Imágenes de páginas
PDF
EPUB

the pieces in my hand, as if I'd lost a kingdom;, then down, and mechanically put things to rights, and made mother comfortable-and she's never stood on her feet from that day to this. At last I seated myself before the fire, and stared into it to blinding.

"Won't some one lend you a glass, Georgie?" said mother.

"Of course they will!" I cried, for, you see, I hadn't a wit of my own, and I ran out.

There's a glass behind every door in the street, you should know, and there's no day in the year that you'll go by and not see one stretching from some roof where the heart of the house is out on the sea. Oh, sometimes I think all the romance of the town is clustered down here on the Flats and written in pale cheeks and starting eyes. But what's the use? After one winter, I gave mine away, and never got another. It's just an emblem of despair. Look, and look again, and look till your soul sinks, and the thing you want never crosses it; but you're down in the kitchen stirring a porridge, or you're off at a neighbour's asking the news, and somebody shouts at you round the corner, and there, black and dirty and dearer than gold, she lies between the piers.

All the world was up on their housetops spying, that morning, but there was nobody would keep their glass while I had none; so I went back armed, and part of it all I saw, and part of it father told me.

I waited till I thought they were 'most across, and then I rubbed the lens. At first I saw nothing, and I began to quake with a greater fear than any that had yet taken root in me. But with the next moment there they were, pulling close up. I shut my eyes with some kind of a prayer, and when I looked again they had dashed over, taking the rise of the long roll, and were in the midst of the South Breaker. O God! that terrible South Breaker! The oars bent lithe as willow-switches; a moment they skimmed on the caps, a moment were hid in the snow of the spray. Dan, red-shirted, still stood there, his whole soul on the aim before him, like that of some leaper flying through the air: he swayed to the stroke, he bowed, he rose, perfectly balanced, and flexile as the wave. The boat behaved beneath their hands like a live creature: she bounded so that you almost saw the light under her. Her whole stem lifted itself slowly out of the water, caught the back of a roller and rode over upon the next; the very things that came rushing in with their white rage to devour her bent their necks and bore her up like a bubble. Momently she drew nearer that dark and shattered heap up to which the fierce surf raced, and over which it leaped. And there, all the time, they had been clinging, far out on the bowsprit, those two figures, her arms close-knit about him, he clasping her with one, the other twisted in the hawser, whose harsh thrilling must have filled their ears like an organ-note as it swung them to and fro, clinging to life, clinging to each other more than to life. The wreck scarcely heaved with the

stoutest blow of the tremendous surge; here and there only a plank was shivered off, and was bowled on and thrown high upon the beach beside fragments of beams broken and bruised to a powder. It seemed to be as firmly planted there as the breaker itself. Great feathers of foam flew across it, great waves shook themselves thinly around it and veiled it in shrouds, and with their every breath the smothering sheets dashed over them-the two. And constantly the boat drew nearer, as I said; they were almost within hail; Dan saw her hair streaming on the wind; he waited only for the long wave. On it came, that long wave-oh! I can see it now, plunging and rearing and swelling-a monstrous billow, sweeping and swooping and rocking in. Its hollows gaped with slippery darkness; it towered and sent the scuds before its trembling crest, breaking with a mighty rainbow as the sun burst forth; it fell in a white blindness everywhere, rushed seething up the sand-and the bowsprit was bare!

When father came home the rack had driven down the harbour and left a clear sky it was near nightfall; they'd been searching the shore all-day-to no purpose. But that rainbowI always took it for a sign. Father was worn out, yet he sat in the chimney-side, cutting off great quids and chewing and thinking and sighing. At last he went and wound up the clock

it was the stroke of twelve-and then he turned to me and said, "Dan sent you this, Georgie. He hailed a pilot-boat, and 's gone to the Cape to join the fall fleet to the fish'ries; and he sent you this.”

It was just a great hand-grip to make your nails purple, but there was heart's-blood in it. See, there's the mark to-day.

