CHAPTER III

O how canst thou renounce the boundless store

Of charms which nature to her vot’ry yields!

The warbling woodland, the resounding shore,

The pomp of groves, and garniture of fields;

All that the genial ray of morning gilds,

And all that echoes to the song of even;

All that the mountain’s shelt’ring bosom shields,

And all the dread magnificence of heaven;

O how canst thou renounce, and hope to be forgiven!

.....

These charms shall work thy soul’s eternal health,

And love, and gentleness, and joy, impart.

THE MINSTREL

St. Aubert, instead of taking the more direct road, that ran along the

feet of the Pyrenees to Languedoc, chose one that, winding over the

heights, afforded more extensive views and greater variety of romantic

scenery. He turned a little out of his way to take leave of M.

Barreaux, whom he found botanizing in the wood near his château, and

who, when he was told the purpose of St. Aubert’s visit, expressed a

degree of concern, such as his friend had thought it was scarcely

possible for him to feel on any similar occasion. They parted with

mutual regret.

“If anything could have tempted me from my retirement,” said M.

Barreaux, “it would have been the pleasure of accompanying you on this

little tour. I do not often offer compliments; you may, therefore,

believe me, when I say, that I shall look for your return with

impatience.”

The travellers proceeded on their journey. As they ascended the

heights, St. Aubert often looked back upon the château, in the plain

below; tender images crowded to his mind; his melancholy imagination

suggested that he should return no more; and though he checked this

wandering thought, still he continued to look, till the haziness of

distance blended his home with the general landscape, and St. Aubert

seemed to

Drag at each remove a lengthening chain.

He and Emily continued sunk in musing silence for some leagues, from

which melancholy reverie Emily first awoke, and her young fancy, struck

with the grandeur of the objects around, gradually yielded to

delightful impressions. The road now descended into glens, confined by

stupendous walls of rock, grey and barren, except where shrubs fringed

their summits, or patches of meagre vegetation tinted their recesses,

in which the wild goat was frequently browsing. And now, the way led to

the lofty cliffs, from whence the landscape was seen extending in all

its magnificence.

Emily could not restrain her transport as she looked over the pine

forests of the mountains upon the vast plains, that, enriched with

woods, towns, blushing vines, and plantations of almonds, palms, and

olives, stretched along, till their various colours melted in distance

into one harmonious hue, that seemed to unite earth with heaven.

Through the whole of this glorious scene the majestic Garonne wandered;

descending from its source among the Pyrenees, and winding its blue

waves towards the Bay of Biscay.

The ruggedness of the unfrequented road often obliged the wanderers to

alight from their little carriage, but they thought themselves amply

repaid for this inconvenience by the grandeur of the scenes; and, while

the muleteer led his animals slowly over the broken ground, the

travellers had leisure to linger amid these solitudes, and to indulge

the sublime reflections, which soften, while they elevate, the heart,

and fill it with the certainty of a present God! Still the enjoyment of

St. Aubert was touched with that pensive melancholy, which gives to

every object a mellower tint, and breathes a sacred charm over all

around.

They had provided against part of the evil to be encountered from a

want of convenient inns, by carrying a stock of provisions in the

carriage, so that they might take refreshment on any pleasant spot, in

the open air, and pass the nights wherever they should happen to meet

with a comfortable cottage. For the mind, also, they had provided, by a

work on botany, written by M. Barreaux, and by several of the Latin and

Italian poets; while Emily’s pencil enabled her to preserve some of

those combinations of forms, which charmed her at every step.

The loneliness of the road, where, only now and then, a peasant was

seen driving his mule, or some mountaineer-children at play among the

rocks, heightened the effect of the scenery. St. Aubert was so much

struck with it, that he determined, if he could hear of a road, to

penetrate further among the mountains, and, bending his way rather more

to the south, to emerge into Rousillon, and coast the Mediterranean

along part of that country to Languedoc.

Soon after mid-day, they reached the summit of one of those cliffs,

which, bright with the verdure of palm-trees, adorn, like gems, the

tremendous walls of the rocks, and which overlooked the greater part of

Gascony, and part of Languedoc. Here was shade, and the fresh water of

a spring, that, gliding among the turf, under the trees, thence

precipitated itself from rock to rock, till its dashing murmurs were

lost in the abyss, though its white foam was long seen amid the

darkness of the pines below.

This was a spot well suited for rest, and the travellers alighted to

dine, while the mules were unharnessed to browse on the savoury herbs

that enriched this summit.

