From the river, where, all day long, around idle punts, tempting baits have been dipping and dropping, comes the flop of a lazy fish, making rings that widen over the glassy surface. Now a distant throb is heard, that deepens, as a tug, gaudily painted in red and black, with white bows, comes gliding down the river, drawing four barges laden with barrels. The second steamer, reversed in the water beneath, is hardly less vivid to the eye. Swish! Swish! Swish! The water foams from the flat prow; all the river is decked with dancing, rainbow ripples, azure blue below, rose pink above, singing, bubbling, racing one another in music to the shore.
This pastoral, green plain of the Saône, these luscious meadows of waterish Burgundy, have often recalled to me Phaedra's longing words, in those last days, when the burden of her life and love was more than she could bear.
"Oh, for a deep and dewy spring, With runlets cold to draw and drink! And a great meadow blossoming, Long grassed, and poplars in a ring, To rest me by the brink."[135]
Not less lovely was the same spot next morning, when all the landscape shone in a light that had in it already something of southern intensity; when wind and sun were stirring the rushes by the water side, and jewelling the rippled sweep of the river below the dark towers of St. Philibert. Two gaily-caparisoned horses, led by a small boy in a black blouse, came plodding along the towing-path. Two rowers were easing the horses' labours, with long oars which flashed as they rose and fell. The banks and meadows were dotted with the same herds of white philosophers, browsing, and lazily swishing their tails; only, this morning, heads were bent down to the luscious feast of green, whereas, towards evening, they are lifted, to ruminate through long hours of dreamy delight.
Mâcon, to which we paid a flying visit during the interval between two trains, was once the capital of the Mâconnais, until that country was incorporated with the Duchy of Burgundy. It is now too wholly modern a town to retain much character or interest. Almost all the ancient houses are destroyed, and of the two cathedrals—St. Pierre and St. Vincent—the former is wholly modern. The west front of the old church, which was sacked during the Revolution, remains. Our best impression of Mâcon was the view of the town and river from the train, as it left for Bourg.
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