So there was Dan off in the Bay of Chaleur'twas the best place for him-and I went about my work once more. There was a great gap in my life, but I tried not to look at it. I dursn't think of Dan, and I wouldn't think of themthe two. And I tell you, it's best to look trouble in the face: if you don't you'll have more of it. So I got a lot of shoes to bind, and what part of my spare time I wa'n't at my books the needle flew. But I turned no more to the past than I could help, and the future trembled too much to be seen.

Well, the two months dragged away, it got to be Thanksgiving-week, and at length the fleet was due. I mind me I made a great baking that week; and I put brandy into the mince for once, instead of vinegar and dried-apple juiceand there were the fowls stuffed and trussed on the shelf-and the pumpkin-pies like slices of split gold, and the cranberry-tarts, plats of crimson and puffs of snow; and I was brewing in my mind a right-royal red Indian pudding to come out of the oven smoking hot, and be soused with thick clots of yellow cream-when one of the boys ran in and told us the fleet 'd got back, but no Dan with it-he'd changed over to a fore-and-after, and wouldn't be home at all, but was to stay down in the Georges all winter, and he'd sent us word. Well, the baking

went to the dogs, or the Thanksgiving beggars, which is the same thing.

Then days went by, as days will, and it was well into the New Year. I used to sit there at the window, reading; but the lines would run together, and I'd forget what 'twas all about, and gather no sense, and the image of the little fore-and-after, the "Feather," raked in between the leaves, and at last I had to put all that aside; and then I sat stitching, stitching, but got into a sad habit of looking up and looking out each time I drew the thread. I felt it was a shame of me to be so dull, and mother missed my voice; bnt I could no more talk than I I could have given conundrums to King Solomon; and as for singing— Oh, I used to long so for just a word from Dan!

We'd had dry, fine weeks all along; but St. Valentine's-day the weather broke, broke in a chain of storms that the September gale was a whisper to. Ah, it was a dreadful winter, that! It made forty widows in our town. Of the dead that were found on the shores there were four corpses in the house yonder, and two in the one behind. And what waiting and watching and cruel pangs of suspense for them that couldn't have even the peace of certainty! And I was one of those.

The days crept on, and got bright again; no June days ever stretched themselves to half such length; there was perfect stillness in the house; it seemed to me that I counted every tick of the clock. In the evenings the neighbours used to drop in and sit mumbling over their fearful memories till the flesh crawled on my bones. Father, then, he wanted cheer, and he'd get me to sing "Caller Herrin'." Once I'd sung the first part, but as I reached the lines

"When ye were sleepin' on your pillows,
Dreamt ye aught o' our puir fellows
Darklin' as they face the billows,
A' to fill our woven willows"—

As I reached those lines, my voice trembled so's to shake the tears out of my eyes, and Jim Jerdan took it up himself and sung it through for me. He was always a kindly fellow, and he knew a little how the land lay between me and Dan.

"When I was down in the Georges," said Jim Jerdan

"You? When was you down there?" asked father.

"Well, once I was. There's worse places." "Can't tell me nothing about the Georges," said father. ""Ta'n't the rivers of Damascus exactly, but 't a'n't the Marlstrom neither."

"Ever ben there, Cap'n ?"

"A few. Spent more nights under cover roundabouts than Georgie 'll have white hairs in her head-for all she's washing the colour out of her eyes now."

You see, father knew I set store by my hair for in those days I rolled it thick as a cable, almost as long, black as that cat's back-and he, thought he'd touch me up a little.

[ocr errors][merged small][ocr errors]

"But what about the Georges, Jim?" I said; for, though I hated to hear, I could listen to nothing else.

66

Georges? Oh, not much. Just like any other place."

"But what do you do down there?" "Do? Why, we fish-in the pleasant weather."

"And when it's not pleasant?"

"Oh, then we make things taut, hoist fores'l, clap the helm into the lee becket, and go below and amuse ourselves."

"How?" I asked, as if I hadn't heard it all a hundred times.

