Blackwood's Edinburgh Magazine, Volume 60, No. 372, October 1846

"Entrons, Monsieur," said the fair Marquise, as I stood with her on the esplanade before the Cathedral – the Marquis had gone to see the commandant. "Entrez donc, 'tis the work of one of your compatriots; and here, though a heretic, you may consider yourself on English ground."

Now, positively, I had never thought a bit about Catholic or Protestant ever since I had quitted my own shores. All I knew was, that I was in a country that gave the same evidences of being Christian as the one that I had left; and that, however frivolous and profligate might be the appearance of its capital, in the rural districts, at least, the people were honest and devout. I was not come to quarrel, nor to find fault with millions of men for thinking differently from – but perhaps acting better than – myself. So we entered.

The old keeper of the benitier bowed his head, and extended his brush; the Marquise touched its extremity, crossed herself, and fell on her knees.

Thou fell spirit of pride, prejudice, ignorance, and mauvaise honte! why didst thou beset me at that moment, and keep me, like a stiff-backed puritan, erect in the house of God? Why, on entering within its sacred limits, did I not acknowledge my own unworthiness to come in, and reverence the sanctity of the place? No; there I stood, half-astonished, half-abashed while the Marquise continued on her knees and made her silent orisons. 'Tis an admirable and a touching custom: there is poetry and religion in the very idea. Cross not that threshold with unholy feet; or if thou dost, confess that unholiness, and beg forgiveness for the transgression ere thou advancest within the walls. I acknowledge that I felt ashamed of myself; yet I knew not what to do. One of the priests passed by: he looked first at the lady and next at me; then humbly bowing towards the altar, went out of the church. My embarrassment increased; but the Marquise arose. "It is good to pray here," she said, in a tone the mildness and sincerity of which made the reproach more cutting. "Let us go forward now."

"I will amend my manners," thought I; "'tis not well to be unconcerned in such things, and when so little makes all the difference."

"Is Monsieur fond of pictures? Look at that painting of the Baptist, how vigorously the figure is drawn! And see what an exquisite Virgin! Or turn your eyes to that southern window, and remark the flood of gorgeous light falling from it on the pillar by its side!"

I was thinking of any thing but the Virgin, or the window, or the light; I was thinking of my companion – so fair, and so devout. Had she not called me a heretic? Had she not already put me to the blush for my lack of veneration? Strange linking of ideas! "Thou art worthy to be an angel hereafter," said I to myself, "as truly thou resemblest what we call angels here."

We were once more at the western door; Madame crossed herself again; we went out.

"Pour l'amour de Dieu, mon bon monsieur!" "Que le ciel vous soit ouvert!" whined out half-a-dozen old crones with extended hands; their shrivelled fingers seeking to pluck at any thing they could get.

Now I had paid away my last sous to the garçon d'écurie at the Poste: so I told them pettishly that I had not a liard to give. A coin tinkled on the ground; it had fallen from the hand of the Marquise; and as I stooped to reach it for her, I saw that it was gold.

"Let them have it, poor things. I thought it was silver; but it has touched holy ground, and 'tis now their own."

I turned round, thrust my purse into the lap of the nearest, and with a light heart led the lady back to the hotel.

POEMS BY ELIZABETH BARRETT BARRETT

A Woman's Shortcomings

1She has laughed as softly as if she sighed;She has counted six and over,Of a purse well filled, and a heart well tried —Oh, each a worthy lover!They "give her time;" for her soul must slipWhere the world has set the grooving:She will lie to none with her fair red lip —But love seeks truer loving.2She trembles her fan in a sweetness dumb,As her thoughts were beyond her recalling;With a glance for one, and a glance for some,From her eyelids rising and falling!– Speaks common words with a blushful air;– Hears bold words, unreproving:But her silence says – what she never will swear —And love seeks better loving.3Go, lady! lean to the night-guitar,And drop a smile to the bringer;Then smile as sweetly, when he is far,At the voice of an in-door singer!Bask tenderly beneath tender eyes;Glance lightly, on their removing;And join new vows to old perjuries —But dare not call it loving!4Unless you can think, when the song is done,No other is soft in the rhythm;Unless you can feel, when left by One,That all men beside go with him;Unless you can know, when unpraised by his breath,That your beauty itself wants proving;Unless you can swear – "For life, for death!" —Oh, fear to call it loving!5Unless you can muse, in a crowd all day,On the absent face that fixed you;Unless you can love, as the angels may,With the breadth of heaven betwixt you;Unless you can dream that his faith is fast,Through behoving and unbehoving;Unless you can die when the dream is past —Oh, never call it loving!

