I hear a faltering footstep
Crossing the matted floor,
And a little knock low down
On the panels of the door.
A small hand is uplifted
To raise the iron latch,
And entrance claimed in a silvery tone
No nightingale could match.
Away with books and papers!
Enter, my fairy bright;
Sweep the dim cobwebs from my brain,
And let in air and light.
Close the dull portals of history,
Unclasp that magic door
That leads to the jewelled caverns
Of fiction and fairy lore:
The legend of Cinderella,
Of knights and maidens small.
Of princely frogs and pigmy dogs.
And my lady's golden ball.
Good-night, my white-robed enchantress.
My blue-sashed, sunny-haired muse;
Perfection thou art, from that topmost curl
To the tips of thy dainty shoes.
Watch her well, angel-guardian!
Pray for her, crowned saint.
That when the time for the cross shall come,
Her spirit grow not faint;
That she may go to her last repose
With a heart unspotted by sin—
That this face of lustrous purity
May mirror the soul within.
ORIGINAL.
A MONTH AT A FRENCH WATERING-PLACE.
BY AN OLD BACHELOR.
I always had a great veneration for the disciples of Esculapius, but never so as when my considerate doctor decided that a sea voyage was absolutely necessary for my my health. Being unblessed by those sweet cares, a wife and children, I determined to show my obedience to his commands, and at the same time to ratify my long-cherished plan of visiting the old world. Be reassured, readers, I have no intention of harrowing your gentle spirits by a description of sea-sickness, nor of wearying you with my experiences at custom-house or railroad dépôt, but desire to transport you at once to the good little watering place of V——, which had been recommended to me as the very place for the exorcising of that tyrant devil, dyspepsia.
It was a lovely evening in July that I took a carriage from D——, for the said watering-place, for railroads have not as yet invaded the primitive simplicity of the village; hotels have, however, and much to my satisfaction I found myself, after a charming hour's drive, seated in a cozy room with an excellent dinner before me. My Hostess I soon discovered to be quite a character; a raw-boned, fast-talking Frenchwoman, with a suspicious darkness on her upper lip. When I had finished my repast, this worthy dame informed me that it was the custom of all good "Seigneurs" to repair to the beach after dinner; so giving me my hat and cane, she showed me the way, and I in all obedience departed.
The moon was then full, and cast a deliciously deceptive light on all around; even the wretched huts wherein the French peasantry contentedly huddle, mellowed by its light, looked picturesque and quaint. Looking around, I found that the village nestled between two hills, and that I was at the moment in the principal street, which cuts it in two, and from which smaller streets diverge in all directions. Tempted by the quiet of the evening I turned from the main road, and soon found myself in one of the prettiest winding lanes imaginable; at that quiet hour, with the moonlight streaming through the interlacing trees, I know of nothing more charming than a walk along the winding paths which form a network around the village; what in the day time might be simply pretty, borrowed from the lovely night a charm and mystery that was irresistible; and so I wandered on, a luxurious feeling, half melancholic, half pleasurable, soothing my spirit, until I was abruptly reminded that all things sweet in this life are short, by finding myself at the end of my pretty lane, and once more landed in the village street. Here my landlady's admonition was brought to my mind, by seeing several parties of red-hooded, red-cloaked personages all going one way; these were evidently some of the good bathers, and them I followed. In a few minutes I found myself in quite a small crowd of strangers, who made the beach look like a gaden of poppies. I, who had formed my ideas of watering-places from Newport and Long Branch, looked in amazement at this beach, which is nothing more or less than a break in the high white cliffs, which stretch on either side at far at the eye can [{406}] reach; however, though small, it seemed convenient, and I looked at the rippling water in eager anticipation of the morrow's bath. Seating myself on the stones, which form a poor substitute for the firm white sand of Newport, I proceed as is my custom, to observe my companions, and from their trifling actions to form an opinion of their different natures. A number of groups attracted my attention, but as I merely discovered that the ladies of the parties were industriously occupied in trying to out-babble—talk it hardly was—each other, and that the men carelessly reclined near them smoking, in utter despair of otherwise making use of their mouths, I was beginning to think that there was not much food for my observations, when my attention was suddenly arrested by the familiar sound of a few English words. Turning around, I saw at a few steps from me a party which I had not yet observed. The centre figure of