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pleased with his chevalierlike 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, out 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 farther inquiry, 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 inquire for a cottage to accommodate them; for which farther 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 were 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 can hear of a tolerable road, that shall afford decent accommodation, it is my intention to pass into Rousillon, and along the seashore to Languedoc. You, sir, seem to be ac

quainted 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 inquire for one, when Emily joined him, who observed the langour 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 show 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 inquire 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 a delicacy than was usual among the inhabitants of this wild tract of coun try, she persisted in refusing to let the animals have the same bedchamber 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 thay 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 mule teer 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 posi tive; and the tedious affair was at length settled. C

VOL. I,

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.

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CHAP. IV.

"In truth, he was a strange and wayward wight,
Fond of each gentle and each dreadful scene:
In darkness and in storm he found delight;
Nor less than when on ocean wave serene
The southern sun diffused his dazzling sheen.
Even sad vicisitude amused his soul;

And if a sigh would sometimes intervene,
And down his cheek a tear of pity roll,

A sigh, a tear, so sweet, he wish'd not to control."
THE MINSTREL.

ST. AUBERT awoke at an early hour, refreshed by sleep, and desirous to set forward. He invited the stranger to breakfast with him; and talked again of the road. Valancourt said, that some months past, he had travelled as far as Beaujeau, which was a town of some consequence on his way to Rousillon. He recommended it to St. Aubert to take that route; and the latter determined to do so.

The road from this hamlet, said Valancourt, and that to Beaujeau, part at the distance of about a league and a half from hence; if you will give me leave, I will direct your muleteer so far. I must wonder somewhere; and your company would make this a pleasanter ramble than any other I could take.

St. Aubert thankfully accepted his offer, and they set out together-the young stranger on foot; for he refused the invitation of St. Aubert to take a seat in his little carriage.

The road wound along the feet of the mountains, through a pastoral valley bright with verdure, and varied with groves of dwarf-oak, beech, and sycamore, under whose branches herds of cattle reposed. The mountain-ash, too, and the weeping birch, often threw their pendent foliage over the steeps above, where the scanty seil scarcely concealed their roots, and where their light branches waved to every breeze that fluttered from the mountains.

The travellers were frequently met at this early hour (for the sun had not yet risen from the valley) by shepherds driving immense flocks from their fold to feed upon the bills. St. Aubert had set out thus early, not only that he

might enjoy the first appearance of sunrise, but that he might inhale the first pure breath of morning, which above all things is refreshing to the spirits of the invalid. In these regions it was particularly so, where an abundance of wild flowers and aromatic herbs breathed forth their essence on the air.

The dawn, which softened the scenery with its peculiar grey tint, now dispersed, and Emily watched the progress of the day, first trembling on the tops of the highest cliffs, then touching them with splendid light, while their sides and the vale below were still wrapped in dewy mist. Meanwhile the sullen grey of the eastern clouds began to blush, then to redden, and then to glow with a thousand colours, till the golden light darted over all the air, touched the lower points of the mountain's brow, and glanced in long sloping beams upon the valley and its stream. All nature seemed to have awakened from death into life. The spirit of St. Aubert was renovated. His heart was full; he wept : and his thoughts ascended to the Great Creator.

Emily wished to trip along the turf, so green, and bright with dew, and to taste the full delight of that liberty which the izard seemed to enjoy as he bounded along the brow of the cliffs; while Valancourt often stopped to speak with the travellers; and with social feeling to point out to them the peculiar object of his admiration. St. Aubert was pleased with him: Here is the real ingenuousness and ardour of youth, said he to himself; this young man has never been at Paris.

He was sorry when they came to the spot where the roads parted; and his heart took a more affectionate leave of him than is usual after so short an acquaintance. Valancourt talked long by the side of the carriage; seemed more than once to be going, but still lingered, and appeared to search anxiously for topics of conversation to account for his delay. At length he took leave. As he went, St. Aubert observed him look with an earnest and pensive eye at Emily, who bowed to him with a countenance full of timid sweetness, while the carriage drove on. St. Aubert, for whatever reason, soon after looked from the window, and saw Valancourt standing upon the bank of the road, resting on his pike with folded arms, and following the carriage with his eyes. He waved his hand, and Valancourt, seeming to awake from his reverie, returned the salute, and started away.

The aspect of the country now began to change, and the travellers soon found themselves among mountains covered from their bases nearly to their summits with forests of gloomy pine, except where a rock of granite shot up from the vale below, and lost its snowy top in the clouds. The rivulet which had hitherto accompanied them, now expanded into a river; and, flowing deeply and silently along, reflected

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