nalthough that is of Gothic construction. It would appear that, at the\ntime it was built, the waters of the Charente did not run in that\ndirection, and having changed their course, the bridge was built from\nnecessity, and joined the arch which existed long before: but then it\nmust always have stood as high above the bed of the river as it does\nnow, which puzzles one again. It is true that traces are still to be\nfound of the ancient bed of a river, and, in a house in the Faubourg des\nDames, an arch, called by tradition _Le Pont-Amillon_, has been\ndiscovered.\n\nThe date of the monument is given as the year 774 of Rome, and 21 A.D.\nIt has two circular arches, supported by Corinthian pillars, and a broad\nentablature; on which the curious can read an inscription, some of the\nletters of which, with difficulty, we could decipher. Above the cornice,\nis a double range of battlements, which have a most singular appearance,\nas they do not, by any means, amalgamate with the rest of the building:\nthey are, nevertheless, very boldly constructed, and appear to form part\nof the original design. There is, however, no doubt that they are the\nwork of a Gothic hand, and may, probably, date with the bridge. The\nstones of which it is composed, are masses of four and five French feet\nlong, and two and a half thick, placed at equal distances, without\ncement, and rendered solid by the introduction of melted lead and iron\nhooks, some of which may still be seen in the intervals between the\nstones. The stone is from the neighbourhood of Saintes, and is full of\nshells and fossils: its height is twenty metres, French measurement: and\nit is three metres thick, and fifteen wide.\n\nGreat precautions were taken, in 1666, to preserve this precious\nmonument, at the expense of M. de Bassompierre, Bishop of Saintes; but\nso disjointed are some of its parts, that, except the utmost care is\ncontinued, it can scarcely be expected to survive the demolition of the\nancient bridge, on which it stands, and which is doomed to destruction.\n\nI heard with consternation that such was about to be the case, and that\na suspension-bridge is to replace it. What they will do with _the old\nRoman_ it is difficult to say, or how they are to preserve it, standing,\nas it does, almost in the centre of the river, or what effect it will\nproduce in so isolated a position, if permitted to stand, are questions\nwhich naturally occur. It is to be hoped that the inhabitants will delay\nits fate as long as possible, and, considering how very much must be\ndone in Saintes before, by any possibility, it can be made to approach\nto anything like a habitable town, it seems a pity that one of its most\ninteresting and famous possessions should be torn from it. When its Arch\nof Triumph falls, much of the glory of Saintes will fall with it; but it\nwill probably one day become a commercial town; the steam-boats, which\nnow stop below the venerable old bridge, will sweep over the spot where\nit stood for ages, and the old Roman arch will be considered in the way,\nand will be _removed_!\n\nThe inscriptions on the _attic_, which is divided into three parts, I\ngive from a work on the subject, as it may interest _arch\u00e6ological\nreaders_:--\n\n     INSCRIPTION ON THE ATTIC, NEXT THE TOWN.\n\n     \"To Germanicus C\u00e6sar, son of Tiberius Augustus, grandson of the\n     divine Augustus, great grandson of the divine Julius, augur, priest\n     of Augustus, consul for the second time, emperor for the second\n     time.\n\n     \"To Tiberius C\u00e6sar, son of the divine Augustus, grand pontiff,\n     consul for the fourth time, emperor for the eighth time the year of\n     his tribunitian power.\n\n     \"To Drusus C\u00e6sar, son of Tiberius Augustus, grandson of the divine\n     Augustus, great grandson of the divine Julius, pontiff, augur.\"\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\n     INSCRIPTION ON THE FRIEZE, NEXT THE TOWN.\n\n     \"Caius Julius Rufus, son of Caius Julius Ottuaneunus, grandson of\n     Caius Julius Gededmon, great grandson of Epotsorovidus, priest,\n     consecrated to the worship of Rome and Augustus in the temple,\n     which is at the confluence, in his quality of intendant of works,\n     has made the dedication of this monument.\"\n\nThe inscription on the frieze, at the side of the Faubourg, is the same\nrepeated.\n\nThere seems, however, to be much uncertainty as to who the monument was\ndedicated to, and the subject is a constant source of dispute with the\nlearned: the inscription can hardly be said to exist at present, so much\nobliterated are the letters; but enough seems to remain to revive\ninquiry and puzzle conjecture. The arch is more massive, but scarcely so\nbeautiful as the arches at Autun, with which we were so much delighted:\nit is much more conspicuous and higher: both of those being on low\nground. There is no occasion to seek for this of Saintes; for it stands,\nlike a huge baron of old, guarding the river: we saw a company of\nsoldiers pass beneath it, as we lingered at a distance, and we felt\nastonished to think how, in the midst of the centuries of violence it\nhad seen, in all the stormings and batterings and besiegings, it could\npossibly have escaped, and be still there, a monument of the power of\nthe most redoubtable warriors of all.\n\nSaintes is one of the most extraordinary towns I ever saw: it somewhat\nreminded me of Autun, of Provins, of Ch\u00e2teau Thierry; yet it is very\ndifferent from either, and in fact\n\n    \"None but itself can be its parallel.\"\n\nIt is separated into three towns, quite distinct one from the other, yet\njoined, like a trefoil. As you stand on the broad boulevard leading\nabove the first town, the other two spread out beneath on either hand.\nThe churches of Notre Dame, of St. Eutrope, and the cathedral of St.\nPierre, each claim a part.\n\nDescending the _Cours_, the aspect of that division which claims the\nstupendous church of St. Eutrope[10] is wondrously imposing. I never\nbeheld anything more so, and we stood some time on the high-raised road\nwhich commanded the view, rapt in astonishment at the ruined grandeur\nbefore us. The enormous tower of St. Eutrope rises from a mass of\nbuildings which appear Lilliputian beside it; gardens and vines and\norchards slope down from it, and low in the meadows a long series of\narches betray the celebrated amphitheatre--another of the wonders of\nthis remarkable place. What convents and churches and castles and towers\nhave been cleared away to form the _Cours_ which extend from town to\ntown, I cannot say; but it appears as if not a quarter of the original\nsite can now be occupied; indeed, one is perfectly bewildered at every\nstep with the piles of ruin and rubbish scattered about, the remains of\nold buildings destroyed to make room for new, which, begun and left\nunfinished, or completed and then abandoned, have added a series of\nmodern ruins to those which are antique. There is not a single street,\nor place, or road in Saintes, which can be called finished: materials\nfor building are scattered in all directions, and, in many parts, moss\nand weeds have grown up amidst the piles of stone destined to construct\nsome new house or temple: in the meantime the streets are without\npavement, or as bad, hollow, damp, dirty, and dreary; the houses are\nunpainted, slovenly, neglected, and ugly: the churches are dilapidated,\nor but half restored; grass grows in the newly-projected squares, and\nall is in a state of confusion and litter. It seems as if the task of\nregenerating Saintes, rebuilding it from the ground, in fact, had been\nundertaken in a moment of desperation, and the project had been\nabandoned as suddenly as conceived.\n\n[Footnote 10: Since this was written, I grieve to observe, by the French\nnewspapers, that the tower and part of the church of St. Eutrope, have\nbeen destroyed by lightning.]\n\nAll attention seems now directed to the river side. The erection of a\nnew quay absorbs every mind; and all the workmen that can be procured\nare busy hurrying to and fro, amidst the mud and water of the spot where\npassengers land from the steam-boat. One would wonder why any body\nshould think of coming to Saintes at all, except from curiosity, as we\ndid; but that it is the direct route to the Gironde; where, from\nMortagne, another steam-boat, in communication with the Charente,\nconveys passengers to Bordeaux. Since the establishment of these boats a\ngreat change has been operated in Saintes, and probably its condition\nwill now improve.\n\nNotwithstanding this _too true_ description of the once important\ncapital of Saintonge, it possesses an interest which may well attract\nthe antiquarian visitor to its walls. The ruins of the Arch and those of\nthe Amphitheatre alone would be attraction enough for many; and as the\nhotels are remarkably good, clean, and comfortable, a sojourn of a few\ndays in Saintes will quite repay the traveller who comes, as we did, out\nof his way to visit its battered walls. We were not fortunate, as at La\nRochelle, in the weather, for most of our excursions were performed in\nthe midst of showers. I cannot but think, from the experience of several\nyears' travelling, that there is even more uncertainty in the weather in\nFrance than in England; and I was particularly struck with the fact,\nthat the nearer we approached the south, the colder, damper, and less\ngenial it became. It is a mere absurdity to talk of the difference of\nour climate and that of France, in any part: it is assuredly _warmer_ in\nEngland, and not a whit more changeable.\n\nWe took advantage of the first gleams, after a wet night, to explore the\nstrange old town, once said to contain a hundred thousand inhabitants,\nand, both in the time of the Gauls and the Romans, to have been of the\nutmost importance.\n\nThe cathedral is a monument of the violence of religious fanaticism; it\nwas almost torn to pieces by the Huguenots; in the sixteenth century,\nall its fine architecture was defaced, its saints dragged from their\nniches, and its ornaments destroyed. The principal entrance must,\noriginally, have been very grand; but is so much injured that little but\nits form remains. The most remarkable part of the building is the\nenormous tower, which rises to a gigantic height above all the edifices\nof the town on the side next the river, vying with that of St. Eutrope\nin the opposite quarter. This tower is supported by flying buttresses,\nof great strength and beauty: the Calvinists had resolved on its\ndestruction, and had already begun its demolition, when it was\nrepresented to Admiral Coligny that the fall of so gigantic a mass would\nprobably occasion serious accidents; and that if it were fortified it\nmight be turned to great advantage for the defence of the town.\nFortunately, this advice was taken, and the fine tower remains in all\nits stupendous grandeur, with its flying buttresses, crocketed pyramids\nand arches, unique in their form; it is said to be one of the largest in\nEurope, and one of the finest specimens of the decorated style of Gothic\narchitecture.\n\nThe interior of the church is so much altered as to have little of the\noriginal left; however, a few bits show how fine it must once have been:\nthe mean buildings which formerly hemmed it in are removed, and an open\nspace is left, which allows it to be seen to some advantage.\n\nOn the spot where once stood the capitol, the civil hospital now crowns\nthe height, and a fine view of the country and the river may be had from\nthat point, though the road to it is sufficiently difficult to deter one\nfrom approaching it. A fine military hospital is placed in an elevated\nposition answering to the other. The college, founded by Henry IV., is\nsaid to be good, and the prison very admirable in its way. The rest of\nthe public buildings are no more to be admired than the private ones.\n\nWe remarked a very handsome house, forming one side of a neglected\nsquare, whose grand terraces and fine wings spoke it something of\nconsequence. We found it was once the bishop's palace, but had been long\nleft to go to ruin; and a part of it was now used by some Sisters of\nCharity for a school. It was but of a piece with the rest of Saintes,\ndesolate and degraded, and \"fallen from its high estate.\"\n\nSt. Eutrope lay in our way to the ruins of the great amphitheatre, and\nwe paused as we passed it at an open door, which was too tempting a\ncircumstance to be neglected on a rainy morning, when there might be\nsome trouble in finding the sacristan, and we rightly judged this would\nlead to the famous crypt, the object of admiration and surprise to\nantiquarians. Down a steep inclination we pursued our way towards a dark\nnook, and there, through an iron grating, we discovered before us the\nsubterranean church, of immense size, and in perfect preservation; its\nmassive pillars and sharpcut capitals, its high-curved roof and circular\narches, all perfect, and its floor and walls undergoing restoration. We\nresolved to see it more in detail hereafter, and, in the meantime, went\non to a lower part of the dim passage, where, turning aside, we found\nourselves close to a huge well of fearful depth, all round which were\nranged stone coffins, of primitive forms, one, in particular, still\npreserving its cover, and of a most mysterious shape, which must have\nbelonged to some early inhabitant of this holy pile.\n\nWhile we were speculating on the subject, a voice at a distance reached\nour ears, requesting to know how long we intended to remain in that\nretreat: we returned, and found, stationed at the door by which we had\nentered, a young woman with pails of water by her side: she laughed\ngood-humouredly, and remarked--\"I would not disturb you as I saw you\nlooking through the bars of the old church as I came back from drawing\nwater; but you staid so long that I began to think it time to call out,\nas I must lock the door and go home now.\" We accordingly accompanied her\nout, resolving to resume our visit on our return from the Ar\u00e8nes, to\nwhich she directed us.\n\nWe followed a very steep path; and, keeping a range of ruined arches in\nview, threaded the mazes of a long lane, till we arrived at the\nirregular space where once stood the famous Roman amphitheatre. The\ndiameter of this building is the same as that of N\u00eemes, and it,\napparently, could have held about five thousand spectators: the ruins\nare scattered over a very large extent in confused heaps; but there are\na great many vaulted arches, small and great, still standing, some\ncovered with weeds and grass, and overhung with wild vines and flowering\nshrubs. There appears little doubt that here was a Naumachia, from\ndifferent discoveries that have been made of vaults which must have\nconducted the waters to this spot. The meadows and little hills all\naround are covered with remains of this once important place of\namusement; and the labourer is for ever turning up, with his spade or\nplough, coins and capitals and broken pillars and pavement, belonging to\nthe period of its existence.\n\nThere still exists in the centre of what was the Naumachia, a well,\ncalled La Fontaine de Sainte-Eustelle, to which miraculous virtues are\neven now attributed, and to which the following legend belongs:\n\nEustelle was the daughter of an officer high in command in Saintonge: a\nman of great power and severity, and a pagan: he had a particular horror\nof the sect called Christians, who had begun to spread themselves over\nthe country, and were slowly, but surely, making their way. It was far\ndifferent with his beautiful daughter, whose nurse having imbibed the\nprinciples of the true faith, had communicated her knowledge to her\nfoster-child, who listened with delight to her lessons, and, from year\nto year, as she grew up, more than ever abhorred the superstitious\nobservances of her father and her friends. In the huge hollow stones\nworshipped as gods, she saw only profanation; and, while compelled to\noffer sacrifice to an imaginary deity, she in her heart addressed\nprayers to a superior Being, that he would condescend to enlighten\nthose who were led astray, and assist her in her secret faith.\n\nIt was at this period that her father resolved to bestow her in marriage\non the son of Xerxes, King of Babylon; and as the prince was shortly\nexpected to arrive in Saintonge, he bade her prepare to receive her\nintended husband. Eustelle heard these tidings with despair, secretly\nresolving never to become the wife of a heathen, such as she was certain\nthe Prince of Babylon must be: her tears and entreaties, however, had no\neffect on her father, who began to suspect her change of faith, and\nresolved to secure the alliance at once. Preparations on a magnificent\nscale were being made, and in a few days the bridegroom elect was\nexpected to arrive, when news was suddenly brought that the prince had\ndisappeared from his father's court, and was nowhere to be found. The\nfather of Eustelle hastened to her chamber to prepare her for the\ndisappointment, when, to his surprise, he found her not; and on the\ncouch where she usually slept a golden cross was laid; but no one could\ngive any account of her. The country was searched in all directions in\nvain; and it was at length supposed that Eustelle had destroyed herself.\n\nIt was, however, far otherwise, for, in a cavern by the side of a\nfountain, on the spot where now stand the ruins of the Roman\namphitheatre, Eustelle had concealed herself, having been guided thither\nby a shining light, which flitted before her to the spot, and rested at\nthe mouth of the cavern: there she was miraculously supported, drinking\nonly of the waters of the fountain, which not only served her for\nnourishment, but so increased her beauty, that she was a marvel to\nbehold. One morning, as she came forth from her cavern to perform her\nusual devotions at the side of the fountain, she was surprised to see a\nyoung man kneeling on the ground in devout prayer, so absorbed that he\ndid not perceive her approach; but as he raised his eyes, her figure\nbecoming suddenly visible to him, he exclaimed, \"Oh, blessed Heaven! my\nprayers are then heard--the Holy Virgin is herself before me!\" Eustelle\nstarted, and amazed at his words, demanded who he was, and whether he\nwas indeed a Christian, like herself, as his exclamation made it appear.\n\"Beautiful lady,\" replied he, \"since you are not, as I supposed, a\nheavenly visitant, know that I am Eutrope, the son of the King of\nBabylon, fled from a marriage which I detested with a pagan of this\ncountry. I am, indeed, a Christian and a priest, and obliged to conceal\nmy faith from the persecutors of those who hate us. The time will come\nwhen we can declare ourselves, for already we increase in numbers as in\nfaith.\"\n\nEustelle, as she looked upon his features and heard the soft tones of\nhis voice, felt a momentary regret that he had been so precipitate in\nrejecting the supposed pagan wife offered him; but considering such\nfeelings a crime, she replied: \"Holy father, you see before you one who\nhas also fled from persecution, and sought a solitude where she can\nworship the only true God in safety. I am she who was destined to be\nyour wife, had not a better fate been prepared for us both. In future,\nwe can serve and pray, and our spirits will together praise Him, who has\ndirected us thus to meet.\"\n\nWhat passed in the mind of Eutrope, when he heard these words, it is\ndifficult to say; but he resigned himself at once to the lot which was\nappointed for him. He built himself a hut at a small distance from the\ncavern, and, devoting himself to prayer and thanksgiving, he permitted\nhis mind only to regard Eustelle in the light of a holy sister, while\nshe on her part held him as a saint sent to confirm her in her belief.\nBy the side of the miraculous fountain, many a time did the holy pair\nsit in pious converse, mutually instructing each other, while angels\nhovered above them, and joined in the chorus of praise which they sang.\n\nSt. Eutrope afterwards became the first bishop of Saintes, and St.\nEustelle lived a recluse in her cavern, where miracles were long\nafterwards performed by her, and where she expired at the same moment\nthat her holy companion suffered the martyrdom which secured him a crown\nof glory to all eternity.\n\nThe f\u00eate of the two saints is kept together on the 30th of April, and,\nfor eight days after, the otherwise quiet town of Saintes is a scene of\ngaiety and rejoicing: a fair is held, and minstrels, jugglers, and\nmerchants of all kinds add to the liveliness of the scene. Why such\ndemonstrations should be made in honour of two persons whose lives were\nspent in solitude and self-denial, it is somewhat difficult to\nunderstand; and how the dull, dreary, desolate, and ruined town can ever\nbe made to wear a brilliant aspect, is equally difficult of\ncomprehension; but such _is said_ to be the case. On the morning of the\nf\u00eate, great honours were paid, formerly, to St. Eustelle, which are not\neven yet altogether discontinued. An image of the holy Virgin is\nsuspended in the grotto near the miraculous well, and there the water is\ndispensed to believers in its efficacy \"for a consideration.\"\n\nIt is principally visited by young girls, who are anxious to secure a\nhappy issue to an existing attachment, or to obtain, through the medium\nof the indulgent saint, a lover before the end of the year. The way to\nobtain this is to throw a pin into the fountain, and to drink a little\nof the water. It is not impossible, after this, that a prince of Babylon\nwill make his appearance. Every year, however, this superstition is\nwearing out, and probably will soon be forgotten altogether.\n\nThe sun shone, and, the day being mild, we lingered for some time\namongst these extensive ruins, climbing and exploring and looking down\ncaverns and ravines in the rocks, beneath one of which rolls a dark\nstream, doubtless the source of those waters which were formerly\ndirected into the arena to serve the Naumachia. There is something\nfearful in knowing that beneath your feet, as you wander in these ruined\nplaces, exist gulphs of darkness, into which a false step amongst\ntreacherous bushes and weeds might precipitate the unwary. We were\ndriven from both the beauties and dangers of the spot by the beginning\nof a shower, and determined on making a retreat to St. Eutrope, whose\nenormous tower beckoned us from the hill above. We had not, however,\ngone many steps when the storm came down with all the impatient fury of\n_French rain_, and we were glad to take shelter in a wood-shed, at a\nhouse which we should have endeavoured to visit had no accident\nintroduced us to its premises.\n\nThis house, now entirely modern, belongs to a farmer, and is called _The\nC\u00f4teau_; in the garden is an _oyster bank_ of some extent, which is\nlooked upon as one of several proofs that the sea once bathed the walls\nof Saintes; and beneath the building is a subterranean range, formerly\ncommunicating with the amphitheatre, which is distant the length of\nseveral fields from the house. As accidents might occur in consequence\nof the great extent and ruined state of the galleries and arches of this\nsingular building, the proprietor has lately closed up the entrance, and\nthere is now no possibility of exploring; but the wonders of this place\nhave been described by different writers who have occupied themselves\nwith the antiquities of Saintes, of which there is so much to be said\nand seen that it is almost a dangerous subject to touch upon. Certainly\nit is a town which presents a wide field of enquiry and interest to\narch\u00e6ologists, and as it now lies in the highway to Bordeaux, the\ncurious may be attracted to its walls, and will be rewarded by their\nvisit.\n\nThen, perchance, may be fitly described by a Gally Knight, the\nCamp _de C\u00e9sar_, the _Terrier de Toulon_, the _Tour de Pyrelonge_,\nthe Aqueduct of _Font-Giraud_, the Cavern of _Ouaye-\u00e0-M\u00e9tau_, the\n_Grand-Font-du-Douhet_, the _Font-Morillon_, the _Plantes des\nNeuf-puits_, all works of the Gauls and Romans, of which, wells\nand arches, and baths and subterranean temples, still excite the\nastonishment, not only of the peasants who are constantly stumbling on\ntheir remains, but of the antiquary who ventures into the long galleries\nand ruined chambers which speak to him of the glories of a people who\nonce swayed the country they rendered powerful and beautiful by their\narchitecture, the traces of which time itself cannot entirely sweep\naway.\n\nWe found, on visiting St. Eutrope on our return, that little interest\nattaches to the church itself, scarcely any part of its interior having\nbeen spared by the numerous hostilities which it has had to undergo;\nsome parts of the exterior are, however, beautiful, and the crypt lost\nnone of its interest on a second view. It is, after that of Chartres,\nthe most perfect and the most extraordinary in France, and formerly\nextended as far again as at present. The fine bold circular arches, of\ndifferent sizes and heights; the massive cylindrical pillars, the rich\nsharp capitals, and _still fresh_ gothic character of the cornices,\nastonish the beholder; it is undergoing restoration in parts, which\nappears sufficiently judicious. So solemn and silent was the sacristan\nwho conducted us over this subterranean church, that we imagined for\nsome time he was dumb, till we were undeceived on his expressing his\npleasure at the small donation we bestowed on him for his trouble; as it\nis somewhat difficult, at the present day, in France, to meet the\nexalted expectations of the numerous guides who exhibit to English\ntravellers the lions of their towns, we were amused at the satisfaction\nbetrayed by our silent cicerone.\n\nThe once beautiful church of Notre Dame, or Ste. Marie, serves now as\nthe stables of the garrison, and all its fine remains are hidden from\npublic view; parts of its exterior still attract the eye, and make one\nregret that it has fallen into such utter decay. It was once covered\nwith statues of great beauty, some of which remain; but that of Geoffrey\nMartel, its founder, is destroyed, with a host of others, once its\npride; enough, however, is to be seen which is well worthy of attention;\nbut, from its present occupation, we did not do more than attempt to\nfind it out in its degradation. The cells of the nuns are now occupied\nby dragoons.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XIV.\n\n     FR\u00c8RE CHR\u00c9TIEN--UTILITY OF CUSTOM-HOUSE SEARCH--BOLD\n     VOYAGER--PAUILLAC--BLAYE--THE GIRONDE--TALBOT--VINES--THE\n     LANDES--PHANTOM OF KING ARTHUR--THE WITCH-FINDER--THE\n     LANDES--WRECKERS.\n\n\nOUR destination was now the Gironde, and we found our only plan was to\nset out in the middle of the night for Mortagne, where the steam-boat to\nBordeaux from Royan touched for passengers. We accordingly secured our\nplaces in the _coup\u00e9_, and, having been quite punctual to the hour of\ntwelve, we expected to begin our journey. At the appointed time,\nhowever, neither horses nor _conducteur_ were to be found, and the\ndiligence remained for a full hour beneath the trees of the _cours_,\nfilled with its impatient passengers, without any appearance of moving.\nThe pause was enlivened by a violent altercation between a passenger on\nthe roof and the proprietor, which caused a great encounter of tongues,\nso furious that we dreaded that blows must ensue, when we heard the\nvociferous individual who had usurped somebody's place, favoured by the\ndarkness, kicking and resisting as he was dragged from his exalted\nstation. However, as is almost always the case in France, the moment the\nculprit--who was loud in his threats of vengeance when too far off to\nexecute them--descended to earth, and had an opportunity of making them\ngood, he became mute and humble, and made his escape at once, amidst the\njeers of those who had also threatened to annihilate him as soon as he\nwas within their reach. This scene, taking place at midnight, beneath\nthe high trees of the great avenue in the gloomy ruined town of Saintes,\nwas sufficiently unpleasant, as there seemed less and less chance of our\never stirring from the spot, and a great probability of our arriving, at\nany rate, too late for the steamer at Mortagne; but a priest, who was\nour companion, and who seemed to have previously filled up the lonely\nhours of evening by potations, seemed greatly to enjoy the bustle, till\na remark of mine, on the unsuitableness of the scene to one of his\norder, acted like magic on him, and he ceased the _swearing_ and\nencouraging exclamations in which he had before indulged, and became as\nmeek and demure as he probably passed for, being amongst those whose\neyes he knew to be on him. He was of the order of Christian Brothers: a\ncommunity by no means remarkable for the edification of their manners\nand demeanour.\n\nIt is customary with _conducteurs_, when very much behind their time,\nto regain it by furious driving; and this being the case in our\ninstance, we got to the inn at Mortagne in time, the boat being, as it\nhappened, later than usual. In the midst of the rain we were obliged to\nobey the custom-house summons to produce our keys, in order that our\ntrunks might be inspected, and if _bales of cotton_ should be found\namongst our caps and gowns, we might suffer according to our offence\nagainst the laws. After much uncording and dashing and knocking about of\nbaggage, the person who officiated proceeded to drag open the suspected\npackages rather unceremoniously. An exclamation, which one of our party\nmade in English, seemed to put an end, however, to the search, for,\nlooking up and bowing, he said, \"Oh, English ladies,--that's enough!\"\nHaving escaped this _necessary_ ceremony, we had to walk about half a\nmile in the mud and rain to the pier, though there was no sort of reason\nwhy the coach should not have taken us all with our goods to the shore;\nexcept, indeed, that by so convenient an arrangement, the demands of a\nwhole host of porters would have been evaded.\n\nWe were huddled into a clumsy boat, some standing and some sitting on\nthe wet seats, and paddled off to the steamer which stood off; our\nbaggage strewn on the pier, to be transported hereafter, if the captain\nchose to wait. And in this unpleasing state of uncertainty, at six\no'clock in the morning, in a pouring rain, we were put on board the\nvessel which was to transport us to Bordeaux.\n\nIn spite, however, of the wondrous confusion which made it probable that\naccidents of all kinds would ensue, nothing tragical happened, and\nnothing was lost. One little stout man, in a long cloak, attached\nhimself to our side, not so much with a view of affording us _his_\nprotection, as to obtain it at our hands. He looked very pale and cold;\nand as he trudged along in the mud, addressed me frequently, in\ntremulous tones, requesting to know my opinion as to the state of _the\nocean_; whether I did not fear that it would be very rough and very\ndangerous, confessing that he felt pretty sure such would be the case,\nthough he had never seen the sea before, and hoping I would not be\nalarmed. I assured him I had no fears on that head, as, in the first\nplace, wide as the expanse before us appeared, it was not the _sea_, but\nthe _river_, several leagues from its _embouchure_; next, that it was as\ncalm as a mill-pond, without a breath of wind to ruffle its thick yellow\nwaters. \"H\u00e9las!\" said he, \"you do not seem to care; but perhaps you have\nno baggage as I have, otherwise you would feel great uneasiness.\"\n\nI found him afterwards on board almost crying after his _eff\u00eats_, which\nconsisted of a hat-box, carpet-bag, and little bundle, all of which\nwere safely produced. When we had proceeded about an hour, he came\nstrutting up to us, and, with a patronizing air, exclaimed, \"There, you\nsee, there is no reason to be alarmed; I told you so.\" I gratified him\nexceedingly by agreeing that he was perfectly right.\n\nThe Gironde is, indeed, at this part, like the sea: the opposite shores\ncannot be distinguished, so broad and fine is the expanse; and the\nexceedingly ugly colour of the water is, at first, forgotten in the\nmagnitude of the space which surrounds the voyager.\n\nBut that we had resolved to make ourselves acquainted with the Roman\ncity of Saintes, we should have followed the usual course, and, on\nleaving Rochefort, proceeded across the country to Royan, once an\ninsignificant village, now a rather important bathing-place. By this\nmeans the whole of the banks of the Gironde may be seen; and it is a\ncharming voyage.\n\nThe first object of interest is the famous Tour de Corduan, built on a\nbank of rocks, and placed at the entrance of the river, with its\nrevolving light to warn mariners of their position. It was originally\nconstructed in 1548, by the celebrated engineer, Louis de Foix, whose\nworks at Bayonne have rendered his name illustrious. Pauillac is the\n_chef-lieu_ of the last canton of Haut-Medoc, and its port being good,\nmany vessels, which cannot reach so high as Bordeaux, stop here, and\ndischarge their cargo. Here grow the wines, called Ch\u00e2teau Lafitte, and\nCh\u00e2teau Latour. There is nothing very remarkable in the appearance of\nthe town but a long pier, of which many of our passengers took advantage\nto land, and our steward to go to market, returning with a store of\neatables, for which every one seemed quite ready. The weather had now\ncleared, and the aspect of things was, consequently, much brightened;\nand, as we approached Blaye, the skies were fine, and the air fresh and\nagreeable.\n\nA group of islands, called _Les Isles de Cazau_, rises from the waters;\nand on one of them appears the singularly-shaped tower of Blaye, so like\na _p\u00e2t\u00e9 de Perigord_, that it is impossible, on looking at it, not to\nthink of Charlemagne, or his nephew, the famous paladin, Rolando, who\nshould be the presiding genii of the scene.\n\nAll along the left bank of the river extend, in this direction, the\nfar-famed plains of Medoc--once the haunt of wolves and wild boars, now\ncovered with the vines renowned throughout Europe.\n\nThe first place, after Mortagne--where once stood the castle of that\nJeanne de Vend\u00f4me who falsely accused Jacques Coeur--is Pauillac, a town\nof some commercial importance; and near is an island, called Patiras,\nformerly the abode of a pirate, called Monstri, whose depredations were\nso extensive that the parliament of Bordeaux was obliged to send a\nconsiderable naval force to put him down. But Monstri was not the only\ndepredator who found the Gironde a fitting theatre for his piracy.\nAmongst all that _coquinaille_,--as Mezeray designates the notorious\nFree Companies who, after their services were no longer required to\ndrive the English from the recovered realm of Charles VII., exercised\ntheir cruelties and indulged their robber-propensities on the people of\nFrance, wherever they came,--was a knight and a noble, who may serve as\na type of those of his time, Roderigue de Villandras, known as _Le\nM\u00e9chant Roderigue_; together with Antoine de Chabannes, Lord of\nDammartin, the B\u00e2tard de Bourbon, and others; Villandras led a troop of\nthose terrible men, who boasted of the name of _Ecorcheurs_. It was true\nthat, in the lawless period when the destitute _Roi de Bourges_ had\nneither money nor power, they had done great service to his cause--as a\ntroop of trained wolves might have done--ravaging and destroying all\nthey came near; but the end once accomplished, the great desire of all\nlovers of order was to get rid of the scourge which necessity had\nobliged the king to endure so long. To such a pitch of insolence had\nthese leaders arrived, that, not content with despoiling every person\nthey met, Villandras had, at last, the effrontery to attack and pillage\nthe baggage of the king himself, and to maltreat his people. Enraged at\nfinding the vexations of which his suffering subjects had so long\nbitterly complained, come home to himself, personally, Charles resolved\non vigorous measures, and gave instant command that these companies\nshould be pursued and hunted from society: that every town and village\nshould take up arms against them, and, as for Chabannes, Roderigue,\n&c., they were banished from the kingdom. Roderigue, however, retired,\nwith a chosen band, to the Garonne, and there, entrenching himself in\none of the islands, carried on the trade of a pirate, destroying the\ncountry on each side of the river, and murdering the inhabitants without\nmercy.\n\nThis state of things lasted for some time: the labouring people and\nproprietors, unable to resist these incursions, left their land in\ndespair, and fled for protection into the towns: the consequence of\nwhich was, that plague and famine ensued, and their miserable country\nbecame a prey to a new species of wretchedness.\n\nIn less than six weeks, fifty thousand people died in Paris alone, until\nthe city became so emptied of inhabitants that not more than three\npersons were left to each street. It is recorded that famished wolves\ncame down upon the great capital, and prowled about the streets as if\nthey had been in a forest, devouring the bodies scattered about\nunburied, and attacking the few living creatures in this great desert.\n\nMeantime, the revolt of the disaffected lords, who composed what was\ncalled the Praguerie, gave new employment to all the _mauvais sujets_ of\nthe kingdom, and Chabannes and Villandras did not neglect so fine an\nopportunity of committing additional outrages; and, for a time, they\ncarried their terrors throughout Poitou and Champagne. Being taken in\narms, the fearful B\u00e2tard de Bourbon met his deserved fate by being sewn\nin a sack and thrown into the river; but Villandras escaped the justice\nof the king, in consideration of services required of him and his band\nof robbers; and De Chabannes was reinstated in the favour of Charles,\nbeing too powerful and dangerous to offend.\n\nOne is not surprised to be told that the fortress of Blaye is called _Le\nPat\u00e9_: it is, doubtless, of great strength and importance, but not\nimposing, in consequence of its want of height, and its flat, crushed\nappearance on a marshy island. The exterior walls appear very ancient,\nbut all the centre of the tower is fitted up with modern buildings,\nhaving common-looking roofs, quite destroying all picturesque effect.\n\nThe steamer made the entire tour of the island; so that we saw the fort\non every side, and presently came in full view of the town and citadel\nof Blaye, partly on a height and partly on a level with the river. No\npart of it offers any beauty; nor does it possess features of majesty\nand grandeur, though its recollections cannot fail to excite interest.\nThe Duchess of Berry must have found her sojourn in this desolate castle\ndismal enough: it is an excellent place for a prison; and was, formerly,\nno doubt of the utmost importance to Charlemagne, as it probably\ncontinues to be to this day to the ruling powers. The body of Rolando,\nafter the fatal day when\n\n    \"Charlemagne and all his peerage fell\n    At Fontarabia,\"\n\nwas brought here; and, several centuries afterwards, his tomb was\nremoved to the church of St. Seurin, at Bordeaux. King Ch\u00e9r\u00e9bert,\ngrandson of Clovis, has also his tomb on this rock; but no remains of\nit, I believe, are now shown. Our troops, in 1814, could tell of the\nobstinate resistance of the citadel, and were well able to measure its\nstrength.\n\nThe banks of the river are, from hence, covered with vines, and are\nhigher and more rocky. Numerous dwellings cut in the rocky face of the\nhills remind one of the same appearance on the borders of the Loire; but\nin no other respect can the clay-coloured river claim resemblance with\nthat crystal though sand-encumbered stream. Several bold rocks diversify\nthe prospect here,--one called the Roque-de-Tau, and another the\nPain-de-Sucre.\n\nThe space where the two rivers, Dordogne and Garonne, meet, and falling\ntogether into one, form the Gironde, is called _L'Entre-Deux-Mers_; and\nthe shore the Bec d'Ambez. This part is sometimes dangerous; and, I dare\nsay, our timid fellow-voyager felt a little nervous; but nothing\nhappened to our boat, as we fell quietly into the Garonne, leaving the\nsister river, and its boasted Pont de Cubzac,--the object sought by the\nspy-glasses of all on board,--in the distance.\n\nWe were now passing along between the shores of the famous river\nGaronne--always the scene of contentions, from its importance, and\nparticularly so during the long wars between France and England in the\nfourteenth and fifteenth centuries. Although but few of the castles\nwhose turrets once frowned along the hills above the waters now remain,\neven in ruins, yet, in those days, they were nearly as numerous as the\ntrees which have now taken their place. Many a time has the banner of\nthe Black Prince been displayed on the waves of this river, and been\nsaluted or attacked according as he was victor or besieger. Every inch\nof land and water, from the Tour de Corduan to the walls of Bordeaux,\nand, indeed, to Agen, has been disputed by struggling thousands, from\nthe time of Elionore of Guienne to the Duke of Wellington! But it was at\nthe time when the star of France emerged from its dark clouds, and shone\nabove the head of Charles VII., that the French shook off the foreign\nyoke which had so long kept from them this--one of the finest rivers in\ntheir realms.\n\nCharles VII., after having despoiled his friends and reduced his\nenemies, was endeavouring to shut out from his memory the visions of the\nbetrayed heroine of Orleans and the persecuted merchant of Bourges, the\nlost Agnes Sorel and the turbulent and revolted Dauphin; and had retired\nto his castle of pleasure at Mehun-sur-Yevre, where he could best\nconceal from prying eyes the idle occupations and degrading enjoyments\nwhich filled the time of the hero _of other's swords_. He had just\nconcluded a peace with Savoy, and had rejected, as vexatious, the\npetitions of his subjects of Gascony, who were writhing under the\nexactions of his ministers. He felt that all was now at his feet; and he\nwould not permit his loved ease and quiet to be disturbed by appeals to\nhis justice and humanity. The people of Guienne, therefore, saw that it\nwas in vain that they had submitted, and had consented to give up the\nEnglish rule, to which they had been so long accustomed, and under which\nthey had flourished. Several of the higher families allied with that\ncountry, had endured the alienation with uneasiness. Amongst others,\nPierre de Montferrant, who bore the singular title of Souldich de\nl'Estrade, or de la Trau, had married a natural daughter of the Duke of\nBedford: he had been forced to capitulate when taken prisoner at Blaye;\nbut he preserved his ancient attachment to England; and, taking\nadvantage of the discontent which prevailed, he sent messages to Talbot,\nEarl of Shrewsbury, recommending him to attempt the re-conquest of the\nBordelais, which promised to be an easy prize.\n\nThe lords of Candale and l'Esparre confirmed his statements, in an\ninterview with the earl, in London, where they had remained after the\ntreaty. They assured him that, if the English landed a small force at\nBordeaux, they would certainly be joined by the disaffected, and had\nlittle to contend with; for Charles had withdrawn most of his troops, to\nsend them against Savoy, and, it was thought, against the Dauphin\nhimself. This was followed by the announcement that the powerful lords\nof Rosan, Gaillard de Durfort, Jean de la Linde, and the Sire de\nLanglade, with many other gentlemen of the country, had proclaimed their\nintention of rising as soon as the English flag should be displayed on\nthe Garonne. The Archbishop of Bordeaux and the Bishop of Oleron had\nentered into the plot; for there is proof that they had solicited new\nfavours from Henry VI. before the return of the English to Guienne.\n\nA favourable turn in the affairs of Henry seemed to render the moment\npropitious; and Marguerite d'Anjou seized the occasion of success\nagainst her opponents, to despatch Talbot, as the lieutenant of the king\nin Aquitaine, with an army of between seven and eight thousand men, with\nample powers to pardon all offences committed against England. The aged\nchief, favoured by the wind and weather, arrived at Bordeaux, and was\nintroduced into the city, by the citizens, before the soldiers of\nCharles VII. had even dreamed of his approach. The seneschal, the\nunder-mayor, and almost all the French garrison, were instantly\nsurprised and taken prisoners.\n\nTalbot, delighted at his prompt success, roused all his old energy, and,\nin an incredibly short space of time, had retaken all the places which\nhad been lost to the English, in the preceding year, in the Bordelais,\nthe Agenois, and the Bazadois. Eighty vessels arrived with provisions\nfrom England, and all went well with the conquerors. The French who held\nout were obliged to retire to their ancient frontiers, and do their\nutmost to defend the remainder of Guienne against the fortunate\ninvaders.\n\nMeantime, the King of France was dreaming away his life, as he had\nformerly done, while the English were lords of his kingdom; but the news\nof their return woke him from his slumbers, and, hurrying to Lusignan,\nand assembling his forces in haste, he set forth in his character of\nwarrior, and paused not till he had reached the Dordogne. The two famous\nbrothers Bureau brought up their sappers and miners, and their\ntremendous artillery; nobles and knights flocked to his standard, and\nTalbot found that the foe he held in utter contempt, presented an aspect\nof resolve worthy of his attention. The old general was about to hear\nmass when it was falsely announced to him that a party of his people had\nrouted the French, who had abandoned their park of artillery, before\nChatillon en Perigord. He started up, and exclaimed, as he interrupted\nthe ceremony, \"I swear that I will never hear mass again till I have\nswept away the French from before me.\" So saying, he rushed to arms,\ncalled out his troops, and marched forth with impetuosity, uttering his\nwar-cry, \"Talbot! Saint George!\"\n\nFatal was his haste, and fatal was the misrepresentation made to him; in\nthe battle that ensued the gallant veteran and his son were slain, with\nupwards of four thousand men; the French were too much harassed to\npursue their victory; but, finding the body of Talbot amongst the heaps\nof dead, it was proclaimed to France that their most dreaded enemy was\nno more.\n\n    \"Talbot is slain!--the Frenchman's only scourge;\n    Their kingdom's terror, and black Nemesis!\"\n\n    \"Whose life was England's glory--Gallia's wonder.\"\n\nThe face of things was now essentially changed; all the influences were\nturned to the advantage of 'Charles the Victorious.' One after another\nthe towns and fortresses on the Garonne, Blancafort, Saint Macaire,\nLangon, Villandras, Cadillac, were forced to surrender. And all the\ncountry \"_between the two seas_\" was in the hands of the French. The\nGironde was filled with vessels sent to the aid of France by Castile,\nBurgundy, Bretagne, and all the province of Poitou. On the other hand,\nthe fleet of England and the Bourdelaise were at anchor half a league\nbelow Bordeaux, and formidable did both appear.\n\nThe men of Bordeaux beginning to fear that all was lost, had already\nproposed a surrender, on condition of free pardon; but the answer of\nCharles had not been favourable; he consented to receive all of English\nbirth to ransom, but those of his own subjects he insisted should be\nleft to his mercy. While they paused, reflecting upon the amount of\nmercy they might expect, the English, careful only of their own weal,\ndecided for them, and agreed to the terms, leaving the unfortunate\nGascons, their companions in arms, to their fate.\n\nCharles began by putting to death Gaillardet, the brave commander of\nCadillac; whom he condemned as a rebel, although he had merely done his\nduty in obeying the head of a house which his ancestors had been\naccustomed to serve for three centuries.\n\nThe fevers of Autumn had now begun to appear; several of the generals of\nthe French king had fallen victims to it; and as Bordeaux still held out\nand refused to surrender without certain concessions, dictated by Le\nCamus, who refused to sacrifice the Gascons under his command, Charles\nwas obliged to listen to his representations. He agreed to pardon the\ncitizens and their adherents, reserving twenty of the most guilty, whose\nestates were confiscated, and they banished for ever from the kingdom.\n\nIt was on the 19th of October, 1453, that the City of Bordeaux opened\nits gates to Charles _the Well-Served_, and the discomfited English\nsailed mournfully away from its walls, never to return as its masters.\n\nAll the vines along the shores of the Garonne are famous. Cantemerle,\nSauves, Cantenac, and the mighty monarch, Ch\u00e2teau Margaux; Ludon,\nParampuire, and Blanquefort; St. Louis de Montferrant, and Bassens.\nThese renowned vineyards cover the country with riches; but fever reigns\nhere triumphant throughout the year, and the coast denies its advantages\nto any but vine-growers.\n\nM. de Peyronnet, the ex-minister, has a ch\u00e2teau in a pretty situation on\nthe river; but whether this particular site is unhealthy we did not\nhear.\n\nFrom the Tour de Cordouan to the Port of Bordeaux, extending far over\nthe wide and marshy country, which spreads out its sandy and unhealthy\nplains towards Bayonne, superstition formerly held her head-quarters;\nand though, within a few years, belief in the supernatural has lost its\nforce, the dreams and fancies of the dark ages are not quite effaced.\nThere is hardly any extravagance credited by the inhabitants of\nBrittany, which has not been held as an article of faith in the Landes,\nand cast its influence over the departments bordering on the Pyrenees.\n\nThere is an idea, not altogether worn out, that certain families are\nunder a spell, and subject to strange visitations; they are supposed to\nbe recognized by their heavy, sullen air, and their aversion to society\nin general: these are called _Accus_, and are as much avoided as\npossible, as they are suspected of witchcraft and other mal-practices;\nthey are said to have too much experience in the nocturnal amusements\nof those mysterious beings called Loups-garoux, so generally known and\ndreaded throughout France and Germany.\n\nThat the evil one delights in this part of the country is not to be\nquestioned; and there may be some risk in passing along the river\ntowards nightfall, because the fiend and his company are apt to haunt\nthose meadows closest to the waters, and there they may be occasionally\nseen dancing in circles, where their hoofs spoil the grass, which\nrefuses to grow again where once their steps have been. Perhaps the\nrapidity of the steam-boat may now prevent their being so often\nperceived; or, indeed, its introduction may have offended, and chased\naway, the _mesnie_ of the fiend altogether.\n\nBetween the Dordogne and the Garonne, l'Entre-deux-Mers, it is generally\nbelieved that a male child who has never known his father, as well as a\n_fifth_ son, have the power to cure certain maladies by the touch. And\nit is in these parts that the once famous Dragon of Bordeaux used\nprincipally to sojourn, much to the terror of the surrounding\nneighbourhood. There is scarcely any malignant spirit, from a\n_loup-garou_ to _an ague_, which cannot be found in the deserts of\nAquitaine.\n\nOften do the peasants of Medoc hear in the air, sometimes in mid-day,\nsometimes in the clear nights of summer, the horns and cries of the\nphantom hunter, Arthur and his men. If he is, indeed, the same King\nArthur, whose fame is enshrined in the legends of Wales and Brittany,\nhe must have been a prince with even a more extended domain than that of\nHenry, the husband of Queen Elionore, for he carries on his chace on the\nbanks of the Gave of Pau, and still further into the Pyrenees. He was a\nvery excellent and pious prince, valiant and courteous; but he had one\ngreat fault, an inordinate love of hunting, which in the end proved his\nbane. For once, on the occasion of some solemn f\u00eate, while he was in the\nchurch assisting at the mass, some mischievous friend brought him word,\nthat a fine wild boar had just appeared at a very short distance from\nthe holy precincts. In a moment, his respect for religion, his reverence\nfor the sacred ceremony in which he was engaged, all were put to flight;\nhe uttered a joyous shout, seized his spear, and rushed forth to the\nsport. He enjoyed a most animated hunt, but--\n\n    \"So comes the reck'ning when the banquet's o'er,--\n    A dreadful reck'ning--and men smile no more!\"\n\nFrom that day he _hunted eternally_ and _in vain_!--for ever is he\ntraversing the vast field of air, urging on his steed, hallowing to his\nhounds, sounding his horn, and madly rushing over mountain and plain,\nreflected in the sky; but he has never yet, nor ever will attain the\nobject of his pursuit!\n\nThere are certain spots in the Landes where trees of strange appearance\ngrow, which may be recognised as those under which the evil one\ndistributes poison to his human friends, to dispense to those who have\nfallen under their displeasure: the districts where these meetings take\nplace are fortunately known and avoided, but to such a height had grown\nthe daring of the friends of Satan at one time, that the King of\nFrance,--no other than Henry the Fourth (!)--under the ministry of Sully\n(!) sent persons into these climes to root out the evil. The famous\n_witch-finder_, Pierre de Lancre, has recorded his successes in this\nparticular.\n\n\"The King,\" says he, \"being informed that his country of Labourt was\ngreatly infested with sorcerers, gave commission to a president and a\ncounsellor of the court of parliament of Bordeaux, to seek out the crime\nof sorcery in the said country, about the year 1609.\n\n\"This commission was entrusted to the Sieur Despagnet and I: we\ndedicated four months to the search, during which happened an infinity\nof _unknown things, strange, and out of all belief_, of which books\nwritten on the subject have never spoken: such for instance, as _that\nthe devil came and held his meetings at the gates of Bordeaux, and in\nthe quarter of the Palais Gallien_, which _fact_ was declared at his\nexecution by Isaac Dugueyran, a notable sorcerer, _who was put to death_\nin 1609. It appears to me that it will be extremely useful, nay\nnecessary, to France and the whole of Christendom, to have this account\nin writing for many reasons.\n\n\"All this must convince the most obstinate, stupid, blind, and\n_ignorant_, that there is no longer a doubt that sorcery exists, and\nthat the devil can transport sorcerers really and corporally to his\nsabbath: and that there is no longer any excuse for disputing on the\nsubject, for all nations are agreed concerning the truth, aided by\n_ocular_ demonstration, permitted to an impartial judge and good\nChristian. _Too much mildness is shown in France towards sorcerers:_ all\ngood judges should in future resolve to punish with death all such as\nhave been convicted of attending the devil's assemblies, even if no harm\nhas immediately resulted therefrom: for to such an extent has witchcraft\nspread that it has passed the frontier and reached the city of Bayonne,\nwhich is cruelly afflicted in consequence. Satan having made great\nadvances and spread his sabbaths over an infinity of places in our\ndeserts and Landes of Bordeaux.\"[11]\n\n[Footnote 11: This part of the world seemed always to be looked upon as\nthe head quarters of sorcery; for in the Chronicles of Bordeaux we find,\nin the year 1435, the following notice:--\"Les environs de Bordeaux sont\n_fort travaillez_ par les sorciers et empoisonneurs, dont aucuns furent\nex\u00e9cutes \u00e0 mort et br\u00fbl\u00e9 tous vifs.\"]\n\nIn consequence of the representations of this righteous judge, _eight\nhundred victims_ were condemned to the flames for this pretended crime:\nand this, incredible as it may appear, by command of Le Bon Henri and\nhis Protestant minister, Sully! At the very period, too, permission was\nrefused to the unfortunate Moors, then driven by bigotry from Spain, to\nestablish themselves in the Landes, where their industry and\nperseverance would soon have converted the barren waste into a fertile\nand smiling country, instead of remaining for centuries an unwholesome\nmarsh.\n\nNeglected and uncultivated as this extended country has long been--only\n_now_, in fact, assuming an aspect of improvement--it is not surprising\nthat superstition has lingered longer amongst its uneducated people than\nwith their more fortunate neighbours. Within ten years new roads have\nbeen made, new buildings erected, and a rail-road is projected across\nthe Landes from Bordeaux to Bayonne: it may, therefore, be now expected\nthat the last vestige of idle belief in witches and demons will shortly\ndisappear; but, in the meantime, much of such weakness is lingering\nstill. For instance, the Landais believe that in certain maladies the\nphysician has no power, and that recourse must be had, for relief, to\ncertain gifted persons, who will propitiate the evil spirit who caused\nthe ill. They attribute great virtue to what they call _les Veyrines_,\nnamely, narrow openings in the thickness of the pillars of a church:\npersons affected with rheumatic diseases, have only to pass through\nthese narrow spaces, repeating at the time certain prayers, having\npreviously made the circuit of the pillar nine times. His head is first\ninserted, and the rest of his body is pushed through by his friends.\nThese practices are, in spite of the exertions of the clergy, said to be\nstill carried on in secret.\n\nIn the month of May they strew the street before their houses with\nreeds, on f\u00eate days, and there they frequently pass their evenings,\nsitting in groups, and telling to each other superstitious stories,\nwhich are eagerly listened to, and thus handed down from father to son.\n\nThe _orfraie_ and the screech-owl are looked upon with terror in the\nLandes: their approach to any dwelling bodes evil in all forms: the dead\nquit their tombs at night and flit about in the fens, and covered with\ntheir white shrouds come wandering into the villages, nor will they quit\nthem till the prayers and alms of their friends have calmed their\nperturbed spirits.\n\nThe various tribes of the Landes, form, as it were, in the midst of\nFrance, a separate people, from their habits and customs: they are\ncalled, according to their locality, Bouges, Parants, Mazansins,\nCouziots, or Lanusquets: they are generally a meagre race, and subject\nto nervous affections; taking little nourishment, and living a life of\nprivation and fatigue. Obliged to labour for their support, like most\npeople in the departments of the Pyrenees, and to dispose of the\nproducts of their industry, they have usually fixed places of repose;\neach peasant drives his cart drawn by two oxen, and carries with him the\nfood for those patient animals, who are the very picture of endurance.\nHis own food is generally coarse, ill-leavened bread, very hardly baked,\nand made of coarse maize, or rye-flour, which he sometimes relishes\nwith _sardines_ of Galicia. He gives his oxen a preparation of dried\nlinseed from which the oil has been extracted, and which he has made\ninto flour, and he then lets them loose on the Landes for a time, while\nhe snatches a hasty sleep, soon interrupted to resume his journey. The\ndwellings of these people are sufficiently wretched: low, damp, and\nexposed to both the heat and cold by the rude manner in which they are\nconstructed; a fire is kept in the centre of the principal room, from\nwhich small closets open: they sleep in general under two _feather\nbeds_, in a close, unwholesome air, many in the same room. Still their\ndomestic arrangements seem a degree better than those of the Bretons,\nand their dirt does not appear so great, bad as it must necessarily be.\n\nThe dress of the men is a large, heavy, brown stuff cloak, or a long\njacket of sheepskin, with the fur outwards; to which, when gaiters of\nthe same are added, there is little difference between them and the\nanimals they tend: a very small _berret_, the cap of the country, covers\nmerely the top of their heads, and is but of little use in sheltering\nthem in rainy weather. The women wear large round hats with great wings,\nadorned with black ribbon, and sometimes with a herb, which they call\nImmortelle de Mer;[12] the young girls frequently, however, prefer a\nsmall linen cap, the wings of which are crossed over the top of the\nhead.\n\n[Footnote 12: See for these particulars, Athanasie Maritime.--_Du\nM\u00e8ge_.]\n\nShepherds are almost always clothed in sheepskins, and in winter they\nwear over this a white woollen cloak with a very pointed hood. These are\nthe people who make their appearance on stilts, called _Xicanques_, and\ntraverse the Landes with their flocks, crossing streams of several feet\ndeep, and striding along like flying giants. They have always a long\npole, with a seat affixed, and a gun slung at their backs, to defend\nthem from the attack of wolves. Monotonous enough must be the lives of\nthese poor people, for months together, alone, in a solitary waste,\nwhere not a tree can grow, with nothing but a wide extent of marshy land\naround, and only their sheep and dogs as companions; but they are\naccustomed to it from infancy, and probably are comparatively insensible\nto their hardships, at least it is so to be hoped. Seated on his\nelevated seat, the shepherd of the Landes occupies himself in knitting\nor spinning, having a contrivance for the latter peculiar to this part\nof the country. Their appearance, thus occupied, is most singular and\nstartling.\n\nA dignitary of Bordeaux is said once to have prepared a f\u00eate to an\nInfanta of Spain, the destined bride of a French prince, in the Landes;\nin which he engaged a party of these mounted shepherds, dressed in\nskins, and covered with their white mantles and hoods, to figure,\naccompanied by a band of music, and passing under triumphal arches\nformed of garlands of flowers: a strange scene in such a desert, but\nscarcely so imposing to a stranger as the unexpected apparition of these\nbeings in the midst of their native desolation.\n\nThe Landais seldom live to an advanced age: they marry early, are very\njealous, and are said to enjoy but little of the domestic happiness\nattributed to the poor as a possession; they are accused of being\nindifferent to their families, and of taking more care of their flocks\nand herds than of their relations: they are docile and obedient to\nauthority; honest, and neither revengeful nor deceitful.\n\nWhether from affection or habit, they show great sensibility on the\ndeath of neighbours or friends. The women cover their heads, in the\nfuneral procession, with black veils or aprons, and the men with the\npointed hood and cloak. During the whole year, after the decease of a\nfather or mother, all the kitchen utensils _are covered with a veil_,\nand _placed in an opposite direction to that in which they stood\nbefore_; so that every time anything is wanted the memory of the dead is\nrevived.\n\nThe Landais, on the sea-coast, are, like the Cornish people, reproached,\nperhaps falsely, with being _wreckers_; and their cry of \"Avarech!\nAvarech!\" is said to be the signal of inhumanity and plunder.\n\nTheir marriages are attended with somewhat singular ceremonies, and\ntheir method of making love is equally strange: after church, on a f\u00eate\nday, a number of young people, of both sexes, dance together to a\nmonotouous tune, while others sit round in a circle on their heels,\nwatching them. After dancing a little time, a pair will detach\nthemselves from the rest, squeeze each other's hand, give a few glances,\nand then whisper together, striking each other at the same time; after\nwhich they go to their relations, and say they _are agreed_, and wish to\nmarry: the priest and notary are called for, the parents consent, and\nthe day is at once fixed.\n\nOn the appointed day, the _Nobi_ (future husband) collects his friends,\nand goes to the bride's house, where he knocks; the father, or some near\nrelation, opens to him, holding by the hand an _old woman_, whom he\npresents: she is rejected by the bridegroom, who demands her who was\npromised. She then comes forward with a modest air, and gives her lover\na flower; who, in exchange, presents her with a belt, which he puts on\nhimself. This is very like the customs in Brittany, where scenes of the\nkind always precede weddings.\n\nWhen the bride comes to her husband's house, she finds at the door a\nbroom; or, if he takes possession of her's, a ploughshare is placed\nthere: both allegorical of their duties. The distaff of the bride is\ncarried by an old woman throughout the ceremonies.\n\nThe Landais, altogether, both as to habits, manners, and general\nappearance, form a singular feature in the aspect of this part of\nFrance.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XV.\n\n     PORTS--DIVONA--BORDEAUX--QUINCONCES--ALL\u00c9ES--FIRST\n     IMPRESSION--CHARTRONS--BAHUTIER--BACALAN--QUAYS--WHITE\n     GUIDE--S^{TE} CROIX--ST. MICHEL--ST. ANDR\u00c9--PRETTY FIGURE--PRETTY\n     WOMEN--PALAIS GALLIEN--BLACK PRINCE'S SON EDWARD.\n\n\nTAVERNIER has said, in speaking of the most celebrated ports, \"three\nonly can enter into comparison, one with the other, for their beauty of\nsituation and their _form of a rainbow_, viz., Constantinople, Goa, and\nBordeaux.\" The poet, Chapelle, thus names this celebrated city:--\n\n    Nous v\u00eemes au milieu des eaux\n    Devant nous para\u00eetre Bordeaux,\n    Dont le port en croissant resserre\n    Plus de barques et de vaisseaux\n    Qu'aucun autre port de la terre.\n\nThe commendatory address to his native city, by the poet, Ausonius, is\noften quoted; and has been finely rendered by M. Jouannet, whom I\nventure to translate.\n\n    I was to blame; my silence far too long\n    Has done thy fame, my noble country, wrong:\n\n    Thou, Bacchus-loved, whose gifts are great and high,\n    Thy gen'rous sons, thy senate, and thy sky,\n    Thy genius and thy grace shall Mem'ry well\n    Above all cities, to thy glory, tell.\n    And shall I coldly from thy arms remove,\n    Blush for my birth-place, and disown my love?\n    As tho' thy son, in Scythian climes forlorn,\n    Beneath the Bear with all its snows was born.\n    No, thy Ausonius, Bordeaux! hails thee yet;\n    Nor, as his cradle, can thy claims forget.\n    Dear to the gods thou art, who freely gave\n    Their blessings to thy meads, thy clime, thy wave:\n    Gave thee thy flow'rs that bloom the whole year through,\n    Thy hills of shade, thy prospects ever new,\n    Thy verdant fields, where Winter shuns to be,\n    And thy swift river, rival of the sea.\n\n    Shall I describe thy mighty walls revered,--\n    Thy ramparts, by the god of battle feared,--\n    Thy gates,--thy towers, whose frowning crests assay\n    Amidst the clouds towards Heaven to force a way?\n    How well I love thy beauties to behold,\n    Thy noble monuments, thy mansions bold,\n    Thy simple porticos, thy perfect plan,\n    Thy squares symmetrical: their space, their span.\n    And that proud port which Neptune's lib'ral hand\n    Bade from thy startled walls its arms expand,\n    And show the way to Fortune! Twice each day\n    Bringing his floods all crown'd with glittering spray,\n    And foaming from the oar, while, gleaming white,\n    A host of vessels gaily sweep in sight.\n\nIt would appear by this description, that Bordeaux was, under its Roman\nmasters, a very magnificent city; the famous _Divona_, the beneficent\nfountain, so celebrated by Ausonius, has left no trace of its existence,\nand has employed the learned long to account for its disappearance.\nProbably it was from some plan of Roman Bordeaux, that the present new\ntown was built; for the above lines might almost describe it as it now\nstands: certainly, except the gigantic towers, the old city has no claim\nto praise for wide streets, fine houses, porticos, or symmetrical\nsquares; probably, the architects of the Middle Ages destroyed its\n_perfect plan_, and swept away most of the beauties and grandeur which\ninspired the muse of the classic minstrel.\n\nLike most pompous descriptions, this was, perhaps, overdrawn at the time\nas much as, it appeared to me, the accounts of modern travellers have\nexaggerated the effect of a first arrival by water at Bordeaux.\n\nAs Bordeaux is approached, the banks on one side become more\npicturesque, and at Lormont, where was once an extensive monastery, the\nscenery is fine: its promise is, however, forgotten by degrees, and I\nwas surprised not to see any fine houses on the banks, as I had\nunderstood was the case. The few that are seen have a slovenly,\nneglected appearance, by no means announcing the splendours and riches\nof the great mercantile city we had now nearly reached. Paltry\nwine-houses, with shabby gardens, border the river, and flat meadows and\nreclaimed marshes give a meagre effect to the whole scene.\n\nMast after mast now, however, began to appear, and in a short time we\nwere steaming along between a forest of vessels of all nations, the\nreading of whose names not a little amused us as we hurried by them.\nEnglish, Russian, Dutch, French, succeeded each other; the _coup d'oeil_\nwas extremely imposing, and the long wide quays, which seemed to know no\nend, announced a city of great importance. The small steamer continued\nits way, more fortunate than that which arrives from England, which,\nfrom its size, cannot go far up the shallow river, and stops half a\nleague from the town at a faubourg called Barcalan; but we were enabled,\nfrom our comparative insignificance, to reach to the very finest point\nof Bordeaux, and land at the foot of the grand promenade _Des\nQuinconces_--the glory of the Garonne.\n\nThe extreme flatness of the town, built as it is on marshes, takes from\nits effect; and I was surprised that it struck me as so little deserving\nits great reputation, compared, as it has been, to Genoa, Venice, and\nConstantinople, and imagining, as I did, that I should see its buildings\nrising in a superb amphitheatre from the waves, and crowning heights,\nlike those we had passed, with towers and spires. The quays, also, had\nbeen so much vaunted to me that I expected much finer mansions on their\nsides; whereas they are principally warehouses, and those not very\nneatly kept: there was little of the bustle and stir of business which\none, accustomed to London, may picture: all seemed sufficiently quiet\nand still, except the clamour of the commissioners, who contended for\nthe possession of the passengers in our vessel, whose arrival in this\ncommercial port made much more stir than seemed reasonable in so great a\ncity.\n\nThe _immense_ space of the Quinconces passed, we crossed an _immense_\nstreet to an _immense_ irregular square, from whence lead _immensely_\nwide _cours_ in various directions; and we stood before one of the\nlargest theatres in one of the widest spaces I ever saw in a town: here,\nafter much contention with our vociferous attendants, we resolved to\npause, choosing the hotel the nearest to this magnificent building, and\nwhich promised to be most airy and quiet; the river running at the\nbottom of the long street in which it was situated, the theatre before\nit, and the great square left at its side, with all its rattle of carts\nand wheelbarrows, and screaming commissioners. In the handsome, clean\nH\u00f4tel de Nantes we were accordingly deposited, and had reason to\ncongratulate ourselves on our choice while we staid at Bordeaux.\n\nIt appears almost heresy to every one in France to find fault with\nBordeaux, which it is the custom to consider all that is grand,\nmagnificent, and beautiful; yet, if I were to be silent as to my\nimpressions, I should feel that I was scarcely honest. We stayed nearly\na fortnight at Bordeaux, and, in the course of that time, had a variety\nof weather, good and bad; so that I think we could not be influenced by\nthe gloom which at first, unexpectedly, damp, chill and uncongenial\nskies spread around. A few days were very brilliant, but still the\nwaters of the Garonne kept their thick orange hue, without brilliancy or\nlife, and this circumstance alone suffices to prevent the great city\nfrom deserving to be called attractive. The quays on its banks are\nextremely wide; but, except for a short space on each side the\nQuinconces, the houses which border them are no finer nor cleaner than\nin any other town in France; the pavement is very bad near them, and\nthere are no _trottoirs_ in this part: incumbrances of all sorts cover\nthe quays in every direction, so that free walking is impossible; and\nthe irregularity of the pavement next the river is so great that it is\nconstantly necessary to resume the rugged path on the stones, among the\nbullock-carts and market-people, who frequent this part in swarms at all\ntimes of the day. The bridge is extraordinarily long, over the\nclay-coloured river, but appears too narrow for its great length, and\nthe entrances to it struck me as poor and mean. From the centre is the\nbest view of the town; but, though very _singular_, from the strange\nshapes of its towers and spires, the mass of dark irregular buildings it\npresents cannot be called fine. The hills on the opposite side relieve\nthe extreme flatness; but there is no remarkable effect of the\npicturesque amongst them.\n\nThe boast of Bordeaux is its wide _all\u00e9es_, which are avenues of trees,\nbordered with uniform houses of great size; its enormous square next the\nriver surrounded with a grove of trees; its theatre, certainly\nmagnificent, and its wide _spaces_, not to be called _squares_. The new\ntown is _all space_; and if in space consists grandeur, it cannot be\ndenied that there is a great deal of it; but, to me, these wide,\nrambling places appeared ungraceful and slovenly, wet and exposed in\nwinter, and glaring and dusty in summer. The splendid theatre stands in\none corner of a great space, from which several wide streets diverge:\nsome old and dark, some new. The best street, the Rue du Chapeau Rouge,\nwhich is of great width, runs along on one side; it is short, but\ncontinued, with another name, across the Place, and leads from one end\nof this part of the town to the other. There is a good deal of\nfoot-pavement in this street, and here are the smartest shops; but,\ncompared with Paris or London, or any great English town, they are\ncontemptible.\n\nThe fine All\u00e9es de Tourny traverse the town in the form of a star, and\nthe rays meet in a great square,--the Place Dauphine--which, if cleaner\nand less neglected, would be extremely magnificent. The Place Tourny and\nthe Place Richelieu are also fine openings; and there are said to be no\nless than forty public squares altogether, which must give a good\ncirculation to the air in most parts.\n\nThe old town is, however, close, dirty, damp and dingy, beyond all\nothers that I have ever seen, and, in common with all the _new_ part of\nBordeaux, the worst paved, perhaps, of any in France. Here it is crowded\nenough, and forms a singular contrast with the deserted appearance of\nthe gigantic squares in the sister town.\n\nNevertheless, although I am by no means able to agree in attributing\nextraordinary beauty to Bordeaux, there is no denying that there is much\nto be astonished at in its magnitude, and to congratulate its\ninhabitants upon, in the facilities afforded them of enjoying the air in\nstreets which would be shady, from the trees on each side, if they were\nnot so wide; in alleys and walks apparently interminable, where the\nwhole population can promenade, if they please, without appearing\ncrowded; in squares where they may lose themselves; and the most\nmagnificent theatre in Europe, which they generally neglect for several\nsmaller in other parts of the town.\n\nStill it appears to me impossible to forget that Bordeaux is built on a\nmarsh, and is surrounded by immense marshes, for leagues; and that, go\nout of it which way you will, there is no fine country nor any agreeable\nviews. All its alleys and gardens are flat and formal, and all in the\nmidst of the town itself, surrounded by colossal houses, and only\nbounded by a thick clayey river, which it is unpleasing for the eye to\nrest upon.\n\nThe sight of several of the most admired and important towns in France,\nhas reconciled me, in a singular degree, with that of Tours, whose fame\nappeared to me, when I first saw it, to be undeserved. I judged, as one\naccustomed to English splendour, and English neatness, and I scarcely\ngave Tours all the credit it deserved. When I compare the clear, rapid,\nsparkling Loire--shallow though it be--with the ugly waters of the\nsluggish Garonne, I feel that it is indeed superior to most other French\nrivers; and when I recollect the long, broad, extensive street which\ndivides Tours into two parts, is paved throughout, and connects it with\na bridge of noble proportions and most splendid approach, I am not\nsurprised that Tours is so much the object of a Frenchman's pride; and I\nconfess, that, if I had seen it after the boasted city of Bordeaux, its\nriver, and its bridge, I should have found little to find fault with;\nfor though it lies in a plain, it is not a marsh; and though it is\nglaring and flat, it is dry and sandy, and not damp and unwholesome.\n\nBordeaux is--notwithstanding that it failed to impress me with a sense\nof admiration of its _beauty_--full of interest in every way, and worthy\nof the most minute inspection and examination. We scarcely neglected a\nsingle street, of all its mazes, and scarcely left unvisited a single\nmonument. As in all other French towns, building is actively going on,\nand new public works are in progress: some on a very grand scale. The\nantique buildings, so curious from their history, have, in spite of\nrepeated wars and the efforts of time, preserved a great deal of their\noriginal appearance, and some of them are as fine as any to be found in\nFrance. Amongst these, is the Portal of St. Seurin, and the fa\u00e7ade of\nSt. Michel and St. Andr\u00e9.\n\nBordeaux is a city which seems to belong to two periods, totally unlike\neach other. The old town, full of old houses--one of which, called _Le\nBahutier_, is a specimen of others--is an historical monument of the\nMiddle Ages, while the new is an epitome of La Jeune France, with all\nits ambitious aspirations, its grand conceptions, and its failures.\nThere is no attempt, in the restoration of French towns in general, to\nbring the new style as near the old as possible; on the contrary, it\nwould seem that modern architects were only glad of the vicinity of\nantique fabrics, in order that they might show how superior was their\nown skill, and how far they could deviate from the original model. In\nBordeaux, this is very striking. It appears as if the new city ought to\nhave been built by itself on another site, leaving the gloomy recesses\nof the ancient city to themselves, for all that now surrounds it is\nincongruous and inharmonious.\n\nTaken by itself, modern Bordeaux is to be admired; but, backed and\nflanked as it is by a dense mass of blackened buildings belonging to\nanother age, it is singularly out of keeping.\n\nAll the way from the great square of the Quinconces, with its Rostral\npillars, to the port of Bacalan, a series of wide quays border the broad\nriver; the Quai des Chartrons is considered one of the finest in France,\nand, for commercial purposes, no doubt is so. Some parts of these quays\nare bordered with trees, and, from the river, have a good effect. The\nwhole of this faubourg is on a grand scale. The appellation of\nChartrons, is said to be derived from Chartreux, a convent of that order\nhaving existed here. The inhabitants of this quarter call themselves\n_Chartronnais_, and a remarkable difference is supposed to exist between\nthem, both in countenance and manners, and those of the other\nBordelais. It is a common expression to say, _on va Chartronner_, when a\nperson takes a walk along the quay. We had occasion to do so several\ntimes, as we were expecting friends from England, who were to arrive by\nthe packet, not long established between Southampton and Bordeaux, and,\non one occasion, on reaching the village of Bacalan, we hoped to be able\nto while away the time of waiting, by a walk into fields, or by some\npath near the river; but our hopes were in vain; there seem never to be\nany walks or paths in fields, lanes, or by rivers, in France, except in\nNormandy; no one cares, or is expected to care, for anything but the\nhigh road, or the public promenade. The fields are generally marshy, and\nthe borders of the streams impracticable; except, therefore, one has a\ntaste for rough pavement, or can admire long ranges of warehouses, of\ngreat size, the best way is to remain stationary, as we did, if\nnecessity calls one to Bacalau, seated on felled trees, under the shade\nof others growing by the river, careless of inodorous vicinity or dust.\n\nWe were surprised to find that the expected arrival of the packet from\nEngland created no sort of interest in any one's mind in Bordeaux; but\nthis fact was explained, when we heard that it was a private undertaking\nof English merchants, which, as it interfered with the vessels to\nHavre, was by no means popular, and was little likely, in the end, to\nanswer. The same thing has been several times attempted in Bordeaux, but\nhas always been abandoned, not meeting with encouragement, although it\nwould seem to be a great convenience to persons visiting the South of\nFrance. It was not thought that the steam-boat we were expecting would\nmake many more voyages, and, to judge by the small number of passengers\nwho arrived by it, there was little reason to expect that it could be\nmade to answer.\n\nIn order to become well acquainted with the quays of Bordeaux, we made a\npilgrimage along their whole extent, by following the line, on the other\nside of the Quinconces, as far as the old church of Sainte Croix--one of\nthe most ancient, as well as most curious, in Bordeaux. Our remarks, and\nfrequent pauses, on our way, as we passed the ends of different streets\nwhich we destined for future explorings, attracted the attention of a\nperson whom, as he had an intelligent face, we addressed, begging him to\ndirect us in our way to Sainte Croix, as we began to think it could not\nbe so very far from the point where we, started, and we feared we might\nhave to retrace our steps over the uneasy pavement. Our new acquaintance\nassured us, however, we were in the right road, and with great zeal\nbegan to describe to us how many more ends of streets we must pass\nbefore we should reach the desired spot. His costume was somewhat\nsingular, and we might have taken him for a character in the\nCarnival,--if it had been the proper season--or one _vou\u00e9 au blanc_, for\nhe was entirely dressed in white, cap and all, following, we presume,\nthe calling of a baker or a mason. He expressed his pleasure that we\nthought it worth while to go and see _his_ poor old church of Sainte\nCroix, for he came from that _quartier_, and had a fondness for it: \"It\nis past contradiction,\" said he, \"the most ancient and beautiful in\nBordeaux, though I say it, and deserves every attention, though it has\nbeen dreadfully battered about at different times. People have tried to\nrun it down, and have asserted that the sculpture on its fa\u00e7ade,\nrepresented _des b\u00e9tises_; but all that has now disappeared. It was\nbuilt in the time of the Pagans, when the Protestant religion--to\nwhich,\" he continued, bowing, \"no doubt you belong--was unknown, and\nwhen they were ignorant, and did many improper things. But, I assure\nyou, now, you will find the old arches very interesting; the church has\nbeen restored, and is in very good condition. But that I have pressing\nbusiness another way, I should have made it a duty and a pleasure to\nhave been your guide, and pointed out the beauties of the old place to\nyou; but, as I cannot do so, I recommend you to the politeness of any\none, on your route, for all will consider themselves honoured in\nindicating to you the exact position of the church, which is still at\nsome distance.\"\n\nSo saying, our white spirit, pulling off his nightcap again, and, with\nmany bows, disappeared down a dark alley, carrying his refinement to the\ndoors of his customers. He must have been a good specimen of the\nurbanity and good manners of his class in Bordeaux, and certainly no\nfinished cavalier could have expressed himself better. We had not gone\nfar before he re-appeared, to beg us not to forget, on our return, to\nvisit the church of St. Michel. We promised to neglect nothing, and\nparted.\n\nSainte Croix does indeed deserve a visit from the curious, though the\nlovers of neatness would be somewhat shocked at the extraordinary state\nof filth and slovenliness in which the area of ruin where it stands is\nleft. To look on either side of the path which leads to the fa\u00e7ade would\ncause feelings of disgust almost fatal to even antiquarian zeal, and the\nwretched dilapidation of the space formerly occupied by the immense\nconvent once flourishing here cannot be described. The Saracens, it\nseems, destroyed great part of the church and convent, which dates from\nthe seventh century, or earlier, and one would imagine it had remained\nin the same state of ruin ever since; though it has probably been\nrebuilt and re-destroyed fifty tunes.\n\nMuch still remains, in spite of all the efforts of time and force, to\nmake Sainte Croix an object of singular interest; some of the circular\narches are quite perfect, with their zig-zag ornaments, as freshly cut\nand sharp as possible; many of the pillars of the interior remain in\ntheir original state--huge blocks out of which the columns have not yet\nbeen carved, in the same manner as those at St. Alban's Abbey, in\nHertfordshire. Some of the string-courses are interrupted, being adorned\nwith foliage and other ornaments to a certain distance, and then\nstopping suddenly, as if an incursion of new barbarians had frightened\nthe workmen from their labours. The space of the church is extremely\nfine, the roof lofty, and the whole imposing; what is left of the\nexterior of the principal entrance is very beautiful; but the carved\nfigures round the door-way are scarcely distinguishable; many of them\nwere, it is said, removed not long since, having been considered\nobjectionable, and not calculated to inspire piety in the beholders.\n\nAll the tombs and relics of this famous abbey have disappeared, and no\none can now read the epitaph on St. Maumolin, Abb\u00e9 of Fleury, by whose\nzeal the bones of St. Benedict were brought to Sainte Croix, and who was\nof singular piety; here he was buried, says his chronicler, at the age\nof _three hundred and seventy years_.\n\nFrom Sainte Croix we directed our steps towards St. Michel, whose giant\ntower had attracted us on our way, but, deterred by the extraordinary\nfilthiness and closeness of the nearest streets leading to it, we chose\na very circuitous route, outside the former enclosure of the town; and,\nby this means, came unexpectedly on a large building of very imposing\nappearance, which we found was the Abattoir: we did not care to linger\nlong near this place, but escaped, as soon as we could, from the droves\nof bullocks which we met patiently plodding their way to their doom. For\na considerable distance we followed the walls, which had all the\nappearance of being of Roman construction; and, dirty as our walk was,\nwe could not but prefer the free air in this part to the interior; we\nhad frequently occasion to ask our way, and invariably met with marked\ncivility; every one leaving their work to run forward, and point out to\nus the nearest point we wished to reach. It appeared as if we should\nnever gain the entrance to this immense town again, so many streets and\nalleys and gates did we pass; at length we came to one which was to lead\nus down to St. Michel. Long boulevards did we traverse in this\ndirection, handsome and open; and in one part we were followed for some\ntime by a regiment going out to exercise with one of the finest bands I\never heard, which, echoing along the extended parade, had a very\nsplendid effect.\n\nWe reached at length the church of St. Michel, the caverns of the tower\nof which are remarkable for their power of preserving the bodies buried\nin them from putrefaction; ranges of skeletons, still covered with the\ndried flesh, hideous and fearful, scowl on the intruder from their\nniches, and present a most awful spectacle. The belfry has often served,\nin times of civil war, as a beacon-tower, dominating, as it does, the\nwhole country and town; it is of the most marvellously-gigantic\nconstruction, and appears to have been originally highly ornamented. It\nstands isolated from the church itself, whose fa\u00e7ades present the most\nexquisite beauties; and are singularly preserved at every entrance. The\nprincipal fa\u00e7ade, however, is the most perfect as well as the most\nbeautiful; its rose window, its ranges of saints, its pinnacles, and\nwreathed arches, are as much to be admired as any in France, and rivet\nthe attention by the delicacy and minuteness of their details. Its date\nis of the twelfth century, and the utmost taste and cost were bestowed\non its construction; although, on the side of the tower there is a space\nfilled with trees, and unencumbered, yet it is to be regretted that, on\nthe side next the chief entrance, the church is blocked up with the\nhouses of a dark, narrow, and filthy street, so that its beauties are\nsadly hid. Surely it would have been worth while to have cleared away\nthe encumbrances which surround this fine building, so as to show it\nwell, instead of much that has been done in the way of addition in the\nnew town.\n\nThe only comparatively modern church in Bordeaux, which is much vaunted,\nis Notre Dame, erected in 1701; it is lofty, and large, and of Grecian\narchitecture; but did not impress me with any feelings of admiration;\nand it stands at the end of a narrow street in a corner, shown to little\nmore advantage than the neglected St. Michel itself.\n\nBefore the cathedral of St. Andr\u00e9, which we next visited, a space has\nbeen cleared away; and at St. Seurin, also, where a grove of trees has\nbeen planted, which adds greatly to the venerable appearance of the\nbuilding.\n\nSt. Andr\u00e9 is of the thirteenth century, and is wonderfully magnificent\nand curious. Its tower, called De Payberland, stands alone, like that of\nSt. Michel; and is only less stupendous than that wonder of\narchitecture. The size and height of the aisles and choir are amazing,\nand the nave of the choir is bold and grand in the extreme. The two\nspires of the southern portal are of great beauty, and the whole fabric\nis full of interest, though scarcely a tomb remains. There are, however,\nseveral exquisitely-carved canopies where tombs have been, and, standing\nclose to one of the large pillars behind the choir, is a group which\nexcited my utmost interest; it seems to represent the Virgin and St.\nAnne, but might have another meaning. A figure in a nun's habit stands\nclose against a pillar in a niche, and by her side is a little girl of\nabout eleven years of age, in the full costume of the thirteenth\ncentury, one of whose hands touches her robe, and who appears under her\nprotection. This charming little figure represents what might well be a\nyoung princess in flowing robes; the upper one is gathered up, and its\nfolds held under one arm: her waist is encircled by a sash, the ends of\nwhich are confined by tassels. A necklace of beads is round her neck;\nthe body of her gown is cut square. Her hair hangs in long thick tresses\ndown her back, and over her shoulder, and is wreathed with jewels. A\nsmall cap, _delicately plaited_, covers the fore-part of her head, and a\nrich wide band of pearls and gems surmounts it. The features are very\nyouthful, but with a grave majesty in their expression; the attitude is\nqueenly, and the whole statue full of grace and simplicity. The nun has\na melancholy, benevolent cast of features, inferior in style to the\nlittle princess, but extremely pleasing.\n\nI imagined this to be the effigy of Elionore, the young heiress of\nAquitaine, under the care of a patron saint; and, thinking the pretty\ngroup was in marble, had visions of the queen of Henry II. having\nerected these figures in her life-time, in the cathedral which she\nbuilt; but, on requesting a person, on whose judgment I could rely, to\nexamine it for me, he discovered that the whole was _only plaster_; and,\nconsequently, as he added in the language of an antiquarian,\n\"presenting no possible interest.\" I gave up my theory with reluctance;\nalthough I ought to have been certain that, had any such statue existed\nof her time, it was more likely to be found amongst the rubbish of the\nruined cloisters, where many are still seen, than in the body of the\ncathedral.\n\nClose to the group is a picture--at the altar of _Sainte Rote_, who also\nwears a nun's habit. Probably my favourite has some connexion with her\nlegend.\n\nThe once fine cloisters of the Cathedral are in ruins. A few door-ways\nremain, which seem of an earlier date than the church itself; and some\nvery antique tombs, with effigies, are thrown into corners totally\nuncared for. If these were restored to some of the empty niches they\nwould be more in place.