It was some time before St. Aubert or Emily could withdraw their

attention from the surrounding objects, so as to partake of their

little repast. Seated in the shade of the palms, St. Aubert pointed out

to her observation the course of the rivers, the situation of great

towns, and the boundaries of provinces, which science, rather than the

eye, enabled him to describe. Notwithstanding this occupation, when he

had talked awhile he suddenly became silent, thoughtful, and tears

often swelled to his eyes, which Emily observed, and the sympathy of

her own heart told her their cause. The scene before them bore some

resemblance, though it was on a much grander scale, to a favourite one

of the late Madame St. Aubert, within view of the fishing-house. They

both observed this, and thought how delighted she would have been with

the present landscape, while they knew that her eyes must never, never

more open upon this world. St. Aubert remembered the last time of his

visiting that spot in company with her, and also the mournfully

presaging thoughts which had then arisen in his mind, and were now,

even thus soon, realised! The recollections subdued him, and he

abruptly rose from his seat, and walked away to where no eye could

observe his grief.

When he returned, his countenance had recovered its usual serenity; he

took Emily’s hand, pressed it affectionately, without speaking, and

soon after called to the muleteer, who sat at a little distance,

concerning a road among the mountains towards Rousillon. Michael said,

there were several that way, but he did not know how far they extended,

or even whether they were passable; and St. Aubert, who did not intend

to travel after sunset, asked what village they could reach about that

time. The muleteer calculated that they could easily reach Mateau,

which was in their present road; but that, if they took a road that

sloped more to the south, towards Rousillon, there was a hamlet, which

he thought they could gain before the evening shut in.

St. Aubert, after some hesitation, determined to take the latter

course, and Michael, having finished his meal, and harnessed his mules,

again set forward, but soon stopped; and St. Aubert saw him doing

homage to a cross, that stood on a rock impending over their way.

Having concluded his devotions, he smacked his whip in the air, and, in

spite of the rough road, and the pain of his poor mules, which he had

been lately lamenting, rattled, in a full gallop, along the edge of a

precipice, which it made the eye dizzy to look down. Emily was

terrified almost to fainting; and St. Aubert, apprehending still

greater danger from suddenly stopping the driver, was compelled to sit

quietly, and trust his fate to the strength and discretion of the

mules, who seemed to possess a greater portion of the latter quality

than their master; for they carried the travellers safely into the

valley, and there stopped upon the brink of the rivulet that watered

it.

Leaving the splendour of extensive prospects, they now entered this

narrow valley screened by

Rocks on rocks piled, as if by magic spell,

Here scorch’d by lightnings, there with ivy green.

The scene of barrenness was here and there interrupted by the spreading

branches of the larch and cedar, which threw their gloom over the

cliff, or athwart the torrent that rolled in the vale. No living

creature appeared, except the lizard, scrambling among the rocks, and

often hanging upon points so dangerous, that fancy shrunk from the view

of them. This was such a scene as _Salvator_ would have chosen, had he

then existed, for his canvas; St. Aubert, impressed by the romantic

character of the place, almost expected to see banditti start from

behind some projecting rock, and he kept his hand upon the arms with

which he always travelled.

As they advanced, the valley opened; its savage features gradually

softened, and, towards evening, they were among heathy mountains,

stretched in far perspective, along which the solitary sheep-bell was

heard, and the voice of the shepherd calling his wandering flocks to

the nightly fold. His cabin, partly shadowed by the cork-tree and the

ilex, which St. Aubert observed to flourish in higher regions of the

air than any other trees, except the fir, was all the human habitation

that yet appeared. Along the bottom of this valley the most vivid

verdure was spread; and, in the little hollow recesses of the

mountains, under the shade of the oak and chestnut, herds of cattle

were grazing. Groups of them, too, were often seen reposing on the

banks of the rivulet, or laving their sides in the cool stream, and

sipping its wave.

The sun was now setting upon the valley; its last light gleamed upon

the water, and heightened the rich yellow and purple tints of the heath

and broom, that overspread the mountains. St. Aubert enquired of

Michael the distance to the hamlet he had mentioned, but the man could

not with certainty tell; and Emily began to fear that he had mistaken

the road. Here was no human being to assist, or direct them; they had

left the shepherd and his cabin far behind, and the scene became so

obscured in twilight, that the eye could not follow the distant

perspective of the valley in search of a cottage, or a hamlet. A glow

of the horizon still marked the west, and this was of some little use

to the travellers. Michael seemed endeavouring to keep up his courage

by singing; his music, however, was not of a kind to disperse

melancholy; he sung, in a sort of chant, one of the most dismal ditties

his present auditors had ever heard, and St. Aubert at length

discovered it to be a vesper-hymn to his favourite saint.