A Man's Requirements

1Love me, sweet, with all thou art,Feeling, thinking, seeing, —Love me in the lightest part,Love me in full being.2Love me with thine open youthIn its frank surrender;With the vowing of thy mouth,With its silence tender.3Love me with thine azure eyes,Made for earnest granting!Taking colour from the skies,Can heaven's truth be wanting?4Love me with their lids, that fallSnow-like at first meeting!Love me with thine heart, that allThe neighbours then see beating.5Love me with thine hand stretched outFreely – open-minded!Love me with thy loitering foot, —Hearing one behind it.6Love me with thy voice, that turnsSudden faint above me!Love me with thy blush that burnsWhen I murmur 'Love me!'7Love me with thy thinking soul —Break it to love-sighing;Love me with thy thoughts that rollOn through living – dying.8Love me in thy gorgeous airs,When the world has crowned thee!Love me, kneeling at thy prayers,With the angels round thee.9Love me pure, as musers do,Up the woodlands shady!Love me gaily, fast, and true,As a winsome lady.10Through all hopes that keep us brave,Further off or nigher,Love me for the house and grave, —And for something higher.11Thus, if thou wilt prove me, dear,Woman's love no fable,I will love thee– half-a-year —As a man is able.

Maude's Spinning

1He listened at the porch that dayTo hear the wheel go on, and on,And then it stopped – ran back away —While through the door he brought the sun.But now my spinning is all done.2He sate beside me, with an oathThat love ne'er ended, once begun;I smiled – believing for us both,What was the truth for only one.And now my spinning is all done.3My mother cursed me that I heardA young man's wooing as I spun.Thanks, cruel mother, for that word,For I have, since, a harder known!And now my spinning is all done.4I thought – O God! – my first-born's cryBoth voices to my ear would drown!I listened in mine agony —It was the silence made me groan!And now my spinning is all done.5Bury me 'twixt my mother's grave,Who cursed me on her death-bed lone,And my dead baby's – (God it save!)Who, not to bless me, would not moan.And now my spinning is all done.6A stone upon my heart and head,But no name written on the stone!Sweet neighbours! whisper low instead,"This sinner was a loving one —And now her spinning is all done."7And let the door ajar remain,In case that he should pass anon;And leave the wheel out very plain,That he, when passing in the sun,May see the spinning is all done.

A Dead Rose

1O rose! who dares to name thee?No longer roseate now, nor soft, nor sweet;But barren, and hard, and dry, as stubble-wheat,Kept seven years in a drawer – thy titles shame thee.2The breeze that used to blow theeBetween the hedge-thorns, and take awayAn odour up the lane to last all day, —If breathing now, – unsweetened would forego thee.3The sun that used to light thee,And mix his glory in thy gorgeous urn,Till beam appeared to bloom, and flower to burn, —If shining now, – with not a hue would dight thee.4The dew that used to wet thee,And, white first, grow incarnadined, becauseIt lay upon thee where the crimson was, —If dropping now, – would darken where it met thee.5The fly that lit upon thee,To stretch the tendrils of its tiny feet,Along the leaf's pure edges after heat, —If lighting now, – would coldly overrun thee.6The bee that once did suck thee,And build thy perfumed ambers up his hive,And swoon in thee for joy, till scarce alive, —If passing now, – would blindly overlook thee.7The heart doth recognise thee,Alone, alone! The heart doth smell thee sweet,Doth view thee fair, doth judge thee most complete —Though seeing now those changes that disguise thee.8Yes and the heart doth owe theeMore love, dead rose! than to such roses boldAs Julia wears at dances, smiling cold! —Lie still upon this heart – which breaks below thee!

Change on Change

1Three months ago, the stream did flow,The lilies bloomed along the edge;And we were lingering to and fro, —Where none will track thee in this snow,Along the stream, beside the hedge.Ah! sweet, be free to come and go;For if I do not hear thy foot,The frozen river is as mute, —The flowers have dried down to the root;And why, since these be changed since May,Shouldst thou change less than they?2And slow, slow as the winter snow,The tears have drifted to mine eyes;And my two cheeks, three months ago,Set blushing at thy praises so,Put paleness on for a disguise.Ah! sweet, be free to praise and go;For if my face is turned to pale,It was thine oath that first did fail, —It was thy love proved false and frail!And why, since these be changed, I trow,Should I change less than thou?