\n\nAt one end of the Cathedral, under the organ-loft, are some very curious\nbas-reliefs, in which there seems a singular jumble of sacred and\nprofane history. They are very well executed, and worthy of minute\nattention. An arcade of the time of the Renaissance, extremely\nbeautiful, but incongruous, encloses these carvings.\n\nBut, perhaps, the most remarkable of all the churches of Bordeaux is St.\nSeurin: its portico is one of the richest and most elaborate I ever saw,\nand the beauty and delicacy of its adornments are beyond description.\nThe church itself, except this precious _morceau_, is not so interesting\nas others; although here once reposed the body of the famous paladin,\nRolando, whose body was brought, by Charlemagne, from Blaye. There, on\nhis tomb, rested his wondrous sword, Durandal, which was afterwards\ntransported to Roquemador en Quercy. This was the weapon with which he,\nat one stroke, clove the rock of the Pyrenees which bears his name.[13]\nHis tomb and his bones must be sought elsewhere now, with those of many\nother of the knights who fell at Roncesvalles' fight. Where his famous\nhorn was deposited after it came from Blaye does not appear.\n\n[Footnote 13: See description of _the Breche_, in the second volume of\nthis work.]\n\nAnother long ramble, which exhibited to us more of the curiosities of\nBordeaux, brought us to the Roman building which still rises, in ruins,\nin one of the distant quarters of the town, and is called the Palais\nGallien. This fabric has a singular appearance, its strong arch, which\nstill serves as a passage from one street to another, its thick walls of\nbrick and small stone, its loops, through which the blue sky shines, and\nits ivy-covered masses make it very imposing. The learned are divided as\nto its date: Ausonius does not name it in his enumeration of the works\nof Bordeaux; but its Roman origin, of whatever age, is undoubted. It\nstands in a state of squalid neglect and dirt, sharing the fate of most\nof the antiquities of Bordeaux. If the space were cleared, and the\nsurrounding huts removed, a decent walk made, and the whole enclosed,\nthis monument of former days might form an attractive object: as it is,\nthe struggle to escape entanglement in every sort of dirt, while\nfighting one's way to the ruined amphitheatre, is almost too\ndisheartening. When these circumstances accompany a visit to antiquities\nin out-of-the-way places, such as Saintes, and distant and\nanti-commercial towns, such as Poitiers, one has no reproach to make to\nthe inhabitants; but what is to be said for rich and flourishing\nBordeaux,--the rival of Paris,--when she allows her monuments to remain\nin so degraded a state!\n\nOne of the glories of Bordeaux is having been the birth-place of\nMontaigne, whose tomb is in the church of the Feuillants, now the\ncollege. There are two inscriptions,--one Greek and one Latin; both of\nwhich appear unsuitable and extravagant.\n\nAnother great man, born near Bordeaux, was Montesquieu: to see whose\nch\u00e2teau of La Br\u00e8de, about four leagues off, is one of the usual\nexcursions of tourists; but we were prevented visiting it by bad\nweather.\n\nWhatever may be the effect of Bordeaux, as a city, one charm it has\nwhich can hardly be disputed, namely, the remarkable beauty of its young\nwomen of the _grisette_ class, and the peculiar grace with which they\nwear the handkerchief, which it is usual to wreath round the head in a\nmanner to display its shape to the greatest advantage, and which is tied\nwith infinite taste; showing the form of the large knot of hair behind,\nwhich falls low upon the neck, in the most classical style. They have\ngenerally good complexions, rich colour, fine dark eyes and very long\neye-lashes, glossy dark hair, and graceful figures. As they flit and\nglide about the streets,--and you come upon them at every turn,--in\ntheir dark dresses and shawls, with only a lively colour in the stripe\nof their pretty head-dress, a stranger cannot fail to be exceedingly\nstruck with their countenances and air. Black and yellow predominate in\nthe hues; but sometimes a rich chocolate colour, with some other tint\nrather lighter, relieves the darkness of the rest of the costume. A gold\nchain is worn round the throat, with a golden cross attached; and a\nhandsome broach generally fastens the well-made gown, with its\nneatly-plaited collar, rather more open in front than is usual in\nFrance. They are said to be great coquettes; and certainly worthy of the\nadmiration which they are sure to attract.\n\nWhen one observes how flat and marshy all the ground about Bordeaux is,\neven now, one need not be surprised at the illness it must have\nengendered in the time of the Black Prince, nor that his health suffered\nso fatally from its influence. He appears to have deferred his departure\nfrom this uncongenial climate as long as possible, until the loss of his\neldest son, Prince Edward, at the interesting age of six years, decided\nhim to trust it no longer.\n\nThe poor child died the beginning of January 1371, to the extreme grief\nof his parents; \"as,\" says the chronicle, \"might well be.\" It was then\nrecommended to the Prince of Wales and Aquitaine that he should return\nto England, in order that, in his native country and air, he might\nrecover his health, which was fast failing. This counsel was given him\nby the surgeons and physicians who understood his malady. The prince was\nwilling to follow their advice, and said that he should be glad to\nreturn. Accordingly he arranged all his affairs, and prepared to leave.\n\n\"When,\" says the chronicler, \"the said prince had settled his departure,\nand his vessel was all ready in the Garonne, at the harbour of Bordeaux,\nand he was in that city with madame his wife, and young Richard their\nson, he sent a special summons to all the barons and knights of Gascony,\nPoitou, and all of whom he was sire and lord. When they were all come\nand assembled in a chamber in his presence, he set forth to them how he\nhad been their father, and had maintained them in peace as long as he\ncould, and in great prosperity and power, against their neighbours, and\nthat he left them only and returned to England in the hope of recovering\nhis health, of which he had great want. He therefore entreated them, of\ntheir love, that they would serve and obey the Duke of Lancaster his\nbrother, as they had obeyed him in time past: for they would find him a\ngood knight, and courteous, and willing to grant all, and that in their\nnecessities he would afford them aid and counsel. The barons of\nAquitaine, Gascony, Poitou, and Saintonge, agreed to this proposition;\nand swore, by their faith, that he should never find them fail in fealty\nand homage to the said duke; but that they would show him all love,\nservice, and obedience; and they swore the same to him, being there\npresent, and each of them _kissed him on the mouth_.\n\n\"These ordinances settled, the prince made no long sojourn in the city\nof Bordeaux, but embarked on board his vessel, with madame, the\nprincess, and their son, and the Earl of Cambridge, and the Earl of\nPembroke: and in his fleet were five hundred men-at-arms, besides\narchers. They sailed so well that, without peril or harm, they reached\nHampton. There they disembarked, and remained to refresh for three days;\nand then mounted on horseback--_the prince in his litter_--and travelled\ntill they came to Windsor, where the king then was; who received his\nchildren _very sweetly_, and informed himself, by them, of the state of\nGuienne. And when the prince had remained a space with the king, he took\nleave and went to his hotel at Berkhampstead, about _twenty leagues_\nfrom the city of London.\"\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XVI.\n\n     THE GARONNE--THE LORD OF LANGOYRAN--MIRACLE OF THE MULE--CASTLE OF\n     THE FOUR SONS OF AYMON--THE AGED LOVER--GAVACHES--THE\n     FRANCHIMANS--COUNT RAYMOND--FLYING BRIDGES--THE MILLER OF\n     BARBASTE--THE TROUBADOUR COUNT--THE COUNT DE LA MARCHE--THE\n     ROCHELLAISE--EUG\u00c9NIE AND HER SONG.\n\n\nAT four o'clock, on a September morning, we followed our\n_commissionnaire_ from the H\u00f4tel de Nantes, at Bordeaux, along the now\nsolitary quay, for nearly a mile, the stars shining brightly and the air\nsoft and balmy, to the steam-boat, which was to take us along the\nGaronne to Agen--a distance of about a hundred and twelve miles. The\nboat was the longest and narrowest I ever saw, but well enough\nappointed, with very tolerable accommodation, and an excellent\n_cuisine_.\n\nAs soon as it was daylight, we began to look out for the beauties of the\nriver, which several persons had told us was, in many respects, superior\nto the Loire; consequently, as we continued to pass long, marshy fields,\nwithout an elevation, covered with the blue crocus, and bordered with\ndim grey sallows, we were content, expecting, when we were further from\nthe neighbourhood of Bordeaux, that these beauties would burst upon our\nview. For many hours the boat pursued its way against the stream, but\nnothing striking came before our view: the same clay-coloured river, the\nsame flat bank, with here and there a little change to undulating hills\nof insignificant height, and occasionally some village, picturesquely\nsituated, or some town, with a few ruined walls, which told of former\nbattles and sieges. All these banks were the scenes of contention\nbetween the Lusignans and the Epernonists, in 1649; and here are many\nfamous vineyards; amongst them Castres and Portets, renowned for their\nwhite wines; close to which is La Br\u00e8de, where Montesquieu was born.\n\nThe scenery about this part began to improve; some ruins, crowning a\nheight, appeared, which we found had once been the Ch\u00e2teau de Langoyran;\nabout a lord of which an anecdote is told, characteristic of the period\nwhen it occurred. Fran\u00e7ois de Langoyran carried on constant contention\nwith two neighbouring chiefs, who were friends to England; and, one day,\nwith forty lances, he presented himself before the walls of Cadillac,\noccupied by an English garrison: \"Where is Courant, your captain?\" said\nhe; \"let him know that the Sire de Langoyran desires a joust with him:\nhe is so good and so valiant, he will not refuse, for the love of his\nlady; and if he should, it would be to his great dishonour; and I shall\nsay, wherever I come, that he refused a joust of lances from cowardice.\"\nBernard Courant accepted the challenge, and a deadly strife began, in\nwhich Langoyran was wounded and thrown to the earth. Seeing that his\ntroop were coming to his rescue, Courant summoned his adversary to\nyield; but, he refusing to do so, Courant drew his dagger, stabbed him\nto the heart, and rode out of the lists, leaving the imprudent knight\ndead on the spot. A later lord of Langoyran became a firm ally of the\nEnglish, till they were expelled under Charles le Bien Servi.\n\nCadillac, where once stood a magnificent castle, built by the Duke\nd'Epernon, where Louis XIII. and all his court were entertained with\ngreat pomp, in 1620, and which cost above two millions of francs, offers\nnow but a retreat for convicts.\n\nBarsac is not far off, well known for its fine white wines; and beyond,\nis Sainte Croix de Mont, a village placed on rather a bold eminence. At\nPreignac the little river Ciron runs into the Garonne, and brings on its\ncurrent wood from the Landes. Sometimes this small stream becomes so\nswollen, that it overflows, and renders the road in its neighbourhood\ndangerous. After the battle of Orthez, the mutilated remains of the\nFrench army crossed the valley, which this river had rendered a perfect\nmarsh, at the peril of their lives, in order to pursue their melancholy\njourney, flying from the British arms.\n\nClose by is Garonnelle, a port of the _Verdelais_, where, situated a\nlittle way up the country, is a famous chapel, dedicated to Notre Dame\ndu Luc, to which pilgrims resort, on the 8th of September, from all\nparts of France--so great is her renown. The chapel was founded in the\ntwelfth century, by a Countess of Foix, and re-edified by another, or,\nas some say, built first in 1407, under the following circumstances:--\n\nOne day, as Isabella de Foix, wife of Archambaud de Grailli, Count of\nB\u00e9nauge, was visiting her domains, she had occasion to pass through a\nwood, when suddenly the mule on which she was riding, stopped, and would\nnot stir from the spot either one way or the other. It was found that\nhis foot had sunk into a _very hard_ stone, to the depth of four or five\ninches, his iron-shod hoof imprinting a mark on the substance. The lady,\nmuch _surprised_ at such a circumstance, which could be no other than a\nprodigy, descended from the animal, had the stone raised, and beheld, as\nwell as all those who accompanied her, and as all may see who visit the\nholy chapel raised in the wood, a perfect portrait of the blessed\nVirgin, where the hoof of the mule had been!\n\nThis sanctuary was given in charge to the monks of the order of Grand\nMont. The Huguenots pillaged and burnt the chapel, in 1562. It was again\nconstructed, and given to the Father Celestins, in the seventeenth\ncentury; but in all its perils and dangers the miraculous stone has\nremained uninjured, and attracts the same veneration as ever. Perhaps it\nis its vicinity which has imparted such virtues to a vineyard near,\nwhich produces the far-famed \"Sauterne\" known throughout Europe.\n\nWe came to a great many suspension-bridges on our way: the French seem\nto have a perfect passion for throwing them across their rivers in this\nregion; and, it is said, not all of them are safe; as, for instance, the\nadmired and vaunted Cubzac, which, it is now generally feared, will give\nway. One of these bridges is at Langon; once a very important town, and\none of late much improved in commerce, in consequence of the traffic\ncaused by the steam-boats from Bordeaux to Agen.\n\nA famous siege was sustained here, against the Huguenots, in 1587, when\nthe Lord of Langon defended himself in a gallant manner, though\nabandoned by all his people, _his wife alone_ sharing his danger, and\nfighting by his side to the last, and even after his castle was taken,\nresisting still. The grand route from Bordeaux to Bayonne passes by\nLangon. There is no vestige of its castle; but a fine church, built by\nthe English, exists, where the arms of England are even now conspicuous.\nScattered about, here and there, but distant from the river, ruins of\ncastles are still to be seen: amongst others, that of Budos is very\npicturesque.\n\nAt St. Macaire, where furious contentions once took place, during the\nwars of religion;--two hundred English prisoners were taken at the time\nof the battle of Toulouse. The church has an imposing effect.\n\nSoon after this, the banks of the river become rocky, and are full of\ncaverns, inhabited in a similar manner to those which so much struck me\non the Loire; but they by no means present so singular or picturesque an\nappearance. The remains of the ancient stronghold of Castets look well\nplaced on a height in this neighbourhood; but the scattered ruins which\ncover a hill near, are more interesting than any, although there are now\nbut little traces of a fortress once the theme of minstrels and\nromancers. This is no other than the castle of the Four Sons of Aymon.\n\nThe little port of Gironde is remarkable for a dreadful event which\nhappened there in the last century. There was formerly a ferry where the\nbridge now extends; and one day the ferryman insisted on being paid\ndouble the usual fare. There were no less than eighty-three passengers\non board his boat, all of whom resisted the imposition. The\n\"_ferryman-fiend_\" was so enraged, that, just as they reached the shore,\nhe ran the boat against a projecting point, and overturned it. Only\nthree persons, besides himself, escaped: the rest were all lost. The\nwretch fled instantly, and was never taken; he was condemned to death,\nand hung in effigy; and since then an annual procession takes place on\nthe banks of the Drot, where the catastrophe occurred, and solemn\nservice is performed for the victims.\n\nThe town of La R\u00e9ole has an imposing effect, rising from the waters. It\nhas shared the fate of all the other towns on the banks, during the\nceaseless troubles which for ages made this river roll with blood. When\nSully was but fifteen, he was amongst a successful party who took\npossession of this place; he entered, at the head of fifty men, and\ngained it in most gallant style; but it was lost the next year, under\nthe following circumstances, which prove that Henry IV. carried his love\nof jesting considerably beyond the bounds of prudence.\n\nThe command of La R\u00e9ole, says P\u00e9r\u00e9fixe, was given to an old Huguenot\ncaptain, named Ussac, who was remarkably ugly, to a degree which made\nhim a mark of observation; nevertheless, his heart was too tender to\nresist the fascinations of one of the fair syrens who aided the plans of\nCatherine, the Queen-mother. The Vicomte de Turenne, then aged about\ntwenty, could not resist making the passion of the old soldier a theme\nof ridicule among his companions; and Henry, instead of discouraging\nthis humour, joined in it heartily, making his faithful servant a butt\non all occasions. Ussac could not endure this attack on so very tender a\npoint, and, rendered almost frantic with vexation, forgetting every\nconsideration of honour and religion, abandoned the cause of Henry, and\ndelivered over the town of La R\u00e9ole to the enemy.\n\nIn this part of the country are to be found that race of persons known\nto the original natives as _Gavaches_: the word is one of contempt,\ntaken from the Spanish; and the habit of treating these people with\ncontumely, which is not even yet entirely worn out, comes from an early\ntime: that is to say, so long ago as 1526; at which period a great part\nof the population on the banks of the Drot, and round La R\u00e9ole and\nMarmande, was carried off by an epidemic; so that the country was\ncompletely desolate; and where all was once fertile and flourishing,\nnothing but ruin and misery was to be seen. Henry d'Albret, King of\nNavarre, anxious to save it from sterility, and to restore a happy state\nof things, re-peopled the lands with emigrants, whom he induced to come\nand settle there, from Anjou, Angoumois, and Saintonge. They united\nthemselves to the very small remnant of those remaining, who had escaped\nthe contagion, and, in a short time, forty-seven _communes_ recovered\ntheir prosperity.\n\nThe strangers who thus filled the places of the former inhabitants,\nbrought their customs and manners with them; Du M\u00e8ge remarks that, \"to\nthem are owing the style of building which may be observed in some of\nthe old houses in this neighbourhood, namely, the very pointed and\ninclined roofs, which belong rather to a country accustomed to snow,[14]\nthan to this where it is not usual.\"\n\n[Footnote 14: _Du M\u00e8ge (Statistique_ III.) This observation scarcely\nappears to me correct, since the countries bordering on the Loire are\ncertainly not more used to snows than those closer to the mountains. In\nB\u00e9arn these shelving roofs are constantly to be seen.]\n\nThe descendants of these new colonists have not forgotten their origin;\nthey inherit the manners of their fathers; wear the same thick hair and\nlong coats. Their drawling pronunciation, peculiar idiom, and the\nslowness of their movements, make them easily distinguished from the\nlively Gascons. A curious mixture of dialect resulted from the re-union\nof so many provinces with the _patois_ of the country, and the language\nstill heard there is a jargon of strange sounds.\n\nThe capital of what was called _La Gavacherie_, was placed at\nCastelmoron-d'Albret, which is now one of the finest and most fertile\ncantons in the diocese of Bazas.\n\nThere exists a propensity, it seems, in the people of this part of the\ncountry, particularly about Agen, to fix contemptuous epithets on\nstrangers who settle amongst them; it matters not from what land they\ncome,--it is sufficient that the Gascon idiom is unknown to them.\n\nThe foreigner is generally called, in derision, _lou Franchiman_;[15]\nand is, for a long time after his first arrival, an object of suspicion\nand dislike.\n\n[Footnote 15: See the Poems of Jasmin.]\n\nThis term evidently belongs to the period of the English possession,\nwhen a _Frenchman_ was another word for an enemy.\n\nOn these shores, traces of the dwellings of the Romans are constantly\nfound in Mosaic pavements, and ruins and coins. At Hures, in particular,\nsome fine specimens have been lately discovered: amongst others,\nfragments of pillars of _verd-antique_ and fine marbles of different\nsorts. There is also a marvellous rock at Hures, where an invisible\nmiraculous virgin is still in the habit of performing wonders, though\nher statue has been long since removed.\n\nA high hill, once crowned with a castle, rises from the river after a\nseries of flat meadows. This was once Meilhan, one of the finest castles\nin the Garonne, belonging to the Duke de Bouillon, who, suspected of\ntreason, blew up his magnificent abode, destroying with it the abbey and\nchurch beneath. An immense forest spread far into the Landes from this\npoint, only a few trees of which remain.\n\nWhen the castle was destroyed, the clock of the Benedictine church\nrolled down into the river, and was afterwards raised in the night, and\ntaken possession of by the Marmandais; the Meilhanais even still insist\non its being their property.\n\nThere are some ruins, in the quarter called La Roque, of a rampart, from\nwhence is a perilous descent to the shore: here once stood a tower,\nthrough a breach in which it is said that the Maid of Orleans conducted\nthe soldiers of Charles VII., and took the town. This tower was seen at\nso great a distance that it gave rise to a proverb: \"He who sees Meilhan\nis not within side it.\"\n\nOver the principal entrance of the castle was a sculptured stone--still\npreserved, but in a most ignoble position: it represented a cavalier\narmed with a lance, with a shield on his left arm; by the form of which\nit would appear to belong to those used by the ancient Franks. The arms\nof Meilhan are _three toads_, doubtless the most familiar animal in so\ndamp and marshy a country.\n\nAt a village called Couture, a phrase is left from very old times, when\n_a_ Raymond, Count of Toulouse, happening to stop there to rest, asked\nfor a measure of wine, which he drank off at a draught, though it was no\nsmall quantity; instead, therefore, of saying a bottle of two _litres_,\nit is usual to say in this country, \"_A measure of Count Raymond's_.\"\n\nThe _Roc de Quatalan_ is near this point, whose name has been derived\nfrom _quatre-a-l'an_; because it causes so many wrecks in the course of\nthe year.\n\nThere is nothing very striking in the appearance of Marmande, once\nremarkable for its castle and churches and abbeys; but now only a place\nof commerce connected with Bordeaux. Nevertheless, the Romans, Goths,\nand Saracens, made it a place of importance, and severally destroyed it\nin their turn. Richard Coeur de Lion rebuilt and fortified it, only to\nbe again ravaged and pillaged by the party of Montford, and, under the\nBlack Prince, it was taken and retaken. Henry IV. besieged it, and, in\n1814, the town of Marmande had to sustain its last attack. It has a good\nport, and, apparently, some pretty public walks, and is about half-way\nbetween Bordeaux and Agen.\n\nCaumont appears next, once not only famous for its castle, but its\ntyrannical lord; who, in the time of Louis XIII., was governor of this\npart of the river, and carried on a system of oppression which became\nunbearable. He cast an iron chain across the river, to prevent the\npassing of vessels, on which he laid his hands in the most unpitying\nmanner, taking possession of all he could meet with. At length, the\nrelation of his cruelties and rapines found a hearing with the King,\nwho, without consulting any one, had the detested lord of Argilimont, as\nhis stronghold was called, arrested and condemned; his sentence was\nexecuted at Bordeaux the day after he was taken, and his castle and\nestates were bestowed on the Sire d'Estourville.\n\nIf half the castles which once bordered this river existed now, the\nscenery would be wonderfully improved; but they live in memory alone,\nand their sites are all that remain. Gontaud and Tonneins, where proud\ntowers once frowned, are but insignificant villages now; at the first, a\n_patois_ song is said still to be popular, the chorus of which\ncommemorated the loss of all the people of Gontaud, put to the sword by\nBiron, in revenge for the death of one of his best officers: it runs\nthus:--\n\n    \"Las damos, que soun sul rempart\n    Cridon moun Diou! Bierg\u00e9 Mario!\n    Adiou, Gountaou, bilo jolio!\"\n\nPerhaps that which is most worthy of remark on the Garonne, is the\nnumber of _flying bridges_ which cross it, replacing many an old stone\nor wooden one, or a ferry, with which the inhabitants of these parts\nwere so long contented. It is to the Messrs. Seguin that France is\nindebted for these beautiful constructions, the hint of which they are\nsaid to have taken in England. I had seen few of them when I visited\nhis _family of beauties_ in the valley near Montbard, whose\naccomplishments and singular attractions furnished me with a romantic\nchapter in my _last pilgrimage_.[16]\n\n[Footnote 16: \"See Pilgrimage to Auvergne,\" chap. xiii. p. 271.]\n\nA stone bridge, built by Napoleon, however, crosses the river at\nAiguillon, which stands at the confluence of the Lot and Garonne, and is\nfamous for its castle, built by the Duke d'Aiguillon--that minister who,\nprotected by Mde. du Barry, gave his aid towards preparing the\ndownfal of France, undermined by the acts of a series of worthless\ncharacters, in every department of the state, from the monarch\ndownwards. Marie Antoinette held him in especial odium, and he was\nexiled, by her desire, to his gorgeous ch\u00e2teau on the Lot, where he was,\nin fact, a prisoner, not being allowed to sleep out of it; on one\noccasion, when he visited Agen for two days, word was sent to him that\nit was expected he should not prolong his stay. The castle, in his time,\nwas a Versailles in miniature, and was not entirely finished at the\nRevolution.\n\nAn ancient Roman tower, of which a few walls only now remain, on the\nroute to Agen, was once a conspicuous object from the river: it was\ncalled _La Tourrasse_, (\"_enormous tower_\" in _patois_), and many\ndiscoveries prove the importance of this place in the time of the\nRomans.\n\nThe Ba\u00efse is the next river that falls into the Garonne, following whose\nbanks towards Nerac is Barbaste and its old ch\u00e2teau, of which Henri\nQuatre was fond of calling himself _The Miller_, which title, on one\noccasion, stood him in good stead when a great danger threatened him; a\nsoldier of the opposite party, who came from this part of the country\nwhere the prince was always beloved, could not resolve to see the\ndestruction which awaited him if he had advanced a step towards a mine\nwhich was just on the point of blowing up. At the critical instant, he\ncalled out, in _patois_, which none but Henry understood, \"Mouli\u00e9 d\u00e9\nBarbaste, pren garde a la gatte qu\u00e9 bay gatoua:\"--'Millar of Barbaste,\nbeware of the cat' (_gatte_ means, indifferently, _cat_ or _mine_)\n'which is going to kitten' (_gatoua_ has the meaning of _blowing up_, as\nwell.) Henry drew back in time, just as the mine exploded. Thanks,\ntherefore, to his readiness, and the expressive nature of the Gascon\n_patois_, the hero was, for that time, saved; he took care not to lose\nsight of his deliverer, and, on a future occasion, rewarded him amply\nfor the service he had rendered.\n\nThe little port of St. Marie, well known as a safe harbour to the\nfishermen of the Garonne, once formed part, with the town, of the\npossessions of Raymond, the last Count of Toulouse; who, after a series\nof persecutions from the Pope and the King of France, (St. Louis,) to\ninduce him to give up the protection of the Albigenses, was permitted to\nretain this portion, only on condition of destroying the fortifications\nof the strong castle which existed there. Guy, Viscount de Cavaillon,\nhis friend and fellow troubadour, on one occasion addressed to him the\nfollowing lines, to which he returned the answer subjoined; but,\nnevertheless, was obliged to submit to the power of the Church, like the\nrest of the world:\n\n    \"GUY DE CAVAILLON TO THE COUNT OF TOULOUSE.\n\n      \"Tell me, Count, if you would rather\n        Owe your lands and castles high\n      To the Pope, our holy father,\n        Or to sacred chivalry?\n      Were it best a knight and noble\n        Conquer'd by his sword alone,\n      Bearing heat, and cold, and trouble,\n        By his arm to gain his own?\"\n\n\n    \"ANSWER OF COUNT RAYMOND TO GUY DE CAVAILLON.\n\n      \"Guy, much sooner would I gain\n        All by valour and my sword,\n      Than by other means obtain\n        What no honour can afford.\n      Church nor clergy I despise,\n        Neither fear them, as you know;\n      But no towers or castles prize\n        Which their hands alone bestow:\n      Holding honour above all\n      Gifts or conquests, great or small.\"\n\nThe evening was drawing in too much by the time we reached that part of\nthe shore, where the few walls of the once stupendous ch\u00e2teau of the\nLusignans appear, and we could see nothing but the shadow--it might be\nof the wings of the fairy, Melusine, hovering in the dim light over\nthis, one of her numerous castles.\n\nHere lived and contended Hugues de Lusignan, Counte de la Marche, who\nhad married his first love, the beautiful Isabeau d'Angoul\u00eame, widow of\nKing John of England; whose effigy so delighted me at Fontevraud, lying\nbeside that of her brother-in-law, Coeur de Lion.[17] But, if that\nlovely face and delicate form truly represented the princess, her\ncharacter is singularly at variance with her gentle demeanour. She was\nthe most imperious, restlessly proud, and vindictive woman of her time,\nand kept up a constant warfare with her husband and the King of France;\nto whom she could not endure that the Count de Lusignan should be\nconsidered a vassal. \"I,\" she cried, \"the widow of a king! the mother of\na king and an empress! am, then, to be reduced to take rank after a\nsimple countess! to do homage to a count!\" This was on the occasion of\nthe marriage of the brother of Louis IX., with Jeanne, Countess and\nheiress of Toulouse, to whom the Count of Lusignan owed homage. \"No,\"\nshe continued, with indignant fury, \"you shall not commit so cowardly an\naction: resist: my son, and my son-in-law, will come to your aid. I will\nraise the people of Poitou--my allies, my vassals--and, if they are not\nenough, I have power alone to save you from such disgrace.\" Hugues, thus\nexcited, agreed to follow her counsel; and a long struggle ensued,\nsometimes attended with triumph to the haughty countess, sometimes with\ndiscomfiture; and ending by the ruin of her husband and children, and\nthe confiscation of much of their domains to the crown of France. This\nwas she to whom the troubadour count addressed these lines, amongst\nothers:\n\n    \"So full of pleasure is my pain,\n      To me my sorrow is so dear,\n    That, not the universe to gain\n      Would I exchange a single tear.\n\n    \"What have I said?--I cannot choose,\n      Nor would I seek to have the will;\n    How can I when my soul I lose\n      In thought and sleepless visions still,\n    Yet cannot from her presence fly,\n      Altho' to linger is to die.\"\n\n[Footnote 17: See \"A Summer amongst the Bocages and the Vines,\" vol. ii.\nchap. i. page 15.]\n\nWe were seated in the cabin of the steam-boat, resigning ourselves to\npatience until Agen should be reached--for it was now dark, and a shower\nhad fallen which made the decks wet--when we were summoned to brave all\nby the promise of a treat above. We had observed, in the course of the\nday, a party of young women, each wrapped in a large black cloak, the\npointed hood of which was either drawn over the head or allowed to fall\nbehind, showing the singular square cap, which at once told they were\nRochellaises. They were at the opposite end of the long vessel; and, as\nsome were below, we had no idea that they mustered so large a party, for\nit appeared that there were no fewer than twenty-one, all from La\nTremblade, or the other islands in the neighbourhood of La Rochelle.\nThey were taking their usual autumn voyage up the Garonne, and, from\nAgen, were destined to various towns as far as the Pyrenees, where they\nremain all the oyster season, receiving, by the boat, twice a week, a\nconsignment of oysters to be disposed of, on the spot where their\nresidence is fixed. They were generally young, some extremely so, and\nvery well conducted; sitting together in groups, and talking in an under\ntone; but, at this hour of the evening, they all congregated on deck,\nand were singing some of their songs as the boat went rapidly on, and\nthe soft breeze caught up their notes.\n\nWhen I first joined them, it was so dark that I could distinguish their\nfigures with difficulty, and only knew, by the murmurs of applause which\nfollowed the close of their chaunt, that they were surrounded by all the\ncrew, who were attentively listening to their strains. When they found\nsome strangers had come amongst them they were seized with a fit of\nshyness, which I feared would put a stop to the scene altogether; for\nthe chief songstress declared herself hoarse, and uttered \"her pretty\noath, by yea and nay, she could not, would not, durst not\" sing again:\nhowever, at last the spirit came again, and, after a little persuasion,\nshe agreed to recollect something. \"Ah, Ma'amselle Eug\u00e9nie,\" said one of\nthe older girls, \"if I had such a voice I would not allow myself to be\nso entreated.\" Accordingly she began, and the chorus of her song was\ntaken up by all the young voices. I never heard anything more melodious\nand touching than the song altogether: Eug\u00e9nie's voice was soft, clear,\nand full, and had a melancholy thrill in it, which it was impossible to\nhear without being affected; she seemed to delight in drawing out her\nlast notes, and hearing their sound prolonged on the air. The ballads\nshe chose were _all sad_, in the usual style of the Bretons: one was\nexpressive of sorrow for absence, and was full of tender reproaches,\nending in assurances of truth, in spite of fate; and one, \"Dis moi! dis\nmoi!\" was a lament for a captive, which, as well as I could catch the\nwords,--partly French and partly _patois_--was full of mournful regret,\nand seemed to run thus at every close:\n\n\"The north wind whistles--the night is dark; at the foot of the hill\nthe captive looks forth in vain,--ah! he is weeping still! always at the\nfoot of that hill you may hear his sighs.\n\n\"'Alas!' he says, 'what is there in the world that can compare to\nliberty? and I am a prisoner. I weep alone!'--he sees a bird fly by, and\nexclaims, 'There is something still left worth living for--I may be one\nday free!'\"\n\n    \"H\u00e9las! le pauvre enfant--il pleure toujours:\n    Il pleure toujours! au fond de la colline.\"\n\nPerhaps this song might allude to some of those unfortunate patriots of\nLa Vend\u00e9e, whose fate was as sad as any romance could tell.\n\nI never remember to have heard what seemed to me more real melody than\nthis singing; and was very sorry when the young girls insisted, in\nreturn for their compliance, on one of the crew obliging them with a\nsong; for he obeyed, and, in one of the usual cracked voices, which are\nso common in France, raised peals of laughter by intoning an _English\nair_--no other than \"God Save the King.\" This effectually spoilt the\npretty romance of the veiled Rochellaises; not one of whom we could see,\nin the darkness, and their voices seemed to come from the depths of the\nGaronne, as if they were the spirits of its waters, who had taken\npossession of our vessel, and were beguiling us with their sweet voices\ninto their whirlpools and amongst their sands.\n\nI thanked them for my share of the amusement, and remarked to one near\nme how beautiful the voice of Eug\u00e9nie was. \"Yes,\" said she, \"she is\ncelebrated in the country for singing so well; but, even now, her mother\nsings the best; you never heard such a lovely tone as her's; they are a\nmusical family: every one cannot have such a gift as Eug\u00e9nie.\"\n\nThis seemed a good beginning for the music and poetry of the south, and\npromised well for all that was to come; _but that music was the last_,\nas it had been the first, I had heard in France; where, in general,\nthere is no melody amongst the people, in any part that I have visited.\nAs for its poetry, we were approaching a place where a celebrated\n_patois_ poet resided, who is the boast, not only of Agen, but of\nGascony, and who has made, of late, a great sensation in this part of\nFrance.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XVII.\n\n     AGEN--LA BELLE ESTHER--ST. CAPRAIS--THE LITTLE CHERUBS--ZO\u00c9 AT THE\n     FOUNTAIN--THE HILL--LE GRAVIER--JASMIN, THE POET-BARBER--THE\n     METAPHOR--LAS PAPILLOTAS--FRAN\u00c7ONNETTE--JASMIN'S LINES ON THE OLD\n     LANGUAGE--THE SHEPHERD AND THE GASCON POET--RETURN TO AGEN--JASMIN\n     AND THE KING OF FRANCE--JASMIN AND THE QUEEN OF ENGLAND.\n\n\nIT was night when we reached Agen, and, amidst a tumult of _patois_,\nwhich sounded like Spanish, and was strange to our unaccustomed ears, we\nlanded, and had our goods torn from us by peremptory porters, who, in\nspite of remonstrance, piled every one's baggage together in carts, and,\nordering all the passengers to follow as they might, set off with it to\nsome unknown region. The stars were bright, and the night fine, as we\nscrambled along over a very rugged road for more than a mile--for, the\nnew pier not being yet finished, the boat was obliged to land its cargo\nat a distance from the town. Up and down, in and out, we pursued our\nway, guided by the lanthorns of our tyrants, and at last found ourselves\nin a boulevard, planted with large high trees, which we followed till a\nshout announced to us that the H\u00f4tel de France was reached.\n\nBy what seemed little less than a miracle, all our baggage was safely\nbrought after us, our troubles were quickly over, and we took possession\nof spacious and lofty chambers, in a very imposing-looking hotel.\n\nThe next morning the weather was magnificent, and Agen came out in great\nsplendour, with its fine promenades, handsome bridge, its beautiful\nhills and river, and its fine clear fresh air, so different from the\ndull atmosphere of Bordeaux. The first figure we saw on going out, was\none of the Rochellaises seated at the inn door, installed with her\noyster-baskets, and receiving the congratulations of all her friends of\nthe hotel, who hastened to welcome her annual return to Agen. It seems,\nshe takes up her abode at the hotel during her stay, and her arrival is\nconsidered quite an event, as we found at breakfast, where numerous\nFrenchmen were conversing with great animation on the subject. _La Belle\nEsther_ seemed to be a general favourite, as well as her merchandise,\nand she was so remarkably pretty, modest and graceful, that I was not\nsurprised at the fact. Every one of her admirers gave her an order as he\narrived, and her pretty little hands were busily engaged in opening\noysters for some time, which having done, she brought them in herself,\non a dish, to each guest. I was sorry to see that she had abandoned her\ncostume, and was dressed merely like any other _grisette_; but this is\nvery much the case everywhere. She told me, on great f\u00eate days, however,\nshe occasionally appeared in it; but she seemed to think it more\nconvenient to wear the little flat frilled cap of the town, rather than\nthe square winged machine of her province. I had heard before that she\nwas so well behaved, and so graceful in her manners, that she was\noccasionally invited to the public balls of Agen; but she only answered\nby a deep blush, when I asked if it was so; and said, she _seldom went\nto soir\u00e9es_. She is about three or four-and-twenty; and if the rest of\nher party who sang to us in the boat were as pretty, they must have been\nas dangerous as Queen Catherine's band of beauties, when their black\nhoods were thrown back. She was, however, not one of the singers\nherself; but I recognised, in her voice, the reproving sister who urged\nEug\u00e9nie to sing, and told me of her mother's talent. I afterwards met\nwith more of my acquaintances in the dark, who were scattered through\nthe towns of Gascony.\n\nThe town of Agen is very agreeably situated on the right bank of the\nGaronne: the river is here, though by no means clear, less muddy than at\nBordeaux; and its windings add much to the beauty of the landscape.\nBetween the suspension-bridge and the town is a magnificent promenade,\nformed of several rows of fine trees--one of the most majestic groves I\never saw: it is called Le Gravier. There are two others, each extremely\nfine: one of which is planted with acacias. The town has nothing to\nrecommend it, being dull, and ill-paved, with scarcely a building worthy\nof notice; the strange old clock-tower of the Mairie, looks as if it had\nonce formed part of a ponderous building; but it has no beauty of\narchitecture. Some of the oldest streets and the market-place are built\nwith arcades, in the same fashion as La Rochelle, and they are very dark\nand dilapidated.\n\nThe cathedral, dedicated to St. Caprais, is, however, a monument of\nwhich the Agenois have reason to be proud: it has been cruelly ill-used,\nand its exterior is greatly damaged; but it is undergoing repair, and\nthe restorations both within and without are the most judicious I had\nobserved anywhere. The beautiful, ornamented, circular arches are\nre-appearing in all their purity; and the fine sculptured fa\u00e7ade is\nshining out from the ruin which has long encompassed it; a wide space is\nopened all round the building; and, when the restorations are completed,\nthe effect will be very grand.\n\nIn the interior are some most beautiful specimens of early architecture;\ngalleries above galleries, of different periods, all exquisite, and one\nrow of a pattern such as I had never before met with, almost approaching\nthe Saracenic. The grace and lightness of the whole is quite unique, and\nwe sat for an hour enjoying the cool retreat of the aisle, endeavouring\nto follow the elaborate tracery of the arches, and admiring the effect\nof the sun-light streaming in at the open door, which gave entrance to a\nprocession of priests, and children of very tender age, who were about\nto undergo the ordeal of examination. As we sat, by degrees, first one\nlittle stray black-eyed creature, in a tight skull-cap and full\npetticoat, then another, came and placed themselves before us, immovable\nand curious, like so many tame gazelles; we pretended to be angry, and\ndrove them away; but, while we went on with our sketches of some of the\narches, the little things came back again with the same imperturbable\nlook of silent amazement and curiosity as before. There were four or\nfive, all very round and rosy-cheeked and pretty, and, though their\nvicinity rather interrupted us, we were sorry when the zealous beadle\nappeared, at the distant glimpse of whose portly form the troop rattled\noff, making their wooden shoes ring along the pavement, and disappeared\nin the sun-gleam of the old Roman door-way, like so many cherubs in the\ncostume of the Middle Ages.\n\nThe morning was magnificent when we mounted the high hill which\noverlooks the town, and which is called _Le Mont Pomp\u00e9ian_, or De\nl'Ermitage; the banks were covered with box and purple heath and wild\nthyme, the air full of freshness and fragrance, and all was \"balmy\nsummer.\" The ascent to the top is extremely steep, and must be very\ntoilsome to the peasants, some of whom were climbing up, bending under\ndifferent loads. A party, however, who kept pace with us, told us they\nwere merely out taking a walk, as it was such a fine day, to do the\nchildren good; and they seemed to enjoy the prospect and the warm sun as\nmuch as we did, and be quite in the same humour for idling their time\naway. On the top of the hill is a telegraph, from whence there is a\nbeautiful view; and the vine-field, full of ripe purple grapes, looked\nvery inviting; jasmine grew wild in the hedges, and perfumed the air;\nand, altogether, the hills of Agen gave a promise of southern beauty,\nwhich, alas! I found, on advancing nearer to Spain, was by no means\nrealized. We remained for some hours, choosing different retreats from\nwhence to enjoy the views, which are varied and beautiful in the\nextreme. After passing fields of high Indian corn, gay with its\ntasselled blossoms, we came to a splendid opening, where we beheld the\nbroad Garonne, winding through a landscape of great richness and\nvariety, glittering in the sun, and spreading wide its majestic arms\nover the country. Through a long lane of purple grapes and crimson\nleaves, we pursued our way, until we came to a ruined fountain, of very\npicturesque appearance, extremely deep, and the water sparkling at the\nbottom like a diamond in the dark; the mouth covered with shrubs and\nflowers of every hue, and straggling vines, with their now purple and\ncrimson leaves, making a bower around it. Two women and a boy were\nresting near, and we entered into conversation with them; there was\nsomething interesting in the worn features of the younger female; who\ntold us she was from Le Mans, a great way off, in a charming country,\nwhich she said, with a sigh, that she had not seen since she was a girl,\nbefore she made the imprudent match which had reduced her to work hard\nin the fields of Agen to support a large family; for her husband had\ndeserted her, and she had no one to look to. \"I dare say,\" she said, \"Le\nMans is much altered now, since I saw it; there is no chance of my ever\ngoing home again now:\" these words were uttered in so sad a tone that we\nwere quite affected. She had been very pretty, and was even now\nagreeable-looking, though, so very pensive; her name, she told us, was\nZo\u00eb, and she seemed glad to hear news of her native town, though the\nrecollection revived, evidently, very painful thoughts. As we sat\ndrawing, these poor people remained wandering about, picking up sticks\nand resting in the shade; the ground was damp, and the old woman--who\nhad asked her companion, in patois, the subject of her talk with us, as\nshe did not understand French--looked very benevolently towards us, and\npresently took off her apron, and came insisting that we should use it\nas a seat, as she said it was dangerous for such as us to sit on the\nbare ground; \"we are used to it, and it does us no harm; but you are\nwrong to risk it,\" was her remark; and, with all the kindness\nimaginable, she made us accept her courtesy. We have often met with\nsimilar demonstrations of kind feeling from the peasantry in France;\nwho, when not spoilt by the town and trade, are generally amiable, and\nanxious to oblige on all occasions.\n\nNothing could be more lovely than the extensive view before us from this\nspot; hills covered with vines and rich foliage, fields of Indian corn,\nbright meadows and banks of glowing flowers, with the river winding\nthrough all, wide and bright; the town, picturesque in the distance,\nundulating hills, and a clear blue sky. At the end of a large field, we\ncame to a pretty bower, formed of vines, on the edge of the wooded\ndeclivity; probably used as a retreat by the master and his family, in\nthe time of the vintage; it looked quite Italian, and we were not sorry\nto shelter there from the hot sun.\n\nHalf-way down from the telegraph hill is a cavern called the Hermitage,\nwhich once was the retreat of a holy anchorite; but, being now chosen as\na place for f\u00eates, has become a sort of cockney spot, and has lost its\ncharacter of solemnity; but it is the great object of attraction to the\ninhabitants of Agen, who flock there in crowds on saints'-days and\nSundays.\n\nWe had made an appointment, on our return from wandering amongst the\nheights, to pay a visit to a very remarkable personage, who is held,\nboth in Agen and throughout Gascony, to be the greatest poet of modern\ntimes. We had heard much of him before we arrived, and a friend of mine\nhad given me some lines of his with the music, in England; one song I\npublished in a recent work;[18] but I was not then aware of the history\nof the author, of whom the ballad \"Mi cal mouri!\" was one of the\nearliest compositions, and that which first tended to make him popular.\nMy friend, who possesses very delicate taste and discrimination, was\nmuch struck with the grace and beauty of this song; though the\nreputation of its author has reached its height since the time when she\nfirst met with his melody.\n\n[Footnote 18: \"Pilgrimage to Auvergne,\" chap, xiii, p. 210.]\n\nAt the entrance of the promenade, Du Gravier, is a row of small\nhouses--some _caf\u00e9s_, others shops, the indication of which is a painted\ncloth placed across the way, with the owner's name in bright gold\nletters, in the manner of the arcades in the streets, and their\nannouncements. One of the most glaring of these was, we observed, a\nbright blue flag, bordered with gold; on which, in large gold letters,\nappeared the name of \"Jasmin, Coiffeur.\" We entered, and were welcomed\nby a smiling dark-eyed woman, who informed us that her husband was busy\nat that moment _dressing a customer's hair_, but he was desirous to\nreceive us, and begged we would walk into his parlour at the back of the\nshop. There was something that struck us as studied in this, and we\nbegan to think the reputation of the poet might be altogether a\n_got-up_ thing. I was obliged to repeat to myself the pretty song of \"Mi\ncal mouri,\" to prevent incredulous doubts from intruding; but as I\nrecollected the sweet voice that gave the words effect, I feared that it\nwas that charm which had misled me.\n\nHis wife, meantime, took the advantage of his absence, which had, of\ncourse, been arranged _artistically_, to tell us of Jasmin's triumphs.\nShe exhibited to us a _laurel crown of gold_ of delicate workmanship,\nsent from the city of Clemence Isaure, Toulouse, to the poet; who will\nprobably one day take his place in the _capitoul_. Next came a golden\ncup, with an inscription in his honour, given by the citizens of Auch; a\ngold watch, chain, and seals, sent by the King, Louis-Philippe; an\nemerald ring worn and presented by the lamented Duke of Orleans; a pearl\npin, by the graceful duchess, who, on the poet's visit to Paris\naccompanied by his son, received him in the words he puts into the mouth\nof Henri Quatre.[19]--\n\n        \"Brabes Gascous!\n    A moun amou per bous aou dibes creyre:\n    Ben\u00e8s! ben\u00e8s! ey plaz\u00e9 de bous beyre:\n          Aproucha bous!\"\n\nA fine service of linen, the offering of the town of Pau, after its\ncitizens had given f\u00eates in his honour, and loaded him with caresses and\npraises; and nick-nacks and jewels of all descriptions offered to him\nby lady-ambassadresses, and great lords; English \"_misses_\" and\n\"_miladis_;\" and French, and foreigners of all nations who did or did\nnot understand Gascon.\n\n[Footnote 19: On his statue at Nerac.]\n\nAll this, though startling, was not convincing; Jasmin, the barber,\nmight only be a fashion, a _furor_, a _caprice_, after all; and it was\nevident that he knew how to get up a scene well. When we had become\nnearly tired of looking over these tributes to his genius, the door\nopened, and the poet himself appeared. His manner was free and\nunembarrassed, well-bred, and lively; he received our compliments\nnaturally, and like one accustomed to homage; said he was ill, and\nunfortunately too hoarse to read anything to us, or should have been\ndelighted to do so. He spoke in a broad Gascon accent, and very rapidly\nand eloquently; ran over the story of his successes; told us that his\ngrandfather had been a beggar, and all his family very poor; that he was\nnow as rich as he wished to be, his son placed in a good position at\nNantes; then showed us his son's picture, and spoke of his disposition,\nto which his brisk little wife added, that, though no fool, he had not\nhis father's genius, to which truth Jasmin assented as a matter of\ncourse. I told him of having seen mention made of him in an English\nreview; which he said had been sent him by Lord Durham, who had paid him\na visit; and I then spoke of 'Mi cal mouri' as known to me. This was\nenough to make him forget his hoarseness and every other evil: it would\nnever do for me to imagine that that little song was his best\ncomposition; it was merely his first; he must try to read me a little of\nl'Abuglo--a few verses of \"Fran\u00e7ouneto;\"--\"You will be charmed,\" said\nhe; \"but if I were well, and you would give me the pleasure of your\ncompany for some time; if you were not merely running through Agen, I\nwould kill you with weeping--I would make you die with distress for my\npoor Margarido--my pretty Fran\u00e7ouneto!\"\n\nHe caught up two copies of his book, from a pile lying on the table, and\nmaking us sit close to him, he pointed out the French translation on one\nside, which he told us to follow while he read in Gascon. He began in a\nrich soft voice, and as he advanced, the surprise of Hamlet on hearing\nthe player-king recite the disasters of Hecuba, was but a type of ours,\nto find ourselves carried away by the spell of his enthusiasm. His eyes\nswam in tears; he became pale and red; he trembled; he recovered\nhimself; his face was now joyous, now exulting, gay, jocose; in fact, he\nwas twenty actors in one; he rang the changes from Rachel to Bouff\u00e9; and\nhe finished by delighting us, besides beguiling us of our tears, and\noverwhelming us with astonishment.\n\nHe would have been a treasure on the stage; for he is still, though his\nfirst youth is past, remarkably good-looking and striking; with black,\nsparkling eyes of intense expression; a fine ruddy complexion; a\ncountenance of wondrous mobility; a good figure; and action full of fire\nand grace; he has handsome hands, which he uses with infinite effect;\nand, on the whole, he is the best actor of the kind I ever saw. I could\nnow quite understand what a troubadour or _jongleur_ might be, and I\nlook upon Jasmin as a revived specimen of that extinct race. Such as he\nis might have been Gaucelm Faidit, of Avignon, the friend of Coeur de\nLion, who lamented the death of the hero in such moving strains; such\nmight have been Bernard de Ventadour, who sang the praises of Queen\nElionore's beauty; such Geoffrey Rudel, of Blaye, on his own Garonne;\nsuch the wild Vidal: certain it is, that none of these troubadours of\nold could more move, by their singing or reciting, than Jasmin, in whom\nall their long-smothered fire and traditional magic seems re-illumined.\n\nWe found we had stayed hours instead of minutes with the poet; but he\nwould not hear of any apology--only regretted that his voice was so out\nof tune, in consequence of a violent cold, under which he was really\nlabouring, and hoped to see us again. He told us our countrywomen of Pau\nhad laden him with kindness and attention, and spoke with such\nenthusiasm of the beauty of certain \"misses,\" that I feared his little\nwife would feel somewhat piqued; but, on the contrary, she stood by,\nsmiling and happy, and enjoying the stories of his triumphs. I remarked\nthat he had restored the poetry of the troubadours; asked him if he knew\ntheir songs; and said he was worthy to stand at their head. \"I am,\nindeed, a troubadour,\" said he, with energy; \"but I am far beyond them\nall; they were but beginners; they never composed a poem like my\nFran\u00e7ounete! there are no poets in France now--there cannot be; the\nlanguage does not admit of it; where is the fire, the spirit, the\nexpression, the tenderness, the force of the Gascon? French is but the\nladder to reach to the _first floor_ of Gascon--how can you get up to a\nheight except by a ladder!\"\n\nThis last metaphor reminded me of the Irishman's contempt for an English\nstaircase in comparison to his father's ladder; and my devotion to the\ntroubadours and _early_ French poets received a severe shock by the\nslight thrown on them by the bard of Agen.\n\nWe left him, therefore, half angry at his presumption; and once out of\nhis sight I began again to doubt his merit, not feeling ready to accord\nthe meed of applause to conceit at any time; I forgot that Jasmin is a\ntype of his kind in all ways, and \"is every inch\" a _Gascon_.\n\nHis poems, of which I am tempted to give some specimens, must speak for\nhim, although they necessarily lose greatly by transmission into a\nlanguage so different to the Gascon as English. The last volume he\npublished we brought away with us. It is called _Los Papillotos[20] de\nJasmin, co\u00efffeur_, and contains a great many poems, all remarkable in\ntheir way, even including those complimentary verses addressed to\ncertain \"_Moussus,\" (Messieurs_.)\n\n[Footnote 20: The curl-papers.]\n\nThe history of this singular person is told by himself in a series of\npoems called \"His recollections,\" which present a sad and curious\npicture of his life in its different stages. It appears that Jacques\nJasmin, or as he writes it in Gascon, _Jaquou Jansemin_, was born in\n1797 or 1798.\n\n\"The last century, old and worn out,\" (says his eulogist, M.\nSainte-Beuve,) \"had only two or three more years to pass on earth, when,\nat the corner of an antique street, in a ruined building peopled by a\ncolony of rats, on the Thursday of Carnival week, at the hour when\npancakes are being tossed, of a hump-backed father and a lame mother was\nborn a child, a droll little object; and this child was the poet,\nJasmin. When a prince is born into the world, the event is celebrated by\nthe report of cannon; but he, the son of a poor tailor, had not even a\npop-gun to announce his birth. Nevertheless, he did not appear without\n_\u00e9clat_, for at the moment he made his appearance, a _charivari_ was\ngiven to a neighbour, and the music of marrowbones and cleavers\naccompanied a song of thirty-stanzas, composed for the occasion by his\nfather. This father of his, who could not read, was a poet in his way,\nand made most of the burlesque couplets for salutations of this\ndescription, so frequent in the country. Behold, then, a poetical\nparentage, as well established as that of the two Marots.\"\n\nThe infant born under so auspicious an aspect, grew and throve in spite\nof the poverty to which he was heir. He was allowed, when a few years\nhad passed over his head, to accompany his father in those concerts of\nrough music to which he contributed his poetical powers; but the chief\ndelight of the future troubadour was to go, with his young associates,\ninto the willow islands of the Garonne to gather wood.\n\n\"Twenty or thirty together, we used to set out, with naked feet and\nbareheaded, singing together the favourite song of the south, 'The lamb,\nthat you gave me.' Oh! the recollection of this pleasure even now\nenchants me.\"\n\nTheir faggots collected, these little heroes returned to make bonfires\nof them; on which occasion many gambols ensued. But, in the midst of the\njoyous _escapades_ which he describes, he had his moments of sadness,\nwhich the word \"_school_\" never failed to increase, for the passion of\nhis soul was to gain instruction, and the poverty of his family\nprecluded all hope. He would listen to his mother, as she spoke in\nwhispers to his grandfather, of her wish to send him to school; and he\nwept with disappointment, to find such a consummation impossible. The\nevidences of this destitution were constantly before him; his perception\nof the privations of those dear to him became every day keener; and\nwhen, after the fair, during which he had filled his little purse by\nexecuting trifling commissions, he carried the amount to his mother, his\nheart sank as she took it from him with a melancholy smile,\nsaying--\"Poor child, your assistance comes just in time.\" Bitter\nthoughts of poverty would thus occasionally intrude; but the gaiety of\nyouth banished them again, until one sad day the veil was wholly\nwithdrawn, and he could no longer conceal the truth from himself. He had\njust reached his tenth year, and was one day playing in the square, when\nhe saw a chair, borne along by several persons, in which was seated an\nold man: he looked up and recognised his grandfather, surrounded by his\nfamily. He sprang towards him, and throwing himself into his arms,\nexclaimed--\"Where are they taking you, dear grandfather? why do you\nweep? why do you leave us who love you so dearly?\" \"My son,\" replied the\nold man, \"I am going to the hospital; it is there that all the Jasmins\ndie.\" A few days after, the venerable man was no more, and from that\nhour Jasmin never forgot that they were indeed poor.\n\nThis melancholy incident closes the first canto of the poet's\n\"Recollections.\" The second opens with a description of his wretched\ndwelling, and the scanty support gained by labour _and begging_, shared\nby nine persons: his grandfather's wallet, from which he had so often\nreceived a piece of bread, unknowing how it had been obtained, now hung\na sad memorial of his hard life, and told the story of his trials, when\nhe went round to his former friends, from farm to farm, in the hope of\nfilling it for a starving family. At last, one day, the ambitious mother\nentered out of breath, announcing the joyous tidings that her son was\nadmitted _gratis_ into a free school. He became a scholar in a few\nmonths, a chorister in a few more, his fine voice doubtless recommending\nhim; he gained a prize, and was in a fair way of advancement, when some\nchildish frolic, punished too severely, caused him to be expelled. On\nreaching his home, he found all in consternation, for his bad conduct\nhad been visited on his family, and the portion of food sent to them\nweekly he found was discontinued. His mother tried to console him, and\nto conceal their real state; but while he saw his little brothers and\nsisters provided with food, which, his mother smilingly dispensed, he\ndiscovered to his horror that she no longer wore her ring: it had been\nsold to buy bread.\n\nThe second canto here finishes. The third introduces us to the hero in\nhis capacity of apprentice to the same craft of which he still\ncontinues a member, and here his comparative prosperity begins. He falls\nin love, writes verses, sings them, becomes popular, is able to open a\nlittle shop on his own account, and burns the old arm-chair in which his\nancestors were carried to the hospital. His wife, who was at first an\nenemy to pen and ink, finding the good effect of his songs, was soon the\nfirst to urge him to write; his fellow-citizens became proud of him, his\ntrade increased, and at length he was able to purchase the house on the\npromenade, where he now lives in comfort; with sufficient for his\nmoderate wishes, always following his trade of hair-cutting, and\npublishing his poems at the same time. The first of his poems that\nappeared was called \"The Charivari.\" It is burlesque, and has\nconsiderable merit: it is preceded by a very fine ode, full of serious\nbeauty and grace of expression; this was as early as 1825. Several\nothers of great beauty followed, and some of his songs became popular\nbeyond the region where they were first sung. But his finest composition\nwas a ballad, called \"The Blind Girl of Castel-Cuill\u00e9,\" which at once\ncrowned him with fame and loaded him with honours.\n\nThe last volume he has published is that which I now introduce to the\nreader: it contains, besides several already known, many new poems, and\na ballad, called \"Fran\u00e7ouneto,\" which is acknowledged as a successful\nrival to \"The Blind Girl.\" The rustic character of his descriptions, and\nthe rustic dialect in which they are conveyed, give a tone of novelty\nand reality to his works quite peculiar to themselves. The force and\npowerful effect of the Gascon language is lost in reading the French\nversion, appended to the original; but a very little attention will make\nthat original understood, and the reward well repays the study.\n\nThe \"Abuglo\" (the Blind Girl) thus opens--\n\n      \"Del p\u00e8 d'aquelo haouto mountagno\n      O\u00f9n se pinquo Castel-Cuill\u00e9;\n    Altenque lou poum\u00e9, lou prun\u00e9, l'amell\u00e9,\n      Blanquej\u00e2bon dens la campagno,\n      Baci lou chan qu'on entend\u00eat,\n    Un dim\u00e8cres mati, beillo de Sent-Jouz\u00e8t.\"\n\n\"At the foot of the high mountain, where Castle-Cuill\u00e9 stands in\nmid-air, at the season when the apple-tree, the plum, and the almond,\nare whitening all the country round, this is the song that was sung one\nWednesday morning, the eve of St. Joseph.\"\n\nThen comes the chorus, which is no invention of the poet, but a refrain\nof the country, always sung at rustic weddings, in accordance with a\ncustom of strewing the bridal path with flowers:\n\n    \"The paths with buds and blossoms strew!\n      A lovely bride approaches nigh:\n    For all should bloom and spring anew,\n      A lovely bride is passing by.\"\n\nA description then follows of a rural wedding, introducing habits and\nsuperstitions, which remind one of Burns and Hallow-e'en. This picture\nof youth, gaiety, and beauty, is full of truth and nature; and the\ncontrast is affecting, of the desolate situation of the young blind\ngirl, who should have been the bride, but whom Baptiste, her lover, had\ndeserted for one richer, since a severe malady had deprived her of her\nsight. Poor Marguerite (_Margarido_) still thinks him faithful, and\nexpects his return to fulfil his vow, when the sound of the wedding\nmusic, and the explanation of her little brother, reveal to her all her\nmisfortune. The song of hope and fear, as she sits expecting him, is\nextremely beautiful; and some of the expressions, in the original\nsingular yet musical Gascon, must lose greatly by translation, either in\nFrench or English. Her lamentations on her blindness remind one of\nMilton's heart-rending words on the same subject:--\n\n    \"Jour per aoutres, toutjour! et per jou, malhurouzo,\n      Toutjour ney, toutjour ney!\"\n\n        \"MARGARIDO'S REFLECTIONS.\"\n\n    \"After long months of sad regret\n    Returned!--return'd? and comes not yet?\n    Although to my benighted eyes\n    He knows no other star may rise:\n    He knows my lonely moments past,\n    Expecting, hoping to the last.\n    He knows my heart is faithful still,\n    I wait my vows but to fulfil.\n\n    Alas! without him what have I?\n    Grief bows my fame and dims my eye;\n    For others, day and joy and light,\n    For me, all darkness--always night!\n\n    \"What gloom spreads round where he is not:\n      How cold, how lonely, he away!\n    But in his presence all forgot,\n      I never think of sun or day.\n    What has the day? a sky of blue--\n    His eyes are of a softer hue,\n    That light a heaven of hope and love.\n    Pure as the skies that glow above.\n    But skies, earth, blindness, tears, and pain,\n      Are all forgot, unfelt, unknown,\n    When he is by my side again,\n      And holds my hand within his own!\"\n\nWhen the unfortunate girl finds that her lover is untrue, despair takes\npossession of her mind; she causes herself to be conducted to the\nchurch, where the ceremony of the marriage is taking place; and at the\nmoment when Baptiste pronounces the words which seal his fate with that\nof her rival, Angela, she rushes forward, and draws a knife to stab\nherself; but at the instant she falls dead at his feet, before her hand\nhas accomplished the fatal blow. The poet here congratulates his heroine\non having died _without crime_, her _intention_ going for nothing, and\nthe angels bearing her soul to heaven as immaculate.\n\nThere is little in the plot of this story--its beauty lies in the grace,\nand ease, and simplicity of the language, and the pathos of the\nsituations. The same may be said of the ballad of \"Fran\u00e7ouneto,\" the\nlatest work of the author, which is just now making a great sensation in\nFrance. The close of both these stories is somewhat weak and hurried,\nand both fail in effect, except when Jasmin reads them himself,--then\nthere appears nothing to be desired.\n\nFran\u00e7onnette is a village beauty and coquette, promised to Marcel, a\nyoung soldier, but attached to Pascal, a peasant, whose poverty and\npride prevent his declaring the passion he feels for the volatile but\ntender maiden, who\n\n    \"Long had fired each youth with love,\n    Each maiden with despair;\"\n\nbut, unlike the Emma of the English ballad, Fran\u00e7onnette is too\nconscious of being fair, and torments her admirers to death. She\nbecomes, at length, the object of suspicion and hatred to her fellows,\nin consequence of a rumour circulated by her disappointed lover, Marcel,\nthat her Huguenot father had sold her to the evil one, and that\nmisfortune awaited whoever should love or marry her. Some fearful scenes\nensue, in which the poet exhibits great power. The quarrel of the rivals\nis managed with effect; and the rising of the peasantry against the\nsupposed bewitched beauty; the discovery of Pascal's love, and the\nconsequent revolution the knowledge effects in the mind of the deserted\ngirl; his tender devotion, her danger, and Marcel's subsequent remorse,\nare admirably told; and, on the whole, the story of Fran\u00e7onnette must be\nacknowledged as a great advance upon the \"Aveugle;\" and its superiority\npromises greater things yet from the poet of Agen.\n\n       \"FRAN\u00c7ONNETTE'S MUSINGS.\n\n    \"On the parched earth when falls the earliest dew,\n    As shine the sun's first rays, the winter flown,\n    So love's first spark awakes to life anew,\n    And fills the startled mind with joy unknown.\n    The maiden yielded every thought to this--\n    The trembling certainty of real bliss:\n    The lightning of a joy before unproved,\n    Flash'd in her heart, and taught her that she loved.\n\n    \"She fled from envy, and from curious eyes,\n    And dream'd, as all have done, those waking dreams,\n    Bidding in thought bright fairy fabrics rise\n    To shrine the loved one in their golden gleams.\n    Alas! the Sage is right, 'tis the distrest\n    Who dream the fondest, and who love the best!\"\n\nBut, perhaps, a better idea can be conveyed, by giving a version in\nprose of the whole story.\n\n\nThe story of Fran\u00e7onnette.\n\nIt was at the time when Blaise de Montluc, the sanguinary chief, struck\nthe Protestants with a heavy hand, and his sword hewed them in pieces,\nwhile, in the name of a God of mercy, he inundated the earth with tears\nand blood.\n\nAt length he paused from fatigue: it was ended; no more did the hills\nresound with the noise of carbine or cannon: the savage leader, to prop\nthe cross, which neither then nor now tottered, had slain, strangled,\nfilled the wells with slaughtered thousands. The earth gave back its\ndead at Fumel and at Penne: fathers, mothers, children, were nearly\nexterminated, and the executioners had time to breathe.\n\nThe exhausted tiger--the merciless ruffian--dismounted from his charger,\nre-entered his fortress, with its triple bridge, and its triple moat,\nand, kneeling at the altar, uttered his devout prayers, received the\ncommunion, while his hands were yet reeking with the blood of innocence\nwith which he had glutted his cruelty.\n\nMeantime, in the hamlets, young men and maidens, at first terrified at\nthe bare name of Huguenot, devoted their hours to love and amusement as\nformerly. And in a village, at the foot of a strong castle, one Sunday,\na band of lovers were dancing on the votive feast of Roquefort, and, to\nthe sound of the fife, celebrated St. Jacques and the month of\nAugust--that lovely month, which, by the freshness of its dew, and the\nfire of its sun, ripens our figs and grapes.\n\nThere had never been seen a finer f\u00eate. Under the large parasol of\nfoliage, where the crowd were every year seen in groups--all was full to\noverflowing. From the heights of the rocks to the depths of the valleys,\nfrom Montagnac and Sainte Colombe, new troops of visitors arrived; still\nthey come--still they come--and the sun is high in heaven, like a torch.\nThere is no lack of room where they are met, for the meadows here serve\nfor chambers, and the banks of turf for seats.\n\nWhat enjoyment!--the heat makes the air sparkle: nothing is more\npleasing than to see those fife-players blowing, and the dancers\nwhirling along. Cakes and sweetmeats are taken from baskets; fresh\nlemonade! how eagerly the thirsty drink it down! Crowds hurry to see\nPolichinelle--crowds hurry to the merchant whose cymbals announce his\ntreasures--crowds everywhere! But who is she advancing this way? Joy,\njoy! It is the young Queen of the Meadows. It is she--it is\nFran\u00e7onnette. Let me tell you a little concerning her.\n\nIn towns as well as in hamlets, you know there is always the pearl of\nlove, precious above all the rest; well, every voice united proclaim\nher, in the canton, the Beauty of Beauties.\n\nBut I would not have you imagine that she is pensive--that she\nsighs--that she is pale as a lily--that she has languishing, half-closed\neyes, blue and soft--that she is slight, and bends with languor, like\nthe willow that inclines beside a clear stream. You would be greatly\ndeceived: Fran\u00e7onnette has eyes brilliant as two sparkling stars; one\nmight think to gather bunches of roses on her rounded cheeks; her\nchestnut hair waves in rich curls; her mouth is like a cherry; her teeth\nwould make snow look dim; her little feet are delicately moulded; her\nankle is light and fine. In effect, Fran\u00e7onnette was the true star of\nbeauty in a female form, grafted here below.\n\nAll these charms, too evident to all, caused ceaseless envy amongst the\nyoung girls, and many sighs amongst the swains. Poor young enthusiasts,\nthere was not one who would not have died for her: they looked at\nher--they adored her as the priest adores the cross. The fair one saw it\nwith delight; and her countenance was radiant with pride and pleasure.\n\nNevertheless, she has a secret dawn of vexation; the finest flower is\nwanting in her circlet of triumph. Pascal--the handsomest of all the\nyouths--he who sings the best--appears to avoid and to see her without\nlove. Fran\u00e7onnette is indignant at his neglect; she believes that he is\nhateful to her, when she reflects on his conduct; she prepares a\nterrible vengeance, and waits but the moment when, by a look, she shall\nmake him her slave for ever.\n\nIs it not always so! From all time a maiden so courted is sure to become\nvain and proud; and, young as she is, it is easy to see she is like the\nrest. Proud she was, to a certain degree, and a coquette she was\nbecoming--a rural one, however, not artful; she loved none, yet many\nhoped she did.\n\nHer grandmother would often say to her--\"My child, remember the country\nis not the town--the meadow is not a ball-room; you know well that we\nhave promised you to the soldier, Marcel, who loves you, and expects you\nto be his wife. You must conquer this fickleness of mind. A girl who\ntries to attract all, ends by gaining none.\"\n\nA kiss and a laugh and a caress were the answer; and, while she bounded\naway, she would sing, in the words of the song--\n\n    \"I have time enough, dear mother,\n      Time enough to love him yet;\n    If I wait and choose no other,\n      All Love's art I should forget:\n    And if all is left for one,\n    'Twere as well be loved by none.\"\n\nAll this finished by creating much jealousy, suffering, and unhappiness;\nnevertheless, these shepherds were not of those that make lays full of\ngrace and tenderness, and who, dying of grief, engrave their names on\npoplars and willows. Alas! these shepherds could not write! besides\nwhich, though Love had turned their heads, they preferred to suffer and\nlive on: but, oh! what confusion in the workshops!--oh, what ill-dressed\nvines--what branches uncut!--what furrows all irregular!\n\nNow that you know this heedless little beauty, do not lose sight of\nher;--there she is! see, how she glides along! now she dances with\nEtienne the _rigaudon d'honneur_: every one follows her with straining\neyes and smiles: every one gives her glances of admiration. She loses\nnot one of their regards; and she dances with added grace. Holy cross!\nholy cross! how she turns and winds, with her lizard-shaped head, and\nher little Spanish foot, and her wasp-like waist!--when she slides, and\nwhirls, and leaps, and the breeze waves her blue handkerchief, what\nwould they not all give to impress two kisses on her pretty cheek!\n\nOne will be so happy! for it is the custom to kiss your partner if you\ncan tire her out; but a young girl is never tired till she chooses to be\nso; and, already, Guillaume, Louis, Jean, Pierre, Paul--she has wearied\nthem all: there they stand, out of breath, and can boast of having\ngained no kiss of Fran\u00e7onnette.\n\nAnother takes her hand: it is Marcel, her betrothed: a soldier, in\nfavour with the redoubted Montluc; he is tall and powerful; he wears a\nsabre, a uniform, and has a cockade in his cap; he is as upright as a\ndart; well made; bold, with a generous heart, but fiery and proud.\nPresuming and intrusive--caring little to be invited, but ready to claim\nwhatever he pleases; a boaster, sportive but dangerous, _like a\ncaterpillar_. Marcel doating on Fran\u00e7onnette, flirts with all,\nendeavours to rouse her jealousy, and has tales to tell of his\nsuccesses.\n\nDisgusted at his presumption, his betrothed dislikes, at length, to see\nhim; he perceives her repugnance, and, to revenge himself, proclaims\nthat he knows himself beloved; proud of having said it, he increases his\nboasting; and, the other day, at a meeting, as he broke his glass, he\ntook an oath that no one but himself should have the privilege of\nkissing Fran\u00e7onnette.\n\nIt was curious to behold, as they danced together, how the crowd pressed\nforward, anxious to see if the handsome soldier would gain the reward\nwhich he boasted that none but he should obtain.\n\nAt first he smiled, as he led her forward, and his eyes entreated hers;\nbut she remained mute and cold, and her activity appeared but to\nincrease. Marcel, piqued and annoyed, resolved to conquer her; and the\nvain lover who would rather gain one kiss before all the world than\ntwenty granted in secret, exerts all his powers, leaps, hurries, whirls,\nand, to fatigue her, would willingly give his sabre, his cap, his\nworsted embroidery,--aye, if it had been all of gold instead!\n\nBut when the game is displeasing, the maiden is strong to resist. Far\nfrom giving in, Fran\u00e7onnette confuses, tires him, till his breath is\ngone; passion exhausts him as much as her swiftness; his face becomes\ncrimson--he is ready to fall--he gives in.\n\nOn goes the dance--Pascal stands in his place; he has scarcely made two\nsteps, and changed sides, when his pretty partner smiles, reels, pauses;\nshe is tired out, and she turns her blushing cheek to him--oh! she did\nnot wait long for his kiss.\n\nInstantly a shout is heard--clapping of hands in all directions: all\nplaudits for Pascal, who stands confused and abashed.\n\nWhat a scene for the young soldier, who loved in good truth!--he\nshuddered as he saw the kiss given; he rose, and drew himself up to his\nfull height. \"Thou hast replaced me too quickly, peasant!\" cried he, in\na thundering voice; and, to enforce his insulting words, he struck the\nyoung man a violent blow.\n\nHeavens! how ready is pain to usurp the place of the sweetest pleasure!\nA kiss and a blow! glory and shame! light and darkness! fire and ice!\nlife and death! heaven and hell!\n\nAll this shook the mind of Pascal; but when a man is insulted, he can\nrevenge himself, though he is neither gentleman nor soldier. No. Look\nupon him! the tempest is not more fearful. His eyes dart\nlightning--thunder is in his voice--he raises his arm, and it descends\nupon Marcel like a bolt. In vain the soldier seeks to draw his\nsword--stands on his guard; Pascal, whose size seems to increase with\nfury, seizes him by his waist, strains him in his grasp, and, with a\nfierce gripe, forces him to the ground, where he dashes him, crushed and\nsenseless.\n\n\"Hold!--the peasant grants your life!\" cried Pascal, as he stood over\nhim.\n\n\"Kill him!--you are wounded--you are all blood,\" exclaimed a hundred\nvoices. Pascal's blood flowed, he knew not how.\n\n\"It is enough,\" he returned; \"I pardon him now. The wicked man when\ndefeated excites only pity.\"\n\n\"No, no--kill him, tear him to pieces,\" howled the enraged people.\n\n\"Back, peasants, back!\" cried a knight, spurring forward, to whom every\none gave way. It was Montluc, attracted to the spot by the tumult, as he\nwas passing with the Baron of Roquefort.\n\nBut the f\u00eate was over--no more amusement: the young girls, terrified,\nfled like hares, two by two, from the spot; the young men surrounding\nPascal--the handsome, brave Pascal--accompanied him on his way, as\nthough it was his wedding-day. Marcel, furious and discomfited,\nstruggled to renew the contest; but his lord's voice restrained him; a\nword of command silenced him: he ground his teeth with rage, and cried--\n\n\"They love each other,--they will do everything to thwart me. This will\nbe but sport to her. 'Tis well; but by St. Marcel, my patron, they\nshall pay dear for this jesting, and Fran\u00e7onnette shall be mine, and\nnone other's!\"\n\n\nPART II.\n\nOne, two, three months passed away--all f\u00eates, dances, games, and\nharvest-homes; but all these gaieties must end with the falling leaves.\nAll things, in winter, assume a mournful aspect,--all beneath the vault\nof heaven becomes aged.\n\nAfter nightfall no one now ventured out: all grouped themselves around\nthe bright hearth; for it was known that loup-garoux, and sorcerers\nwhose acts make the hair stand on end, and spread terror in house and\nhut, now kept their sabbath beneath the naked elms, and round about the\nstraw-rick.\n\nAt length, Christmas-morning shone, and Jean the crier hastened through\nthe town with his tambour, calling out, \"Be ready, young maidens, at the\nBuscou: a grand Winding meeting takes place on Friday, New Year's Eve.\"\n\nOh! how the young girls and youths proclaimed in every quarter the news\nof the old crier! his news was of that kind which, rapid as a bird,\nlends wings to speech. Scarcely, therefore, was the air warmed by the\nsun's rays, than his intelligence was spread from hearth to hearth, from\ntable to table, from cottage to cottage.\n\nFriday came; and, in the dusk of the evening, seated beside a cold\nforge, a mother was complaining: and thus she spoke to her son:--\n\n\"Have you, then, forgotten the day when, before our shop, I saw you\narrive, with the sound of music, faint, wounded, and bleeding? I have\nsuffered much since, for the wound was envenomed; we feared you must\nlose your arm. Let me entreat, go not out to-night--for I dreamt of\nflowers--what do they always announce, Pascal?--but sorrows and tears.\"\n\n\"Dear mother, you are too timid; all seems gloomy in your eyes; you know\nMarcel comes no more amongst us; there is now no reason for your fears.\"\n\n\"Take heed of yourself, nevertheless. The sorcerer of the Black Wood has\nbeen wandering in this neighbourhood,--you recollect the great mischief\nhe did last year. Well, it is said that a soldier was seen to leave his\ncave yesterday, at day-break. Should it be Marcel! Beware, my child.\nEvery mother gives relics to her child--take you mine, and oh, my son,\ngo not forth.\"\n\n\"I only ask one little hour, to see my friend, Thomas.\"\n\n\"Your friend!--ah, tell the truth, and say to see Fran\u00e7onnette; for you,\ntoo, love her, like all the rest. You think I see it not--away!--I have\nlong read it in your eyes. You fear to distress me, you sing, you seem\ngay; but you weep in secret, you suffer, you are wretched, and I am\nunhappy for your sake. I pine away. Hold, Pascal! something tells me a\ngreat misfortune awaits you. She has such power over those who love her,\none would say she was a witch; but with her magic what does she seek?\nCan it be fortune?--it has been offered her twenty times, and she\nrefuses all; however, they say she now pretends to be attached to rich\nLaurent de Brax, and they are soon to be betrothed. Oh, what confusion\nshe will make this evening, vain creature! Think no more of her, Pascal;\nleave her, it is for your good;--hear me! she would hold a poor\nblacksmith in contempt, whose father is old, infirm, and poor,--for we\nare poor, indeed; alas! you know it well. We have parted with all; we\nhave only a scythe left. It has been a dark time with us since you fell\nsick; now that you are well, go, dearest, and work. What do I say? we\ncan suffer still; rest yourself, if you please, but, for the love of\nGod, go not forth this evening.\"\n\nAnd the poor mother in despair wept, as she implored her son, who,\nleaning against the forge, stifled a sigh which rose from his oppressed\nheart, and said, \"You are right, mother: I had forgotten all,--we are\npoor, indeed. I will go and work.\"\n\nTwo minutes after, the anvil was ringing; but whoever had seen how often\nthe young blacksmith struck the iron falsely, would have easily seen\nthat he thought of something besides the hammer he held in his hand.\n\nMeantime few had failed at the Buscou, and every one came from all parts\nto divide their skein at the F\u00eate of Lovers.\n\nIn a large chamber, where already a hundred windles were turning, loaded\nwith flax, girls and youths, with nimble fingers, were winding thread as\nfine as hair.\n\nIt was soon all finished; and white wine and _rimottes_ were placed,\nboiling, in glasses and basins, from which rose a burning smoke which\nset the love-powder in a flame. If the prettiest there had been the most\nrapid, I should have pointed out Fran\u00e7onnette; but the Queen of the\nGames is the last at work, and this is the time when her reign begins.\n\nOnly listen; how she amuses every one,--how she governs and regulates\nall; one would say she had spirit enough for three. She dances, she\nspeaks, she sings; she is all-in-all. When she sings, you would say she\nhad the soul of the dove; when she talks, the wit of an angel: when she\ndances, you would imagine she had, the wings of the swallow: and this\nevening she sang, and danced, and talked--oh! it was enough to turn the\nwisest head!\n\nHer triumph is complete; all eyes are upon her. The poor young men can\nresist no more; and her bright eyes, which enchant them, shine and\nsparkle as they see how the spell works. Then Thomas rose, and, looking\nat the lovely coquette with tender glances, sang, in a flute-toned\nvoice, this new song:\n\n    \"Oh tell us, charming maid,\n       With heart of ice unmoved,\n     When shall we hear the sound\n     Of bells that ring around,\n       To say that you have loved?\n     Always so free and gay,\n     Those wings of dazzling ray,\n     Are spread to ev'ry air,--\n     And all your favour share;\n     Attracted by their light,\n     All follow in your flight.\n     But, ah! believe me, 'tis not bliss,\n       Such triumphs do but purchase pain;\n     What is it to be loved like this,\n       To her who cannot love again?\n\n    \"You've seen how full of joy\n       We've marked the sun arise;\n     Even so each Sunday morn,\n       When you, before our eyes,\n       Bring us such sweet surprise,\n     With us new life is born:\n       We love your angel face,\n         Your step so debonaire,\n       Your mien of maiden grace,\n         Your voice, your lip, your hair:\n       Your eyes of gentle fire,\n       All these we all admire!\n     But, ah! believe me, 'tis not bliss,\n       Such triumphs do but purchase pain;\n     What is it to be loved like this,\n       To her who cannot love again.\n\n    \"Alas! our groves are dull,\n       When widowed of thy sight,\n     And neither hedge nor field\n     Their perfume seem to yield;\n       The blue sky is not bright:\n     When you return once more,\n       All that was sad is gone,\n     All nature you restore;\n       We breathe in you alone.\n       We could your rosy lingers cover\n       With kisses of delight all over!\n     But ah! believe me, 'tis not bliss,\n       Such triumphs do but purchase pain;\n     What is it to be loved like this,\n       To her who cannot love again!\n\n    \"The dove you lost of late,\n       Might warn you, by her flight;\n     She sought in woods her mate,\n       And has forgot you quite;\n     She has become more fair,\n     Since love has been her care.\n     'Tis love makes all things gay,\n       Oh follow where he leads--\n     When beauteous looks decay,\n       What dreary life succeeds!\n     And ah! believe me, perfect bliss,\n       A joy, where peace and triumph reign,\n     Is when a maiden loved like this,\n       Has learnt 'tis sweet to love again.\"\n\nThe song is ended; and the crowd, delighted at its meaning, are full of\napplause, and clap their hands in praise.\n\n\"Heavens! what a song!--how appropriate! who composed so sweet a lay?\"\n\n\"It was Pascal,\" replied Thomas.\n\n\"Bravo, Pascal,--long live Pascal!\" was the general cry.\n\nFran\u00e7onnette is silent; but she feels and enjoys it all,--she is proud,\nand exults: she has the love of all--of all now. It is told her, a song\nhas been made for her; and she hears it sung before every one--yes,\nevery one knows she is the person meant. She thinks on Pascal, too, and\nbecomes grave.\n\n\"He has no equal,\" she mused. \"How brave he is! every one holds him in\nesteem; all are on his side. How well he can paint love! doubtless they\nall love him. And what a song! what tender meaning!\" Not a word has\nescaped her. \"But, if he loves, why does he thus conceal himself?\" She\nturned to his friend, and exclaimed:\n\n\"It seems long since we saw him. I would fain tell him how beautiful we\nthink his song. Where is he?\"\n\n\"Oh! he is obliged to stay at home,\" said Laurent, jealous and piqued.\n\"Pascal has no more time, methinks, for song making. Poor man! his ruin\nis not far off; his father is infirm, and cannot leave his bed; he is in\ndebt everywhere; the baker refuses to trust him.\"\n\nFran\u00e7onnette became very pale. \"He--so amiable--so good! alas! he is\nmuch to be pitied. Is he, then, indeed so wretched?\"\n\n\"Too true,\" said Laurent, affecting a compassionate air. \"It is said he\nlives on alms.\"\n\n\"You have lied,\" cried Thomas: \"may your tongue be blistered! Pascal is\nunfortunate; and all has not gone well with him since he met that hurt\nin the arm, for Fran\u00e7onnette; but he is well again; and, if no envious\nperson injures him, he will recover himself soon; for he has industry\nand courage.\" Whoever had looked narrowly would have seen a tear in the\neye of Fran\u00e7onnette.\n\nThe games begin: they sit in a circle; they play at _cache-couteau_.\nFran\u00e7onnette is challenged by Laurent: he claims the kiss which she has\nforfeited. She flies like a bird from the fowler; he pursues; but, when\nhe has nearly reached her, he falls, and has broken his arm.\n\nA sudden gloom succeeds to gaiety; terror takes possession of all. When\nsuddenly a door opens, and an aged man, whose beard hangs to his girdle,\nappears. He comes like a spectre: they start away in alarm; the Sorcerer\nof the Black Wood stands before them.\n\n\"Unthinking beings!\" he exclaims, \"I have descended from my rock to warn\nyou. You all fix your thoughts upon this girl, Fran\u00e7onnette, who is\naccursed; for her father, while she was yet in her cradle, became a\nHuguenot, and sold her to the devil. Her mother died of grief; and the\ndemon, who watches over that which is his, follows her everywhere in\nsecret. He has punished Pascal and Laurent, who have sought her. Be\nwarned; ill-fortune attends whoever would espouse her. The demon has\nalone a claim to her possession; and her husband would fall a victim.\"\n\nThe sorcerer ended: sparks of fire surrounded him, and showed his\nwrinkled face more clearly: he turned four times round in a circle, and\ndisappeared.\n\nEvery hearer seemed changed to stone. Fran\u00e7onnette alone showed signs of\nlife: she did not give way at once to the misfortunes which threatened\nher: she hoped the scene would pass as a jest: she laughed\ncheerfully--advanced towards her friends; but all drew back with a\nshudder; all cried out, \"Begone!\" Then she felt she was abandoned; a\ncold tremor came over her, and she fell senseless to the ground.\n\nThus ended a f\u00eate which had begun so gaily. The next day--the first of\nthe year--the rumours of this event spread from house to house and from\nmeadow to meadow.\n\nOh! the terror of the evil one, which at the present day scarcely\nexists, at that time was fearful, particularly in the country.\n\nA thousand things were remembered, before never dreamt of: some had\nheard in her cottage the noise of chains: her father had disappeared\nmysteriously: her mother was said to have died mad: nothing ever failed\nwith her; her harvest always ripened first; and when hail destroyed\nother fields, her's were full of grapes and corn.