They travelled on, sunk in that thoughtful melancholy, with which

twilight and solitude impress the mind. Michael had now ended his

ditty, and nothing was heard but the drowsy murmur of the breeze among

the woods, and its light flutter, as it blew freshly into the carriage.

They were at length roused by the sound of fire-arms. St. Aubert called

to the muleteer to stop, and they listened. The noise was not repeated;

but presently they heard a rustling among the brakes. St. Aubert drew

forth a pistol, and ordered Michael to proceed as fast as possible; who

had not long obeyed, before a horn sounded, that made the mountains

ring. He looked again from the window, and then saw a young man spring

from the bushes into the road, followed by a couple of dogs. The

stranger was in a hunter’s dress. His gun was slung across his

shoulders, the hunter’s horn hung from his belt, and in his hand was a

small pike, which, as he held it, added to the manly grace of his

figure, and assisted the agility of his steps.

After a moment’s hesitation, St. Aubert again stopped the carriage, and

waited till he came up, that they might enquire concerning the hamlet

they were in search of. The stranger informed him, that it was only

half a league distant, that he was going thither himself, and would

readily show the way. St. Aubert thanked him for the offer, and,

pleased with his chevalier-like air and open countenance, asked him to

take a seat in the carriage; which the stranger, with an

acknowledgment, declined, adding that he would keep pace with the

mules. “But I fear you will be wretchedly accommodated,” said he: “the

inhabitants of these mountains are a simple people, who are not only

without the luxuries of life, but almost destitute of what in other

places are held to be its necessaries.”

“I perceive you are not one of its inhabitants, sir,” said St. Aubert.

“No, sir, I am only a wanderer here.”

The carriage drove on, and the increasing dusk made the travellers very

thankful that they had a guide; the frequent glens, too, that now

opened among the mountains, would likewise have added to their

perplexity. Emily, as she looked up one of these, saw something at a

great distance like a bright cloud in the air. “What light is yonder,

sir?” said she.

St. Aubert looked, and perceived that it was the snowy summit of a

mountain, so much higher than any around it, that it still reflected

the sun’s rays, while those below lay in deep shade.

At length, the village lights were seen to twinkle through the dusk,

and, soon after, some cottages were discovered in the valley, or rather

were seen by reflection in the stream, on whose margin they stood, and

which still gleamed with the evening light.

The stranger now came up, and St. Aubert, on further enquiry, found not

only that there was no inn in the place, but not any sort of house of

public reception. The stranger, however, offered to walk on, and

enquire for a cottage to accommodate them; for which further civility

St. Aubert returned his thanks, and said, that, as the village was so

near, he would alight, and walk with him. Emily followed slowly in the

carriage.

On the way, St. Aubert asked his companion what success he had had in

the chase. “Not much, sir,” he replied, “nor do I aim at it. I am

pleased with the country, and mean to saunter away a few weeks among

its scenes. My dogs I take with me more for companionship than for

game. This dress, too, gives me an ostensible business, and procures me

that respect from the people, which would, perhaps, be refused to a

lonely stranger, who had no visible motive for coming among them.”

“I admire your taste,” said St. Aubert, “and, if I was a younger man,

should like to pass a few weeks in your way exceedingly. I, too, am a

wanderer, but neither my plan nor pursuits are exactly like yours—I go

in search of health, as much as of amusement.” St. Aubert sighed, and

paused; and then, seeming to recollect himself, he resumed: “If I can

hear of a tolerable road, that shall afford decent accommodation, it is

my intention to pass into Rousillon, and along the sea-shore to

Languedoc. You, sir, seem to be acquainted with the country, and can,

perhaps, give me information on the subject.”

The stranger said, that what information he could give was entirely at

his service; and then mentioned a road rather more to the east, which

led to a town, whence it would be easy to proceed into Rousillon.

They now arrived at the village, and commenced their search for a

cottage, that would afford a night’s lodging. In several, which they

entered, ignorance, poverty, and mirth seemed equally to prevail; and

the owners eyed St. Aubert with a mixture of curiosity and timidity.