A Reed

I am no trumpet, but a reed!No flattering breath shall from me leadA silver sound, a hollow sound!I will not ring, for priest or king,One blast that, in re-echoing,Would leave a bondsman faster bound.I am no trumpet, but a reed, —A broken reed, the wind indeedLeft flat upon a dismal shore!Yet if a little maid, or child,Should sigh within it, earnest-mild,This reed will answer evermore.I am no trumpet, but a reed!Go, tell the fishers, as they spreadTheir nets along the river's edge, —I will not tear their nets at all,Nor pierce their hands – if they should fall:Then let them leave me in the sedge.

Hector in the Garden

1Nine years old! First years of anySeem the best of all that come! —Yet when I was nine, I saidUnlike things! – I thought, instead,That the Greeks used just as manyIn besieging Ilium.2Nine green years had scarcely brought meTo my childhood's haunted spring, —I had life, like flowers and bees,In betwixt the country trees,And the sun, the pleasure, taught meWhich he teacheth every thing.3If the rain fell, there was sorrow; —Little head leant on the pane, —Little finger tracing down itThe long trailing drops upon it, —And the "Rain, rain, come to-morrow,"Said for charm against the rain.4And the charm was right Canidian,Though you meet it with a jeer!If I said it long enough,Then the rain hummed dimly off;And the thrush, with his pure Lydian,Was the loudest sound to hear.5And the sun and I togetherWent a-rushing out of doors!We, our tender spirits, drewOver hill and dale in view,Glimmering hither, glimmering thither,In the footsteps of the showers.6Underneath the chestnuts dripping,Through the grasses wet and fair,Straight I sought my garden-ground,With the laurel on the mound;And the pear-tree oversweepingA side-shadow of green air.7While hard by, there lay supinelyA huge giant, wrought of spade!Arms and legs were stretched at length,In a passive giant strength, —And the meadow turf, cut finely,Round them laid and interlaid.8Call him Hector, son of Priam!Such his title and degree.With my rake I smoothed his brow,And his cheeks I weeded through:But a rhymer such as I amScarce can sing his dignity.9Eyes of gentianella's azure,Staring, winking at the skies;Nose of gillyflowers and box;Scented grasses, put for locks —Which a little breeze, at pleasure,Set a-waving round his eyes.10Brazen helm of daffodillies,With a glitter for the light;Purple violets, for the mouth,Breathing perfumes west and south;And a sword of flashing lilies,Holden ready for the fight.11And a breastplate, made of daisies,Closely fitting, leaf by leaf;Periwinkles interlacedDrawn for belt about the waist;While the brown bees, humming praises,Shot their arrows round the chief.12And who knows, (I sometimes wondered,)If the disembodied soulOf old Hector, once of Troy,Might not take a dreary joyHere to enter – if it thundered,Rolling up the thunder-roll?13Rolling this way, from Troy-ruin,To this body rude and rife,He might enter and take rest'Neath the daisies of the breast —They, with tender roots, renewingHis heroic heart to life.14Who could know? I sometimes startedAt a motion or a sound;Did his mouth speak – naming Troy,With an οτοτοτοτοι?Did the pulse of the Strong-heartedMake the daisies tremble round?15It was hard to answer, often!But the birds sang in the tree —But the little birds sang bold,In the pear-tree green and old;And my terror seemed to soften,Through the courage of their glee.16Oh, the birds, the trees, the ruddyAnd white blossoms, sleek with rain!Oh, my garden, rich with pansies!Oh, my childhood's bright romances!All revive, like Hector's body,And I see them stir again!17And despite life's changes – chances,And despite the deathbell's toll,They press on me in full seeming! —Help, some angel! stay this dreaming!As the birds sang in the branches,Sing God's patience through my soul!18That no dreamer, no neglecter,Of the present's work unsped,I may wake up and be doing,Life's heroic ends pursuing,Though my past is dead as Hector,And though Hector is twice dead.

THE CONDE'S DAUGHTER

"I should think we cannot be very far from our destination by this time."

"Why, were one to put faith in my appetite, we must have been at least a good four or five hours en route already; and if our Rosinantes are not able to get over a misère of thirty or forty miles without making as many grimaces about it as they do now, they are not the animals I took them for."