"One way 'n' other. Pipes, and mugs, if it a'n't too rough; and if it is, we just snooze till it gets smooth."

[ocr errors]

is?"

Why, Jim-how do you know when that

"Well, you can jedge-'f the pipe falls out of your pocket and don't light on the ceiling." "And who's on deck?"

"Ther's no one on deck. There's no danger, no trouble, no nothing. Can't drive ashore, if you was to try: hundred miles off in the first place. Hatches are closed, she's light as a cork, rolls over and over just like any other log in the water, and there can't a drop get into her, if she turns bottom-side up."

66

But she never can right herself!"

"Can't she? You just try her. Why, I've known her to keel over and rake bottom, and bring up the weed on the topmast. I tell you now! there was one time we know'd she'd turned a somerset, pretty well. Why? Because, when it cleared and we come up, there was her two masts broke short off!"

And Jim went home thinking he'd given me a night's sleep. But it was cold comfort; the Georges seemed to me a worse place than the Hellgate. And mother she kept murmuring"He layeth the beams of His chambers in the waters, His pavilion round about Him is dark waters and thick clouds of the skies." And I knew by that she thought it pretty bad.

So the days went in clouds and wind. The owners of the Feather 'd been looking for her a month and more, and there were strange kind of rumors afloat; and nobody mentioned Dan's name, unless they tripped. I went glowering like a wild thing. I knew I'd never see Dan now nor hear his voice again, but I hated the Lord that had done it, and I made my heart like the nether millstone. I used to try and get out of folks' sight; and roaming about the back-streets one day, as the snow went off, I stumbled on Miss Catharine. "Old Miss Catharine" everybody called her, though she was but a pauper, and had black blood in her veins. Eighty years had withered her-a little woman

sands while he was away. It was this side of the South Breaker that he put me out, but I walked there; and where the surf was breaking in the light, I went and sat down and looked over it. I could do that now.

at best, and now bent so that her head and shoulders hung forward and she couldn't lift them, and she never saw the sky Her face to the ground as no beast's face is turned even, she walked with a cane, and fixing it every few steps she would throw herself back, and so get There was the Cape sparkling miles and miles a glimpse of her way and go on. I looked after across the way, unconcerned that he whose firm her, and for the first time in weeks my heart foot had rung last on its flints should ring there ached for somebody beside myself. The next no more; there was the beautiful town lying day mother sent me with a dish to Miss Catha- large and warm along the river; here gay craft rine's room, and I went in and sat down. I went darting about like gulls, and there up the didn't like her at first; she'd got a way of look- channel sped a larger one, with all her canvas ing sidelong that gave her an evil air; but soon flashing in the sun, and shivering a little spritshe tilted herself backward, and I saw her face sail in the shadow, as she went; and fawning in -such a happy one! upon my feet came the foam from the South Breaker, that still perhaps cradled Faith and Gabriel. But as I looked, my eye fell, and there came the sea-scenes again-other scenes than this, coves and corners of other coasts, sky-girt regions of other waters. The air was soft, that April day, and I thought of the summer calms ; and with that rose long sheets of stillness, far out from any strand, purple beneath the noon; fields slipping close in shore; long sleepy swells that hid the light in their hollows, and came creaming along the cliffs. And if upon these broke suddenly a wild glimpse of some storm careering over a merciless mid-ocean, of a dear dead face tossing up on the surge and snatched

"What's the matter of ye, honey?" said she. "D'ye read your Bible?"

Read my Bible!

"Is that what makes you happy, Miss Catharine?" I asked.

"Well, I can't read much myself, I don't know the letters," says he; "but I've got the blessed promises in my heart."

"Do you want me to read to you?" "No, not to-day. Next time you come, maybe."

So I sat awhile and listened to her humming voice, and we fell to talking about mother's ailments, and she said how fine it would be, if we could only afford to take mother to Beth-back again into the depths, of mad wastes rushesda.