Nothing like a bed could be found, and he had ceased to enquire for

one, when Emily joined him, who observed the languor of her father’s

countenance, and lamented, that he had taken a road so ill provided

with the comforts necessary for an invalid. Other cottages, which they

examined, seemed somewhat less savage than the former, consisting of

two rooms, if such they could be called; the first of these occupied by

mules and pigs, the second by the family, which generally consisted of

six or eight children, with their parents, who slept on beds of skins

and dried beech leaves, spread upon a mud floor. Here, light was

admitted, and smoke discharged, through an aperture in the roof; and

here the scent of spirits (for the travelling smugglers, who haunted

the Pyrenees, had made this rude people familiar with the use of

liquors) was generally perceptible enough. Emily turned from such

scenes, and looked at her father with anxious tenderness, which the

young stranger seemed to observe; for, drawing St. Aubert aside, he

made him an offer of his own bed. “It is a decent one,” said he, “when

compared with what we have just seen, yet such as in other

circumstances I should be ashamed to offer you.” St. Aubert

acknowledged how much he felt himself obliged by this kindness, but

refused to accept it, till the young stranger would take no denial. “Do

not give me the pain of knowing, sir,” said he, “that an invalid, like

you, lies on hard skins, while I sleep in a bed. Besides, sir, your

refusal wounds my pride; I must believe you think my offer unworthy

your acceptance. Let me show you the way. I have no doubt my landlady

can accommodate this young lady also.”

St. Aubert at length consented, that, if this could be done, he would

accept his kindness, though he felt rather surprised, that the stranger

had proved himself so deficient in gallantry, as to administer to the

repose of an infirm man, rather than to that of a very lovely young

woman, for he had not once offered the room for Emily. But she thought

not of herself, and the animated smile she gave him, told how much she

felt herself obliged for the preference of her father.

On their way, the stranger, whose name was Valancourt, stepped on first

to speak to his hostess, and she came out to welcome St. Aubert into a

cottage, much superior to any he had seen. This good woman seemed very

willing to accommodate the strangers, who were soon compelled to accept

the only two beds in the place. Eggs and milk were the only food the

cottage afforded; but against scarcity of provisions St. Aubert had

provided, and he requested Valancourt to stay, and partake with him of

less homely fare; an invitation, which was readily accepted, and they

passed an hour in intelligent conversation. St. Aubert was much pleased

with the manly frankness, simplicity, and keen susceptibility to the

grandeur of nature, which his new acquaintance discovered; and, indeed,

he had often been heard to say, that, without a certain simplicity of

heart, this taste could not exist in any strong degree.

The conversation was interrupted by a violent uproar without, in which

the voice of the muleteer was heard above every other sound. Valancourt

started from his seat, and went to enquire the occasion; but the

dispute continued so long afterwards, that St. Aubert went himself, and

found Michael quarrelling with the hostess, because she had refused to

let his mules lie in a little room where he and three of her sons were

to pass the night. The place was wretched enough, but there was no

other for these people to sleep in; and, with somewhat more of delicacy

than was usual among the inhabitants of this wild tract of country, she

persisted in refusing to let the animals have the same _bed-chamber_

with her children. This was a tender point with the muleteer; his

honour was wounded when his mules were treated with disrespect, and he

would have received a blow, perhaps, with more meekness. He declared

that his beasts were as honest beasts, and as good beasts, as any in

the whole province; and that they had a right to be well treated

wherever they went. “They are as harmless as lambs,” said he, “if

people don’t affront them. I never knew them behave themselves amiss

above once or twice in my life, and then they had good reason for doing

so. Once, indeed, they kicked at a boy’s leg that lay asleep in the

stable, and broke it; but I told them they were out there, and by St.

Anthony! I believe they understood me, for they never did so again.”

He concluded this eloquent harangue with protesting, that they should

share with him, go where he would.

The dispute was at length settled by Valancourt, who drew the hostess

aside, and desired she would let the muleteer and his beasts have the

place in question to themselves, while her sons should have the bed of

skins designed for him, for that he would wrap himself in his cloak,

and sleep on the bench by the cottage door. But this she thought it her

duty to oppose, and she felt it to be her inclination to disappoint the

muleteer. Valancourt, however, was positive, and the tedious affair was

at length settled.

It was late when St. Aubert and Emily retired to their rooms, and

Valancourt to his station at the door, which, at this mild season, he

preferred to a close cabin and a bed of skins. St. Aubert was somewhat

surprised to find in his room volumes of Homer, Horace, and Petrarch;

but the name of Valancourt, written in them, told him to whom they

belonged.