"Come, come – abuse your own as much as you please, but this much I will say for my Nero, though he has occasionally deposited me on the roadside, he is not apt to sleep upon the way at least. Nay, so sure am I of him, that I would wager you ten Napoleons that we are not more than four or five miles from the chateau at this moment."

"Pas si bête, mon cher. I am not fool enough to put my precious Naps in jeopardy, just when I am so deucedly in want of them, too. But a truce to this nonsense. Do you know, Ernest, seriously speaking, I am beginning to think we are great fools for our pains, running our heads into a perilous adventure, with the almost certainty of a severe reprimand from the general, which, I think, even your filial protestations will scarcely save you from, if ever we return alive; and merely to see, what, I dare say, after all, will turn out to be only a pretty face."

"What! – already faint-hearted! – A miracle of beauty such as Darville described is well worth periling one's neck to gaze upon. Besides, is not that our vocation? – and as for reprimands, if you got one as often as I do, you would soon find out that those things are nothing when one is used to them."

"A miracle! – ah, bah! It was the romance of the scene, and the artful grace of the costume, which fascinated his eyes."

"No, no! be just. Recollect that it was not Darville alone, but Delavigne; and even that connoisseur in female beauty, Monbreton himself, difficult as he is, declared that she was perfect. She must be a wonder, indeed, when he could find no fault with her."

"Be it so. I warn you beforehand that I am fully prepared to be disappointed. However, as we are so far embarked in the affair, I suppose we must accomplish it."

"Most assuredly, unless you wish to be the laughing-stock of the whole regiment for the next month; for notwithstanding Darville's boasted powers of discretion, half the subalterns, no doubt, are in possession of the secret of our escapade by this time."

"Well, then, Ernest, as we are launched on this wise expedition, let me sermonise a small portion of prudence into that most giddy brain of yours. Remember that, after all, if those ruthless Spaniards were to discover the trick we are playing them, they would probably make us pay rather too dearly for the frolic. In short, Ernest, I am very much afraid that your étourderie will let the light rather too soon into the thick skulls of those magnificent hidalgos."

"Preach away – I listen in all humility."

"Ernest, Ernest, I give you up; you are incorrigible!" rejoined the other, turning away to hide the laugh which the irresistibly comic expression his friend threw into his countenance had excited.

And who were the speakers of this short dialogue? Two dashing, spirited-looking young men, who, at the close of it, reined in their steeds, in the dilemma of not knowing where to direct them. Theirs was, indeed, a wild-goose chase. Their Chateau en Espagne seemed invisible, as such chateaux usually are; and where it might be found, who was there to tell? – Not one. The scene was a desert – not even a bird animated it; and just before them branched out three roads from the one they had hitherto confidently pursued.

After a moment's silence, the cavaliers both burst into a gay laugh.

"Here's a puzzle, Alphonse!" said the one. "Which of the three roads do you opine?"

"The left, by all means," replied the other; "I generally find it leads me right."

"But if it shouldn't now?"

"Why, then, it only leads us wrong."

"But I don't choose to go wrong."

"And what have you been doing ever since you set out?"

"True; but as we are far enough now from that point, we must e'en make the best of the bad."

"Well, why don't you?"

"Why, if one only knew which was the best."

At this moment the tinkling of a mule's bells, mingled with the song of the muleteer, came on the air.

"Hist! here comes counsel," exclaimed the young man whom the other named Ernest. "Holla, señor hidalgo! do you know the castle of the Conde di Miranda?"

"Yes."

"Where is it?"

"Where it was."

"Near?"

"That's as one finds it."

"And how shall we find it?"

"By reaching it."

"Come, come, hidalgo mio."

"I'm no hidalgo," said the man roughly.

"But you ought to be. I've seen many less deserving of it," resumed the traveller.

"I dare say," retorted the muleteer.

"If you'll conduct us within view of the castle you shall be rewarded."

"As I should well deserve."

"Ah, your deserts may be greater than our purse."

But the man moved on.

"Halte-là, friend! I like your company so well that I must have it a little longer." And the officer pulled out a pistol. "Will you, or will you not, guide us to the castle of the Conde?"

"I will," gruffly replied the man, with a look which showed that he was sorry to be forced to choose the second alternative.

"Can we trust this fellow?" said the younger officer to the elder.

"No – but we can ourselves; and keep a sharp look-out."

"Besides, I shall give him a hint. Hidalgo mio – " he began.