"There's no angel there now," said I. "I know it, dear; but then there might be, you know. At any rate, there's always the living waters running to make us whole: I often think of that."

ing to tear themselves to fleece above clear shallows and turbid sand-bars-they melted and were lost in peaceful glimmers of the moon on distant flying foam-wreaths, in solemn midnight tides, chanting under hushed heavens, in twilight stretches kissing twilight slopes, in rosy morning waves flocking up the singing shores. And sitting so, with my lids still fallen, I heard "Me?" said she. "Oh, I ha'n't got no hus- a quick step on the beach, and a voice that said, band and no child to think about and hope for," Georgie!" And I looked, and a figure, redand so I think of myself and what I should like, shirted, towered beside me, and a face, brown honey. And sometimes I remember them and bearded and tender, bent above me. varses-here! you read 'm now—Luke xiii. 11.” "Oh! it was Dan! So I read.

"And what else do you think of, Miss Catharine ?"

[ocr errors]

Ay, honey, I see that all as if it was me. And I think, as I'm setting here, what if the latch should lift, and the gracious Stranger should come in, and he should look down upon me with His heavenly eyes, and He should smile, and lay his hands on my head?-and I say to myself, 'Lord I am not worthy'-and He says, Miss Catharine, thou art loosed from thine infirmity?' And the latch lifts, as I think, and I wait-but it's not him."

Well, when I went out of that place I wasn't the same girl that had gone in. My will gave way; I came home and took up my burden and was in peace. Still I couldn't help my thoughts, and they ran perpetually to the sea. I hadn't need to go up on the house-top, for I didn't shut my eyes but there it stretched before me. I stirred about the rooms and tried to make them glad once more; but I was thin and blanched as if I'd risen from a fever. Father said it was the salt air I wanted; and one day he was going out for frost-fish, and he took me with him, and left me and my basket on the

MOTHERLESS.

Through the mists of early morn
While all around was gloom,
An orphan came from a troubled couch,
To weep at a parent's tomb.

A violet grew on the grave

Its silent watch to keep;

The dew-drops moisten'd that cherished flower,
And it seemed with her to weep.

But the heavenly sun at length

Burst through the clouds above;
Its beams in the dew-drops sparkled now,
They were changed to tears of love.

And back to the orphan's heart

Came a thought that gave it rest;
The chastening hand that had cruel seemed,
With fervency she blessed.

On the stone her quivering lips
Impressed a gentle kiss;

For though in the world she struggled on,
Her mother was now in bliss.

E. S.

THE CAMA R G U E.

25TH OF MAY.

At the mouth of the Rhone extends a region celebrated throughout the south of France for the wildness of its appearance. It has not always been so abandoned: fine cities were once there: Saintes-Maries and Aigue-Mortes long enjoyed the prosperity of sea-ports: in time, however, the inundations of the Rhone have changed the condition of the country, and ruined at the same time its agriculture, its commerce, and its activity. The great river flows from the Alps loaded with various kinds of débris, which it has carried through the placid waters of Lake Leman and the Gulfs of Dauphiny to heap up on the shore of the Mediterranean a vast detritus of animal and vegetable decomposition. The thick mud which borders the delta of the Rhone produces the richest vegetation-fields of golden grain, green meadows-trees with velvety fruit; whilst in the interior of the island the sight is one to sadden the eye. An immense marsh stretches before you; the deep stagnant Lake of Valcarres occupies the centre, and on a few sandy landes the dark pine woods break the half-liquid plain. During the winter the lakes and ponds, swelled by the rains, inundate the country, whilst in summer they infect it with malaria. Stones and pebbles are unknown; the smallest flowers have a different aspect to those of other countries. It seems rather to assimilate to Africa and the borders of the Nile than to France; the ibis, pelican, and flamingo resorting to its marshes.