\n\nNone hesitated to believe what was said; daughters, mothers,\ngrandmothers exaggerated the first reports; children trembled at her\nname; and, at length, when the poor girl, with depressed brow, came\nforth to seek necessaries for her aged relative, no one spoke to her:\nall shrunk from her; or, pointing with their fingers, cried out--\"Fly!\nbehold one sold to the demon!\"\n\n\nPART III.\n\nBeside the town of Estanquet, on the banks of a sparkling stream, whose\nwaters run bubbling all the year long over the pebbles, a beautiful girl\nwas gathering flowers, last year, amongst the turf: she sang so sweetly\nand so joyously, that the birds were jealous of her voice and of her\nsong.\n\nWhy does she sing no more? Hedges and meads are green again; the\nnightingales come even into her garden to invite her to join their lays.\nWhere is she? Perhaps she is departed. But no; her straw hat lies on the\naccustomed bench, but is no longer adorned with a bright ribbon: her\nlittle garden is neglected: her hoe and rake lie on the ground amongst\nthe jonquils: the rose branches stray wildly; there are thistles at\ntheir feet, and the little paths, which used to be so neat, are filled\nwith nettles.\n\nSomething must have happened. Where is the lively maiden? Do you not\nsee her cottage shining white through the thick hazel branches? Let us\napproach: the door is open; softly--let us enter. Ah! there, in her\narm-chair, sits the grandmother, asleep; and I see behind the window the\nfair girl of Estanquet; but she is in grief--what can ail her? Tears are\nfalling on her little hand: some dark cloud has passed over her heart.\n\nOh yes! dark indeed! for yonder sits Fran\u00e7onnette: there she sits, bowed\ndown with the blow which has overwhelmed her: she weeps in her chamber,\nand her heart knows no relief. Young girls often weep, and forget their\nsorrow quickly; but she----her grief is too deep, and it is one which\ntears cannot soften. The daughter of a Huguenot! one banished from the\nChurch--sold to the demon! ah! it is too horrible!\n\nThe grandmother tells her in vain--\"My child, it is false!\" She does not\nlisten: there is none but her father can resolve her doubts, and prove\nto her that it is not true; but no one knows his place of abode; she is\nalone--she is terrified--oh! so terrified, that she believes it.\n\n\"What a change!\" she cries. \"I who, but now, was so happy--I, who was\nQueen of the Meadows and could command all--I, for whom every youth\nwould have gone barefooted amongst a nest of serpents--to be contemned,\navoided, the terror of the country! And Pascal--he also flies me, as if\nI were a pest: yet I pitied him in his wretchedness; perhaps he has no\npity to bestow on me.\"\n\nIt was not so; and she has yet some comfort in her misery: she learns\nthat Pascal is her defender: this is a balm to her wounded spirit; and,\nas her only relief, she thinks of him often. Suddenly she hears a cry;\nshe flies to her grandmother, who has just waked from sleep: \"The fire\nis not here; the walls do not burn! Oh God, what a mercy!\"\n\n\"What were you dreaming, dear grandmother--answer me--what is it?\"\n\"Unfortunate girl! I dreamt it was night; brutal men came to our house,\nand set it on fire. You cried; you exerted yourself to save me, but you\ncould not, and we both were burnt. Oh, I have suffered much! come to my\narms! let me embrace my child!\"\n\nAnd the aged woman strained her in her withered arms, and pressed her\ntenderly to her heart, her white hair mingling with the golden ringlets\nof Fran\u00e7onnette. \"Dearest,\" said she, \"your mother, the day of her\nmarriage, came from the castle a bride; her dower came from thence; and\nthus we are not rich from the demon; every one must know that. It is\ntrue that while you were an infant, my angel, and yet in the cradle, we\nheard every night a strange noise, and we found you always out of the\ncradle; and on the edge of your little bed three drops of blood\nappeared; but we said a prayer, and they disappeared; does not this\nprove that you are not sold to the evil one? Some envious person has\ninvented this. Be of good cheer, and do not weep like a child; you are\nmore lovely than ever: show yourself again: let your beauty once more\nappear. Those who hide from envy give the wicked more space. Besides,\nMarcel still loves you; he has sent secretly to say he is your's when\nyou will--you love him not! Marcel will be your protector; I am too old\nto guard you. Hearken! to-morrow is Easter-day; go to mass, and pray\nmore fervently than of late; take some of the blessed bread, and sign\nyourself with the cross. I am certain that God will restore your lost\nhappiness, and will prove, by your countenance, that He has not erased\nyou from the number of those He calls his own.\"\n\nThe hope she had conjured up irradiated the face of the poor woman; her\nchild hung round her neck, and promised to do her bidding; and peace was\nrestored for a while to the little white cottage.\n\nThe next day, when the Hallelujah was ringing from the bells of St. P\u00e9,\ngreat was the astonishment of all to behold Fran\u00e7onnette kneeling with\nher chaplet in the church,--her eyes cast down in prayer.\n\nPoor girl! well might she pray to be spared; there was not a young\nwoman who spared her as she passed: the less so, that Marcel and Pascal\nappeared to feel pity for her. They were very cruel to her; not one\nwould remain near; so that she found herself, at last, kneeling alone in\nthe midst of a wide circle, like one condemned who has a mark of shame\non his forehead. Her mortification is not yet complete, for the uncle of\nMarcel--the churchwarden, who wears a vest of violet with large\nskirts--the tall man who offers the blessed bread at Easter--passes on\nwhen she puts out her hand to take her portion, and refuses to allow her\nto share the heavenly meal.\n\nThis was terrible! She believes that God has really abandoned her, and\nwould drive her from His temple; she trembles, and sinks back nearly\nfainting; but some one advances--it is he who asks to-day for the\nofferings; it is Pascal, who had never quitted her with his looks, who\nhad seen the meaning glance which passed between the uncle and\nnephew--he advances softly, and taking from the shining plate that part\nof the bread which is crowned with a garland of choice flowers, presents\nit to Fran\u00e7onnette.\n\nWhat a moment of delicious joy to her! Her blood runs free again; she\nfeels no longer frozen to stone; her soul had trembled; but it seems as\nif the bread of the living God, as she touched it, had restored her\nlife. But why is her cheek so covered with blushes? It is because the\nAngel of Love had, with his breath, drawn forth the flame that slept in\nher heart; it is that a feeling, new, strange, subtle, like fire, sweet\nas honey, rises in her soul, and makes her bosom beat. Oh! it is that\nshe lives with another life. Now, she knows herself; she feels what she\nreally is: now she understands the magic of love. The world--the\npriest--all disappears; in the temple of the Lord there is but a human\ncreature she beholds--the man she loves--the man to whom she had\nfaltered her thanks.\n\nNow, let us quit all the envy and jealousy that might be seen exhibited\non the way-side from St. P\u00e9, and the triple scandal of cruel tongues;\nlet us follow Fran\u00e7onnette, who carries home to her grandmother the\nblessed bread crowned with its garland, and who, having given it into\nher hands, retires to her chamber _alone with her love_!\n\nFirst drop of dew in the time of drought, first ray of sun-light in\nwinter, thou art not more welcome to the bosom of the parched earth in\nsadness, than this first flame of affection to the awakened heart of the\ntender girl! Happy--overwhelmed--she forgets herself, and, by degrees,\ngives up all her being to the new, rapturous delight of loving!\n\nThen, far from the noise of evil tongues, she did what we all do; she\ndreamt with unclosed eyes, and without stone or implements she built\nherself a little castle, where, with Pascal, all was shining, all was\nbrilliant, all was radiant with happiness. Oh! the sage is right--the\nsoul in affliction loves the strongest!\n\nShe gave herself up entirely to her love; she feels she loves for ever,\nand all in nature seems to smile for her. But the honey of love too soon\nbecomes bitter. Suddenly, she recollects herself--she shudders--she\nbecomes as if frozen. At the stroke of a fearful thought, all her little\ncastle is demolished. Alas! wretched girl, she dreamt of love, and love\nis forbidden to her. Did not the sorcerer say she was sold to the evil\none, and that man bold enough to seek her would find only death in the\nnuptial chamber? She! must she behold Pascal dead before her?\n\nMercy, oh God! oh God, pity!\n\nAnd, bathed in tears, the poor child fell on her knees before an image\nof the Virgin.\n\n\"Holy Virgin,\" said she, \"without thy aid I am lost; for I love deeply.\nI have no parents, and they say I am sold to the demon. Oh, take pity on\nme! save me, if it be true: and if it is but the saying of the wicked,\nlet my soul know the truth; and when I offer thee my taper at the altar\nof Notre Dame, prove to me that my prayer is accepted.\"\n\nA short prayer, when it is sincere, soon mounts to heaven. She felt\ncertain that she was heard; but she thought constantly of her project,\nthough at times she shuddered, and fear rendered her mute; still hope\nwould come like a lightning flash in the night, and satisfy her heart.\n\n\nPART IV.\n\nAt length the day arrived so feared and so desired. At day-break long\nlines of young girls, all in white, extended in all directions, and\nadvanced to the sound of the bells; and Notre Dame, in the midst of a\ncloud of perfume, proudly looked down on three hamlets in one.\n\nWhat censers! what crosses! what nosegays! what tapers! what banners!\nwhat pictures! Then come all Puymirol, Artigues, Astafort, Lusignan,\nCardonnet, Saint Cirq, Brax, Roquefort; but those of Roquefort, this\nyear, are the first--the most numerous: and to see them in particular\nthe curious hastened forward, for everywhere, in all places, the story\nof the young girl sold to the demon spread, and it is known that to-day\nshe comes to pray to the Virgin to protect her.\n\nHer misfortune has inspired pity amongst them; every one looks at her\nand laments; they trust that a miracle will be operated in her favour,\nand that the Virgin will save her. She sees the feeling that she has\ninspired, and rejoices; her hope becomes stronger; \"the voice of the\npeople is the voice of God.\"\n\nOh, how her heart beats as she enters the church! everywhere within the\nwalls are pictures of the Virgin's mercy and indulgence; mothers in\ngrief, young people in affliction, girls without parents, women without\nchildren--all are kneeling with tapers before the image of the Mother of\nheaven, which an aged priest in his robes allows to touch their lips,\nand afterwards blesses them.\n\nNo sign of ill has occurred, and they believe; all, as they rise, depart\nwith a happy hope, and Fran\u00e7onnette feels the same, particularly when\nshe sees Pascal praying devoutly; then she has courage to look the\npriest in the face. It appears as if love, music, the lights, the\nincense--all was united to assure her of pardon.\n\n\"Pardon! pardon!\" murmured she, \"oh, if that were mine! and Pascal\"--\n\nShe lighted her taper in order, and, the light and her bouquet in her\nhand, she took her place. Every one, from compassion, made way that she\nmight kneel the foremost. The silence is breathless; there is neither\nmovement nor gesture; all eyes are turned on her and on the priest; he\ntakes the sacred image, and holds it forth to her; but scarcely has it\ntouched the lips of the orphan when a loud peal of thunder shakes the\nchurch, and rolls away in the distance; her taper is extinguished, and\nthree of those on the altar!\n\nHer taper is extinct--her prayer rejected--she is accursed!\n\nOh, God! it is, then, indeed true! she has been dedicated to the evil\none, and is abandoned of Heaven!\n\nA murmur of terror spread through the crowd; and when the unfortunate\ngirl rose, pale and wild and breathless with horror, all drew back,\nshuddering, and let her pass. The thunder-clap had begun the storm;\nfearfully it burst afterwards over Roquefort; the belfry of St. Pierre\nwas destroyed, and the hail driving over the country, swept all away but\nthose who wept to see the ravage.\n\nAnd the pilgrims returned, all ready to relate the disaster they had\nseen; they returned all--except one--and sang _Ora pro nobis_.\n\nThen, to cross the perilous waters, Agen did not possess as now--to make\nother towns jealous--three great bridges, as though it were a royal\ntown. Two simple barks, urged by two oars, carried persons from one side\nto the other; but scarcely have they reached the opposite shore, and\nformed themselves in lines, than the news of the terrible event reaches\nthem. At first, they scarcely credit its extent; but when they advance,\nand behold the vines and the fields desolated, then they tremble and are\nseized with despair, and cries of \"Misery!\" and \"Misfortune!\" rend the\nair.\n\nSuddenly a voice exclaims, \"Fran\u00e7onnette is saved while we are ruined!\"\nthe word acts like a spark to gunpowder.\n\n\"The wretch!--drive her out!--she brings us evil--it is true--she is the\ncause of all--she may do us more harm!\"\n\nAnd the crowd clamoured louder and grew more furious. One cried, \"Let us\ndrive her from us! cursed as she is, let her burn in flames like the\n_Huguenot_, her father!\"\n\nThe coldest became infuriated: \"Let her be driven forth!\" cried all.\n\nTo see them thus enraged, with flaming eyes, clenched hands and teeth,\nit seemed as if Hell inspired them, and that its influence came with the\nbreeze of night, and breathed into their veins the venom of fury.\n\nWhere was Fran\u00e7onnette? alas! in her cottage, half-dead--cold as marble!\nholding firmly in her tightened and convulsive grasp the faded wreath\ngiven her by Pascal.\n\n\"Poor garland!\" said she; \"when I received you from him your perfume\ntold of happiness, and I inhaled it; relic of love! I bore you in my\nbosom, where you soon faded like my vain dreams. Dear Pascal, farewell!\nmy torn heart weeps to resign thee, but I must say adieu for ever! I was\nborn in an evil hour; and, to save thee from my influence, I must\nconceal my love. Yet I feel this day thou art dearer than ever; I love\nwith an affection never to be extinguished--with a devotion which is\nbliss or death on earth; but death is nothing to me if it could save\nthee!\"\n\n\"Why do you moan thus, Fran\u00e7onnette?\" cried out her grandmother; \"you\ntold me, with a cheerful air, that the Virgin had received your offering\nand you were content; yet I hear you sob like a soul in pain; you\ndeceive me, something has happened to you to-day.\"\n\n\"Oh, no; be content, grandmother; I am happy--very happy.\"\n\n\"'Tis well, my love; for your sorrow wrings my heart; to-day again I\npassed some fearful hours; this dream of fire recurs so often in spite\nof myself; and the storms alarm me; hark! I tremble at every sound.\"\n\nWhat cries are those so near and so loud? \"Fire them! burn them! let\nthem burn together!\" A flash bursts through the old shutters;\nFran\u00e7onnette rushes to the casement. Great Heaven! she sees the rick on\nfire, and a furious mob howling outside.\n\n\"We must drive them out--the old hag and the young one; both have\nbewitched us!--Hence! child of perdition! hence, or burn in thy den!\"\n\nFran\u00e7onnette on her knees, with streaming eyes, exclaims, \"Oh, pity for\nmy poor old grandmother--do not kill her!\"\n\nBut the deluded populace, more confirmed than ever, by her haggard\nlooks, that she is possessed, howl louder still--\"Away with her!\" and\non they rush, brandishing flaming brands.\n\n\"Hold--hold!\" cried a voice, and Pascal sprang amongst them. \"Cowards!\nwould you murder two defenceless women! would you burn their dwelling,\nas if they had not suffered enough--tigers, that you are--already the\nwalls are hot!\"\n\n\"Let the Huguenots quit the country: they are possessed by the demon. If\nthey stay amongst us God will send down punishment. Let them go\ninstantly, or we burn them!--Who presses forward there?\"\n\n\"Ha!\" cried Pascal, \"Marcel here! he is her enemy!\"\n\n\"Liar!\" cried Marcel; \"I love her better than thou, boaster as thou art!\nWhat wilt thou do for her--thou whose heart is so soft?\"\n\n\"I come to assist her--to defend her.\"\n\n\"And I to be her husband, in spite of all, if she will be my wife.\"\n\n\"I come for the same purpose,\" cried Pascal, without shrinking from his\nrival's regard; then turning to Fran\u00e7onnette, he said, with firmness,\n\"Fran\u00e7onnette, you are safe no longer; these wretches will pursue you\nfrom village to village; but here are two who love you--two who would\nbrave death, destruction, for your sake--can you choose between us?\"\n\n\"Oh, no, no! speak not of marriage. Pascal! my love is death--go!\nforget me! be happy without me! I dare not be yours!\"\n\n\"Happy without you! it is in vain: I love you too well; and if it be\ntrue that you are the prey of the evil one, 'twere better die with you\nthan live away from you!\"\n\nDoubtless, the beloved voice has power above all things over the\nsoftened heart: at the last step of misery we can dare all with\ndesperate courage. Before the assembled crowd she exclaimed: \"Oh, yes,\nPascal, I do love you--I would have died alone; but, since you will have\nit so, I resist no longer. If it is our fate--we will die together.\"\n\nPascal is in heaven--the crowd amazed--the soldier mute. Pascal\napproaches him. \"I am,\" he said, \"more fortunate than you; but you are\nbrave, and will forgive me. To conduct me to my grave,[21] I require a\nfriend--I have none--will you act the part of one?\"\n\n[Footnote 21: Pascal conceives that, in wedding Fran\u00e7onnette, he is\ndevoted to death.]\n\nMarcel is silent--he muses--a great struggle is in his heart--his eye\nflashes--his brow is bent strongly--he gazes on Fran\u00e7onnette, and the\npaleness of death creeps over him--he shakes off his faintness, and\ntries to smile. \"Since it is her will,\" he cries, \"I will be that\nfriend.\"\n\nTwo weeks had passed,--and a wedding train descended the green hill. In\nthe front of the procession walked the handsome pair. A triple range of\npeople, from all quarters, extended for more than a league: they were\ncurious to know the fate of Pascal. Marcel is at the head of all; he\ndirects all; there is a secret pleasure in his eye, which none can\nunderstand. One would say that to-day he triumphs; he insists on\narranging the marriage, and it is he who gives to his rival the feast\nand the ball--his money flows liberally, his purse is open--all is\nprofusion; but there is no rejoicing--no singing--no smiling.\n\nThe bridegroom is on the brink of the grave--his rival guides him\nthither, though he looks so gay--the day declines--all hearts sink with\nfear and pity--they would fain save Pascal, but it is too late: there\nthey all stand motionless--but more as if at a burial than a wedding.\n\nFascinated by love, the pair have sacrificed all; though the gulf yawns\nfor them, they have no ears, no eyes, but for each other; as they pass\nalong, hand-in-hand, the happiness of loving has absorbed all other\nfeeling.\n\nIt is night.\n\nA female suddenly appears: she clings round the neck of Pascal.--\"My\nson, leave her, leave your bride--I have seen the wise woman--the sieve\nhas turned--your death is certain--sulphur fills the bridal\nchamber--Pascal, enter not in--you are lost if you remain; and I, who\nloved you thus, what will become of me when you are gone?\"\n\nPascal's tears flowed, but he held still firmer his bride's hand within\nhis own. The mother fell at his feet.\n\n\"Ungrateful son! I will never leave you! if you persist, you shall pass\nover my body before you enter the fatal house. A wife, then, is\nall-in-all--a mother nothing! Oh! miserable that I am!\" Tears flowed\nfrom every eye.--\"Marcel,\" said the bridegroom, \"love masters me; should\nevil befal me, take charge of my mother.\"\n\n\"This is too much!\" cried the soldier; \"I cannot bear your mother's\ngrief. Oh, Pascal! be blest--be content--be fearless--Fran\u00e7onnette is\nfree! she is not sold to the evil one. It is a falsehood--a mere tale\nmade for a purpose. But had not your mother overcome me by her tears,\nperhaps we should both have perished. You know--you can feel--how much I\nlove her; like you, I would give my life for her. I thought she loved\nme, for she had my very soul--all! Yet she rejected me, though she knows\nwe were betrothed. I saw there was no way--I devised a plan--I hired the\nsorcerer to raise a terror amongst all; he forged a fearful tale, chance\ndid the rest. I thought her then securely my own; but when we both\ndemanded her--when for you she braved everything--when she at once\nconfessed how dear you were, it was beyond my power to bear. I resolved\nthat we should both die; I would have conducted you to the bridal\nchamber--a train is laid there: all three were to have been victims; I\nwould have bid you cease to fear the demon, but behold in me your\nfoe!--but it is past, the crime I had meditated is arrested. Your mother\nhas disarmed me; she reminds me of my own. Live, Pascal, for your\nmother! you have no more to fear for me. I have now no one; I will\nreturn to the wars; it were better for me that, instead of perishing\nwith a great crime on my conscience, a bullet should end my life.\"\n\nHe spoke no more, and rushed from their presence: the air resounded with\nshouts, and the happy lovers fell into each other's arms: the stars at\nthat moment shone out. Oh! I must cast down my pencil--I had colours for\nsorrow--I have none for such happiness as theirs!\n\n\nLines by Jasmin\n\nADDRESSED TO M. DUMON, DEPUTY, WHO HAD CONDEMNED OUR OLD LANGUAGE.\n\n     THERE'S not a deeper grief to man\n       Than when his mother, faint with years,\n     Decrepit, old, and weak, and wan,\n       Beyond the leech's art appears;\n     When by her couch her son may stay,\n       And press her hand and watch her eyes,\n     And feel, though she revive to-day,\n       Perchance his hope to-morrow dies.\n\n     It is not thus, believe me, sir,\n       With this enchantress--she we call\n     Our second mother: Frenchmen err,\n       Who, cent'ries since, proclaim'd her fall!\n     Our mother-tongue--all melody--\n     While music lives, can never die.\n\n     Yes!--she still lives, her words still ring;\n     Her children yet her carols sing:\n     And thousand years may roll away,\n     Before her magic notes decay.\n\n     The people love their ancient songs, and will,\n     While yet a people, love and keep them still:\n     These lays are as their mother; they recal,\n     Fond thoughts of mother, sister, friends, and all\n     The many _little things_ that please the heart--\n     The dreams, the hopes, from which we cannot part:\n     These songs are as sweet waters, where we find,\n     Health in the sparkling wave that nerves the mind.\n     In ev'ry home, at ev'ry cottage door,\n     By ev'ry fireside, when our toil is o'er,\n     These songs are round us, near our cradles sigh,\n     And to the grave attend us when we die.\n\n     Oh! think, cold critics! 'twill be late and long,\n     Ere time shall sweep away this flood of song!\n\n     There are who bid this music sound no more,\n     And you can hear them, nor defend--deplore!\n     You, who were born where its first daisies grew,\n     Have fed upon its honey, sipp'd its dew,\n     Slept in its arms and wakened to its kiss,\n       Danced to its sounds, and warbled to its tone--\n     You can forsake it in an hour like this!\n     --Yes, weary of its age, renounce--disown--\n       And blame one minstrel who is true--alone!\n\n     For me, truth to my eyes made all things plain;\n       At Paris, the great fount, I did not find\n     The waters pure, and to my stream again\n       I come, with saddened and with sobered mind;\n     And since, no more enchanted, now I rate\n     The little country far above the great.\n\n     For you--who seem her sorrows to deplore,\n       You, seated high in power, the first among,\n     Beware! nor make her cause of grief the more;\n       Believe her mis'ry, nor condemn her tongue.\n     Methinks you injure where you seek to heal,\n     If you deprive her of that only weal.\n\n     We love, alas! to sing in our distress;\n     It seems the bitterness of woe is less;\n     But if we may not in our language mourn,\n     What will the polish'd give us in return?\n     Fine sentences, but all for us unmeet--\n     Words full of grace, even such as courtiers greet:\n     A deck'd-out Miss, too delicate and nice\n     To walk in fields, too tender and precise\n     To sing the chorus of the poor, or come\n     When Labour lays him down fatigued at home.\n\n     To cover rags with gilded robes were vain--\n     The rents of poverty would show too plain.\n\n     How would this dainty dame, with haughty brow,\n     Shrink at a load, and shudder at a plough!\n\n     Sulky, and piqued, and silent would she stand\n       As the tired peasant urged his team along:\n     No word of kind encouragement at hand,\n       For flocks no welcome, and for herds no song!\n\n     Yet we will learn, and you shall teach--\n     Our people shall have double speech:\n     One to be homely, one polite,\n       As you have robes for diff'rent wear,\n     But this is all:--'tis just and right,\n       And more our children will not bear.\n     Lest we a troop of buzzards own,\n     Where nightingales once sang alone.\n\n     There may be some, who, vain and proud,\n     May ape the manners of the crowd,\n     Lisp French, and lame it at each word,\n     And jest and gibe to all afford:--\n     But we, as in long ages past,\n     Will still be poets to the last!\n\n     Hark! and list the bridal song,\n     As they lead the bride along:\n     \"Hear, gentle bride! your mother's sighs,[22]\n       And you would hence away!--\n     Weep, weep, for tears become those eyes.\"\n     ----\"I cannot weep--to-day.\"\n\n     Hark! the farmer in the mead\n     Bids the shepherd swain take heed:\n       \"Come, your lambs together fold,\n       Haste, my sons! your toil is o'er:\n       For the morning bow has told\n       That the ox should work no more.\"\n\n     Hark! the cooper in the shade\n     Sings to the sound his hammer made:\n\n    \"Strike, comrades, strike! prepare the cask,\n     'Tis lusty May that fills the flask:\n     Strike, comrades! summer suns that shine\n     Fill the cellars full of wine.\"\n\n     Verse is, with us, a charm divine,\n       Our people, loving verse, will still,\n     Unknowing of their art, entwine\n       Garlands of poesy at will.\n     Their simple language suits them best:\n     Then let them keep it and be blest.\n\n     But let wise critics build a wall\n       Between the nurse's cherish'd voice,\n     And the fond ear her words enthral,\n       And say their idol is her choice:\n     Yes!--let our fingers feel the rule,\n     The angry chiding of the school;\n     True to our nurse, in good or ill,\n     We are not French, but Gascon still.\n\n     'Tis said that age new feeling brings,\n       Our youth returns as we grow old;\n     And that we love again the things,\n       Which in our memory had grown cold.\n     If this be true, the time will come\n       When to our ancient tongue, once more,\n     You will return, as to a home,\n       And thank us that we kept the store.\n\n     Remember thou the tale they tell,\n       Of Lacu\u00e9e and Lacep\u00e8de,[23]\n     When age crept on, who loved to dwell,\n       On words that once their music made:\n     And, in the midst of grandeur, hung,\n     Delighted, on their parent tongue.\n\n     This, will you do: and it may be,\n       When, weary of the world's deceit,\n     Some summer-day we yet may see\n       Your coming in our meadows sweet;\n     Where, midst the flowers, the finch's lay\n     Shall welcome you with music gay.\n     While you shall bid our antique tongue\n       Some word devise, or air supply,\n     Like those that charm'd your youth so long\n       And lent a spell to memory!\n\n     Bethink you how we stray'd alone,\n     Beneath those elms in Agen grown,\n     That each an arch above us throws,\n     Like giants, hand-in-hand, in rows.\n\n     A storm once struck a fav'rite tree,\n       It trembled, shook, and bent its boughs,--\n     The vista is no longer free:\n       Our governor no pause allows.\n     \"Bring hither hatchet, axe, and spade,\n     The tree must straight be prostrate laid!\"\n\n     But vainly strength and art were tried,\n     The stately tree all force defied.\n     Well might the elm resist and foil their might,\n     For though his branches were decay'd to sight,\n     As many as his leaves the roots spread round,\n     And in the firm set earth they slept profound!\n\n     Since then, more full, more green, more gay,\n     His crests amidst the breezes play:\n     And birds of ev'ry note and hue\n       Come trooping to his shade in Spring,\n     Each Summer they their lays renew,\n       And while the year endures they sing.\n\n     And thus it is, believe me, sir,\n       With this enchantress--she we call\n     Our second mother; Frenchmen err,\n       Who, cent'ries since, proclaim'd her fall.\n\n     No: she still lives, her words still ring;\n     Her children yet her carols sing,\n     And thousand years may roll away\n     Before her magic notes decay.\n\n[Footnote 22: Jasmin here quotes several _patois_ songs, well known in\nthe country.]\n\n[Footnote 23: Both Gascons.]\n\n       THE SHEPHERD AND THE GASCON POET.\n\n    To the Bordelais, on the grand F\u00eate given me at the Casino.\n\n      IN a far land, I know not where,\n        Ere viol's sigh, or organ's swell,\n      Had made the sons of song aware\n        That music is a potent spell,\n      A shepherd to a city came,\n      Play'd on his pipe, and rose to fame.\n      He sang of fields, and at each close\n      Applause from ready hands arose.\n\n      The simple swain was hail'd and crown'd\n        In mansions where the great reside,\n      And cheering smiles and praise he found,\n        And in his heart rose honest pride:\n      All seem'd with joy and rapture gleaming,--\n      He trembled that he was but dreaming.\n\n      But, modest still, his soul was moved;\n        Yet of his hamlet was his thought,--\n      Of friends at home, and her he loved,--\n        When back his laurel-branch be brought:\n      And, pleasure beaming in his eyes,\n      Enjoy'd their welcome and surprise.\n\n      'Twas thus with me, when Bordeaux deign'd\n        To listen to my rustic song;\n      Whose music praise and honour gain'd\n        More than to rural strains belong.\n\n      Delighted, charm'd, I scarcely knew\n      Whence sprung this life so fresh and new.\n      And to my heart I whisper'd low,\n        When to my fields return'd again,\n      \"Is not the Gascon Poet now\n        As happy as the shepherd swain?\"\n\n      The minstrel never can forget\n      The spot where first success he met;\n      But he, the shepherd who, of yore,\n        Had charm'd so many a list'ning ear,\n      Came back, and was beloved no more;--\n        He found all changed and cold and drear!\n      A skilful hand had touch'd _the flute_;--\n      His _pipe_ and he were scorn'd--were mute.\n\n      But I, once more I dared appear,\n      And found old friends as true and dear--\n      The mem'ry of my ancient lays\n      Lived in their hearts--awoke their praise.\n      Oh! they did more;--I was their guest;\n      Again was welcomed and caress'd:\n      And, twined with their melodious tongue,\n      Again my rustic carol rung;\n      And my old language proudly found\n      Her words had list'ners, pressing round.\n      Thus, though condemn'd the shepherd's skill,\n      The Gascon Poet triumph'd still.\n\nI returned by Agen, after an absence in the Pyrenees of some months, and\nrenewed my acquaintance with Jasmin and his dark-eyed wife. I did not\nexpect that I should be recognised; but the moment I entered the little\nshop I was hailed as an old friend. \"Ah!\" cried Jasmin, \"enfin la voila\nencore!\" I could not but be flattered by this recollection, but soon\nfound it was less on my own account that I was thus welcomed, than\nbecause a circumstance had occurred to the poet which he thought I could\nperhaps explain. He produced several French newspapers, in which he\npointed out to me an article headed \"Jasmin \u00e0 Londres;\" being a\ntranslation of certain notices of himself, which had appeared in a\nleading English literary journal.[24] He had, he said, been informed of\nthe honour done him by numerous friends, and assured me his fame had\nbeen much spread by this means; and he was so delighted on the occasion,\nthat he had resolved to learn English, in order that he might judge of\nthe translations from his works, which, he had been told, were well\ndone. I enjoyed his surprise, while I informed him that I knew who was\nthe reviewer and translator; and explained the reason for the verses\ngiving pleasure in an English dress, to be the superior simplicity of\nthe English language over modern French, for which he has a great\ncontempt, as unfitted for lyrical composition. He inquired of me\nrespecting Burns, to whom he had been likened; and begged me to tell him\nsomething of Moore. The delight of himself and his wife was amusing, at\nhaving discovered a secret which had puzzled them so long.\n\n[Footnote 24: The Athen\u00e6um.]\n\nHe had a thousand things to tell me; in particular, that he had only the\nday before received a letter from the Duchess of Orleans, informing him\nthat she had ordered a medal of her late husband to be struck, the first\nof which would be sent to him: she also announced to him the agreeable\nnews of the king having granted him a pension of a thousand francs. He\nsmiled and wept by turns, as he told all this; and declared, much as he\nwas elated at the possession of a sum which made him a rich man for\nlife, the kindness of the duchess gratified him even more.\n\nHe then made us sit down while he read us two new poems; both charming,\nand full of grace and _na\u00efvet\u00e9_; and one very affecting, being an\naddress to the king, alluding to the death of his son. As he read, his\nwife stood by, and fearing we did not quite comprehend his language, she\nmade a remark to that effect: to which he answered impatiently,\n\"Nonsense--don't you see they are in tears.\" This was unanswerable; and\nwe were allowed to hear the poem to the end; and I certainly never\nlistened to anything more feelingly and energetically delivered.\n\nWe had much conversation, for he was anxious to detain us, and, in the\ncourse of it, he told me that he had been by some accused of vanity.\n\"Oh!\" he rejoined, \"what would you have! I am a child of nature, and\ncannot conceal my feelings; the only difference between me and a man of\nrefinement is, that he knows how to conceal his vanity and exultation at\nsuccess, which I let everybody see.\"\n\nHis wife drew me aside, and asked my opinion as to how much money it\nwould cost to pay Jasmin's expenses, if he undertook a journey to\nEngland: \"However,\" she added, \"I dare say he need be at no charge, for,\nof _course_, your queen has read _that article_ in his favour, and knows\nhis merit; she will probably send for him, pay all the expenses of his\njourney, and give him great f\u00eates in London.\" I recommended the\nbarber-poet to wait _till he was sent for_; and left the happy pair,\npromising to let them know the effect that the translation of Jasmin's\npoetry produced on the royal mind:--their earnest simplicity was really\nentertaining.\n\n                 END OF VOL. I.\n\n\n\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\n\n\n\nVOL. II.\n\n\n\n\nCONTENTS TO THE SECOND VOLUME.\n\n\nCHAPTER I.\n\nRenown of Pau--Lectoure--The Labourer-Duke--Auch--Tarbes--The Princess\nand the Count--Costume--Arrival at Pau--The Promenades--The\nTown--Improvements--First Impressions--Walks--Buildings--Hotels--The\nMagnificent Baker--The Swain--Tou-Cai!\n\nCHAPTER II.\n\nThe Climate of Pau--Storms--Fine Weather--Palassou--Reasons for going to\nPau--The Winter\n\nCHAPTER III.\n\nThe Castle of Henri Quatre--- The Furniture--The Shell--The Statue--The\nBirth--Castel Beziat--The Fairy Gift--A Change--Henri\nQuatre\n\nCHAPTER IV.\n\nTroubadour\n\nCHAPTER V.\n\nRoad from Pan to Tarbes--Table Land--The Pics--The Haras of\nTarbes--Autumn in the Pyrenees--Mont l'H\u00e9ris--Gabrielle\nd'Estr\u00e9es--Chasseaux Palombes--Penne de l'H\u00e9ris--Pic du Midi--Charlet\nthe Guide--Valley of Campan--La Gatta--Grip--The Tourmalet--Campana del\nVasse--Bar\u00e8ges--Luz--Cagot Door--Gavarine--The Fall of the\nRock--Chaos--Circus--Magnificence of Nature--Pont de\nNeige--Roland--Durendal--Izards--Les\nCr\u00e2nes--Pierrefitte--Cauteretz--Cerizet--Pont d'Espagne--Lac de\nGaube--Argelez\n\nCHAPTER VI.\n\nVall\u00e9e d'Ossau--Le Hourat--The Rio Verde--Eaux Chaudes--Eaux Bonnes---\nBielle--Izeste--Saccaze, the Naturalist\n\nCHAPTER VII.\n\nGabas--Popular Songs--Pont Crabe--The Recluse of the Vall\u00e9e\nd'Ossau--Marguerite--The Springs\n\nCHAPTER VIII.\n\nPeasants of Ossau--Capitivity of Francis the First--Death of\nJoyeuse--Death of the Duke de Maine--Dances\n\nCHAPTER IX.\n\nCoarraze--Orton--The Pont Long--Les Belles Cantini\u00e8res--Morl\u00e0as--The\nCur\u00e9--Resintance to Improvement--Uzain--Lescar--Reformation in\nNavarre--Tombs--Fran\u00e7ois Phoebus--The Mother\n\nCHAPTER X.\n\nThe Romances of the Castle of Orthez--Tour de Moncade--The Infants--The\nSon of Gaston Phoebus--Legends--The Oath--The bad King of Navarre--The\nQuarrel--The Murder--Death of Gaston Phoebus--Paradise the Reward of\nHunters--The Captive--The Step-Mother--The Young Countess--The Great\nBear--The Return--The Real Cause--The Meeting in the Forest--The Mass\n\nCHAPTER XI.\n\nThe Countess of Comminges--The Charge--The persecuted Heiress--The\nBridge--The Cordelier--Costume--Aspremont--Peyrehourade\n\nCHAPTER XII.\n\nBayonne-Public Walks--Biaritz--Atalaya--Giant Fernagus--Anne of\nNeubourg--The Dancing Mayor\n\nCHAPTER XIII.\n\nBasque Language--Dialects--Words--Poetry--Songs--The\nDeserter--Character--Drama--Towns\n\nCHAPTER XIV.\n\nCagots--Cacous of Brittany\n\nCHAPTER XV.\n\nThe Cagot--Vall\u00e9e d'Aspe--Superstitions--Forests--Despourrins--The two\nGaves--Bedous--High-road to Saragossa--Cascade of Lescun--Urdos--A\nPicture for Murillo--La Vache\n\nCHAPTER XVI.\n\nAramitz--The Play--Maul\u00e9on--The Sisters--Words--St. Jean\n\nCHAPTER XVII.\n\nArneguy--The Cacolet--Rolando's Tree--Snow-white Goats\n--Costume--Sauveterre--The Pastor--Navarreux--Spanish Air\n\n\n\n\nB\u00c9ARN AND THE PYRENEES. VOL. II.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER I.\n\n     RENOWN OF PAU--LECTOURE--THE LABOURER-DUKE--AUCH--TARBES--THE\n     PRINCESS AND THE COUNT--COSTUME--ARRIVAL AT PAU--THE\n     PROMENADES--THE TOWN--IMPROVEMENTS-FIRST\n     IMPRESSIONS--WALKS--BUILDINGS--HOTELS--THE MAGNIFICENT BAKER--THE\n     SWAIN--TOU-CAI!\n\n\nWE left Agen on our way to Pau, where we proposed taking up our winter\nquarters, having so frequently heard that it was one of the best\nretreats for cold weather in the South of France: its various\nperfections casting into the shade those, long-established, but now\nwaning, of Montpelier, Nice, &c. At Lectoure we changed horses, and\nremained long enough to admire the fine view from its exalted position,\nand a few of the humours of its population of young ragged urchins,\nwhose gambols with a huge Pyrenean dog diverted us for some time.\nLectoure is situated on the summit of an immense rock, surrounded by\nhills and deep valleys. It was formerly very strongly fortified, as the\nremains of its Roman and Middle-Age walls attest.\n\nThe tower of the church, partly Roman, partly English, is a very\nstriking object, from its extreme height and apparent fragility, which\nis, however, merely imaginary; for it has resisted the efforts of time\nand war for centuries: it once had a steeple of stupendous height; but\nas it was continually attracting the stray lightnings, and was, besides,\nmuch dilapidated, it was demolished. The episcopal palace, now the\nMairie, is near it, bought for the town by Marshal Lannes, Duke de\nMontebello. The statue of this hero of Napoleon is in the grand square,\nand his portrait, as well as those of other great men born in Lectoure,\nadorn the walls of the interior. There are many fine promenades, from\nwhence delicious views can be enjoyed; from that of Fleurance it is\nsaid that, on a clear day, the towers of the cathedral of Auch are seen;\nand the view is bounded by the snowy giants of the Pyrenees. Although\nthe day was fine, we could not, however, distinguish either. This public\nwalk was made at the time when Lannes was a simple labourer in his\nnative place; and he, with others, received six sous a-day for his work.\nThe Duke de Montebello is said afterwards to have sat beneath the trees\nwhich overshadow it, and told his companions in arms how his youth was\npassed, and what his pay was at that time. This is a trait which does\nthe brave soldier's memory infinite honour.\n\nThe country is agreeable and diversified on the way to Auch, and the two\ntowers of the cathedral are seen at a great distance, crowning the\nheight on which the town stands. They have so much the aspect of a\nfeudal castle, that it is difficult to believe that one is looking on a\nchurch. The nearer you approach, the more determined seems the form: and\nwalls, and bastions, and turrets, and ruins, seem rising out of the\nhill: all, however, as you come quite close, subside into a huge mass,\nwhich gives a promise of magnificence and grandeur by no means realized;\nfor there is more of Louis XIV. and XV., than Charles VIII., who began\nthe building, about the architecture; and the towers, which appeared so\ngrand at a distance, have a singularly poor and mean appearance\nattached to the fa\u00e7ade, and compared to the enormous bulk of the fabric.\n\nThe boast and glory of the cathedral of Auch are the series of painted\nwindows in the choir, of remarkable beauty, and in wonderful\npreservation: the colours vivid, and the size of the figures colossal;\nbut though extremely gorgeous, they cannot compare, in purity of effect,\nto earlier specimens, where less is attempted and more accomplished. I\nnever saw such large paintings of the kind: the nearest approach to it\nbeing those of the same period at Epernay, amongst the vines of\nChampagne. There is a great deal of rich sculpture, both in the stalls\nand in the surrounding tombs, but the taste did not accord with mine,\nand, on the whole, I felt but little interest in the cathedral: we were\nspared the usual fearful exhibition in the winding staircase of one of\nthe towers, where a little child, to earn a few sous, is in the habit of\nsuspending itself by a rope, over the well, formed by the twisting\nsteps, and sliding down to the bottom with terrific celerity.\n\nThe town of Auch did not please me enough to induce us to stay longer\nthan to wait for the diligence, which was passing through to Tarbes;\nand, having secured the _coup\u00e9_ we continued our journey. Before we had\ntravelled half a league, on descending a hill, suddenly, a line of\nsingularly-shaped objects, quite apart from all others in the\nlandscape, told us at once that the purple Pyrenees were in sight; and\nwe indeed beheld their sharp pinnacles cleaving the blue sky before us.\nFor some distance we still saw them; but, by degrees, they vanished into\nshade as evening came on, and we lost them, and all other sights, in the\ndarkness of night; in the midst of which we arrived at Tarbes.\n\n\"Tharbes is a large and fine town, situated in a plain country, with\nrich vines: there is a town, city, and castle, and all closed in with\ngates, walls, and towers, and separated the one from the other; for\nthere comes from the heights of the mountains of B\u00e9arn and Casteloigne\nthe beautiful _River of Lisse_, which runs all throughout Tharbes, and\ndivides it, the which river is as clear as a fountain. Two leagues off\nis the city of Morlens, belonging to Count de Foix, and at the entrance\nof the country of B\u00e9arn; and beneath the mountain, at six leagues from\nTharbes, is the town of Pau, also belonging to the said Count.\"\n\nThis is Froissart's description of Tarbes, in his time; and, as far as\nregards its beautiful sparkling river, which is _not the Lisse_, but the\nAdour, might apply to it now; for the streams that appear in all\ndirections, in and round the town, are as clear as crystal, and run\nglittering and murmuring through streets, roads, and promenades, as if\nthe houses and squares had no business there to intercept its\nmountain-torrent.\n\nWe were much struck, when we first issued from our hotel in the\nPlace-Maubourguet, to behold, opposite, framed, as it were, in a square\nopening between the streets, a gigantic mass of blue mountains shining\nin the sun. They appeared singularly near; and one cannot fail to regard\nthem with a certain awe, as if a new nature had dawned, different from\nany one had known before. This is the most interesting spot in Tarbes;\nand its beautiful promenade by the river is also attractive. There are\nno monuments,--no buildings worth notice. The once fine castle may be\ntraced in a few solid walls, and its moated position; but this tower was\none of the first indications we had that all specimens of architectural\nart had ceased, and in future, with a few exceptions, it must be nature\nalone which was to interest us. The red _capelines_ of the market-women,\nand their dark mantles (_capuchins_), lined with the same colour, give\ntheir figures a strange, nun-like appearance, which always strikes a\nstranger, and at first pleases. As these shrouded forms flit about\namongst the trees, they look picturesque and mysterious; but the eye\nsoon wearies of this costume, which is totally devoid of grace. The\ncloak, being so cut as to prevent its falling in folds, hangs stiffly\nround the wearer's limbs; concealing the shape, and producing a mean\neffect. It is a sort of penitential habit; and the peaked hood looks\nlike the dress of the San Benitos, or a lively image of the appropriate\ncostume of a witch who might be an inquisitor's victim. We could not\nhelp contrasting it with the beautiful and graceful cloak worn by the\ncharming Granvillaises,--those Spanish-looking beauties whose appearance\nso delighted us in that distant part of Normandy. The Granville girl has\nalso a black camlet mantle, or _capote_; but the stiff hood is not\npeaked: it is lined with white, and is worn in the most elegant and\ncoquettish manner; showing the figure to great advantage, and setting\noff the invariably pretty face, and its snow-white, plaited, turban-like\ncap, never to be seen in the South. There are so few pretty countenances\nin the Pyrenees, that perhaps even the Granville drapery would not make\nmuch difference; but, certainly, nothing can be uglier than to see the\nmanner in which this scanty shroud is dragged over the form; giving more\nthe idea of a beggar anxious to shield herself from the inclemency of\nthe season, than a lively, smart, peasant girl pursuing her avocations.\nThe scarlet gleams of its lining alone in some degree redeem its\nugliness; as, at a distance, the vivid colour looks well amongst more\nsombre tints.\n\nIt is difficult, at the present day, to picture Tarbes as it was at the\nperiod when the Black Prince, and his Fair Maid of Kent, came to this\ncity of Bigorre, in all the splendour of a conqueror, to see the Count\nof Armagnac, who was in debt to the magnificent Gaston Phoebus, for his\nransom, two hundred and fifty thousand francs.\n\nThe manner in which the count managed to get off part of his debt is not\na little amusing. He had represented his case to Edward, who saw nothing\nin it but a very ordinary event: \"You were taken prisoner,\" said he, \"by\nthe Count of Foix; and he releases you for a certain sum. It would be\nvery unreasonable to expect him to waive his claim. I should not do so;\nnor would my father, the king, in similar circumstances: therefore, I\nmust beg to decline interfering.\" The Count of Armagnac was much\nmortified at this straight-forward answer, and began to devise what\ncould be done. He bethought him of the power of beauty; and applied to\nthe right person.\n\nGaston Phoebus arrived at Tarbes, from Pau, with a retinue of six\nhundred horse, with sixty knights of high birth, and a great train of\nsquires and gentlemen. He was received with much joy and state by the\nprince and princess, and entertained with infinite honour.\n\nThe fair princess chose her moment, and took occasion to beg a boon of\nthe Count of Foix, whose gallantry was proverbial; but, just as he was\non the point of granting it without condition, a momentary light made\nhim cautious \"Ah! madam,\" said he, \"I am a little man, and a poor\nbachelor, who have not the power to make great gifts; but that which you\nask, if it be not of more value than fifty thousand francs, shall be\nyours.\"\n\nThe princess talked and cajoled, and was as charming and insinuating as\npossible, in hopes to gain her boon entire; but Gaston began to feel\ncertain that the ransom of the Count d'Armagnac was the object of her\ndemand; he, therefore, kept firm, in spite of her fascinations, and she\nwas obliged to name her request that he would forgive the count his\nransom.\n\n\"I told you,\" replied he, \"that I would grant a boon to the value of\nfifty thousand francs; therefore, I remit him that sum of what he owes\nme.\"\n\nAnd thus did the fair Princess of Aquitaine obtain a remission of part\nof the ransom of the Count d'Armagnac.\n\nWe took a carriage from Tarbes to Pau,--our intended resting-place for\nthe winter. The drive, for several leagues, was extremely charming; the\nbanks were covered with rich purple heath; the oak and chestnut growing\nabundantly and luxuriantly. But though, in our certainty of seeing some\n_new_ growth as we approached nearer to the sunny South, we transformed\nthe round, thick oaks into _cork trees_, we were obliged to submit to\ndisappointment when we were assured that there was not a cork-tree till\nthe Spanish side of the Pyrenees was reached. Long before we arrived at\nPau, the hitherto pleasant, bright day had changed, and a sharp,\ndrizzling, chilly rain accompanied us on the remainder of our\njourney--mist shutting out the prospect, and all becoming as dreary as a\nwet day makes things everywhere. We were a little surprised to find that\nthere was no amelioration in this particular, since we looked forth upon\nthe streaming streets of Lisieux!\n\nWe drove into Pau through an ugly suburb, which gave a sufficiently mean\nidea of its appearance; but we imagined that the town would repay us for\nits approach. Still the grey, unpainted shutters of the slovenly-looking\nhouses were not replaced by others of brighter and cleaner aspect: still\nruined, barrack-like buildings, dilapidated or ill-constructed, met our\nview; and, when we drove through the whole of the town to the Grande\nPlace de Henri Quatre, and paused at the H\u00f4tel des Postes, instead of a\nhandsome, flourishing inn, we were astonished to see a wretched,\nancient, red, low-roofed tenement, adjoining a somewhat\nambitious-looking house without taste or grace. Here we could not find\naccommodation; and, considering the appearance of what we had heard was\nthe best inn, we did not much regret the circumstance.\n\nWe were equally unsuccessful at several others; having looked at dirty,\ndingy, black apartments on a fifth floor as the only ones left: so full\nwas the town of visitors returning, in all directions, from the\ndifferent baths in the Pyrenees, where, as _it had rained all the\nsummer_, invalids and tourists had been lingering for fine days, until\npatience was exhausted, and \"all betook them home.\"\n\nAt length we got housed in very tolerable but desolate cold rooms, with\nfurniture as scanty, and accommodations as meagre, as we had ever met\nwith in towns where no English face had been seen, except _en passant_.\nThis surprised us, as we had heard _comfort_ abounded in Pau, as well as\nevery luxury and beauty which wearied travellers would be glad to call\ntheir own; add to which, a soft, mild climate, _which could be depended\non_, and the only drawback _too little wind_ and too continuous warmth.\n\nThis was the third of October, and it was as cold as Christmas; the rain\ncontinued without ceasing; and, in spite of our impatience, we were\nobliged to remain in our inn. The next day, however, brighter skies\nrevived us; and when we stepped forth on the rugged pavement, we felt in\nbetter spirits; no change, however, did the fine sun and sky operate on\nthe town, which, it is sufficient to say, is one of the ugliest,\nworst-paved, \"by infinite degrees,\" and most uninteresting that exist\nin France. The castle, of course, was the first attraction; and--though\nwithout the slightest claim to notice on the score of architecture;\nthough dirty, and slovenly, and rugged, and dilapidated, more than could\npossibly be expected in a region which is immortalized by the name of\nHenri Quatre, and being, as it is, the goal sought by all travellers,\nconsequently forming the riches of B\u00e9arn, the cause of such a host of\ntravellers and tourists visiting Pau; the subject of all boast, the\ntheme of all pride; though it is neglected and contemned by the ingrates\nof its neighbourhood,--the castle is, from its recollections, almost\nworth the long journey which is to find it at its close.\n\nWe returned to the Place Royale, after lingering long, on this our\n_first_ visit, in the chambers now in the course of restoration by the\nmost thoughtful and beneficent of sovereigns; and there we lost no time\nin securing an abode in one of the beautifully-situated pavilions of the\nBains de la Place Royale,--a new and well-arranged building, let in\n_suites_ of apartments, well furnished, and perfectly clean and\ninviting, having been recently renovated. From the windows of the rooms\nallotted to us, we beheld the whole of the long chain of the magnificent\nPyrenees, from the Pic de Bigorre to the giant du Midi, and the\ncountless peaks beyond. Our first impression was almost wild delight at\nthe prospect of living long in a spot with these splendid objects\nalways before our eyes, in uninterrupted grandeur; with a glowing sun\nalways shining, sheltered from the north wind by the high promenade at\nthe back of the house; with a beautiful little rapid stream running\nalong at the base of our tower, the murmuring, sparkling, angry Gave[25]\nmeandering through the meadows beyond; the range of vine-covered and\nwooded hills opposite, dotted with villas, which glittered white amidst\ntheir luxuriant groves; and, at the back of all, the everlasting awful\nmountains, purple and transparent and glowing with light.\n\n[Footnote 25: _Gave_ is the generic name of all the mountain streams in\nthis region, but that of Pau is called _\"the Gave,\"_ par excellence.]\n\nWe were not deceived in the enjoyment we anticipated in this particular,\nfor, to make amends for the unwilling _discoveries_ we made as to the\nreputation of Pau, our mountains seemed to devote themselves to our\npleasure, assuming every form of beauty and sublimity to satisfy and\nenchant us.\n\nWhen we took our first walk in the promenade, improperly called _the\nPark_, we were fascinated with the extreme beauty of this charmed grove,\nwhich is planted in terraces, on a _c\u00f3teau_ bordering the Gave, and is\n_one of the most_ charming possessed by any town in France: there is the\nsame glorious view of the range of giant mountains even more developed\nthan from the Place Royale; the paths are kept clean and clear and neat;\nthe trees are of the finest growth, and everything combines to make it a\nmost attractive spot, though the usual somewhat Gascon mode of\ndescribing it, adopted at Pau, as _\"the most beautiful in the world,\"_\nappears to me rather hyperbolical when I recollect those of Laon,\nAuxerre, Dijon, Dinan, Avranches, and others; which have not, however,\nthe Pyrenees as a back-ground, it must be confessed.\n\nThe only part of the town of Pau which will bear mention, is that\nportion which borders the Gave, above a fine avenue of trees, which\nextends to a considerable distance along the banks of the small clear\nstream of the Ousse: that is to say, _the houses_ which face the\nmountains; but the street in which their entrances are found is narrow,\ndirty, slovenly, and worse than _ill_-paved. These mansions--for some\nof them are large and isolated--have a magnificent position, and, seen\nfrom the Bois Louis, as the grove below is called, have a very imposing\naspect. The principal street, Rue de la Prefecture, is extremely mean,\nand the shops of the least inviting appearance. It is very badly paved\nthroughout its great extent, for it reaches from one end of the town to\nthe other; but here and there a few flagstones serve to make their\nabsence elsewhere regretted. There is one good square, which might be\nfine if, as seldom happens in France, the intention had been carried\nout, or success had attended it. There are two rows of good houses, with\npaved colonnades, but very few of the shops, which should have made it a\n_Palais Royal_, are inhabited; consequently, the appearance of poverty\nand desolation is peculiarly striking. One or two houses are taken, and\nsome windows filled with goods, very different from those, doubtless,\noriginally expected to appear; grocers, sadlers, and wine-merchants\noccupy the places which should have been filled by _marchandes de\nmodes_, jewellers, toysellers, and ornamental merchants. The Place Henri\nQuatre is, therefore, a half-executed project, and impresses the\nstranger with no admiration. Another large, desolate space, called the\nPlace Grammont, contains the Champ de Mars, and is dedicated to the\nmilitary, whose barracks form one side of the square. A walk, called the\nHaute Plante, is near this, and, descending from it, the baths of Henri\nQuatre and the Basse Plante are reached, and the approach to the Park.\n\nThe great horse fair of Pau is kept in the Haute Plante; but it is by no\nmeans an inviting spot: the park is, in fact, the only place where one\ncan walk pleasantly; for the pretty Bois Louis is principally devoted to\nthe washerwomen of the town, and soldiers; and the drains of the streets\nrunning down in this direction, generally cause so unpleasant an odour,\nthat a stroll there can rarely be accomplished with pleasure. To reach\nthe park and to return from it, is a work of great pain; the pointed and\nuneven stones making the walk intolerable, and there is no way by which\nto arrive there, but through the damp, dirty streets.\n\nIf, as was once projected, a terrace walk was made to extend from the\nPlace Royale--which is a small square planted with trees in rows, to the\ncastle court, it would be an incalculable advantage; and such a means of\narriving at the only objects of interest, would be the saving not only\nof many a sprained ankle, but many a severe cold, as, at all times, the\nstreets are cold and damp; and the less a visitor sees of the town of\nPau, and the more of the mountains, and _c\u00f4teaux_, and streams, the less\nlikely is he to dissatisfied with a residence in this most favoured and\nmisrepresented of all ugly towns.\n\nI am told that Pau is greatly _improved_ from what it was seven or\neight years ago; if such is the case, the town must then have been in a\ndeplorable condition indeed: that those who are residents from so early\na period should be content with the changes which have relieved them\nfrom inconvenience, I can easily understand; but that persons who, in\nParis or in Normandy, have been accustomed to superior accommodation can\nbe satisfied with Pau, surprises me. Taken in general, those who reside\nhere all the year round, are Irish, Scotch, or from distant country\ntowns in England, many being quite unused to London or Paris; therefore,\nthey can make no comparisons, and from long habit get accustomed to\nthings which must annoy others; but when persons of wealth and\ncondition, forsaking the great capitals and beautiful watering-places at\nhome, and their own splendid and comfortable establishments, come to\nPau, to stay for some months, they must surely find that the\nrepresentations they have heard of it are strangely at variance with\ntruth. Invalids, of course, are glad to submit to whatever may tend to\nre-establish their health; and, as several persons speak of having\nderived benefit during their stay, doubtless there is a class of\ninvalids to whom the climate does good: the only question is, would they\nnot have been as well off nearer home, without the enormous expense of\nso long a journey, and enduring so complete an expatriation?\n\nIf one must necessarily go to Pau to meet with charming people and\nhospitality and attention, I should recommend all the world to hasten\nthither; but, since this can be found at home or elsewhere, from the\nsame persons, I would not, for that reason alone, counsel a residence\nthere. The accident of finding agreeable society amongst one's own\ncountrymen has nothing to do with the Pyrenees; and we have so usurped\nthe place of the original inhabitants, that only a very few French are\nleft; in the same manner as at Boulogne or Tours. Almost all advantages,\ntherefore, to be derived from foreign society are denied, and the\nfrequent parties at Pau are nearly exclusively English.\n\nMore than one family whom I saw arrive, amused me by their raptures,\nsimilar to our own on the first view, on a fine day, of the mountains\nfrom the Place Royale or the park; and their subsequent discontent, when\nthe absence of the fitful sun had entirely changed the scene, leaving\nonly the damp dirty town, and a grey space, where the concealed giants\nshrouded themselves, sometimes for weeks together. People generally are\nso impressed at first, by the fascination of the _coup d'oeil_, that\nthey hasten to take a house which they cannot engage for less than six\nmonths, or, if for three, the price is advanced; fearing to miss the\nopportunity of settling themselves, they seldom hesitate about the\nterms, which are generally very high, and, when once placed, they begin\nto look about them, and regret that they were so precipitate; for they\nfind themselves condemned to a long, dismal winter, in a very\nuninteresting, expensive town, without any resource beyond their\nwindows, if they face the mountains; or their fire-side, if their\nchimney do not smoke--which is a rare happiness. There is scarcely a\ntown in Italy, where numerous galleries are not ready to afford a\nconstant intellectual treat, or where fine buildings cannot present\nobjects of admiration; but in Pau all is barren: there is nothing but\nthe mountains to look at--for the view of the hemmed-in-valley is\nextremely confined--and the park to walk in; which, after all, is a mere\npromenade, of no great length and no variety, in spite of its\nconvenience and beauty. The ramparts of most towns in France, which are\nsituated in a fine country, present great changes, and consequent\nexcitement in the view; but at Pau it is always from the same spots that\nyou must seek one prospect.\n\nThe walks out of the town are unpleasant; for almost every way you must\ntraverse a long, dusty, or dirty suburb, and generally follow a high\nroad to a great distance, before you arrive at the place which is to\nrepay your toil: this is annoying, as--though climbing up _c\u00f4teaux_ and\nthreading the mazes of vineyards is pleasant--two or three miles of\ndusty road, encumbered with bullock-carts and droves of pigs on the way\nand _on the return_, is by no means refreshing.\n\nIf pedestrians are not to be thought of, this is of no consequence, and,\nindeed, it is a circumstance which frequently occurs in French towns;\nthose who take rides on horseback and venture a long way off, are more\nfortunate; for they come upon beautiful spots, and can reach sublime\nviews amongst the mountains: a mere two hours' _drive_ does not change\nthe scene from that which is beheld from Pau, and the great similarity\nof all the views near greatly reduces their interest.\n\nOn the Bordeaux road, as Pau is approached, the sudden burst of the\nmountains on the sight is very fine; but there are no meadows, no lanes,\nnothing but a broad, _grande route_, from which the pedestrian can\nbehold this. To reach the pretty _c\u00f4teaux_ of Juran\u00e7on and Gelos, one\nmust walk for a mile and a half along a high road, and through a\nslovenly suburb; to reach the height of Bizanos, where a fine view of\nthe mountains can be obtained, it is necessary to go through the whole\nstraggling village of Bizanos, and run the gauntlet of a whole\npopulation of washerwomen, while every tree and hedge is hung with\n_drapery_ bleaching in the air. Bizanos is called a _pretty village_;\nbut those who so designate it can only be thinking of utility, like our\nhostess at La Rochelle, when she took us to a grand sight, which turned\nout to be no other than a washing-establishment. The French have, it is\nacknowledged, no taste for the picturesque, and it appeared to me as if\nthe complaisance of the English abroad led them to agree that anything\nis pretty which pleases their foreign friends.\n\nNo doubt, there is infinitely better accommodation at Pau, than at any\nother town in the neighbourhood of the baths of the Pyrenees, and those\nwho really require to attend them for several seasons--for it seems that\nit is generally necessary to do so--are quite right to make Pau their\nheadquarters; but that those who seek amusement should remain at Pau in\npreference to Italy, or even other towns in France, is inexplicable. I\ndo not know whether many return after they have once departed; but there\nare seldom fewer than six hundred English and Americans here in the\nwinter. One English family arrived during our stay, took a large house,\nand made every arrangement for the winter; but, frightened by the\ncontinued bad weather, they left it in haste for Paris. I confess I was\nsurprised others did not do the same.\n\nAll modern French writers describe Pau as \"a _charming town_\" alluding,\nof course, to the _society_, which is to them the great desideratum\neverywhere; besides, they are accustomed to ill-paved streets, and are\nnot fastidious about cleanliness. The guide-books of these parts cite\nthe descriptions of early writers in order to compare its present with\nits former state; two are given, which are certainly as much at variance\nas those obtained by strangers at the present day. In a work printed in\n1776, the following passage occurs:\n\n\"The town of Pau is of an ordinary size; the greatest part of its houses\nare well-built, and covered with slate. It is the seat of a parliament,\na university, an academy of _belles lettres_, and a mint. The greatest\npart of the _noblesse_ of B\u00e9arn make it their usual abode; the Jesuits\nhave a large college founded by Louis XIII. There is a seminary under\nthe direction of the brothers of St. Lazare, a convent of Cordeliers,\nanother of Capuchins, and four nunneries. At the western extremity of\nthe town, is an ancient castle, where the princes of B\u00e9arn resided, and\nwhere King Henry IV. was born.\"\n\nThe intendant Lebret said of Pau, in 1700:--\n\n\"The town of Pau consists of two streets, tolerably long, but very\nill-constructed; it possesses nothing considerable. The _palais_ is one\nof the worst kept possible--the most incommodious, and the most dirty;\nthe _maison de ville_ is still worse. The parish church cannot contain a\nquarter of the inhabitants, and is, besides, as ill-supported and as\nbare of ornament as one would see in the smallest village.\"\n\nSomething between these two accounts might serve to give an idea of what\nthe town is now: the public buildings are totally unworthy of mention,\nindeed, the only one at all remarkable is the new market-place, which is\nvery large, and solidly built. The churches are more in number, but\nquite as insignificant as when Lebret wrote; the protestant _\"temple\"_\nhas not more claim on observation as a piece of architecture, and, being\nbuilt over the bed of a water-course, is supposed to be in some danger,\nand is extremely chill in winter. Through the midst of the town runs a\ndeep ravine,--the bed of a stream called the H\u00e9das--which divides it\ninto two, and gives it a very singular effect; a bridge over this\nconnects the two parts; the castle rises from one side, a venerable\nobject; which, whenever seen, excites interest from its history rather\nthan appearance; from this point it looks like an old prison, and the\nhost of grim, dirty houses which clothe the steeps are anything but\nworthy of admiration.\n\nThe quarter of the Place Royale is called by the French, _the Chauss\u00e9e\nd'Antin_ of Pau--a somewhat ambitious distinction, which must a little\nsurprise a Parisian when he enters it, and observes a shabby row of\nsmall low houses and caf\u00e9s for the soldiery, on one side of the square\nspace planted with trees, where the _\u00e9lite_ of Pau are supposed to walk.\nOn the opposite side, a large hotel spreads out its courts, and a house\nwith unpainted shutters and weather-stained walls; at the extremity, is\nwhat seems a ruined church, but which is, in fact, a building left\nhalf-finished to fall to decay, where the wood for the military is kept;\nnothing can be so desolate as the aspect on this side, and the stranger\nis amazed at the slovenly and dilapidated scene; but he must suspend his\njudgment, and walk along one of the short avenues till he reaches a\nparapet wall, where he forgets Pau and its faults in a single glance;\nfor there the grand prospect of the mountains bursts upon him, and its\nmagnificence can scarcely be exceeded.\n\nAs soon as the fine weather begins, this place, on a Sunday, is crowded\nwith promenaders, principally tradespeople of the town. A military band\nis stationed here, and thunders forth peals of music much to the delight\nof the listeners. A very gay scene is presented on this occasion; but\nthere is little characteristic, as no costumes are to be seen, and the\n_\u00e9l\u00e9gantes_ of Pau are exactly like those of any other town.\n\nAlong the rugged, damp street, which runs from the back of the Place\nRoyale, are most of the best houses in Pau: those on the side next the\nvalley have the same glorious view as the promenade allows, and are\ngenerally taken by the English: one or two of these are fitted up in\nvery good style, and made extremely comfortable; indeed, from this point\nmansion after mansion has been built, each of which has peculiar\nattractions; and, though not handsome or elegant, are good, square,\nlarge dwelling-houses, sufficiently convenient. These are designated by\n_French describers as magnifiques h\u00f3tels_, &c.; and fortunate are the\nEnglish families who possess them as dwellings: they have all good\ngardens, and may boast of one of the finest views of the mountains that\nit is possible to obtain.\n\nThe college, founded by Henry IV., is a large and airy building, without\ngrace or beauty, and enclosed in high walls: it has an imposing effect,\nfrom the height of the village of Bizanos, on the opposite side of the\nGave.\n\nThe H\u00f4tel de la Prefecture, and that where the valuable archives of the\ntown are kept, possess neither beauty nor dignity: the space opposite is\nnow occupied by the new market-house--which appears never to be used,\nfor all the goods are spread out on the stones before it, as if it was\nonly there for ornament: in this space, the guillotine was erected in\nthe time of terror, and the murders of the great, and good, and\nrespectable inhabitants took place. Unfortunately, this is a record, too\nrecent, which every town in France can furnish.\n\nIt appears to me that the people of Pau are quiet, honest, simple, and\nobliging; at least, we never saw an instance to the contrary, except on\nour first arrival, when our driver took off the horses from the carriage\nin the inn-yard, and refused to go a step further to seek for\naccommodation for us; but I suspect he was not a native of the town. The\nlandlady of the inn--who came from Bordeaux--with a mysterious wink,\nassured us we should find all the common people the same--\"_Ces B\u00e9arnais\nsont tous brutals!_\" was her remark; but we did not find her in the\nright.\n\nThe Gascon character, though here a little softened, prevails a good\ndeal, as the continued boasting about their town proves, and a certain\npomposity in their demeanour, which, however, is harmless and amusing.\nWe were in the habit of employing a baker, who made what was called\nEnglish bread, and the magnificent manner in which he paid his visits to\nour domicile was very comic. Our maid, Jeannotte, being out of the way,\nwe were one day disturbed by a vociferous knocking at our\nparlour-door--for in general all the passage-doors are left open--and\nhurrying to admit the clamorous visitant, we beheld the baker's\nassistant, M. Auguste, with a tray of loaves on his head and one in his\nhand, which he thrust forth, accompanying the action with a flourish and\na low bow, exclaiming, \"De la part de C\u00e9sar!\" We were not then aware\nthat such was the name of our baker, and were much awed by the\nannouncement.\n\nAnother of our domestic visitors was a source of considerable\nentertainment to us, and became still more so through the _espi\u00e8glerie_\nof our attendant, Jeannotte, who took occasion to mystify him at our\nexpense. This object of mirth was a little stout mountaineer, who came\nevery week from his home in the mountains--between the valleys of Ossau\nand Aspe--with a load of butter and cheese, with which his strong,\nsure-footed horse was furnished. In the severest weather this little man\nwould set out; and on one occasion his horse had to be dug out of the\nsnow in one of the passes; but the desire of gain, which invariably\nactuates these people, and a carelessness of hardship, made him treat\nall his dangers lightly. He was in the habit of coming to us every week,\nand generally made his way to our part of the house, as he appeared\namused to _look at us_ as much as we were to converse with him, and ask\nhim questions about bears, wolves, and avalanches.\n\nHis stock of French was small, and he had a peremptory way of demanding\nwhat he required, as he divided his neat pieces of butter for our\nservice. He could not be more than five feet high, but was a sturdy,\nstrong-built man, though of very small proportions. One day when\ndelivering his charge to Jeannotte, she asked him in _patois_,--her own\ntongue--if he was married; he started at the question, and begged to\nknow her reason for inquiring; she informed him it was for the benefit\nof Mademoiselle, who wished to know. The little hero paused, and\npresently, in rather an anxious tone, demanded of Jeannotte what\nmademoiselle's reason could possibly be for requiring the knowledge.\n\"There is no telling,\" said she, archly, \"Mademoiselle thinks you very\namiable.\"\n\n\"Is it possible!!\" said he, musing; \"you don't surely imagine--_do_ you\nthink she would have me?\"\n\nThe laughter of Jeannotte quite abashed the gallant mountaineer, and he\nreplaced his load of butter on his brown _berret_ and disappeared, nor\nwould he for some time afterwards pay us a visit. At length he did so,\nand I found his modest confusion apparent in his forgetting to take the\nfull change of his money, actually on one occasion abandoning _half a\nsous_ of his just due, and retiring with a \"C'est \u00e9gal.\" When we told\nhim we were going away he was much struck, and stayed longer than usual\ngazing at us, till we thought he intended to open his mind, and declare\nhis intentions to share his mountain-home with one of our party. I\ntherefore gave him a note of recommendation for his butter to a friend,\nand he retired apparently more satisfied, though with a heavy sigh and a\nmurmured hope--expressed half in _patois_--that we would come back to\nthe Pyrenees in the summer.\n\nThere is still a good deal of simplicity left amongst this people, and\ncertainly but little wit. Strong affection seems to be felt by them\ntowards their relations, and quarrels seem rare; the B\u00e9arnais are said\nto be drunkards; but I never remember to have seen any instances of this\nin the streets. They are slovenly, and the lower classes extremely\ndirty; the market-women, in their white flannel peaked hoods of a\nhideous form, or their handkerchiefs loosely tied, without grace and\nmerely for warmth, have in the cold season a very unpicturesque\nappearance, and the shrill shrieking voices of those who scream hot\nchesnuts to sell about the streets, uttering their piercing cry of \"_tou\ncai, tou cai_!\"[26] is anything but pleasing to the ear.\n\nThe servants, however, seem good, industrious, honest, and very civil;\nand, as far as our own experience went, we saw only good conduct; while\nfrom our hostess at the Bain Royal we met with liberality and extreme\ncourtesy; she, it is true, is from the refined city of Toulouse, but has\nlong resided at Pau, and I should certainly counsel any stranger, whom,\nthey would suit, to choose her apartments as a residence; for her\npavilions are situated in the most agreeable position, out of the noise\nand dampness of the town, and with the whole range of Pyrenees\nconstantly in uninterrupted view.\n\n[Footnote 26: All hot! all hot!]\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER II.\n\n     THE CLIMATE OF PAU--STORMS--FINE WEATHER--PALASSOU--REASONS FOR\n     GOING TO PAU--THE WINTER.\n\n\nONE of the chief inducements to foreigners, particularly the English, to\nvisit Pau for the winter, is the reputation of its climate for mildness\nand softness. When we arrived, in October, in a storm of rain, it was,\nwe understood, the continuation of a series of wet weather, which,\nthroughout the year, had made the whole country desolate, and the\ncompany at all the baths had, in consequence, left a month sooner than\nusual; for a fortnight after our establishment at Pau, nothing could be\nmore agreeable than the season, precisely answering to the beautiful\nweather which my letters announced from different parts of England.\nDuring this time the mountains were rarely visible, and when seen\nappeared indistinctly. This charming fortnight, during which Pau seemed\nto deserve all the commendations so profusely bestowed on it, was a\npromise of the calm and peaceful winter which I was told was always to\nbe found in these favoured regions; I bore the sarcasms against the\nfogs and, above all, the uncertainty of the climate of gloomy England,\nas well as I could; and my assertion that, till the first week in\nNovember, I had last year bathed in the sea at Brighton, was received\nwith indulgent smiles of pity at my nationality, both by French and\nEnglish; but of course not believed, for the air of France, I have\nalways observed, has such a property of effacing the remembrance of\nsunny days passed on the other side of the channel, that, by degrees,\nour countrymen arrive at the belief that nothing but fog and rain are\never to be seen in our ill-fated island, and they imagine that, till\nthey came abroad, their knowledge of blue sky or bright sun was obtained\nonly in pictures, but had no existence on the banks of the Thames or\nelsewhere, in the desolate regions they had quitted.\n\nThe morning of the 18th of October rose brilliantly, and was succeeded\nby a burning day; in the afternoon ominous clouds suddenly appeared, and\nbrought a storm of rain and hail, whose effects were felt in the extreme\ncold of the atmosphere for some days, when another change came over the\nface of things, which brought forth the character of this calm, quiet\nplace, where the excessive _stillness_ of the air is cited as almost\nwearying, in quite a different light. It has been said, and is\nfrequently cited, that a certain sea-captain left Pau in disgust, after\npassing some months there, because he could never obtain a _capful of\nwind_. If that anonymous gentleman had had the good fortune to be at Pau\non the night of the 23rd of October, I think he would have fixed his\ndomicile for the rest of his life there; for such a furious hurricane he\ncould seldom have had the good fortune to enjoy. For four hours in the\ndead of night, without intermission, the howling of the wind through the\ngorges of the mountains, the rush and swell amongst the hills, vales,\nand across the plains, was perfectly appalling. Every moment seemed to\nthreaten annihilation to all within its reach; chimneys were dashed down\nin every direction, trees torn up by the roots, and the triumph of the\ntempest fiend complete. Furious rain and hail succeeded on the following\nday, with occasional gleams of sun; and then came a calm, beautiful,\nsummer day again, and the mountains shone out as brightly as possible.\nThis gave place to thick fog and a severe frost on the very next day,\nlasting for several days; rain then diversified the scene, and on the\n29th a wind rose in the night almost as furious as the last, which\ncontinued the whole of the day following: a cold gloomy morrow, and the\nnext bright, hot, and pleasant, ended October.\n\nThe next day was a triumph for Pau:--\"When,\" asked every one we\nmet--\"when, in_ England_, would you see such a 1st of November?\" All my\nvivid recollections of charming strolls on the beach and downs in\nSussex, and in Windsor Park, were looked upon as figments. I heard no\nboasting on the 2nd, nor for three more days, for it was foggy, and\nrained hard, and no one could stir out. On the 6th, a heavy fall of snow\nhad clothed the whole country in white; and now, for three days, a\nsharp, frosty wind prevented any more remarks about the softness of the\nclimate. The frost and snow had disappeared, as by enchantment, on the\n11th, the night of which was so sultry that to keep windows shut was\nimpossible. The Fair of Pau was ushered in by rain, on the 12th; the\n13th was as hot as the hottest day in July, accompanied by a good deal\nof fog, for several days: then came violent wind, hail-storms, wind\nagain--louder and more furious--fog, cold, occasionally bright; and\nNovember disappeared on a misty morning, which ended in a burning day,\nwithout a breath of air, all glare and faintness.\n\nWe were now told that, though St. Martin had failed to keep his summer\nat the right time, he was never known to desert his post; and as in\nalmanacks a day before or a day after makes no difference, we were\ncontent to accept his smiles for nine days in the beginning of December.\nAgain came the question--\"When, in England?\" &c. and I began to think we\nwere peculiarly favoured, when, lo! letters arrived from that vexatious\nclime, speaking of \"days perfectly lovely,\" \"new summer,\" and all\nprecisely like a plagiarism on Pau. Fortunately for the reputation of\nthe Pyrenees, no one would, of course, credit this fact; and the English\ninvalids, who had been covering their mouths with handkerchiefs, and\nshutting themselves up from the variations of the atmosphere, breathed\nagain, and at once generously forgot all but the bright sun and warm air\nwhich had come once more to greet them.\n\nIt was true that every leaf had long since disappeared from the trees in\nthe park, and that the sun glared fearfully on the high, unsheltered\nwalks; but the partisans of salubrity hastened to disport themselves in\nits rays, till _three cases in one week_ of _coup de soleil_ began to\nstartle even the most presuming; and the expected death of one of the\npatients, together with _another change_ of weather to wet, cold, and\nfog, silenced further remark.\n\nWe were assured that the extraordinary alternations of climate we had\nexperienced for two months, was a circumstance quite unheard-of before\nin Pau, and we looked on ourselves as singularly unlucky in having, by\nchance, chosen a season so unpropitious. A few simple persons, who\nventured to remark that the winter of last year was very similar, were\ntold that they must have been mistaken; and some who recollected high\nwinds were considered romancers. We looked at the strong _contre-vents_\nplaced outside the windows of our dwelling, and wondered why such a work\nof supererogation should have taken place as to put them there, if the\nhurricanes we had witnessed were unusual, when I one day, during a high\nwind, as I sat at home, happened to take up Palassou's M\u00e9morial des\nPyr\u00e9n\u00e9es, and read as follows:--\n\n\"TEMPERATURE OF THE LOWER PYRENEES--ITS EFFECTS OFTEN DANGEROUS.\n\n\"It is well known that divers places differ in their temperature,\nalthough they are situated in the same degrees of latitude; the vicinity\nof the sea, of great rivers, mountainous chains, &c. renders the air\nmore or less hot or cold, serene or cloudy; the modifications which\nthese circumstances occasion are principally remarked in the countries\nadjacent to the Pyrenees. Snow, frost, and abundant rains, are, for\ninstance, more frequent than in Languedoc or Provence, although these\nclimates are placed beneath the same degree of latitude as the former.\n\n\"It is easy to believe that vegetable nature feels this influence. If we\nexcept the plains of Roussillon, and some small cantons situated at the\nfoot of the eastern Pyrenees, where a mild temperature may be found, it\nis to be observed that nowhere, contiguous to this chain, are seen the\nodoriferous plants and trees common to the South of France. The eye\nseeks in vain the pomegranate, with its rich crimson fruit; the olive\nis unknown; the lavender requires the gardener's aid to grow. The usual\nproductions of this part are heath, broom, fern, and other plants, with\nprickly thorns: these hardy shrubs seem fitted, by their sterility, to\nthe variable climate which they inhabit.\n\n\"In effect, the snows of winter, covering the summits of the Pyrenees\nfor too long a time, prolong the cold of this rigorous season sometimes\nto the middle of spring; then come the frosts which destroy the hopes of\nthe vine-grower.\n\n\"'_Storms are very frequent in B\u00e9arn_,' says M. Lebret, intendant of\nB\u00e9arn in 1700; he might have added,\" continues Palassou, \"to the list of\ndangers to the harvests--_the frequent and destructive fogs_ to which\nthe country is subject.\n\n\"In the landes of the Pont-Long, I have often seen, in the environs of\nPau, fogs rise from those grounds covered with fern, broom, and other\nnaturally growing plants, while in parts more cultivated it was clear.\n* * * The agriculturists of B\u00e9arn have not attempted to till the lands in\nthe neighbourhood of Pau, finding them too stubborn to give hopes of\nreturn, and _the climate being so very variable_; cultivated produce\nbeing peculiarly sensible to the effects of an air which _is one day\nburning and the next icy_.\n\n\"One might write whole volumes if it was the object to relate all the\neffects of storms which, accompanied with hail, devastate the countries\nin the neighbourhood of the Pyrenees. It will be sufficient to recount\nwhat has come under my own observation. During one violent storm of\nthunder and lightning, the hail-stones were _as large as hens' eggs_,\nand desolated the whole range over which it swept. It was immediately\nfollowed by a second, less furious, but which did immense damage; and\nothers, little less terrific, followed in the course of the\nmonth--June.\"\n\nPalassou here goes on to describe several dreadful storms of peculiar\nfury, which were more than usually destructive, and are common in these\nregions. He considers, that the cutting down of the forests on the\nmountains, which formerly sheltered the plains and valleys, has\ncontributed to increase the storms in latter years. Summer in the midst\nof winter, seems by no means uncommon, and winter in summer as little\nso. The _autun_, or south wind, generally brings the burning days which\nso much surprised me; but, according to this author, _it is extremely\nunwholesome_ and dangerous to persons inclined to apoplexy; as, indeed,\nits effects during our stay at Pau led me to imagine.\n\nI cannot feel much confidence, I confess, in a climate where you are\ntold that so many precautions must be taken: for instance, you are never\nto walk in the sun; you must avoid going out in the evening, at all\nseasons; you must be careful not to meet the south wind; in fact, you\ncan scarcely move without danger. I ask myself, what can possibly induce\nso many of my countrymen to travel so far for such a climate,--to put\nthemselves to so great an expense for such a result? for, if England is\nnot perfect as to climate, it has at any rate few unhealthy spots from\nwhich you cannot readily escape to a better position: we are never in\nterror of a _sirocco_,--nor need wrap up our mouths in handkerchiefs to\navoid breathing _malaria_. Our climate is variable, but less so than in\nthe Pyrenees; and it is scarcely worth while to go so far to find one\nworse, and more dangerous to life. Hurricanes are rarer with us than\nthere. We may not often have such hot summers in winter, but neither do\nwe _often_ have such cold winters in summer. It frequently rains with\nus, but it rains as often at Pau; and, however annoying are the\nvariations of which we complain at home, we assuredly do not escape them\nby travelling eight hundred miles to take up our abode close to icy\nmountains, in a dirty, damp town, in an uncomfortable house: add to\nwhich, we gain little in economy; for Pau is as dear as Paris, without\nany of the advantages of the capital.\n\nAltogether, the more experience I have of the climate of Pau, the more\nsurprised I am at the crowds of English who resort to this town for the\nwinter: the greatest part of them, it is true, are not invalids, but\npersons seduced into this nook by its reputation, and arriving too late\nin the season to leave it. They grumble, and are astonished to find\nthemselves no better off than if they had stayed at home; but they are,\nit would seem, ashamed to confess how much they have been deceived, and,\ntherefore, remain silent on the subject of climate, content to praise\nthe beauty of the country in fine weather, and enjoy the gaieties and\nhospitalities which they are sure to meet with. If people came only for\nthe latter advantages, I should not be surprised at their trooping\nhitherward, provided they were robust enough to bear the _mildness_ of\nclimate; but that is not the avowed reason, and those they give are\naltogether insufficient to account for the mania of wintering at Pau.\n\nPerhaps the best means of ascertaining the nature of the climate is by\noccasionally looking over old newspapers. In a French one of Jan. 10,\n1841, I was struck with this announcement: \"Pau.--On Thursday last, in\nthe night, the snow fell so abundantly that it was half-way up the legs,\nin the morning, in the streets. On Friday morning the _porte-coch\u00e8re_ of\none of the _splendid hotels in our Chauss\u00e9e d'Antin (!)_ opened, and\nforth issued an elegant sledge, drawn by two _magnificent_ horses,\ncrowned with white plumes. This novel spectacle attracted the attention\nof the whole town. The elegant vehicle darted along till it reached the\nRue de la Prefecture, &c. &c. and the Pont-Long.\"\n\nIt must be confessed that it is seldom in any part of our _cold climate_\nthat we have the power of such an exhibition in the streets. It is\nreserved for the invalids who fly to the South of France to avoid a\nsevere winter.\n\n\"23rd Dec. 1840. A great deal of snow has fallen between Bayonne and\nPeyrehorade: the road is become almost impassable.\"\n\nBut I must continue the winter as I found it at Pau in 1842 and 1843.\nDecember, with intervals of two days' wind and rain, was extremely\npleasant, bright, and clear, and the days very long; for till half-past\nfour one could see to write or read: a circumstance which does not often\noccur in England during this month. Christmas Day differed but little\nfrom many I have known at home: pleasant, bright, sunny, and clear;\nrather cold, but more agreeable, from its freshness, than the unnatural\nheat which sometimes accompanies the sun. All the accounts from England\nproved that the weather was precisely the same. For the two next days,\nit was fine and very cold, with a high, _easterly_ wind; two days warm\nand pleasant; then succeeded a sharp frost and bright sun; and December\nclosed, dull, cold, and dark.\n\nJanuary began cold, sharp, and gusty--some days biting, and some black\nand foggy; and from the 5th to the 12th it blew a perfect hurricane,\nwith thunder, one fine day intervening, and occasionally a few bright\nhours in the course of some of the days. The storm on the night of the\n11th was terrific, and it lasted, equally violent, with hail and\nthunder, all the next day--bright gleams of sun darting out for a\nmoment, and revealing the mountains, to close them in again with mist\nand rain before you had scarcely time to remark the change. About the\nmiddle of the day the wind increased in violence, and the hail came down\nwith fury, thick grey clouds gathered over the sky, the lightning\nflashed vividly, the thunder echoed far and near, and the gusts howled\nas if hundreds of wolves were abroad. King Arthur and all his _meinie_\nmust have been out, for the appearance over the mountains was most\nsingular. A broad space of clear _green-blue_ sky was seen just above\nthe white summits of several of the mountains, clearly showing the large\nfields of snow which extended along their flat surfaces, which are\nbroken at the sides by projections, like buttresses, of purple rock, on\nwhich dark shadows fell; gleams of sun illumined the edges of the snow\non the highest peaks, for a brief space, while, by degrees, the other\nmountains were sinking away into a thick haze which had already covered\nthe nearest hills. The marshy fields on the banks of the murmuring\nGave, and the little Ousse, now swelled to large rivers, and as thick\nand clay-coloured as the Garonne itself, were covered with a coating of\nhail, and the snow and transparent mist were seen driving along from\npeak to peak with amazing rapidity, as if they had been smoke.