"Señor Franzese," interrupted the muleteer.

"What puts that into your head, hidalgo? Franzese, – why, Don Felix y Cortos, y Sargas, y Nos, y Tierras, y, y, – don't you know an Englishman when you see him?"

"Yes," muttered the Spaniard – "Yes, and a Frenchman, too."

"No, you don't, for here's the proof. Why, what are we, but English officers, carrying despatches to your Conde from our General?"

The muleteer looked doubtingly.

"Why, do you suppose Frenchmen would trust themselves amongst such a set of" —

"Patriots." Exclaimed the other stranger, hastily.

"All I say;" observed the man drily, "is, that if you are friends of the Conde, he will treat you as you deserve. If enemies, the same. So, backward."

"Onward, you mean."

"Ay, for me; but not for you, señores, you have left the castle a mile to the left."

"I guessed right, you see," said Alphonse, "when I guessed left."

The muleteer passed on, and the horsemen followed.

"I say, hidalgo mio," called out Ernest, "what sort of a don is this same Conde?"

"As how?" inquired the muleteer.

"Is he rich?"

"Yes."

"Proud?"

"Yes."

"Old?"

"No."

"Has he a wife?"

"No."

"Has he children?"

"No."

"No!" exclaimed the cavalier with surprise. "No child!"

"You said children, señor."

"He has a child, then?"

"Yes."

"A son?"

"No."

"A daughter?"

"Yes."

"Why, yes and no seems all you have got to say."

"It seems to answer all you have got to ask, señor."

"Is the Doña very handsome?" interrupted Alphonse, impatiently.

"Yes and no, according to taste," replied the muleteer.

"He laughs at us," whispered Ernest in French. The conversation with the muleteer had been, thus far, carried on in Spanish – which Ernest spoke fairly enough. But the observation he thoughtlessly uttered in French seemed to excite the peasant's attention.

"Do you speak English?" asked Ernest.

"Yes," was the reply, in English. "Do you?"

"Me English? ab course. Speak well English," replied Ernest, in the true Gallic-idiom. Then relapsing into the more familiar tongue, he added, "But in Spain I speak Spanish."

By this time the trio had arrived within view of a large castellated building, whose ancient towers, glowing in the last rays of the setting sun, rose majestically from the midst of groves of dark cypress and myrtle which surrounded it.

The muleteer stopped. "There, señores," he said, "stands the castle of the Conde. Half-a-mile further on lies the town of R – , to which, señores," he added, with a sarcastic smile, "you can proceed, should you not find it convenient to remain at the Castello. And now, I presume, as I have guided you so far right, you will suffer me to resume my own direction."

"Yes, as there seems no possibility of making any more mistakes on our way, you are free," replied the gravest of the two. "But stop one moment yet, amigo," and he pointed to a cross-road which, a little further on, diverged from the camino real, "where does that lead to?"

"Amigo!" muttered the man between his teeth, "say enemigo rather!"

"An answer to my question, villano," said the young Frenchman, haughtily – while his hand instinctively groped for the hilt of his sword.

"To R – ," replied the man, as he turned silently and sullenly to retrace his steps.

"Holla, there!" Ernest called out; "you have forgotten your money;" and he held out a purse, but the man was gone. "Va donc, et que le diable t'emporte, brutal!" added Ernest de Lucenay; taking good care, however, this time, that the ebullition of his feelings was not loud enough to reach the ears of the retreating peasant. "Confound it! I would rather follow the track of a tiger through the pathless depth of an Indian jungle alone, than be led by such a savage cicerone."

"Never mind the fellow; we have more than enough to think of in our own affairs," exclaimed his friend, impatiently. "Let us stop here a moment and consult, before we proceed any further. One thing is evident, at all events, that we must contrive to disguise ourselves better if we wish to pass for any thing but Frenchmen. With my knowledge of the English language, and acquaintance with their manners and habits, trifling as it is, I am perfectly certain of imposing on the Spaniards, without any difficulty; but you will as certainly cause a blow up, unless you manage to alter your whole style and appearance. I daresay you have forgotten all my instructions already."

"Bah! Alphonse. Let me alone for puzzling the dons; I'll be as complete a Goddam in five minutes as any stick you ever saw, I warrant you."

"Nothing can appear more perfectly un-English than you do at present. That éveillé look of yours is the very devil;" and Alphonse shook his head, despondingly.