Near to the sea the Camargue takes quite another aspect; the Mediterranean seems disputing with the Rhone whether it shall bury it; gliding in among the pines, it decorates their resinous trunks with sea-weed; evaporating on the sand, it traces fantastic patterns with its saline efflorescence, embellishing the dew of the meadows with crystal pearls. This is, in a word, the kingdom of salt: the air, water, plains, soil, and canals are all impregnated with it. The principal produce of these savannahs are reeds and bulrushes; they are excellent food for cattle, form thatch for the cottages and covers to defend the heaps of salt from the rain; for the salt-season brings life and activity into these uncultivated lands every summer, furnishing as they do the best salt in France.

The population is worthy of the country; they seem made for bold and patient struggling. Sometimes their work is to tame the wild cattle which roam over the plains; sometimes to reap the salt harvest from the emanations of an unhealthy soil. Mosquitoes, thirsting for blood; multitudes of yellow grasshoppers, birds of the marshes silent as death, venomous reptiles rolling in the mud, constantly recal to the in

habitant the forces of nature that weigh upon him, and which his honour requires him to oppose with invincible courage. Here feed the wild cattle, buried up to their necks in reeds; there gallop untamed horses, their manes flying in disorder, over a land hardened with salt. It is strange that whilst the race of cattle inhabiting the Camargue are all black as ebony, the horses are, on the contrary, perfectly white, and are said to be of a race originally brought from Africa by the Arabs, in their frequent invasions of this part of France.

Having thus described this singular tract of country, which invites few travellers, we will now speak of some of its superstitions and amusements.

Tradition tells us that Mary Salome, the Virgin Mary, and Mary Magdalene, persecuted by the Jews, after the crucifixion of Christ, embarked in a leaky boat, crossed the sea, and landed in the Camargue, at the mouth of the Rhone. Mary Magdalene went into the desert of La Sainte-Beaume to weep for her sins, whilst the other two Maries preached Christianity to the people, and built an oratory by the sea-shore, where they were buried. A Christian prince, in order to preserve their ashes from profanation, built over their little chapel a church, which he fortified and surrounded with thick ramparts. This church (the first ever built in Gaul) is that of Saintes-Maries, and in a side-chapel beyond the choir a casket contains the bones of the saints. On the twenty-fifth of May in each year, pilgrims go from all parts to worship these holy relics, which on that anniversary only are placed on the altar. The people assure you that it is sufficient to touch the holy casket with a believing heart, in order to be cured of every disease and to have all your prayers heard. It will therefore be easily understood that from every part of the Camargue, paralytic and feverish patients crowd to Saintes-Maries and recover health, whilst the women and young girls pray there for their children and lovers.

On this day, then, the village presents a picturesque spectacle, very unusual in its monotonous everyday life. Many pilgrims who arrive on the previous evening are encamped on the shore: others have made a temporary shelter under the ramparts; whilst those who come in a waggon establish it and themselves in the place of the town. A few fishermen from the Lake of Valcarres have spread their white tents on an area near the church, and through the rents in the cloth you see a poor, little, rickety family, waiting for health and strength from the saints. Not far from them are the ragged Gitanos, with their bronze complexion, and crisped hair, seizing

choose their lovers. The chief actor is the gardian, the real king of the Camargue: he has during the year to watch over and tame the wild cattle, which he accomplishes with the help of the most peaceful animal, whose wooden collar carries a large bell. An iron trident is the only arm which the gardian carries. Mounted all day on his white horse, sleeping under the starry sky, a handkerchief tied over his immense felt hat, dressed in skins, the athlete recalls the wild horsemen of the South American pampas. The gardians love their independent rough life; sometimes boldly forcing their trembling horses through the marshes, sometimes passing like lightning through a glade of the pine forest, surrounded by a black herd, who follow them with their bellowings, and by whom they are

on a little corner of ground on which to fix
their kettle-the only possession of this wander-
ing people; whilst the sharp wretched cry of a
cripple, half concealed by a ragged coverlet,
marks the establishment of a poor lame child
at the end of its journey. The salt makers,
whose existence is of the most miserable kind
from the maladies which infest the neighbour
hood of the marshes, are not wanting in these
groups: thin and pale, they tremble in the sun
whilst chanting beforehand the psalm they in-
tend to sing in the church. Yellow, tough-
looking, old custom-house officers, without
teeth and hair, wander through the streets
waiting for the favourable moment to ask of the
saints a cure for the sciatica which torments
them. There also are peasants come from the
most distant villages of Provence and Bas-known and feared.
Languedoc: the one wearing the broad-brimmed
felt hat of Montpelier, the other the cagnotte of
the Cevennes, with the short frock of Nismes,
or the coarse cloth coat of Castres; the women
sheltered from the hot sun under the coquettish
hat of Nice, but the larger number adorned
with the close-fitting corset and the ribbons of
the daughters of Arles.