\nPresently, the narrow space of blue sky was dotted with small grey\nspecks, as if showers were falling from the heavy canopy above, and,\nshutting closer and closer, the great mass suddenly sank down,\nconcealing the glittering peaks which strove to shine out to the last.\nThen all became black; the thunder roared, the wind howled, the hail\nbeat, and winter and storm prevailed. I watched all this with delight;\nfor it was impossible to see anything more sublime, and I could not but\ncongratulate myself that the abode we had chosen, just above the valley\nand detached from the town, at the foot of the promenade of the Place\nRoyale, gave us an opportunity of seeing such a storm in perfection. It\nwas true that we often thus had our rest disturbed at night, by the\nsweep of the wind along the whole range of the valley between the\n_c\u00f4teaux_; but its melancholy sound, bringing news, as it were, from the\nmountains and the sea, was pleasant music to my ears, and startling and\nexciting, when it rose to the ungovernable fury with which I became so\nwell acquainted during our winter at this _quiet place for invalids_!\n\nIf Pau were recommended as a place where storms could be seen in\nperfection, I should not wonder at persons crowding there, who delight\nin savage nature. The gales from the 5th to the 15th continued\nfuriously, night and day; the wind howled from all points, rocking the\nhouses, and strewing the ground with ruins--then came a change to hot\nquiet days for a week.\n\nIn England, and in all parts of France, the season I am describing was\nequally violent, but this only proves that Pau has no shelter on these\noccasions.\n\nJanuary ended with fine weather, and occasional fogs, not so dense as in\nLondon, certainly, but as thick as in the country in England. The sun,\nin the middle of the day, being always dangerously hot. My letters from\nEngland still announced the same weather, _without the danger_.\n\nIn February, we had a few days like August, then a heavy fall of snow,\nwhich for eight days covered the ground, and was succeeded by burning\ndays; and the month ended with heavy rain and floods. March began with\ncold winds and rain and sharp frost; and when I left Pau the ground was\nencrusted with frost in all directions.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER III.\n\n     THE CASTLE OF HENRI QUATRE--THE FURNITURE--THE SHELL--THE\n     STATUE--THE BIRTH--CASTEL BEZIAT--THE FAIRY GIFT--A CHANGE--HENRI\n     QUATRE.\n\n    \"Qui a vist le castig de Pau\n     Jamey no a viat il fait.\"\n\n\nWHEN Napoleon, in 1808, passed through the town of Pau, the B\u00e9arnais\nfelt wounded and humbled at the indifference he showed to the memory of\ntheir hero, Henri Quatre: he scarcely deigned to glance at the ch\u00e2teau\nin which their cherished countryman was born; and with so little\nreverence did he treat the monument dear to every heart in B\u00e9arn, that\nhis soldiers made it a barrack; and, without a feeling of regard or\nrespect for so sacred a relic, used it as cavalierly _as if it had been\na church_. They stabled their steeds in the courts of Gaston Phoebus,\nthey made their drunken revelry resound in the chambers of Marguerite de\nValois; and they desecrated the retreat where _La brebis a enfant\u00e9 un\nLio_--where Jeanne d'Albret gave birth to him, who, in the language of\nhis mountains, promised that every Frenchman should have a _poule au\npot_[27] in his reign.\n\n[Footnote 27: The _poule au Pot_ is a general dish with the B\u00e9arnais.]\n\nThat Napoleon should not care for a royal soldier, whose fame he desired\nhis own deeds should eclipse; and of whom, as of all illustrious men,\nliving or dead, the _little_ great man was jealous, is not surprising.\nHe had nothing in common with Henri Quatre; and the Revolution, which\nhad brought him forward, had swept away antique memories. The statue of\ntheir once-adored Henri had been cast into the Seine with ignominy, by\nthe French, and his name was execrated, as if he had been no better than\nthe legitimate race whom popular fury condemned to oblivion: Napoleon's\npolicy was not to restore an abandoned worship; and he would have seen\nthe last stone fall from the castle of Pau without notice. But that the\nlong line of kings, who were always boasting of their descent from the\nimmortal B\u00e9arnais, should have neglected, contemned, or pillaged his\nbirth-place, reflects little honour on the memory of any. The son of\nMary de Medici came only to B\u00e9arn after his father's death, to carry off\nall that was precious in art, collected by the kings and queens of\nNavarre, for centuries--treasures which, according to the historians of\nthe time, had not their parallel in the sixteenth century. The palace of\nthe Louvre became rich in the spoils of B\u00e9arn: tapestry, pictures,\nfurniture, objects of _virtu_ of all kinds were borne away, and nothing\nleft in its original place. Louis the Fourteenth and his successor\noccupied themselves little with the country, except to levy subsidies\nupon it: they knew nor cared nothing for Navarre; except as it supplied\nthem with titles or gave them funds. Louis the Sixteenth, the last of\nthe Bourbons who took the oath to observe the _Fors_[28] of B\u00e9arn,\npromised to act differently, and to occupy himself with this forgotten\nnook of his dominions; but the fatal events, prepared by his profligate\npredecessors of the last two reigns, which hurled him from his throne,\nprevented the accomplishment of his intentions.\n\n[Footnote 28: The celebrated Laws of B\u00e9arn are called _Les Fors_.]\n\nAs for the sovereign people, when they became rulers, the contempt with\nwhich they overwhelmed everything aristocratic, was bestowed in full\nmeasure on the abode of him who had been their friend: and the triumph\nof vengeance, ignorance, and ingratitude, was complete, here as\nelsewhere.\n\nThe neglected castle of the sovereigns of B\u00e9arn,--for none of whom,\nexcept the immediate family of the brave and bold Henry, need one care\nto be a champion--remained then a mighty heap of ruin, which every\nrevolving year threatened to bring nearer to utter destruction; when\nanother revolution, like an earthquake, whose shock may restore to their\nformer place, rocks, which a preceding convulsion had removed, came to\n\"renew old \u00c6son:\" Louis Philippe, to whom every nook and corner of his\nextensive kingdom seems familiar, so far from forgetting the _berceau_\nof his great ancestor, hastened to extend to the castle of Pau a saving\nhand, and to bring forth from ruin and desolation the fabric which weeds\nand ivy were beginning to cover, and which would soon have been ranged\nwith the shells of Chinon, Loches, and other wrecks of days gone by.\n\nWhen the architect, employed by the king to execute the Herculean labour\nof restoring the castle of Pau, first arrived, and saw the state of\ndilapidation into which it had fallen, he must have been appalled at the\nmagnitude of his undertaking. Seeing it, as I do now,[29] grim, damp,\nrugged, ruined, and desolate, even in its state of transition, after\nseveral years of toil have been spent upon its long-deserted walls; I\ncan only feel amazed that the task of renovating a place so decayed\nshould ever have been attempted; but, after what has been done, it may\nwell be hoped and expected that the great work will be, in the end,\nfully accomplished; and ten years hence, the visitor to Pau will\ndisbelieve all that has been said of the melancholy appearance of the\nch\u00e2teau of Henri Quatre.\n\n[Footnote 29: This was written on the spot.]\n\nWhat must have been the state of things before the pretty bridge, which\nspans the road and leads from the castle terrace to the walk, called La\nBasse Plante, existed? I am told that a muddy stream, bordered with\npiles of rubbish, filled up this portion of the scene; but, in less than\na year, all was changed, and the pleasant terrace and neat walks which\nadorn this side of the castle are promises of much more, equally\nornamental and agreeable.\n\nSome of the tottering buildings attached to the strangely-irregular\nmass, were, it seems, condemned by the bewildered architect to\ndemolition, as possessing no beauty, and encumbering the plans of\nimprovement; but the late Duke of Orleans came to visit the castle, and\nhad not the heart to give consent that any of the old walls, still\nstanding, should be swept away. He looked at the place with true poetic\nand antiquarian feeling, and arrested the hand of the mason, who would\nhave destroyed that part called _La Chancellerie_, which extends between\nthe donjon of Gaston Phoebus to the Tour Montauzet. The prince\nrepresented to his father his views on the subject, which were instantly\nadopted--a question of taste in that family meets with no\nopposition--and all was to have been arranged according to the ideas of\nthe heir of France, who seemed inclined to make Pau an abode at a\n_future day_: the King was to have visited the interesting old castle:\nmuch animated discussion and much enthusiasm prevailed on the subject in\nthe interior of the royal circle, and the Berceau of Henri Quatre seemed\ndestined to proud days again.\n\n\"When, hush! hark! a deep sound comes like a rising knell!\"\n\nThe wail of a whole nation tells that that _anticipated future_ may not\ncome! A cloud has again gathered over the valley of the Gave, and a sad\npause--the pause of blighted hopes--has chilled the expectations in\nwhich B\u00e9arn had ventured to indulge.\n\nBut the castle is not, even now, neglected: the architects are still\nthere; workmen are still busy, chiseling and planing; the beautiful\narabesques and reliefs are coming forth to view, restored with all their\noriginal delicacy: the ceilings are glowing with fresh gilding, the\nwalls are bright with fresh tapestry, and the rooms are newly floored.\nBut for the dreadful event which must cast a gloom over France for some\nyears, the castle would, probably, have been sufficiently put in order\nfor a royal visitor this year; but all the magnificent furniture, sent\ndown from Paris to fit up the _suite_ intended for use, now stands\nunarranged, and a stop is put to embellishment. Amongst the most curious\nand interesting pieces of this furniture, are the bed and chair of\nJeanne d'Albret, her screen--perhaps worked by her own hand--and the bed\nof Henry II.: all fine specimens of art in this style; the latter, in\nparticular, is quite unique, and is one of the most curious I have ever\nseen: the sculpture is very elaborate; at the foot reclines, in relief,\na Scotch guard, such as always lay at the threshold of the sovereign, at\nthe period when this piece of furniture was made. An owl of _singular\nexpression_ sits watching, opposite, surrounded by foliage and poppies,\nquite in character with the sleepy scene: the posts of the bedstead are\nbeautifully turned: it is so formed as to draw out and close in, forming\na _bed by night_, _a cabinet by day_; and the carved arch at the back is\nsculptured in the most exquisite manner. A _prie-Dieu_ of the same date\nis near; but all this furniture is merely _housed_ for the present, as\nnothing is arranged; one, of course, looks at these specimens with an\nadmiration which has nothing to do with Henri Quatre's castle, as they\nwould be equally well placed in M. de Somerard's museum, at the\ndelightful H\u00f4tel de Cluny.\n\nA tapestry screen, said to be of the time of Charles VII., has a place\nin this heterogeneous collection: it represents the Maid of Orleans,\ncrowned by victorious France, whose _lilies_ are restored, and her\nenemies trampled under her feet; in the back-ground is the sea, with\nstrange-looking monsters huddled into its waves, in apparent terror:\nthese are the Leopards of England taking flight from the shores of\nFrance. The colours are well preserved in this piece of work, and the\nwhole composition deserves to be remarked, if not for the correctness of\nits drawing, for the _na\u00efvet\u00e9_ of its details.\n\nIt might have been better to have filled the castle with furniture\nbelonging exclusively to the time, or anterior to that of Henry IV.; and\nit struck me that much which has arrived from Paris, of the period of\nLouis XIV., is out of keeping with the _souvenirs_ of the castle of Pau.\nI almost hope that, if ever it is entirely restored, these pieces of\nfurniture will be banished, and others, more antique, substituted. The\ntapestry with which the walls are covered is very curious and\nappropriate; it is chiefly of the time of Francis I.; and some beautiful\nGobelins, of modern date, representing different scenes in the life of\nHenry, equally so.\n\nThe most, indeed the only, beautiful portions of the castle, are the\nceilings of the principal staircase and passages leading from it; the\nmedallions of which present the heads of Marguerite de Valois and her\nhusband, Henry d'Albret, with their interlaced initials and arms on the\nwalls: these again occur on the mantel-pieces, in the midst of very\nexquisite arabesques, which the skill of the modern sculptor is\nrestoring with singular delicacy.\n\nThe object which excites the most interest in the castle, is the famous\nshell of a tortoise, of immense size, said to have served as a cradle to\nthe little hero whose birth was hailed with such rapture by his\nexpectant grandfather. One would fain believe that this is indeed the\nidentical _berceau de Henri IV._ so much talked of; but it is difficult\nto reconcile all the improbabilities of its being so: the substitution\nof another, after the real shell had been burnt in the castle-court, may\ndo credit to those who cherish the hero's name; always provided no less\ngenerous motive induced the act; but the tale told to prove its identity\nis, unfortunately, not convincing.\n\nThe shell is suspended in the centre of a chamber, formerly the _salle\nde r\u00e9ception_ of Henry II. d'Albret, and surrounded with trophies, in\ntawdry taste, which it is the intention to have removed, and the gilt\nhelmet and feathers replaced by some armour really belonging to King\nHenry.\n\nThose who contend for this being the genuine shell say, that, when on\nthe 1st of May, 1793, the revolutionary mob came howling into the\ncastle-court, with the intention of destroying every relic of royalty,\nthe precious shell was hastily removed, and _another put in its place_,\nbelonging to a loyal subject who had been induced to sacrifice his own\nto save the public treasure. M. de Beauregard had, it seems, a cabinet\nof natural history, in which was a tortoise-shell of very similar size\nand appearance: this he gave up, and, with the assistance of other\ndevoted persons, it was conveyed to the castle, and put into the\naccustomed place, while the real shell was carefully hidden in a secure\nretreat. The mob seized upon the substitute, and, with frantic cries,\ndanced round the fire in the court while they saw it burn to ashes,\nlittle dreaming how they had been deceived: years after, the truth was\nrevealed, and the cradle of the B\u00e9arnais was produced in triumph.\nWhether, in the midst of the terror attending the proceedings of savages\nathirst for blood, it was likely that such cool precautions were taken\nto save a _relic_ when _lives_ were at stake, is a question which seems\neasily answered; but there is such a charm about the belief, that,\nperhaps, _'tis folly to be wise_ on the subject.\n\nThe fine marble statue of Henry, which is appropriately placed in one of\nthe chambers, was executed soon after the battle of Ivry: it is by\nFrancavilla, and very expressive: it belonged to the Gallery of Orleans,\nand was presented to the town of Pau by the King.\n\nThe room said to be that where Henry was born, and where Jeanne d'Albret\nsang the famous invocation, \"_Notre Dame au bout du Pont_,\" is on the\nsecond story of a tower, from whence, as from all this side of the\ncastle, is a magnificent view of the mountains, and the valley of the\nGave. There is nothing now left but bare walls; but on the chimney is\nsculptured the tortoise-shell cradle, and the arms of B\u00e9arn and Navarre;\nthese rooms will be all repaired and restored; at present, the whole\n_suite_ reminded me of the desolation of the castle of Blois, which was\ndesecrated in the same manner by soldiery, who made it a barrack. The\nroom which was Henry's nursery has a few of the original rude rafters of\nthe ceiling remaining, which one would wish should not be removed; but\nit is said that it is necessary. The thick coating of whitewash cleared\naway from the chimney-piece will, probably, disclose more sculpture,\nsimilar to that in the other rooms.\n\nQueen Jeanne had been unfortunate in losing her other children, one of\nwhom died in a melancholy manner. While she was out hunting with her\nfather and her husband, the nurse and one of her companions, being at a\nloss to amuse themselves, thought of a game, in which they threw the\nchild from one window to the other, catching it in turns. The poor\nlittle prince was made the victim to this cruel folly, for he fell on\nthe balcony which extended along the first-floor, and broke one of his\nribs. He suffered much, and survived only a few days. No wonder Queen\nJeanne sent her little son, Henry, to a cottage, to be nursed, where\nthere was no upper story!\n\nNothing can be less imposing, on the interior side of the court, than\nthe castle of Pau: ruined, dilapidated buildings surround the rugged old\nwell which stands in the centre; towers and _tourelles_, of various\nshapes, lift their grey and green and damp-stained heads in different\nangles; low door-ways, encumbered with dust and rubbish, open their dark\nmouths along the side opposite the red square tower of Gaston Phoebus,\nwhich frowns at its equally grim brother, whose mysterious history no\none knows; other doors and windows are finely-sculptured; and\nmedallions, much defaced, adorn the walls.\n\nOn these antique towers, it is said the thunder never fell but\nonce--_that once_ was on the 14th of May, 1610, at the very moment when\nthe steel of Ravaillac found the heart of Henry of Navarre. The event is\nthus recorded:--\n\n\"A fearful storm burst over the town of Pau on this day; a thunderbolt\nfell, and defaced the royal arms over the castle-gateway; and a fine\nbull, which was called _the King_, from its stately appearance, the\nchief of a herd called _the royal herd_, terrified by the noise and\nclamour, precipitated itself over the walls into the ditch of the\ncastle, and was killed. The people, hurrying to the spot, called out The\n_King_ is dead! The news of the fatal event in Paris reached Pau soon\nafter, and they found their loss indeed irreparable.\"\n\nThe shades of Henry and Sully are said sometimes _to walk_ along the\nramparts even now; and it was formerly believed that near the great\nreservoir, into which it was said Queen Jeanne used to have her Catholic\nprisoners thrown, numerous ghosts of injured men might be seen flitting\nto and fro. One evening I was returning, later than usual, from the\npromenade in the park, and had paused so often on my way to observe the\neffect of the purple and rosy-tinted mountains glowing with the last\nrays of sunset, that it was in quite a dim light that I reached the spot\nbeneath which the ivied head of the old, ruined, red Tour de la Monnaie\nshows the rents of its _machicoulis_. A double row of young trees is\nplanted here, at the foot of the artificial mound which supports the\ncastle walls, and at the end of the alley is the reservoir, with the\nsquare tower of Gaston Phoebus above it. I was startled by a sudden\napparition, so vivid that it seemed impossible to mistake its form,\npassing by the reservoir, as if after descending the steep which leads\nto it. I _seemed to see_ a grey, transparent figure in armour, the head\ncovered with a helmet, with a pointed frontlet, such as I had seen in an\nold gallery, filled with rusty coats of arms, at the Ch\u00e2teau of\nVillebon, near Chartres, where Sully had lived for five-and-twenty\nyears, and where he died. The figure was slight, and moved slowly,\nwaving its head gently: it was in good proportion, but at least eight\nfeet high. I stopped astonished, for the vision was so very plain--and\nthen it was gone. I continued my way, and again I saw it, and it\nappeared as if several others, less tall, but still in armour, were by\nits side, by no means so distinct. I paused again, it was growing darker\nand darker, and I then could distinguish nothing but a row of slender\ntrees, whose delicate leaves were shivering in the evening breeze, and\nwhose stems waved to and fro. I went home--through the chill damp castle\ncourt, and across the bridge to the dismal street--impressed with an\nagreeable, though somewhat tremulous conviction, that I must have seen\nsome of the ghosts which haunt the walks of the old castle.\n\nI expected to hear that the memory of Queen Jeanne was venerated on this\nspot; but was surprised to find that she holds a place in tradition\nlittle more honourable than that occupied by our bloody Queen Mary; for\nthere is scarcely any atrocity in history of which she is not the\nheroine: whatever might have been her fame with her Protestant subjects,\nthose who succeeded them seemed carefully to have treasured the\nremembrance of all the cruelties executed by her orders, which, it must\nbe acknowledged, were little in accordance with the religion of peace\nshe professed to have adopted. Her son, whose faith was of so changeable\na character that it suited all parties, is the pride and boast of the\ncountry; but the object of love appears to be the amiable Princess\nCatherine, his sister, for whom her mother built, in a secluded spot in\nthe royal park, a residence, called _Castel Beziat_, the last stones of\nwhich have now disappeared, as well as the _gardens_ originally planted\nby Gaston XI., in 1460, and said, in the time of Henri II. and\nMarguerite, _to be the finest in Europe_. It is difficult now to imagine\nwhere they were; but they are said to have been on the south side, and\nprobably extended along that part now occupied by the Basse Plante and\nthe baths of Henri Quatre, as far as the present entrance of the park.\n\nCatherine was more sought in marriage, perhaps, than any princess of her\ntime; but her only attachment--which was an unfortunate one--was to the\nCount de Soissons, who, being her brother's enemy, avowed or concealed,\nwas an unfit match for her, and the alliance was opposed by all her\nfriends. She seemed to possess the accomplishments of her grandmother\nand mother, and was very popular in B\u00e9arn, which she governed, during\nHenry the Fourth's absence, with great justice and judgment; the\nB\u00e9arnais, however, greatly offended her by their violent opposition to\nher marriage with the person she had chosen; and she left the Castle of\nPau in anger, and never returned. She was forced into a marriage with\nthe Duke de Bar, and her people saw her no more.\n\nThere is a romantic story told of an act of the princess's, which shows\nher kind character, and amiable feeling. There was formerly in the\ngardens of Castel (or Castet) Beziat, (the _Castle of the beloved,_) a\nfountain, afterwards called _Des cents Ecus_, which had its name from\nthe following circumstances:\n\nThe Princess Catherine of Navarre was one day walking in a musing mood,\nprobably thinking of the many difficulties which opposed her union with\nhim she loved, and almost wishing that her stars had made her one of the\ncareless peasant-girls who tended her flocks in the green meadows beside\nthe murmuring Gave; for happiness was denied her, as she said in after\ntimes, when married to a man who was indifferent to her, \"Qu'elle\nn'avait pas son _compte_,\" mournfully playing on her disappointment.\nSuddenly she heard voices, and, peeping through the thick foliage, she\nperceived two young girls seated by the side of the fountain. One was\ndrowned in tears, and the other was leaning over her, with tender words\nand caresses, endeavouring to console her sorrows. \"Alas!\" said the fair\ndistressed, \"I can see no end to my sorrow, for poverty is the cause;\nyou know, my parents have nothing but what they gain by labour, and\nthough _his_ friends are richer, their avarice is extreme; and they say\ntheir son's bride must have a dower of a hundred crowns. Ah! my dear\nfriend, what hope then have I! I have heard that there are fairies who\nhave the power to assist true love; if I knew where they were to be\nfound I would consult them, for never was love truer than ours, or more\nunfortunate.\"\n\nHer friend did not attempt to combat her affection, but encouraged her\nwith soothing words to have patience, and hope for the best. \"Let us\nmeet again here,\" said she, \"every day, and devise some plan; perhaps\nHeaven will hear our prayers, and take compassion on your sorrow.\nTo-morrow, at this hour, let us meet.\" \"We will so,\" said the weeping\ngirl, \"for if I have no other consolation,--you, at least, give me that\nof talking of him.\"\n\nThe friends departed, leaving the listening princess full of interest\nand curiosity: she was resolved to surprise and befriend the lovers\nwhose case was so touching. \"There is, then, equal sorrow in a lowly\nstate,\" she mused, \"and love seems always doomed to tears; however,\nthere are some obstacles which fortune permits to be removed--would that\nI could look forward to relief, as I am resolved these shall!\"\n\nThe next day saw the two friends again seated on the borders of the\nfountain; but scarcely had they taken their accustomed place, when they\nobserved, lying on a stone close by, a little bag which seemed to\ncontain something heavy; they opened it, and found a paper, on which\nthese words were written: \"Behold what has been sent you by a _fairy_.\"\nThe delight of this discovery may be imagined, and the pleasure of the\nprincess, by whose command, a few days afterwards, the union of the\nlovers was accomplished.\n\nIt appears that the Castle of Pau was originally built in 1360, or about\nthat time, by the famous prince, Gaston Phoebus, of Foix, who called\nhimself, when addressing the Princess of Wales, \"_a poor knight who\nbuilds towns and castles._\" The great hero of Froissart is even more\nidentified with Pau and its neighbourhood than Henry the Fourth himself,\nwho, though he was born here, lived more at Coarraze and Nerac than in\nthis castle of his ancestors; for he was even nursed in the village of\nBilli\u00e8res near, where his nurse's house is still shown.\n\nCatherine de Medicis, and her beautiful and dangerous _troupe_ of\nladies, on the famous progress she made to Bayonne, visited the Castle\nof Pau, with a deep interest; she there succeeded in detaching the\naffections of the weak father of Henry from his noble-minded wife, and\nin laying the foundation of that tragedy which her dauntless and\nvindictive spirit had conceived. The massacre of St. Bartholomew may be\nsaid to have begun on the day that those fatal visitors crossed the\ndrawbridge of the Castle of Pau. Her daughter, Marguerite, the victim of\nher schemes--an unwilling actor in the drama--suffered much sorrow and\nprivation within these walls, after her marriage with a prince who\nnever could surmount the distaste which circumstances of such peculiar\nhorror as attended their union had given him; and the once cheerful\nplace--the scene of splendour for centuries--lost its glory and its\nhappy character after the beloved family of Queen Jeanne had deserted\nits towers.\n\nEverything connected with the birth of Henry IV. is in general\nwell-known, and has been so frequently repeated, that it is almost\nunnecessary to relate any circumstances attending that anxiously\nlooked-for event,--cordially hailed by his grandfather, Henry. The\naccount, however, given by Favyn is so characteristic that it cannot but\nbe read with interest _a-propos_ of the ch\u00e2teau where it occurred:\n\n\"The Princess of Navarre, being near her term, took leave of her\nhusband, and set out from Compeign the 15th of November. She crossed all\nFrance to the Pyrenees, and directed her steps to Pau, where her father,\nthe King of Navarre, then was. She arrived in the town after eighteen\ndays' journey. King Henry had made his will, which the princess was very\nanxious to see; because it had been represented to her that it was to\nher disadvantage, and in favour of _a lady who governed_ her father. For\nthis cause, though she had tried every means to get a sight of it, it\nwas a thing impossible; the more so, as, on her arrival, she had found\nthe king ill, and dared not speak to him on the subject. But the coming\nof his _good girl_, as he called her, so delighted him that it set him\non his legs again. The princess was endowed with a fine natural\njudgment, fostered by the reading of good books, to which she was much\naddicted; her humour was so lively that it was impossible to be dull\nwhere she was; one of the most learned and eloquent princesses of her\ntime, she followed the steps of Marguerite, her mother, and was mistress\nof all the elegant accomplishments of the age. The king, who was aware\nof her wish respecting the will, told her she should have it when she\nhad shown him her child; and, taking from his cabinet a great box, shut\nwith a lock, the key of which he wore round his neck by a chain of gold,\nwhich encompassed it five-and-twenty or thirty times, he opened the box,\nand showed her the will. But he only showed it at a little distance; and\nthen locked it up again, saying, 'This box and its contents shall be\nyours; but, in order that you may not produce me a crying girl or a puny\ncreature, I promise to give you all on condition that, while the infant\nis being born, you sing a Gascon or B\u00e9arnais song; and I will be by.' He\nhad lodged his daughter in a room in the second story of his castle of\nPau; and his chamber was immediately beneath: he had given her, to guard\nher, one of his old _valets de chambre_, Cotin, whom he commanded never\nto stir from the princess night nor day, to serve her in her chamber,\nand to come and tell him the instant she was taken ill, and to wake him\nif he was in ever so deep a sleep. Ten days after the princess's arrival\nat Pau, between twelve and one o'clock at night, the day of St. Lucie,\n13th of December, 1553, the king was called by Cotin, and hurried to her\nchamber: she heard him coming, and began immediately singing the\ncanticle, which the B\u00e9arnais women repeat when lying in:\n\n    \"Noustre Dame deou cap deou poun,\n     Adjoudat me \u00e0 d'aqueste hore,\"\n\nfor at the end of every bridge in Gascony is an oratory, dedicated to\nthe Virgin, called, _Our Lady at the end of the bridge_; and that over\nthe Gave, which passes into B\u00e9arn from Juran\u00e7on, was famous for its\nmiracles in favour of lying-in women. The King of Navarre went on with\nthe canticle; and had no sooner finished it than the prince was born who\nnow reigns over France. Then the good king, filled with great joy, put\nthe chain of gold round the neck of the princess, and gave her the box\ncontaining the will, saying, 'This is your property, and this is mine;'\nat the same time taking the infant, which he wrapped in a piece of his\nrobe, and carried away to his chamber. The little prince came into the\nworld without crying, and the first nourishment he had was from the\nhand of his grandfather; for, having taken a clove of garlic, he rubbed\nhis little lips with it; then, in his golden cup, he presented him wine;\n_at the smell of which, the child having lifted up his head_, he put a\ndrop in his mouth, which he swallowed very well. At which the good king,\nfull of joy, exclaimed, before all the ladies and gentlemen in the room,\n'You will be a true B\u00e9arnais!' kissing him as he spoke.\"\n\nEvery time I pass through the court-yard of this dilapidated building, I\nfeel that it can never revive from its ruin; the desolation is too\ncomplete; the defacement too entire. What interest can exist in\nrestorations to effect which so much must be cleared and scraped away\nthat scarcely a trace of what was original can remain? How restore those\nmedallions on the outer walls, which the taste of the first Fair\nMarguerite, and her Henry, placed in rows at one extremity of the court?\nhow restore those beautifully-carved door-ways, and cornices, and\nsculptured windows, elaborate to the very roof? or renew the _fa\u00e7ade_\nnext the mountains without effacing that singular line of _machicoulis_\nwhich divides the stages. How replace the terrace--once existing, but\nlong gone--without destroying venerable morsels of antiquity, precious\nin their ugliness! and how render the whole place sightly without\nclearing away the rubbish of the old _Tour_ _de la Monnaie_, now built\nin with shabby tenements? Yet this will probably be done. Considering\nthe state of the town, and the many improvements requisite in it, it\nwould seem more judicious, perhaps, to effect, these, and to abandon the\nidea of _restoring_ the castle. To repave the court, and clear away\ndirt, might be done with little time and cost; and the old fabric would\nnot suffer by this act. At present the most neglected part is the\nentrance; and it is sufficiently unsightly. However, I ought to\ncongratulate myself that I did not see it _when it was worse_--as I am\nconstantly told when I complain of the wretched state of the streets.\n\nIt is said that part of the royal family are even yet expected to pay a\nvisit to Pau, in the course of next spring, to be present at the\ninauguration of a new statue of the Great Henry, lately arrived, which\nis to be erected in the Place Royale.[30]\n\n[Footnote 30: Since this was written, the visit has been paid, and the\nceremony gone through.]\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER IV.\n\n     TROUBADOUR.\n\n\nNAVARRE has not produced many poets in early times; and the only\ntroubadour whom it claims, is the famous lover of Blanche of Castile,\nthe accomplished Thibault of Champagne, who rather belongs to Provins,\nwhere he lived so much, and sang so many of his beautiful lays, than to\nthe Pyrenees. All critics, ancient and modern, from Dante to the Abb\u00e9\nMassieu, have agreed in admiring his compositions, in which grace,\ntenderness, and refinement, shine out in every line, encumbered though\nhis language be with its antique costume. His mother was Blanche,\ndaughter of Sancho the Wise, King of Navarre; his birth took place in\n1201, a few months after the death of his father; and it was with\ndifficulty the persecuted widow could retain her government of Champagne\nand Brie. In 1234, he was called to the throne of Navarre, by the death\nof his maternal uncle, Sancho le Fort. Soon after this, he left for the\nHoly Land; therefore, what time he spent in Navarre, does not appear. On\nhis return from _Romanie_, he died at Pampluna, in 1253, and was buried\nat his beloved Provins, that city of nightingales and roses.\n\nHis songs are very numerous, and have much originality. The following\nwill serve as specimens:\n\n                CHANSON.\n\n           *       *       *       *       *\n\n     \"Je n'ose chanter trop tart, ne trop souvent.\"\n\n           *       *       *       *       *\n\n    \"I FEAR to sing too seldom or too long--\n       I cannot tell if silence be the best,\n     Or if at all to tune my tender song--\n       For she denies me pity, hope, and rest.\n     Yet, in my lay, I might some note awake,\n       To please her ear more than all lays before;\n     Though thus, she seems a cruel joy to take,\n       That I should slowly suffer evermore.\n\n    \"At once I'd cast my idle lute away,\n       If I were sure no pleasure could be mine;\n     But love has made my thoughts so much his prey,\n       I do not dare to love her, nor resign.\n     Thus I stand trembling and afraid to fly,\n     Till I have learnt to _hate_ her--lovingly.\n\n    \"By love and hate's alternate passions torn,\n       How shall I turn me from my thronging woes?\n     Ah! if I perish, tortured and forlorn,\n       But little glory from such triumph flows.\n     She has no right to keep me her's, in thrall,\n     Unless she will be mine, my own, my all!\n\n    \"Well does she know how to delight--inflame,\n       With soft regards and smiles and words at will,\n     And none within her magic ever came,\n       But learnt to hope he was the favour'd still.\n     She is worth all the conquests she has won:\n     But I may trust too far--and be undone!\n\n    \"She keeps me ling'ring thus in endless doubt,\n       And, as she pleases, holds me in her chain,\n     Grants she no smiles--I can adore without;\n       And this she knows, and I reproach in vain!\n     I am content to wait my chance, even now,\n     If she will but one ray of hope allow.\"\n\n           * * * *\n\n          JEU-PARTIE.\n\n    \"BALDWIN, tell me frank and true,\n     What a lover ought to do;\n     One, who, loving well and long,\n     Suff'ring and enduring wrong,\n     At his lady's summons flies,\n     And presents him to her eyes,\n     With a welcome, when they meet,\n     Should he kiss her lips or feet?\n\n    \"Sire, methinks he would be loth,\n     Not to kiss her rosy mouth;\n     For a kiss at once descends\n     To the heart and makes them friends;\n     Joy and sweetness, hope and bliss,\n     Follow in that tender kiss.\n\n    \"Baldwin, nay, you ought to know,\n     He who dares such freedom show--\n     As though a shepherd maid were she,\n     Would never in her favour be:\n\n     I would kneel in humble guise,\n     For I know her fair and wise,\n     And humility may gain\n     Smiles no boldness could obtain.\n\n    \"Sire, though modest semblance oft\n     Meet a guerdon, coy and soft,\n     And timid lovers sometimes find\n     Reward both merciful and kind:\n     Yet to the lips prefer the feet\n     Seems to my mind a care unmeet.\n\n    \"Baldwin--for worlds I would not lose\n     Her mouth, her face, her hand--but choose\n     To kiss her pretty feet, that she\n     May see how humble truth can be.\n     But you are bold and daring still;\n     And know Love's gentle lore but ill.\n\n    \"Sire, he must be a craven knight,\n     Who, with her lovely lips in sight,\n     Is all content and happy found,\n     To kiss her foot-print on the ground!\n\n    \"Baldwin, quick gains are quickly o'er,\n     Got with much ease, and prized no more.\n     When at her feet, entranced, I lie,\n     No evil thought can hover night.\n     And she his love will faithful call,\n     Who asked no boon, and gave her all.\"\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER V.\n\n     ROAD FROM PAU TO TARBES--TABLE-LAND--THE PICS--THE HARAS OF\n     TARBES--AUTUMN IN THE PYRENEES--MONT L'H\u00c9RIS--GABRIELLE\n     D'ESTR\u00c9ES--CHASSE AUX PALOMBES--PENNE DE L'H\u00c9RIS--PIC DU\n     MIDI--CHARLET THE GUIDE--VALLEY OF CAMPAN--LA GATTA--GRIP--THE\n     TOURMALET--CAMPANA DEL VASSE--BAR\u00c8GES-LUZ--CAGOT\n     DOOR--GAVARNIE--THE FALL OF THE ROCK--CHAOS--CIRCUS--MAGNIFICENCE\n     OF NATURE--PONT DE NEIGE--ROLAND--DURENDAL--IZARDS--LES\n     CR\u00c2NES--PIEREFITTE--CAUTERETZ--CERIZET--PONT D'ESPAGNE--LAC DE\n     GAUBE--ARGELEZ.\n\n\nTHE road between Pau and Tarbes,[31] like most of the roads south of the\nGaronne, is an extremely fine one; it is perfectly macadamized, and\nadmirably well kept; indeed, in this respect, the improvement that\nappears all over France is quite remarkable; but if superiority can be\nclaimed anywhere it certainly belongs to B\u00e9arn and Bigorre. It is not,\nhowever, the _condition_ of the road between the two towns that forms\nthe attraction; it is the exquisite scenery that meets the eye wherever\na break in the woods, or an inequality of the ground reveals the\nmagnificent chain of the Pyrenees. For some distance after leaving Pau\nthe road is nearly level; but about half-way to Tarbes, after passing\nthrough a thick wood of oak, and having been rendered impatient by\noccasional glimpses of the mountains, the traveller climbs a long and\nwinding ascent, and reaches the summit of a fine table-land, from whence\nan uninterrupted view of this glorious country is obtained. Rich forests\nof chesnut clothe the steep sides of this table-land, and stretch far\naway to the southward, mingling with the well-cultivated plains that\nborder the Gave de Pau; beyond these rise, in gradual succession, the\nlower ranges of the mountains, whose real height is entirely lost in the\ngrandeur of the more stupendous Pyrenean giants, extending as far as the\neye can reach, from the Mont Perdu at one extremity, and far beyond the\nPic du Midi of the Vall\u00e9e d'Ossau, at the other. The general colour of\nthese noble mountains is a deep purple, which becomes even more intense,\nand approaches almost to blackness, until it melts away in the misty\nvalleys beneath. The outline is not only irregular in form, but various\nin its hue; some of the loftiest heights of the foremost range being\npatched with snow, while, still more distant and shining in the sun,\nappear the dazzling peaks of eternal ice, piercing the deep blue sky\nwherein they dwell.\n\n[Footnote 31: For the whole account of the Hautes Pyr\u00e9n\u00e9es, I am\nindebted to my brother, Mr. Dudley Costello, who made the excursion\nwhile I remained at Pau.]\n\nThis table-land is traversed for several miles over a broken common,\nvariegated with heath and fern, and intersected here and there by\nbrawling streams, which take their course to swell the tributaries of\nthe distant Gave. At the eastern extremity of the common, another wide\nforest of chesnut appears, where the road rapidly descends with many\nwindings to the plain of Bigorre. One of these turns offers the\nloveliest picture it is possible to imagine. The foreground is formed of\nsteep, rough banks, through which the road winds its sinuous track, the\nthick yet graceful foliage of the chesnut rises like a frame on either\nhand, and spreads also in front, while the Pic du Midi de Bigorre, with\nsnow on its summit, and the Pic de Montaigu, with its sharp, dark\noutline, complete the distance. To give life to the scene, there are the\npeasants and market-women on their way to the fair of Tarbes,--the\nformer wearing the characteristic brown _berret_, and the latter the\nblack or scarlet-peaked hood, which gives quite a clerical air to their\ncostume. Indeed, to see the women carelessly bestriding their active\nBigourdin horses, which they manage with infinite ease, one might\nreadily fancy, at a slight distance, that it was rather a party of monks\nof the olden time wending to their monastery, than a group of peasants\nladen with their market-ware. A little further, the road abruptly turns\nagain, and Tarbes lies before us, distant about four or five miles,\nsupported by another range of mountains, amongst which the Pic d'Orbizan\nis most conspicuous. The plain of Bigorre is now soon gained, and in\nhalf an hour we stand in the Place de Maubourguet, in the centre of\nTarbes.\n\nTarbes, as a city, has little to recommend it beyond its situation, in\nthe midst of a fertile plain, watered by the Adour, some of whose\ntributary streams run through the streets, imparting freshness and\nsecuring cleanliness. It has nothing to reveal to the lover of\nantiquity--no vestige remaining of the architecture of the period when\nTarbes was celebrated as the place where the Black Prince held his\ncourt.\n\nThe cathedral is a modern building, possessing no claim to notice; and,\nexcept the royal _Haras_, there is nothing to detain the traveller.\nHere, however, are some fine horses,--the best amongst them English,\nexcept, indeed, a superb black barb, named Youssouf, once the property\nof an ex-foreign minister more famous in the Tribune than on the Champ\nde Mars. In consequence, as I was informed by one of the grooms, of the\nminister's indifferent equitation, his majesty, Louis-Philippe,\npurchased the barb and sent it hither. The most noticeable steeds\nbesides, are Rowlestone, Sir Peter, Windcliffe, and Skirmisher--the last\nthirty-seven years' old--whose names bespeak their origin; there is also\na fine Arab from Algiers, named Beni. The Haras is beautifully kept, and\nis surrounded by a fine garden, from whence the view of the distant\nmountains, beyond Bagn\u00e8res de Bigorre, is exceedingly grand.\n\nIn that direction I decided upon bending my steps, and, returning to my\nhotel in the Place Maubourguet, my preparations for departure were soon\nmade.\n\nThe distance from Tarbes to Bagn\u00e8res de Bigorre is not more than five\nleagues, and the road thither would seem to be perfectly level, were it\nnot for the impetuous flow of the Adour, along the left bank of which we\ntravel, reminding us of the gradual ascent. The country is everywhere\nhighly cultivated; and the peasants were busily employed with their\nsecond crops of hay, and securing their harvest of Indian corn. One\nhistorical site attracts attention on leaving Tarbes;--the old Ch\u00e2teau\nof Odos, where died, in 1549, \"La Margu\u00e9rite de Margu\u00e9rites,\" Queen of\nNavarre, the sister of Francis the First, whose name will ever be\nassociated with that of her adopted country. On this spot we lay down\nour recollections of the past, absorbed, as we approach the mountains,\nin the thoughts which their magnificence inspires,--which, while they,\ntoo, speak of the past, are ever appealing to the present, in their\nchangeless forms and still enduring beauty, their might, their majesty,\nand their loneliness.\n\nThe watering-place of Bagn\u00e8res has been described by so many tourists,\nthat I spare the description here; and the more readily as it was nearly\ndeserted when I arrived. This was no drawback to one whose desire was to\nenjoy the last days of autumn amongst the mountains while the weather\nyet continued fine,--and lovely that autumn weather is, atoning by the\nrichness of its colours for the absence of beauties which belong to an\nearlier season.\n\nI accordingly made all the necessary arrangements for a guide and horses\nto cross the Tourmalet on the next day, and devoted the remainder of a\nlovely afternoon to the ascent of Mont L'H\u00e9ris--a mountain that supplies\nthe botanist with treasures almost inexhaustible. Crossing the Adour by\na rude bridge of only one plank, and traversing some fields, filled with\nlabourers busily employed in getting in their harvest of Indian corn, I\nreached the pretty little village of Aste, which lies buried in a deep\ngorge, at the south-eastern base of the mountain. Aste has associations\nconnected with Henri Quatre; for in the castle, now a mere shell, once\nresided the beautiful Gabrielle d'Estr\u00e9es, who used here to receive her\nroyal lover. The Seigneur du Village is the Duc de Grammont--a name\nwhich appears singularly out of keeping with this romantic and secluded\nspot.\n\nThe ascent of Mont L'H\u00e9ris is steep but not difficult, for the profusion\nof flowers and richly-scented plants, scattered over the short elastic\nturf, beguile the climber's path, and lure him pleasantly upward. The\nfirst pause I made was on a bold projection, skirting the forest of\nHaboura on one side, and on the other hanging over the beautiful valley\nof Campan. Beneath me lay the town of Bagn\u00e8res, and, far as the eye\ncould reach, extended the plain of Bigorre, with the clear waters of the\nAdour marking their track like a silver thread. On the slope of a\nneighbouring mountain the wild-pigeon hunters were spreading their nets;\nfor the _Chasse aux Palombes_ is nowhere so successfully followed as in\nthis part of the Pyrenees. It is a simple sport; but highly productive\nto those engaged in it. I pursued my route towards the summit of the\nmountain, the \"_Penne de l'H\u00e9ris_,\" as it is still called, retaining its\nCeltic name. To do so, it was necessary to plunge into the thicket, and\nfor a long time I made my way scrambling over the slippery surface of\nmossy rocks, as best I might, by the aid of the roots and lower branches\nof the forest-trees. At length I emerged from the wood, and stood upon\nthe fertile pastures of the mountain; from whence the ascent to the\nimmense block of marble which crowns Mont l'H\u00e9ris, is tolerably easy. It\nis a singular mass, on the southern side of which is an enormous\nexcavation; amongst the _d\u00e9bris_ of which was a path that led to the\ntop. If the view below was lovely, this was magnificent; my eyes were,\nhowever, riveted on one object--the towering height of the _Pic du\nMidi_, which seemed almost immediately above my head; though the\nmountain on the other side of the valley of Campan at our feet, showed\nus how far distant it really was. Directed by the peasant-guide, who had\nvolunteered his services at Aste, I contrived to form a tolerable notion\nof the track which I was to pursue on the morrow; and it was only the\nwarning shadows which began to creep over the valleys, and the clear\ntones of the church bells, at Bagn\u00e8res, marking the hour at which I had\npromised to join the _table d'h\u00f4te_ at the H\u00f4tel de France, that\nexpressively told me to loiter no longer on the mountains, lest darkness\nshould entangle my feet before I had cleared its steep declivities. I\nmade haste, therefore, to return to Bagn\u00e8res, crossing the Adour this\ntime by a bridge no less picturesque than the former, but somewhat more\nsecure.\n\nOn the following morning I rose at daylight, and, at the moment fixed\nupon, Charlet, the guide, whom I had agreed with, rode up to the door\nof the hotel, leading another small, sturdy, mountain horse, and\naccompanied by the inseparable companion of his wanderings, a bull-dog\nnamed Pluto, which, had sex been considered, should have been called\nProserpine, though not for beauty.\n\nWe were soon clear of the town, and jogged pleasantly along the road,\nwhich lay through the lovely valley of Campan--a scene whose beauty\ncannot be too highly extolled. On the left hand flowed the rapid waters\nof the Adour, beneath heights which seemed perpendicular, though Charlet\npointed to certain irregular lines which marked the track by which the\nmountaineers descend on horseback, the very idea of which was enough to\nmake one shudder; on the right hand, the valley spread out into a\nfertile district, whose gentle slopes gradually blended themselves with\nthe hills which formed the spurs of lofty mountains, and finally shut in\nthe view. In front, was constantly visible the snowy height of the _Pic\nd' Orbizan_, towering 9,000 feet above the level of the valley.\n\nIt was a delicious morning, and the freshness of the air, the beauty of\nthe scenery, and the novelty of the situation, made me fain to linger in\nthis lovely spot; but there was too much before us to admit of delay,\nand we trotted on merrily, every pause, as the road became steeper,\nbeing filled up by the conversation of Charlet.\n\nIt is not undeservedly that the Pyrenean guides have acquired the\nreputation they enjoy for intelligence and civility; and Charlet, of the\nH\u00f4tel de France, is certainly a most favourable specimen: frugal in his\nhabits, modest in his demeanour, and of great activity of body, he forms\nthe _beau ideal_ of a mountain cicerone. I asked him what superstitions\nwere still current in the mountains: he replied, but few; the increasing\nintercourse with towns and travellers gradually effacing them from\npopular belief. One, however, he named, which is curious:--Any one who\nsuddenly becomes rich without any visible means to account for it, is\nsaid by the peasants to have found \"_la gatta_;\" in other words, to have\nmade a compact with the evil one, the evidence of which is afforded by\nthe presence of a black cat, whose stay in the dwelling of the\ncontracting party is productive of a gold coin, deposited every night in\nhis bedchamber. When the term has expired, the cat disappears, and ruin\ninvariably falls upon the unwary customer of the fiend. Charlet\naccounted for the superstition in a very simple way. As smuggling is\nconstant amongst the mountaineers, so near the Spanish frontier, large\nfortunes, comparatively speaking, are often made; and accident or envy\noften deprives the possessor of his suddenly-acquired wealth, who may\nlose his all by an information, or an unsuccessful venture.\n\nTwo leagues from Bagn\u00e8res brought us to Sainte Marie, where the roads\nseparate,--one leading to Luchon, the other, to the right, across the\nTourmalet, to Bar\u00e8ges; the latter, which we followed, here makes a very\nsensible ascent, but continues passable for carriages till we arrive at\nthe little village of Grip--the last cluster of habitations on this side\nof the chain which divides the valley of Campan from that of the Bartan.\n\nIt is a wild and lonely place, and the loneliness of its position is\nincreased by our being able to mark with precision the spot where\ncultivation ceases and nature asserts her uncontrolled dominion. Here\nthe road ceases altogether, a bridle-path alone conducting across the\nstill-distant ridge, called the Tourmalet, which is crowned by the\nremoter heights of Neouvi\u00e8lle and the Pic d'Espade, from whose base\nflows the Adour--a slender but impetuous stream, whose course becomes\nvisible only as it issues from a dense forest of black fir, which\nstretches half-way up the mountain.\n\nThe ascent to the Tourmalet occupied about two hours; and at high noon\nwe dismounted on the ridge, with the Bastan before us; on every side\ninnumerable peaks, and, winding along the valley, the road which leads\nto Bar\u00e8ges. Besides those already named, the most conspicuous heights\nare the Pic de l'Ep\u00e9e, the Pic de Bergons, and, at the further extremity\nof the valley, the Monn\u00e9, which overhangs Cauteretz, and is yet visible\nfrom this point. The Valley of the Bastan is singularly desolate,\npresenting nothing to the eye but the rugged flanks of mountains,\nscored, as it would seem, by the rush of torrents, and massive rocks,\nwhose _d\u00e9bris_ lie scattered below, often obstructing the course of the\nGave, which finds its source in the melted snows of the Neouvi\u00e8lle. Some\nof the peaks near the Tourmalet are of peculiar form: one of them,\npointed out to me by Charlet, is called the _Campana de Vasse_--the Bell\nof the Valley--which the mountaineers believe is to awaken the echoes of\nthe Pyrenees on the day of judgment, and call the dead before the last\ntribunal.\n\nAfter resting about an hour on the ridge of the Tourmalet, enjoying the\nsolitude of a scene which was interrupted but once--by a soldier, a\nconvalescent from the waters of Bar\u00e8ges, on his way back to join his\ngarrison at Tarbes,--we remounted, and rode slowly down the Bastan,\nevery turn of the road disclosing some fresh object to excite admiration\nor surprise. When we reached Bar\u00e8ges, the place was entirely deserted by\nvisitors--even the houses were gone,--for the greater part of those\nerected for the company who throng the valley in the summer, being\nmerely of wood, are removed to places of greater security than Bar\u00e8ges,\nwhere they run the risk of being destroyed by the floods and \"moving\naccidents\" of the mountains. We made no stay, therefore; but, like the\nLady Baussi\u00e8re, \"rode on\" at a leisurely pace, the more fully to enjoy\nthe wondrous beauties of the road between Bar\u00e8ges and Luz, where we\narrived about four o'clock in the afternoon.\n\nThere is only one hotel at Luz; but it is the best in the Pyrenees,--not\nonly for the nature of the accommodation, but the civility and attention\nof the host, the hostess, and their pretty _proteg\u00e9e_, Marie, who acts\nas waiter, _femme-de-chambre_, and _factotum_ to the establishment. A\ngood dinner was promised, and the promise was faithfully kept,--bear\nwitness the delicate blue trout, which I have nowhere met with so good,\nexcept, perhaps, at Berne. But as there yet remained an hour or two of\ndaylight, I employed the interval in visiting the ruins of the old\nfeudal castle of St. Marie, and in sketching the church built by the\nTemplars, which resembles a fortalice, rather than a place of worship. I\nexamined the building carefully, but could not satisfy myself that I had\nreally discovered the walled-up entrance, by which alone, _it is said_,\nthe wretched cagots were formerly permitted to enter the church. The\nfigures which flitted near, pausing, occasionally, to inspect my work,\nhabited, as they were, in the long cloak and _capuchon_ of the country,\nmight well have passed for contemporaries of the superstitious fear\nwhich excluded the unfortunate victims of disease from an equality of\nrights with their fellow-men; but the cagot himself is no longer\nvisible. Here I loitered, till it was too dark to draw another line;\nand then wended back to the _H\u00f4tel des Pyr\u00e9n\u00e9es_, to recruit myself\nafter the fatigues of the day, and prepare for those of the morrow.\n\nLong before the day broke, we were again in the saddle, and, as we\npassed St. Sauveur, its long range of white buildings could only be\nfaintly traced; but, as we advanced, the snowy peak of Bergons, glowing\nin the rays of the rising sun, seemed to light us on our way, and coily\nthe charms of the valley revealed themselves to my eager gaze. I have\nwandered in many lands, and seen much mountain-scenery; but I think I\nnever beheld any that approaches the beauty and sublimity of the road to\nGavarnie. There is everything here to delight the eye, and fill the mind\nwith wonder,--\n\n    \"All that expands the spirit, yet appals.\"\n\nFor some miles the road continues to ascend; in many places, a mere\nhorse-track, cut in the mountain side, and fenced by a low wall from an\nabyss of fearful depth, in whose dark cavity is heard the roar of the\ntorrent which afterwards converts the generic name of Gave into one\npeculiar to itself. The sides of the mountains are thickly clothed with\nbox, which grows to a great height; and at this season the Autumn tint\nhad given to it the loveliest hues, contrasting well with the dark pines\nwhich climb to the verge of vegetation on the far-off slopes. Suddenly,\nthe character of the scene is altered,--the road descends--the foliage\ndisappears, or shows itself only in patches in the ravines, and masses\nof dark grey rock usurp its place; the noisy waters of the Gave make\nthemselves more distinctly heard, and a few rude cottages appear. This\nis the village of G\u00e8dre: and here I witnessed one of those\nmountain-effects which are often so terrible. A week before, two houses\nstood by the way-side--the homes of the peasants whom we saw at work in\na neighbouring meadow. They were then, as now, employed in cutting grass\nfor hay, when a low, rumbling noise was heard in the valley, which soon\ngrew louder; and the affrighted labourers, casting their eyes upwards,\nsaw that an enormous rock had suddenly detached itself from the\nmountain, and was now thundering down the steep. They fled with\nprecipitation, and succeeded in saving their lives; but when they\nventured to return to the spot, they found that an immense block had\nfallen upon one of the cottages, crushing it into powder, and leaving\nnothing standing but one of the gable ends. So it still remained,--and\nso, no doubt, it will continue till the end of time; for the mass is too\nponderous to be moved by anything short of a convulsion of nature.\n\nI could have wished to have turned aside at G\u00e8dre to visit the Cascade\nof Saousa, but Gavarnie beckoned onwards to greater attractions; so\nagain we pursued our route, and I speedily lost all thought for other\nwonders in the tremendous passes which bear the name of Chaos, and of\nwhich the best description can give but a faint and imperfect idea. The\nhuge masses of rock, looking like fallen buildings, which are strewn\nalong the valley in inextricable confusion, defy calculation. There they\nlie, the consequence of some terrific _d\u00e9boulement_, which must have\nshaken the mountains to their centre when the mighty ruin was effected.\nIt is supposed that the accident may have occurred in the sixth century,\nwhen a fearful earthquake disturbed the Pyrenees; but no written record\nremains to attest it. On the first view of this scene of disorder, it\nseems as if all further progress were stopped; but as we descend amongst\nthe enormous blocks, a path is found winding through them, which the\nperseverance of the mountaineers has formed. Emerging from this terrific\nglen, the pastures and fields which surround the village of Gavarnie\nsmile a welcome to the traveller, which is but ill-confirmed when he\nreaches the gloomy inn--the last and worst in France. Here we abandoned\nour horses, and after glancing at the cascade of Ossonne, I passed\nhastily through the village, and, mounting on a flat rock, threw myself\ndown to gaze upon the stupendous Circus of Gavarnie, which, though still\na full league distant, appears, at the first glance, to be within a\nquarter of an hour's walk. I was all impatience to reach the foot of\nthat cascade of which I had so often read, but which I scarcely ever\nhoped to _see_, and, as soon as Charlet had stabled his steeds, we set\nout. For the first mile the road lay between narrow meadows, which owe\ntheir freshness to the Gave; these then gave place to a stony plain, the\ndry beds of some ancient lakes; and having traversed their expanse, we\ncrossed the last bridge, constructed by the hands of man, over the\nriver, and then climbing a series of sharp, irregular ascents, which\nwould have passed for very respectable hills elsewhere, but here seemed\nmole-heaps only, we stood, at length, on the perpetual snow, which forms\na solid crust at the foot of the circus of Gavarnie.\n\nIt seemed as if I had at length realised one of those dreams which fill\nthe mind when first we read the wondrous tales of old romance: it was,\nindeed, the very spot described in one of the most celebrated of the\nearliest cycle; but my thoughts were less of Charlemagne and his\npaladins--though the Br\u00e8che de Roland was now within reach--than of the\nstupendous grandeur of the scene. It required very little exercise of\nfancy to imagine that we had arrived at the end of the world--so\nperfectly impassable appeared the barrier which suddenly rose before us.\nThe frowning walls of granite which form the lowest grade of this vast\namphitheatre, rise to a height of twelve hundred feet perpendicularly,\nand extend to nearly three-quarters of a league, increasing in width as\nthey ascend to the regions of eternal snow; where may be traced a\nsuccession of precipices, until they are lost in the bases of the\nCylindre and the Tours de Marbor\u00e9, themselves the outworks of the Mont\nPerdu, from whose glaciers flow the numerous cascades which, in summer,\nshoot from the lower ridge of the Circus.\n\nThe great waterfall of Gavarnie--the loftiest in Europe--pours its\nslender stream from a height of upwards of thirteen hundred feet, on the\neastern side of the Circus, and in its snow-cold water I dipped my\ntravelling-cup, qualifying with veritable Cognac the draught I drank to\nthe health of distant friends.\n\nMy great desire was to make the ascent of the Br\u00e8che de Roland; but\nCharlet had learnt, in the village where he made inquiry, that the snow\nhad fallen heavily on the mountains only the day before, and that,\nconsequently, it would be a matter of extreme difficulty and danger to\nmake the attempt. It was now past mid-day, and the time necessary for\naccomplishing the ascent with the prospect of returning by daylight, was\ntoo limited; so, with reluctance, I gave up the idea. The season at\nwhich I visited Gavarnie was, indeed, too late (it was the 9th of\nOctober,) to admit of being very excursive, for long days and steady\nweather are absolutely necessary to enable one to do justice to\nmountain-scenery. I resolved, however, to remain within the Circus as\nlong as I could, and, after descending to the _Pont de Neige_, from\nwhose blue depths rushes the Gave de Pau, I climbed a rock at the edge\nof the snow, and sat there lost in admiration of the glorious scene. As\nI looked in the direction of the Br\u00e8che, itself invisible from the spot\nwhere I was, I observed an eagle soaring majestically above the cleft\nwhere tradition points to the last exploit of the valorous nephew of\nCharlemagne, whose type the imperial bird might well be deemed. It was\nhere, according to the _veracious_ chronicle of Archbishop Turpin, that,\nafter defeating the Saracen king, Marsires, in the pass of Roncesvalles,\nRoland, grievously wounded, laid himself down to die, the shrill notes\nof his horn having failed to bring him the succour he expected from his\nuncle. It is in Roncesvalles that poets have laid the scene of his\ndeath, where--\n\n    \"On Fontarabian echoes borne\n    The dying hero's call\"\n\nresounded; and, if truth attaches to the received story of his death,\nRoncesvalles is, no doubt, the site. But the legend has shed its romance\non the immortal heights of the towers of Marbor\u00e9; and, to account for\nthe fissure in the rock, it must be with these in our recollection,\nthat we read that quaint apostrophe to his sword which the chronicler\nhas preserved:--\n\nAfter laying himself down beneath a rock, Roland drew his sword,\nDurendal, and regarding it _\"with great pity and compassion,\"_ he\nexclaimed, in a loud voice, \"plorant et larmoyant:\"--\n\n\"O tr\u00e8s beau cousteau resplendissant, qui tant as dur\u00e9 et qui as \u00e9st\u00e9 si\nlarge, si ferme et si forte, en manche de clere yvoire: duquel la croix\nest faicte d'or et la supface dor\u00e9e decor\u00e9e et embellye du pommeau faiet\nde pierres de beril; escript et engrav\u00e9 du grand n\u00f4 de Dieu singulier,\nAlpha et OO. Si bien tranchant en la pointe et environn\u00e9 de la vertu de\nDieu. Qui est celluy qui plus et oultre moy usera de ta saincte force,\nmais qui sera desormais ton possesseur? Certes celluy qui te poss\u00e9dera\nne sera vaincu ny estonn\u00e9, ne ne redoubtera toute la force des ennemys;\nil n'aura jamais pour d'aucunes illusions et fantasies, car luy de Dieu\net de la grace s\u00e9r\u00f4t en profection et sauvegarde. O que tu es eureuse\nesp\u00e9e digne de m\u00e9moire, car par toy s\u00f4t Sarrazins destruictz et occis et\nles gens infid\u00e8les mis a mort; dont la foy des Chrestiens est exalt\u00e9e et\nla louenge de Dieu et gloire partout le m\u00f4de universel acquise. O a\ncombien de fois ay je veng\u00e9 sang de vostre seigneur Jesu-christ par ton\npuiss\u00e2t moyen, et mis \u00e0 mort les ennemys de la nouvelle loy de grace en\nce nouveau temps acceptable de salut; c\u00f4bien ay je tranch\u00e9 de\nSarrazins; combien de Juifs et aultres mescr\u00e9ant infid\u00e8les batus et\ndestruictz, pour exaltation et gloire de la saincte foy Chrestiennie!\nPar toy noble cousteau tranchant Durendal de longue dur\u00e9e, la chevalerie\nde Dieu le Cr\u00e9ateur est accomplye et les pieds es mainz des larrons\nacoustum\u00e9z qui gastoyent le bien de la chose publicque, gast\u00e9z et\nsepar\u00e9z de leurs corps. J'ay veng\u00e9 par autant de foys le sang de\nJesu-christ respendu sur terre que j'ay mis-\u00e0-mort par ton fort moyen\naucun Juif et Sarrazin. O, o esp\u00e9e tr\u00e8s eureuse de la quelle n'est la\nsemblable n'a est\u00e9 ne ne sera! Certes celluy qui t'a forg\u00e9e jamais\nsemblable ne fist devant luy ny apr\u00e8s; car tous ceulx qui ont est\u00e9 de\ntoy bless\u00e9z n'ont pu vivre puis apr\u00e8s. Si d'aventure auc\u00fb chevalier non\nhardy ou paresseux te poss\u00e8de apr\u00e8s ma mort j'en seray grandement\ndolent. Et si aucun Sarrazin mescr\u00e9ant ou infid\u00e8le te touche aucunement\nj'en suis en grant dueil et angoisse.\"\n\nHaving made this lamentation, the valiant Roland, resolving that his\nweapon should never pass into other hands, raised his arm, and, with the\nlast effort of expiring nature, clove the massy rock in twain, breaking\nthe good sword, Durendal, into a thousand shivers by the force of the\nblow.\n\nThe voice of Charlet roused me from the reverie into which I had fallen,\ndesiring me to look in the direction of the great cascade at a troop of\nizards that were bounding up the rocks. I turned and saw the graceful\nlittle creatures scaling, with inconceivable agility, heights which\nseemed absolutely perpendicular, so slight is the hold which they\nrequire for their tiny hoofs. It was but for a minute that I beheld\nthem; in the next they were lost behind a projecting rock, and I saw\nthem no more.\n\nWe now turned our faces down the valley, often, however, pausing to look\nback; and before we again entered the village of Gavarnie we stopped at\nthe little old church to inspect the sculls called \"Les cr\u00e2nes des douze\nTempliers,\" who are said to have been beheaded by order of Philippe\nle-Bel. Whether true or false, they are the only antiquities here--the\nchurch being comparatively modern. At the unpromising inn we found our\nhorses refreshed by rest; and, without more ado, we remounted and\nreturned by the road we came to Luz, which we reached soon after\nnightfall.\n\nQuitting Luz the next morning, with much regret at being unable to\nremain longer to explore the beauties which surround it, we took the\nroad to Pierrefitte, and, after a pleasant ride of about two hours, in\nthe course of which we passed through the most lovely scenery--the most\nremarkable features of which are the depth and narrowness of the\nmountain gorges, and the boldness of the bridges which span them, one in\nparticular bearing the characteristic name of the _Pont d'Enfer_--we\narrived at the H\u00f4tel de la Poste at Pierrefitte, where my carpet-bag was\ndeposited, to lighten the load of Charlet's horse, for we had many\nmiles that day to travel. We then pushed on towards Cauteretz, ascending\nby the old road, which, though steep, saves much time to those lightly\nmounted; from its point of junction with the new one, it is as fine as\nany in Europe, and the variety which it offers makes the valley as\nbeautiful as any in the Pyrenees, while it retains its own distinctive\ncharacter, caused by the greater quantity of foliage, thus gaining in\nsoftness what it loses in grandeur. After crossing a fine bridge, about\nhalf-way up the valley, the road takes a spiral direction, called _Le\nLima\u00e7on_, the buttresses which support it being remarkable for the\nsolidity and excellence of the masonry; and having made our way to the\nsummit, the peak of the Monn\u00e9 above Cauteretz became visible for the\nfirst time since leaving the Tourmalet.\n\nAt Cauteretz we merely stopped to breakfast, my object being to visit\nthe Lac de Gaube, at the foot of the Vignemale. It was Sunday morning,\nand a fair was being held in the market-place, the principal articles\nfor sale being the many-coloured chaplets manufactured at Betharram:\nthere were many pretty faces in the little stalls, and many sweet voices\noffered their wares for sale; but I resisted the temptation--the more\nreadily, perhaps, from knowing that the glass beads would have very\nlittle chance of remaining unbroken in a scrambling mountain-ride. About\nhalf-a-mile from Cauteretz we fell in with a party of dragoons,\nbringing their horses from the mineral springs, whither they are\nsent--like other invalids--for cure, from the Haras of Pau and Tarbes.\nThe fine animals looked in excellent condition and spirits, and seemed\nto have benefited wonderfully by the visit. Passing the baths, we\nascended the bridle-road above the Gave de Marcadaou, with dark forests\nof pine on either hand--a favourite resort for bear-hunters. The great\ncharm of this road consists in the numerous cascades which mark the\ncourse of the Gave; they are, without question, the most beautiful in\nthe Pyrenees, where the mountain-falls are, for the most part, deficient\nin volume. The finest of these, where all are striking, is the cascade\nof the Cerizet, which bears a greater resemblance to the falls of the\nAar, in the canton of Berne, than any I remember. It is not so massive a\nfall, but it gave me the impression of being more picturesque, from the\neffect produced by the superb pines which hang over it, whose branches,\ncovered with the spray which rises from the cascade, like vapour,\n\n    \"Drop tears as fast as the Arabian trees\n    Their medicinal gum----.\"\n\nCharlet told me that we saw the Cerizet at the most fortunate hour; for\nit is at mid-day that the \"sun-bow rays,\" at this season,\n\n    \"----Arch\n    The torrent with the many hues of heaven,\"\n\nand a lovely iris was settled on it at the moment we descended to a huge\nrock, on which we stood to watch \"the roar of waters.\"\n\nBeyond the Cerizet are two other fine falls--the _Pas de l'Ours_ and the\n_Coussin_--which we pass on the way to the Pont d'Espagne, where the\nroads separate; the one in front leading into Spain by the Val de\nJarret, and the other--which turns suddenly to the left--crossing the\nbridge, and conducting to the Lac de Gaube. The Pont d'Espagne is a most\npicturesque object: two torrents unite a little below it, one of which\nis the Marcadaou, the other the Gave that issues from the lonely lake;\nthe Marcadaou rushes over a broad, flat rock--foaming and boiling, as if\nwith rage to meet an expected enemy--while the deeper Gave throws itself\nfrom its narrow bed, and twists and turns, apparently falling back on\nitself, as if it sought to avoid the collision: they meet, however, and\nafter the first concussion they flow on, smoothly enough, till a sudden\nturn hides them from our view, and we hear only their angry voices,\ncaused by some fresh interruption to their course. But to have the\nfinest view of the general effect, the bridge must be seen from below,\nwhere a rock stands boldly out, intercepting the heady current. It is\nconstructed of fir-trees, felled on the spot, whose light stems,\nstanding out in relief against the clear blue sky, seem almost too\nfragile to withstand the concussion caused by the \"hell of waters\"\nbeneath. Nowhere does the pine appear to so much advantage as beside the\nPont d'Espagne; some are the \"wrecks of a single winter,\" others display\na profusion of dark foliage, and the branches of all are thickly covered\nwith grey parasitic moss, that hangs to them like hair, and gives to\nthem a most picturesque appearance, like bearded giants guarding the\nromantic pass.\n\nThe narrow pathway through the forest, which leads to the Lac de Gaube,\nis excessively steep, and turns at least twenty times as it pursues its\nzigzag course. For the first half-hour nothing was visible but\npine-trees, firs, and blocks of granite; and the road was difficult even\nfor the sure-footed beasts which we bestrode; at length, we cleared the\nwood, and at once the Vignemale rose in awful splendour before us, its\nglaciers glittering in the sun, ten thousand feet above the bed of the\ndark blue lake, itself at a vast elevation above the level of the sea.\nNext to Gavarnie, this view of the Vignemale struck me as the most\nimpressive object I had seen, the presence of the still lake reminding\nme of similar scenes in Switzerland; none of which, however, imparted\nthe sense of solitude so completely as this. It might possibly arise\nfrom the associations belonging to the Lac de Gaube, the mournful\nevidence of which was before my eyes, in the little tomb raised to the\nmemory of the unfortunate husband and wife who were drowned here in the\nyear 1832. It stands on a small, rocky promontory, enclosed by a light\niron rail, and the tablet bears the following inscription in French and\nEnglish, on opposite sides. I transcribed both, and give the latter:--\n\n\"This tablet is dedicated to the memory of William Henry Pattisson, of\nLincoln's Inn, London, Esq., barrister at law; and of Susan Frances, his\nwife, who, in the 31st and 26th years of their age, and within one month\nof their marriage, to the inexpressible grief of their surviving\nrelations and friends, were accidentally drowned together in this lake,\non the 20th day of September, 1832. Their remains wore conveyed to\nEngland, and interred there at Witham, in the county of Essex.\"\n\nThe account given me of the manner in which the accident occurred was,\nthat Mr. and Mrs. Pattison visited the lake from Cauteretz in _chaises \u00e0\nporteurs_, and that Mr. Pattison went first of all alone in the boat,\nhaving vainly urged his wife to accompany him: after pulling some\ndistance out, he paused, and, by his voice and gestures, intimated how\ncharmed he was with the effect; he then returned to the shore, and\novercame Mrs. Pattison's repugnance to enter the boat. She stepped in,\nand he again rowed about half a mile, when suddenly he was seen by the\nmen on shore to rise in the boat, and in an instant it was overset, and\nboth were plunged in the lake. Mr. Pattison sunk at once, but his\nwife's clothes buoyed her up for a considerable time; ineffectually,\nhowever, for none of the bearers of the _chaises \u00e0 porteurs_ could swim;\nher cries were in vain, and she, too, perished. How the accident arose,\nnone can tell, and a mystery must for ever hang over the fatal event.\n\nOn seeing the wretched apology for a boat, which is still used by the\nfisherman who keeps a little _auberge_ beside the lake, and is the same\nin which the sad catastrophe occurred, no one can be surprised that an\naccident should have happened; the only wonder is that it did not\nfounder altogether, for it is little better than the trunk of a tree\nhollowed out, and turned adrift to take its chance of sinking or\nfloating. Into this crazy contrivance I had no desire to venture, the\nlake appearing too cold for an impromptu bath.\n\nReluctantly, from hence, as from every other spot which I visited in the\nPyrenees, I turned away, longing to have ascended the Vignemale, but\nknowing too well how few were the days allotted to my mountain\nexcursion.\n\nWe returned by the same route to Pierrefitte, and then bid adieu to the\nsublimities of the _Hautes Pyr\u00e9n\u00e9es_; for, beautiful as the country is\nat the foot of the mountains, its beauty is tame, and produces,\ncomparatively, little effect on the mind until time has effaced the\nfirst impression. It was late that night before we reached Argelez,\nwhere the _H\u00f4tel du Commerce_ received us.\n\nFor fertility, and all the softer charms that render a landscape\npleasing, there is, perhaps, no place on earth that exceeds the valley\nof Lavedan, in which Argelez is situated. It is \"a blending of all\nbeauties,\" tempting the traveller to pause upon the way, and set up his\nrest in a region where everything seems to speak of peace and happiness.\nThe inhabitants, however, can scarcely be happy, for the disease of\n_cr\u00e9tinism_ is more widely spread here than in any other place in the\ndepartment. The valley is famous for the breed of Pyrenean dogs, which\nare to be met with everywhere in the mountains, guarding the flocks and\nherds. It was my fortune to acquire a very fine specimen, only a\nfortnight old, which travelled with me in a basket to London, and six\nmonths afterwards, the largest kennel could scarcely contain it. These\ndogs are excessively strong, and are esteemed fierce; but their\nfierceness belongs rather to the wild life they lead amidst bears and\nwolves, to whom they prove formidable antagonists.\n\nOn one of the hills which skirt the valley of Castelloubon, between\nArgelez and Lourdes, I once more obtained a view of the Mont Perdu,\ndistant now upwards of forty miles; it was the last glimpse of the\nwonders of the Hautes Pyr\u00e9n\u00e9es that was vouchsafed to me.\n\nThe garrisoned fortress of Lourdes,--the picturesque bridge and convent\nof Betharram, and the smiling plain which borders the Gave de Pau, were\nall passed in turn, and on the evening of the fifth day from my\ndeparture I was again in the streets of Pau.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER VI.\n\n     VALL\u00c9E D'OSSAU--LE HOURAT--THE RIO VERDE--EAUX CHAUDES EAUX\n     BONNES--BIELLE--IZESTE--SACCAZE, THE NATURALIST.\n\n    \"Salut Ossau, la montagnarde,\n    La B\u00e9arnaise, que Dieu garde!\n    Avec bonheur je te regarde,\n    Douce vall\u00e9e!--et sur ma foy\n    Parmi tes soeurs que je desire,\n    De Leucate \u00e0 Fontarable\n    Je te dis que la plus jolie\n    Ne peut se comparer \u00e0 toi.\"\n\n    Ancienne Balade.\n\n\nON rather a cold morning, early in October, we set out from Pau for the\nVall\u00e9e d'Ossau; the road between the hills covered with vines of\nJuran\u00e7on. Gan and Gelos are extremely pretty. We passed a house which\nwas pointed out to us as belonging to the Baron Bernadotte, nephew to\nthe King of Sweden, who, being a native of Pau, divides the honours of\nthe town with Henry IV. Formerly, in this spot stood a castle, where a\nsingularly Arcadian custom prevailed; every shepherd of the Vall\u00e9e\nd'Ossau who passed by that spot with his flock, was required to place a\nsmall branch of leaves in a large ring fixed on the portal. If their\nlords insisted on no heavier homage than this, their duty was not very\nsevere.\n\nWe passed through Gan--a wretched-looking village, once of great\nimportance; one of the _thirteen towns_ of B\u00e9arn; originally surrounded\nby walls and towers, of which nothing now remains except a few stones,\nwhich have served to build the houses. A _tourelle_ is shown in the\nplace as having formed part of the house of Marca, the historian of\nB\u00e9arn: there is an inscription on it, and arms, with the date of 1635.\n\nThe further we advanced the more the scenery improved, and as we\nfollowed the course of the beautiful, rapid, and noisy river N\u00e8s, which\nwent foaming over its shallow, stony bed, making snowy cascades at every\nstep, we were delighted with the gambols of that most beautiful of\nmountain-torrents, which appears to descend a series of marble stairs of\nextraordinary extent, rushing and leaping along the solitary gorge like\na wild child at play.\n\nThe village of S\u00e9vignac opens the Vall\u00e9e d'Ossau; and a host of\nvillages, and a wide spread of pasture-land, with high mountains\nstretching far away into the distance, were before us. We breakfasted at\nLouvie, and then continued our route, the road becoming wilder, and\nhaving more character, than hitherto; we seemed now to have entered the\ngorges, and to be really approaching the great mountains, which, in\nstrange and picturesque shapes, rose up in all directions around us. The\nmost striking object here, is an isolated mount, on the summit of which\nstand the ruins of a feudal tower, called Castel Jaloux, built by Gaston\nPhoebus, for the convenience of holding the assemblies of Ossau, there\nto meet the viscounts who were independent of the kingdom of B\u00e9arn. The\nvillage of Castets is at the base of the rock, concealed amidst thick\nfoliage: this situation is charming, in the midst of gigantic steeps and\nrich valleys, with the Gave foaming at its foot.\n\nLaruns, the chief town of the canton, is a long, straggling town, almost\nSwiss in the construction of its houses: it has a small antique church,\nwhere there is a _b\u00e9nitier_, curiously ornamented with figures of\n_syrens_: this is a favourite ornament in this part of the world,\ndifficult to be explained, unless it is intended to represent some\nwater-nymphs of the different Gaves, for it is too far from the sea to\nhave any allusion to an ocean spirit. The road divides here, one route\nleading to the Eaux Bonnes, the other to the Eaux Chaudes; we proposed\nvisiting the former on our way back, our intention being, if possible,\nto attempt the ascent of the Pic du Midi d'Ossau.\n\nWe continued to mount by a fine road, having magnificent views before\nand around, in order the better to enjoy which, we chose to walk for\nsome distance up the height, between walls of rock, of all colours and\nshapes, covered with purple heath, and changing leaves, and delicate\nflowers of various hues. When we reached the summit, we found ourselves\nin a narrow defile, where a party of peasants were endeavouring, by main\nforce, to assist a huge cart, drawn by labouring and straining horses,\nup the precipitous ascent--a perilous and painful work, which, however,\nthey accomplished very well. We heard beyond a hoarse murmur, which told\nus we should soon rejoin the Gave, which here runs under the rocks, and\nreappears in a bed, upwards of four hundred feet deep. The high rocks\nseemed nearly to meet, and form a way exactly like the approach to a\nfortified castle: this pass is called _Le Hourat_. A little chapel is\nbuilt at the other end of the opening, enclosing a figure of the\nVirgin--an object of great veneration in the neighbourhood. There was\nformerly here a long inscription in honour of the visit to the baths of\nthe Princess Catherine, sister of Henry the Fourth; but every trace of\nit has disappeared, though there are many travellers whose eyes are so\ngood as to be able to discern it, notwithstanding the fact of its having\nbeen carefully erased at the time of the great Revolution, when no royal\n_souvenir_ was permitted to remain.\n\nFrom this point, to the village of the Eaux Chaudes, the way is the most\nsavage, wild, and beautiful that can be imagined: the torrent raving\nalong its rocky bed, and foaming cataracts tumbling into its waters from\nnumerous woody heights; at length we saw the little nest where the baths\nlie concealed; and descended between steep rocks, which shut the valley\nin so closely, that it appears almost possible to touch the two sides,\nwhich incline as if to form a canopy over the houses. We secured rooms\nfor the night at the hotel--a very large one, and, in moderately warm\nweather, no doubt pleasant enough; but at this period all was as chill\nand dreary as if it had been in December. With much delay and difficulty\nwe procured horses, and lost no time in setting out for Gabas, though\nthe ominous appearance of the sky promised but little for our attempt;\nhowever, for the seven miles we rode along the exquisite\nvalley--unequalled in its kind--nothing could exceed the delight and\nadmiration I felt at the grandeur of the unexpected scenery; piles of\nnaked rocks rose on one side of the road--which is as good as\npossible--while on the other they were covered with trees of every\ngrowth, with, as we advanced higher, a few pines appearing here and\nthere; the torrent met us, rushing down impetuously over large and more\nencumbering blocks of stone, which, impeding its course, caused the\nwaters to leap and struggle and foam and dash, till clouds of spray\nfilled the valley, and its thundering voice echoed through the hollow\ncaverns on the banks: its rich _green_ colour, as clear as crystal, came\nout brilliantly from its crest of foam, so that the stream looked really\na _Rio Verde_.\n\nLong silver lines of shining water came trickling or rushing down from\nevery height amongst the trees and shrubs, sometimes splashing across\nour path, and joining a little clear course which was hurrying forward\nto throw itself down the rock into the bosom of the mother Gave, on the\nother side. We stopped our horses so often to contemplate the beautiful\n_accidents_ of rock and torrent, that by the time we reached the village\nof Gabas the day was closing in, and we found that it would take us two\nhours to reach the summit of the great mountain, which we scarcely\nremembered, in our pleasure at the beauties of the ride, had never been\nvisible to us for a moment; in fact, a heavy mist hung over the snowy\npeaks, all of which were shrouded. Scarcely regretting the necessity for\nretracing our steps, we turned back, and had another view of the wonders\nof the lovely valley. The mountains now wore a more sombre hue, and the\ndeepened shadows gave a severer character to the ravines. An eagle\nsailed majestically over our heads, much to my delight, as it was the\nonly incident which we seemed to want to render the scene complete in\nlonely grandeur. That which is unaccustomed has a greater power over the\nimagination; and to me, who had never seen Switzerland or Italy, and to\nwhom eagles were almost a fable, the solemn flight of one of these\nmonarchs of the air, so peculiar in its movements, sailing along the\npeaks above the cataracts, was very impressive. It was then, by the\nshaking I experienced at every step, that I was aware how very steep had\nbeen our ascent the whole way from the Eaux Chaudes; our little sturdy\nmountain-ponies had cantered on so gaily, that I imagined we were on\neven ground: so far from which, we found on the return the motion so\npainful, that most of us got off our horses and walked. It was nearly\ndark when we arrived at the hotel, and we were not sorry to crowd round\na blazing fire, and find all prepared for our refreshment.\n\nThe night was like winter, and the incessant roaring of the torrent\nprevented anything approaching sleep; but the sun rose brightly, and the\nnext day was perfectly warm and genial. We took our way to Bonnes, and\nfound the beauty of the journey increased by the fine effects of light\nand shade which the improved weather allowed; and, as we mounted the\nsteep hill leading to the village, nothing could exceed the splendour of\nthe view; the snowy top of the Pic de Ger, which the day before was not\nvisible, now came out from a canopy of clouds; and huge rocks and\nverdant mountains, at different heights, descended in steps to the rich\nand glowing valley beneath, dotted with white cottages and thick groves:\nthe Gave, on one side spanned by a beautiful picturesque bridge, rushes\ndown on the other into a profound ravine, through which its waters run a\nsubterranean course, till they reappear below the Hourah.\n\nThe brilliant sun which favoured us exhibited the Eaux Bonnes in its\nbest light, and it seemed a delightful contrast to the chilly gorge we\nhad left at the Eaux Chaudes. The hotels are well furnished, and there\nappears every convenience for the numerous visitors who crowd here in\nthe summer. We walked to a fine waterfall just behind the inn where we\nstopped,--formed by the Valentin and the Sonde,--which is grand in the\nextreme. There are several other fine cascades in the neighbourhood, but\nthis was the only one I saw. A way by a pretty, narrow, winding path to\nthe top of a heathy hill is charming, and here a rustic temple is\nerected from whence the view is enchanting. Behind rises the majestic\nPic de Ger, rugged and hoary, crowned with snow, the first that had\nshown itself in this region. The rocks and mountains are quite close,\npressing in upon the village, and its establishment of baths; but, as\nthe situation is on a height, it has a less confined appearance than the\nvalley of the rival baths, and was, on the day we visited it, like\nanother climate,--warm and genial: it must be extremely hot in the\nsummer, as, indeed, all these gorges cannot fail to be. We talked to a\nlively young woman at the window of one of the now deserted\nboarding-houses, who told us she was a native of the Eaux Chaudes, whose\nmerits she considered so superior to those of the Eaux Bonnes, that she\nhad never deigned to cast her eyes, she said, up towards the paltry\nmountain of Ger, which the people of this gorge had the presumption to\ncompare to that of the Pic du Midi: \"One is here buried alive,\" said\nshe, \"with no walks, no mountains, no torrents; it is quite a waste of\nlife, and I am resolved never to go to the top of that mole-hill of Ger,\nabout which they make such a fuss: how disgusted you must be with it\nafter the other!\" She had once been to Pau, which she considered another\nParis, but not so gay as the Eaux Bonnes; so that we learnt another\nlesson, which convinced us that every person sees with different eyes\nfrom his neighbours, and \"proudly proclaims the spot of earth\" which has\nmost interest for him, the best.\n\nWe were free to differ with this fair Ossalaise; for, much as we admired\nher beautiful valley, we could not but give its rival nearly as much\npraise; admiring in particular the stupendous waterfall of the Valentin,\nwhere we lingered some time, climbing about the rocks, almost stunned by\nthe roar of the waters, which break from the rock in three divisions;\nand so rushing over the projecting buttresses till they subside in the\nbroad, cold, pebbly lake below.\n\nThe Vall\u00e9e d'Ossau is said to combine all the beauties of the Pyrenees;\nand is certainly one of the most enchanting spots in nature: the scenery\nreminded me, in some degree, of that at the Mont Dore, in Auvergne; but,\nthough superior in some respects, the magnificent _plateaux_ of gigantic\npines were wanting. It is necessary, in the Pyrenees, to ascend much\nhigher than we did to behold this growth,--a few straggling firs of\ninsignificant size are all that are to be seen in the lower range; but I\nbelieve they are very fine in some parts.