this new picture at once arrested my attention; evidently this lady considered herself of great importance, for she was laying down the law to the various persons around her, with a volubility that a French woman only can attain. Her dress was an extraordinary caricature of rural finery; it was a pity, I thought, that the face under that peculiarly youthful, flower-ornamented hat, should be that of a plain woman of fifty. Her court was principally composed of various feeble imitations of herself, but my attention was soon entirely occupied by two figures at the extreme verge of the group, a young lady and a gentleman; the young lady seemed to be giving an English lesson to her listless companion, who appeared almost too indolent to turn around in admiration of the girl's sprightliness; a second glance convinced me that I was near one of my own countrywomen; the delicate profile, fragile form, and rather nervous manner could belong to none but an American. My interest was now excited to the highest pitch, for when an ocean rolls between a man and his country, all that reminds him of that country has an irresistible charm, especially when that something happens to be a pretty girl. But my observations were cut short, for the whole party arose a few minutes after, and left the beach. I soon followed, and learned from my voluble landlady that I had been observing fellow-boarders; that the strangely attired lady was the most important personage of V—— that she patronized sea-bathing every summer, and that she rejoiced in the name of Madame la Baronne d'Agri. The handsome young monsieur with the beard, proved to be her nephew, and the "Charmante Americaine" was with with her mother, an invalid for whom sea air had been ordered. Then followed a long description of the other members of the party, a Mr. and Mrs. Poirier and their daughter, by young artist and several other personages, to which description I fear I was but indifferently attentive.
Next morning it rained—rain forming a part of nearly ever day's programme, as I afterward discovered. Not yet having become hardened to the fact, I was dolefully looking from the hotel door, vainly endeavoring to discover a patch of blue sky, when I was joined by Madame la Baronne's nephew. Remarks on the weather were followed by a polite offer of a cigar, whose genial fragrance soon induced a more interesting conversation. A few chance words brought out the fact that my young companion was quite an amateur chemist, and as, in my college days, chemistry had been a sort of passion with me, we were soon launched in an animated discussion. I was much interested to hear what rapid strides the French had recently taken in that and other positive sciences. From chemistry we passed to politics, philosophy, and finally religion. While listening to this young man's clear, strong exposition of his sentiments on these various subjects, I found myself wondering at this, to me, new, new phase of the French character, as unlike the light, [{407}] frivolous, gay-hearted Frenchman of the novel and stage, as possible. I must say it pleased me even less; the down-right scepticism, the well-turned sophisms, the extreme materialism, were easily traced to the teachings of Voltaire. I am well pleased to think that this young man is the representative of but a comparatively small class, but unfortunately that class is composed of much of the brain of the country, and consequently carries with it great influence. On all American questions M. Louis d'Agri (for so the young man was called) showed a curious interest; of our great war his opinion had been biassed by Southern influence—not unnaturally, since his only American associates had been from that portion of our country; these associates had also given him their ideas on the subject of slavery, but a few facts, put in the simple, plain way which seemed best to suit his turn of mind, convinced him, or seemed to convince him, that, in that particular at least, his judgment was in error. He asked many questions on the present state of affairs in our country, of the possible future of the South, of the treatment of Jefferson Davis, etc., etc., all of which I answered apparently to his satisfaction. Indeed, not only in his case, but in many others, I have noticed that there is a great curiosity felt about everything American; to tell the truth, I think that the war brought to their minds that a vast and important country really does exist on the other side of the broad ocean, a fact of which before they were but dimly conscious. Even now, the strange ignorance of our customs, people, and especially our geography, even among the educated classes, would bring forth the astonishment and indignation of any American fifth-form school-boy. The French are singularly devoid of our go-ahead qualities in everything; they travel but little, and being perfectly convinced that France is the only country of any real importance on the globe, trouble themselves but little about any other, especially should that other be separated from them by an ocean.