Chapter: 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 chateau, 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 any thing 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 chateau, 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, realized! 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 sun-set, 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 izard, 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
shew 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 shew 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.

 St. Aubert and Emily take off on a winding road to Languedoc after saying goodbye to their good buddy Barreaux. Alrighty, get ready for some detailed descriptions of the landscape. Emily can't get over how pretty the forest and mountains are, and everything is glorious, and did we mention she's a major hippie-child? But St. Aubert is really into nature scenery, too. As they enter a valley, St. Aubert is impressed by how gorgeous and romantic everything is. He almost expects to see a bandit pop out from behind some rocks. As Michael the muleteer is driving along, the group hears a gunshot. St. Aubert gets his pistol ready, because it's probably that bandit he was dreaming about earlier. But no, it's a well-intentioned young man named Valancourt! Turns out he's a fellow traveler. Emily and St. Aubert give Valancourt a ride into the nearest town, where they all spend the night at the nearest inn. It's a nice inn and everything, but Michael the muleteer gets mad when he thinks his mules are being slighted. The innkeeper doesn't want them to sleep in a bedchamber--fancy that! Valancourt solves the problem by persuading the innkeeper to let the mules sleep wherever they darn please. He's a problem-solver, that one.