\n\nWe stopped at Bielle to visit the Roman pavement, which has only lately\nbeen discovered; it was shown to us by a woman who was surrounded by\nfive little children with black eyes and rosy cheeks; for this region is\nthe Paradise of children; they all look so healthy and handsome. The\nmother, though still young, looked ten years older than she really\nwas,--worn and tanned, like all I had hitherto seen; her remarkably\nsmall feet were bare, and she wore the fringed leggings peculiar to this\npart, which have a singularly Indian appearance. Beauty is said to be\ncommon in this country; but we had not met a single female who deserved\nto be called so; nor did the costume strike us as otherwise than coarse\nand ungraceful: in this particular forming a great contrast to the\npeasantry of Switzerland, with whose mountains there is here a\nparallel. The _patois_ spoken by this family sounded very musical and\npretty; and we remarked that the villagers in general seemed gentle and\ncivil: a little boy, who constituted himself our guide, was a strange\nfigure, actually covered with rags and tatters, which hung about him in\nthe most grotesque drapery, as if it had been studied to create\nlaughter: the village looked the very picture of poverty, desolation,\ndirt, and ruin: the church is a piece of antiquity of great interest. It\nhas evidently been a pagan temple; and, ranged in an outer court,\nsurrounded by circular arches, are placed some stone coffins, which\nexcite wonder and interest; three of them have the lid of the ridged\nform, called _dos d'\u00e2ne_: the other is flattened, and all are uninjured.\nThey might seem to belong to the period when Charlemagne's knights\nrequired so many tombs in this land. It was in re-constructing a new\nvestry-room that these treasures were discovered beneath the worn stones\nwhich had been removed: no inscriptions give a hint to whom they may\nhave belonged, and there they lie, side by side, mysterious relics of\nthe times of chivalry.\n\nThe pillars inside the church are very celebrated for their extreme\nbeauty: they are of white and blue jasper, found in a quarry near\nBielle. A story is told of Henry IV., who greatly admired these pillars,\nhaving sent to request the town to make him a present of them, as he\nfound nothing in his capital that could compare with their beauty; he\nreceived this answer: \"Bous quets meste de noustes coos et de noustes\nbe\u00e9s; mei per co qui es Deus pialars diu temple, aquets que son di Diu,\ndab eig quep at bejats.\" \"You may dispose of our hearts and our goods at\nyour will; as for the columns, they belong to God; manage the matter\nwith Him.\"\n\nThe Ossalais in this showed no little wit; or, if the tradition is not\nfounded on fact, the story still exhibits their powers of setting a due\nvalue on their possessions in a striking light. Bielle was once a place\nof great importance, and its church belonged to an abbey of\nBenedictines: there was formerly a stone on the fa\u00e7ade, on which was\nengraved the arms of the Valley--a _Bear and a Bull_, separated by a\nbeech tree, with this device: \"_Ussau \u00e9 Bearn. Vive la Vacca_.\" The\nancient archives of Ossau are kept in a stone coffer at Bielle; and the\ndignitaries of the country repair to this spot at certain periods of the\nyear to consult on the affairs of the communes. What habitation they\nfind wherein to meet, suitable to their dignity, it would be difficult\nto say.\n\nWe stopped an hour at Izeste, and strolled along the one street of this\nwretched bourg while our horses rested: over almost every house we were\nsurprised to see sculptured stones, with half-effaced arms, showing that\nonce persons of condition inhabited these now degraded dwellings. One in\nparticular, in a singular state of preservation, represented the\ncognizance of the house of Lusignan, and here we did indeed see the\neffigy which we had failed to find at the castle near Poitiers, of the\nserpent-tailed Fairy Melusine. We went into the house of the proprietor,\nwho, with his mother and several of his neighbours, hurried out, after\npeeping from their windows to watch the operation of the sketching of\nMelusine, and invited us to see another head of a woman which he had\nfound in the garden of his tenement. We passed along several dim, dark\npassages, and through large, square, dungeon-like rooms, apparently\nserving as stables, to the garden, where we found numerous remains of\nancient Roman wall and bricks and broken columns, and the head of a\nstatue much defaced. Every house seemed capable of exhibiting similar\nremains, and on many were dates in stone of 1613, 1660, 1673. One tower\nof defence is tolerably perfect; and walls and remnants of gates here\nand there prove how strong and how important Izeste once must have been.\n\nWe entered a court-yard, where a tailor was sitting working close by a\ncurious door-way, which appeared like the entrance to a church, and was\nbuilt into a wall, forming part of what was formerly a large mansion. We\nwere so much struck with the extraordinary sculpture round the arch,\nthat we inquired if there was any record of what it had been. The tailor\nlooked up surprised: \"Well,\" said he, \"I have lived here all my life,\nand never took notice of this door-way before: we have plenty of old\nstones here; but they are worth nothing, and mean nothing, that I know\nof.\"\n\nThe carving which so excited our curiosity was a series of medallions:\nsome circular, some square, very much mutilated, but still traceable. On\none compartment were the figures of a bear _rampant_, and--what might\nbe--a bull: they seemed in the act of combat, and possibly might\nrepresent the arms of B\u00e9arn and Ossau, though I confess I look upon them\nas of _very early_ date--perhaps the work of the Gauls or Goths, _selon\nmoi_; another enclosed a Sagittarius and a dog; another, an animal like\na wolf, holding a club; another, an ape: the rest are too much worn to\nenable an antiquarian to decide what they were; but the whole offered a\nvery singular and interesting problem, which we found it impossible to\nsolve: the medallions are on stones which have evidently belonged to\nsome other building, and been thus placed over a modern portal.\n\nThere is a cavern in the neighbourhood of Izeste, which is said to be\nworth visiting; but the weather was not propitious to our seeing it.\n\nWe stopped on the way from the Eaux Bonnes, on our return, at a place\nwhere our driver purchased us some ortolans, and we were almost stunned\nwith the noise and clamour of a crowd of little urchins, with flowers\nand without, who, in whining accents, insisted on sous; but there was\nnothing either pretty or romantic about them or their costume; and we\nwere very glad when, having procured the delicate little birds we waited\nfor, we could resume our route. This was just at the season of _La\nChasse des Palombes_--a time of much importance in the valley, when\nhundreds of a peculiar sort of pigeons are sacrificed.\n\nMany of the peaks which had been concealed from us the day before, came\nforth from their circling mists, at intervals, on our return, and were\npointed out to us by their different names; but as we came back in the\nevening to Pau, the range which was most familiar to us re-appeared in\nall its splendour, much clearer than when we were nearer to them.\n\nAt Beost, in the midst of the valley, lives a man, whose industry and\ngenius have made him an object of curiosity and interest in the country,\nand whose fame must probably cause considerable interruption to his\nstudies in the season of the baths; for it has become quite the fashion\nto visit him. He is called Pierrine, or Gaston Saccaze; is a shepherd\nwho has always lived in these mountains, and has made himself so\nthoroughly acquainted with the botany of the district as to have become\na valuable correspondent of the members of the Jardin des Plantes at\nParis: he taught himself Latin, by means of an old dictionary which he\nbought for a few sous, and, by dint of extraordinary perseverance, has\nmade himself master of the whole Flora of the Pyrenees.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER VII.\n\n     GABAS--POPULAR SONGS--PONT CRABE--THE RECLUSE OF THE VALL\u00c9E\n     D'OSSAU--MARGUERITE--THE SPRINGS.\n\n\nI made another excursion to the Vall\u00e9e d'Ossau in the February of 1843,\nwhen the weather was singularly mild--infinitely more so than when I was\nfirst there in October, and the clearness of the sky enabled me to see\nall the mountains which were before concealed in clouds. With an\nadventurous party, all anxious to take advantage of the propitious\nmoment, I undertook a long _walk_--for at this season it is difficult to\nprocure horses--towards Gabas, having this time the Pic du Midi bright\nand clear and close in view. The carriage was able to advance along the\nsteep road which extends above the foaming Gave de Gabas, nearly half\nway to the desired spot; for the snow had fallen in very small quantity\nduring the winter, and there had been no interruption to the roads.\n\nFrom a certain place, however, where two paths diverged, we found that\nthe height we had reached had brought us to the snows, and that it was\ntoo slippery for the horses to proceed; accordingly we alighted and\nperformed the rest of the journey on foot. The walk was very exciting\nand amusing, our feet sinking deep in snow at every step, while a\nburning sun, _ga\u00fcmas_, as the guide said, was shining over our heads,\nglittering on the white peaks above, and sparkling in the deep, clear,\ngreen torrent at the foot of the box-covered hills, over which silver\nstreams of water were flowing from the summits into the murmuring wave,\nwhich churlishly received their tributary visits, and disputed the place\nthey took, dashing, foaming, and springing over the enormous masses of\nrock in their course, till all the valley re-echoed with their ceaseless\nquarrelling.\n\nEvery now and then we stopped to look back at the sublime scenery, and\nto make a hasty sketch of the peaks, which tempted us to pause. Summer\nand winter seemed combined in our stroll, and it appeared as if we were\nrealizing the fable of \"_the man, the sun, and the cloud_,\" not knowing\nwhether to yield to the heat or the cold. We met two Spaniards hurrying\nalong, who had crossed the mountains from Saragossa: they were fine,\nstrong-looking men, and sufficiently wild; but too dirty and slovenly to\nexcite much admiration _here_; if we had seen them on the opposite side\nof the ravine they might have passed for picturesque, in the same manner\nas the singing of our guide might have delighted our ears had we heard\nhim from a distance: as it was, he indulged our request by intoning some\nof the pastorals of Despourrins, which, if the spirit of the poet of the\nPyrenees is wandering amongst the mountains, must have greatly\n_perturbed_ it.\n\nA long, loud, unmelodious drawl, like a dirge, with many a dying fall,\nwas the vehicle in which the tender expressions of the poet were\nconveyed to our ears; and I was reproached by my companions for having\ninjudiciously praised the verses of the Swan of B\u00e9arn: certainly heard\nin mutilated fragments, and sung by such a musician--\"_La Ha\u00fct sus las\nMountagnes_\" and \"_La Plus Charmante Anesquette_,\" were not calculated\nto excite much admiration.\n\nA lady of our party, who was acquainted with the popular songs of\nLanguedoc, repeated a few verses to our guide, who took up the strain,\nwhich was not new to him: it is singular how widely these simple songs\nare spread from one part of France to the other; indeed, they are\nscarcely confined to any country, and, like traditions, seem to have\nwandered up and down into all regions. For instance, I was very much\nsurprised, a short time ago, to see in a work on Persian popular\nliterature, an almost literal version of a song, well-known on the\nBourbonnais, which I had met with at Moulins.\n\nI questioned the guide on the subject of the superstitions of the\nvalley, and found that he had himself _seen_ the fairies called _Les\nBlanquettes_: those charming mountain-fairies who roam along the peaks\nsinging mournful songs. \"I had often heard of them,\" said he, \"and many\nof my friends had seen them hovering about the mouths of caverns on the\nhighest points of the mountains. I wished, therefore, to satisfy myself,\nand went to the spot where others had beheld them, and sure enough there\nthey were, figures in white, like women, in a circle round the entrance\nof a cavern.\"\n\n\"And were these fairies?\" I asked.\n\nHe paused a moment, and then said--\"As for fairies, that is an old\nstory, which some people believe: these that I saw _were only shadows_.\"\n\nIt appears to me that superstition is fast wearing out in the Pyrenees,\nas well as everywhere else.\n\nAs we continued our way, we observed, along the snowy path, tracks of\nthe feet of animals--a troop of wild-cats had evidently been before us,\nand here and there we remarked a print, which could be nothing less than\nthe foot-mark of a wolf. The flight of a large bird, which I believe to\nhave been a vulture, added to the solemnity of the scene; but there were\nless of these indications of solitude than I hoped to experience, for\nall was sunshine and gaiety around.\n\nWe observed near the Pont Crabe, _i.e._ Pont des Ch\u00e8vres, on the\nopposite side of the ravine, a desolate-looking mill, placed in so wild\nand rugged a position, that one could not but pity those whose fortune\nmight have condemned them to a residence there all the year round: a\nstory attached to the cottage made it still more sad.\n\nIt appears that a young girl, the very flower of maidens in the Vall\u00e9e\nd'Ossau, had been deceived and deserted by her lover, and on the point\nof becoming a mother, when she consulted the priest of her parish,\nconfessing to him her weakness, and entreating his aid to enable her to\npropitiate offended Heaven. The virtuous and holy man, shocked at the\ninfirmity and want of propriety exhibited by the unfortunate girl, was\nvery severe in his censures, and informed her that there was no way left\nfor her but by penance and mortification to endeavour to wipe away her\nsin. He condemned her, therefore, to take up her abode in that solitary\ncottage, far away from all human habitation, to spend her life in\nprayer and lamentation, and to endeavour, by voluntary affliction, to\nwin her way to heaven.\n\nShe did so; and she and her child lived for ten years in that secluded\nspot, where the constant sound of murmuring waters drowned her sighs,\nand where no intruding foot came to disturb her solitude, except when\nthe good priest, from time to time, visited her, to afford the\nconsolation of his pious prayers. At the end of that time her spirit\ndeparted, and her little son was received into the convent, of which he\nbecame a member.\n\n    THE RECLUSE OF THE VALL\u00c9E D'OSSAU.\n\n    \"Say, ye waters raging round,\n      Say, ye mountains, bleak and hoar,\n    Is there quiet to be found,\n      Where the world can vex no more?\n    May I hope that peace can be\n    Granted to a wretch like me!\n\n    \"Hark! the vulture's savage shriek--\n      Hark! the grim wolf scares the night,--\n    Thunder peals from peak to peak,\n      Ghastly snows shroud ev'ry height.\n    Hark! the torrent has a tone,\n    Dismal--threat'ning--cold--alone!\n\n    \"Was I form'd for scenes like this,\n      Flattered, trusting, vain and gay--\n    In whose smile _he_ said was bliss,\n      Who to hear was to obey?--\n    Yes! weak idol! 'tis thy doom,\n    This thy guerdon--this thy tomb!\n\n    \"When I from my heart have torn\n      All the mem'ries cherish'd long;\n    When my early thought at morn,\n      And my sigh at even-song,\n    Have not all the self-same theme,\n    Peace upon my soul may gleam!\n\n    \"When no more I paint his eyes,\n      When his smile no more I see,\n    And his tone's soft melodies\n      Wake not in each sound to me;\n    When I can efface the past,\n    I may look for calm--at last.\n\n    \"When resentment is at rest,\n      Scorn and sorrow, rage and shame,\n    Can be still'd within my breast--\n      And I start not at his name;\n    When I weep, nor faint, nor feel,\n    Then my heart's deep wounds may heal.\n\n    \"Years, long years, it yet will take,\n      Spite of pain and solitude,\n    Ere this heart can cease to ache,\n      And no restless dreams intrude:\n    Ere I crush each fond belief,\n    And oblivion vanquish grief.\n\n    \"It might be--but in my child\n      All his father lives the while;\n    Such his eyes--so bright, so wild--\n      Such his air, his voice, his smile--\n    Still I see him o'er and o'er,\n    Till I dare to gaze no more!\n\n    \"Is it sin to love him yet?\n      Was it sin to love at all?\n    Is my torture, my regret,\n      For his loss--or for my fall?\n    Change, oh Heaven!--thou canst, thou wilt--\n    Thoughts that sink my soul in guilt!\n\n    \"Teach me that regret is crime,\n      That my past despair is vain,\n    And my penance through all time\n      Shall be ne'er to hope again,--\n    Only in His pardon trust--\n    Pitying, merciful, and just.\"\n\nIt is said that La Reine Marguerite, sister of Francis I., wrote the\ngreatest part of her celebrated stories during a sojourn at the Eaux\nChaudes: there, surrounded with a brilliant court of ladies and poets,\nshe passed several joyous months, and recruited her health, while she\namused her imagination, in wandering amongst the rocks and wild paths of\nGabas and La Broussette: in her train were \"_joueurs, farceurs,\nbaladins_, and _garnemens de province_,\" and nothing but entertainment\nseemed the business of the lives of those fair and gay invalids, who, so\nlong ago, set an example which has not failed to be well followed since.\n\nThe pompous inscription which once appeared in a chapel at La Hourat, in\nhonour of the passage of the Princess Catherine, sister of Henri IV. is\nnow replaced by a modern exhortation to the traveller to implore the aid\nof the Virgin before he tempts the perils of the pass: and our guides\nvery reverently took off their _berrets_, as they went by the little\nniche, where stands the image, which is an object of their adoration and\nhope. Poor Catherine, always disconsolate at her separation from the\nobject of her choice, found but little relief from the waters--they\ncould not minister to a mind diseased--and she had not the joyous,\ncareless mind of her predecessor and grandmother; nor are we told that\nshe attempted to compose amusing histories to distract her thought, nor\ncould exclaim--\n\n    \"I write--sad task! that helps to wear away\n    The long, long, mournful melancholy day;\n    Write what the fervour of my soul inspires,\n    And vainly fan love's slow-consuming fires.\"\n\nAll was sad and solitary to her; for the only companion she desired was\nnot there to give her his hand along the rugged paths, to support her\namongst the glittering snows, and smooth her way through the pleasing\ndifficulties of the abrupt ascents. Cold ceremony, and, at best, mere\nduty, attended her whose heart sighed for tenderness and affection which\nshe was never destined to know. At that period, there was neither hotel\nnor street, and the rudest huts sheltered that simple court; but they\nmight perhaps afford, after all, as much comfort as may at the present\nday be found, in cold weather, in the irreclaimably smoky rooms of the\nprincipal inn at the Eaux Chaudes.\n\nThe accommodation is much superior--at least, _out_ of the season--at\nthe Eaux Bonnes, the situation of which is, as I before observed,\ninfinitely more cheerful; but in hot weather it must be like an oven,\nclosed in as the valley is with toppling mountains, which one seems\nalmost to touch. Rising up, and barring the way immediately at the top\nof the valley in which the waters spring, is the isolated mountain\ncalled _La butte du Tr\u00e9sor_, on the summit of which is erected a little\nrustic temple, doubtless the favourite resort of adventurous invalids,\nduring their stay at the waters. I cannot imagine the sojourn agreeable\nat that period to persons in health, who are led there only by\ncuriosity; for often, while balls and parties are going on in the\nsaloons below, some unfortunate victim of disease is being removed from\nthe sick chambers above to his last home. Nothing but insensibility to\nhuman suffering can allow enjoyment to exist in such a spot, under such\ncircumstances. I rejoiced that, at the period of both my visits, we had\nthe scenery all to ourselves, with no drawback of melancholy to spoil\nthe satisfaction we experienced.\n\nThese waters were first used, it is said, by Henri II. of Navarre, after\nhis return from the fatal fight of Pavia, where he was wounded by a\nmusketshot. They, from hence, took the name of Eaux des Arquebusades, as\nthey were found efficacious in cases similar to his own.\n\nMichel Montaigne was one of the illustrious visitors to these healing\nsprings, which he calls _Grammontoises_.\n\nJacques de Thou came to the Eaux Bonnes in 1582; and recounts that, in\nthe week which he passed there, he drank twenty-five glasses of water a\nday; but in this he was exceeded by a German companion, who took no less\nthem _fifty_.\n\nThese springs were forgotten for more than a century after this; and\nBar\u00e8ges was preferred to them. The great physician, Bordeu, of whom\nB\u00e9arn is justly proud, restored their reputation in a great measure: but\nit is rather within the last thirty years that they have reached the\ncelebrity which they now enjoy.\n\nIt is generally said that the Vall\u00e9e d'Ossau combines all the beauties\nand grandeurs of the Pyrenees; and that the traveller, who has only time\nto visit this part, has had a specimen of all that is most admirable in\nthis beautiful chain of mountains. For myself, I endeavour to believe\nthis, not having been able to see so much of the Pyrenees as I desired.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER VIII.\n\n     PEASANTS OF OSSAU--CAPTIVITY OF FRANCIS THE FIRST--DEATH OF\n     JOYEUSE--DEATH OF THE DUKE DE MAINE--DANCES.\n\n\nA great deal has been said and written about the peasants of the Vall\u00e9e\nd'Ossau; and most persons appear to have been guided rather by\nenthusiasm than truth, exaggerating and embellishing facts as it suited\ntheir views or their humour. It is the custom to admire the young girls\nand children who pester travellers with shabby, faded little bouquets,\nwhich they throw into the carriage-windows, and to see something\npeculiar in the custom; but it does not strike me that there is the\nslightest difference in this, or any other usage, between the Pyrenees\nand all parts of France, through which I have passed. On the road from\nCalais, as well as in the Vall\u00e9e d'Ossau, ragged dirty groups, eager for\nsous, place themselves in your way, and endeavour to obtain money: on\nf\u00eate-days they may look better; but on ordinary occasions there is\ncertainly but little to admire, either in their dress or manners.\n\nA lively but sarcastic French writer has observed on the proneness of\ntourists to exalt the peasants of Ossau into the Arcadian beings of\nVirgil and Theocritus, representing them as assembling together to sing\nthe verses of Despourrins: that--\"it is, perhaps, better to see romance\nthan not to see at all; but those who have discovered these pastoral\nheroes and heroines, can assuredly never have met with them on the Ger\nor the Pic du Midi: the only songs that one can hear in that\nneighbourhood are drawling, monotonous lines, without either rhyme or\nreason,--a sort of ballad like that of the wandering Jew. As for their\noccupations, they are commonly employed in knitting coarse woollen\nstockings, or in preparing, in the dirtiest manner in the world, the\npoorest and most insipid cheese that ever was made. The youths and\nmaidens are by no means Estelles and Nemourins. I am aware that this\naccount will be considered profane, and the writer of these facts, a\nmorose, disagreeable person; but the truth is, nevertheless, better than\nfalse enthusiasm, which causes misrepresentation; and, having always\nbefore our eyes so much that is glorious and sublime, it cannot be\nnecessary to inflate the imagination for ever _\u00e0 propos de rien_.\n\n\"Let those who would form an idea of the singing of the Ossalois observe\nthem on a f\u00eate-day, in some of their villages, when the young people are\nreturning home. They separate in two bands: some holding each other by\nthe waist, some round the neck. The foremost party go about thirty steps\nin silence, while those behind sing a couplet in chorus; the first then\nstop, sing the second verse, and wait till those behind have joined\nthem; and the latter sing the third verse as they arrive at home. This\nchant is called, in the country, _Passe-carr\u00e8re_. Every now and then the\nsong is intermingled with sharp, wild cries, called _ar\u00e9nilhets_,\npeculiar to the mountaineers; which prove the strength of their lungs,\nif not their ear for melody. All this is performed slowly and heavily,\nwithout any appearance of joyousness or gaiety, and seems singularly\nill-adapted to a f\u00eate.\"\n\nIt must be allowed that, whenever a good voice occurs in this part of\nthe country, it is an exception to the general rule; but this happened\nnot long since, in the case of a young and very handsome girl of Ossau,\nwhose melodious voice and fine execution attracted the notice of an\namateur, by whom she was introduced to the theatre at Berlin, and\nobtained great applause and success. She may be considered as a\nnightingale who had lost her way amongst a wood of screech-owls; for her\ntalent was quite alone. She used to sing an old historical romance of\nthe valley, composed on the captivity of Francis I., which has seldom\nsince found a voice capable of giving it effect.\n\nThere is something in this old ballad very like those of Spain, both in\ncharacter and rhythm; and there exist several others, on historical\nsubjects, which have the same kind of simple merit:\n\n      THE CAPTIVITY OF FRANCIS I.\n\n    \"Quan lou Rey parti de France,\" &c.\n\n    When the king, from France departing,\n      Other lands to conquer sought,\n    'Twas at Pavia he was taken,\n      By the wily Spaniard caught.\n\n    \"Yield thee, yield thee straight, King Francis,\n      Death or prison is your lot;\"\n    \"Wherefore call you me King Francis?\n      Such a monarch know I not.\"\n\n    Then the Spaniards raised his mantle,\n      And they saw the fleur-de-lys;--\n    They have chained him, and, full joyous,\n      Bore him to captivity.\n\n    In a tower, where sun nor moon-light\n      Came but by a window small;\n    There he lies, and as he gazes,\n      Sees a courier pass the wall.\n\n    \"Courier! who art letters bringing,\n      Tell me what in France is said?\"\n    \"Ah! my news is sad and heavy--\n      For the king is ta'en, or dead.\"\n\n    \"Back with speed, oh, courier, hasten--\n      Haste to Paris back with speed,\n    To my wife and little children;\n      Bid them help me at my need.\n\n    \"Bid them coin new gold and silver,\n      All that Paris has to bring,\n    And send here a heap of treasure,\n      To redeem the captive king.\"[32]\n\n[Footnote 32: The popularity of this ballad is accounted for by the\ncircumstance of the Prince of B\u00e9arn, Henry II. d'Albert, having been\nmade prisoner with Francis; he was, however, more fortunate than the\nking, for he made his escape. The original runs thus:--\n\n    THE CAPTIVITY OF FRANCIS I.\n\n    Quan lou Rey parti de France,\n      Counqueri d'a\u00fctes pays,\n    A l'entrade de Pavi\n      Lous Espagnols b\u00e9 l'an pris.\n\n    \"Rent\u00e9, rent\u00e9, Rey de France,\n      Que si non, qu'en mourt ou pris,\"\n    Quin seri lou Rey de France?\n      Que jamey you nou l'ey bist.\"\n\n    Queou lheban l'ale deo\u00fc manto\u00fc\n      Troban l'y la flou de lys.\n    Quo\u00fc ne prenen et quo\u00fc liguen\n      Dens la prison que l'an mis.\n\n    Dehens \u00fce tour escure,\n      Jamey sour ni lue s'y a bist;\n    Si nou per \u00fce frinistote....\n      U poustillou bet beni.\n\n    \"Poustillou qu\u00e9 lettres portis\n      Que si counte t\u00e0 Paris?\"\n    \"La nouvelle que you porti\n      Lou Rey qu'ere mort ou pris.\"\n\n    \"Tourne t'en poustillou en poste,\n      Tourne t'en ent\u00e0 Paris.\n    Arrecommandem \u00e0 ma femme\n      Tab\u00e9 mous infants petits.\n\n    \"Que hassen batte la mounede,\n      La qui sie dens Paris,\n    Que men embien \u00fce cargue\n    Por rachetam a\u00fc pays.\"\n\nThe chorus is usually at the end of each verse--\"La lyron, la lyr\u00e9,\" or\n\"doundoun, doundone.\"]\n\nThe following is also a favourite ballad on the battle of Coutras and\nthe death of Joyeuse, the magnificent favourite of Henry III., whose\ncontemptuous remark on his effeminacy was the cause of his exposing\nhimself in the _m\u00eal\u00e9e_. The episode of the fate of Joyeuse is an\naffecting one in the life of the valiant and generous Henry of Navarre.\nThe treasure was immense that was taken from the gorgeous army destined\nto overthrow the harassed Huguenots, but literally cut to pieces by the\nstern and bold, though ragged warriors. The gold, silver, and jewels\nthat were brought to Henry's tent, after the victory, were heaped on the\nfloor, and the dead body of the beautiful and admired Duke de Joyeuse\nwas brought to him. Henry turned away, sick at heart, and commanded the\ncorpse to be covered with a cloak, and removed carefully; and desired\nthat all the spoil should be divided amongst the soldiers; holding it\nbeneath him to accept any: nor could he restrain his tears at the sight\nof so much carnage of those whom he looked upon as his subjects.\n\n      THE DEATH OF JOYEUSE.\n\n    Between La Roche and Coutras\n      Was heard our battle cry;\n    And still we called--\"To arms! to arms!\"\n      Our voices rent the sky.\n\n    Our king was there with all his men,\n      And all his guards beside,\n    Within, the Duke de Joyeuse,\n      And to the king he cried:\n\n    \"Oh, yield, King Henry, yield to me!\"--\n      \"What simple squire art thou,\n    To bid King Henry yield him,\n      And to thy bidding bow?\"\n\n    \"I an no simple squire,\n      But a knight of high degree;\n    I am the Duke de Joyeuse,\n      And thou must yield to me.\"\n\n    The king has placed his cannon\n      In lines against the wall,--\n    The first fire Joyeuse trembled,\n      The next saw Joyeuse fall.\n\n    Alas! his little children,\n      How sad will be their fate!--\n    A nurse both young and pretty,\n      Shall on them tend and wait:\n    And they shall be brave warriors,\n      When they come to man's estate.\n\nThe next ballad is in the same strain:\n\n    THE DEATH OF THE DUKE DE MAINE.\n\n    The noble Duke de Maine\n      Is dead or wounded sore;\n    Three damsels came to visit him,\n      And his hard hap deplore.\n\n    \"Oh! say, fair prince, where is your wound?\"\n      \"'Tis in my heart,\" he said,\n    \"'Twill not be many moments\n      Ere you will see me dead.\"\n\n    \"Oh! call my page, and bid my squire;--\n      They ink and paper bring;--\n    For I must write a letter\n      To my cousin and my king.\"\n\n    And when the king the letter read,\n      Tears from his eyelids fell;\n    \"Oh! who shall lead my armies now.\n      Who shall command so well!\"\n\n    \"Oh! who shall guide my valiant bands\n      To conquest in the fight!--\n    The Duke de Vend\u00f4me[33] must succeed,--\n      He is a gallant knight.\"\n\n[Footnote 33: Antoine de Bourbon.]\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nIt is seldom now that the tamborine or pipe, celebrated by Despourrins,\nis heard as an accompaniment to the dances of the peasants. A violin is\nthe usual music; and the antique and pastoral character is at once\ndestroyed.\n\nSometimes it is possible to see a real mountain-dance, which is\ncertainly picturesque, if not graceful, and belongs peculiarly to the\nspot, and the objects which inspired it; as, for instance, _\"The Dance\nof the Wild Goat,\" \"The Dance of the Izard,\" \"La Gibaudrie,\" \"La Ronde\ndu Grand Pic.\"_\n\nThe young men are very agile in these exercises; but, in general, the\nwoman's part is very inferior: they, indeed, seldom dance together, and\nusually are only spectators. This seems to indicate an Eastern origin.\nThere is one exception to this rule in a _ronde_, executed by both\nsexes, hand-in-hand; but in this the men leap and cut, while the women\nmove their feet slowly and heavily: in fact, they look half asleep,\nwhile the young men seem much more occupied with their own feats of\nagility than with their partners.\n\nAs I have not seen any of these dances, nor the peasants in their\nholiday costumes, I have some difficulty in imagining that there is\neither beauty or grace amongst them. At the Eaux Bonnes, our female\nattendant wore her red-peaked _capeline_ in the house, which had a\nsingular effect, but was by no means pretty: indeed, the only impression\nit gives me is, that it is precisely the costume which seems to suit _a\ndaunce o' witches_; and cannot by possibility be softened into anything\nin the least pleasing to the eye. All the peasants I saw at different\nperiods of the year had a remarkably slovenly, dirty, squalid\nappearance; and, except in the instance of one little girl of about\nthirteen, I saw none who had the slightest claim to beauty, or could\nexcite interest for a moment. There is a humble, civil air about the\npeople in the Vall\u00e9e d'Ossau, which propitiates one: the _berret_ is\nalways taken off as a stranger passes, and a kind salutation uniformly\ngiven. But, beyond this, there is nothing worthy of remark as respects\nthe common people, who appear to be a simple race, content to work hard\nand live poorly.\n\nOur guide pointed out to us a village, from the valley, perched up on a\nheight in the midst of snows, where, he said, the inhabitants, who were\nall shepherds, _were very learned_. \"Not one of them,\" said he, \"but can\nread and write; and, as they are always in the mountains with a book in\ntheir hands, and have nothing to interrupt their studies, they know a\ngreat deal, and are brave _gens_.\" Probably Gaston Saccaze the naturalist\nbelongs to such a fraternity.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER IX.\n\n     COARRAZE--ORTON--THE PONT LONG--LES BELLES\n     CANTINI\u00c8RES--MORLAAS--THE CUR\u00c9--RESISTANCE TO\n     IMPROVEMENT--UZAIN--LESCAR--REFORMATION IN NAVARRE--TOMBS--FRAN\u00c7OIS\n     PHOEBUS--THE MOTHER.\n\n    \"A tr\u00e8s l\u00e8gues de Pau, a cap \u00e0 las mountagnes\n    Apr\u00e9s ab\u00e9 seguit gayhaventes[34] campagnes,\n    Sus \u00fb Pic o\u00fbn lou Gabe en gourgouils ba mouri\n    Lou Castel de Coarraze a\u00fcs oueils qu'es bien ouffri.\"\n\n\nWITHIN a pleasant drive of Pau is the Castle of Coarraze, where the\nyouth of Henry IV. was passed, under the guardianship of Suzanne de\nBourbon-Busset, Barronne de Miossens. Of this castle nothing now remains\nbut one tower, on which may still be traced the motto, \"_Lo que ha de\nser non puede faltar_,\" from whence is a magnificent view _into_ the\nmountains.\n\nOf the Castle of Coarraze, it will be seen that more marvellous things\nare told than that Henri Quatre passed much of his childhood there.\n\n[Footnote 34: Smiling.]\n\nFroissart has immortalized it as the scene of one of his romances of\nOrthez; and this is the tale he tells of its lord:\n\nIt seems, Count Gaston Phoebus had such early knowledge of every event,\nthat his household could only account for the fact by supposing that he\npossessed some familiar spirit, who told him all that had happened in\nthe country, far and near. This was considered by no means unusual; and\nwhen Sir John Froissart expressed his surprise on the subject, a squire\nbelonging to the count related to him a circumstance of a similar\nnature.\n\n\"It may be about twenty years ago,\" said he, \"that there reigned, in\nthis country, a baron, who was called Raymond, and who was Lord of\nCoarraze. Now, Coarraze is a town and castle, about seven leagues from\nthis town of Orthez. The Lord of Coarraze had, at the time of which I\nspeak, a suit before the Pope, at Avignon, respecting the tithes of the\nchurch, which were claimed by a certain clerk of Catalonia, who insisted\non his right to a revenue from them of a hundred florins a-year.\nSentence was given by Pope Urban the Fifth, in a general consistory,\nagainst the knight, and in favour of the Churchman; in consequence of\nwhich, the latter hastened, with all speed, back to B\u00e9arn with his\nletters and the Pope's bull, by virtue of which he was to enter into\npossession of the tithes.\n\n\"The Lord of Coarraze was much incensed at this; and, in great\nindignation, went to the clerk, and said, 'Master Peter,' or 'Master\nMartin,'--it matters not for his name--'do you suppose that I shall be\ncontent to lose my inheritance for the sake of those letters of yours? I\ndo not believe you to be so bold as to lay your hands on a thing which\nbelongs to me; for, if you do, it is as much as your life is worth. Go\nelsewhere, and get what you can; as for my inheritance, you shall have\nnone of it, and I tell you so once for all.'\n\n\"The clerk stood much in awe of the knight at these words, for he knew\nhim to be a determined man, and dared not persevere in his demand; he\nfound it safe to retire to Avignon, or, at all events, out of the\ncount's reach; but, before he departed, he said to him, 'Sire, by force,\nand not by right, you have taken and kept from me the dues of my church,\nwhich in conscience is a great wrong. I am not so strong in this country\nas you are; but I would have you know, and that soon, that I have a\nchampion, whom you will have cause to fear more than you do me.' The\nLord of Coarraze, who cared nothing for his menaces, replied: 'Go, in\nHeaven's name, and do your worst. I value you as little dead as living;\nand, for all your words, you shall not get my property.'\n\n\"Thus they parted: the clerk either to Avignon, or into Catalonia; but\nhe did not forget what he had said to the knight, for soon after there\ncame to his castle of Coarraze, and into the very chamber where he and\nhis lady slept, invisible messengers, who began to riot and overturn\neverything they found in the castle; so that it seemed as if they would\ndestroy all they came near; so loud were the strokes which they struck\nagainst the doors of the bed-rooms, that the lady shook as she lay, and\nwas greatly terrified. The knight heard all; but he took no sort of\nnotice, for he would not seem to be moved by this event, and was bold\nenough to wait for stranger adventures.\n\n\"The noise and uproar continued for a long space in different chambers\nof the castle, and then ceased. The domestics and squires represented\nwhat had happened to their master; but he feigned to have heard nothing,\nand to believe that they had been dreaming: but his lady one day assured\nhim that she had heard the noise but too clearly.\n\n\"That same night, as he was sleeping in his bed, came the uproar again\nas before, and shook the windows and doors in a wonderful manner. The\nknight then could not but rouse himself; and, sitting up, cried out,\n'Who knocks so loud at my chamber at such an hour?'\n\n\"'It is I--it is I!' was the answer.\n\n\"'And who sends you?'\n\n\"'The clerk of Catalonia, whom you have wronged out of his property; and\nI will never leave you in peace till you have reckoned with him for it,\nand he is content.'\n\n\"'And what is your name, who are so good a messenger?'\n\n\"'I am called Orton.'\n\n\"'Orton,' said the knight, 'the service of a clerk is beneath you; you\nwill find it more trouble than profit; leave it, and serve me--you will\nbe glad of the exchange.'\n\n\"Now, Orton had _taken a fancy_ to the Lord of Coarraze; and, after a\npause, he said,\n\n\"'Are you in earnest?'\n\n\"'Certainly,' replied the knight; 'let us understand each other. You\nmust do evil to no one, and we shall be very good friends.'\n\n\"'No, no,' said Orton, 'I have no power to do evil to you or others,\nexcept to disturb them when they might sleep.'\n\n\"'Well, then, we are agreed,' said the knight; 'in future, you serve me,\nand quit that wretched clerk.'\n\n\"'Be it as you will,' said Orton, 'so will I.'\n\n\"From this time, the spirit attached himself with such affection to the\nlord, that he constantly visited him at night; and when he found him\nasleep he made a noise at his ear, or at the doors and windows; and the\nknight used to wake and cry out, 'Orton, let me alone, I entreat!'\n\n\"'No, I will not,' was the reply, 'till I have told you some news.'\n\n\"Meantime, the lady used to lie frightened to death--her hair on end,\nand her head covered with the bed-clothes. Her husband would say:\n\n\"'Well, what news have you?--from what country do you come?'\n\n\"The spirit would answer:\n\n\"'Why, from England, or Germany, or Hungary, or other countries. I set\nout yesterday, and such and such things happened.'\n\n\"In this manner was the count informed of all that occurred in every\npart of the globe for five or six years: and he could not conceal the\ntruth, but imparted it to the Count of Foix, when he came to visit him.\nThe count was greatly surprised at what he told, and expressed a wish\nthat he possessed such a courier.\n\n\"'Have you never seen him?' said he.\n\n\"'Never,' answered the knight.\n\n\"'I would certainly do so,' said the Count de Foix; 'you tell me he\nspeaks Gascon as well as you or I. Pray see him, and tell me what form\nhe bears.'\n\n\"'I have never sought to do so,' said the knight; 'but, since you wish\nit, I will make a point of desiring him to reveal himself.'\n\n\"The next time Orton brought his news, his master told him he desired to\nbehold him; and, after a little persuasion, he agreed that he should be\ngratified. 'The first thing you see to-morrow morning,' said he, 'when\nyou rise from your bed, will be me.'\n\n\"The morning came, and when the knight was getting up, the lady was so\nafraid of seeing Orton that she pretended to be sick, and would not\nrise. The knight, however, was resolved, and leapt up with the hope of\nseeing him in a proper form, but nothing appeared. He ran to the\nwindows, and opened the shutters to let the light in, but still there\nwas no appearance in his room.\n\n\"At night Orton came, and told him he had appeared in the form of two\nstraws, which, he might have observed, whirled about on the floor.\n\n\"The knight was much displeased, and insisted on not being thus played\nwith: 'when I have seen you once,' said he, 'I desire no more.'\n\n\"''Tis well,' replied Orton. 'Remark, then, the first object which meets\nyour eye when you leave your chamber, that will be me.'\n\n\"The next day the Lord of Coarraze got up, as usual; and when he was\nready, he went out of his room into a gallery, which overlooked a court\nof his castle. The first thing which attracted his notice was a large\nsow, the most enormous creature he had ever beheld in his life; but she\nwas so thin, that she seemed nothing but skin and bone, and she looked\nmiserable and starved, with a long snout and emaciated limbs.\n\n\"The lord was amazed and annoyed at seeing this animal in his\ncourt-yard, and cried out to his people to drive it away, and set the\nhounds upon it. This was accordingly done, without delay; when the sow\nuttered a loud cry, turned a piteous look upon the knight, and\ndisappeared: nor could any one find her again.\n\n\"The Lord of Coarraze returned to his chamber in a pensive mood; and was\nnow convinced, too late, that he had seen his messenger--who never\nafterwards returned to him: and the very next year he died in his\ncastle.\"\n\nBeginning almost from the entrance to Pau, extends an immense district\nof uncultivated land, called the Pont Long. This _lande_ is covered with\ncoarse fern and heath, and is intersected with wide marshes; thirty-two\ncommunes have a right in this ground; but it chiefly belongs to the\nVall\u00e9e d'Ossau. It was formerly much more extensive than it now is; but,\neven yet, a very inconsiderable portion has been reclaimed: its extent\nis about twelve leagues in length, and one and a half in width.\n\nIn the centre of this wild country is the ancient town of Morl\u00e0as, whose\nname, tradition says, was derived from the circumstance of a\nprince--Gaston Centulle--having been there assassinated; from whence it\nwas called _Mort-l\u00e0_, a derivation, probably, as likely as any other\nthat can be found.\n\nWe chose a very bright, warm, and beautiful day--during the continuance\nof fine weather, in November--to drive to Morl\u00e0as. Our carriage was\nstopped, just as we got out of the town, by a regiment of soldiers who\nwere marching out, and, but for the courtesy of the colonel, we should\nhave been impeded for nearly a league: he, however, kindly ordered the\nranks to open, and we were allowed to go on between the two lines. This\nregiment--the 25th of the line--is a remarkably fine one, and appears to\nbe kept in constant activity by its commanders, going out to great\ndistances to exercise in every weather. It is attended by a pretty troop\nof young women, whose appearance reminded me of Catherine's _petite\nbande_, so attractive did it seem. I do not know whether this is a\ncommon thing, but I never saw such a troop before in company with a\nregiment. They wear a costume, half feminine half military; have short\ndresses of grey cloth--the colour of the men's great coats--sitting\nclose to their shape, very full in the skirt, and with cuffs turned up\nwith red facings, red trowsers, and military boots, a white plaited ruff\nand habit-shirt, a white--neatly frilled and plaited--cap, surmounted\nwith a small, smart glazed hat, round which is the word _Cantini\u00e8re_:\nacross their shoulder is slung a canteen, and in this equipment they\nstep along with a military air, and in a dashing style which would be\ninvaluable on the stage. I never saw anything more singular and pretty,\nand to me so new: almost every one of the women was young and very\ngood-looking, extremely well made, and active and strong; as, indeed,\nthey require to be, for they accompany the soldiers on all their\nexpeditions, and remain out all day. It is something as amusing to\nbehold as the troop of _savans and asses_, taken care of by Napoleon in\nhis Egyptian campaign.\n\nThe road to Morl\u00e0as is rather monotonous, and that part which crosses\nthe marsh very bleak and desolate: with the gigantic mountains bounding\nthe horizon, it seems as if the marsh-fiend might here well establish\nhis abode; and the salubrity of the air of the neighbourhood I should\nsomewhat doubt. After a considerable distance, the road quits the\n_Lande_, and mounts a hill, along and from the summit of which is a very\nagreeable view, which improves at every step. From this point the Lande\nbelow appears cultivated, and vines and fields are seen in all\ndirections. You descend the hill, and Morl\u00e0as is in sight: that town was\nonce regal, and of old renown, but is now in the very perfection of ruin\nand desolation.\n\nIt was the great market, and our driver was so delighted at the\ncircumstance, that it was with the utmost difficulty we could prevent\nhim from taking us to a plain outside the town, where the horse-fair was\ngoing on, as he assured us that there we should see all the _monde_. As\nwe were quite aware of the style of gentry assembled, by the quantity of\nblue frocks and berrets which we saw from a distance, and by the\nneighing of steeds which reached our ears, we declined joining the\ncommercial party, and contented ourselves with being jostled and crowded\nby the assemblage in the streets of Morl\u00e0as, whose avenues were blocked\nup with market-folks, not only from every village and commune round, but\nfrom Pau, and Orthez, and Peyrehourade, and Lescar.\n\nWe stopped at the once magnificent church of Sainte Foix, before a\nlittle low porch, where we had to endure much persecution from beggars,\n_en attendant_ the arrival of the cur\u00e9 who was to show us the interior.\nWe were amused at one of these people, who continued his whining cry of\n\"Charita madama, per l'amor de D\u00e9ieux!\"--half French, half _patois_; till\nour driver asking him to point out the cur\u00e9's abode, he answered\nbriskly, in a lively tone; and, having given the required information,\nresumed the accustomed drawl.\n\nThe cur\u00e9 seemed very cross, and little propitiated by our apologies for\nhaving disturbed him: he looked sleepy and flushed, and had evidently\nbeen enjoying a nap, after a hearty meal and a bottle of Juran\u00e7on. He\nhurried us through the ruined church, from which almost every vestige of\nits early character has disappeared. On a pillar are still seen some\nGothic letters, which may be thus read: \"In the year of God 1301, this\npillar and this altar were made by T\u00e9aza, whom God pardon! in honour of\nGod, St. Orens, and Sainte Foi.\" A picture of the sixteenth century\nadorns the choir. It represents the Judgment of our Lord; each of the\njudges is in the costume of the period; and his opinion is expressed by\na label attached to his person.\n\nOne little chapel alone remains of all that must have adorned this\nchurch: the sculpture of this is very beautiful, and the grimacing heads\nintroduced amongst the foliage sufficiently grotesque. There is a very\nlarge antique baptismal font, and near it is a mutilated statue of the\nVirgin sustaining the Saviour on her knees, which the cur\u00e9 insisted upon\nwas Nicodemus. His scriptural knowledge seemed about equal to his\nhistorical; but he evidently had no mean opinion of his own\nacquirements, which, he almost told us, were of too high a character to\nbe wasted on mere travellers and foreigners, who knew nothing about\nNotre Dame or the saints. He would not let us see the belfry-tower,\nwhich he assured us was unsafe, and was displeased at our stopping him\nto remark on the extreme antiquity of two of the huge pillars which\nsupport the roof, and which, though much daubed with whitewash, have not\nlost all their fine _contours_. Having got rid of us, the cur\u00e9 hurried\nback to his siesta, and we strolled round the church. Beautiful circular\narches, with zigzag mouldings, almost perfect, adorned several towers,\nand showed how admirable must once have been the form of the building.\nWe found ourselves carried away by the crowd into the street again, and\nwere obliged to pause and take breath by the side of the clear rivulet,\nwhich, as in most of the towns here, runs swiftly through the streets,\nrendering them much cleaner than they would otherwise be. Here we were\naccosted, from an open window, by a female who had been watching our\nproceedings, from the time of our driving into the town, and who seemed\nquite distressed to see three ladies alone, without a cavalier.\n\"However,\" she said, \"three of you are company, to be sure, and can take\ncare of each other.\" She was very eloquent on the subject of Morl\u00e0as,\nand had no idea but that we had purposely chosen the market-day for our\nvisit, in order to be _gay_.\n\nWe made our way, with some difficulty--through the throng of persons\nwhich filled the market-place, and who were busy buying and selling\ncoarse stuffs and m\u00e9rinos, coloured handkerchiefs, and woollen goods--to\nthe principal fa\u00e7ade of the church, against which the ruinous old\n_halle_ is built; and there we contrived to get a sight of the remains\nof one of the most splendid portals I ever beheld. Of gigantic\nproportions, circle within circle, each elaborately carved, with\nfigures, foliage, and intersecting lines, the magnificent door-way of\nthe church of Sainte Foi presents a treasure to antiquarians: equal in\nriches to, but more delicate, and larger and loftier, than that of\nMalmsbury Abbey, in Wiltshire, it has features in common with that fine\nstructure; but I never saw so wide a span as the arch, or more exquisite\nornaments.\n\nIt appears that the town of Morl\u00e0as, which, ruined as it is, is said to\nbe _rich_ (!) is about to restore this fine entrance. A new town-hall\nand market-place are being built, and, when completed, the miserable\nhuts which disfigure the church will be cleared away, and the fa\u00e7ade\nallowed to appear. Above this door is a fine steeple, crested with\nfigures, which we could scarcely distinguish, but which we found were\nthe _Cows of B\u00e9arn_ clustered round the summit.\n\nWhen Morl\u00e0as was the residence of the Viscounts of B\u00e9arn, it possessed a\nsovereign court, and a mint of great celebrity, where copper, silver,\nand even _gold_ coins were struck. Money seems to have been coined at\nMorl\u00e0as in the time of the Romans; its pieces were much coveted in the\ncountry for their purity, and were considered far superior to any other\nin Gascony. There was a _livre Morlane_ as there was a _livre Tournois_,\nand it long preserved its celebrity. It was worth triple _the livre\nTournois_, and was subdivided into _sols_, _ardits_, and _baquettes_, or\n_vaquettes_, _i.e. little cows_. A very few of those remarkable coins\nare still preserved; some exist, in private museums, of the time of the\nearly Centulles and Gastons, of Fran\u00e7ois Phoebus, of Catherine\nd'Albret, Henry II., Henry IV., and Queen Jeanne. The device they bear\nis--_\"Gr\u00e2tia Dei sum id quod sum.\"_\n\nSome Moorish coins, with Arabic inscriptions, have been found in this\nneighbourhood, which are also preserved in the cabinets of the curious.\n\nThe H\u00f4tel or Palace of the Viscounts was formerly called the Hourquie,\nor Forquie: from whence the money was called _moneta Furcensis_: the\ntown itself was occasionally called Furcas. The _patois_ name by which\nit is known is Morlans. No vestige is left of this magnificent palace;\nand Morl\u00e0as presents, altogether, a most wretched aspect, being\nliterally a heap of stones and ruin. Its situation offers no inducement\nto its restoration; for, being placed in the midst of marshes, it has no\nbeauty of country which should make it a desirable residence. From time\nimmemorial, prejudice and custom have prevented any attempt being made\nto cultivate these dismal swamps; or if a few energetic persons have\ntried to ameliorate their condition, and have taken possession of parts\nof the waste with such a view, at once the Ossalois have descended from\ntheir mountains, with sticks and staves, and driven the invaders from\ntheir ground. Even at the present day, as the right remains to the\npeople of Ossau, they have the power, which they are sure to enforce, of\npreventing any incursions on the _landes_ along the valley of Pau; and,\nif they please, they can pasture their sheep by the banks of the Gave,\nand pen them in the lower town, beneath the castle, asking \"no bold\nbaron's leave.\" There is no fear, now, of these fierce mountaineers\n\"sweeping like a torrent down upon the vales,\" as in the days when\nLescar, Morl\u00e0as, and Pau, were obliged to shut their gates in terror,\nwhen they saw their advance.\n\nIt is related, that, in 1337, a lord of Serres erected a castle in the\nmidst of the Pont Long, and in a short time nearly two hundred houses\nwere nestling under the protection of his turrets. All was going on\nwell; the ground began to be drained and cultivated, and everything\npromised a happy result to the undertaking; but a storm of wrath rose in\nthe mountains, the haughty owners of a useless marsh, unwilling that it\nshould serve a good purpose to others, though of no importance to\nthemselves, roused their followers, and, to the number of several\nhundreds, rushed from their snowy retreats, and, in one night, ravaged\nand destroyed all they met with. The new settlers fled in consternation,\nwhile the Ossalois burnt and threw down their dwellings, leaving a heap\nof ruins, which may still be traced in the midst of the Pont Long. They\ntook refuge at some distance, where their dangerous neighbours had no\nright, and built themselves a village, which is that of Serres-Castel at\nthe present time.\n\nAt one period Henry II., the grandfather of Henry IV., was desirous of\nforming a park for deer, and, taking possession of a track of ground, he\nsurrounded it with walls. The Ossalois consulted together, and\ndiscovered that this ground was one of the dependencies on the Pont\nLong. Without condescending to remonstrance they assembled in bands, and\nmarching down with flags flying, demolished the enclosures and took back\ntheir possession.\n\nIn the same year, 1543, the sovereign of B\u00e9arn was obliged to solicit of\nthese tyrants of the valley permission for his cousin, the Dame\nd'Artiguelouve, to send her cattle to feed in the Pont Long, to which\nthey consented \"_for a consideration_\"--_i.e._ by being paid the\n_baccade_, such as is demanded of the shepherds.\n\nThe Princess Magdelaine, governess of Prince Fran\u00e7ois Phoebus, in 1472,\nobtained, _as a favour_, the permission for her physician, Thomas\nGeronne, to introduce _seven mares_ to feed in the marsh. A letter of\nthe princess entreats, also, at another period, the same grace for the\ncattle of her treasurer-general.\n\nFor more than eight centuries the possession of this _precious_ marsh\nhas been the subject of litigation, and it has remained in its barren\nstate.\n\nThe Vall\u00e9e d'Ossau has had to defend its rights sometimes against the\nviscounts of B\u00e9arn, sometimes against the monks of Cluny, and the\n_Poublans_ of Pau. Law or combats have been always necessary to enable\nthem to retain their rights. It was on occasion of a decision in their\nfavour by Gaston IV., that the Ossalois made a gift to that prince of\nthe sum of two thousand four hundred florins, to aid him in finishing\nthe castle of Pau, which was then in the course of erection.\n\nThis Pont Long, which has so long been an apple of discord to B\u00e9arn, is\nat the present hour likely to have settled bounds; for, in 1837, the\nmembers of the Cour-Royal of Pau occupied themselves on the subject, and\na chance exists of something useful being done with the ground: there is\na project for encouraging mulberry-trees and silk-worms there, and of\nmaking a canal to carry off its waters, and render it fit for\ncultivation. This is the more necessary, as fever and ague are\nsufficiently common in its neighbourhood. But, even within a very few\nyears, when an enlightened agriculturist, M. Lacl\u00e8de, endeavoured to\nclear the ground, and plant and improve, the fury of opposition he\nexperienced was disgracefully extraordinary. Under the pretext that\ntheir pastures were invaded, the people came with fire and hatchet, and\nburnt his trees, and cut away his bridges and aqueducts.\n\nA spot is shown in the Pont Long, called Henri Quatre's marsh; for it is\nsaid that this prince being one day out shooting snipes, got so\nentangled in the mud that it was with the greatest difficulty he was\nrescued from his unpleasant predicament.\n\nThere is an oasis in this desert, the village of Uzein, which is a\nstanding proof of the possibility of effecting all that industry can\ndesire in this condemned place: the people of this flourishing village\nowe their success to the determined perseverance of their curate, who\nexhorted and persuaded his parishioners to bring manure for their fields\nfrom Serres, and, at the end of a few years, all was brilliant and\nsmiling, and Uzein is considered to produce the best maize in B\u00e9arn.\n\nThere are a few towers still standing, where castles have been erected\non the Pont Long; an old grey tower of Navailles, and one of Montaner,\nso strong as to have proved indestructible: it was built by Gaston\nPhoebus, at the same time as that of Pau, and what remains of the walls\nof its donjon are upwards of ten feet thick!\n\nLescar was once an important town of B\u00e9arn, and in its fine cathedral\nprinces were buried, whose ashes even rest there no longer, and whose\ntombs have long since been destroyed. Most of its magnificence\ndisappeared at the period when Queen Jeanne declared her adherence to\nthe new doctrine, and gave her sanction to the enemies of Catholic\nsuperstition to pull down the _Pagan images_. Angry and fierce was the\ndiscussion which took place between the Queen and the Cardinal\nd'Armagnac, her former friend, on the occasion of the attack on the\ncathedral of Lescar: the following extracts from their letters, given\nby Mr. Jameson in his work on \"the Reformation in Navarre,\" are\ncharacteristic on both sides.\n\nThe cardinal's courier, it seems, waited while Jeanne, without pause or\nhesitation, wrote her reply to his representation. His letter ran thus:\n\n\"Madam,--The duty of the service in which I was born, and which I have\ncontinued faithfully to fulfil, both to the late sovereigns, your father\nand mother, as well as to the late king your husband, has so complete an\ninfluence on my conduct, that I must ever be attentive to the means of\nsustaining your welfare, and the glory of your illustrious house. Moved\nby the zeal which attaches me to your interests, I will never conceal\nfrom you whatever it is desirable that you should learn, and which I may\nhave previously heard, trusting that you will receive in good part the\nrepresentations of your long-tried, most attached, and faithful servant,\nwho will never offer to make them for his own private advantage, but\nsolely for the sake of your conscience, and the prosperity of your\naffairs. I cannot, then, Madam, conceal from you the deep affliction\nwhich penetrates me on account of the information I have received of the\noverthrow of images and altars, and the pillage of ornaments, silver,\nand jewels, committed in the cathedral of Lescar, by the agents of your\nauthority, as well as the severity of those agents to the chapter and\npeople, by the interdiction of divine service. This proceeding appears\nto me to be the more monstrous, since it took place in your presence,\nand resulted from evil counsels which must lead to your ruin. It is in\nvain for you to conceive that you can transplant the new religion into\nyour dominions at your pleasure. The wishes of the ministers who have\nassured you of this are at variance with those of your subjects. They\nwill never consent to quit their religion, as they have declared by\ntheir protest at the last meeting of the estates of B\u00e9arn. * * * And,\neven supposing that they were reduced to accept your faith, consider\nwhat you would have to fear from the two sovereigns whose territories\nsurround you, and who abhor nothing so much as the new opinions with\nwhich you are so delighted. Their policy would lead them to seize your\ndominions, rather than suffer them to be the prey of strangers. To\nshelter you from these dangers, you have not, like England, the ocean\nfor a rampart. Your conduct perils the fortunes of your children, and\nrisks the beholding them deprived of a throne. * * * You will thus\nbecome worse than an infidel, by neglecting to provide for those of your\nown house. Such is the fruit of your Evangelism. * * * Has not God, who\nworked so many miracles through them, (_i.e._ the saints,) manifestly\ndirected us to regard those holy personages rather than Luther, Calvin,\nFarel, Videl, and so many other presumptuous men, who would desire us\nto slight those reverend names, and adopt their novelties? Would they\nhave us hold an open council to hear them, or unite in one common\nopinion against the Catholic Church? * * * Without wasting time in\nfurther reflections, let me entreat you to place in their former\ncondition the churches of Lescar, of Pau, and other places, which have\nbeen so deplorably desolated by you. This advice is preferable to that\ngiven you by your ministers, which it imports you to abandon, &c.\n&c.--Your loyal and very obedient servant,\n\n\"THE CARDINAL D'ARMAGNAC.\n\n\"_Vielleperite_, _Aug_. 18_th_, 1563.\"\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nTo this Queen Jeanne replied in the following terms:--\n\n\"My Cousin,--From my earliest years I have been acquainted with the zeal\nwhich attached you to the service of my kindred. I am not authorized by\nignorance of that zeal to refuse it the praise and esteem it merits, or\nto be prevented from feeling a gratitude which I should be desirous of\ncontinuing towards those who, like you, having partaken of the favour of\nmy family, have preserved good-will and fidelity towards it. I should\ntrust you would still entertain those feelings towards me, as you\nprofess to do, without allowing them to be changed or destroyed by the\ninfluence of I know not what religion, or superstition. Thanking you, at\nthe same time, for the advice you give me, and which I receive according\nto its varied character, the dissimilar and mingled points it touches\nbeing divided between heaven and earth, God and man! As to the first\npoint, concerning the reform which I have effected at Pau, and at\nLescar, and which I desire to extend throughout my sovereignty, I have\nlearnt it from the Bible, which I read more willingly than the works of\nyour doctors. * * * As to the ruin impending over me through bad\ncounsel, under the colour of religion, I am not so devoid of the gifts\nof God or of the aid of friends, as to be unable to make choice of\npersons worthy of my confidence, and capable of acting, not under a vain\npretence, but with the true spirit of religion. * * * I clearly perceive\nthat you have been misinformed, both respecting the answer of my estates\nand the disposition of my subjects. The two estates have professed their\nobedience to religion. * * * I know who my neighbours are; the one hates\nmy religion as much as I do his, but that does not affect our mutual\nrelations: and besides, I am not so destitute of advice and friends as\nto have neglected all necessary precautions for the defence of my rights\nin case of attack. * * * Although you think to intimidate me, I am\nprotected from all apprehension; first, by my confidence in God whom I\nserve, and who knows how to defend his cause. Secondly, because my\ntranquillity is not affected by the designs of those whom I can easily\noppose, * * * with the grace of Him who encompasses my country as the\nocean does England. I do not perceive that I run the risk of sacrificing\neither my own welfare or that of my son; on the contrary, I trust to\nstrengthen it in the only way a Christian should pursue; and even though\nthe spirit of God might not inspire me with a knowledge of this way, yet\nhuman intellect would induce me to act as I do, from the many examples\nwhich I recall with regret, especially that of the late king, my\nhusband, of whose history you well know the beginning, the course, and\nthe end. Where are the splendid crowns you held out to him? Did he gain\nany by combating against true religion and his conscience? * * * I blush\nwith shame when you talk of the many atrocities which you allege to have\nbeen committed by those of our faith; cast out the beam out of thine own\neye, and then shalt thou see clearly to cast out the moat in thy\nbrother's eye: purify the earth that is stained with the innocent blood\nwhich those of your party have shed, a fact you can bear testimony to.\n* * * You are ignorant of what our ministers are, who teach patience,\nobedience to sovereigns, and the other virtues of which the apostles and\nthe martyrs have left them an example. * * * You affirm that multitudes\ndraw back from our belief, while I maintain that the number of its\nadherents increases daily. As to ancient authorities, I hear them every\nday cited by our ministers. I am not indeed sufficiently learned to have\ngone through so many works, but neither, I suspect, have you, or are\nbetter versed in them than myself, as you were always known to be more\nacquainted with matters of state than those of the church. * * * I place\nno reliance on doctors, not even Calvin, Beza, and others, but as they\nfollow Scripture. You would send them to a council. They desire it,\nprovided that it shall be a free one, and that the parties shall not be\njudges. The motive of the surety they require is founded on the examples\nof John Huss and Jerome of Prague. Nothing afflicts me more than that\nyou, after having received the truth, should have abandoned it for\nidolatry, because you then found the advancement of your fortune and\nworldly honours. * * * Read again the passages of Scripture you quote,\nbefore you explain them so unhappily on any other occasion: it might be\npardonable in me, a female, but you, a cardinal, to be so old and so\nignorant! truly, my cousin, I feel shame for you. * * * If you have no\nbetter reasons for combating my undertaking, do not again urge me to\nfollow your worldly prudence. I consider it mere folly before God; it\ncannot impede my endeavours. _Your_ doubts make me tremble, _my_\nassurance makes me firm. When you desire again to persuade me that the\nwords of your mouth are the voice of your conscience and your\nfaithfulness, be more careful; and let the fruitless letter you have\nsent me be the last of that kind I shall receive. * * * Receive this\nfrom one who knows not how to style herself: not being able to call\nherself a friend, and doubtful of any affinity till the time of\nrepentance and conversion, when she will be\n\n\"Your cousin and friend,\n\n\"JEANNE.\"\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nWe drove to Lescar, which is within a short distance of Pau, anxious to\ndiscover some remains of its former grandeur; but, like almost all the\ntowns in this part of France, the glory is indeed departed from it. The\nsituation is remarkably fine; it stands on a high _c\u00f4teau_, by the side\nof the road to Bayonne, and from the terrace of the cathedral a\nmagnificent view of the snowy mountains spreads along the horizon.\nNothing but dilapidated, ugly stone houses, and slovenly yards, are now\nto be seen in the town; though it is said the people are by no means\npoor, as, indeed, the rich gardens and vineyards around testify.\n\nThere is not a tomb or monument of any kind left in the cathedral; but\nit is entirely paved with inscribed stones, few of them earlier than\nthe beginning of the seventeenth century. The church itself has been so\nmuch altered as to be scarcely the same; it is still of great extent,\nand is imposing as to size: a few strange old pillars, with grotesque\ncapitals, remain of its earliest date; but, from these specimens, it is\nplain that there could never have been much architectural grace\ndisplayed in its construction. The organ was playing as we walked\nthrough the aisles, and is a very fine one: we could not but regret\nthat, at Pau, there should not be a single church where we could have\nthe advantage of hearing similar music; and that the chief town of B\u00e9arn\nshould be denuded of every attraction common to even the most neglected\nFrench town. No thanks, however, are due to the arms of Montgomery, that\none stone remained on another of the cathedral of Lescar; and that all\nin Pau should have been destroyed in his time, is not surprising. When\none thinks on the former magnificence of this town and cathedral, and\nthe pomp and circumstance of all the royal funerals which took place\nhere; of all the gorgeous tombs and splendid ceremonies; and, looking\nround, beholds only ruined towns and crumbling walls, the contrast is\nstriking to the mind.\n\nIn the ninth century, this part of the country was covered with a thick\nforest, called Lascurris. The Duke of Gascony, (Guillaume Sance,) about\n980, having excited a knight to murder one of his enemies, was seized\nwith qualms of conscience, and, to relieve his mind, rebuilt the church,\nwhich was _then_ fallen to decay, and founded a monastery in the\nsolitude, which he dedicated to Notre Dame. The assassin, sharing his\nremorse, became a monk, and afterwards abbot there, and is known as\nLopoforti.\n\nThe future abbots seem to have been men of valour; for they armed\nthemselves, when occasion called, against the followers of Mahound, who\nventured from the passes of Spain into their territories.\n\nThe bishops of Lescar had the jurisdiction of 178 parishes, and the\ndiocese comprised two abbeys: it is contended that this was the most\nancient bishopric of B\u00e9arn; and the town the capital of the country in\nformer days. In the seventeenth century it was certainly a place of\nimportance, and was well defended by walls, gates, and fosses, of which\na few picturesque ruins alone remain.\n\nIn the choir of the cathedral there are still the sculptured stalls of\noak, executed in the time of Louis XIII., which are bold and graceful,\nand in excellent preservation; some mosaic pavement has lately been\ndiscovered, which was laid down by Bishop Guy in very early times; and\nit is to be expected more discoveries could be made if more zeal were\nroused in the cause. The chapels are richly adorned, and in better taste\nthan usual, and the church is, on the whole, extremely well kept: the\nvault-like chill one feels, however, on entering does not say much for\nits salubrity.\n\nThe most important tombs which once adorned this sanctuary, were those\nof the young Prince of B\u00e9arn and King of Navarre, (Fran\u00e7ois Phoebus,)\nwho died in 1483. Jean II. d'Albret in 1516, and his wife, Catherine de\nFoix. Margu\u00e9rite de Valois--the Fleur des Margu\u00e9rites,--in 1548; and\nHenry II., her husband--the _immortal grandfather_ of the great\nB\u00e9arnois. It has been said that the body of their daughter, Jeanne\nd'Albret, was brought here; but this appears to be incorrect, as her\ntomb is at Vend\u00f4me.\n\nThe death of young Fran\u00e7ois Phoebus is one of the most melancholy\nepisodes in the history of the country. It is thus recounted:\n\nHe was under the guardianship of his mother, Magdelaine of France,\nCountess of Foix, a woman of superior mind and qualities, who devoted\nherself to his interests and those of his kingdom, and spared no pains\nto foster the noble dispositions which were in her son.\n\nThe time _was out of joint_, in consequence of civil dissensions, and\nthe unjust claims on Navarre of the King of Arragon; and her position\nwas very critical; but her wisdom and prudence had greatly calmed the\nturbulence of those with whom she had to deal, and her subjects looked\nforward with hope and delight to the majority of her son, who was as\namiable as he was transcendently beautiful, and whom, in imitation of\nthe title of their hero, Gaston, they had surnamed Phoebus. Magdelaine\nwas aided in her good intentions by her brother-in-law, the Cardinal de\nFoix, whose sage advice greatly relieved and guided her, and when she\nsaw her beloved son, then aged fifteen, enter his territories in\ntriumph, apparently received with friendly interest by all contending\nparties, her heart became joyous, and the future seemed all hope and\npleasure to her.\n\nSeveral marriages were proposed for him; but she was desirous that as\nmuch delay as possible should take place before that important step\nshould be decided. Numerous powerful princes came forward, offering\ntheir alliances. Amongst others, Don Ferdinand, of Castile, named his\nsecond daughter, Do\u00f1a Juana, who afterwards inherited all his\npossessions; but the Countess of Foix rejected this, as it would have\ngiven umbrage to Louis XI. of France, whose friendship it was necessary\nto secure; and whose wily mind was working at his own interest, which\nprompted him to desire that a young nun of Coimbra should be drawn from\nher sacred retreat, and made the bride of the young king: this was\nanother Do\u00f1a Juana, for whose claim to the kingdom of Castile the artful\nmonarch of France chose to contend. Louis, therefore, wishing to avoid\nthe vicinity of Spain for his young _prot\u00e9g\u00e9_, persuaded his mother to\nwithdraw him from Pampeluna to his castle at Pau, where he went on with\nhis studies, and, by his amiable and conciliating disposition, won the\naffection of all his subjects, by whom he was quite adored, as well as\nby his mother, and his sister, the Princess Catherine, to whom he was\ntenderly attached.\n\nOne morning, as they were all three together engaged in their different\noccupations, a flute was brought to the young prince, who, after a time,\ntook it up with the intention of practising some music; for in this\naccomplishment he excelled. He had been playing but a short time when\nhis sister observed him turn pale, and the next moment the instrument\nfell from his hand: he uttered a deep sigh, and dropped senseless on the\nground. They lifted him up, used instant means for his recovery, but all\nwas vain; their hope, their joy, their treasure, was gone: Fran\u00e7ois\nPhoebus--the young, beautiful, and good--was dying. Poison had done its\nwork, and treason was successful: he lived but a few minutes, and his\nlast words were suitable to his pure life. When he saw his distracted\nmother and sister hanging over him in agony, he whispered, \"Do not\nlament, my reign is not of this world: I leave the things of earth, and\ngo to my father.\"\n\nWhat a scene of desolation ensued to the country and the bereaved\nmother, who had so long struggled with accumulated misfortune! To add\nto the difficulties of her position, her only support, Louis XI., just\nthen died, and, beset by ambitious ministers and selfish counsellors,\nbetrayed, deceived, and thwarted, the unfortunate Magdelaine sunk under\nher sorrows, and soon followed her fair son to the grave.\n\nHe was buried in great pomp at the cathedral of St. Marie of Lescar, and\nhis young sister, Catherine, was left to reign in his place. Of her\nProvidence made its peculiar care, and her fate, which threatened ill,\nwas happily turned aside.\n\nOlhagaray, the historian of B\u00e9arn, gives the affecting answer of the\nCountess Magdelaine to the ambassador of Spain, who, immediately after\nher son's death, came to her Court to treat for the hand of the young\nQueen Catherine. It was thus she spoke, \"with an infinity of sobs and\ntears:\"\n\n\"Gentlemen,--You find me in poor condition to receive you according to\nyour merits: but you see my desolation and misery, and the ruin which is\ncome upon me. This last torrent of misfortune is as a deluge which\noverwhelms me--a deep abyss of evil in which I am engulphed. Alas! when\nI consider the just grief which environs me, I know not where I am!\nGaston, the brave Gaston, my lord and my husband, while yet I was in the\nearly joy of his sweet society, and was happy in his precious affection,\nwas torn from me. My woes were softened, and the dark night of my\nwidowhood enlightened by the brightness of my Phoebus. Poor, desolate\nmother that I am! Heaven envied my content, and has hidden him from my\neyes. In this sad spot he expired: here, raising his eyes above, he\nexclaimed, 'My reign is not of this world!'\n\n\"Did we not, nevertheless, expect much of him! would he not, had he\nlived, have healed the wounds of his country, have applied salutary\nremedies to all her evils! He saw the difficulties, he prepared himself\nto thread the intricate mazes belonging to his crown of Navarre; yet,\nwhen he held it in his hands, he said, it was not that crown that he\nexpected.\n\n\"What means have I now left me in the world that permit me to speak to\nyou of the state of Spain, of the health of the king, the queen, or the\ncourt. I have no words but these, no reply but this: go, therefore, and\nfor all answer tell the king of Spain how you found me; say, that my\nsadness and my tears but ill permitted me to read the letter with which\nhe honoured me; and thank him that he has kept so kind a remembrance of\nme, praying him to continue me his friendship while I live his humble\nservant.\"\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER X.\n\n     THE ROMANCES OF THE CASTLE OF ORTHEZ--TOUR DE MONCADE--THE\n     INFANTS--THE SON OF GASTON PHOEBUS--- LEGENDS--THE OATH--THE BAD\n     KING OF NAVARRE--THE QUARREL--THE MURDER--DEATH OF GASTON\n     PHOEBUS--PARADISE THE REWARD OF HUNTERS--THE CAPTIVE--THE\n     STEP-MOTHER--THE YOUNG COUNTESS--THE GREAT BEAR--THE RETURN--THE\n     REAL CAUSE--THE MEETING IN THE FOREST--THE MASS.\n\n\nTHE most interesting place on the road to Bayonne is Orthez, once the\nseat of the counts of Foix. We proposed remaining there a short time, in\norder to visit its remains on our way to Bayonne, and alighted at the\nhotel of _La Belle H\u00f4tesse_, which is on the site of _La Lune_, where\nthe historian, Froissart, stopped some centuries before us, and where he\nheard so many stories and legends which he has immortalized in his\ncharming _romantic_ chronicle. The soldiers of Marshal Soult occupied\nthis inn in 1814, when the pale old lady, who is still mistress, then\ndeserved the title which her beauty gave to her house of entertainment.\n\nOn approaching Orthez we were struck with the appearance, on a height\nabove the town, of the castle ruins, whose battered walls seem so\nfragile that a breath of wind might blow them away: the upper part of\nthe great tower is much injured, and its irregular stones project in a\nmanner which threatens their fall: the blue sky shone through the arrow\nslits and windows, and the whole mass gave us an idea of its hastening\nto immediate dissolution. It has an imposing and venerable effect, and\nexcited in our minds considerable interest: we therefore hastened up the\nrugged way to the hill on which it stands, and there found ourselves in\nthe midst of the remains of one of the strongest castles of which this\npart of B\u00e9arn could boast, from the earliest time.\n\nIt is called the castle of Moncade, having been, in 734, the abode of a\nCatalonian knight of that name, who was accustomed to issue forth from\nthis strong-hold to combat the Moors of Spain. In after times the\nfortress was possessed by a warlike lady, called La Grosse Comtesse\nGarsende de B\u00e9arn, who, in 1242, offered her services to Henry III. of\nEngland; and, after having fought in his cause with her knights and\nvassals, and received a large sum of money in requital, she returned\nhome, and expended it on the castle, which she rendered impregnable. It\nwas probably a ruin in the time of Garsende; for the reparations she\nmade in the great tower are very evident; the lower part being more\ndiscoloured than the upper story, in which there are windows, at a\ngreat height, of trefoil form. The shape of the tower itself is very\nunlike any I had before seen, and seemed to me extremely curious; it is\nfive-sided, each side presenting an acute angle, and one being flattened\nat about a quarter of the height by a two-sided projection, which is not\na tower but probably a recess within from whence to send arrows; yet\nthere are no openings now visible; nor is there, on any side, a means of\nentrance, except that a square-headed window opens very high up in the\nwall towards the part where the rest of the castle joined this donjon. A\nlarge hole in the wall, towards the open country, made, perhaps,\noriginally by English cannon in 1814, and enlarged since, allows ingress\nto the interior. There are arches and recesses, and some ornamental\narchitecture to be traced within, but no doors in any direction; and my\nidea of the fragility of the building was quickly dispelled when I\ndiscovered that the solid walls were at least nine feet thick, the\nangles sharp as a knife, and the apparently tottering stones as firm in\ntheir rocky cement as if just built.\n\nAll round, for some extent, are remains of ruined walls, with a few\ncircular and pointed arches here and there; the clear stream flows\nbeneath where once was the moat, in one part, and on the other sides\nbushes and brambles fill up the defences. A huge, fearful-looking well,\nof enormous depth, is in the midst of all; where, perhaps, was once the\ninner court-yard, and here we saw a group of peasants drawing water;\nfor Orthez is so badly supplied that the townspeople have to mount this\nsteep height, and fill their brass-bound pails, from which they dispense\nthe fine clear water to the inhabitants. This must have been long a\ngreat inconvenience and trouble; but we discovered afterwards that\nanother fountain has been found in the town, not far from the bridge,\nwhere we saw numerous visitors busy in the same occupation.\n\nThe view from the castle-height is very fine; the last of the range of\nsnowy mountains seen in such perfection from Pau rises in great majesty,\nand closes the scene; while the luxuriant plain and hills around are\nseen to a great distance. The valiant Catalonian, and the fierce\ncountess, must have been dangerous neighbours to their foes, commanding\nas they did the country, for leagues round.\n\nOne of the lords of Moncade was father to a chosen Viscount of B\u00e9arn,\nknown in the annals of the country, amongst their numerous Gastons, as\nLe Bon.\n\nThe story told respecting him is as follows: In the year 1170, Marie,\nViscountess of B\u00e9arn, a young princess of only sixteen, was induced by\ninterested counsellors to do homage for her domains to Alphonso the\nSecond, King of Arragon. This act, which took place at Jaca, required to\nbe confirmed by the barons of B\u00e9arn; but the latter, indignant at the\ninfringement of their rights, and attack on the independence of their\ncountry, solemnly protested against the transaction, and proclaimed the\nyoung viscountess unfit to govern, deprived her of her power, and\nproceeded to the election of a new ruler.\n\nTheir choice fell on a lord of Bigorre, who, not proving himself worthy\nof his election, but endeavouring to violate the laws, was put to death\nin open assembly, falling, like C\u00e6sar, by the hand of a patriot. Another\ntook his place, but the B\u00e9arnais, it appeared, were particularly\nunfortunate in their selection, for he turned out no better than the\nformer, and was deposed.\n\nIt became necessary to fix on a governor, and the great men of the\nkingdom, consulting together, came to the following conclusion: The\nyoung viscountess, after her banishment, married William de Moncade, one\nof the richest lords of Catalonia, and the issue of this union was\ntwins, both boys. It was agreed that one of these should fill the vacant\nseat of sovereignty of B\u00e9arn, and two of the _prudhommes_ were deputed\nto visit their father with the proposition. On their arrival at his\ncastle the sages found the children asleep, and observed with attention\ntheir infant demeanour. Both were beautiful, strong, and healthy; and it\nwas a difficult matter to make an election between two such attractive\nand innocent creatures. They were extremely alike, and neither could be\npronounced superior to the other; the _prudhommes_ were strangely\npuzzled, for they had been so often deceived that they felt it to be\nmost important that they should not err this time. As they hung in\nadmiration over the sleeping babes, one of them remarked a circumstance\nthat at once decided their preference, and put an end to their\nvacillation; one of the little heroes held his hand tightly closed; the\ntiny, mottled palm of the other was wide open as it lay upon his snowy\nbreast. \"He will be a liberal and bold knight,\" said one of the\nB\u00e9arnais, \"and will best suit us as a head.\" This infant was accordingly\nchosen, given up by his parents to the wise men, and carried off in\ntriumph to be educated amongst his future subjects. The event proved\ntheir sagacity, and Gaston le Bon lived to give them good laws and\nprosperity.\n\nA descendant of this chief was a Gaston, who opposed Edward I., of\nEngland, and was thrown into prison by that terrible warrior, who\nrevenged his defeat in Santonge by fearful reprisals, and gave up the\ntown of Orthez to his soldiers, to pillage and destroy as they pleased.\nGaston was obliged to agree to a composition with the English prince;\nand he was released from his dungeon in a castle in Gascony. An appeal\nto the King of France was agreed on; and, when both were in presence of\nthe suzerain, Gaston threw down his glove of defiance against the King\nof England, calling him a traitor and felon knight. Edward, starting\nforward, and commanding his people, who heard the charge with rage, to\nstand back, picked up the glove himself, and entreated that a single\ncombat might be allowed between them. The King of France, however,\nopposed this; and the question of their dispute was decided by\nlaw--rather an unusual thing in those days.\n\nThis tower of Moncade,--rendered, it appears, by Gaston, the father of\nthe little open-handed hero, as like as possible to his ch\u00e2teau in\nCatalonia,--is the scene of several tragedies; and every stone could\ntell some tale of sorrow and oppression. There is something singularly\nfearful in the aspect of its strong walls and donjon, without an outlet.\nIn this very tower died, by his father's hand, the unfortunate son of\nGaston Phoebus, whose touching story is recounted by Froissart. Although\nwell-known, it is impossible to pass it over here, or to forget that\nequally melancholy history of the young Queen Blanche, poisoned by her\nsister.\n\n\nThe Son of Gaston Phoebus.\n\nFROISSART, after describing the splendours of the castle of Orthez in\nglowing terms, continues: \"Briefly, and, considering all things, before\nI came to this court I had visited those of many kings, dukes, princes,\ncounts, and ladies of high quality, but I never was in any which pleased\nme so well, for feats of arms and gaiety, as that of the Count de Foix.\nYou might see, in the saloons and the chambers and in the courts,\nknights and squires of honour going and coming; and you might hear them\nspeak of war and of love. All honour might there be found. There I was\ninformed of the greatest part of those feats of arms which took place in\nSpain, Portugal, Arragon, Navarre, England, Scotland, and the frontiers\nand limits of Languedoc, &c.; for I met there, on various missions to\nthe count, knights and squires of all these nations.\n\n\"Once, on a Christmas Day, I there saw at his table four Bishops, two\n_Cl\u00e9mentins_, and two _Urbanists_ (partisans of the rival popes). There\nwere seated the Count de Foix, and the Viscount de Roquebertin\nd'Arragon, the Viscount de Bruniquil, the Viscount de Gousserant, and an\nEnglish knight sent by the Duke of Lancaster, from Lisbon, where he then\nsojourned. At another table were five abb\u00e9s and two knights of Arragon;\nat another, knights and squires of Gascony and Bigorre; and the\n_sovereign master of the hall_ was Messire Espaign de Lyon, and four\nknights _ma\u00eetres d'h\u00f4tel_. And the count's two natural brothers, Messire\nErnould Guillaume and Messire Pierre de B\u00e9arn, served him, together with\nhis two sons, Messire Yvain de l'Escale and Messire Gratien. I must tell\nyou that there was a crowd of minstrels, as well belonging to the count\nas strangers, who filled up every interval with specimens of their art.\nAnd this day the count gave to both minstrels and heralds the sum of\nfive hundred francs; and habits of cloth of gold, furred with _menu\nvair_, he gave to the minstrels of the Duke of Touraine; the which\ndresses were valued at two hundred francs. And the dinner lasted till\nfour hours after noon.\"\n\nOne figure is wanting in this brilliant account--the only legitimate son\nof the magnificent Count of Foix, his child by Agnes of Navarre, whose\nplace, as well as that of her son, is vacant at her husband's table.\n\nWhat might, even then, be the pangs of remorse that shot along the mind\nof the mighty chief, as he looked round that brilliant assembly and felt\nthat his honours would end with himself? \"No son of his succeeding.\"\nWhere was the young, blooming, accomplished, and promising heir, so\nloved by his people, and once the object of his pride and hope?\nBrilliant and gorgeous as was the present scene, what would have been\nthat which should have welcomed the affianced bride of his son to his\ncourt? and many such would have hailed the happy events which might have\nensued. His two _natural_ sons, Yvain and Gratien, are there, full of\nbeauty, grace, and health; but, as the first approaches, and hands him a\ncup of wine, he trembles and sets down the goblet, untasted, for an\ninstant. He recovers, however, and quaffs the wine to the health of his\nfriends: the minstrels strike their harps; and one--the chief--bursts\nforth in a strain of adulation, lauding to the skies the glories and the\nvirtues of the most liberal and magnificent prince of his time. Gaston\nlistens with pride and satisfaction; and, by degrees, the low moaning\nwhich had seemed to sound in his ears dies away, and he laughs loud, and\ndispenses his gracious words around, endeavouring to forget that so\ngreat a prince could ever know care, or feel remorse, for what it was\nhis will to do. But it is necessary to tell why Gaston Phoebus felt\nremorse in the midst of his splendid court.\n\nAt the conclusion of a long war between the houses of Foix and Armagnac,\nit was agreed between the chiefs of the contending parties, that a\nmarriage should take place between Gaston, the young heir of B\u00e9arn, and\nthe fair Beatrix d'Armagnac. A temporary house was constructed on the\nconfines of the two territories, between Barcelone and Aire, where now a\nwooden pillar indicates the division of the departments of Les Landes\nand Gers; and there everything was settled. The Bishop of Lectoure said\nmass; and an oath of the most terrible description passed between the\ntwo princes, that they would never infringe the treaty. Part of the\n_formula_ ran thus: \"And, in case of failing in this promise, they would\ndeny God, _that he might be against them_; and, utterly to damn both\ntheir bodies and souls, they would take the devil for their lord, and\nhave their sepulchres in hell, now and for evermore.\"\n\nThe young bride, in consideration of twenty thousand francs of gold,\nwhich were given her as a dower, renounced all her rights, both paternal\nand maternal; and the pope, to stop the effusion of blood caused by the\nquarrels of the two houses, gave all the necessary dispensations\nrequired in consequence of parentage. Then the Bishop of Lescar\ncelebrated the betrothment, that same day, in the Ch\u00e2teau de Monclar.