But the town is not only visited on this occasion by the sick, transforming it into one vast hospital: there is also a lively coquettish population, who bring with them joy and pleasure; namely, the young people who come from the villages on the other side of the Rhone; the hawkers and pedlars who wander through the streets offering their varied wares of medals, wax-lights, and chaplets to the devotees; toys and trinkets to the girls and boys.

66

[ocr errors]

As soon as the bell rings for mass, all hasten as fast as they are able, wax-light in hand, to the church. The chains by which the casket is suspended are suddenly unrolled, the wished-for moment has arrived, and turn by turn the poor invalids, impotent children, and timid girls touch the casket, amidst mingled sounds of "Holy Marys! hear my prayer;" "Holy Marys! cure my son;" Holy Marys! accept my vow, assist us, protect us.' Hundreds of ex-voto offerings are suspended: a favourite one is a shell, called in the country the Madonna's ear, from its form into this shell if you whisper your prayer, it is sure to be heard. Outside the church are two large yew trees: on the one the pilgrims hang their wax-lights to burn out; on the other are numbers of scapularies which have been blessed on the altar, made of black cloth and embroidered with white in a rude figure of the two Marys, which the pilgrims buy to wear as a talisman round their necks. As evening draws on, the people, loaded with chaplets and medals, return home: the gay young girls and men remain dancing in the open air.

Another great event in the peaceful life of the Camargue are the "courses des taureaux;" a game somewhat similar to the bull-fights of Spain, but by no means so barbarous: at these games are arranged almost all the marriages in the district, for thither the young men go to

Aigues-Mortes which is the scene of these courses may be considered the capital of the Camargue; it is isolated in the midst of a marshy plain, intersected with canals offering but one approach to the town, on a raised chaussée, which is spanned by an ancient tower. Its walls and gates are in perfect preservation, and give a better idea than any other of a feudal town in the thirteenth century: they were built by Philip the Bold, after the plan of those of Damietta. Pale, melancholy, and ravaged by fever, the inhabitants carry in their features a sad reflection of the green monotonous marshes which surround them. One single diversion rouses them from their habitual torpor, which suddenly changes, when the courses des taureaux begin; under the hot summer sun all awake joyfully. The girls dress themselves gaily: the young men assemble in the square. Carriages of every form are advancing towards the ramparts over the chassée: the peasants have left their farms at dawn in their holiday clothes, and arrive in tumultuous groups at the city gates, waiting for some who are behindhand. As far as the eye can reach over the sandy lande may be distinguished black specks, which are the two wheeled little cars, called taps in the country, and are the carriages of the better class: they are loaded with women and children, the old horses trotting over the sandy shore of the marsh; whilst their brisker offspring, mounted by the gardians, leap over the reeds with the speed of an arrow.

The circus is marked out by a mass of tuns, wine presses, waggons, &c., each of which is occupied by numerous spectators, and having but one point of egress through which the bull enters and departs. The peasants are so attached to these animals that whatever happens they take their part: if a gardian be wounded he is unskilful, he has deserved it, and they ridicule instead of pitying him; but if to save his life, he seriously injures the beast which threatens him, there is a general cry of indignation : "Poor creature! what barbarity!" As soon as the hautboys sound, a gardian takes his place in the centre of the circus, waving his scarlet sash like a standard in the air, and in the midst of tumultuous applause if he be known as a

[ocr errors]
« AnteriorContinuar »