They smile so when one’s right, and when one’s wrong
They smile still more.”
I asked one of the ladies if she would gratify us with a piece of music; she instantly took my arm to the piano, beckoned her sister to her side, and gave us a duett which called back my recollections of poor Malibran. What melodies were quenched for ever when that sweet singer died. Her strain still lingers in the hearts of thousands, but where is she! As a bird from its bower, as a rainbow from its cloud, she has passed away. Spring will call back its little minstrels, and the summer sun rebuild its airy arch. But she, who charmed the world, will come back no more. Her melodious lips are sealed in silence, and the shadow of death is on her eyelids.
“Leaves have their time to fall,
And flowers to wither at the north-wind’s breath,
And stars to set—but all,
Thou hast all seasons for thine own, O death!”
But to return to the tertulia. The costume of the ladies differed but little from what you meet with at evening parties in the United States. The hair, which betrayed great care in its arrangement, was ornamented with natural flowers. The dress, generally of a light airy material, had short sleeves, rather low in the neck, with a short, full skirt. The reason assigned for this is, that the wearer may be less embarrassed in dancing, but, perhaps, the pride of a well-turned ankle is an additional motive. The gentlemen were more sedate than the ladies, but their conversation had not half the versatility. At twelve o’clock the tertulia broke up. The lady of the house gave us her hand at parting with a beuna noche.
Friday, March 13. Went on shore to-day to take a ride. This has to be done either on the saddle, or in a vehicle resembling our chaise, but of much ruder construction. The latter is preferred for long distances. One horse trots within the shafts, another at his left, on which the postillion is mounted, while half a dozen others accompany the vehicle to act as relays. If these give out, the lasso is resorted to, and some half-wild horse, who a few moments before snuffed the wind in freedom, is within the traces. The postillion seldom troubles himself with the question whether the animal has ever been thoroughly broken to the harness. The wilder, the more speed, and therefore all the better for his purpose. He is master of his business, and seemingly of every thing in nature that can conduce to its success. His driving is like that of Jehu. You expect every moment the old quill-wheel, in which you are embarked, will fly into a thousand pieces. But like the hurdle of the doomed, it still holds together, hurrying you, if not to the gallows, to the grave.
If you take to the saddle you will probably find your stirrups of wood, resembling in shape and size the large beetle with which a New-England farmer splits his rails. Their weight is seemingly relieved by grotesque carving; in the side is a sharp excavation, sufficiently deep to admit one-third of the foot. The saddle is made of raw hide, and a frame which an Indian’s hatchet might have shaped. It rises up before and behind like a well-horned half-moon. The bridle has one recommendation, a tremendous bit. But with all this you are on a horse, wild as he may be, that is sure of foot. You can no more get a stumble out of him, were you so disposed, than Lucifer could a defection from duty out of Abdiel, or a whig a bank-vote out of a democrat.