\n\nBoth bride and bridegroom were very young, full of hope, and with every\nprospect of happiness. _La gaie Armagnoise_, as the young princess was\ncalled, lively and happy, and, according to all historians, a lady of\nthe greatest amiability; the Prince of B\u00e9arn affectionate, brave, and\nhandsome. With the whole assembly at Monclar,\n\n    \"All went merry as a marriage bell;\"\n\nbut they had reckoned without Charles the Bad, King of Navarre!\n\nLike one of those fell enchanters of romance, who appear suddenly in the\nmidst of rejoicings where they have not been invited, and cast a spell\nupon the guests, changing joy to mourning, Charles of Navarre's\ninfluence blighted the\n\n    \"----bud of love in summer's ripening breath,\"\n\nthat\n\n    \"should prove a beauteous flower----.\"\n\nAgnes of Navarre, Countess of Foix, had become the victim of the\ndisputes between her husband and brother: she had been sent from\nGaston's court to that of Charles, in order to induce the latter to pay\na ransom which he owed the count, and which he treacherously and\ndishonourably withheld. The unfortunate wife remained at her brother's\ncourt, soliciting in vain that he should do justice to the severe\nhusband, to whom she dared not return empty-handed. Her son, attached to\nhis mother, and anxious to receive her blessing on his marriage,\nentreated permission to visit her in Navarre. He was received there with\ngreat demonstrations of honour and affection. Charles the Bad lamented\nto him the feud between his father and himself, and expressed his regret\nat the manifest dislike which Count Gaston showed to his wife, and\ndwelling much on this last cause of sorrow, in which the young prince\nheartily joined, he gave it as his opinion that the feeling must be\noccasioned by supernatural means, and could only be combated by a\nsimilar power. He had, he said, in his possession a medicine of such\nvirtue that, if it were administered properly, it would counteract any\nevil influence, and restore the mind of the person to whom it was given\nto a right tone.\n\n\"Take, my beloved nephew,\" said he, \"this bag of powder, and when an\nopportunity presents itself, pour it into your father's cup, or strew it\nover the meat he eats: it is a love potion--and no sooner shall he have\nswallowed it, than all his former affection for your dear mother will\nreturn. Think, then, what happy days are in store for us all! Agnes will\nonce more take her place amongst you; will bless you and your fair wife;\nand I, who am banished from that society I most prize, shall once more\nembrace my friend and witness his happiness.\"\n\nThis picture was too flattering to the ardent young boy of fifteen: with\nall the credulity of his time and the simplicity of his age, he caught\nat such a means of restoring his family to peace and joy, and,\ngratefully accepting the present of his uncle, he suspended the little\nbag containing the wondrous drug round his neck by a ribbon, and\ndeparted from the Court of Navarre full of hope and expectation.\n\nOn his arrival in B\u00e9arn he could scarcely refrain, in spite of his\nuncle's injunctions to the contrary, from communicating his secret to\nhis favourite brother, Jobain (Yvain), his father's natural son, who\nshared his confidence as well as his couch. Jobain, however, was not\nlong before he observed the ribbon round his brother's neck, and pressed\nhim to explain the meaning of the little bag which he saw suspended\nthere. Young Gaston, confused at finding his secret so nearly\ndiscovered, bade him inquire no further,--that there was a mystery\nattached to it which he dared not tell; \"but you will soon see,\" he\nadded, cheerfully, \"a great change in my father: and he and my dear\nmother will be well together.\"\n\nA few days after this, the brothers were playing at the _jeu de paume_,\nand a dispute arose between them which grow more and more violent, till\nGaston forgot himself so far as to strike Jobain on the face: it was but\na childish quarrel, which the next moment might have healed, but\nJobain's passion was so excited, that in his first fury he rushed to his\nfather, and accused Gaston of concealing in his bosom a bag of poison,\nintended to be administered to the count, in order to cause his death.\n\nCount Gaston, on hearing this accusation, without giving himself time\nfor a moment's reflection, which would have shown him the improbability\nof the story, burst into so ungovernable a fury that he became almost\nfrantic, and it was with the utmost difficulty his knights prevented his\ninstantly putting his son to death. The states of Foix and B\u00e9arn, to\nwhose judgment he was at length induced to refer the sentence of this\ninvoluntary parricide, were more moderate. \"My lord,\" said they, \"saving\nyour grace, we will not that Gaston should die: he is your heir, and you\nhave no other.\"\n\nIt is even asserted, that those of Foix in particular would not consent\nto retire until they had received a promise from the count that he would\nnot attempt his son's life. It was, therefore, on the servants of young\nGaston that the weight of his fury fell; and he caused no less than\nfifteen to suffer the utmost extremity of torture, under which they\ndied. As for the unhappy prince, he had already condemned himself.\nConfined in his tower of Orthez, he had taken to his bed, and there lay,\nconcealing himself in the clothes; and for several days refused all\nnourishment, giving himself up altogether to despair. Those whose\nbusiness it was to serve him, finding this, became alarmed, and,\nhastening to his father, related the fact:\n\n\"My Lord,\" said they, \"for the love of God, take heed to your son; for\nhe is starving in the prison, where he lies, and has not eaten since he\nentered there, for his meat remains untouched as when we first took it\ninto the tower.\"\n\nThereupon the count started up, without uttering a word, and, quitting\nhis chamber, hurried to the prison where his son was, says Froissart,\nand, \"by ill fortune, he held in his hand a _small, long knife_, with\nwhich he was cleaning and arranging his nails. He commanded the door of\nthe dungeon to be opened, when he went straight to his son, and, still\nholding the knife in his hand by the blade, _which did not project from\nit more than half an inch_, he caught him by the throat, calling out,\n'Ha! traitor!--why will you not eat?' and by some means the steel\nentered into a vein. The count, on this, instantly departed, neither\nsaying or doing more, and returned to his chamber. His poor child,\nterrified at the sight of his father, felt all his blood turn, weak as\nhe was with fasting, and the point of the knife having opened a vein in\nhis throat, _however small it might have been_,--turned him round--and\ndied!\n\n\"Thus,\" continues the chronicler, \"it was as I tell you: this was the\ndeath of young Gaston de Foix. _His father, in truth, killed him_; but\nit was the King of Navarre who directed the blow.\"\n\nThe agony of remorse or affection of the inhuman count, it is but just\nto say, was extreme, on finding how all had ended; \"and the body of the\nchild was taken away with cries and tears to the _Fr\u00e8res Mineurs_, at\nOrthez, and there buried.\"\n\nWhat now remained to the brilliant Gaston Phoebus? He had no legitimate\nchild, and he hated the next heir, Mathieu de Castelbon, \"because he was\nnot a valiant knight at arms.\" His intention was to leave his large\npossessions to his two natural sons; but, before he had made the proper\ndispositions to secure it to them, he was surprised by death in the\nhospital of Orion, two leagues from Orthez, as he was washing his hands\non his return from his favourite pursuit of hunting the bear, about\nwhich he is eloquent in his work on the Chase; and all that Yvain, the\nbetrayer of young Gaston, could do, was to take possession of his\nfather's ring, and his _little long knife_--that fatal instrument!--and\nby those tokens procured that the gates of the castle of Orthez should\nbe opened to him; hoping to obtain _a part of the treasures_ of the\ncount, who had not less than a million of crowns of gold in his coffers.\n\nIt was in the month of August, under a hot sun, that Gaston Phoebus had\nhunted the bear half the day; and on arriving at Orion, about two\nleagues from Orthez, he appeared delighted at the coolness of the fresh\nstrewn room, where the dinner was prepared: \"This verdure,\" said he,\n\"does me good, for the day has been fearfully hot!\" They brought him\nwater to wash, but no sooner did he feel its coldness on his\nfingers--which were \"_fine, long and straight_\"--than he was seized with\na fit, probably of apoplexy, and was dead almost immediately, to the\nextreme terror of all with him. Yvain, it seems, was at first full of\ngrief, but listened to the advice of those who recommended him instantly\nto repair to the castle of Orthez, and secure what treasure he could.\nAccordingly he rode off, and by showing the count's ring and knife, was\nadmitted; but the coffer, bound with iron and closed with many locks,\nwas opened by a key, which the count always wore round his neck, in a\nlittle bag, and that key was found by the chaplain on his master, after\nYvain's departure, who was vainly striving to force open the strong\nchest. The news, in spite of precaution, soon spread in Orthez; and the\ncitizens, who were all greatly attached to their lord, came in crowds to\nthe court of the castle, demanding news of him. Yvain was obliged to\nspeak to them from a window, and declare the truth; appealing to them to\nprotect his right, and not suffer the castle or its contents to be\ninjured. To this they all agreed, as they deplored his being\nillegitimate, and consequently incapable of succeeding his father.\n\nThen the air rung with lamentations. \"Alas!\" cried they, \"all will go\nill with us now! we shall be attacked by all our neighbours: no more\npeace and safety for us; nothing but misery and subjection, for we have\nnone to defend us now, and none to answer the challenger. Ha, Gaston!\nunfortunate son! why did you offend your father? We might still have\nlooked to you; for beautiful and great was your beginning, and much\ncomfort were we promised in you. We lost you too young, and your father\nhas left us too soon. Alas! he had seen but sixty-three years--no great\nage for a knight so powerful and so strong, and one who had all his\nwishes and desires. Oh, land of B\u00e9arn! desolate, and lamenting for thy\nnoble heir, what is to be thy fate? Never shall be seen the peer of the\ngentle and noble Count of Foix!\"\n\nWith such cries and tears was the body of Gaston Phoebus, \"uncovered on\na bier,\" brought through Orthez to the church of the Cordeliers, and\nthere laid in state; with forty-eight squires to guard it, and\nfour-and-twenty large tapers burning by it, night and day. Then came the\nburial, where knights and lords and bishops assisted; and the new Count\nof Castelbon, the heir of all the possessions of the magnificent Gaston,\nshowed becoming honour to his remains. Castelbon then took possession;\nand his first act was to provide for the two sons, who had no\ninheritance, and to release the prisoners in the tower of Orthez,--\"of\nwhich,\" says Froissart, \"there were many; for the Count of Foix, of\nexcellent memory, was _very cruel in this particular_, and never spared\nman, how high soever, who had offended him: nor was any bold enough to\nplead for the ransom of a prisoner, for fear of meeting the same fate:\n_they were put in the fosse, and fed on bread and water_. This very\ncousin, Castelbon, had been his captive in such a dungeon for eight\nmonths, and was ransomed only for forty thousand francs, and he held him\nin great hatred; and, had he lived two years more, he would never have\nhad the heritage.\"\n\nThe famous work of the count, on Hunting, he dedicated to the King of\nFrance; and in it he endeavours to prove the advantages, both to body\n_and soul_, of the manly exercise of which he was a passionate lover.\nHis own death appears to disprove his arguments, which are curious\nenough. He thus expresses himself in his Prologue:--\"I, Gaston, by the\ngrace of God, surnamed Phoebus, Count of Foys, and Lord of B\u00e9arn, have,\nall my life, been fond of three things--war, love, and hunting; in the\ntwo first others may have excelled me, and been more fortunate; but, in\nthe last, I flatter myself, without boasting, that I have no superior.\n* * * and, besides treating of beasts of chase and their natures, I am\nconvinced that my book is calculated to prove the great good that may\narise from the exercise of hunting. A man, by its means, avoids the\nseven mortal sins; for he has no time to think of the commission of any\nwhile he is engaged with his horses and hounds: he is more lively, more\nready, more expert, more enterprising, makes himself acquainted with\ncountries, and is quick and active: all good habits and manners follow,\nand the salvation of his soul as well; for, by avoiding sin, a Christian\nshall be saved; and this he does; therefore, a hunter must be saved. His\nlife is full of gaiety, pleasure, and amusement, and he has only to\nguard against two things: one, that he forgets not the knowledge and\nservice of God, _and does not neglect his duty to his liege lord_.\n\n\"Now, I will prove this fact. It is well known that idleness is the root\nof evil; when a man is lazy, negligent, unemployed, he remains in his\nbed, and in his chamber, and a thousand evil imaginations take\npossession of him: now a hunter rises at daybreak, and sees the sweet\nand fresh morning, the clear and serene weather; he hears the song of\nbirds warbling softly and lovingly, each in its language: when the sun\nis up, he beholds the bright dew glittering with its rays on streams and\nmeadows, and joy is in the heart of the hunter. Then comes the excited\ndelight of the pursuit, the cries, the sound of horns, the cry of dogs,\nthe triumph of success--what time has he to think of evil things! He\ncomes back weary, but satisfied; his early meal was but slight, for he\nset out so soon; it is late before he seeks a second, and that is seldom\notherwise than frugal; he washes, he dresses, and he sups upon his game,\nand shares it with his friends: then he enjoys the soft air of evening:\nafter his exertions, he lies him down in fine sheets of fresh and fair\nlinen, and sleeps well and healthily, without thinking of evil things.\nThus, by frugal living, great exercise, and cheerful occupation, he\navoids great maladies, has good health, _and lives long_. And never knew\nI man, who was attached to hawks and hounds, but was of good disposition\nand habits; for the love of hunting springs from nobleness and\ngentleness of heart, whether one be a great lord or a poor man, high or\nlow.\"\n\nThe brother of poor young Gaston, who, perhaps, had a deeper motive than\nmomentary passion when he made the accusation to his father which\ndestroyed him, guilty or innocent, afterwards met a dreadful doom. In\nthat fatal masquerade of savages, when Charles VI. was so nearly burnt\nto death, Yvain de Foix was one of those, whose dress catching fire,\nand being sewn on close to his skin, could not be taken off, and he died\nin extreme torture, after lingering two days. If he had, indeed,\nintended to effect his brother's death, what must have been his feelings\nunder all the frightful sufferings he endured!\n\nAlas! the glories of the magnificent Gaston Phoebus were fearfully\nextinguished in blood and flame! Alas! the splendours of the proud\ncastle of Orthez were dimmed with cruelty and suffering! No wonder that\nspectres are still said to walk and wail around the ruined tower; no\nwonder that the moans of the feeble prince, fainting beneath the blow of\nhis mail-clad chief, are heard at night echoing through the loop-holes\nof the battered walls; or that the plaintive cries of another victim\nstartle the shepherd returning late from the hills.\n\nThis other victim has also a melancholy story to relate of the injustice\nand cruelty of near relatives, and the dangers of exalted birth and\ngreat possessions. Charles and Blanche of Navarre, brother and sister,\nwere both \"done to death\" by those nearest to them; and while the pale\nshade of Queen Blanche still flits along the ruined battlements of\nMoncade, the spectre of Prince Charles haunts the streets of Barcelona,\nwhere he was poisoned; crying out for ever on his murderess,\n\"Vengeance--Vengeance on Do\u00f1a Juana!\"\n\n\nStory of Queen Blanche.\n\nThe mother of these two died, leaving the youthful Prince of Vienne heir\nto her kingdom of Navarre, having just married her eldest daughter,\nBlanche, to Henry, King of Castile, and her younger daughter, Leonore,\nto the Count of Foix. She was herself the wife of John, King of Arragon;\nwho, after her death, desired to be himself the sovereign of Navarre, in\nlieu of his son, Charles, whom he instantly confined in a dungeon in\nLerida. The prince was, however, beloved by the people, and the Catalans\nrose in a body to deliver him: they effected their purpose, and bore off\nthe rescued prisoner in triumph, but not before a cruel step-mother,\nDo\u00f1a Juana, who had replaced the first wife of King John, had\nadministered to him a potion, whose effects soon showed themselves, for\nhe died in the hands of his deliverers.\n\nThe young Queen Blanche, of Castile, was now the heiress of Navarre; but\nshe succeeded her brother only in his misfortunes and his fate. Married\nat twelve years old, her husband, when she was sixteen, had already\nrepudiated her, believing himself bewitched, and in danger in her\nsociety. Impressed with this imagination, the King of Navarre, in an\ninterview with his wife's brother-in-law, the Count de Foix, agreed that\nBlanche should be given up to him, and forced to embrace a life of\ncelibacy, in order that her sister, Leonore, Countess of Foix, should\nenjoy her possessions.\n\nWhen news was brought to Queen Blanche that she must follow the\nmessengers sent to Olite, to carry her to Orthez, her despair knew no\nbounds: she felt that her doom was sealed, and her fearful destiny was\nbut too clear to her mind. She even, in her agony, wrote a letter of\nentreaty to her unnatural husband, to entreat his protection; but he\nremained deaf and indifferent to her supplications, and the doomed lady\nwas taken away, a prisoner, to the tower of Moncade.\n\nHero, for two years, languished the ill-fated heiress; her captivity\nembittered by the sad reflection that her sister was her jailor, and her\nfather and husband her betrayers. A ray of hope suddenly gleamed upon\nher fortunes; but whether, in her secret dungeon, any pitying friend\ncontrived to let her know that she had yet a chance of escape and\ntriumph, does not appear. Louis XI. came into B\u00e9arn. It was not any\nfeeling of compassion for a political victim that influenced him to take\npart with the captive; for he was just the person to approve of an act,\nhowever cruel, which would secure power to a sovereign; but his own\ninterests appeared affected by this arrangement of things; and, in a\nconference at Pampluna, in which the powerful family of Beaumont offered\ntheir services to assist the project, it was agreed that the captive\nQueen should be demanded at the hands of the Count de Foix, and\nreinstated in her rights.\n\nLeonora and her husband saw that the time was come when nothing but a\nfurther crime could secure them from danger. Blanche, once dead, nothing\nstood between her sister and the throne of Navarre; and what was her\nlife in comparison with the great advantages they should derive? A\ndeputation from the states of B\u00e9arn arrived; the Beaumonts and King\nLouis sent imperious messages, which were received with the utmost\nhumility by the Count and Countess of Foix: they had no wish to oppose\nthe general desire; there was but one obstacle to the accomplishment of\nthe end in view. They represented that their beloved sister, whose\nhealth had long required extreme care, and who had been the object of\ntheir solicitude ever since Prince Charles's death, was on a bed of\nsickness--every hour she grew worse--and, at length, it was their\nmelancholy duty to announce her death.\n\n    \"Treason had done its worst,\"\n\nand Blanche had breathed her last in the Tour de Moncade.\n\nA magnificent funeral was prepared--much lamentation and mourning\nensued--and the body of the royal victim was pompously interred with her\nancestors, the Princes of B\u00e9arn, in the cathedral of Lescar.[35]\n\n[Footnote 35: Some historians say that Blanche was confined at the\ncastle of Lescar, but there is no foundation for the assertion: no\ncastle but that of Pau or Orthez would have been sufficiently strong to\nretain a prisoner of so much importance. Moret, and other Spanish\nauthors, relate the event as above.]\n\nFive years after this tragedy, the vengeance of Heaven--still called for\nby the shades of the brother and sister--overtook Do\u00f1a Juana, their\ncruel step-mother. She died in the agonies of a lingering disease, and\nin her torments betrayed, by her ravings, her crimes to all. Her\nconstant exclamation was, \"Hijo! que me caro cuestas!\" _Oh, my son! you\nhave cost me dear!_ alluding to her own son, for whose sake she had\nsacrificed the former children of her husband. She died, deserted by\nall; for that husband, equally guilty, on hearing that her words had\nbetrayed her, thought it policy to feign indignation at her wickedness,\nand refused to visit her in her dying moments. The memory of the\nunnatural father is still preserved in a Spanish proverb, which alludes\nonly to his sole good quality--liberality--in which he was extreme: in\napplication to courtiers--who look for presents which are long\ncoming--it is usual to say, \"Ya se muri\u00f2 rey Don Juan.\"\n\nThere is no end to the stories which may be told of the castle of\nOrthez, and those in its neighbourhood; the knights and squires of\nGaston de Foix's court, when not engaged in jousts and tournaments, or\nin fighting in earnest, seemed never weary of telling histories which\ntheir guest, Froissart, listened to with eager attention; amongst them,\nthe following is characteristic of his ready belief, and the credulity\nof the time:\n\n\nThe Great Bear of B\u00e9arn.\n\nMessire Pierre de B\u00e9arn, natural brother of Gaston Phoebus, was the\nvictim of a strange malady, which rendered him an object both of fear\nand pity: there was a mystery attached to his sufferings which no one of\nthe learned or inquisitive attendants who surrounded him could explain;\nand when Froissart inquired why it was that he was not married, being so\nhandsome and so valiant a knight, his question was met with \"the shrug,\nthe hum, the ha,\" that denoted some secret. At length, as he was not\neasily to be satisfied when anything romantic was on the _tapis_, he\nfound a person to explain to him how things stood with respect to the\nbrother of the count.\n\n\"He is, in fact, married,\" said the squire who undertook to resolve his\ndoubts; \"but neither his wife nor children live with him, and the cause\nis as follows.\" He then went on to relate his story:\n\nThe young Countess Florence, of Biscay, was left an heiress by her\nfather, who had died suddenly in a somewhat singular manner; his cousin,\nDon Pedro the Cruel, of Castile, being the only person who could tell\nthe reason of his having been put to death. His daughter, who feared\nthat the friendship of such a relation might be as dangerous to herself,\nbeing warned to avoid him, as she had fallen under his displeasure in\nconsequence of having hinted that she knew how his wife, the sister of\nthe Duke of Bourbon, and the Queen of France, met her end, thought it\nbetter to escape as quickly as she could from Biscay, leaving her\nestates in his power; and she came to the Basque country a fugitive,\nwith a small retinue, glad to have saved her life, though all besides\nwas his prey. This distressed damsel, knowing that all honour was shown\nto ladies at the court of Gaston de Foix, lost no time in directing her\nsteps to the Castle of Orthez, where, throwing herself at the feet of\nthe gallant count, she related her wrongs, and implored his assistance.\n\nGaston entreated her to be comforted, and assured her that he was ready\nto do all in his power to assist her: he consigned her to the care of\nthe Lady of Coarraze, his relation, a high baroness of the country. With\nall his generosity, Gaston Phoebus never seems to have lost sight of his\nown interest, and it struck him immediately that the heiress was exactly\nthe match he desired for his brother, Pierre de B\u00e9arn. Accordingly, he\nso arranged matters that the young Countess of Biscay and her domains\nshould remain in his family; he married her to Pierre, and re-conquered\nher lands from the cruel King of Castile.\n\nA son and a daughter were the fruits of this union, which appeared a\nhappy one; but the fates or the fairies did not allow it to remain so.\nIn B\u00e9arn, as in other parts of the world, although hunting is a very\nagreeable amusement, it sometimes brings with it unpleasant\nconsequences, though Count Gaston may say nay. The woods, forests, and\nmountains, it is well known, belong exclusively to beings who are\ntenacious of their reign being disturbed, and who generally contrive to\nrevenge themselves on the hardy hunter who ventures to invade their\nsecret retreats. Nevertheless, at all periods, men are found incautious\nenough to tempt them, and seldom does it happen that they do not suffer\nfor their temerity.\n\nPierre de B\u00e9arn, like his brother, Gaston, was remarkably fond of the\nchase. The Countess Florence, on the contrary, held the pastime in the\nutmost abhorrence, and to please her he abstained from the sport he\nloved during the early period of their union; but at length he became\nweary of this self-denial, and, in an evil hour, he set forth on an\nexpedition into the forests of Biscay to hunt the bear. He had not been\nfortunate at first in his search, and had climbed some of the highest\nparts of the mountain in hopes to meet with game worthy of him, when he\nsuddenly came upon the track of a tremendous animal, such as he had\nnever before beheld in his experience.\n\nHe followed it for some time over plains of ice, his gallant hounds in\nfull chase; at length, the mighty beast--apparently, indignant at their\nperseverance, just as they had arrived at a gorge of the rocks, beneath\nwhich a precipice descended on either side--turned round on his\npursuers, and presented a front sufficient to daunt the courage of the\nboldest. The dogs, however, rushed on him, but, with one blow of his\nenormous paw, he stretched them dead at his feet; four of the finest met\nthe same fate, and several, disabled and wounded, shrunk howling back to\ntheir master, who stood firm, his spear poised, waiting the proper\nmoment of attack. Pierre saw that no time was to be lost, for he was\nalone, having, in his eagerness, outstripped his companions; his dogs\nwere of no further use, and he must trust now to his own strength and\nskill.\n\nThe spear went flying through the air, and struck the monster in the\nbreast; furious with pain, he uttered a hideous howl, and rushed\nforward, catching, in his long claws, the left arm of the knight, whose\nright hand was armed with his hunting-knife, which he had hastily drawn\nfrom his belt; with this, in spite of the pain he felt, he continued to\nstrike the monster, whose roaring echoed through the caverns of the rock\nlike thunder at every stroke.\n\nAt this instant, and just as the knight's strength was nearly exhausted,\nhe beheld, with joy, his friends advancing to his aid; two of them\nsprang forward and discharged their spears; but still, though\ndesperately wounded, the bear would not release the arm he continued to\ngripe, and, as he turned upon them, dragged his first foe with him. As,\nhowever, his head was directed towards the new comers, Pierre, with a\nstrong effort, made another plunge in his neck, which instantly had the\neffect of making him release his hold; he then drew his dagger--for his\nknife remained in the animal's body--and, with the assistance of his\nfriends, the bear was despatched. As the body lay on the ground, a pause\nof astonishment ensued after the shouts of the victors; for never was so\ngigantic a beast beheld in the Pyrenees, and it seemed a miracle that\nPierre had escaped: his arm was fearfully injured, and he was faint with\nexertion; but his triumph was so great that he hardly permitted his\nwound to be bound up. They placed the carcase of the bear on their\nshoulders, and with great difficulty carried it from the spot where it\nfell; it was then consigned to their attendants, and the whole train\nreturned in great delight to the castle. As they entered the court, they\nwere met by the Countess Florence and her ladies, who had been uneasy at\nthe long absence of her lord. No sooner had she cast her eyes on the\nhuge beast they were carrying, than she turned deadly pale, uttered a\nloud shriek, and fainted on the ground.\n\nThe lady was borne to her chamber, and for two days and two nights she\nuttered not a word; but was in great pain and tribulation, sighing and\nmoaning piteously: at the end of that time she said to her husband, \"My\nlord, I shall never be better till I have been on a pilgrimage to St.\nJames; give me leave to go, and to take with me Pierre, my son, and\nAdriana, my daughter. I beg it as a boon.\" Messire Pierre, distressed to\nsee her situation, granted her request too readily.\n\nThe countess then ordered a great train to be prepared, and set forth on\nher journey, taking with her treasure and jewels of great value, which\nwas not much remarked at the time; but she knew well that she did not\nintend to return. Her journey and her pilgrimage accomplished, she\nannounced her intention to pay a visit to her cousins, the King and\nQueen of Castile; and to their Court she went, and was received with\njoy. And there the Countess Florence is still, and will not return, nor\nsend back her children. The very night on which he had killed the great\nbear, Messire Pierre was seized with the malady which has ever since\ntaken possession of him. \"He rises,\" said the squire, \"in the night,\narms himself, draws his sword, and, with loud and furious cries and\ngestures, like a man possessed, flies at every one near him, and makes\nsuch a terrific noise and confusion that it would seem fiends were in\nhis chamber. His squires and valets awake him, and he is quite\nunconscious of what has happened, and will not believe those who relate\nto him what he has done in his sleep. Now, it is said,\" continued the\nsquire, \"that the lady knew well what would happen the moment she saw\nthe great bear; for her father had hunted that very animal, and when he\ncame up to it, he heard a voice which said, 'Why do you persecute me\nthus? I never did you any ill: you shall die of an untimely death.' And\nso, indeed, did he, being beheaded by King Pedro the Cruel, without\ncause. This was the reason she fainted and was in such tribulation; and\nfor this cause she never loved her husband after, for she always feared\nhe would do her a bodily injury; and that harm would happen to her or\nhers, while she stayed with him.\"\n\nThe squire and the historian's comments on this strange story are more\namusing than wise. \"We know well,\" said Froissart, \"by ancient writings,\nthat gods and goddesses were in the habit of changing into birds and\nbeasts men and women who offended them. It might well, therefore, happen\nthat this great bear was in his time a knight accustomed to hunt in the\nforests of Biscay; he probably did something to anger some deity of the\nwoods, and consequently lost his human shape, and got changed into a\nbear, to do penance for his offence.\"\n\nWhether Froissart really believed what he was saying, or whether the\nopinion was merely advanced to afford him an opportunity to display his\nclassical learning, is not clear; but he forthwith inflicts upon his\nhearer the story of the \"_Joli Chevalier Acteon_;\" at which the other is\nmarvellously pleased.\n\nThey continue to speculate upon the reasons of the Countess Florence for\nquitting her husband, and conclude that she knew more than she chose to\ntell. It has been thought that the lady, when very young, was one day in\nthe forest, having strayed from the castle, within whose garden walls\nshe was weary of being kept. She was delighted when she found herself at\nliberty, and kept wandering on, up one alley and down another, wherever\nshe saw flowers, and the sun streamed through the leaves; till, at last,\nthe evening began to close, and she turned her steps to return; but\nthere was such a labyrinth of trees, and every path was so like another,\nthat she knew not which to choose, and became alarmed lest she should\nnot reach home before night, and her absence would be discovered. She\nhurried forward in great uncertainty, and her fears increased every\nmoment; for she seemed to be getting further and further in the depths\nof the forest; suddenly she came upon a great rock in which was a\ncavern, and at its mouth she paused a moment to look round her, when a\nsound issued from it which almost paralysed her with terror, and\npresently forth rushed a huge black bear, who seized her in his paws.\nShe shrieked loudly, for she expected her hour was come, when, to her\namazement, she heard a voice from the monster, and these words: \"You\nhave intruded on my privacy; I did not seek you; remain and be my\ncompanion, or at once I put you to death.\" She was so amazed that she\nhad scarcely power to answer; but summoning her courage, she replied, \"I\nam a great lady, and the daughter of the lord of Biscay: release me, and\nit shall be the better for you; kill me, and my father will take a\nsignal revenge.\" \"You shall not quit this forest,\" replied the monster,\n\"till you promise what I demand. I will then transport you to your\nfather's castle, when you shall make him swear never to hunt in my\ndomains again. If he should do so, he shall die a violent death; and all\nwith whom you shall in future be in connexion shall be under the same\npromise, or I will cause them to die badly. If any, after this vow, hunt\nme, and it should happen that I am killed, misfortune shall come on you\nand your race for my sake.\"\n\nThe lady promised, as indeed she had no choice but to do; and the great\nbear then ordered her to follow him; she did so, and in a few moments\nshe saw the castle in view. \"Now,\" said he, \"give me another promise. If\nI should be killed by any one belonging to you, swear that you will go\nto the shrine of St. James, of Compostella, and pray for my soul, for I\nam not a bear, as I appear, but a knight, transformed for my sins.\" As\nhe spoke, and while Florence made the vow he required, she saw his skin\nchanging by degrees, and his form taking another appearance, till he\nstood before her, in the misty light, a fair young knight, the\nhandsomest her eyes had ever beheld; he looked mournfully upon her, and\ndisappeared, and she found herself suddenly in her own turret, in her\nchamber, on her bed, and no one had perceived her absence. She related\nthis adventure to her father, who, much amazed thereat, refused to\ncredit her tale; nor would he give up his accustomed pastime of hunting\nfor all her entreaties, by which stubborn conduct his fate came upon him\nas has been related.\n\nThe lady, the more she thought of the beauty of the transformed knight,\nloved him the more; but she had no hope ever again to see him, and her\nmisfortunes having obliged her to quit her country, and take refuge in\nB\u00e9arn, all happened as has been told. She was not more fortunate with\nher husband than her father, in preventing his hunting in the forests\nof Biscay; and when she saw the great bear had been killed, she lamented\nher lover, as well as the ill fate which he had predicted for her\nlineage. Certain it is, that she never afterwards returned to Messire\nPierre, and that she gave great treasure to the church of St. James, of\nCompostella, that perpetual mass might be said for _a soul in\npurgatory_.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XI.\n\n     THE COUNTESS OF COMMINGES--THE CHARGE--THE PERSECUTED HEIRESS--THE\n     BRIDGE--THE CORDELIER--COSTUME--ASPREMONT--PEYREHORADE.\n\n\nALTHOUGH Count Gaston Phoebus was a tyrant, who spared none in his\nanger, yet he had all the virtues which were admired by the bold spirits\nof the men of his time; amongst the chief of which was hospitality. Like\na true knight of old, he afforded protection to distressed ladies and\ndamsels, and his Court was a refuge sought, and not in vain, by all who\nhad been injured by those stronger than themselves, or who required\nassistance in any way. Amongst other ladies who came to throw themselves\nat the feet of this redoubted righter of wrongs was the Countess Alienor\nde Comminges, wife of the Count of Boulogne, and the right heiress of\nthe county of Comminges, then in the hands of the Lord of Armagnac, who\nunjustly detained it. This spirited lady one day made her appearance at\nthe Castle of Orthez, with her little girl of three years old in her\nhand, and demanded protection of Gaston Phoebus. She was received with\ngreat honour and respect, and Gaston listened with great benignity to\nher complaint.\n\n\"My lord,\" said she, \"I am on my way to Arragon, to my uncle the Count\nd'Urgel, and my aunt-in-law, with whom I am resolved to remain; for I\nhave taken a great displeasure against my husband, Messire Jean de\nBoulogne; for it is his business to recover for me my heritage, kept\nfrom me by the Count of Armagnac, who holds my sister in prison; but he\nwill bestir himself in nothing, for he is a craven knight, fond of his\nease, and has no care but to eat and drink, and spends his goods upon\nidle and sensual enjoyment. And he boasts that when he becomes count he\nwill sell his inheritance in order to satisfy his foolish and childish\nwishes; for this cause I am disgusted, and will live with him no longer;\ntherefore I have brought my little daughter to deliver her into your\ncharge, and to make you her guardian and defender, to keep and educate\nher according to her station. I know well, that, for the sake of love\nand relationship, in this my great strait you will not fail me, and I\nhave no safe person with whom to confide my daughter, Jeanne, but you. I\nhave had great difficulty to get her out of the hands of my husband,\nwhich I was resolved to do, because I know the danger in which she\nstands from him, and from those of the house of Armagnac, being, as she\nis, the heiress of Comminges. I, therefore, beseech you to befriend me,\nand take charge of her; and when my husband finds she is in your\nguardianship, he will be himself rejoiced; for he has often said that\nthis child would be a source of great uneasiness to him in the future.\n\n\"The Count of Foix heard the lady, his cousin, speak these words with\ngreat satisfaction, and instantly imagined within himself, for he is a\nlord of great fancy,\" says Froissart, \"of how much service the charge of\nthis child might be to him, for she might be the cause of making peace\nwith his enemies, and by marrying her in some high place, he could keep\nthem in check; he, therefore, replied, 'Madam and cousin, willingly will\nI do what you ask, both from affection and parentage, by which I am\nbound to assist you. Leave your daughter with me, and rely on it she\nshall be cared for and treated as if she were my own child.' 'I thank\nyou greatly,' said the lady.\n\n\"The young daughter of the Count of Boulogne was therefore left at\nOrthez with the Count of Foix, and never departed from thence. And her\nlady mother took her way to Arragon. She came several times afterwards\nto see her child, but did not request to have her again: for the count,\nGaston Phoebus, acquitted himself of his charge as if she had been his\nown; indeed, it is said that he has a notion of marrying her to the Duke\nde Berri, who is a widower, and has a great desire to marry again.\"\n\nJeanne did in fact become the wife of the Duke de Berri, when she was\nunder thirteen, and he more than sixty; but, after all the care which\nhad been taken of her, and the \"coil\" that was made for her, she died\nearly, leaving no children. Her mother being dead, the inheritance of\nComminges devolved on her aunt, Marguerite, the same who was kept\nprisoner by the Count of Armagnac. The fate of heiresses in those days\nwas sad enough, and that of this countess particularly so. The Count of\nArmagnac married her to get her property; after his death she was forced\ninto an alliance with another of the same family, from whom, however,\nshe contrived to get a divorce, and then accepted the hand of a Count de\nFoix, probably from fear. This latter soon began to ill-treat her,\nhaving failed by entreaties to induce her to make over her possessions\nto him; finding her resolved, he leagued himself with one of her old\nenemies, Jean d'Armagnac, and they agreed together to share the spoil of\nher heritage. She was dragged about, from prison to prison, first in one\nstrong castle and then in another, for fear of its being known where she\nexisted; and for many years she languished in this misery. At this time\nCharles VII. was at the height of his successes, and some friend had\ncontrived to inform her of the changed aspect of affairs in France. In\norder to induce him to undertake her cause, she, by means of the same\nfriend, let him know that she had named him heir of all her property and\nestates--knowing, probably, too well, how little weight any\nconsideration but personal interest would have.\n\nThe tyrants soon discovered what she had done, and her treatment became\nstill worse. The arrogance and presumption of the Count d'Armagnac, who\nventured to put after his name, \"By the grace of God,\" and assumed the\nairs of a sovereign, added to which, _the unjust manner in which he\nacted_, at length irritated the king to such a degree that he summoned\nboth lords to appear before him at Toulouse, and commanded that they\nshould bring with them the Countess of Comminges.\n\nNothing was now to be done but to obey the strongest; and the two\ntyrants and their victim came to Charles, as he desired; he then took\nthe lady under his protection, and the Estates pronounced _her will\nvalid_; her husband being permitted to enjoy a certain portion during\nhis life. After this the countess remained with the king, and it is to\nbe hoped enjoyed a short period of repose. She died at Poitiers, upwards\nof eighty years old, and no sooner was she dead than the turbulent and\nambitious Armagnacs took possession, in spite of the king, of all her\nestates, about which, for long years, continual wars and contentions\nensued.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nOf all the castles in B\u00e9arn, perhaps that of Gaston Phoebus at Orthez is\nthe most suggestive of recollections; but I fear I have been led into so\nmany long stories beneath its ruined walls that the actual fortress\nitself is almost forgotten. We stood upon the irregular mound which its\naccumulated ruins present, remarking the fine effect of the distant line\nof snowy mountains, whose outlines varied from those familiar to us at\nPau, and enjoyed the sunset from that exalted position, which might have\noften been admired in the same spot centuries before, by the lords,\nknights, historians, minstrels, and distressed or contented damsels, who\nfilled the courts of the mightiest chieftain of B\u00e9arn.\n\nWe descended from the castle, through a long, dilapidated street, which\nseemed to know no end, and began to despair of ever reaching the bridge,\nwhen we were accosted by a good-natured looking woman, who offered to be\nour guide. After a long walk, through high, narrow, but not ill-paved,\nstreets, at last we came upon the roaring, foaming Gave: one of the most\nimpatient rivers that ever was confined by a bridge, or pent up by\ncrowding houses. On each side rise wild, grey, rugged rocks, some\ncovered with clinging plants, some naked and barren, over and between\nwhich the passionate torrent comes dashing and foaming, as if anxious to\nescape, as fast as possible, from the town which has intruded streets\nand mills on its original solitude, since the early period when some\nchivalric baron, or, perhaps, the Grosse Comtesse herself, threw over it\nthe strange old bridge, and placed in its centre the towered arch which\nno efforts, early or late, have been able to dislodge. To be sure, this\nis scarcely surprising, if, as tradition says, it was no mortal\narchitect who built this bridge; but a set of workmen whose erections\nare not easily destroyed, and who, after all, might have laid the first\nfoundations of the fortress on the height, as well as this huge tower,\nwhich seems of a-piece with one of the rocks its neighbours. The fact\nis, the fairies, who inhabited in former days the caverns of the Gave,\nand used to come out by moon-light in little boats on its waters, got\ntired of its continual roaring and foaming, and bethought them of a way\nto cross to the other side, without being either shaken or tossed by its\nturbulent waves, or wetting their tiny feet by stepping from stone to\nstone. They resolved, therefore, to throw a bridge over the stream, and,\ntaking a huge hollowed rock for the purpose, by their united efforts\nthey cast it across; and, as the water-spirits were offended on the\noccasion, and rose up against them, endeavouring to destroy their\nlabours, they found it requisite to build them a tower in the centre,\nwhich they defended against all comers. This was effected in a single\nnight; and the shepherds, who beheld in the morning what had been done,\nwould never have been able to account for it, but that, watching when\nthe moon was at the full, they perceived the fairies passing in crowds\nalong the bridge, and directing their way towards the opposite hill,\nwhere the castle stands. They have often been seen dancing round the\nruined well there; and, it is thought, can plunge into the spring, and\nreappear far up in the Gave at their pleasure. The shepherds, also,\nobserved that the castle was under their dominion; for they often\nremark, as they approach Orthez, on returning from the market at\nPeyrehorade, that the great tower, which is clearly visible on the\nheight at one moment, sinks gradually into the earth, the nearer they\ncome, and, at last, disappears altogether, nor is observed again, till\nthey have mounted the hill, to see if it really \"stands where it did;\"\nwhere they behold it as firm and as frowning as ever, laughing to scorn\ntime and the elements, and refusing to offer any clue to its mystery.\n\nThe bridge of Orthez has been the scene of terrible contentions, at\ndifferent periods. In the tower in its centre is a projecting window,\nfrom whence, tradition says, Montgomery, the Protestant leader, by the\norders of Queen Jeanne de Navarre,--to whom, in this country, all sorts\nof horrors are attributed,--caused the priests to be cast into the Gave,\nwho refused to become Calvinists. The window is called _La frineste de\u00fcs\ncaperas_ (_the priests' window_). In those times of outrage and\nviolence, this might, or might not, be true; but certain it is that\nthree thousand Catholics, men, women, and children, perished in the\nsiege which Montgomery laid to Orthez, and that the sparkling, foaming\ntorrent which we looked at with such pleasure, then rolled along a\ncurrent of blood.\n\nIt is said that, during the assault of the town, a Cordelier was\ncelebrating mass in his convent, and had the courage to finish the\nceremony in spite of the tumult around; he then concealed the sacred\nchalice in his bosom, and cast himself from his convent-window into the\nGave. The waters bore him on to the Adour; and his body, tossed and torn\nby the rocks, was finally deposited on the bank, beneath the walls of a\nconvent of the same order, at Bayonne, where the shuddering monks\nreceived and bore his mutilated remains to their chapel, with weeping\nand lamenting for the misfortunes of their brethren.\n\nThe \"Ch\u00e2teau Noble\" of Gaston Phoebus had then to endure a terrible\nsiege: the Viscount de Terride had sustained himself there as long as\npossible; but, wanting provisions, was at length obliged to yield, and\nwas, with all his garrison, carried prisoner to Pau. There those\nofficers who, being B\u00e9arnais, had been taken in rebellion against their\nQueen, were served with a banquet called _le repas libre_, at the\nconclusion of which they were all put to the sword.\n\nThe costume of the female peasants in this neighbourhood is almost\ninvariably a short scarlet petticoat, and brown or black tucked-up gown,\nwith a bright-coloured handkerchief on the head, tied in the usual\n_gentil_ style, with all four ends displayed, so as to show their rich\nhues,--one being allowed to fall longer than the rest; in dirty weather,\nthe legs and feet are bare, and the sabots carried. Many very large\nstraw hats are worn, lined with smart colours, and tied with ribbon; but\nit must be confessed that most of these are very old, and have long\nsince lost their early brilliancy.\n\nThere is nothing remarkable in the costume of the men,--the customary\n_berret_ being the covering of their heads, and either a blue blouse, or\na dark dress, with red sash, and sometimes a red waist-coat,\ndiversifying their appearance. We were not struck with the beauty of any\nof the peasants we met. Being market-day, the road was crowded for\nseveral leagues, and we thought we had a good opportunity of judging:\nhowever, a French fellow-traveller told us our idea was erroneous, as\nthe young girls were seldom allowed to come to the market, which was\ngenerally attended by matrons only. However this might be, we certainly\nsaw nothing beyond very ordinary faces, and the common defect of\nmountainous countries--the frightful _go\u00eetre_--too evident. It is the\ncustom with most persons, when they first arrive in a place, to adopt\nsome received opinion, which not the strongest evidence of their senses\nis allowed afterwards to shake; and thus it appears heresy, either to\ndisbelieve in the salubrity of Pau, or in the beauty of the inhabitants\nof all the country round. If beauty were merely comparative, the notion\nmay be true; but, though those who are not affected with _go\u00eetre_, and\nwho are not hollow-cheeked, and thin, and brown, are prettier than those\nwho are,\n\n\"Yet beautie is beautie in every degree;\"\n\nand \"pretty Bessies\" appeared to me to be very rare in B\u00e9arn.\n\nThere is a very imposing building situated on the Gave, of which the\ntownspeople are extremely proud: it is a corn-mill, of great power,\nlately erected, and extremely successful. It appears that the town of\nOrthez is in a flourishing condition, as to trade. Here are prepared\nmost of the hams so celebrated throughout France, under the name of\nBayonne-hams; and here numerous flocks of the fat geese which furnish\nthe markets of the neighbouring towns with _cuisses d'oies_, so prized\nby gourmands, are to be seen. But the most picturesque _flocks_ we\nobserved on this road, were those of the round, pretty sheep, with thick\nsnowy fleeces, just returned from the mountains, where, delicate as they\nlook, they have been accustomed, all the summer, and till late in the\nautumn, to climb to the highest point of the Pic du Midi itself. They\nwere now being conducted to the valleys and plains for the winter, and\nthe meadows were whitened with them in all directions.\n\nThis part of the country was, formerly, thickly-wooded, and occasionally\na few oak woods are passed on the road; but the continuous forest which\nonce spread abroad in this direction has disappeared. On approaching the\nlong, desolate-looking bourg of Peyrehorade,--which, however, on\nmarket-days, is bustling and crowded enough--a ruin, on a height not\nunlike that of Orthez, looks proudly over the plain, where two Gaves\nunite. It is the Ch\u00e2teau d'Aspremont, once redoubted, and of great\nforce, and belonging to that good and noble governor of Bayonne, who\nsent back to Charles IX. the answer so often quoted, when commanded to\nexecute all the Protestants in his town of Bayonne--that he had examined\nthe persons under his command, and had found them brave and true\nsoldiers, but no executioners.\n\nThe singular-sounding name of _Peyre-Hourade_ has the meaning of\n_Pierced Stone_, and comes from a Druidical monument in the\nneighbourhood. These remains are rare in the Pyrenees, though so\nfrequently met with in other parts of France. In a meadow, not far\nremoved from the high-road, is a block of granite, nearly flat, of great\nheight, standing upright on the narrowest end: there is no quarry of\nsimilar stone in this part of the country; and its isolation and quality\nrender it a subject of surprise--as much so as the unexplained wonders\non Salisbury Plain. The fairies, no doubt, if any fortunate individual\ncould make friends with them now, could set the matter at rest;\n\n\"But now can no man see none elv\u00e9s mo!\"\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XII.\n\n     BAYONNE--PUBLIC WALKS--BIARITZ--ATALAYA--GIANT FERNAGUS--ANNE OF\n     NEUBOURG--THE DANCING MAYOR.\n\n\nFROM Orthez we continued our way to Bayonne, where it was our intention\nto remain a few days. The entrance to Bayonne, that famous city, whose\nmotto is \"Nunquam Polluta\"--\"_Always pure_,\" from the separate town of\nSt. Esprit, which is in the department of the Landes, as well as half of\nthe bridge which connects it with its more important sister, is\nextremely striking. This bridge is over the fine bold river Adour, which\njoins the Nive here, and, together, they divide the town between them.\nAlthough Bayonne has few public monuments of much consequence, yet the\ncathedral, the towers of the two castles, and other buildings, rise from\nthe rivers in great majesty; and, as we crossed the immensely long\nwooden bridge at a slow pace, gave us a good impression, which a closer\nview did not disappoint. It has a singular aspect, unlike that of any\nother town, and the air all round it is pure and healthy; and we felt\nhappy for the time to have exchanged the icy chill of the snowy\nmountains for the freshness of the sea breeze.\n\nThere are few old towns in France, which can be called fine in\nthemselves: their advantages lie in situation, and in the modern\nadditions which have succeeded to the ramparts and close-walled\nenclosures of the ancient time, when to crowd streets together and fence\nthem in was the principal aim; but Bayonne, although still fortified\nstrongly, is less confined than most cities: a thorough air blows\nthrough the tolerably well-paved streets; open spaces occur every now\nand then, narrow and close places have been cleared, and the two fine\nrivers and their quays prevent its being so crowded as it might\notherwise be. The houses are very high, which makes the streets appear\nnarrower than they really are; but they are not very long, and intersect\neach other in a manner to prevent their being disagreeable.\n\nThere are arcades in the old part, as at La Rochelle and Agen, some of\nwhich are very dark and narrow, and occasionally strange alleys appear,\nas sombre and dismal as any in Rouen itself; but this is not the general\ncharacter of the town. One long, handsomely-paved street, is bordered\nwith fine houses and planted with trees, in the style of Bordeaux, and\nhere are situated most of the hotels; the grand squares of the Theatre\nand Douane open from this, and the magnificent all\u00e9es marines extend\nfrom this spot.\n\nEverywhere in Bayonne, it is easy to escape from the bustle of the city,\nand find yourself in a beautiful, shaded walk--an advantage seldom\npossessed by a commercial town.\n\nAlthough many are delightful, and there is only the embarrassment of\nchoice, the most beautiful and agreeable, it must be allowed, are the\nall\u00e9es marines, which are walks nicely kept, planted with several rows\nof fine trees, reaching along the banks of the Adour for an immense\ndistance, with meadows on the other hand, and a range of cultivated\nhills on the opposite shore. The fine broad, sparkling, agitated river,\nis dotted with vessels of different sizes, some of them moored to the\nbank; a fresh breeze from the sea comes sweeping along, bringing health\non its wings; the citadel crowns the height of St. Esprit; the cathedral\nrises above the other town; before is the meeting of the bright waters,\ntrees, groves, and meadows everywhere; murmuring streams, spanned by\nwooden bridges, hurry along to throw themselves into the bosom of the\nAdour at intervals, and the whole scene is life and brilliancy.\n\nThis walk is a kind of shaded jett\u00e9e, and has, unlike most French\npromenades, nothing formal or monotonous about it: the trees are allowed\nto throw their branches out at pleasure, without being clipped into\nform; they are irregularly planted, so that the favourite straight lines\nare avoided, and the fine sandy soil does not allow the paths to remain\ndump half an hour at a time; consequently, it is always a safe lounge,\nand, assuredly, one of the most charming possessed by any town I ever\nsaw. It is as agreeable, although not resembling it in its features, as\nthe mail which charmed us so much at La Rochelle.\n\nThe days were very uncertain, and violent showers overtook us every half\nhour, while we remained at Bayonne; yet we contrived to escape damp in\nthese pretty alleys, which, one minute swimming with water, were, in an\nincredibly short space, dry and pleasant again.\n\nThe first anxiety on arriving at Bayonne, is always, of course, to get\nto the sea; even the cathedral, our usual first visit, we neglected, in\norder to take advantage of a gleam of sun, and hasten to Biaritz, which\nlies about a league from the town: there is now a fine road to St. Jean\nde Luz, by which you reach this celebrated bathing-place; and the\noften-described cacolets, which even now travellers venture to tell of,\nare dwindled into a tradition. In the season, one or two of these\nprimitive conveyances may still, it is said, be seen, as the English are\namused at endeavouring to ride in them; but, except one has a preference\nfor broken limbs to safety, there is no reason why any one should\nchoose such a carriage. They are, in fact, _now_, two panniers, in which\ntwo persons sit on each side of a horse, with the legs hanging down:\nformerly, it was merely a board slung across the animal's back, on which\nthe traveller sat see-saw with his guide; and numerous are the accounts\nof perils encountered on a bad road in these conveyances twenty years\nago. Omnibuses, cabriolets, and coaches of all kinds are now to be had,\nand there is neither pleasure nor glory in going uncomfortably in the\nobsolete _cacolet_.\n\nBiaritz has greatly changed its aspect, since Inglis described it as a\ndesolate fishing village: it has grown into a fashionable\nwatering-place, full of fine hotels and handsome houses, with\naccommodations of all sorts; the sands are, in the bathing-season,\ncovered with pavilions for the bathers, and all the terrors and dangers\nof the Chambre d'Amour and the Grottos of Biaritz, are over: that is to\nsay, as far as regards persons being carried away by the tide, or\nsurprised by the waves amongst the rocks; for, unless any one was silly\nenough to place himself in danger, no risk need be run, as it does not\n_now_ come to seek you. The rocks, however, are still terrible to\nmariners in a tempest; when, in spite of the warning _pharos_, which\ncrowns the height, the vessel is driven into these little bays,\nbristling with rocks of all sizes and forms, each capable of causing\nimmediate destruction. No winter passes without dreadful disasters on\nthis beautifully dangerous coast, which looks not half so fatal as it\nreally is.\n\nI had so often heard Biaritz described as magnificent, that I had\nimagined a bold coast of gigantic cliffs and huge blocks of pyramidal\nstone, piled at distances along the shore, like those at the back of the\nIsle of Wight, or on the Breton coast. I was, therefore, surprised to\nfind only a pretty series of bays, much lower, but not unlike the land\nat Hastings, with the addition of small circles of sand, strewn with\nlarge masses of rock, over and through which the restless waves drive\nand foam, and form cascades, and rush into hollows, roaring and beating\nagainst the caverned roofs and sides with the noise of cannon, increased\nin violence according to the state of the elements.\n\nIn rough weather the sea is so loud here that the reverberation is\ndistinctly heard at Bayonne, as if artillery was being fired, and its\nhoarse murmur is generally audible there at all times. A fine\nlight-house has been erected on a height; but this precaution does not\naltogether prevent accidents, and scarcely a winter passes without sad\nevents occurring on this dangerous coast. A few days only before we\nvisited Biaritz, an English vessel had been lost, with all hands on\nboard, except a poor man, who had seen his wife perish, and his two\nlittle children washed on one of the rocks: there they lay like\nstar-fish, and were taken off by the pitying inhabitants. I could not\nlearn the exact particulars, but I believe only one survived, which was\nimmediately received into the house of an English family who reside at\nBiaritz, and who benevolently took the little stranded stranger under\ntheir protection.\n\nThere was always, it seems, a look-out house on the hill above the\nrocks; and formerly it was requisite to watch lest the vessels of those\nnumerous pirates who infested these seas should come down upon the\ncoast. The mount where it stood is called by its old name, _Atalaya_.\nWhether it has anything to do with the former inhabitant of a ruined\ntower which still looks over the ocean, as it did in ages past, does not\nappear; but it may have been connected with the giant Ferragus, or\nFernagus, of whose castle this piece of ruin alone remains.\n\nThe giant Ferragus was one of those tremendous pagan personages, to\nconquer whom was the chief aim and end of the Paladins of the time of\nCharlemagne; and history has recorded the combat of Roland, the great\nhero of these parts, with this redoubted Paynim.\n\nBiaritz was amongst the places in the Pays Basque, named by the cruel\ninquisitor, Pierre de Lancre, as \"_given up to the worship of the\ndevil_;\" he tells us that the devils and malignant spirits, banished\n_from Japan and the Indies_, took refuge in the mountains of Labourd:\n\"and, indeed,\" continues this miserable bigot, in whose hands was placed\nthe destiny of hundreds of innocent creatures, \"many English, Scotch,\nand other travellers coming to buy wines in the city of Bordeaux, have\nassured us that in their journeys they have seen great troops of demons,\n_in the form of frightful men_, passing into France.\" Above all, he\nasserts that the young girls of Biaritz, always celebrated for their\nbeauty, have \"in their _left eye a mark impressed by the devil_.\"\n\nBayonne has several new quarters still unfinished, which promise to be\nvery handsome and commodious. There is a sort of imitation of Bordeaux\nin the style of building, without altogether such good taste: at least,\nthis may be said of the theatre, which, though immensely large, is much\nless majestic or beautiful; its position is, perhaps, even better than\nthat of Bordeaux, as it stands in a large uninterrupted square, with a\nfine walk and trees by the quay on one side; and all the streets which\nextend from it are new and wide.\n\nThe street in which the principal hotels are placed is very like one on\nthe _cours_ at Bordeaux, and is remarkably striking; but, besides this,\nthere is little to admire in the town, except the singularity of two\nrivers running through its streets, like another Venice.\n\nThe residence of the Queen of Spain, Anne of Neubourg, widow of Charles\nII., at Bayonne, is still remembered, and anecdotes are told of her\nduring her long stay of thirty-two years. She arrived on the 20th\nSeptember, 1706, and was received with great honours by all the\ndignitaries: the town was illuminated, and the streets hung with\ntapestry, as she passed to the Ch\u00e2teau-Vieux, where she took up her\nabode. She seems to have been very much beloved, to have shown great\nbenevolence, and made herself numerous friends. Her generosity and\nprofusion, however, caused her to leave on her departure twelve hundred\nthousand francs of debt, which Ferdinand VI. had to pay. Scandal was not\nsilent concerning her, and a lover was named in the young chevalier\nLarr\u00e9t\u00e9guy whose brother was at one time confined in the Ch\u00e2teau d'If\nfor an impertinent exclamation which he made one day when the Queen's\ncarriage was stopped by the crowd on the Pont Majour--\"Room for my\nsister-in-law.\" A fine complexion and an air of majesty constituted her\nbeauty; but she grew enormously fat, and was not remarkable for her\noutward attractions.\n\nShe seems to have exhibited some caprice in her rejection of a palace\nwhich she had caused to be built at great expense. It was called the\nCh\u00e2teau de Marrac, and had been erected under her orders with infinite\ncare: when it was finished she refused to occupy it in consequence of\none of her ladies having presumed to take possession of a suite of\nchambers previous to her having been regularly installed as mistress.\nThis was the reason assigned; but she had, it may be imagined, a better\nto give for abandoning a place which had cost her so much money.\n\nShe made frequent journeys to St. Jean Pied de Port, Bidache, Cambo,\nTerciis, &c., for her health, and was always received on her return to\nBayonne with sovereign honours. The magistrates of the town went, on one\noccasion, to meet her with offerings of fruit, flowers, expensive wines,\nhams, and game, all in silver filigree baskets, beautifully worked.\n\nDuring a dangerous illness which she had, the shrine containing the\nrelics of St. L\u00e9on was lowered, as in a period of general calamity; and,\non her recovery, prayers and thanksgivings were commanded, and a solemn\nprocession of all the officers of the town, civil and military, took\nplace.\n\nIn 1738 she returned to Spain, greatly regretted by all who had known\nher at Bayonne; and, it seems, she was so much impressed with sorrow at\nhaving left an abode so agreeable to her that she survived only two\nyears, and died at Guadalajara in 1740.\n\nAn account of a f\u00eate, given by the Queen on occasion of some successes\nin Spain which greatly rejoiced her, concludes with the following rather\namusing sentence: \"After the repast was finished, much to the\nsatisfaction of all, a _panperruque_ was danced through the town. M. de\nGibaudi\u00e8re led the dance, holding the hand of the _Mayor of Bayonne_;\nthe Marquis de Poyanne bringing up the rear: so that this dance rejoiced\nall the people, who, on their side, gave many demonstrations of joy. It\nlasted even till the next day amongst the people, and on board the\nvessels in the river; and the windows of every house were illuminated.\"\n\nBayonne has a reputation for being in general extremely healthy; and its\nposition, in reach of the fine fresh sea air, seems to render it\nprobable. To me, after the close atmosphere of Pau, it was peculiarly\npleasant; and seemed to give new life, and restore the spirits,\ndepressed by that enervating climate, where, except for invalids, a long\nresidence is anything but desirable.\n\nThere seems but little commercial movement at Bayonne, and no bustle on\nthe quays; indeed, except at Nantes, I have always, in France, been\nstruck with the quiet and silent aspect of the seaports; so unlike our\nown. Just at the time we were there, great complaints were being made,\nin consequence of the prohibition of Spanish ships from touching at any\nport of the South of France: commerce was at a stand-still, and all\npersons in trade seemed vexed and disappointed at the bad prospect\nbefore them.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XIII.\n\n     BASQUE LANGUAGE--DIALECTS--WORDS--POETRY--SONGS--THE\n     DESERTER--CHARACTER--DRAMA--TOWNS.\n\n\nTHE Basque country,--in which the ancient town of Bayonne, or Lapurdum,\nholds a principal place,--is unequally divided between France and Spain.\nThe one part is composed of La Soule, Basse Navarre, and Labourd, and\nextends over a surface of about a hundred and forty square leagues; the\nother portion comprises Haute Navarre, Alava, Guipuscoa, and Biscay, and\ncontains about nine hundred and sixty square leagues: so that the whole\ncountry in which the Basque language is spoken, enclosed between the\nAdour, B\u00e9arn, the river Arragon, the Ebro, and the ocean, contains not\nless than eleven hundred square leagues. Part of this extent is barren,\nrude, and wooded, and is said to resemble the ancient state of Gaul, as\ndescribed by historians. Though immense tracts of wood have been cleared\naway, there is still more in this region than in any other of the\nPyrenees; there are three great forests; one of Aldudes, in the valley\nof Balgorry, where exist the only copper-mines in France; the forest of\nIrati, near Roncevaux; and that of St. Engrace, which joins the woods of\nItseaux.\n\nThe habits, manners, and language, of this people have engaged the\nattention of the curious for a series of years; and the speculations\nand, surmises to which they have given rise are without end. Although it\nis generally thought that the Basques are descendants of the ancient\nIberians, some learned writers contend that the singular language which\nthey speak, and which has no resemblance to that of any of the nations\nwhich surround them, approaches very near the Celtic.\n\nWhether they are _Vascons_ or _Cantabrians_, they are called, in their\nown tongues, _Escualdunac_, and their language _Escuara_. Seventy-two\ntowns, bourgs, and villages, are named, by Du M\u00e8ge, as appropriated to\nthe people of this denomination,--that is, from the mouth of the Adour\nto the banks of the Soison and the mountains south of the Pays de Soule.\nHe remarks that no historian of antiquity has made mention of this\npeople, or their language, under the name they at present bear; and it\nwas never advanced till the end of the sixteenth and beginning of the\nseventeenth centuries, that the inhabitants of Alava, Guipuscoa, and\nSpanish and French Navarre had preserved the ancient language of the\nIberians, and that they were the representatives of that nation; never\nhaving been conquered by any foreign invaders, and never having mixed\ntheir blood.\n\nDu M\u00e8ge observes, on these pretensions: \"History, studied at its purest\nsources, and from its most authentic documents, proves that, in the most\ndistant times, several nations,--amongst whom, doubtless, should be\nincluded those who first inhabited the coasts of Africa,--came and\nestablished themselves in Spain. The Pelasgians, the Greeks of\nZacinthus, of Samos, the Messineans, the Dorians, the Phoceans, the\nLaconians, the Tyrians or Phoenicians, the Carthaginians, the Celts or\nGauls, and the Eastern Iberians. Strabo mentions that in the Peninsula\nwere many different languages _and alphabets_; no doubt, as many\nalphabets as idioms. Great care has been taken to discover the origin of\nthese alphabets, the letters of which _are still to be found in Spain,\nin several inscriptions engraved on marble_, and in numerous medals.\"\n\nNothing satisfactory, however, has been established respecting the\nlanguage; but a probable one appears to be Velasquez' opinion, that it\nis formed of dialects of Greek and Hebrew; but this opinion is combated\nby many learned Spaniards. One author, in particular, was so violent in\nhis enthusiasm, that it led him to discover all the ancient history\ncombined in the Basque language. To him it was of little consequence\nthat the names mentioned by different authors belonged to Spain, Africa,\nEngland, or Normandy,--the learned Dr. Zu\u00f1iga, cur\u00e9 of Escalonilla,\nexplained them all as _Basque_. Thus, for instance, _Scotland_, called\n_Escocia_ in Spanish, he asserts was so called from _escuocia_, a _cold\nhand_! Ireland, which is Irlanda in Spanish, means, in Basque,\n_Ira-Landa_, i.e., _meadow of fern_: and so on to the end of the\nchapter, in a strain which becomes highly comic. Another writer followed\nin his steps,--Don Juan de Erro y Aspiroz,--who surpassed him in\nabsurdity; proving to his own satisfaction, not only that the Basque is\nancient, but that its alphabet _furnished one to the Greeks_, and that\nthe same nation instructed the Phoenicians in the use of money; added to\nwhich, they passed into Italy, and _from them_ sprung the Romans--those\nconquerors of the world.\n\nCertainly, etymologists do fall into strange errors; as when the forgery\n_pour rire_ of Count de Gibelin was taken for the Lord's Prayer in\nCeltic, and explained as such by the famous Lebr\u00efgant!\n\nHumboldt, in his \"Researches\" on the origin of the first inhabitants of\nSpain, falls into errors which are to be lamented; as his great name may\nafford sanction to the dreams of others. He acknowledges that he is\npuzzled to find that there is no trace amongst the ancients of the term\nEscualdunac. He does not go so far as Zu\u00f1iga, who discovers in the name\nof Obulco, engraved on ancient medals, Tri-Gali, i.e. \"laughing corn\" or\nBalza-Gala--\"black corn:\" that Catalonia (evidently a modern name)\nsignifies, \"The country of wild cats.\" Cascantum--\"dirty place;\" and\nHergaones--\"good place of the spinners!\"\n\nDu M\u00e8ge observes, that Humboldt has unfortunately followed former\nwriters too much; and though all he writes is worthy of respect, he\nfails to convince, in this treatise, having begun on false ground. Since\nthen, M. de Montglave has \"proved\" a fact which is very startling,\nnamely, that there is a great affinity between the Basque language and\nthe dialects of the indigenous nations of South America![36]\n\n[Footnote 36: This M. Mazure will by no means allow in his \"Histoire du\nB\u00e9arn et du Pays Basque.\"]\n\nThis last circumstance, which new observations seem to render more and\nmore probable, would at once put an end, if really proved, to all\ndiscussion, and open a new field for speculation. It would be somewhat\ncurious to establish the certainty of the South Americans having\ndiscovered and colonized Europe many centuries before they were\nre-discovered by Europeans!--this, once determined, the Druid stones and\nthe round towers of Ireland might all, by degrees, be explained: the\nobstinate resolve of all learned persons to derive everything in Europe\nfrom the Greeks and Romans, or to go to the far East, when fairly driven\nthere, to find out origins, is very hard upon the enormous double\ncontinent of the New World, whose wondrous ruined palaces prove the\noriginal inhabitants to have been highly civilized and of immense power:\nand which, by its extent and variety, might cast into insignificance\nthose proud specks which imagine themselves suns, when they are,\nperhaps, only motes in the sun's beams.\n\nIt scarcely appears that the learned and impartial Du M\u00e8ge has settled\nthe question by his arguments; indeed he seems himself aware that it is\nyet open, for he rather confutes others than assumes an opinion himself.\n\nHe concludes, that the ancient Vascons who overran Aquitaine, in 600,\nare certainly not the same people as those who now speak the Escuara\nlanguage, and that these _may have been_ \"one of those people who\ninvaded the Roman empire in the reign of Probus, or the remains of those\ntribes to whom, in the time of Honorius, was confided the guardianship\nof the entrance of the Pyrenees. Thus placed in the defiles of the\nmountains, _it was easy_ for them to extend themselves successively into\nAquitaine, Navarre, Guipuscoa, &c., to impose their _language_ and their\nlaws on the terrified people, and thus _mix themselves with_ the\nVascons and Cantabrians of Spain, and the Tarbelli and Sibyllates of\nGaul.\"\n\nWhatever may be their origin, the Basques, as they exist at this moment,\nare a very singular people, both as to their customs and language: there\nis not the slightest resemblance between them and their neighbours; they\nare perfectly foreigners in the next village to that which they inhabit.\nSome _profane_ persons (M. Pierquin, for instance, who goes near to do\nso, in an article on _la France litt\u00e9raire_,) have dared to insinuate,\nthat the language of the Basques is nothing more than a mere jargon,\n_both modern and vulgar_; but this is so cruel an assertion, and one\nwhich destroys so many theories, reducing learning to a jest, that no\nwonder M. Mazure and others are indignant at such boldness.\n\nIt must be confessed that, since extremes meet, the same arguments used\nto prove the classical antiquity of the language would serve to convince\nthat it was merely modern, and made use of, by uneducated persons, to\nexpress their wants as readily as possible. There are, in the Basque,\nterms which represent ideas by sounds, explaining, by a sort of musical\nimitation, many usual acts, and the appearance of objects; but this is\nfrequently brought forward by its defenders in its favour, and as\nestablishing its antiquity.\n\nM. Mazure, who appears an enthusiast for the Basque language, produces\nseveral words to show the sublimity contained in their signification:\nfor instance, he says, \"the radical name of _the Moon_, combined with\nother terms, gives occasion for superb expressions, full of thought, and\nof a character which no modern language could furnish: thus--_ilarquia_,\nthe moon, signifies _its light_, or its _funereal_ light; and\n_illarguia, ilkulcha, ilobia, ilerria, ileguna_, signify the _coffin_,\nthe _grave_, the _churchyard_, the _day of death_.\n\n\"The days of the week are also extremely expressive--as Friday,\nSaturday, Sunday, which convey the idea of the _remembrance of the death\nof the Saviour--the last day of work--the great day_. A strictly\nChristian nation has left, in these words, their stamp.\" This being the\ncase, how does it agree with the extraordinarily antique origin of the\nBasques? However, it appears that these are exceptions; other words\nbeing sufficiently unintelligible, that is to say, difficult to explain.\n\nM. Mazure considers that the Basque language is, in some respects, the\n_most perfect_ that exists, from the _unity of the verb_ which it\npreserves: its system of conjugation alone were enough, in his opinion,\nto make it an object worthy of study and admiration to all grammarians.\nTo the uninitiated, the very opposite opinions of M. Mazure and M.\nPierquin are somewhat amusing: the former insists that the Basque has\nnothing to do with Hebrew or Phoenician, but inclines to think it a\nlost _African_ dialect, such as, _perhaps_, might have been spoken by\nthe Moors of Massinissa, who peopled Spain, and probably Aquitaine, at\nsome period unknown.\n\nOne singular fact with respect to this mysterious dialect is, that it\npossesses no written nor printed books older than two centuries since;\nand no alphabet has been discovered belonging to it; consequently it has\nno literature; but it has preserved many songs and ballads, some of\ngreat delicacy and beauty; and its _improvvisatore_, by profession, are\nas fruitful as the Italians. One popular song, in the dialect of\nLabourd, may give an idea of the strange language which occupies so much\nattention.\n\n       BASQUE SONG.\n\n    \"Tchorittoua, nourat houa\n    Bi hegaliz, a\u00efrian?\n    Espag\u00f1alat joua\u00efteko,\n    Elhurra duk bortian:\n    Algarreki jouanen gutuk\n    Elhurra hourtzen denian.\n\n    \"San Josefen ermitha,\n    Desertian gorada\n    Espag\u00f1alat joua\u00efteko\n    Handa goure palissada.\n    Guibelerat so-guin eta,\n    Hasperenak ardura.\n\n    Hasperena, babilona,\n    Ma\u00eftiaren borthala\n    Bihotzian sarakio\n    Houra eni bezala;\n    Eta guero eran izok\n    Nik igorten ha\u00efdala.\n\n       TRANSLATION.\n\n    Borne on thy wings amidst the air,\n    Sweet bird, where wilt thou go?\n    For if thou wouldst to Spain repair,\n    The ports are filled with snow.\n    Wait, and we will fly together,\n    When the Spring brings sunny weather.\n\n    St. Joseph's hermitage is lone,\n    Amidst the desert bare,\n    And when we on our way are gone,\n    Awhile we'll rest us there;\n    As we pursue our mountain-track,\n    Shall we not sigh as we look back?\n\n    Go to my love, oh! gentle sigh,\n    And near her chamber hover nigh;\n    Glide to her heart, make that thy shrine,\n    As she is fondly kept in mine.\n    Then thou may'st tell her it is I\n    Who sent thee to her, gentle sigh!\n\nIt appears to me, that there is a very remarkable similarity between the\nhabits of the people of the Basque country and those of Brittany;\nalthough they of the South are not rich in beautiful legends, such as M.\nde Villemarqu\u00e9 has preserved to the world: they have dramas and\nmysteries just in the same manner: some of which last for days, and are\nplayed in the open air by the people. They name their rocks and valleys\nas the Bretons do: as, for instance, they have the _Vall\u00e9e du Sang_, the\n_Col des Ossemens_, the _For\u00eat du R\u00e9fuge_, the _Champ de la Victoire_;\nand traditions attach to each of these. There is, however, a gayer,\nlivelier character amongst them than that which inspires the pathetic\nballads of Brittany. The Basques are very ready to be amused; are more\nhilarious and less gloomy than the Bretons: yet they have the same love\nof their country, and regret at leaving it. An author[37] who has\nwritten on the subject, says: \"To judge properly of the Basque, he\nshould be seen amidst his pleasures and his games; for it is then that\nhe exhibits his brilliant imagination. Often, in the joy of a convivial\nmeeting--when his natural gaiety, excited by wine and good cheer, is\narrived at that point of vivacity when man seems united to the chain of\nexistence only by the link of pleasure--one of the guests will feel\nhimself inspired: he rises; the tumult ceases; profound silence is\nestablished, and his noisy companions are at once transformed to\nattentive listeners. He sings: stanzas succeed each other, and poetry\nflows naturally from his lips. The measure he adopts is grave and quiet;\nthe air seems to come with the words, without being sought for; and\nrich imagery and new ideas flash forth at every moment, whether he takes\nfor his subject the praise of one of the guests, or the chronicles of\nthe country. He will sing thus for hours together: but some other feels\ninspired in his turn; a kind of pastoral combat takes place--very like\nthose between the troubadours of old--and the interest of the scene\nincreases. Presently they start into dances, and their steps accompany\nthe words, still more like the custom of the jongleurs. The rivals sing\nand dance alternately, as the words require it; their movements increase\nin expression, the most difficult and the prettiest are striven for by\nthe dancers, the time being always well preserved, and the spirit of the\npoem not lost sight of. When they are obliged to give up, from mere\nfatigue, a censor pronounces which is the victor: that is, which of the\ntwo has given the most gratification to the audience.\"\n\n[Footnote 37: M. Boucher. \"Souvenirs du Pays Basque.\"]\n\nThe Basque poet has no view in his compositions but the expression of\nhis feelings: he has no idea of gain, or reputation, but sings because\nhe requires to show the emotions which agitate him. It is not a little\nsingular that, in this particular, he resembles the inhabitants of\nOtaheite; one of whom Bougainville describes as having sung in strophes\nall that struck him during a voyage.\n\nThe Basque language seems very well adapted for light poetry; and,\nindeed, is peculiarly fitted for rhyme, and has a natural ease which\nhelps the verse along, in a manner which belongs to the Italian. The\nideas are always tender and delicate, to a surprising degree, as the\nfollowing songs may prove:\n\n         BASQUE SONG.\n\n    \"Su garretan,\" &c.\n\n    I BURN in flames, because my heart\n    Has loved thee through the dreary past;\n    And in my eyes the tear-drops start,\n    To think I lose thee at the last.\n    My days are pass'd in ceaseless weeping,\n    And all my nights in vain regret;\n    No peace awaits me--waking--sleeping,\n    Until I die, and all forget:\n    And thou who seest me thus repine,\n    Hast not a tear for grief like mine!\n\nThe Basque poet can seldom read or write: he owes nothing to education:\nnature alone is his instructress, and she inspires him with ideas the\nmost graceful, tender, and, at the same time, correct, for nothing\nexceptionable is ever heard in his songs. In many of these there is a\nstrain which might parallel some of the sweetest odes of the Persians;\nfrom whom, it is not impossible but that they may have derived them; if,\nindeed, the early troubadours from the East have not left their traces\nin such lays as this:\n\n          BASQUE SONG.\n\n    \"Ezdut uste baden ceruan aingeruric,\" &c.\n\n    I CANNOT think in heaven above\n    Immortal angels there may be,\n    Whose hearts can show so pure a love\n    As that which binds my soul to thee:\n\n    And when, my ceaseless suff'rings past,\n    The grave shall make me all forget,\n    I only ask thee, at the last,\n    One gentle sigh of fond regret.\n\nVery often these songs take the form of dialogues: the following is one\nvery well known in the country:\n\n          BASQUE SONG.\n\n    \"Amod\u00edoac bainarabila chori\u00f1oa aircan bezala,\" &c.\n\n          _The Lover_.\n\n    LOVE lifts me gently in the air,\n    As though I were a bird to fly,\n    And nights to me, like days, are fair,\n    Because my gentle love is nigh.\n\n         _The Mistress_.\n\n    Thou call'st me dear--ah! seest thou not\n    Those words have only pow'r to grieve me?\n    Why is my coldness all forgot?\n    And why not, at my bidding, leave me?\n\n          _The Lover_.\n\n    The love I feel--and canst thou doubt--\n    I, who would traverse seas for thee!\n    Who have no power to live without,\n    And own thy charms are life to me.\n\n         _The Mistress_.\n\n    If I have charms, thine eye alone\n    Behold'st the beauty none can prize;\n    Oh! in the world exists but one\n    Who fills my soul and dims my eyes:\n    That one--ask not who he may be,\n    But leave me--for thou art not he!\n\nThe following may serve as a specimen of their passionate expressions:\n\n          BASQUE SONG.\n\n    \"Ene maitcac biloa hori,\" &c.\n\n    My fair one, with the golden tresses,\n    With rosy cheeks and hands of snow,\n    With hopeless care each heart oppresses,\n    Around her step such graces glow.\n\n    A cloud, upon her brow descending,\n    Has dimm'd that eye of dazzling ray,\n    Upon whose glance, the light attending,\n    Has led my giddy heart astray.\n\n    I see thee, like the flow'r of morning,\n    In sweetness and in beauty shine;\n    None like to thee the world adorning--\n    My life, my soul, my life is thine!\n\nThe Basques have compositions in various styles--complaints and\nsatires--like the professors of the _gaie science_. War and peace are\ncelebrated by them: there are poems on La Tour d'Auvergne; Napoleon;\nWellington, and the Revolution of July: in tragedy and melo-drama they\npeculiarly succeed; and there exists a modern Basque drama, of singular\nmerit, called Marie de Navarre, the scene of which is laid in the tenth\ncentury, in which great power is exhibited, and considerable dramatic\neffect produced.\n\nThere is a saying, well known in the country, _\"Ce n'est pas un homme,\nc'est un Basque;\"_ which is intended to express the superiority of the\nnative of these regions over all others. It appears that the Basque is,\nin fact, of much finer form than the rest of the people of the Pyrenees;\nand the young women are proverbially handsome. I cannot speak from\nextensive observation; but of this often-named peculiarity of personal\nappearance I was by no means sensible in the few specimens I have\nseen--for all the people of this part of the South seemed to me\nextremely inferior in beauty to those of the North; and, taken in\ngeneral, it strikes me that the handsomest natives of France I have seen\nare to be found in Normandy. I speak merely as comparing the people with\nthe same classes in England: and to one accustomed to the sparkling\nclear eye, fine delicate complexion, tall stature, and finely-developed\nfigures of both our men and women, the inhabitants of the whole of\nFrance seem very inferior: there is a monotony in their tanned faces,\nspare figures, and black eyes and hair, which wearies, and ceases to\ncreate interest after the first. Some individuals in the Basque country,\nhowever, struck me as handsome and very intelligent.\n\nThe Basque is bold and brave, and the French armies never had finer\nsoldiers, as far as regarded spirit, than the natives of these\ncountries: but neither did any region produce so many deserters; for the\n_maladie du pays_ is strong upon them, and they take the first\nopportunity of returning to their home amongst the mountains. This is\nnot confined to the Basque, but occurs to all the mountaineers of B\u00e9arn.\nOne instance will show this feeling; the story was related by a guide to\nthe Br\u00e8che de Roland, who knew the circumstances. A young man had been\nforced by the conscription to join Napoleon's army: he was very young at\nthe time, and went through all the dangers, hardships, and privations\nlike a mountaineer and a man of courage; but, as soon as he saw an\nopportunity, he deserted, and sought the land where all his wishes\ntended. He was pursued and traced from place to place; but, generally\nfavoured by his friends and assisted by his own ingenuity, he always\neluded search, and, with the precaution of never sleeping two nights in\nthe same village, he managed for several years to continue free. He was\nin love with a young girl, and on one occasion, at a _f\u00eate_, had come\nfar over the mountains to dance with her: he was warned by a companion\nthat emissaries had been seen in the neighbourhood; but he determined\nnothing should interfere with the pleasure he anticipated in leading out\nthe lass he loved. He had a rival, however, in the company, who gave\nnotice to the officers of justice that the deserter would be at the\ndance, and, accordingly, in the midst of the revel--as they were\nexecuting one of those agile dances, called _Le Saut Basque_--the object\nof pursuit became aware that, amidst the throng, were several persons\nwhom he had no difficulty in guessing were his pursuers. They kept their\nstation close to the path he must take when he left the spot where they\nwere dancing, and he, with great presence of mind and determined\ngallantry, finished the measure with his pretty partner: at the last\nturn, he looked briskly round, and observing that one of his companions\nwas leaning on a thick stick, he suddenly caught it from his grasp, and\nwith a leap and run, dashed past the party who were waiting for him,\nbrandishing the weapon over his head and keeping all off. They were so\ntaken by surprise, that they had no power to detain him; and the\nvillagers closing round and impeding them as much as possible, the young\nhero got off to the mountains in safety. He was, however, taken some\ntime after this scene, and carried to Bayonne to be tried, when every\none expected that he would meet with capital punishment; but it was\nfound impossible to identify him--no one could be induced to appear\nagainst him--and the magistrates, wearied out, at length gave him his\ndischarge, and he returned to live quietly in his village, and marry his\nlove, after having been a hunted man in the woods and mountains for\nnearly ten years.\n\nThe Basque is said to be irritable, revengeful, and implacable; but gay\nand volatile, passionately addicted to dancing and the _jeu de paume_,\nwhich he never abandons till compelled by positive infirmity. He is very\nadventurous, and fond of excitement; it is not, therefore, singular that\nhe should be a hardy smuggler, so cunning and adroit that he contrives\nto evade the officers of the excise in a surprising manner. If, however,\na smuggler falls beneath the shot of one of the guardians of right, all\nthe natives become at once his deadly enemy, and he has no safety but in\nleaving the country instantly. The women assist their relations in this\ndangerous traffic, and perform acts of daring, which are quite\nstartling. It is told of one, a young girl of Eshiarce, that, being hard\npressed by a party of excise, she ran along a steep ledge of rocks, and,\nat a fearful height, cast herself into the Nive: no one dared to follow\ndown the ravine; and they saw her swimming for her life, battling with\nthe roaring torrent; she reached the opposite shore, turned with an\nexulting gesture, although her basket of contraband goods was lost in\nthe stream, and, darting off amongst the valleys, was lost to their\nview.\n\nThe Basques have their comedy, which they call _Tobera-Munstruc_, or\n_Charivari represented_; and they enter into its jokes with the utmost\nanimation and delight. They generally take for their subject some\npopular event of a comic nature, and all is carried on extempore. The\nyoung men of a village meet to consult respecting it; and then comes the\n_c\u00e9r\u00e9monie du b\u00e2ton_. Those who choose to be actors, or simply to\nsubscribe towards the expenses, range themselves on one side; two\namongst them hold a stick at each end, and all those chosen pass beneath\nit; this constitutes an engagement to assist; and it is a disgrace to\nfail. News is then sent to the villages round of the intention to act a\ncomedy; and preparations are made by the select committee. The\nrepresentations are positive _f\u00eates_, and are looked forward to with\ngreat pleasure; crowds attend them; and their supporters are usually\npicked men, who have a reputation for talent and wit. Crimes never come\nunder their consideration: it is always something extremely ridiculous,\nor some ludicrous failing, that is turned into contempt and held up to\nrisibility. It is quite amazing to what an extent the genius of the\nimprovvisatores go at times; they display consummate art and knowledge\nof human nature, quick _r\u00e9partie_, subtle arguments, absurd\nconjunctions, startling metaphors, and are never at a loss to meet the\nassertions of their adversary on the other side; for it is always in the\nform of law-pleadings, for and against, that the comedy is conducted.