First the town of Aix, then that of Marseilles, received our travellers. Of Aix, Mildred carried away one impression only. As they entered into the town with all the rattling vehemence which distinguishes the diligence on such occasions, there stood before her an enormous crucifix, a colossal, representation of the Passion; and underneath it a company of showmen, buffoons of some description, had established their stage, and were beating their drums, as French showmen can alone beat them, and calling the crowd together with all manner of noise and gesticulation. Strange juxtaposition! thought Mildred—the crucifix and the mountebank! But not the fault of the mountebank.
What execrable taste is this which the Catholic clergy display! That which is fit only for the sanctuary—if fit at all for the eye of man, or for solitary and desolate spots—is thrust into streets and market-places, there to meet with a perpetual desecration. That which harmonizes with one mood only, the most sad and solemn of the human mind, is dragged out into the public square, where every part of life, all its comedy and all its farce, is necessarily transacted. If the most revolting contrasts occur—no, it is not the fault of the profane mountebank.
Marseilles, with all its dirt and fragrance, left almost as little impression upon her mind. The only remembrance that outlived the day was that of the peculiar dignity which seemed to have been conferred upon the market-women of the town. At other places, especially at Brussels, our party had been not a little amused by inspecting the countenances of the old women who sat, thick as their own apples, round the Grand Place, or on both sides of the street. What formidable physiognomies! What preternatural length of nose! What terrific projection of chin! But these sat upon the pavement, or on an upturned wicker basket; a stool or a low chair that had suffered amputation in the legs, was the utmost they aspired to. Here the market-women have not only possessed themselves of huge arm-chairs, but these arm-chairs are elevated upon the broad wooden tables that are covered with the cabbages, and carrots, and turnips, over which they thus magisterially preside. Here they have the curule chair. Manifestly they are the Ædiles Cereales of the town. Our travellers did not, however, see them in their glory; they saw only down the centre of the street the row of elevated chairs, which, if originally of ivory, had certainly lost much of their brightness and polish since the time when the Roman Senate had presented them. The Court was not sitting as they passed.
The following day saw them in the steam-boat bound for Genoa. In a few hours they would be coasting the shores of Italy!
We cannot resist the opportunity which here occurs of showing, by an example, how justly our Mildred may be said to have been a solitary traveller, though in almost constant companionship. She was alone in spirit, and her thoughts were unparticipated. The steam-boat had been advertised to leave Marseilles at four o’clock in the afternoon. The clock had struck six, and it was still stationary in the harbour,—a delay by no means unusual with steam-boats in that part of the world. Mildred stood on the deck, by the side of the vessel, watching the movements of the various craft in the harbour. To her the delays which so often vex the traveller rarely gave rise to any impatience. She always found something to occupy her mind; and the passing to and fro of men in their usual avocations was sufficient to awaken her reflection. At a little distance from the steamer was a vessel undergoing some repairs; for which purpose it was ballasted down, and made to float nearly on one side. Against the exposed side of the vessel, astride upon a plank, suspended by a rope, swung a bare-legged mortal most raggedly attired, daubing its seams with some most disgusting-looking compound. The man swinging in this ignominious fashion, and immersed in the filth of his operation, attracted the notice of Mildred. What an application, thought she, to make of a man! This fellow-creature of mine, they use him for this! and perhaps for such as this only! They use his legs and arms—which are sufficiently developed—but where is the rest of him?—where is the man? He has the same humanity as the noblest of us: what a waste of the stuff, if it is worth any thing!
This last expression Mildred, almost unconsciously, uttered aloud,—“What a waste of the stuff, if it is worth any thing!”
“My dear,” said Miss Bloomfield, who sat beside her, “it is nothing but the commonest pitch or tar. How can you bear to look at it?”
“Dearest aunt,” said Mildred, “I was not thinking of the pitch, but the man.”
“What can you be talking of, my child?” said her aunt, in utter amazement.
But there was one behind them who appeared to have understood what Mildred was talking of, and who now, by some observation, made his presence known to them. As she turned, she caught the eye of—Alfred Winston.