\n\nIt is usually carried on in the manner following:\n\nThe crowd assembled, a man on horseback opens the _cort\u00e8ge_: he is\ndressed in white trowsers, a purple sash, a white coat, and a fine cap,\nornamented with tinsel and ribbons; flutes, violins, tamborines, and\ndrums, succeed; then come about forty dancers, in two files, who advance\nin a cadenced step; this is the celebrated dance called the _Morisco_,\nwhich is reserved for great occasions. This troop is in the same costume\nas the man on horseback; each dancer holding in his right hand a wand,\nadorned with ribbons, and surmounted by a bouquet of artificial flowers.\nThen come the poet and a guard, a judge and two pleaders, in robes; and\na guard on foot, bearing carbines, close the procession.\n\nThe judge and advocates take their places on the stage, seating\nthemselves before three tables, the poet being in front on the left.\n\nA carnival scene now takes place, in which are all sorts of strange\ncostumes, harlequins, clowns, and jokers; in this a party of blacksmiths\nare conspicuous, whose zeal in shoeing and unshoeing a mule, on which a\n_huissier_ sits, with his face to the tail, creates great merriment.\nWhen all this tumult is quieted by proclamation, music sounds; the poet\nadvances and improvises an address, in which he announces the subject of\nthe piece; his manner is partly serious, partly jesting. He points out\nthe advocate who is to plead the cause of morals and propriety: this one\nrises, and, in the course of his exordium, takes care to throw out all\nthe sarcasm he can against his rival, who rouses himself, and the battle\nof tongues begins, and is carried on in a sort of rhyming prose, in\nwhich nothing is spared to give force to jest or argument against the\nreigning vices or follies of the day. As the orators proceed and become\nmore and more animated on the subject, they are frequently interrupted\nby loud applause. Sometimes, in these intervals, the poet gives a\nsignal, which puts an end to the discussions before the public are\nfatigued; and, the music sounding, the performers of the national dance\nappear, and take the place of the two advocates for a time. These\ncombatants soon re-commence their struggle; and, at length, the judge is\ncalled upon to pronounce between them. A farcical kind of consultation\nensues between the judge and the ministers around, who are supposed to\nsend messengers even to the king himself by their mounted courier in\nattendance.\n\nThe judge at last rises, and, with mock solemnity, delivers his fiat.\nThen follow quadrilles; and the famous _Sauts Basques_, so well-known\nand so remarkable, close the entertainments.\n\nThese _f\u00eates_ last several days, as in Brittany, and are very similar in\ntheir style. I am told, however, that, though very witty, these\nrepresentations are not fit for _la bonne compagnie_.\n\n\"If to what we have been able to collect on what are called Basques,\"\nsays Du M\u00e8ge, \"we add the remarks of General Serviez, _charg\u00e9\nd'administration_ of the department of the Basses Pyr\u00e9n\u00e9es, a complete\npicture is presented of the manners and habits of the descendants of the\nEscualdunacs, who may be subdivided into three tribes, or families: the\n_Labourdins_, the _Navarrais_, and the _Souletins_.\"\n\n\"They have rather the appearance of a foreign colony transplanted into\nthe midst of the French, than a people forming a portion of the country,\nand living under the same laws and government. They are extremely brave,\nand are always the terror of the Spaniards in all wars with them; but\ntheir aversion to leaving their homes is very great, and their\nattachment to their personal liberty is remarkable. They are much wedded\nto their own habits and customs, and are almost universally\n_unacquainted_ with the French language. They are said to be the\n_cleanest people in the world_; in which particular they singularly\ndiffer from the Bretons, whom, in some respects, they resemble.\n\n\"Mildness and persuasion does much with them, severity nothing: they are\ncholeric in temper, but soon appeased; nevertheless, they are implacable\nin their hatred, and resolute in their revenge. Ready to oblige, if\nflattered; restless and active, hard-working; _habitually sober and\nwell-conducted_, and violently attached to their religion and their\npriests. They seem rarely to know fatigue, for, after a hard day's work,\nthey think little of going five or six leagues to a _f\u00eate_, and to be\ndeprived of this amusement is a great trial to them.\n\n\"They are tenacious of the purity of their blood, and avoid, as much as\npossible, contracting alliances with neighbouring nations; they are\nimpatient of strangers acquiring possessions in their country. They are\napt to quarrel amongst each other at home; but there is a great _esprit\ndu corps_ amongst them when they meet abroad. There are shades of\ndifference in their characters, according to their province. In general,\nthe _Souletins_ are more cunning and crafty than the rest, resembling\ntheir neighbours of B\u00e9arn in their moral qualities. The _Navarrais_ is\nsaid to be more fickle. The _Labourdins_ are fonder of luxuries, and\nless diligent than the others; and it is thought, consequently, less\nhonest; the latter are generally sailors, and are known as good\nwhalers.\"\n\nThere seems a desire amongst _improvers_ in France to do away amongst\nthe common people with the original language, or _patois_, which exists\nin so many of the provinces; and in many of the schools nothing is\ntaught but French. This would seem to be a benefit, as far as regards\ncivilization; but it shocks the feelings of the people, who are\nnaturally fond of the language of their fathers. The Bretons, like the\nWelsh with us, are very tenacious of this attempt: the people of\nLanguedoc, with Jasmin, their poet, at their head, have made a stand for\ntheir tongue; and the Basques, at the present moment, are in great\ndistress that measures are now being taken to teach their children\nFrench, and do away altogether with the language of which they are so\nproud, and which is so prized by the learned. In a late _Feuilleton_ of\nthe M\u00e9morial des Pyr\u00e9n\u00e9es, I observed a very eloquent letter on the\nsubject of instruction in French in the rural schools, from which the\nBasque language is banished. The children learn catechism and science in\nFrench, and can answer any question put to them in that language by the\nmaster, like parrots, being quite unable to translate it back into the\ntongue they talk at home, where nothing but Basque meets their ears.\n\nIt is, of course, quite necessary that they should understand French for\ntheir future good; but there does not appear a sufficient reason that\nthey should neglect their own language, or, at any rate, that they\nshould not be instructed in it, and have the same advantage as the\nWelsh subjects of Great Britain, who did not, however, obtain all they\nclaimed for their primitive language without a struggle.\n\nThe writer in the M\u00e9morial contends that the children should be taught\ntheir prayers in Basque, and should know the grammar of that dialect in\norder to be able to write to their friends when abroad--for many of them\nare soldiers and sailors,--in a familiar tongue, since those at home by\ntheir fire-sides know nothing of French, and could not understand the\nbest French letter that was ever penned. The question is, could they\nread _at all_, and if the epistle were read for them by a more learned\nneighbour, would not French be as easy as Basque? for the friend must\nhave been at school to be of use.\n\nBe this as it may, the \"coil\" made for the beloved tongue shows the\nfeeling which still exists in Navarre for the \"_beau dialecte\nEuskarien_.\"\n\n\"Do you know what you would destroy?\" exclaims M. de Belsunce, in\nsomewhat wild enthusiasm; \"the sacred relic of ages--the aboriginal\nidiom, as ancient as the mountains which shelter and serve for its\nasylum!\n\n\"The Basque language is our glory, our pride, the theme of all our\nmemories, the golden book of our traditions. Proud and free in its\naccent, noble and learned in its picturesque and sonorous expressions,\nits formation and grammatical form are both simple and sublime; add to\nwhich, the people preserve it with a religious devotion.\n\n\"It is the language spoken by our illustrious ancestors--those who\ncarried the terror of their arms from the heights of the Pyrenees to\nBordeaux and Toulouse. It is the language of the conquerors of\nTheodobert, Dagobert, and Carebert; and of the fair and ill-fated wife\nof the latter--the unfortunate Giselle. Were not the sacred cries of\nliberty and independence uttered amongst our mountains in that tongue,\nand the songs of triumph which were sent to heaven after the victory of\nthe Gorges of the Soule? It is the dialect named by Tacitus, as that of\nthose who were never conquered--_Cantaber invictus_: immortalized as\nthat of the _Lions of War_: spoken by the most _ancient people in the\nworld_--a race of shepherds with patriarchal manners, proverbial\nhospitality, and right-mindedness; light-hearted, friendly and true,\nthough implacable in vengeance and terrible in anger as undaunted in\ncourage.\n\n\"Our chronicles live in our national songs, and our language proves an\nancient civilization. To the philosopher and the learned who study it,\nit presents, from its grandeur, its nobility, and the rich harmony of\nits expressions, a subject of grave meditation; it may serve as the key\nof the history of nations, and solve many doubts on the origin of lost\nor faded languages.\"\n\nPerhaps M. de Belsunce takes a rather pompous view of the subject; but\nhe has, nevertheless, much reason in his appeal.\n\nAs specimens of this extraordinary language, some of the names of the\nBasque towns may amuse and surprise the reader; perhaps, in the\nMarquesas islands, lately taken possession of by the French, they may\nfind some sounds which to Basque sailors, of which a ship's crew is\nalmost certain to have many, may be familiar.\n\nPlaces in the district of Forest of Saint Eugrace.\n\nIratsodoqui. Urruxordoqui. Mentchola. Orgambidecosorhona.\n\nFurunchordoqui, near the Port d'Anie.\n\nThe Pic d'Anie is properly called Ahuguamendi.\n\nIn Basse Burie occur the following names;--\n\nIturourdineta. Iparbarracoitcha. Aspildoya. Lehintchgarratia.\n\nIn the arrondissement of Bayonne may be met with:--Urkheta, Hiriburu,\nItsasu, Beraskhoitce, Zubernua, and others equally singular in sound.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XIV.\n\n     CAGOTS--CACOUS OF BRITTANY.\n\n\nONE of the most puzzling and, at the same time, interesting subjects,\nwhich recurs to the explorer in the Pyrenees, is the question respecting\nthat mysterious race of people called Cagots, whose origin has never yet\nbeen satisfactorily accounted for. All travellers speak of the Cagots,\nand make allusion to them, but nothing very positive is told. When I\narrived in the Pyrenees, my first demand was respecting them; but those\nof my countrymen who had ever heard of their existence assured me that\ntheir denomination was only another word for _Cr\u00e9tin_ or _Go\u00eetreux_:\nothers insisted that no trace of the ancient _parias_ of these countries\nremained, and some treated the legends of their strange life as mere\nfables.\n\nI applied to the French inhabitants; from whom I heard much the same,\nthough all agreed that Cagots were to be found in different parts of the\nmountains, and that they were still shunned as a race apart, though the\nprejudice against them was certainly wearing away.\n\nI inquired of our B\u00e9arnaise servant whether she could tell me anything\nabout the Cagots, upon which she burst into a fit of laughter, which\nlasted some time, on her recovery from which she informed me that they\nwere accustomed to use the word as a term of derision. \"Any one,\" said\nshe, \"_whose ears are short--cut off at the tip_, we call Cagot; but it\nis only _pour rire_, it is not a polite word.\"\n\nI hoped, from her information, and the manner in which she treated the\nsubject, that the Cagots were indeed extinct, and known only as a\nby-word, which had now no meaning; but I found, by conversing with\nintelligent persons who had been a great deal in the mountains, and\ngiven their attention to such discoveries, that the unfortunate people,\nonce the objects of scorn and oppression to all their fellow-men, are\nstill to be found, and still lead an isolated life, though no longer\nproscribed or hunted like wild beasts as formerly.\n\nI examined, with the aid of a friend in Pau, the archives of the town,\nand found several times mention made of these people up to a late\nperiod, in which they were classed as persons out of the pale of the\nlaw; a price is put on their heads, as if they were wolves; they are\nforbidden to appear in the towns, and orders are issued to the police to\n_shoot them_ if found infringing the rules laid down; punishments are\nnamed as awaiting them if they ventured to ally themselves, in any way,\nwith any out of their own caste, and they are spoken of together with\nbrigands and malefactors, and all other persons whose crimes have placed\nthem out of the protection of their country.\n\nIn Gascony, B\u00e9arn, and the Pays Basque, it is well known that for\ncenturies this proscribed race has existed, entirely separated from the\nrest of their species, marrying with each other, and thus perpetuating\ntheir misfortune, avoided, persecuted, and contemned: their origin\nunknown, and their existence looked upon as a blot on the face of\nnature. At one period the Cagots were objects of hatred, from the belief\nthat they were afflicted with the leprosy, which notion does not appear\nto be founded on fact; in later times, they have been supposed to suffer\nmore especially from _go\u00eetre_; but physicians have established that they\nare not more subject to this hideous disease than their neighbours of\nthe valleys and mountains. Nevertheless, a belief even now prevails that\nthis wretched people, and the race of Cr\u00e9tins, are the same, and that\nthey owe their origin to the Visigoths, who subdued a part of Gaul.\n\nRamond, in his \"Observations on the Pyrenees,\" has the following curious\npassage: \"My observations on the Cr\u00e9tins had thrown little light on the\nsubject; and learned persons whom I had consulted had not placed it in a\nclearer point of view: I found myself obliged to add another proof to\nthe many that exist, to demonstrate that the resemblance of effects is\nnot always a sure indication of the identity of causes; when my habitual\nintercourse with the people entirely changed the nature of the\nquestion, by showing that it was amongst the unfortunate race of Cagots\nthat I should find the Cr\u00e9tins of the Valley of Luchon.\n\n\"It was with a shyness which I found much difficulty in overcoming, that\nthe inhabitants of this country avowed to me that their valley contained\na certain number of families which, from time immemorial, were regarded\nas forming part of an infamous and cursed race; that those who composed\nthem were never counted as citizens; that everywhere they were forbidden\nto carry arms; that they were looked upon as slaves, and obliged to\nperform the most degrading offices for the community at large; that\nmisery and disease was their constant portion; that the scourge of\n_go\u00eetre_ generally belonged to them; that they were peculiarly afflicted\nwith the complaint in the valleys of Luchon, all those of the Pays de\nComminges, of Bigorre, B\u00e9arn, and the two Navarres; that their miserable\nabodes are ordinarily in remote places, and that whatever amelioration\nof prejudice has arisen in the progress of time, and the improvement of\nmanners, a marked aversion is always shown towards that set of people,\nwho are forced still to keep themselves entirely distinct from the free\nnatives of the villages in their neighbourhood.\"\n\nThere hare, however, many parts of B\u00e9arn, Soule, and Navarre, for\ninstance, in following the course of the Gave of Oloron, inhabited by\nCagots who are by no means subject to the infirmity of _go\u00eetre_, by\nwhich it appears that it is merely an accidental complaint with them as\nwith others.\n\nThe prejudice which has peculiarly attributed to them this horrible\naffliction is therefore erroneous: and equally so is the idea that they\ncarry in their appearance any indication of a difference of species:\nfor, instead of the sallow, weak, sickly hue which it was believed\nbelonged to them, it is known that they differ in nowise from the other\nnatives in complexion, strength, or health. Instances of great age occur\namongst them; and they are subject to no more nor less infirmities than\nothers. Beauty or ugliness, weakness or strength, deformity or\nstraightness, are common to the Cagots as to the rest of the human race.\nThis, however, is certain, that in some villages the richest persons are\nof the proscribed order; but they, nevertheless, are held in a certain\ndegree of odium, and their alliance is avoided: the state of misery and\ndestitution in which they were represented to M. Ramond exists but\npartially at present; for, being in general more active and industrious\nthan the other inhabitants, they very frequently become rich, although\nthey never are able to assume the position in society which wealth in\nany other class allows.\n\nThe following is a fearful picture, which it is to be hoped is\nexaggerated at the present day. It exhibits the Cagots according to the\nopinion a few years ago prevalent, and denies to this people the health\nfor which others who defend them contend:\n\n\"Health,\" says the French author of \"Travels in the French Pyrenees,\"\n\"that treasure of the indigent, flies from the miserable huts of Agos,\nBidalos, and Vieuzac: three villages, so close together, that they\nconstitute one whole: they are situated in the valley called Extrem\u00e8re\nde Sales. The numerous sources which spring beside the torrent of\nBergons, the freshness and solitude of these charming retreats, the rich\nshade of the thick chesnuts, which in summer form delicious groves--all\nis obscured by the miserable state of the inhabitants: diseases of the\nmost loathsome kind prevail for ever in this smiling valley: Cr\u00e9tins\nabound, those unhappy beings _supposed to be the descendants of the\nAlains_, a part of whom established themselves in the Pyrenees and the\nValais. Whether this connexion really exists or not, a stupid\nindifference, which prevents them from feeling their position, exists in\ncommon with the Cr\u00e9tins amongst those people known as Goths, or Cagots,\n_chiens de Gots_, and _Capots_, who are a fearful example of the\nduration of popular hatred. They are condemned to the sole occupation\npermitted to them, that of hewing of wood; are banished from society,\ntheir dwellings placed at a distance from towns and villages, and are in\nfact excommunicated beggars; forced, besides, in consequence of the\nprofession of Arianism, adopted by their Gothic ancestors, to wear on\ntheir habits a mark of obloquy in the form of a goose's foot, which is\nsewn on their clothes; exposed to insult and every species of severity;\ncondemned to the fear of having their feet pierced with hot irons, if\nthey appear bare-footed in towns, and pursued with the most bitter\nrigour that bigotry and animosity can indulge in.\"\n\nThe words, _Stupides, Idiots, Cr\u00e9tins_, and _Cagots_ have been\nconsidered synonymous; but this is an error: the last wretched class\nbeing separated in their misery, and distinct from the rest. The\nbeautiful valleys of the Pyrenees are frightfully infested with the\ndisease of _goitre_, and few of them are free; but the Cagots merely\nshare the affliction, as has been said before (following the learned and\nbenevolent Palassou) with the rest of the inhabitants.\n\nThe notion which, at first sight, would seem better founded, is, that\nthe Cagots are descendants of those numerous _lepers_ who formed a\nfearful community at one period, and were excluded from society to\nprevent infection; but the more the subject is investigated the less\ndoes this appear likely: though banished, from prudential motives, and\neven held in abhorrence, from the belief that their malady was a\njudgment of Heaven, those afflicted with leprosy, when healed, had the\npower of returning to the communion of their fellows: they were not\nexcommunicated, nor placed beyond the mercy of the laws: they were\navoided, but not hated; and they had some hope for the future, which was\ndenied to the Cagots.\n\nIn the Basque country they are called _Agots_, and it is ascertained\nthat, though held in the same aversion as in Bigorre, Navarre, and\nB\u00e9arn, they have no physical defects, nor any difference of manners or\nappearance to the rest of the natives: they are there also vulgarly said\nto descend from the Goths.\n\nThe popular notion of the shortness of the lobe of the ear, which is\nsupposed to be a characteristic of a Cagot, seems to be only worthy of\nthe laughter which accompanied its first announcement to me; yet it is\nan old tradition, and has long obtained credence.\n\nThe learned Marca, who has treated this subject, remarks: \"These\nunfortunate beings are held as infected and leprous; and by an express\narticle in the _Coutumes de B\u00e9arn_ and the provinces adjacent, familiar\nconversation with the rest of the people is severely interdicted to\nthem. So that, even in the churches, they have a door set apart by which\nto enter, with a _b\u00e9nitier_ and seats for them solely: they are obliged\nto live in villages apart from other dwellings: they are usually\ncarpenters, and are permitted to use no arms or tools but those\nexpressly required in their trade: they are looked upon as infamous,\nalthough they have, according to the ancient _Fors de B\u00e9arn_, a right to\nbe heard as witnesses; seven of them being required to make the\ntestimony of _one uninfected_ man.\"\n\nThough previous to the time of Louis VI. called Le Gros, in 1108, the\nCagots were sold as slaves _with_ estates, it does not appear that their\nfate, in this respect, was different from that of other serfs, who were\nall transferred from one master to another, without reserve. A\ndenomination given to a Cagot, however, in the record of a deed of gift,\nmentioned by Marca, gives rise to other conjectures, involving still\nmore interesting inquiries. It is there stated, that with a \"_nasse_\"\nwas given a _Chr\u00e9tien_, named Auriot Donat; that is to say, the _house_\nof a Cagot and himself with it.\n\nIn the cartulary of the _ci-devant_ Abbey of Luc, in the year 1000, and\nin the _Fors de B\u00e9arn_, they are designated as _Chresti\u00e0s_, and the term\n_Cagot_, we are informed by Marca, was first employed in acts relative\nto them in the year 1551. They are called _gaffos_ in an ancient _Fors_\nof Navarre, in 1074; and the term _Chresti\u00e0as_ even now is used to\ndenote the villages where the Cagots reside.\n\nIt appears that the Cagots of the present day are ordinarily denominated\n_Agotacs_ and _Cascarotacs_, by the peasants of B\u00e9arn and the Basque\ncountry: that of _Chr\u00e9tiens_ seemed affixed to them formerly, but was\nequally so to the lepers who were obliged to live isolated, and their\nabodes were called _chrestianeries_.\n\nAs the serfs became emancipated, the Cagots, who had been slaves\npeculiarly appropriated by the Church, and called by them, it seems,\n_Chresti\u00e0s_, were allowed similar privileges: added to which, from\nhaving belonged to the ecclesiastics, and from not enjoying the rights\nof citizens, they were exempt from taxes. In later times, this led to\ninnovations by these very Cagots, who, becoming rich, endeavoured to\nusurp the prerogatives of nobility. The Etats of B\u00e9arn, issued a command\nto the \"_Cagot d'Oloron_,\"--who appears to have been a powerful\nperson--to prevent him from building a _dovecote_, and to another to\nforbid him the use of arms and the costume of a gentleman.\n\nAt the church of St. Croix at Oloron is still to be seen a _b\u00e9nitier_,\nset apart for the use of this race; and at the old fortified church of\nLuz, was a little door, now closed up, by which they entered to perform\ntheir devotions.\n\nThe prohibition to carry arms, which never extended to _lepers_, would\nseem to indicate that the Cagots, always separately mentioned in all the\npublic acts, were persons who might be dangerous to public tranquillity.\nAnd this, together with the appellation of _Christians_, may give colour\nto another opinion, entertained by those who reject the idea of their\nbeing descendants of those Goths who took refuge in the mountains after\nthe defeat of Alaric by Clovis.\n\nThe opinion to which I allude, and which is adopted by Palassou, is that\nthey come from those Saracens who fled from Charles Martel in the eighth\ncentury, after the defeat of their chief, Abderraman, near Tours: these\nSaracens are supposed to have sheltered themselves from pursuit in the\nmountains, where, being prevented by the snows from going further, they\nremained hemmed in, and by degrees established themselves here, and\nconformed to Christianity; but does this account for the contempt and\nhatred which they had to endure for so many centuries after? for no race\nof people, once converted, were any longer held accursed in the country\nwhere they lived. If, indeed, they remained pagan, this severity might\nnaturally have visited them; but the Cagots were certainly Christians\nfrom early times, as the accommodations prepared for them in churches\nproves.\n\nThere seems little doubt that the armies of Abderraman spread themselves\nover the Pyrenees, where they long kept the French and Gascons in fear:\ntraditions of them still exist, and the name of a plain near the village\nof Ossun, in Bigorre, called Lane-Mourine, seems to tell its own tale,\nas well as the relics found in its earth of the skulls of men,\npronounced by competent judges to be those of the natives of a warm\nclimate: in other words, of Saracens, or Moors. But still there seems\nnothing to prove that the Cagots are the children of these identical\nMoors, who are said to have been infected with leprosy, and consequently\nshunned by the people amongst whom they had intruded themselves.\n\nLepers, at all times, were ordered to be kept apart from the rest of the\npeople, and were placed under the care of the Church to prevent their\nwandering and carrying infection with them; and the miserable condition\nin which the proscribed race of Cagots existed, probably made them more\nliable to take the hideous disease which would have separated them from\ntheir kind, even if not already in that predicament: but there must have\nbeen something more than mere disease which kept the line for ever drawn\nbetween these poor wretches and the rest of the world.\n\nIt is expressly defined in the speeches of ministers from the altar to\nthose afflicted with leprosy:--\"_As long as you are ill_ you shall not\nenter into any house out of the prescribed bounds.\" This applied to\n_all_ afflicted with leprosy; but the embargo was never taken off the\nCagot.\n\nAt one period, the priests made a difficulty of confessing those who\nwere Cagots, and Pope Leo X. was obliged to issue orders to all\necclesiastics to administer the sacraments to them as well as to others\nof the faithful.\n\nThey were during some time called _gezitains_, or descendants of Gehazi,\nthe servant of Elisha, leprous and accursed; but by what authority does\nnot appear. The leprosy was called the _Arab evil_, and supposed to have\nbeen brought into Europe by the Saracens: the _suspicion_ of _infection_\nwhich attached to this race might have caused them to be so shunned;\nand, whether afflicted or not, they never got the better of this\nsuspicion.\n\nThe greatest number of Cagots are to be found in those parts of the\nPyrenees which lead directly to Spain, which may strengthen the\nsupposition that the Moors are really their ancestors. A sad falling off\nto the glory and grandeur of this magnificent people is the notion that\nall that remains of them should be a race of outcasts, loathsome and\nabhorred! I cannot induce myself to adopt this idea till more proof is\noffered to support it, and better reason given to account for the\ncontempt and hatred shown to a people, who, though once followers of\nMahomed had become _Chreti\u00e0as_.\n\nAmongst other names given them are those of _gahets_ and _velus_, for\nwhich there seems no explanation; but every new fact involves the\nquestion in still deeper obscurity.\n\nIt was always enacted that _catechumens_, during the two or three years\nof probation which they passed previous to being received as children of\nthe Church, should live apart from professed Christians, being neither\nallowed to eat or frequent the baptized, or give them the kiss of peace:\nand the Saracens of course were subjected to the same trials, from\nwhence might first have arisen the habit of their living apart, and\nbeing looked upon with suspicion, both on account of their former faith\nand their supposed leprosy. This is, however, I think, scarcely\nsufficient to warrant the long continuance of the enmity which has\npursued them.\n\nOne of the acts of the parliament of Bordeaux shows with how much\nharshness they were treated, and what pains were taken to keep them from\nmixing with the people, long after the panic of leprosy must have\ndisappeared. In 1596 it was ordained that, \"conformable to preceding\ndecrees, the _Cagots_ AND _gahets_ residing in the parishes and places\ncircumjacent, shall in future wear upon their vestments and on their\nbreasts a red mark, _in the form of a goose's or duck's foot_, in order\nto be separated from the rest of the people; they are prohibited from\ntouching the viands which are sold in the markets, under the pain of\n_being whipped_, except those which the sellers have delivered to them;\notherwise, they will be banished from the parish they inhabit: also, it\nis forbidden to the said _cagots_ to touch the holy water in the\nchurches, which the other inhabitants take.\" The same decree was issued\nto put in force ancient ordinances concerning them, in Soule, in the\nyear 1604.\n\nStill further animosity was shown to these miserable people in 1606. The\nthree states of the said country of Soule, in a general assembly, passed\nan order by which it was forbidden \"to the Cagots, under pain of\nwhipping, to exercise the trade of a miller, or to touch the flour of\nthe common people; and not to mingle in the dances of the rest of the\npeople, under pain of corporal punishment.\"\n\nSevere as these laws were, those against _lepers_ were still more\ncautious: for whereas Cagots were allowed to enter the churches by a\nprivate way, the lepers were not permitted to attend divine worship at\nall; and had churches appropriated to them alone, which was never the\ncase with the Cagots, who were merely placed apart in the lowest seats.\n\nMuch the same arrangements were made respecting the _Cacous_ of\nBrittany, who were allowed to occupy a distant part of the churches, but\nnot to approach the altar, or touch any of the vestments or vases, under\na fine of a hundred sous; but chapels, or _fr\u00e9ries_, were permitted them\nat the gates of several towns--an indulgence apparently never permitted\nto the _Cagots_.\n\nLobineau derives their name from Latin and Greek words signifying\n\"_malady_,\" a denomination which strengthens the opinion of those who\nimagine the crusaders brought the leprosy back from Palestine on their\nreturn from their pilgrimage.\n\nThat the Cagots were exempt from leprosy, appears from a circumstance\nwhich took place in 1460, when \"the States of B\u00e9arn demanded of Gaston\nde B\u00e9arn, Prince of Navarre, that he would command the rule to be\nenforced that the Cagots should not walk bare-footed in the streets, for\nfear of communicating the leprosy, and that it should be permitted, in\ncase of their refusing to comply with the enactment, that their feet\nshould be pierced with a hot iron, and also that they should be obliged,\nin order to distinguish them, to wear on their clothes the ancient mark\nof a goose's foot, which they had long abandoned: _which proposition was\nnot attended to_, thereby proving that the council of the Prince did not\napprove of the animosity of the States, and did not consider the Cagots\ninfected with leprosy.\"\n\nThe law was more severe in Brittany, about the same period; for, in\n1477, the Duke Fran\u00e7ois II., in order to prevent the _cacous_,\n_caqueux_, _or caquins_, from being under the necessity of begging, and\nmingling with persons in health, granted them permission to use, as\nfarmers, the produce of the land near their dwellings, under certain\nrestrictions; and at the same time insisted on their renewing the red\nmark which they were condemned to wear. He also ordered that all\ncommerce should be interdicted to them except that of _hemp_, from\nwhence it comes that the trade of a cordwainer is considered vile in\nsome cantons of Bretagne, as those of swineherd and boatman were in\nEgypt.\n\nIn some places in Brittany, the trade of cooper was looked upon with\ncontempt, and the opprobrious name of _caqueux_ was given to them\nbecause they were thought to belong to a _race of Jews_ dispersed after\nthe ruin of Jerusalem, and who were considered _leprous from father to\nson_.\n\nIt was _only as late as_ 1723, that the parliament of Bordeaux--which\nhad long shown such tyranny towards this unhappy class--issued an order\nthat opprobrious names should no longer be applied to them, and that\nthey should be admitted into the general and private assemblies of\ncommunities, allowed to hold municipal charges, and be granted the\nhonours of the church. They were to be permitted in future to enter the\ngalleries of churches like any other person; their children received in\nschools and colleges in all towns and villages, and christian\ninstruction withheld from them no more than from another. Yet, in spite\nof this ordinance, hatred and prejudice followed this people still;\nthough, protected by the laws, they fell on them less heavily.\n\nAt Auch, a quarter was set apart for the _Cagots_, or _capots_, and\n_another_ for _the lepers_. The _gakets_ of Guizeris, in the diocese of\nAuch, had a door appropriated to them in the church, which the rest of\nthe inhabitants carefully avoided approaching.\n\n\"This prejudice,\" says Brug\u00e8les,[38] \"lasted till the visit paid to the\nchurch by M. Louis d'Aignan du Sendat, archdeacon of Magnoac, who, in\norder to abolish this distinction, passed out of the church by the\n_porte des Cagots_, followed by the _cur\u00e9_, and all the ecclesiastics of\nthe parish, and those of his own _suite_; the people, seeing this,\nfollowed also, and since that time the doors have been used\nindifferently by all classes.\"\n\n[Footnote 38: \"Chroniques Eccl. du Dioc. D'Auch.\"]\n\nAlthough my idea may be laughed at by the learned, it has occurred to\nme, that this race might be the descendants of those Goths who were\ndriven from Spain by the Moors, introduced by Count Julian in\nconsequence of the conduct of Don Roderick.\n\nThere seems scarcely a good reason why the Goths under Alaric should\nstop in the Pyrenees on their way to a safer retreat, when pursued by\nthe troops of Clovis, the Christian; Spain was open to them, and to\nremain amongst the enemy's mountains seemed bad policy. Again, why\nshould Abdelrahman, after his defeat, when his discomfited people fled\nbefore the _hammer_ of the great Charles, have paused in the Pyrenees?\nSpain was their's, and surely the remnant would have sought their own\nland, even if detained awhile by the snows, and not have remained a mark\nof contempt and hatred in the country of their conquerors.\n\nBut when Roderick and his Goths fled from the Moors, after the fatal\nbattle of Guadalete, and they remained monarchs of Spain, there was no\nsafety for the ruined remnant but in close concealment; and the Pyrenees\noffered a safe retreat. The Christians of France, however, would not\nhave received them as friends, and they could not return to their own\ncountry; therefore, they might have sheltered themselves in the gorges,\nand when they appeared have been looked upon with the same horror as the\nArians of the time of Alaric, or even have been confounded by the people\nwith those very Moors who drove them out of Spain.\n\nThe difficulty, which is the greatest by far, is to account for the\nunceasing contempt which clung to them _after_ they became _Chresti\u00e0as_.\n\nAn ingenious person of Pau, who has considered the subject in all its\nbearings, has a theory that the Cagots are, after all, the _earliest\nChristians_, persecuted by the Romans, compelled, in the first instance,\nto take shelter in rocks and caves; and, even after the whole country\nbecame converted to Christianity, retaining their bad name from habit,\nand in consequence of their own ignorance, which had cast them back into\na benighted state, and made them appear different from their\nbetter-instructed neighbours. Their name of _Christians_ appears to have\ngiven rise to this notion.\n\nI am looking forward very anxiously to a work of M. Francisque Michel,\non the subject, of the Cagots, which I hear is now in the press. His\nunwearied enthusiasm and industry, and the enormous researches he has\nmade both in France and Spain, will, doubtless, enable him to throw some\nvaluable light on the curious question,[39] if not set it at rest for\never.\n\n[Footnote 39: M. Francisque Michel's announced work bears the following\ntitle: \"Recherches sur les Races maudites de la France et de l'Espagne.\n(Cagots des Pyr\u00e9n\u00e9es. Capots du Languedoc. Gahets da la Guienne.\nColliberts du Bas Poitou. Caqueux de la Bretagne. Cacous du Mans.\nMarrons de l'Auvergne. Chreetas de Mayorque. Vacqueros des Asturies.)\"]\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XV.\n\n     THE CAGOT--VALL\u00c9E D'ASPE--SUPERSTITIONS--FORESTS--DESPOURRINS--THE\n     TWO GAVES--BEDOUS--HIGH-ROAD TO SARAGOSSA--CASCADE OF\n     LESCUN--URDOS--A PICTURE OF MURILLO--LA VACHE.\n\n\nTHE subject of the Cagots has occupied the attention of learned and\nunlearned persons both formerly, and at the present time; and the\ninterest it excites is rather on the increase than otherwise; like the\nmysterious question of the race and language of the Basques, it can\nnever fail to excite speculation and conjecture. A gentleman, who is a\nprofessor at the college of Pau, has devoted much of his time to the\ninvestigation of this curious secret, and has thrown his observations\ntogether in the form of a romance, in a manner so pleasing, and so well\ncalculated to place the persons he wishes to describe immediately before\nthe mind's eye of his reader, that I think a few extracts from his story\nof THE CAGOT, yet unpublished, will give the best idea of the state of\ndegradation and oppression in which the Cagots were forced to exist; and\nexhibit in lively colours the tyranny and bigoted prejudice to which\nthey were victims. I avail myself, therefore, of the permission of M.\nBad\u00e9, to introduce his _Cagot_ to the English reader.[40] The story thus\nopens:\n\n[Footnote 40: Most of the scenes of the story in the Vall\u00e9e d'Aspe have\nbecome familiar to me, and I can vouch for the truth of the\ndescriptions.]\n\n\nTHE CAGOT.\n\nA B\u00c9ARNAIS TALE.\n\n\"ON a fine night in the month of June, 1386, a mounted party,\naccompanied by archers and attendants on foot, were proceeding, at a\nquiet pace, along the left bank of a rivulet called Lauronce, on the way\nbetween Oloron and Aubertin. A fresh breeze had succeeded the burning\nvapours which, in the scorching days of summer, sometimes transform the\nvalleys of B\u00e9arn into furnaces. Myriads of stars glittered, bright and\nclear, like sparkles of silver, in the deep blue sky, and their\nglimmering light rendered the thin veil still more transparent which the\ntwilight of the solstice had spread over the face of the country; while\nthrough this shadowy haze might be seen, from point to point, on the\nhills, the ruddy flame of half-extinguished fires.\n\n\"From time to time, those who composed the cavalcade paused as it\nreached higher ground, in order to contemplate the magnificent spectacle\nbefore them and the effect produced by the doubtful and fleeting shadows\nwhich rested on the fields, on the dark woods, and on the broken and\nuncertain line in the southern horizon which indicated the summits of\nthe Pyrenees. The air was full of the perfume of newly-cut hay; the\nleaves sent forth a trembling murmur; the cricket uttered his sharp\nchirrup in the meadows; the quail's short, flute-like cry was heard, and\nall in nature harmonized with the beauty of the summer night.\"\n\nThe party, who are travelling at this hour in order to avoid the heats\nof the day, are then introduced by the narrator as the Baron de Lescun\nand his niece, Marie, an orphan confided to his care: they are on their\nway to the Court of Gaston Phoebus, Count of Foix, at Orthez, who is\nabout to give a series of _f\u00eates_ and tournaments: they have been\njoined by a lady and her son--the Dame d'Artiguelouve (a name of old\nstanding in B\u00e9arn, and still existing,)--and the young _domenger_, (the\nB\u00e9rnais title of _Damoiseau_,) Odon, escorted by their pages and valets.\nConversation ensues between them, in which the young lady expresses some\ndoubts as to their prudence in choosing so witching an hour, however\nbeautiful the time, for their journey; when it is known that evil\nspirits and sorcerers are abroad on their foul errands.\n\nThey presently arrive on the territory of Faget, when they are startled\nto observe, as if flitting near them, human forms, which glide\nnoiselessly along, like shades in the darkness. Some of these mysterious\nbeings placed themselves in a stooping position on the margin of the\nstreams, with their faces bent close to the water. Others, divesting\nthemselves of their garments, entered, with hurried and noiseless stops,\na neighbouring field of oats, and there concealed themselves. Some of\nthe strangers were astonished at what they saw, and could not resolve in\ntheir own minds whether or not these were, indeed, phantoms that\nappeared in their path.\n\n\"'Midnight must be near, and the _f\u00eate_ of St. Jean is about to begin,'\nsaid the Sire de Lescun; 'for these are the poor people who are on the\nwatch for the unattainable moment, when, it is thought, the water\nchanges into wine, and has the power of healing all their infirmities:\nthe dew of this night, received on the body in the fields, is also said\nto be endowed with the same marvellous virtue.'\"\n\nA confused noise now met their ears as they entered the forest of\nLorincq, and a singular spectacle was presented to them:\n\n\"The forest, all resplendent with illuminations, seemed full of bustle\nand animation. Numerous torches sparkled amongst the trees to which they\nwere suspended or attached; others were borne along, whirled from place\nto place, their black smoke sending its long wreaths into the air, and\ntheir red flame flashing through the gloom. A thousand voices burst\nforth, as if simultaneously, from height and valley, above, around, and\nunderneath; an immense crowd hurried along--some mounting, some\ndescending--amongst the crackling branches, until the intricate alleys\nand close retreats of this labyrinth of verdure were filled with human\nbeings.\n\n\"The lame and wounded, the infirm and paralytic grouped themselves\naround the fountains, to be ready at the right moment to plunge their\nafflicted limbs in the cold waters, and then to cast in their offering\nof a piece of money: some, providing for the future, busied themselves\nin filling, from the beneficent source, their vases and pitchers to\noverflowing; for it was firmly believed, that, in memory of the holy\nbaptism administered by the patron of the _f\u00eate_, Heaven had endowed the\nwaters with peculiar powers during that favoured night; allowing the\nvirtue to take effect from midnight to the rising of the sun.\n\n\"In the humid fern might be seen cattle sent to graze at will, in the\nhope of being cured of some malady, their tinkling bells indicating\nwhere they wandered. Parties of old men, women, and children, dispersed\nhere and there, were eating cakes prepared for the occasion; while young\nmen and girls danced in circles beneath the ash and elm trees, to the\nsound of the _flute of three notes_, accompanied by the nasal cadence of\nthe lute of six strings.\n\n\"After halting for a considerable time, and taking their part in the\nreligious advantages of the _f\u00eate_, the cavalcade resumed its route; and\nsoon descended into the valley of the Bayse, as the sky began to be\ntinged with the hue of dawn. When they arrived at the hospital of\nAubertin, the first rays of the sun were casting a golden light on the\nRoman transepts of the church.\"\n\nAt the moment that the Dame d'Artiguelouve and her son are alighting\nfrom their horses, they are arrested, and impressed with a superstitious\nfeeling of terror, by observing a fine white courser at the door of the\nchurch, held by a page. This was, at the period, a bad omen for the\nstranger who first saw it, and boded no good to any one.\n\n\"'I would not', said Joan Bordenabe--a peasant standing by,--'for the\ncastle of Artiguelouve, have met with so bad an omen, as the Ena[41]\nGarsende and her noble son, who have come at once, face to face, with\nthat animal, covered, as it would seem by his colour, with the snows of\nthe Pyrenees: by our Lady of Sarrance, their future years will be as\nblack as he is white!'\n\n\"'But,' replied his companion, 'if I were the knight to whom the charger\nbelongs, I would part with him instantly, even if, at the same time as I\ndrowned him, I must throw into the Gave my sword and golden spurs: don't\nyou see that spiteful-looking magpie, which has just started up before\nhim, after having chattered in his very face? What awful signs of evil\nare these! and on such a morning, at the rising of the sun! * * * May\nthe _bon Dieu_, the Holy Virgin, and the white fairies of the\nsubterranean caves, who are always combing their hair at the first\nglimpse of dawn, and looking into the clear mirror of the fountains,\nprotect that beautiful young lady, who is at this moment entering the\nchurch. It is to be hoped she has made an ample provision of fennel to\nlay under her bed's head, and in her oratory, to counteract the evil\ninfluence of the _Brouches_!'\"[42]\n\n[Footnote 41: En and Ena are titles of B\u00e9arnaise nobility, answering to\nthe Spanish Don and Do\u00f1a.]\n\n[Footnote 42: Witches or Sorcerers of B\u00e9arn.]\n\nWhile the young lady, Marie de Lignac, enters the church to perform her\ndevotions, the rest of the party leave her, to join the chase of the\nwild boar, which the Lord of Artiguelouve, the father of Odon, is\nfollowing, as his horns announce, in the adjacent forest.\n\nThe Hospital of Aubertin, which still exists, is a building of the\ntwelfth century, and was one of many establishments depending on the\norder of monks hospitalers of Sainte Christine: it served as an asylum\nto the pilgrims of St. James, and as a resting-place to travellers going\nand coming to and from Spain, Marie found the church filled with persons\nof different professions: merchants from Arragon and Catalonia; pilgrims\nadorned with palms and cockle-shells, emblems of their wandering;\nshepherds in their red dresses and brown berret-caps; and wayfarers of\nmany sorts, waiting only for the morning to continue their journey in\nvarious directions, and offering up their prayers previously to setting\nout. Among others, she noticed particularly a young knight (un beau\ncaver[43]) devoutly kneeling at the foot of the altar of the Virgin,\nwhile his archers and men-at-arms were engaged in prayer close behind\nhim: she judged that to him must belong the white charger at the\nchurch-door, which had inspired the peasants with so much superstitious\nterror. Nothing appeared to disturb the devotion of the knight; neither\nthe neighing of steeds without, nor the clatter of the hoofs of mules in\nthe court, as the different groups prepared to depart; nor the coming\nand going of the merely curious, who were busied observing the beauty of\nthe edifice, the materials of which, according to popular belief, were\nfurnished by the Holy Virgin herself, who directed the elaborate and\nbeautiful ornaments of the pillars and cornices still to be seen there.\n\n[Footnote 43: _Caver_. Chevalier, knight.]\n\nThe knight's costume was half civil, half military; of one sombre\ncolour, without blazon or distinction--a circumstance unusual at the\nperiod: the expression of his face was grave and melancholy: he was\nsomewhat bronzed with the sun, otherwise his complexion was fair, and\nhis blue eyes were full of character and softness.\n\nEven the appearance of the lady does not cause the knight to cease his\nprayers, and she remains looking upon him, half-divided between her duty\nand a sudden feeling of admiration and involuntary esteem for which she\nis unable to account, except by considering him as an apparition sent\nfrom heaven,--when a violent noise without, accompanied by the cries of\nhunters and their horns, effectually put a stop to the religious\noccupation of all within the church. All hurry out, and, amongst the\nrest--her orisons over--is the young lady, attended by her page. She had\nscarcely left the door, and was hastening to the neighbouring hostelry,\nwhen she saw before her, at a very short distance, surrounded by a\nfurious pack of hounds, who, bleeding and wounded, were yet attacking\ntheir enemy boldly, an enormous wild boar, evidently rendered savage by\nhis sufferings. The beast rushed along, his white tusks gleaming\nfearfully, and his hot breath already reaching the terrified girl and\nher feeble protector. Marie turned back, and darted towards the open\ndoor of the church, and in another moment might have been out of the\nreach of the infuriated animal; but a stone imprudently aimed at the\nboar by a peasant from the wood, sent him, foaming, exactly in the\ndirection she had taken. She saw there was no escape--made a bound, and\nfell senseless on the threshold of the church: the boar had just reached\nthe spot, and one stroke of his terrible tusk had sufficed to crush the\nfragile being, who lay extended before him, when a young peasant, with a\nswiftness almost supernatural, interposed between her and her fate; and,\nwith an axe with which he was armed, discharged so well-directed a blow\non the head of the brute, that he extended him dead at his feet.\n\nCertainly, never had succour arrived at a time of more need; and it was\nimpossible to deny that the young man's intrepidity had saved the lady's\nlife: nevertheless, when the crowd collected around them, as Marie,\nassisted by her terrified page, began to recover consciousness, and her\ndeliverer stood, his axe yet reeking with the blood of the animal from\nwhom he had saved her, and whose carcase lay recking, the skull cleft in\ntwo,--it was with anything but applause or commendation that this act of\nself-devotion was hailed by all present.\n\nAs they cast their eyes on the coarse and ragged garb of the young man,\nthose nearest observed on the breast a certain piece of red cloth, cut\nin the form of _a goose's foot_: a cry of horror and contempt, mingled\nwith surprise, accompanied this discovery, and the words--\"It is a\nCagot! it is a Cagot!\" rang through the assembly, and was repeated by a\nhundred voices in different intonations of horror. * * *\n\nThe object of this popular disgust was a tall, handsome,\npowerfully-built youth, fair, and of fine complexion: he stood in an\neasy attitude, in which the majesty of recent action was conspicuous:\nhis colour was heightened, and his bright eyes flashed with satisfaction\nat the deed he had performed; but when he heard the rage of the people\nrising, and the fatal and detested name of _Cagot_ sounded in his ears,\na far different feeling--the consciousness of his utter degradation,\nwhich he had for a moment forgotten, returned to him with added force.\nSuddenly recalled from his illusion, his head sunk mournfully on his\nbosom, and he seemed at once to retire within himself, gathering all\nthe courage and patience of which he was capable to enable him to\nendure the outrages and violence which he knew but too well awaited him.\n\n\"'Accursed Cagot![44]--down with the accursed Cagot!' repeated a host of\nconfused voices.\n\n[Footnote 44: At the period at which this story is laid, the Cagots were\ncalled _Chrestia\u00e0s_, but the term _Cagot_, adopted later is more\ngenerally known in B\u00e9arn.]\n\n\"'Death to the leprous wretch!--to the river with him!--drag him to the\nriver!--he has infected our fields--the holy dew is on him yet!'\n\n\"'He has laid his infected hands on our master's goods--he has dared to\ntouch the game!' cried one of the huntsmen, coming up.\n\n\"'Hound of ill omen!' thundered Odon d'Artiguelouve, dashing through all\nthe crowd, with his lady-mother and all his mounted attendants--'has he\ndared to place his devilish claw on that which belongs to us?'\n\n\"'He has bewitched our woods, and blighted our harvests!' exclaimed a\npeasant, giving him a blow, and spitting in his face.\n\n\"'To the flames with the sorcerer!--to the fire with the\nbroomstick-rider!--to the fire with the comrade of the infernal\nspirits!' cried others; and one threw at him a half-burnt log of the St.\nJohn's fire, which, striking him on the forehead, sent the unfortunate\nCagot reeling to the foot of a tree, against which he leaned for\nsupport.\n\nThis, and much more insult was lumped upon the unfortunate young man,\naccompanied by furious howlings and execrations, which became every\nmoment louder: hisses, laughter, and showers of mud and stones were sent\ntowards him as he stood, motionless and calm; his eyes half-closed;\nwithout uttering a groan or a word; but, apparently, resolved to endure\nwithout shrinking the undeserved fate which pursued him.\n\nEvery moment the crowd increased, and with it the fury of popular\nhatred, until, at length, fatigued with the patience of their victim,\nthe people proposed at once to drag the Cagot to the river. He was,\ntherefore, seized, bound, and, in spite of his resistance and his\nstrength, they prepared to carry their threats into execution; at the\nsame time uttering those savage cries, known in the country as _les cris\nBasques_, and imitating, in derision of the wretched creature they were\ninjuring, the sharp voice of the goose, and the nasal call of the duck.\nThe young Ena Marie, for whose sake her deliverer was thus suffering,\nwept, entreated, and appealed to the senseless multitude in vain, and\nimplored the mercy of Odon and Dame Garsende, who treated her prayers\nwith indifference, and appeared to think the conduct of the mob\nperfectly justifiable. But, at the moment when all hope seemed lost, the\ninterference of the young knight of the church prevented the execution\nof the crime about to be perpetrated.\n\nFollowed by his archers and men-at-arms, he rushed forward, and\ncommanded that the prisoner should be released, in a tone and with\ngestures so commanding, that the astonished crowd was, for a time,\narrested in their project, and a general silence ensued, presently\nbroken by a voice at a distance, which exclaimed--\"Noble and generous\nchild! the blessing of Heaven be on thee!\" All eyes were directed\ntowards the speaker--an old man with silver hair, clothed in a dark\nmantle, with the hood drawn over his head: he stood on an elevated mound\nabove the scene of action, and on finding himself observed hurried away\nfrom the spot.\n\nMeantime, taking advantage of the awe his appearance had excited in the\npublic mind, the knight hastened to the poor Cagot, cut with his sword\nthe cords which bound him, and set him at liberty. Amazement was painted\non the victim's countenance, as he observed the relief which approached\nhim: to be the object of care to a noble knight--to be defended, treated\nlike a human creature was indeed a prodigy to him! The being, but an\ninstant before stupified and inert, from whom insult and injury had\ndrawn no cry nor tear, this evidence of humanity touched to the quick:\nhe cast a long look of tenderness and gratitude on his deliverer; and\nlarge tears rolled down his bleeding cheeks. But the panic of the\ninstant soon passed away; hoarse murmurs arose, and threatening words,\nand the tumult recommenced, Odon d'Artiguelouve advanced to the knight,\nand demanded, in a haughty tone, by what right he interfered with the\nexecution of the laws.\n\n\"'I am not a stranger to this country,' replied he, calmly, 'though it\nis some time since I quitted it; and I know its _fors_ and _customs_\nprobably as well as you can do, Messire.'\n\n\"'Then,' answered Odon, 'you should know that a Cagot is forbidden to\nappear in an assembly of citizens, and that all commerce with them is\nexpressly denied him; that he has no right to touch any article intended\nfor their use; and yet you defend this wretch, who has defiled, by the\ncontact of his accursed hand, the game which belongs to a gentleman.'\n\n\"'It appears, then,' answered the knight, with bitter irony, 'that a\ngentleman singularly loves his game, since he attaches more value to a\nboar's head than to the life of a noble lady, which this poor Cagot\npreserved at the risk of injuring one of these precious animals.'\n\n\"'Was it for high deeds of this nature,' interposed the Lady of\nArtiguelouve, seeing that her son's countenance fell, 'that the knight\ntook his vows, when he received the honour of the accolade?'\n\n\"'I swore, madam,' answered the _caver_, 'to consecrate my arms to the\nservice of religion, and the defence of the widow, the orphan, and the\n_unprotected_.'\n\n\"'And by what enchantment,' rejoined Dame Garsende, 'does your\nknight-errantship behold in us giants or monsters?'\n\n\"'A loyal and christian knight ever sees a monster in oppression, madam.\nNo man can be punished before he is judged, and I see here neither jury,\ncourt of knights, or _cour majour_.'\n\n\"'If that is all,' cried Odon, 'every formality shall be gone through.\nSeize this miserable wretch, my friends, and drag him to the\njustice-seat; we will follow.'\"\n\nAn immediate movement was made to obey this order; but the knight again\ninterfered.\n\n\"'It is well,' said he; 'but if you have a right to take him before a\ncourt, he has that of claiming sanctuary. From whence come you, friend?'\nhe added, turning to the Cagot.\n\n\"'From the Vall\u00e9e d'Aspe, sir knight,' was the answer.\n\n\"'Then, it would suffice to reach the P\u00e8ne d'Escot, at the entrance of\nthis valley, to be in an inviolable security, and we would, if it were\nnecessary, escort you as far; but closer still a refuge attends you; you\nhave only to reach the _circle of sanctuary_ which yon church of\nAubertin offers.'\"[45]\n\n[Footnote 45: By a charter of 1103, churches allowed an asylum within a\nspace of thirty paces in circumference. _Ecclesi\u00e6 salvitatem habeant\ntriginta passuum circumcirca.--Marca._]\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nA great struggle now ensues, the B\u00e9arnais resolving to oppose the\nCagot's entrance to the sanctuary, and the knight and his followers\nmaintaining his attempt. The young Marie of Lignac at length forces her\nway through the crowd, and laying her hand on the Cagot, demands, by\nvirtue of the _fors et coutumes_, that he be given up to the protection\nof a noble lady who claims her right to shelter the guilty.\n\nThis appeal was not to be treated with contempt; and the mob, perhaps\ntired of the conflict, gave way with a sudden feeling of respect; while\nMarie led the persecuted Cagot, surrounded by the knight's men-at-arms,\nto the door of the church, where he entered, and was in safety.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nThe next scene of the story introduces the reader to the old knight of\nArtiguelouve, and the interior of his castle,[46] where the late events\nare recounted to him by his wife and son, with great bitterness; and\nenvy and offended pride excite the mother and son to resolutions of\nvengeance, which the father, a man apparently soured with misfortune,\nand saddened by some concealed sin, can only oppose by expressions of\ncontempt, which irritate the more.\n\n[Footnote 46: The castle of Artiguelouve is still standing--a curious\nmonument of ancient grandeur; it is situated near Sauveterre.]\n\nThe demoiselle de Lignac, meantime, is arrived at the Castle of Orthez,\nand received, as well as her uncle, with great honour by Gaston de Foix,\nwho proposes instituting his beautiful guest the queen of the\napproaching tournament.\n\nThe unknown knight, having left the Cagot with the monks of Aubertin,\nand acted the part of the good Samaritan by his charge, is next seen\npursuing his way southward; where, in the mountains, an interview takes\nplace between him and his father, who is, it seems, a proscribed man.\nThey meet after many years of absence, during which the young knight has\nwon all kinds of honour, having gone to the wars under the care and\nadoption of a brave champion, Messire Augerot de Domezain; who, dying of\nhis wounds, had recommended his young friend to the King of Castile,\nfrom whom he receives knighthood. He learns from his father that the\nholy hermit, brother of Augerot, under whoso care he was brought up, is\ndead; and he further learns, that the time is nearly come when the\nsecret of his father's misfortunes will be revealed to him. All that the\nknight, in fact, knows about himself is, that a cloud hangs over the\nnoble family to which he belongs, and that his father is obliged to\nconceal himself to escape persecution.\n\nThe father and son separate: the one retiring to his retreat in the\nVall\u00e9e d'Aspe, the other journeying onwards to the court of Gaston\nPhoebus.\n\nHe has arrived at Orthez, and has just reached the famous _H\u00f4tel de la\nLune_, described by Froissart, when he falls into an ambush, and is\ncarried off by unknown enemies, and thrown into a dungeon in the ruins\nof an abandoned castle, situated on a hill to the south of the Valley of\nGeu, between Lagor and Sauvelade--a spot which may still be seen. Here\nthe unfortunate knight is left to lament and mourn, that all his hopes\nof distinguishing himself in the tournament, and of again seeing the\nbeautiful Marie, are destroyed at once.\n\nThe _f\u00eates_ go on, and every thing at Orthez breathes of gaiety and\nsplendour; the people have their games; the Pyrrhic dances, called\n_sauts Basques_, are in full force, performed by the Escualdunacs in\ntheir parti-coloured dresses, and red sashes; the B\u00e9arnais execute their\nspiral dances,[47] and sing their mountain-songs and ballads; some cast\ngreat stones and iron bars, in which exercises is distinguished Ernauton\nd'Espagne, the strong knight mentioned in Froissart as being able to\nbring into the hall of Gaston an ass fully laden with fuel, and to throw\nthe whole on the hearth, to the great delight of all present. These\nscenes give occasion to the author to introduce many of the proverbial\nsayings of the people, which are curious and characteristic. Their\nstrictures on the dress and appearance of the knights and nobles, are\nin keeping with the freedom of the habits of the day, when the\ncommonalty, however oppressed in some particulars, were allowed a\nsingular latitude of speech.\n\n[Footnote 47: _i.e._ lifting their partners into the air.]\n\nAmongst their homely sayings, occur the following:--\n\n    \"Habillat \u00f9 bastou qu', a\u00fcra l'air d'\u00f9 baron.\"\n     Dress up a stick, and you can give it the air of a baron.\n\n    \"Nout basqu\u00e8s mey gran hech que non pouchques lheba:\"\n     Do not make a larger fagot than you can lift.\n\n    \"Quaba\u00fc mey eslurras dap l'esclop que dap la lengue.\"\n     It is better to slide with _sabots_ than with the tongue.\n\n    \"Yamey nou fondes maysou aupr\u00e8s d'aigue ni de seignou.\"\n     Never build a house near a torrent nor a great lord.\n\n    \"Las sourci\u00e9ros et lous loup-garous\n     Aus cur\u00e9s han minya capons.\"\n\n     Witches and loup-garoux make priests eat fat capons, _i.e. are to\n     their advantage_--an adage which would seem to infer that the\n     search for sorcery was known to be a _job_ in all ages.\n\nThe tournament goes on: and, to the great disappointment of the lady of\nthe lists, no stranger-knight appears; and her admirer, Odon, is the\nvictor over all others; when, just at the last moment, the trumpet of\nthe Unknown sounds, and he comes into the arena, and challenges the\nenvious knight, after defeating all the others, Dame Garsende has\nrecourse to a stratagem to overcome him, which fails in regard to him,\nbut overwhelms her son in confusion, and causes his defeat: she cuts the\ncord of a canopy under which the knight has to pass, in the hope that it\nwill fall in his way, and encumber his advance; but he adroitly catches\nit on the end of his spear, and Odon, in falling from his horse after\nthe knight's attack, gets entangled in the garlands and drapery, and\nmakes a very ridiculous figure. Of course the stranger-knight is made\nhappy in the chaplet placed on his brow by Marie, and the kiss of custom\nby which the gift is accompanied. His rival retires, vowing vengeance.\n\nA grand feast then takes place; and as the guests arrive they are\nseverally recognised by the people. The stranger-knight, whose device is\n_a branch of vine clinging to an aged tree_, is hailed with acclamation,\nand a tumult of enthusiasm, consequent on his successes and his\nhonourable reception by Gaston Phoebus; to whom, when questioned as to\nhis name and family, he replies that he is called Raymond, the adopted\nson of Messire Augerot de Domezain. Gaston instantly recognises in him a\nknight whose valorous deeds are on record, and who saved the life of\nMarie de Lignac's father, at the battle of Aljubarotta.\n\nRaymond produces a chain of gold, which the dying knight had charged him\nto deliver to Gaston, to be sent to his daughter; and the tears and\nthanks of the young lady are the reward of his accomplished mission.\n\nThe stranger-knight is now at the height of favour: adopted by Ernauton\nd'Espagne as his brother-in-arms; welcomed by the gorgeous Gaston\nPhoebus; hailed by the people; and, above all, loved by Marie. He is, of\ncourse, exposed to the evil designs of Garsende and her son, from which\nhe twice escapes; but they are obliged to conceal their enmity, and he\nis ignorant from whence he is attacked. During a grand banquet, a\nminstrel, whose verses had warned him to avoid a poisoned cup, unable to\napproach him near enough to deliver a billet, gives it in charge to one\nof his favourite men-at-arms, who places it in the sheath of his sword\ntill he can transmit it to his master. This action is observed by\nGarsende; who, afterwards, taking advantage of the soldier's fondness\nfor the fine vintage of Juran\u00e7on, contrives to get possession of the\nletter, and excites the jealousy of Marie, who imagines it written by a\nwoman, deceived by the expressions, \"My beloved Raymond,\" and the\nsignature of \"The Being dearest to your Heart,\" and the mysterious\nrendezvous appointed, all of which is, in fact, written by his exiled\nfather. This plot, however, fails, through the candour and devotion of\nMarie; and the knight keeps the tryst which his father had appointed at\na ruined hermitage, formerly tenanted by the preceptor of Raymond, on a\nlonely hill above the Vall\u00e9e d'Aspe. Here they meet; and a scene of\ntenderness on the part of the son, and mystery on that of the father,\nensues; in which the latter entreats yet a little time before he\ndiscloses certain secrets of moment, concerning the young knight, whose\nsuccesses appear to produce a strange effect on his mind, almost\namounting to regret, for which the other cannot account. When they part,\nhe agrees that, when he has once seen him the husband of Marie,--who,\nthough aware of the mystery which envelopes him, has generously granted\nhim her hand,--and when he knows him to be _removed from all danger_, he\nwill no longer withhold the information he has to give.\n\nThey separate; but enemies have been on their track; and the father is\nwatched to his concealed retreat, while Raymond remains sleeping at the\nfoot of the altar, in the hermitage. The intention of Odon\nd'Artiguelouve, who is on the spot, had been to murder him as he slept;\nbut the information brought him by his spies, who have watched the old\nman, entirely changes his intentions. A more secure revenge is in his\npower, and he returns to his castle with extraordinary satisfaction;\nleaving the happy lover of Marie, and the successful victor of the\nlists, to his dreams of future bliss.\n\nThe great day arrives on which Gaston de Foix has announced a solemn\nfestival, to be held in honour of the Knight of the Vine-branch, and\nhis affianced bride, Marie de Lignac. All the nobles of the country\nassemble; and, amongst them, the old \"grim baron,\" Loup Bergund\nd'Artiguelouve, and his family. Minstrels sing, music sounds, and\nhonours and compliments pour upon the favoured knight; and even his\nrivals, to judge by their joyous countenances, have only pleasure in\ntheir hearts. The Prince of B\u00e9arn, and his brilliant court, enter their\ndecorated pavilion amidst the shouts of the assembled guests; the people\nare admitted to view the jousts; and Raymond advances to the foot of the\nthrone, and receives a paternal embrace from the courteous Gaston\nPhoebus. The signal is given for the amusements to begin, when a loud\nvoice is heard above the trumpets and the clash of instruments: the\nherald-at-arms pauses; and Odon d'Artiguelouve, who had cried, \"Hold!\"\nstands up in his seat, and thunders forth these ominous words:\n\n\"'Suspend the solemnities; for I behold here, on this spot, in presence\nof our august assembly, one of those impure beings on whom the sun\nshines with disgust,--who excite horror in heaven and on earth,--whose\nbreath poisons the air we breathe,--whose hand pollutes all it touches.\nHold! for, I tell you, there is a Cagot amongst us!'\"\n\nAs he spoke, he pointed with a frantic gesture of malevolence towards an\naged man, wrapped in a large, dark, woollen cloak, who was vainly\nendeavouring to conceal himself in the crowd.\n\nA cry of horror and indignation burst from all sides: all shrunk back\nfrom the profane object indicated; leaving a space around him. A deadly\npaleness, the effect of amazement and consternation, passed over the\nface of Raymond; for, in the person of the accused, he recognised--his\nfather!\n\nRaymond almost instantly, however, recovers from the effect of this\nterrific announcement; and springing forward, and placing himself before\nthe old man, cried out, in a loud and firm voice:\n\n\"'He who dares make such an assertion has lied!'\n\n\"'How! exclaimed Odon d'Artignelouve; 'dost thou give me the lie? Here\nis my gage of battle: let him take it up who will.' And, throwing his\nglove into the midst of the assembly, he continued:\n\n\"'I, Odon d'Artiguelouve, to all gentlemen present and to come--knights\nand nobles--offer to maintain my words, with sword, or battle-axe, or\nlance, against all who shall have the boldness to deny that yonder old\nman, wrapped in a dark mantle, now before us, has dared to trample under\nfoot our laws and ordinances, and sully by his impure presence our noble\nassembly; for he is no other than a vile Cagot, leprous and infected,\nbelonging to the Cagoterie of Lurbe, hid, like a nest of snakes, amongst\nthe rocks of Mount Binet, at the entrance of the Vall\u00e9e d'Aspe.'\"\n\nA shudder of horror ran through the crowd as these words were uttered.\n\n\"'And I,' cried the knight, in a voice of furious indignation--'I,\nRaymond, the adopted son of Augerot de Domezain,--whose real name will,\nI trust, one day appear,--in virtue of my privileges, my title, and my\noath, protest, in defiance of thy rank, thy strength, and thy youth; in\ndespite of thy sword, thy lance, and thy battle-axe,--I protest, in the\nface of God and the men who hear me, that, from the crown of thy head to\nthe sole of thy foot, thou art an infamous and perjured impostor,--a\ntraitor as black as hell can make thee,--and that thou hast lied in thy\nthroat. My arm and my sword are ready to engrave upon thy body, in\ncharacters of blood, the truth of my words!'\"\n\nThe tone of energetic conviction with which Raymond spoke, his bold and\nmartial bearing, the flash of his eye, and the indignant rage of his\nmanner, impressed his hearers as they listened, and a murmur of applause\nfollowed his exclamation. Marie, pale as death, sat like a statue of\nmarble; her hands clasped, her breath suspended, and her eyes fixed\nwildly on the trembling old man,--the object of all attention.\n\nOdon was about to reply, when Count Gaston, with a heightened colour and\nan excited air, rose and spoke:\n\n\"We are,\" he said, \"deeply displeased that such a discussion should have\ndisturbed the peace of our assembly. You are not ignorant, Sir Raymond,\nthat our laws accord to all men of B\u00e9arn the right of combat against the\naggressor who has outraged him by the injurious epithets of false and\ntraitor. And you, Sir Odon, remember that here, as in the _Cour Majour_,\nwe owe justice to all,--to the weak as well as the strong; and that,\nbefore judgment, proof is necessary.\"\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nThe old man is now required by Odon to stand forth and answer in full\nassembly whether he is not called Guilhem, whether he is not a Cagot,\nand whether he is not a member of the Cagoterie of Lurbe.\n\nA profound silence ensues in the assembly; all, in breathless anxiety,\nawait the answer of the accused, who stands hesitating and apparently\nunable to utter a word; at length, with an effort, and in a hoarse and\ntrembling voice, he falters from beneath the thick hood which he had\ndrawn over his face, \"Heaven has so decreed it--Alas! it is a fatal\ntruth!\" Now comes the triumph of the rival of the unfortunate knight; he\nstarts up, wild and fierce, exultation trembling on his envenomed\ntongue:\n\n\"B\u00e9arnais!\" cried he; \"listen to me! If this man, who has dared to call\nme false and traitor, were a knight, as he calls himself, or a noble,\nlike me, he would, by our laws, be entitled to claim the right of duel,\nto which he had provoked me, on foot or on horseback, armed at all\npoints; or, were he a man belonging to the people, I being a gentleman,\nhe could oppose me with a shield and a club; or were we both equally\npeasants, we could fight, each armed according to our rank. But, were I\nten times the aggressor, and he the offended party, all combat between\nhim and me is impossible, for he is beneath the knight, the noble, the\ncitizen, the serf, the labourer; beneath the lowest degree in the scale\nof humanity--beneath the beasts themselves; he is a vile Gesitain, a dog\nof a leper, an infamous and degraded Cagot, and yonder stands his\nfather!\"\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nHorror takes possession of all--knight, lady, prince, and people. In\nvain the unfortunate Guilhem, throwing back his cowl and imploring to be\nheard, proclaims aloud that he is not the father of the noble knight;\nthat Raymond does not belong to their unhappy race, and calls the\nRedeemer to witness that he speaks the truth; he is treated with scorn\nand contempt, and the popular fury rises at the disavowal.\n\nGaston Phoebus commands silence, and calls upon the knight to disprove\nthe fact alleged, and confirm the hope he entertains; but Raymond has no\nwords but these:\n\n\"No, noble Prince; I have no power to speak other than the truth; and\nwere the torments I endure ten times heavier, I have only to\nconfess--this is, indeed, my father.\"\n\nMarie, as he spoke, uttered a wild shriek, and fell senseless to the\nground; a yell burst from the crowd, joy and triumph glowed on the\ncountenances of Odon and his mother, and Gaston Phoebus cast himself\nback in his seat, and covered his face with his robe.\n\n\"'Go, Cagot!' roared the pitiless Odon; 'who now is a false traitor, who\nnow has lied, and proved himself a vile impostor? Away with thy helmet,\nthy sword, and thy spurs; away with all the armour of the craven! Let\nthe herald at arms degrade thee before the world! Where is now thy name,\nthy titles, thy prerogatives? where are thy fiefs and thy domains? Thy\nname is _Cagot_, thy possessions leprosy, and every foul disease--every\nimpurity of soul and body; thy castle is a mud hut in the Cagoterie of\nLurbe, and this is thy blazon!'\"\n\nAs he spoke he raised his arm in the air, and, with the frantic force of\nhate, dashed in the face of the distracted Raymond a piece of red cloth\ncut into the form of a _goose's foot_.\n\nAt the sight of this emblem the populace rose with fury, and rushed in a\nbody, with savage cries, on the unfortunate pair.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nA scene of horror now takes place; Raymond is deserted by all his\npeople but one, his favourite man-at-arms, and the generous Arnauton,\nwho will not quit his adopted brother even in such degradation; together\nthey stand against the mob, whose rage the Prince himself is unable to\nrestrain. Odon leads them on; the poor old man is with difficulty\nrescued from their grasp by the determined valour of his defenders, who\nare, however, too few to contend against their foes, and Odon is on the\npoint of attaining the object of his wishes, and beholding the heart's\nblood of his rival--when assistance comes in the shape of the young\nCagot who had saved the life of Ena Marie. At the moment when the blow\nis falling, and Raymond has no chance of escape, he darts forward, and,\nseizing Odon in his powerful grasp, drags him to the bridge of the Gave,\nwhich is thrown over the torrent, where a mill-wheel is working. There a\nfearful struggle goes on, which is closed by both combatants being\nprecipitated into the stream, to reappear crushed and mangled by the\nmighty engine under which they fell.\n\nThe bravo young Cagot casts one dying look, full of tenderness and\ngratitude, towards those who watch his end with pity and despair, and\nall is over.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nOn the evening of that fatal day, Guilhem and Raymond, both exhausted\nand overcome with grief and fatigue, rest themselves in a miserable hut,\nfar away amongst the rocks, in one of the steepest and wildest gorges\nof Mont Binet. It was one of the accursed and abhorred dwellings of the\nCagot village of Lurbe.\n\nThe night was black and fearful: a tempest raged in all its terrors\nwithout, and occasional gusts of wind and rain penetrated the wretched\nretreat where the unfortunate fugitives sat, their vestments torn, and\ntheir bodies as severely wounded as their minds. Several Cagots, both\nmale and female, from other cabins near, hovered round them, tenderly\nadministering to their wants, and preparing such balms to heal their\nwounds as their simple knowledge afforded. They accompanied these\nfriendly offices with tears and passionate gesticulations, accompanied\nby half inarticulate exclamations, such as savages, unused to speech,\nmight do in a strange unvisited land.\n\n\"'It is, then, true, my father,' said Raymond, as he looked round on\nthese beings, ill-clothed, poor, degraded by oppression and contempt,\nscarcely endowed with common intelligence, and miserable to regard--'It\nis, then, true, that you are a Cagot, and that these are my brothers and\nmy equals? Ah! why did you let me wander into a world which I ought\nnever to have known? Why did you not let me live and die a Cagot as I\nwas born? These, then, are Cagots!'\n\n\"'Yes,' cried Guilhem, weeping bitterly; 'Yes, we are Cagots, and all\nmen are our persecutors; and yet, when one of _their_ children falls\ninto our hands, we do not ill-use it, we do not torture it, we do not\ncrush it beneath the wheels of a mill; we do good for evil, and they\nrepay us by evil alone! Ah! I am as if bound on a flaming pile, my tears\nare like molten lead on my cheeks. I!--a wretched, vile Cagot!--I should\ndie with pity if I saw one of my executioners in the state to which they\nhave reduced me!'\n\n\"'My father, my dear father, calm yourself,' said Raymond, with tender\naffection; 'your son, at least, is left you.'\n\n\"'No, no,' cried the old man, passionately;'my son is not left me; my\nson is dead; he was torn in pieces by the mill-wheel of Orthez. I am not\nyour father; you are not--you never were, you never can be--my son;\nthis is the first word of the secret I have to tell you.'\n\n\"'What do you tell me!' cried Raymond, in amazement! 'Your disavowal was\nnot, then, a deception, prompted by paternal affection! What! are you\nnot my father? and was that generous creature, sacrificed for my sake,\nindeed your son!'\n\n\"'He was my child, my only child! the only living being attached to me\nby the ties of blood--the only creature who would have listened to my\nlast agonized sigh at my hour of death. And see what was his fate, for\nme! I allowed him to venture for my sake amongst the ferocious people;\nsee to what an end his devotion and gratitude to you had led him!' So\nsaying, the unfortunate old man uncovered the mutilated remains of his\nunfortunate son, rescued from the stream, and transported to the spot by\nthe compassionate care of Arnauton d'Espaigne. The body lay on a rustic\ncouch, enveloped in a white shroud, which is always, according to the\nusage of the country, prepared long before death, a taper of yellow wax\nshed its feeble rays on the corpse'.\"\n\nThe grief and lamentations of Guilhem are interrupted by the rites which\nthen take place; the men wringing their hands, and gesticulating, and\ncursing the cruelty of the world: the women weeping and wailing; and one\nof those endowed with poetical powers, improvising a lament over the\nbody, uttering her words in a melancholy cadence, deeply expressive of\nthe grief of all.\n\n\"'Alas, Gratien!' she moaned; 'thou hast then left us! thou hast\ndeserted thy aged father--gone without a pressure of the hand! Gratien,\nmay God receive thy soul! To live is to suffer. Life is like the wheel\nby which thou wert torn. Thou wert in the right to fly it. Happy child!\nthou art gone to a place where there are no Cagots, no men to persecute\nthee; thou wilt know now who were the ancestors from whom we descend.\nThou hast no more use for the pruning-knife and the infamous axe. No\nmore toil nor suffering await thee; no more contempt nor outrage!\nAccursed be the wheel, oh, Gratien, which crushed thee! never may the\ntorrent wash out thy blood which stains it; let it turn for ever red and\nbloody! No bell tolled for thy soul; but the thunder and the wind, oh,\nGratien! Toll louder still--no bell for the Cagot! But Heaven weeps with\nus, the trees groan with us. Old man! thou dost not weep alone. Adieu,\ndear Gratien, thy body is returned to thy cabin; but thy soul, escaped\nthe demon, is fled on a beam of the moon to the great house of heaven!\nYes, he cries--I am in heaven; I am telling the Cagots, our ancestors,\nthat their children are still in suffering!'\"\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nGuilhem, comforted by the tenderness of Raymond, recovers in some\ndegree his self-possession, and proceeds to relate to the young knight\nthe manner of his falling, when an infant, into his charge. The\nnarrative is as follows:--\n\n\"'In 1360, twenty-six years ago, when I was myself thirty-nine years of\nage, the event happened which I have now to tell you. I was a Cagot from\nmy birth, by my parents and my ancestors--a proscribed outcast of unkind\nnature, like these you see around--poor, ignorant, timid, and a mark for\ninsult and contempt. I had already suffered much; for God, alas! had\ngiven me a heart formed to feel and to love; yet long habits of\nendurance had, in great measure, rendered it callous and insensible,\nunaided as I was by intellectual culture.\n\n\"'I married a woman of my race; but, after a year, she died, leaving me\nin lonely widowed sorrow, with one child. Alas! he has just rejoined his\nmother, and rude is the journey which has conducted him to her!\n\n\"'At this period, as you know, and as I afterwards learnt from the mouth\nof your venerable preceptor, the holy hermit, all France was overrun\nwith bands of marauders and robbers of every nation, called the\n_late-comers_.[48] B\u00e9arn was no more free from them than other parts of\nthe kingdom. One day, I was returning from Oloron, my heart more sad\nthan usual,--cursing men and life, for I had been the object of new\ninjuries,--when a chief of one of these predatory bands suddenly\npresented himself before me; and, addressing me, said: 'Good man, will\nyou do a kind action? Take this infant, abandoned to my men-at-arms by\nan unfaithful servant. I have saved it from their inhumanity: it has\nthat about it which will pay your trouble.' I saw that he held in his\narms a child, who was weeping bitterly; when I looked on its lovely\nface--round, innocent, and rosy--my heart was touched, and I accepted\nthe charge.\n\n[Footnote 48: Tard-venus.]\n\n\"'Alas! the sweet creature knew not that it had fallen into the hands of\na Cagot; for no sooner had I received it on my bosom, than it ceased\ncrying; and, so far from showing repugnance to one about to become its\nfather, its hands were stretched towards me, and it smiled in my face.\nMy dear Raymond, thou wert this infant sent by Providence to my care.'\"\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nThe old man then relates his bringing home the child; employing a goat\nto nourish it; and at length confiding it to the charge and instruction\nof the hermit of Eysus, the only being whose religion or charity allowed\nhim to listen to the confession of the Cagot. While Raymond, however,\nwas yet an infant, and but a short time after Guilhem had received him,\nthe latter was, one day, returning from an expedition to the town, where\nthe wants of his family obliged him to resort, and passed by the ruins\nof the old tower (the very place in which Raymond afterwards became a\nprisoner, and was rescued, by the fortunate familiarity of Guilhem with\nthe spot, in time to appear at the tournament).\n\n\"'I had,' said he, 'taken from my dress the ignominious mark of my\ndegradation; and, in full security, was gathering at my leisure some\nherbs destined for your use, when it so happened that some shepherds of\nthe Vall\u00e9e d'Aspe observed and at once recognised me; and their usual\nsuperstition acting on them at the supposed ill-omen of meeting a Cagot\npicking herbs, they attacked me with one accord, and commenced pelting\nme with stones, and using every epithet of opprobrium. I was struck to\nthe earth; then they dragged me to the entrance of a sort of inclined\ncavern, called in the country 'The Den of the Witches'[49]. With coarse\njests they thrust me through the opening, exclaiming that, as the evil\nspirits raised tempests when stones were thrown in there, perhaps they\nwould be appeased by receiving the body of a Cagot.\n\n[Footnote 49: Tutte de las bronchos.]\n\n\"'I fell to some distance, rolling along the declivity; and my body\nstopped at the bottom on the damp earth. When I had a little recovered,\nI prepared to attempt an escape, as I heard that my tormentors had\ndeparted; but, on reaching the opening, I found a barrier which I had\nnot looked for: these wretched men had lighted a fire of weeds and\nbrushwood at the mouth of the cave. The flames raged violently, excited\nby the current of air from within, and I soon felt the effect; sparks\nand pieces of burning timber fell in; and my wounded body was soon a\nprey to a scorching shower which poured down upon me.\n\n\"'A greater fire rose within my soul,--my injuries had driven me to\ndespair; my brain reeled, and the torments of hell seemed within me and\naround. Hatred and bitter vengeance rose boiling from my heart; and I\ncursed all human nature,--invoking ruin and destruction on mankind, from\nwhom I had never known pity, I raved in my burning prison, and gave\nmyself up to fury and despair, when Heaven took compassion on my misery.\nA lighted brand which fell from above disclosed, by the vivid flash it\ncast through the gloom, an opening at the other end; and I clearly\ndistinguished a covered way, evidently made by human hands, which seemed\nto run along to some distance before me. I retreated into its shelter,\nand my heart revived once more.\n\n\"'I advanced some little way and reposed myself, when, suddenly, I\nthought I could distinguish in the distance vague and interrupted\nsounds. A shudder came over me; and at first I dreaded to move; but, at\nlength, I forced myself to do so; and, gathering up one of the lighted\nbrands, I yielded to my curiosity, and proceeded forward.\n\n\"'Presently the sounds became more distinct; and I could not mistake the\nvoice of wailing and lamentation, which found an echo in my own heart\nand awakened its sympathies. I continued my way cautiously; and, after a\nfew minutes, found myself at an opening, formed in a shelving position,\nin the manner of a loop-hole, closed with two flagstones, not so near\nbut that a space was left wide enough for me to see into a vaulted\nchamber beyond, which at the moment was lighted by a torch.\n\n\"'A young and beautiful woman was seated on the ground, in an attitude\nof profound grief, leaning against the wall opposite. A man of high\nstature, and who might be about my own age, stood at a little distance,\nand looked towards her with a ferocious and menacing air, in which there\nwas, nevertheless, an appearance of what might be thought shame, for the\nglance was oblique, as if he avoided meeting her eye. The light fell\nfull upon his face, which was so remarkable in its expression, that I\ncould not detach my regard from him, and his features remain deeply\ngraven on my memory.\n\n\"'You are, then, obstinately resolved to drive me to extremity,' said\nhe, 'and will not consent to my demand?'\n\n\"'What?' answered the lady, in a voice of grief, but full of energy,\n'shall I despoil my son of his rights and his inheritance without\nknowing that he is dead, and that in favour of my most cruel enemies?\nNo! he may yet live--Providence may yet watch over him--restore him one\nday to the world, when he will come to claim his own and revenge his\nmother's wrongs!'\n\n\"'You have no alternative but a fearful death, remember!' said the man,\nin hoarse accents.\n\n\"'Rather any death than abandon my child!' was the answer.\n\n\"'Then, madam,' returned her companion, 'your will shall be done--impute\nyour fate to your own conduct.'\n\n\"As he pronounced these words, he approached the door of the dungeon,\nwhere stood another female in the shade, who contemplated the scene in\nsilence, with an unmoved and chilling aspect. They then left the place\ntogether, fastening the heavy door carefully, while the sound of their\nkeys and chains sent a fearful echo through the vaulted apartment. Their\nvictim fell back in a state of desolation, pitiable to behold, and burst\ninto passionate tears, praying fervently to Heaven, and uttering\nexclamations which might melt the stoutest heart.'\n\n\"'I was deeply moved to behold her; and, in a low voice, ventured to\nexclaim: 'Madam, be of good cheer! Heaven hears you; and has sent one\nto your aid who is ready to exert every effort, for your relief.'\n\n\"'What voice is that?' cried she, starting.\n\n\"'Be not terrified!' I answered; 'it is that of a mortal, guided hither\nby the hand of God!'\n\n\"'At the same time I applied myself to loosen the stones at the\nloop-hole, and with much difficulty succeeded in doing so; but, in spite\nof all my precautions, the unfortunate lady, bewildered with fear and\ngrief, was so astonished when I appeared through the opening, that she\nuttered a cry and fainted on the ground.\n\n\"'Without losing a moment, I took her in my arms, and carried her\nthrough to the subterranean way. I then replaced the stones as closely\nas I could, and hastened to bear her to the mouth of the cave, which I\nnow found without obstacle, the fire extinct, and nothing to impede our\nprogress.\n\n\"'Oh, Raymond! the ways of Providence are inscrutable! This dungeon,\nfrom whence I had rescued that innocent victim, is the same where, a few\ndays since, you were thrown by the hands of enemies; and the lady who\nhad nearly perished there was--your mother!'\n\n\"'Great Heaven!' exclaimed Raymond, 'my mother! condemned to such\nhorrors--buried in the earth alive;--oh! to find the author of her\ninjuries!'\n\n\"'I saw that person this very day,' replied Guilhem; 'I recognised him\nin the old man who was seated on the right of your rival.'\n\n\"'That was his father, the lord of Artiguelouve,' cried Raymond.\n\n\"'Then it was no other than the lord of Artiguelouve who was your\nmother's persecutor.'\"\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nThe Cagot now goes on to relate, that, on bringing the unfortunate lady\nto this village, she recognised, in the infant he had adopted, her own\nson. She recounted, that those persons whom he had seen in her dungeon\nhad plotted to remove both her and the infant, as their existence\ninterfered with certain plans of their own. One of her servants had been\nbribed, who, under pretence of bearing the child to a place of safety,\nand the better to deceive her, having taken with it jewels of value, had\nfeigned to be set upon by robbers, and had her son forcibly torn from\nhim. Three months afterwards, the man, overcome with remorse and\nwretchedness for his crime, fell sick, and, on his death-bed, desired\nsecretly to see the mother, who wept for her infant as dead; to whom he\nrelated the truth. This information was fatal to herself; for her\nenemies now threw off the mask, and insisted on her renouncing for her\nson all claim to the estates and titles of which he was the heir; which\nshe having refused to do, they treated her in the manner that has been\nrelated.\n\nA mystery still hung over the revelations of the lady, who named no\npersons in her story, and who appeared to dread to make further\ndisclosures; and, above all, she desired that no vengeance should be\ntaken on the authors of her grief.\n\n\"'There are crimes,' she said, 'which recoil on those who perpetrate\nthem: he who sows vengeance, reaps not peace: and I would that my son\nshould feel that mercy is the highest attribute of humanity. Keep,\ntherefore, the secret of his birth from him, and let him know only\ntranquillity and joy.'\"\n\nThe Cagot promised to comply with her christian desire, and, together\nwith the pious hermit of Eysus, to bring up her son in piety, and\nignorance of his station, until he should be one day safe from the\ndanger of his enemies. The unfortunate mother left a letter, addressed\nto the Sire de Lescun--a friend on whom she could rely--which, on some\nfuture occasion, was to be delivered to him; but the long absence of the\nKnight of Lescun, in the wars, had hitherto prevented its being done.\n\nWhether the mother of Raymond would have continued in the same\nintentions, cannot be known; for grief and sickness soon brought her to\nthe close of her sad career. When she was dying, the poor man who had\nsuccoured her and her child, conceiving that he was not acting according\nto his conscience, in withholding from her the exact situation in which\nhe was himself placed, threw himself on his knees at her bed-side, and\nwith tears entreated her forgiveness, for that he had the misfortune to\nbe _a Cagot_.\n\n\"'Have pity upon me,' said he, 'that I thus add to the weight of sorrow\nwhich you carry with you to the tomb.'\"\n\nInstead of the start of abhorrent contempt which the persecuted man\ndreaded, she turned upon him a look of the most ineffable benevolence;\nand, placing her cold hand upon his head, uttered these words:--\n\n\"'It is well;--Cagot since thou art, I bless thee; for thy heart is more\nnoble than the proudest blazon could make it.'\n\n\"No human description can convey an idea of the impression made on the\nheart of the good man by these few words,--the first of pity and\nconsolation he had ever heard addressed to one of his own fated race. A\nnew life, a new being seemed given him as he heard them; and, from that\ninstant, he vowed to exist only for the salvation of the being left\nbehind by the angel who had shed her benediction upon him. She died, and\nhe kept his word.\"\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nThe supreme tribunal of B\u00e9arn, the _Cour Majour_, was assembled at\nOrthez, in one of the grand saloons of the castle of Moncade, to\ndispense to the people, by its irrevocable decrees, the national justice\nof its celebrated _Fors_. Great excitement prevailed; for it was known\nthat the Knight-Cagot, or Cagot-Knight, as Raymond was called, was\nabout to appear, to defend himself from his accusers.\n\n\"The Lord and Lady of Artiguelouve were present in the great assembly,\nsummoned to appear for their deceased son, to support the charge he had\nmade. The fair Marie de Lignac sat pale and agitated, supported by her\nuncle, the Knight of Lescun. The Bishops of Lescar and Oloron, the\neleven judges,[50] and all the nobles of the country attended, and were\nseated on elevated benches, in due order, near Prince Gaston de Foix.\"\n\n[Footnote 50: The number of twelve was reduced to eleven since the\nperiod that the village of Bidous was removed from the territorial\njurisdiction of B\u00e9arn.]\n\nAfter a consultation of some length, these _equitable_ magistrates had\ndecided that justice should be allowed to the complainant, and\npunishment awarded to those who had injured him, provided that he could\nprove that he was _a man_ and not _a Cagot_.\n\nNothing now remains for Raymond but the presentation of his mother's\nletter, and all the proofs which establish his birth. On opening the\npaper, and on examining the embroidery on the mantles which wrapped the\nrescued infant; on looking at the initials of the chain of gold, the\nKnight of Lescun recognised the son of his cousin, Marguerite\nd'Amendaritz, first wife of Messire Loup Bergund, who, when he hears the\ntruth, is seized with sudden remorse and amazement, and, being now\nwithout an heir, is not sorry to recover him whom he had before\nabandoned to destruction. In spite, therefore, of the indignation of his\nwife--and her endeavours to repress his agitation throughout the\nscene--he starts up, and proclaims himself the father of Raymond: who,\nhe declares aloud, is his long-lost son,--stolen from him by\n_routiers_--whose loss had cost him the life of a beloved wife, whom he\ndeplored.\n\nThe result is, however, far different to his expectations, or that of\nall present. The young knight, on finding that he is the son of a man so\nladen with crime as Loup Bergund, is seized with a frenzy of contempt\nand disgust.\n\n\"His open and expansive forehead became contracted with horror--he stood\nsilent a few seconds, petrified and overwhelmed with his emotions--his\nbody shrinking back in an attitude of repulsion and dislike, as if a\nvenomous reptile were before his sight. His regard then fell full on\nLoup Bergund, and the terrible severity of its expression made the\nunworthy tyrant shrink beneath his glance of fire.\n\n\"_You_ my father!\"--exclaimed he, at length, in a terrible voice--\"do\n_you_ open your arms to me as to your son? Hence!--back! there is\nnothing in common between us--we can be nothing to each other! I know\nyou not. Go--say to your captive of yonder dungeon that her son is dead;\nthat the _routiers_ have stolen him: you my father! no; you have no\nson--it is a falsehood--you are a great lord, and I a wretched\nfoundling--a being without a name--one disdained by wolves and robbers.\nNo; you are not my father. I have no other but he who stands beside me;\nI am the son of no other than the poor Cagot.\"\n\nAs he spoke, Raymond dashed the chain of gold on the ground, and\ntrampled it under his feet--he seized his mother's letter from the hands\nof the Knight of Lescun, and thrusting it into the flame of a torch hard\nby, burnt it to ashes; then, throwing himself into the arms of Guilhem,\nhe burst into a passion of tears. Recovering himself, however, in a few\nmoments--while all looked on silent and aghast--he cried aloud--\n\n\"'And now I am, indeed, a Cagot--irrevocably so--and it is my glory and\nmy joy! But hear me all! while I proclaim what you are worth, and those\nwhom you dare to despise, and for whom the Redeemer died, as well as for\nus all: You are decked in gold and gorgeous raiment, and they are in\nrags; but they have hearts which beat beneath, and you have souls of\nice: you are their executioners, and they are martyrs. You cast your\nwives and children into the dungeons of your castles, from whence the\npoor Cagots save them: you are great upon the earth, but they will be\ngreat in Heaven!\"\n\nThese last words fell, like thunder, upon the ears of all, but most on\nthose of Gaston Phoebus--who thought of his murdered son--and writhed\nwith agony. Raymond continued:\n\n\"'God will yet do justice, in his time, to the oppressors of the\ninnocent. Your names, in future ages, will be execrated. Meantime, keep\nyour pomp, your pleasures, your grandeur, and your luxury; while our\npossessions are opprobrium and contempt, shame, banishment, and\nsuffering--days without sun, and nights without repose or shelter. Yes,\ndrive us from you--you know that we are infectious, that we shall\ncontaminate your purity--Away! Room, room for the Cagots!'\"\n\nAnd Raymond and Guilhem retired through the crowd, which shrunk back,\nappalled, to let them pass.\n\nThe next day Marie de Lignac received a letter, the contents of which\nwere never seen but by her tear-dimmed eyes; nor ever re-read by her\nafter she entered the convent of Marciniac.\n\nThe Lord of Artiguelouve, on his death-bed, was a prey to the most\nbitter repentance: he implored that some priest of more than common\nsanctity should hear his last confession; and one was discovered in a\nholy hermit, who, when he was summoned from his retreat, was found\nkneeling beside a humble tomb, where he passed all his days in prayer,\nwith rigorous fasting and unwearied penance. He obeyed the call of the\nexpiring sinner, and received his last sigh. Thus did the repentant Lord\nof Artiguelouve meet the forgiveness of his son, Raymond: for it was he\nthat closed his eyes with a blessing, and then returned to his hermitage\nto weep by the tomb of his father, the Cagot.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nI am indebted to M. Baron du Taya's (of Rennes) learned researches and\nobliging kindness for a few particulars respecting the Cacous of\nBrittany.\n\nIt is thought there that this proscribed race are the descendants of\n_leprous Jews_, which would at once account for the detestation in which\nthey continued to be held, but for the term _\"Chresta\u00e0s\"_ applied to\nthem, which destroys that supposition: again, it is said that they are\ndescended from original _lepers_, and that diseases are inherent in\ntheir blood--though not leprosy, it may be epilepsy: for this reason,\nthe _rope-makers_ of Ploermel were held in abhorrence, and are even now\nshunned: they are irritated when the term _caqueux_ is applied to them,\nbut it is common to call them _Malandrins_--a word of opprobrium, only\nless shocking to their ears. They had always their separate\nburial-ground and chapel; and, till the revolution of 1789, the\nprejudice existed against them: even now it is not entirely extinct.\n\nRope-makers, coopers, and _tailors_ are still held in a certain degree\nof contempt in Brittany, as those of these trades were formerly all\nlooked upon as Cacous.\n\nThe Cacous of St. Malo met with some compassion from Duke Francis II.,\nthe father of Anne of Brittany; and also in the time of Francis I., King\nof France, ordinances were made in their favour; but they were not so\nfortunate as their brethren of Rome, who, in the sixteenth century, are\nsaid to have sold, in one Holy week, rope to the amount of two thousand\ncrowns, to make _disciplines_.\n\nIn 1681, a law was passed to this effect; \"Seeing that there are no\nlonger any Leprous, _Ladres_, or _Caquins_ at Kerroch, parish of St.\nCaradec d'Hennebon, there is in future to be no distinction made in the\ninhabitants of this village--who formerly had their burial-ground and\nchapel apart--and all shall be admitted to the benefit of parish\nassistance during their lives, and buried in the church after their\ndeath. For it is considered that it _was ill and abusively_ ordained by\nthe Bishop of Vannes, in 1633, that the wives of the said inhabitants\nshould not be purified, except in their own chapels; for it is well\nascertained that no native of the said village of Kerroch has ever been\nafflicted with leprosy.\"\n\nNotwithstanding this sensible and humane act, the people of Kerroch are\nnot free from the absurd suspicion even yet.\n\n\"It would appear,\" observes M. Baron du Taya, \"that the Cacous were\nfirst a subdivision of lepers, and afterwards, by hereditary\n_remembrance_ of them, the latter were always the objects of\ncommiseration amongst the professors of religion and chivalry. Thus the\nfirst Grand Master of St. Lazare was himself a leper. Several great\nnames occur amongst these Grand Masters: such as Jean de Paris, in 1300;\na Bourbon in 1521; and, under Henri IV., a Philibert de Nerestang.\"\n\nIn 1436 a prohibition was issued against the _Cacosi_ receiving the kiss\nof peace, and the kiss of the monks, _before men who were whole_; it was\nnot denied them, but they were to be _the last_.\n\nIn many places in Brittany the rope-makers work out of the towns near\nthose places where lazar-houses were once established. They were not\nauthorized to place their benches in the lower part of the church at\nPontivy till after the revolution in 1789! The villagers still look upon\ncertain rope-makers, tailors, and coopers, as possessing _an evil eye_,\nand are in the habit of concealing their _thumbs_ under the rest of\ntheir fingers,[51] and pronouncing the word _argaret_ as a\ncounter-spell: this word is unintelligible even to the Bas-Bretons\nthemselves. The prejudice still exists in Finisterre against the Cacous:\nthe village of Lannistin is one of their abodes. The Cagot girls of\nB\u00e9arn are said never to be able to draw water from a brook or well\nwithout spilling half of it: so that their houses are always dirty, and\nthemselves thirsty. Probably the same misfortune exists in Brittany, for\nthere is little cleanliness to be found there.\n\n[Footnote 51: This practice is similar to that of the Neapolitans, who\nwear a little hand in coral (_gettatura_) as a preservative against the\nevil eye.]\n\nPerhaps, after all, the most probable conjecture as to the origin of\nthese unhappy Cagots is, that they were persons _suspected of\nwitchcraft_, and banished in the first instance from society, to which\ntraditional prejudice prevented their return; and, though the cause of\ntheir banishment was no longer remembered, the abhorrence they had once\ninspired did not wear out with ages. The supposition of their having\nbeen _the first Christians_, persecuted and contemned, and never\nregaining the world's good opinion, seems a notion difficult to adopt,\nexcept that the first Christians were suspected of sorcery and\ncommunication with evil spirits. \"He casteth out devils through\nBeelzebub, the chief of the devils.\" If such were, indeed, the case,\nwhat a lesson for prejudice and superstition, that the descendants of\nthe earliest converts should be persecuted by their Christian brethren!\n\nThe Vall\u00e9e d'Aspe, where the scene of the preceding story is laid, is\none of the most picturesque of B\u00e9arn, and the customs of its people\nremarkable.\n\nThe Pic d'Anie, whose solemn height rises above the village of Lescun,\nis regarded by the Aspois as the sojourn of a malignant deity. From\nthence come the fearful storms which desolate the country, and no\ninhabitant of the village will dare to climb the ascent: it is looked\nupon as a piece of presumption to attempt it; for it is believed that\nthe Jin of the mountain, called the Yona Gorri, or flame-coloured\nspirit, has there fixed his solitary abode, and has his garden on the\nsummit, which he will not allow to be visited by strangers. Certain evil\nspirits have occasionally been seen in his company, each holding a\nlighted torch and dressed in shining scarlet habiliments: they thus\nsurround the chief, and dance round him to the music of an unearthly\ninstrument, like a drum. Loups-garoux, and sorcerers mounted on dragons\nand other animals, may be seen in the air, wending their way towards\nAnic, as far as from Juran\u00e7on, Gan, and St. Faust.\n\nAt Escout is a fairy oak, beneath which, whoever places an empty vase,\nhaving belief, will find it, after a short period, when he returns, full\nof gold and silver: there are known to exist persons in the Vall\u00e9e\nd'Aspe whose fortune had no other source.\n\nThere is a famous rock at the entrance of the valley, the object of\nattraction to all females who desire to become mothers. Many of the\nsuperstitions are similar to those in the Landes where the belief in the\npower of the demon is generally received. The _Homme Noir_--a fearful\nspirit with large black wings--may frequently be seen perched on the\nsummit of the highest peaks, shaking from his pinions showers of hail,\nwhich break the early flowers and crush the rising corn.\n\nThere are persons, even now--though they are rarer than in the time of\nthat acute discoverer, De Lancre--who are believed to deserve the name\nof _Poudoueros, Hantaumos, Brouchos, Mahoumos_, for they are votaries\nof the evil one, and many spells are requisite to avoid their \"witch\nknots,\" and \"combs of care,\" &c.\n\nPresages can be drawn from the croak of a magpie, from the rush of\nwaters, and the howling of dogs. If a flower is seen to expand on a\nbarren rock, or in a place where there is no other vegetation, it is\nlooked upon as an augury of an abundant harvest throughout the country.\nBut if a tree spreads its branches over the roof of a house it announces\nall sorts of misfortunes: the sons of that house will perish in a\nforeign land: the lovers of those daughters will be faithless: the\nparents will be abandoned by their children, and die in aged\ndestitution.\n\nIf a single rose is left\n\n    \"----Blooming alone,\n    Its lovely companions all faded and gone;\"\n\nand if it grows with its beautiful head inclined towards a cottage, woe\nto the inhabitant; he has but a brief space of existence left him! Let\nevery one beware of insulting the fountains; for if a stone or any\nrubbish is thrown into their waters, the person doing so will perish by\nthunder!\n\nAt the entrance of the Vall\u00e9e d'Aspe, on the Spanish side, is St.\nChristine, where formerly stood one of those _h\u00f4pitaux des ports_,\nerected by benevolence for the safety of pilgrims and travellers. This\nwas called, in a bull of Innocent III., _one of the three hospitals of\nthe world_; but it has been long since destroyed.\n\nThe forests of Itseaux, Gabas, Benou, and Irati, were formerly the most\nconsiderable in this part of the Pyrenees: that of St. Engrace is still\nvery extensive. About a century ago the forest of Itseaux was so thick,\nand so little known in its vast extent, that more than one person was\nlost in its depths. A singular circumstance occurred at that period,\nwhich may give an idea of the perfection of its solitude. A young girl\nof about sixteen or seventeen was found there in a savage state: she had\nbeen a denizen of the shades from the age of seven or eight. All that\nwas known of her was, that she had been left by some other little girls\nin the woods, having been surprised by the snow. The shepherds who found\nher conducted her to the hospital of Maul\u00e9on: she never spoke, nor gave\nany sign of recollecting the past; they gave her grass and vegetables to\neat, but she continued to droop, and in a very short time died of grief\nfor the loss of her liberty.\n\nAbout twenty years after this a wild man was observed in the same\nforest: he was very tall, and strongly built, hairy like a bear, active\nas an izard, and perfectly harmless. His delight was in coursing the\nsheep and dispersing them, uttering loud peals of laughter at the\nconfusion he created. Sometimes the shepherds sent their dogs after\nhim, but he never suffered them to come up with him. Nothing was known\nor traced respecting his history, and he appears to have finished his\nwild career in the forest: probably he was some child left by accident\nor design in that savage solitude; where, like Orson, some bear nursed\nhim, but who never found a Valentine to restore him to humanity.\n\nItseaux still presents an immense extent of wood: it covers one side of\nthe mountains of Lescun, fills the valley of Bar\u00e9tous, and joins the\ngreat forest of St. Engrace, to the entrance of the Vall\u00e9e de Soule. It\nis the largest of the Pyrenean forests.\n\nThere is scarcely a valley in the Pyrenees to which some celebrity is\nnot attached. Amongst others, the Vall\u00e9e d'Aspe resounds with the fame\nof the pastoral poet, Despourrins: and Ariosto has celebrated that of\nGavarnie, where, in the _Tours de Marbor\u00e9_, he places the abode of some\nof his heroes.\n\n    \"Charlemagne, Agramont, tous leurs fameux h\u00e9ros;\n    Les Zerbin, les Roger, les Roland, les Renaud:\n    De ces Palais du Temps habitent les ruines.\n\n    Tout parle d'Arioste en ce fameux vallon\n    Et comme aux champs Troyens, chaque roche \u00e0 son nom.\"\n\nCyprien Despourrins, though he wrote as one of the people, and _for_\nthem, was not a man of obscure birth; his family was originally of a\nrace of shepherds; but one of his ancestors having made his fortune in\nSpain, returned a great man to his native valley, the beautiful Vall\u00e9e\nd'Aspe, and there bought the Abbey of Juzan, and became a proprietor,\nwith many privileges. The father of the poet inherited his estates, and\ndistinguished himself in the career of arms, being cited for his\nbravery, the character of which bears the impress of the times in which\nhe lived, namely, the end of the seventeenth century. Numerous anecdotes\nare told of him: amongst others, that he had had a dispute with three\nforeign gentlemen; and in order to get the quarrel off his hands at\nonce, he challenged them all three at the same time, and came off\nvictorious in the combat. To perpetuate the memory of his victory, he\nobtained from the King permission to have engraved, over the principal\nentrance of his house, _three swords_, which may still be seen on the\nstone of the old building shown as his residence. After this notable\nexploit, Pierre Despourrins visited the _Eaux de Cauteretz_, where, in\nthe neighbourhood of Argelez he formed an acquaintance with the family\nof Miramont, and an attachment to the fair Gabrielle, daughter of that\nhouse; through his marriage with whom, he afterwards became possessor of\nthe ch\u00e2teau of Miramont, near St. Savin, destined to become famous by\nmeans of his son, the famous poet Cyprien. The ch\u00e2teau is still to be\nseen, and is a great lion in the neighbourhood.\n\nThere are constant disputes between the people of Bigorre and B\u00e9arn, as\nto which has the greater right to claim the poet as their own, for he\nbelonged to both; but as he chose the musical _patois_ of the latter in\nwhich to sing his pastorals, it appears but just that the B\u00e9arnese\nshould have the preference. He was born at Accous, in 1698: his two\nbrothers, Joseph and Pierre, became, one the vicar, the other the curate\nof the village, and _he_ was called, _par excellence_, the _chevalier_.\nThere is a curious story told, illustrative of the simple manners of\nthese mountaineer-priests. The two brothers were very musical: one\nplayed the flute, the other the violin; and every Sunday their talents\nwere exerted for the benefit of their parishioners. All the young people\nof the place were accustomed to meet in the court-yard of their house;\nand, seated at a casement, the reverend pair played to their dancing. As\nsoon as the bell sounded for vespers, the ball was suspended, and all\nthe docile flock accompanied the good pastors to church.\n\nThe chevalier had inherited his father's warlike qualities, and was, it\nseems, always ready with his sword. He was at the _Eaux Bonnes_ when he\nreceived an affront from a stranger, which--as Sir Lucius O'Trigger has\nit,--\"his honour could not brook.\" Unluckily, he had not his sword with\nhim, and the affair must be decided at once; he therefore sent his\nservant to Accous to fetch it, recommending him great promptitude and\naddress in inventing some story to prevent his father from guessing his\nerrand. The servant used his utmost despatch, and thought he had managed\nvery cleverly to avert suspicion: the old knight, however, was too\nclear-sighted in such matters; and, having divined the state of the\ncase, mounted his mule instantly, and secretly followed the messenger.\nHe traversed the mountains of Escot and Benou, and, braving all their\ndifficulties, arrived at the Eaux Bonnes. On asking for his son, he was\ninformed that he was closeted with a stranger: he repaired thither, and,\npausing at the door, heard the clashing of swords. Satisfied that all\nwas as he surmised, the imperturbable old knight remained quietly at his\npost, awaiting the issue of the combat. At length the noise of arms\nceased; young Despourrins came out precipitately, and found his father\non the watch, who, embracing him tenderly, exclaimed--\"Your servant's\nhasty departure prevented my setting out with him; but I followed\nclosely, guessing that you had an affair of honour on your hands; and,\nin case you should fall, I brought my sword with me, which has never yet\nfailed at need.\" \"I am your son,\" replied the Chevalier; \"my adversary\nis grievously wounded; let us hasten to afford him assistance.\"\n\nAfter Despourrins, the son, was established near St. Savin, and the\nestates of the Vall\u00e9e d'Aspe were abandoned by his father for his new\ndomain, he seems to have given himself up to the charms of poetry and\nmusic, living the life of a shepherd, and familiarizing himself with the\nhabits, customs, manners and pleasures of that simple race, until he\nspoke with their words, and thought with their thoughts. Whoever has\nvisited the beautiful Valley of Argelez, and wandered amongst the wilds\nin the neighbourhood of the once famous abbey of St. Savin, can well\nunderstand the poet's delight in such a retreat, and will not wonder\nwhen he is told that Despourrins often passed whole nights in the woods,\nsinging his verses, like one transformed to a nightingale. Even now the\nsongs he sung are remembered and cherished; and though the _pastous_ of\nhis native mountains probably know nothing of the poet, his lays are\nconstantly on their tongues. One of the most famous is a romance, called\n\"La Ha\u00fct sus las Mountagnes,\" which I give entire, with a translation in\nprose and verse, in order to show the nature of this Troubadour\nlanguage, which differs from the Gascon dialect, in being softer and\nless guttural; in fact, resembling rather more the Italian than Spanish\nlanguage:--\n\n     La ha\u00fct sus las Mountagnes, \u00fb Pastou malhurous\n       S\u00e9gut a\u00fc p\u00e8 d'\u00fb Ha\u00fb, n\u00e9gat de plous,\n       Sounyabe a\u00fc cambiamen de sas amous.\n\n    \"C\u00f4 le\u00fcy\u00e9, c\u00f4 boulatye!\" dis\u00e9 l'infourtunat,\n      \"La tendresse et l'amou qui t'ey pourtat\n       Soun aco lous r\u00e9buts qu'ey m\u00e9ritat?\n\n    \"Despuch que tu fr\u00e9quentes la yen de counditiou\n       Qu'as pr\u00e8s \u00fb t\u00e0 ha\u00fct b\u00f4l, que ma maysou,\n       N'ey prou ha\u00fcte ent\u00e0 tu d'\u00fb cabirou.\n\n    \"Tas o\u00fcilles d'ab las mies, nous d\u00e9gnen plus meacla;\n       Touns superbes moutous, despuch en\u00e7a,\n       Nou s'approchen de\u00fcs m\u00e9s, qu'enta\u00fcs tuma\n\n    \"De richesses me passi, d'a\u00fcnous, de qualitat:\n       You nou soy qu'\u00fb Pastou; m\u00e9s no\u00f9n n'y a nad\n       Que no\u00fcs surpassi touts, en amistat,\n\n    \"Encou\u00e8re que ay pra\u00fcb\u00e9, dens moun p\u00e9tit estat,\n       Qu'a\u00efmi mey moun Berret tout esp\u00e9lat,\n       Qu\u00e9 nou pas lou plus b\u00e8t Chape\u00fc bourdat.\n\n    \"Las richesses de\u00fc mound\u00e9 nou b\u00e8n queda turmen;\n       Et lou plus b\u00e8t Seignou, dab soun aryen,\n       Nou ba\u00fc pas lou Pastou qui bi\u00fc counten.\n\n    \"Adi\u00fc, c\u00f4 de tygresse, Pastoure chens amou,\n       Cambia, b\u00e9 pots carabia de serbidou:\n       Yamey noun troub\u00e9ras \u00fb tau coum you!\"\n\n                     TRANSLATION.\n\n    High up, amongst the mountains, an unfortunate shepherd\n    was seated at the foot of a beech, drowned in tears, musing on\n    the changes of his love.\n\n    \"Oh light, oh fickle heart!\" said the unhappy youth; \"for\n    the tenderness and the affection which I have borne towards you,\n    is this wretchedness a fitting reward?\n\n    \"Since you have frequented the society of persons of condition,\n    your flight has been so high that my humble cottage is too low\n    for you by at least a stage.\n\n    \"Your flocks no longer deign to mix with mine; your haughty\n    rams, since that period, never approach mine but a battle\n    ensues.\n\n    \"I am without wealth or dignity; I am but a simple shepherd\n    but there is none that can surpass me in affection.\n\n    \"And methinks, according to my simple ideas, that I prefer my\n    _berret_, old and worn as it is, to the finest ornamented hat that\n    could be given me.\n\n    \"The riches of the world only bring uneasiness with them, and\n    the finest lord with all his possessions cannot compare to the\n    shepherd who lives content.\n\n    \"Adieu, tigress-heart! Shepherdess without affection; change,\n    change, if you will, your adorers, never will you find any so true\n    as I have been.\"\n\nI here give a metrical version of the same song:\n\n           DESPOURRINS.\n\n    \"La Haut sas las Mountagnes.\"\n\n    ABOVE, upon the mountains,\n      A shepherd, full of thought,\n    Beneath a beech sat musing\n      On changes time had wrought:\n    He told to ev'ry echo\n      The story of his care,\n    And made the rocks acquainted\n      With love and its despair.\n\n    \"Oh! light of heart,\" he murmur'd,\n      \"Oh! fickle and unkind!\n     Is this the cold return\n       My tenderness should find?\n     Is this a fit reward\n       For tenderness like mine?--\n     Since thou hast sought a sphere\n       Where rank and riches shine,\n\n    \"Thou canst not cast a thought\n       Upon my lowly cot;\n     And all our former vows\n       Are in thy pride forgot.\n     For thee to enter in,\n       My roof is far too low,\n     Thy very flocks disdain\n       With mine to wander now.\n\n    \"Alas! I have no wealth,\n       No birth, no noble name,\n     A simple shepherd youth\n       Without a hope or claim;\n     But none of all the train\n       That now thy favours share\n     Can bear, as I have borne,\n       Or with my love compare.\n\n    \"I'd rather keep my habits,\n       Tho' humble and untaught,\n     Than learn the ways of courts,\n       With dang'rous falsehood fraught;\n     I'd rather wear my bonnet,\n       Tho' rustic, wild, and worn,\n     Than flaunt in stately plumes\n       Of courtiers highly born.\n\n    \"The riches of the world\n       Bring only care and pain,\n     And nobles great and grand\n       With many a rich domain,\n     Can scarcely half the pleasures,\n       With all their art, secure,\n     That wait upon the shepherd\n       Who lives content and poor.\n\n    \"Adieu, thou savage heart!\n       Thou fair one without love:\n     I break the chain that bound us,\n       And thou art free to rove.\n\n     But know, when in thy vanity,\n       Thou wanderest alone,\n     No heart like mine will ever\n        Adore as I have done.\"\n\nThe royal circle of Neuilly has been enlivened sometimes by the sound of\nthe B\u00e9arnese minstrelsy; and, on one occasion, listened to a band of\nmountaineers from Luchon, who undertook, a few years since, a journey\nthrough Europe, singing their choruses in all the principal cities. On\nhearing the above song of Despourrins, the King exclaimed, with his\nusual ready kindness,--\"Your songs alone would be sufficient to make one\nlove your country.\"\n\nSeveral celebrated singers, favourites in the Italian world, were\nnatives of B\u00e9arn: one of these, Garat, surnamed \"the musical Proteus,\"\nwas born at Ustaritz. Nothing appeared impossible to this prodigious\nsinger: his voice was splendid and his taste exquisite: his only defect\nwas an inordinate vanity--by no means an uncommon fault in artists of\nthis description. A person on one occasion, thinking to embarrass him,\ninquired how high in the scale he could go; \"I can mount as high as it\npleases me to go,\" was his reply. He used frequently to surprise the\nParisians by the introduction of Basque and B\u00e9arnese airs, whose\npeculiarity and originality never failed to cause the most lively\nadmiration and enthusiasm; but he did not announce them as mountain\nsongs till he had secured the praise he sought for them, having passed\nthem for Italian productions. A similar _ruse_ was practised by Mehul,\nwhen he brought out his \"Irato,\" which the public was given to imagine\nwas composed by an Italian _maestro_. Its success was very great, and\nGeoffrey, the editor of a popular paper, in noticing the opera,\nexclaimed,--\"O, if Mehul could compose as well as this, we might be\nsatisfied with him.\" When the triumphant composer threw off his\nincognito, the unlucky critic was not a little mortified. The celebrated\nsinger Jelyotte was from B\u00e9arn, and Louis the Fifteenth used to delight\nin hearing him sing his native melodies: in particular one beginning,\n\"De cap \u00e0 tu soy Marion,\" one of Despourrins' most spirited pastorals:--\n\n    \"I am your own, my Marion,\n       You charm me with each gentle art;\n     Even from the first my love was won,\n       Your pretty ways so pleased my heart;\n     If you will not, or if you will,\n       I am compell'd to love you still.\n\n    \"No joy was ever like my joy,\n       When I behold those smiling eyes,\n     Those graceful airs so soft and coy,\n       For which my heart with fondness dies:\n     And when I seek the charm in vain,\n       I dream the pleasure o'er again.\n\n    \"Alas! I have no palace gay,\n       My cottage is but small and plain;\n     No gold, nor marble, nor display,\n       No courtly friends nor glitt'ring train;\n     But honest hearts and words of cheer\n       Are there, and store of love sincere.\n\n    \"Why should we not be quite as blest,\n       Without the wealth the great may own?\n     A shepherd life, methinks, is best,\n       Whose care is for his flock alone;\n     And when he folds them safe and warm,\n       He knows no grief, he dreams no harm.\n\n    \"If you, dear Marion, would be mine,\n       No king could be so blest as I;\n     My thoughts, hopes, wishes, should combine,\n       To make your life pass happily;\n     Caresses, fondness, love, and glee,\n       Should teach you soon to love like me.\"\n\nAnother very favourite song is the \"A\u00fc mounde nou y a nat Pastou,\"[52]\nin which mention is made of the national dances for which B\u00e9arn is\ncelebrated, as well as the _Pays Basque_ which produces _baladins_,\nfamous throughout France for their feats of agility and grace. There is\na great variety of these dances, and those executed by the young men of\nSt. Savin are remarkable in their kind: bands of the dancers go from\nvillage to village in the times of _f\u00eates_, and are much sought after:\nthey appear very like our May-day mummers, or morrice-dancers, and have\nprobably the same, namely, an eastern, origin: instead of Robin Hood,\nthe Chevalier Bayard is the personage represented in their disguise, and\na female always appears amongst them, who answers to our Maid Marian:\nthey are covered with flaunting ribbons, and hold little flags in their\nhands.\n\n[Footnote 52: There are two songs beginning with the same words: both\nfavourites.]\n\n                  SONG.\n\n    \"There's not a shepherd can compare\n       With him who loves me well and true;\n     French he can speak, with such an air,\n       As if the ways of courts he knew:\n     And if he wore a sword, you'd say,\n       It was the King who pass'd this way.\n\n    \"If you beheld, beneath our tree,\n       How he can dance the Mouchicou,--\n     Good Heaven! it is a sight to see\n       His Manuguet and Passe-pi\u00e9 too!\n     His match for grace no swain can show\n       In all the Valley of Ossau.\n\n    \"Lest Catti, in the summer day,\n       The noon-day sun too hot should find,\n     A bow'r with flow'rs and garlands gay,\n       By love's own tender hand entwined,\n     Close to our fold, amidst the shade,\n       For me that charming shepherd made.\"\n\nThere is considerable variety of style and expression in the poetry of\nDespourrins, although his subject does not change--being \"love, still\nlove.\"\n\nThe following might pass for a song by a poet of the school of\nSuckling:--\n\n             SONG.\n\n        \"Malaye quoan te by!\"\n\n    \"OH! when I saw thee first,\n       Too beautiful, and gay, and bland,\n       Gathering with thy little hand\n         The flow'r of May,\n         Oh! from that day\n       My passion I have nurst--\n       'Twas when I saw thee first!\n\n    \"And ever since that time,\n       Thy image will not be forgot,\n       And care and suff'ring are my lot;\n         I know not why\n         So sad am I,\n       As though to love were crime--\n       Oh! ever since that time!\n\n    \"Those eyes so sweet and bright,\n    Illume within my trembling breast,\n    A flame that will not let me rest;\n    Oh! turn away\n    The dazzling ray--\n    They give a dang'rous light,\n    Those eyes so sweet and bright!\n\n    \"Thou hast not learnt to love,\n       But, cruel and perverse of will,\n       Thou seek'st but to torment me still.\n         Faithful in vain\n         I bear my chain,\n       Only, alas! to prove\n       Thou hast not learnt to love!\"\n\nBut, perhaps, one of the most striking of all Despourrins' poems, from\nthe beauty of the _patois_ and the pretty conceits, is the \"Deus\nattraits d'\u00fbc youenne pastoure,\" which reminds one of Ronsard's \"Une\nbeaut\u00e9 de quinze ans, enfantine.\"\n\n                POEM.\n\n    \"Tis to a maiden young and fair,\n       That my poor heart has fall'n a prey,\n    And now in tears and sighs of care\n       Pass all my moments, night and day.\n\n    \"The sun is pale beside her face,\n       The stars are far less bright than she,\n    They shine not with so pure a grace,\n       Nor glow with half her charms to me.\n\n    \"Her eyes are like two souls, all fire;\n    They dazzle with a living ray;\n    But ah! their light which I desire\n    Is turn'd from me by Love, away.\n\n    \"Her nose, so delicate and fine,\n       Is like a dial in the sun,\n    That throws beneath a shadowy line\n       To mark the hours that love has run.\n\n    \"The fairies form'd her rosy mouth,\n       And fill'd it with soft words at will,\n    And from her bosom breathes the South--\n       Sweet breath! that steals my reason still.\n\n    \"Her waist is measured by the zone\n       The Graces long were wont to wear;\n    And none but Love the comb can own,\n       That smooths the ringlets of her hair.\n\n    \"And when she glides along like air,\n       Her feet so small, so slight are seen,\n    A little pair of wings, you'd swear,\n       Were flutt'ring where her step has been.\n\n    \"Dear object of my tender care,\n       My life, my sun, my soul thou art,\n    Oh! listen to the trembling pray'r,\n       That woos thee from this breaking heart.\"\n\n            A QUARREL.\n\n    \"Adechat! las mies amous.\"\n\n    _He_.--MY pretty Margaret, good day!\n       The mountain air is chill;\n    And if you guide your lambs this way,\n       The cold will do you ill.\n\n    _She_.--No, gentle friend, tho' cold I seem,\n       The air I need not fear;\n    It is the chillness of your stream\n       That runs so fresh and clear.\n\n    _He_.--The cock had not begun his song;\n    When with my flocks I came;\n    To meet you here I waited long--\n       Your haste was not the same.\n\n    _She_.--My lambs and I were in the mead\n       Before the break of day;\n    And you, methinks, have little need\n       To blame _me_ for delay.\n\n    _He_.--My sheep, with many a ruddy streak,\n                  And bells of jocund sound,\n                Heav'n knows, a lively music make,\n                  Which can be heard far round.\n                Come, let our flocks be hither led,\n                  Beneath this shade repair;\n                For you have butter, I have bread,\n                  And we our meal will share.\n                Feed, pretty lambs, and feed, my sheep,\n                  Awhile her flock beside,\n                And, as on flow'rs ye browse and sleep,\n                  We'll leave you for a tide.\n                Thou, God of Love, who in the air,\n                  Art hov'ring in our view,\n                Guard well our flocks, and to thy care\n                  Oh! take two lovers too!\n\n    _She_.--No,--farewell till to-morrow, dear,\n                   I may not now abide;\n                 For if I longer tarry here,\n                   My friends will surely chide.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\n              DESPOURRINS.\n\n           *       *       *       *       *\n\n        \"Y Ata\u00fc quoan la rose ey naber\u00e8.\"\n\n           *       *       *       *       *\n\n    \"When first the rose her perfume threw,\n      And spread her blossoms to the day,\n    I saw thee, Phillis, blooming too,\n      With all the charms that round her play.\n\n    \"Pure as the sun, thy glace of power,\n      Thy voice has music's softest swell,--\n    I saw thee in an evil hour,\n      Or never should have loved so well!\n\n    \"Though from thy presence I remove,\n       While I lament I still adore,--\n     Oh! what can absence do to love,\n       But to increase the feeling more!\n\n    \"Ye simple swains, who know not yet\n       What pleasure and what pain may be,\n     Guard well your hearts from Love's regret,\n       If you would live from danger free.\"\n\n           *       *       *       *       *\n\n              DESPOURRINS.\n\n           *       *       *       *       *\n\n             \"A\u00fc mounde nou-y-a nad Pastou,\n              T'\u00e0 malhurous coum you!\"\n\n           *       *       *       *       *\n\n    \"No shepherd in this world can be\n       The child of wretchedness like me:\n     One would not think it, but I know\n     No feeling but continued woe;\n     For Sorrow came into my fold,\n     And there her dwelling loves to hold.\n\n    \"It seem'd the joy of Fate,\n       New pleasures to provide,\n     And, 'midst my happy state,\n       A lamb was all my pride.\n     The sun conceal'd his light,\n     Whene'er she came in sight.\n\n    \"I never dreamt of gold,\n       I lived content and free;\n     The treasure of my fold,\n       Seem'd but to live for me.\n\n    Alas! those hours that bless,\n      Not long would time allow,\n    My joys, my happiness,\n      Are changed to sorrow now!\n\n    \"She loved my pipe to hear,\n       And midst the flock would pause,\n     And with a smile, so dear,\n       Would give me soft applause:\n     And with her music sweet\n     My notes she would repeat.\n\n    \"How many jealous swains\n       Would look, and sigh, and long:\n     Not one a word could gain,\n       She only heard my song;\n     But now that lamb has stray'd\n       I see her form no more;\n     My ev'ry hope betray'd,\n       My fate let all deplore!\n     My sleep, my rest, is gone,\n     And I am all undone!\"\n\n           *       *       *       *       *\n\n              DESPOURRINS.\n\n           *       *       *       *       *\n\n             \"Moun Di\u00fc! quine souffrance--\n              M'as tu causat!\"\n\n           *       *       *       *       *\n\n    \"Of what contentment\n       Those eyes bereft me--\n     And ah! how coldly\n       Thou since hast left me:\n     Yet didst thou whisper\n       Thy heart was mine,--\n     Oh! they were traitors\n       Those eyes of thine!\n     For 'tis thy pleasure\n       That I repine.\n\n    \"Alas! how often\n       I sigh'd in vain,\n     And loved so dearly\n       To purchase pain:\n     And all my guerdon\n       To be betray'd,\n     And only absence\n       My safety made,\n     To muse on fondness\n       So ill repaid.\n\n    \"But let me warn thee\n       While time is yet,\n     Thy heart may soften\n       And learn regret:\n     Should others teach thee\n       New thoughts to prove,\n     And all thy coldness\n       Be quell'd by love,\n     Thou mayst glean sorrow\n       For future years,--\n     Beware--false maiden!\n       Beware of tears!\"\n\n              DESPOURRINS.\n\n       \"Per ac\u00e8re castagnere.\"\n\n    BENEATH a chesnut shade\n       A shepherd, drown'd in tears,\n    By her he loved betray'd,\n       Thus sung his grief and fears:\n    \"Why dost thou smile,\" he said,\n       \"As all my woes increase?\n    When will my truth be paid,\n       And all thy coldness cease?\"\n\n    The fair one listen'd not,--\n       And feign'd she had not seen;\n    But sought a distant spot,\n       The furze and heath between,\n    But, as she proudly went,\n       Thorns, in her path that lay,\n    Her little feet have rent,\n       And stopp'd her on her way.\n\n    She paused, in sudden pain,\n       Her pride aside she laid,\n    And, in soft tone, was fain\n       To ask her lover's aid;\n    She bade, in piteous mood,\n       He would the thorns remove,\n    And take from gratitude\n       The kiss denied to love.\n\n    That grateful kiss she must\n       Bestow--tho' she deplore it;\n    And he had been unjust\n       Not--doubly--to restore it.\n\n              DESPOURRINS.\n\n         \"Roussignoulet qui cantes.\"[53]\n\n    [Footnote 53: This song singularly resembles Burns' charming \"Banks\n    and braes\" in its opening, though it is greatly inferior as a\n    whole.]\n\n    OH! nightingale that sing'st so sweet,\n       Perch'd on the boughs elate,\n    How softly does thy music greet\n       Thy tender list'ning mate.\n\n    While I, alas! from joy removed,\n       With heart oppress'd, must go,\n    And, leaving her so fondly loved,\n       Depart in hopeless woe.\n\n    Ah me! I see before me yet\n       Our parting and her pain,\n    My bosom throbb'd with vain regret\n       To hear her still complain.\n    My trembling hand she fondly press'd,\n       Her voice in murmurs died:\n    \"Oh! is not our's a fate emblest,\n       Since we must part,\" she cried.\n\n    I promised her, whate'er betide,\n       To love her to the last,\n    And Fate, my truth has sadly tried,\n       In all our sorrows past;\n    But she may trust me, tho' we part,\n       And both our lot deplore:\n    Where'er I go, this bleeding heart\n       Will suffer ever more.\n\n    The clearest streams that gently flow,\n       The river murm'ring by,\n    Not purer than my heart can show,\n       Nor have more tears than I.\n    No book nor scroll can tell a fate\n       Where sorrows so combine;\n    No pen can write, nor song relate,\n       Such misery as mine!\n\n    Thus, like the turtle, sad and lone,\n       Who leaves his mate in pain,\n    I go, with many a tender moan,\n       And dream of love in vain:\n    By all the ties that bound us long,\n       By all the hopes we knew,\n    Oh I hear thy shepherd's latest song,\n       Receive his last adieu!\n\nAnxious to visit a country whose history and traditions had so much\nexcited my interest and curiosity, I accompanied a friend, early in the\nyear 1843, on an expedition to the Vall\u00e9e d'Aspe, and through part of\nthe Pays Basque. I would willingly have waited for spring, particularly\nas I heard from everybody in Pau, that to reach the valleys leading to\nSpain in the month of February was impossible--was worse than folly: in\nfact, was what none but the English, who are supposed to have taken\nleave of their senses, would attempt. One French gentleman, who was well\nacquainted with every part of the Pyrenees, and had twice made the\nascent of the Pic du Midi, was indignant at our perseverance, insisting\nthat we should be stopped by the snows--although very little had fallen\nin the last winter--and that the Basque country was totally\nuninteresting except in summer. Others told us that it was never worth\nseeing at any season; but, as I had become aware that persons settled in\nPau were bound in a spell, and scarcely ever ventured more than a league\nfrom their retreat until, being once in motion, they set forth towards\nthe mountains in the opposite direction, I did not allow myself to be\npersuaded to remain in the \"Little Paris of the South\" for carnival\nballs, and, followed by the pity and surprise of most of our friends, we\ntook our dangerous way, on a sunny morning, as hot as July, towards\nOloron.\n\nOloron, finely situated on a height, is a wide, open, clean, and\nwell-built town, with so much open, fresh air, that, after the\nenervating and confined atmosphere of Pau, one seemed to breathe new\nlife. The walks are good and extensive, and the magnificent range of the\nsnowy mountains very close. Two rushing torrents divide the town between\nthem--the Gaves of Ossau and Aspe--and from the two bridges which span\nthem the view of their impetuous course is extremely imposing. These\nmagnificent torrents are the charm of the Pyrenees; making the country,\nthrough which they hurry, one scene of beauty and animation: they do\nalso terrible mischief by their violence when swelled by rains, as we\nhad afterwards occasion to observe; but, at all times, give a character\nof singular grandeur to the places where they sweep along in\nuncontrolled majesty.\n\nThe village, or faubourg, of Ste. Marie d'Oloron joins the main town;\nand here is situated the cathedral, once of great importance, but now,\nlike all the religious establishments in this part of France, preserving\nlittle of its ancient glory. The pillars, however, of its aisles are\nvery grand and massive, and are part of the early structure: the form\nand height are imposing, and the chapels of the choir graceful; but the\nchief curiosity is the portal, which bears marks of a Saracenic origin.\nThe arch is a wide circle, finely ornamented, and, in the centre, an\nIndian-shaped pillar divides it into two smaller circular arches: the\nbase of this pillar is formed of two figures standing back to back,\nstooping beneath the load they bear on their hands and depressed heads:\nthey are covered with fetters, both on their legs and arms: their\nstriped dresses are quite Indian, and they wear a curious, melon-shaped\ncap: the faces are hideous and exaggerated, the limbs strong and well\nmade, and they are in perfect preservation.\n\nI have not seen any satisfactory account of the cathedral, which might\nexplain these curious supporters: on each side of the portal projects a\ncarved figure--one much defaced, the other representing a leopard or\npanther. A series of beautiful pillars, forming pedestals to absent\nsaints, fill up the space of the porch, and that beyond is closed by\nhigh, open arches--rebuilt, but, doubtless, originally of the same\nconstruction as those of the beautiful side-entrance to the cathedral of\nBourges, where Moorish carvings also occur.\n\nThere are no other antiquities in Oloron; but it is an agreeable,\nhealthy town, and looks flourishing and lively; and, I should imagine,\nmust be a cheap place to live in, and has several advantages over its\nrival, Pau; this, however, is not acknowledged by the partisans of that\nexclusive town, which is supposed, by those who patronise it, to bear\naway the bell from every other in B\u00e9arn.\n\nThe Vall\u00e9e d'Aspe begins its winding way soon after Oloron is past; and\nthe magnificent, broad river dashes along its rocky bed, as green and\nbright and foaming as its rival of Ossau, which it exceeds in volume.\nOur destination was to Bedous, where we were to rest for the night; and,\nas the shades of evening were already coming on, we could not long enjoy\nthe beauty of this lovely valley, which we anticipated seeing on our\nreturn, after having visited all the wonders of the pass into Spain, as\nfar as Urdos, where the high road, which is remarkably good, ends.\n\nBedous is a shabby, insignificant, and, at this time of year,\ndesolate-looking town, in the bosom of the mountains, where we were fain\nto lodge for the night as we best could, having good reason to\ncongratulate ourselves on our precaution in taking provisions,\nparticularly bread, wine, and coffee, as all we found there was bad.\nThere was, however, no want of civility and desire to please; and the\nattendance, if not good, was, at all events, ample: two of the\nwaiting-maids were extremely handsome--- with dark eyes and fine\nfeatures, and their handkerchiefs put on very gracefully; but the voices\nof all the inhabitants of Bedous were cracked and hoarse, and so\nunmusical, that it was difficult to imagine oneself in the country of\nDespourrins.\n\nAs early as possible the next morning we set forth on our journey\nfurther up the valley; and, the weather being fine and the sky clear,\nwe were delighted with the aspect of the snowy mountains above and\naround us. The plain of Bedous is of some extent, and, in the fine\nseason, must be extremely beautiful, being highly cultivated and very\npicturesque: seven villages are scattered at distances along its\nexpanse--the most conspicuous of which is Accous, where the poet was\nborn; and on a mound without the town stands a pyramid, lately erected\nto his memory. Nothing can be more beautiful than this position; and, in\nsummer, it must be a little Paradise. The village of Osse, opposite, is\na small Protestant retreat in an equally charming spot: hills, called in\nthe country _Turons_, surround this happy valley--_avant-couriers_ of\nthe higher chain, which rise as the Gave is followed into deeper\nsolitude.\n\nMarca, the historian of B\u00e9arn, cites, in his work, a curious document\nrelative to this valley. It is dated June 1, 1348, and its title is\nsufficiently singular; it runs thus.\n\n\"Contract of a peace made between the valleys of Aspe and Lavedan, by\norder of the Pope, who had absolved the earth, the inhabitants and the\ncastle of Lavedan, from the sin committed by the abb\u00e9 of St. Savin, in\ncausing the death, _by magic art_, of a great number of the inhabitants\nof Aspe, in revenge for the rapines and ravages they had committed in\nLavedan: _in punishment of which crime, neither the earth, the women,\nnor the herds of Lavedan had borne fruit for six years.\"_\n\nThe people of this neighbourhood have the credit of being remarkably\nintelligent, and, at the same time, simple in their habits and manners:\nthere is considerable jealousy between them and those of Ossau: all we\ncould judge of was that the civility appeared equal, and it appeared to\nus that the beauty of the peasantry was more striking, though in this\nopinion we are not borne out by that of others. The boasted costumes are\nrarely seen in winter; but we observed one young woman very\npicturesquely dressed in an old and faded black velvet boddice,\npeculiarly shaped, laced with red, which, if it had ever been _new_ in\nher time, might have been pretty. Every article of their dress, however,\nlooks as if it had descended from generation to generation, till every\nbit of colour or brilliancy had departed from it, leaving only a\nthreadbare rag, which imagination alone can invest with grace or beauty.\n\nThe route we were following was the high road to Saragossa, and,\noccasionally, we met sombre groups of men in black _capotes_, mounted on\nhorses or mules, and others escorting waggons laden with Spanish\nwool--the chief article of commerce. Flocks of beautiful goats were very\nfrequent, and every object seemed new and singular to our eyes.\n\nWe dismounted from our carriage at a little bridge over the Gave, and,\nunder the direction of a guide who had accompanied us from Bedous, we\nset forth, beside its rushing current, towards the cascade of Lescun,\nfar up in the hills. The loud roar and dash of the beautiful torrent,\nfoaming and splashing over its bed, strewn with huge pieces of rock, was\nthe excuse which our guide gave for declining to sing Despourrins'\nsongs, with which he was, however, well acquainted. _\"Ils sont plus\nforts pour \u00e7a en Ossau\"_ was his remark, in a voice so harsh and coarse\nthat I did not pursue my entreaties. We met a fine old man, whom I took\nfor a shepherd, from his cloak and brown _berret_, and the large\nPyrenean dog which followed him, but he turned out to be a rich\nproprietor of land, showed us part of his domains, and seemed a\nwell-informed man, talking familiarly of England and its _comt\u00e9 de\nChester_, asking us our motive for visiting this part of France, which\nhe concluded to be economy, and entertaining us greatly by his remarks.\nOur walk, or rather scramble, to the cascade was very agreeable, but\nexceedingly rugged, mounting the whole way between the hills till we\nreached the spot where the Gave comes foaming over a broad ledge of\nrock, and falls into the valley below with a thundering sound. It is\nmuch interrupted in its descent, and forms new cataracts as it goes: so\nthat the whole side of the mountain is in commotion with its leaps and\ngambols; clouds of spray, like smoke, curling up from the foamy abyss,\nand every echo sounding with its hoarse murmurs. It reminded me of some\nof the falls in the Mont Dore; but without the pines.\n\nMeantime, the snowy peaks of the giants of the valley were seen peering\nover the lower hills, and shining in light; but scarcely had we reached\nthe highest point of the cascade, and were standing on the bridge which\nspans it, when clouds came over the scene, heavy drops began to fall,\nand we found it necessary to hasten our return to the high road, where\nwe had left our carriage.\n\nTo descend the stony and slippery ways was infinitely more difficult\nthan to mount; and I soon found that clinging to the tough branches of\nbox, which here grows luxuriantly, and sheds a fine fresh odour round,\nwas not sufficient assistance. The guide now proved, by the strength of\nhis arm in assisting us, and his agility, that he possessed qualities\nmore useful than the Arcadian accomplishment, the want of which had\nannoyed me as we came, and I forgave him for being unable to sing the\npraises of _La Plus Charmante Anesquette_, the words of which ditty he\nnevertheless repeated, with surprise and pleasure at finding they were\nold acquaintances of ours.\n\nOur way was now towards Urdos, by Cette Eygun, and through Etscau, where\nthe Gave forces its way along the street, and where, on the opposite\nbank, on a high terrace, stands the antique village of Borce--once of\nimportance and now only picturesque. We did not see the town of Lescun,\nbut the path to it appears most precipitous: the inhabitants are said to\nbe the most daring smugglers in the valley, and the town stands perched\nlike a vulture's nest, closed in by savage hills, and concealed from\nsight, as if it had much to hide.\n\nThe Spirit of the Pic d'Anie was evidently offended at our seeking his\nvicinity at so unaccustomed a season, and sent down one of his storms of\nrain which are so frequent in the valley. As the weather, however,\ncontinued warm we did not heed his anger, and continued our journey\nthrough the most magnificent scenery--grander and more surprising at\nevery step--till we reached the huge masses of rock called Le Portalet,\nwhere once stood a fort, built by Henri Quatre to arrest the approach of\nthe Spaniards. A little further on is a wondrous path, worked in the\nrocks, over a tremendous precipice, for the purpose of transporting\ntimber. A new fort is being constructed here, and the appearance of a\nlittle toy-like hut, fastened to the entrance of a cave for the\nconvenience of the workmen who are to blast the rock, is startling and\ncurious.\n\nUrdos is a wild-looking place, at the extremity of the valley, with no\ninterest belonging to it except that it is the end of the road for\ncarriages, and that at this spot the remainder of the way to Jacca must\nbe made on mules. As the weather was unpropitious, and the snows\nrendered the _trajet_ uncertain, we did not allow our curiosity to carry\nus further, and contented ourselves with observing the remarkable groups\ncrowding round the inn-door at which we stopped. Spaniards, in wild\ncostumes, with white leggings buttoned behind, sandaled feet, turbaned\nheads, and rough cloaks thrown over their shoulders, carrying large\nbundles of goods, were lounging by the entrance, waiting till the rain\nshould cease that they might pursue their way. Some women were of their\nparty, whose appearance was very singular, and the colours of their\ndresses varied and brilliant in the extreme: one had thrown her green\ngown, lined with red, over her head, like a veil, and her face was\nnearly concealed by its folds; her petticoat was of two other bright\nhues, and she stood, in a commanding attitude, grasping a large staff, a\nperfect specimen of a brigand's wife.\n\nBy degrees, as different guests passed in and out of the inn, and were\nattracted to the door by the appearance of strangers, we were able to\nform the most charming pictures, till all Murillo's groups seemed\ncombined in the shifting scene within that narrow frame.\n\nAt one time, the _tableau_ was complete with the following figures, all\ncoloured in the richest manner, and harmonizing most exquisitely:--a\nvery pretty, intelligent young woman, dressed in green, violet, red, and\nbrown, stood leaning against the doorpost, with an infant in pink, grey,\nand stone-colour, in her arms: her husband--a handsome, dark Spaniard,\nwith a many-coloured handkerchief with ends twisted round his wild,\nblack, straggling hair--raised his face above her: in shade, behind,\nstood a sinister-looking smuggler with a _sombrero_, dressed in dark\nvelvet, and a large white cloak thrown over his shoulder: occupying the\nfront space, leant, in a graceful attitude, a female who seemed mistress\nof the inn. She was a very striking figure, and, both as to costume and\nfeature, might have been the original of many a Spanish Sainte\nElizabeth, but younger than she is usually represented. Every part of\nher dress had a tint of red so subdued into keeping, that it seemed the\neffect of study, although, of course, mere chance; her gown was rich\ndark crimson, her apron brighter geranium, her handkerchief, sleeves,\nand boddice, shades of reddish brown; the large hood on her head a\nchocolate colour: it was formed of a handkerchief tied negligently under\nher chin; a second, of rich tint, was bound tightly over her brows,\nhiding her hair, and her beautiful features came out in fine relief; a\ndelicate blush was on her somewhat tanned cheek, and her eyes were full\nof calm expression: she had very prettily-shaped hands and feet, and was\naltogether a model for a painter; struggling through this group, almost\nat their feet, came, from beneath their drapery, a lovely little brown\nchild, all reds and purples, with glossy black hair, ruddy cheeks, and\nlarge black eyes fixed upon us with a sly, smiling gaze. The stained\nstone, of which the house was built, was of a fine cold colour, and the\ndeep rich shade within made a back-ground which completed the whole.\n\nIn the door-way of a neighbouring stable was another party watching the\nrain, nearly as picturesque; and before them was dancing, in grotesque\nattitudes, a half-crazed old woman, at whose vagaries the lookers-on\nindolently smiled. Our admiration of the beautiful children quite won\nthe hearts of the mothers, who had, apparently, at first regarded us\nwith a somewhat haughty air, and a few little silver pieces completed\nour conquest; we, therefore, drove off on our return to Bedous, in high\nfavour with our strange wild friends, and ceased to feel at all alarmed\nat the possibility of their overtaking us on the mountains.\n\nWe were obliged to pass another night at the inodorous inn of Bedous,\namidst the noise of a carnival night, and the hideous howls of a jovial\nparty who had that day assisted at a wedding, and who seemed bent on\nproving that music was banished from the valley. I heard the word\n\"_Roncevaux_\" in one of their songs; but could distinguish nothing\nbesides to atone for the discord they made, as they danced _La Vache_\nunder our windows, in the pouring rain, by the light of a dim lanthorn.\n\nI was told by the landlady that in the church of Bedous were formerly\ntwo _b\u00e9nitiers_, one within the aisle, and one in the porch; the latter\nbeing appropriated to the use of that unfortunate race--the\nCagots--about whom I had been so inquisitive ever since I arrived in\nB\u00e9arn. Accordingly, we lost no time in going to seek for these strange\nrelics; after looking about in vain, and discovering only one\n_b\u00e9nitier_, we were assisted in our search by a man belonging to the\nchurch, and our female guide; who understood only _patois_, and led to\nthe mysterious spot where the worn stone is to be seen on which once\nstood the vase of holy water into which the wretched outcasts were\npermitted to dip their fingers. The recess is now used as a closet,\nwhich is closed with wooden doors, and the _b\u00e9nitier_ is removed,\n\"because,\" said the man, \"there is no distinction _now_, and the Cagots\nuse the same as other people,\"[54] I inquired if it was known who were\nCagot families, and was told \"_certainly_;\" but little account was taken\nof the fact. \"Bedous,\" said my informant, \"was one of the Cagot\nvillages, but the prejudice is almost worn out now: it is true we do not\ncare to marry into their families if we can help it; not that there is\nany disease amongst them; it is all mere fancy. Only when people\nquarrel, they call each other Cagots in contempt; however, we shall soon\nforget all about it.\"\n\n[Footnote 54: At Utraritz, near Bayonne, they show, in the porch of the\nchurch, a similar recess, where once stood the _b\u00e9nitier_ of the\nCagots.]\n\nOn our return through the valley to Oloron, we paused at Notre Dame de\nSarrance, a place of pilgrimage, entirely uninteresting as a church, but\nplaced in a beautiful position amongst the hills.\n\nAt Oloron, when we passed before, there was no room for us, in\nconsequence of the whole inn being occupied with guests at the wedding\nof the landlord's fourth daughter, the three others having been lately\nmarried. As we arrived the day after the wedding, there still remained\nsufficient good cheer to supply our wants, and make a pleasing contrast\nto Bedous.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XVI.\n\n     ARAMITZ--THE PLAY--MAUL\u00c9ON--THE SISTERS--WORDS--ST. JEAN.\n\n\nOUR intention now was to visit Maul\u00e9on, and see as much of the Pays\nBasque as the uncertain state of the weather would allow. The route to\nAramitz is very beautiful, with the fine valley of Bar\u00e9tous, and the\nBois d'Erreche stretching out at the foot of the bold hills. When we\nentered the town of Aramitz the whole population was assembled in a\ngreat square; some acting, and others gazing at a carnival play, the\nperformers in which were dressed in flaunting robes, with crowns and\nturbans; while a troop, in full regimental costume, figured away as a\nvictorious French army, headed by a young Napoleon, who ever and anon\nharangued his troops and led them on to battle against a\ndetermined-looking band of enemies, amongst whom were conspicuous _a\nbishop_ and _a cur\u00e9_, in full dress. A combat ensued, when the heroes on\neach side showed so little nerve, being evidently afraid of their own\nswords--which seemed _real_ steel, that no child's-play in England could\nhave gone off so tamely: the enemies all fell down at the first attack,\nand the only comic part was the rushing forward of the fool, and his\nagonized exclamation of \"_O! mon cur\u00e9!_\" as he dragged that reverend\ngentleman from beneath a heap of slain. We asked our driver how it\nhappened that the clergy of the parish allowed this _travestie_, and how\nthe cur\u00e9's dress had been procured: he told us that the costume belonged\nto some one who had _formerly_ been in the Church, and as for the\nrepresentation no one could prevent it, particularly as the sons of the\nmayor were amongst the actors. \"But,\" he added, \"M. le Cur\u00e9 will _have\nhis revenge_ next Sunday by preaching them a sermon which he intends\nshall make their ears tingle; though no one will care a bit about it.\"\n\nWe observed, that it was wrong to turn the ministers of religion into\nridicule, to which our lively guide agreed, concluding with the usual\nshrug and inevitable remark of all Frenchmen--B\u00e9arnais and\nother--\"_Mais, que voulez vous!_\"\n\nMy companion's donation of a franc, was received with rapture by a\ngeneral and an emperor, who came to our carriage with a plate, in the\ncentre of which was an apple with numerous slits, in which were inserted\ncertain borrowed napoleons, to excite to generosity. We were vehemently\ninvited to mount to a place of honour to view the play at our ease; but\nwe declined, as it was not the dramatic performance that delighted us,\nbut the extraordinary effect of the costumes of the crowd below. All the\nyoung girls wore their new and most brilliant handkerchiefs tied on\ntheir heads with the utmost care, and exhibiting colours so rich and\nglowing, that, as they flitted about in the sun, they seemed so many\n_colibri_ with changeable crests of all the hues of the rainbow. The\nrich colours worn here give an air of gaiety and cheerfulness, agreeably\ncontrasted with the dark and gloomy tints of the head-dresses at and\nnear Pau; which, though gracefully tied, are usually sombre and dim.\n\nThe whole town of Aramitz was gay with carnival rejoicings, and as we\ndrove along we came upon another crowd in another square, where we saw a\nparty of six young men in black-and-green velvet dresses, and scarlet\nsashes, nimbly dancing the _Rondo Basque_; while the gorgeously-adorned\nyoung girls stood by, observing, but taking no part in the exercise.\nThey seemed very agile and nimble, and kept up an incessant movement,\nnot without grace; but it had an odd effect to see the men dancing\nalone, and that circumstance impresses one with the conviction of the\ndance being of eastern origin. We had not an opportunity of seeing any\nof the other dances so celebrated in the country, which are precisely\nsimilar to our morris-dances still exhibited, occasionally, in the\ncountry on May-day.\n\nThe Basque country, properly so called, begins at Montory, and a\nperceptible change, singular enough, is observable in the country: a\nrange of hills, of shapes impossible to describe--so witch-like and\nirregular is their outline--extends for some distance along the way,\nushering the traveller into the pretty plain below.\n\nAt Tardets there is a bridge over the charming Gave of _Uhaitshandia_;\nand now begin the extraordinary names of places, which French, B\u00e9arnais,\nand Spanish alike find so difficult to pronounce or understand. Now the\nfew familiar words which we comprehended in B\u00e9arnais were heard no more,\nand a language of the most singular yet musical sound took its place.\nThe first objects we saw were two Andalusian women, ragged, filthy, and\nslovenly, to a degree quite amazing, their dingy white woollen gowns\nthrown over their heads; faded apple-green petticoats in thick plaits\nhanging from their shoulders, with no indication of waists, bare legs\nand feet, and bold, savage aspect. They laughed loudly at some remark\n_en passant_ of our driver; who seemed accomplished in languages, being\nable to speak to all he met. Immediately afterwards we met some Basque\nwomen, whose costume had no other distinction but that of their\nheadkerchiefs being white; this, however is rare, except on occasions of\n_f\u00eate_, as we always saw the same beautiful brilliant colours as before,\nthroughout our journey.\n\nMaul\u00e9on, one of the chief towns of the Basque country, is charmingly\nsituated in a rich country, on the Gaison Gave, surrounded by the varied\nhills of the Bois de Tibar\u00e8ne. Of all its former grandeur and strength\nscarce a vestige remains: one ruined fort, of a commanding height, above\nthe town, alone attests its ancient glory: from this spot is a charming\nview, taking in all the town and plain and surrounding mountains. The\nchurches, once of great importance, are dwindled to insignificance; and\nwe were much disappointed to discover nothing interesting either at the\nantique church of Berautte or Licharre. We found, however, an equivalent\nin the beauty of the scenery round, and the charm of hearing the\nsweetest of languages from the lips of two pretty little girls of ten\nand eleven years of age, the daughters of our hostess, who herself had a\nmelodious voice, and peculiarly pleasing manners. These little fairies\nconstituted themselves our attendants during our stay at Maul\u00e9on, and as\nthey spoke, equally well, French and Basque, we enjoyed their innocent\nprattle and intelligent remarks extremely. They were very eloquent in\npraise of a certain English traveller named _Fran\u00e7ois_, who had stayed\nsome time at their inn, and wanted to take them away to England, and\nthey tried hard to persuade us that he _must_ be a relation, because he\n_talked_ and _drew_ like us, and because we wanted to take them away\ntoo.\n\nI made a little vocabulary of Basque words under their tuition;\nand it was like listening to music to hear them utter the pretty\nphrases and words; _maita suthut hanich_--I love you much;\n_ene-madtea_--my friend; _ama_--my mother; _aita_--my father;\n_belhara_--grass; _nescatila_--little girl; _minyiate bat_--a fairy;\n_oheitza_--remembrance.\n\nI procured a Basque dictionary at Maul\u00e9on, at a somewhat primitive\nlibrary, where the usual commodities sold were candles and soap. At one\nend of the shop was a range of books on a shelf; and while the very\ncivil master was gone to look for those more choice volumes which we\nrequired, his housekeeper stood by, in a state bordering on distraction\nat the sacrilege committed by us, in daring to remove from their\npositions tomes which her master evidently did not permit her to lay a\nfinger on. In Basque, and all the French she had, did she clamour to us\nto desist, assuring us it was a thing unheard of, and would derange the\nwhole economy of the establishment; and, certainly, as her anger\nincreased with our indifference, she proved to us that it was possible\nto make discord out of sweet notes; however, the purchase of the books\nher master had found silenced and confounded her; and we escaped with\nour prize, much to the delight and amusement of our little guides, who\nthought it necessary, _en chemin_, to apologize for the old woman's\nrudeness.\n\nThe father of our favourites we found, though taciturn at first, a very\nwell-informed man; he confirmed all that I had gathered from works I had\nread on the subject of the Basques--their language and manners; and\nregretted that the unpropitious state of the weather prevented our\nwitnessing any of the usual out-of-door amusements, common at the\nseason. He described the eloquence and wit of the common people as\nsomething wonderful; but their _comedies_, he said, were seldom fitted\nfor more refined ears than their own. The character of their amusements,\nhe added, was grave, as their improvised tragedies prove; the language\nlends itself to poetry with such singular facility, that poets are by no\nmeans rare; and, amongst the lower class, some are, as I had heard\nbefore, singularly gifted, but they never write down their compositions,\nwhich are, therefore, difficult to collect. The airs of their songs are\nalmost always melancholy and solemn, and require fine voices to give\nthem effect. I have since been told, by a Basque gentleman of taste and\ninformation, precisely the same; and, as he sings well, he kindly\nallowed me to hear some of their melodies, which remind me much of the\nsaddest of the Irish native airs. His opinion was, that there is great\nsimilarity in the character of the Basque and Irish; and he tells me,\nthat the _sound_ of many of their words is alike; but when they speak\ntogether all proves to be _mere_ sound; for they do not understand a\nsyllable of either tongue.\n\nThe greater part of the language seems to me corrupted by the\nintroduction of French and Spanish words, probably required to express\nwants, which the original Basque had acquired in the course of time;\n\n    \"When wild in woods the noble savage ran,\"\n\nhe did not want much that he afterwards sought for words to express his\ndesire to obtain. But the genuine words, in which there is no mixture of\nanother language, may well puzzle the learned; for they are most\nsingular: as for instance,\n\nOghia      Bread\nUhaitza    River\nHoora      Water\nHaicha     Stars\nHala       Ship\nHarhibat   Stone\nEgura      Wood\nEskia      Hand\nMahatsac   Grapes\nSahmahia   Horse\nEtchia     Habitation\nBegitatiha Face\n\nOur next destination was to St. Jean Pied de Port; and we took our way\nacross the mountains of Musculdy, the scenery the whole way being\nexquisitely beautiful, and richly cultivated in the plains. We continued\nmounting without cessation for nearly two hours; and as we walked the\ngreatest part of the time, we met with a few adventures by the way. We\nwere joined, in a very steep part, by a party who were travelling from\nMaul\u00e9on to St. Just. We had been struck with the brilliant colours of\nthe young woman's dress as we passed her and her mother, and a boy\naccompanying them; she was leaning against a stone wall, where she had\nrested her large white bundle, and her attitude was free and graceful in\nthe extreme, as she bent her head on her hand evidently fatigued. She\nwore a headkerchief of deep chocolate-colour, striped with blue, and\nbordered with bright yellow; her stuff petticoat was scarlet, edged with\nblack velvet; she had tucked up her green-striped gown, and thus\ndisplayed its crimson lining; her shawl was of fine red merinos,\nembroidered in glowing colours, of Spanish manufacture, as she\nafterwards informed us, _and smuggled_; her legs were bare, but she wore\nblack shoes; and her umbrella, the constant appendage, was brown; her\ngait, as she walked along the road, with her white package on her head,\nwas that of a heroine of a melo-drame. I never saw a more striking\nfigure; for she was, though not pretty, remarkably well-made and tall,\nand all her motions were easy and unconstrained. She did not seem so\ncommunicative as her mother,--a pretty little _old_ woman, whose pride\nwas evidently gratified by our admiration of her daughter's finery, and\nour pleasure in sketching her as she stood; her gratitude was so great\non our allowing her boy and her bundles to be put on the carriage, that\nshe became quite enthusiastic in our praise; and the present of a small\npiece of silver enchanted her. She actually cried with pleasure; and yet\nwe found she was not poor; but had been to see a son, who had amassed\nseveral hundred francs and set up in a _cabaret_ at Maul\u00e9on: this\nexplained the gorgeousness of his sister's costume, which, at the risk\nof spoiling, she continued to wear on her journey home to their\nvillage, aware of the sensation her macaw-like appearance created\nwherever she passed.\n\nOn a high hill, opposite that we were mounting, we observed a chapel,\nwhich we found was dedicated to the Sainte Madeleine, and held in much\nreverence throughout the country: pilgrims coming from great distances\nto visit her shrine, and sick persons thronging there in the hope of a\nmiracle being performed in their favour. The same occurs at another\nchapel, on a neighbouring height, dedicated to St. Antoine; but there,\nit seems, the young men resort, in order, by the saint's intercession,\nto obtain an exemption from the chance of conscription. They entreat of\nHeaven that they may choose a _good number_, and be allowed to remain at\nhome; and so firmly are they convinced of the efficacy of the saint's\nprayers, that hundreds had, we understood, lately taken their way to the\nholy mountain; for this was the season for the fatal lots to be drawn.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XVII.\n\n     ARNEGUY--THE CACOLET--ROLANDO'S TREE--SNOW-WHITE\n     GOATS--COSTUME--SAUVETERRE--THE PASTOR--NAVARREUX--SPANISH AIR.\n\n\nWE arrived at St. Jean Pied de Port late in the day, and the aspect of\naffairs at Le Grand Soleil, where we stopped, was by no means\nexhilarating. Having passed through the black, dirty kitchen, and\nclimbed the dingy staircase, we were shown several rooms, which we\n_could not have_, by a very sour-looking old woman, who tried to\npersuade us to content ourselves with apartments without fire-places.\nThis we resisted determinedly, suggesting that ladies had a right to\nsupersede male travellers, and, assisted by the eloquence of our\ninvaluable _cocher_, we at length obtained possession of the disputed\nchambers. As it was soon discovered that we meditated remaining several\ndays, no further opposition was made to our convenience, and the fat\nlandlady, having reproved her thin sister into good humour, we were\nallowed to command, in the worst of all possible inns, where good-will\nheld the place of performance in most instances, and where carelessness\nseemed carried to a perfectly Eastern excess.\n\nWe began to make immediate enquiries as to the possibility of entering\nSpain, of visiting the convent of Roncesvalles and the neighbouring\nmountains; and every sort of contradictory information was given us,\nenough to bewilder an ignorant traveller into giving up the projected\nexpedition altogether. However, as we resolved that we would not be\naltogether disappointed, and recollected all the romances invented to\ndeter our daring, by our friends at Pau, we ordered a guide and\n_cacolet_ and mule to be sent on before, and on the following morning\nset forth in the carriage as far as Arneguy, the last French town, from\nwhence we were to cross the Gave of Bihobi, and trust ourselves to the\nperils of a Spanish journey.\n\nAccordingly, we pursued the very good road to that frontier\nvillage--one of the most miserable I ever beheld, filled with soldiers\nand mud and ruin: here we alighted, and walked across the little bridge\nwhich divides the two kingdoms. Once _in Spain_, and having made a\ndrawing of the spot, as a souvenir, we mounted our mule; seated\ncomfortably in the arm chairs, slung at each side of the patient animal,\nand, with our muleteer and two servants on foot, began the scrambling\nascent of one of the most rugged paths I ever beheld.\n\nEvery step, however, exhibited new and startling beauties; and the\nfurther we advanced the more sublime the mountains became: the foaming\nstream rushing beneath us, the deep ravines and precipices, the wooded\nhills and enormous trees, all possessed a character quite unlike that of\nthe two valleys of B\u00e9arn, which we had already seen; both of which led\ninto Spain, as did this pass of Roncesvalles; but we now felt ourselves\nreally in another country; and, as we passed the opposite village of\nOndarol, and heard that the last houses in France were left behind, and\nall the mountains, on each side of the ravine, belonged to Spain, there\nwas something singularly agreeable in the idea. Our _cocher Fran\u00e7ois_\nhad, at the village of Valcarlos, an opportunity of exhibiting his\nknowledge of Spanish; for the officer there, who took cognizance of us,\ncould not understand either _patois_ or French.\n\nWe wound along the beautiful ravine of Valcarlos, by a road more stony\nand rugged than can be described, trusting to our mule, who kept his\nfeet in a manner perfectly surprising; it was like mounting a ruined\nstaircase, so steep was the path in many places; but, going slowly and\ncarefully as we did, and seated in our comfortable panniers, we felt no\ninconvenience, and were scarcely conscious of the difficulties, sensibly\nunderstood by all our companions, who toiled through the mud, and over\nthe stones and torrents with infinite cheerfulness and perseverance.\n\nThe beeches and chesnuts here grow to an immense size, and look so old\nin their winter guise that one might almost believe they had spread the\nshade over the paladins of Charlemagne. We could not do otherwise than\nindulge in this idea, when we reached a spot where an enormous _plateau_\nof rock seemed to bar our further progress; and, beside it, we rested\nbeneath a gigantic chesnut, which threw its naked arms far across the\nravine below, and, when covered with leaves, must have been a majestic\ntree. A huge stone lay amongst others near it, and this was pointed out\nby our guide as the identical stone thrown by Rolando in his anger when\nhis horse's foot slipped over the rock at the edge of which we stood.\nThe print made by the hoof as it slid along the surface is _clearly\nvisible_ to poetical eyes, and this is one of the numerous _Pas de\nRoland_ so celebrated in the Pyrenees, where the great hero's course is\nmarked in many directions.\n\nAs we desired to avoid the possibility of a similar accident happening\nto us, we dismounted from our _cacolet_, and walked across the ledge to\nsome distance: and, after a short repose beneath the shelter of the\noverhanging rocks, which a violent shower made most convenient at the\nmoment, we prepared to retrace our steps; satisfied with having advanced\nso far on the same route taken by \"Charlemagne and all his peerage.\"\n\nThe return was infinitely less easy than the advance, for we had now to\ndescend; and we felt the motion much more, for the mule could not so\nwell keep its feet in spite of the guide's assistance. We had sundry\nadventures by the way at _Posadas_--tasted the bitter Spanish\n_ordinaire_ wine from a wine-skin, and the excellent maize bread and\ncream cheese of the country, and returned to Arneguy, much gratified\nwith our trip.\n\nThese mountains must be exquisitely beautiful in summer, when all the\nfine trees are in full grandeur, for I never saw any larger or more\nflourishing. It is the custom for the French to decry everything\nSpanish, even to the natural productions; and I had often been told that\nthe moment the French side was quitted all was barren and worthless; I\nfound, however, on the contrary, that the mountain-scenery greatly\nincreased in sublimity the nearer we advanced towards Roncesvalles, and\non our return that which had looked well on our way had dwindled into\ntameness in comparison with what we had left. Our driver, in the true\nspirit of his country, laboured to convince us that even the Basque on\nthe Spanish side was inferior to that on the French--a fact we were not\nin a condition to decide on, as readily as we could with respect to the\nscenery. I think, as a general rule, that a foreign traveller may always\nbe sure, if a country is abused in France, it possesses attractions for\nhim, and _vice vers\u00e2_; for the \"toute beaut\u00e9\" of a French amateur is\ninvariably a piece of formality or common-place, unendurable to the\nlovers of the really beautiful.\n\nFlocks of snow-white goats, with long hair, were climbing up the\nsteepest parts of the mountains; and a few stragglers, with their pretty\nkids, greeted us on our rugged road: a party of Zingari, with scowling\nbrows but civil demeanor, hurried past us, with a swiftness rather\nunusual to their indolent race, unless indeed they were afraid of\npursuit--as our muleteer seemed to hint by his exclamation of alarm as\nthey appeared. Besides these, and a traveller mounted on a mule, who\nwas, we understood, a rich merchant of Pampeluna, who constantly made\nthe _trajet_ by that bad road, we were little disturbed in our solitude.\nThe Gave sounding far below, the smaller brawling cataracts crossing our\nrocky path, the overhanging rocks and gigantic trees, the\nconstantly-changing scene, and the novelty of the whole, made our wild\nand strange journey altogether delightful. We were congratulated on our\nreturn that the rain, which overtook us on our way, had not been snow;\nfor in these regions the path is sometimes obstructed in the course of\nhalf-an-hour; and a sad story was related to us of a courier despatched\nto Roncesvalles in sunshine, having been overwhelmed by the snow on his\nreturn the same evening. Whether this was a _mountain_ fable we could\nnot be sure; but we had heard so many terrors, and experienced none,\nthat we found it difficult to give credit to all the histories of\ntravellers eaten by wolves and destroyed by avalanches, such as had\narrived at Pau from the heights of Gabas and Urdos throughout the\nwinter, only to be contradicted after they had had their effect for the\ngiven time.\n\nFrom St. Jean Pied de Port--where the female costume is pretty, and\nwhose arsenal, and the fine view from it, are all that claim the\nslightest attention in the most slovenly of ugly towns, and whose church\nportal tells of former magnificence long since swept away--we took our\ndeparture by St. Palais to Sauveterre, crossing the Pays Basque, which\nis perfectly lovely as to scenery, and, in fine weather, is worth a long\njourney to visit--so varied, rich, and agreeable is the country in all\ndirections. Sauveterre is a neat, clear, respectable town, finely\nsituated, well-enough paved, and having many attractions--particularly a\nmagnificent ruin of a strong castle, which is called that of the Reine\nJeanne, but is, evidently, originally of much more ancient construction.\nOne high tower is very commanding, and must have been formidable in its\ntime: that of the church, on still higher ground above, is of the same\ndate, and is very curious: on the whole, Sauveterre is as picturesque a\ntown as any we had seen, and we were sorry that bad weather a good deal\nmasked its beauties.\n\nWe paid a visit to the Protestant church; and the minister's wife, a\nvery simple, kind person, who deeply regretted the absence of her\nhusband--gone to look after his scattered flock, which is dispersed, in\ndistant hamlets, all over that part of the country towards Navarreux.\nThis excellent man is in the habit of walking many leagues, in the\nseverest seasons, to visit his people, who reside by twos and threes in\nvillages far remote; and he seems to spare no pains in his vocation. His\nestablishment is of the simplest and most primitive kind, evidently\nquite unknown to luxury; and the sight of the good pastor--which we were\nfortunate enough to get on the morning of our departure--confirmed our\npreconceived opinion of his benevolence, if countenance be a faithful\nindex of mind. Our interview happened in this sort.\n\nWe had decided to leave Sauveterre early, fearing the weather, and were\njust starting, when, at the carriage-door, we beheld two figures, which\nwe at once recognized as the returned pastor and his wife: a violent\nshower greeted them; but, mindless of it, there they stood, under their\numbrellas, determined to make our acquaintance, and to thank my\ncompanion for a donation she had sent to the poor Protestants under his\ncharge. His fine open, healthy countenance, and cheerful, good-humoured\nexpression, gentlemanlike manners, and easy address, pleased us\nextremely; and the unassuming little wife, dressed in a cap like a\n_bourgeoise_--joining him in kind exclamations of sorrow at losing their\nfriends of the moment--equally amused and gratified us with the\n_na\u00efvet\u00e9_ of the whole proceeding. I have no doubt that our apparition\nin that solitary town was quite an event, and one which the good\nminister would have been sorry to miss. He had come back late the night\nbefore, through a deluge of rain, and by the most difficult\ncross-roads--of course flooded--after walking twenty or thirty miles;\nyet he had energy to rise early, dress himself in his best, and come to\nmeet the strangers, before their departure.\n\nI think he must really be a pattern of a minister, and is a worthy\nexample for many richer and less zealous clergymen. The French\ngovernment is not able to allow more than a thousand francs a-year to\nthe Protestant ministers, and out of this he no doubt gives much in\ncharity, for almost all his flock is poor, and I believe he has a family\nto support besides: yet he seemed cheerful and contented, and probably\nthinks himself well off, happy in the exercise of his duty, and in\nrelieving the sufferings of his fellows.\n\nNavarreux is a strongly-fortified little town, looking extremely\nwarlike, filled with troops: it would be difficult to say why, as it is\nso far from the frontier; but, probably, they are ready, as at Pau, in\ncase of an outbreak on the part of the Spaniards, which seems\nimprobable, but is talked of.[55] From hence to Pau the country is\npretty; but the nearer approach to the wide, marshy lands round, renders\nthe prospect infinitely less interesting, and the air less refreshing.\n\n[Footnote 55: This has since occurred, and Espartero is in England and\nQueen Christine in Spain.]\n\nI had now accomplished, however imperfectly, a long-entertained\nintention of _visiting Spain_; and, although I had merely breathed\nSpanish air _for a few hours_, yet it has given me a sort of assurance\nthat I shall, one day, be able to put my favourite project in\nexecution--of travelling over that most poetical and interesting of all\ncountries--at a time, I trust, when its government shall be well\nestablished, and peace and order so prevail, that the fear of brigands\nmay not deter strangers from seeking its romantic cities, and crossing\nits wild and wondrous mountains.\n\nFor the present, I take leave of my readers; hoping that, in my next\ntour, they will indulgently accompany me to Madrid and the Alhambra.\n\n\n\nLondon:\nPrinted by R. Clay, Bread Street Hill.","title":"B\u00e9arn and the Pyrenees : $b A legendary tour to the country of Henri Quatre","tradition":"myth-cosmogony","translated_text":null,"word_count":189097}