Imatges de pàgina
PDF
EPUB

known no other home from infancy those changeless wilds with their rare spots of verdure and bloom assume a far different aspect than they would have to a visitor from other and more favored regions. The humble shepherd of Les Bas Landes, who dwells almost in utter solitude, debarred from many privileges most highly prized by the citizen of the world, may bear with him in his sterling integrity and clear perception of the simple first principles of right and wrong to which he adheres the germs of a wide-spreading and delightful content that is wanting to many who are surrounded with the most exquisite scenes of nature. It has been too often the case in the history of man kind that the "gardens of the world," the countries and climes so richly dowered by nature with beauty as to recall the ancient pictures of Eden in all its loveliness, have been infested with a population as vile as their surroundings were beautiful. The sun that rode through the soft azure heavens, gilding with its golden beams hilltop and verdant valley, that has called into blossom millions of fragrant and exquisite flowers, and had its rays reflected from the glittering surface of the bluest and calmest of seas, has also lit up the faces of men, aud found them-alas! marked with all the ugly lines stamped there by passion, by malice, and by degrading ambitions.

"Strange-that where Nature loved to trace,
As if for gods, a dwelling-place,
And every charm and grace hath mixed,
Within the paradise she fixed,
There man, enamored of distress,
Should mar it into wilderness,

And trample, brutelike, o'er each flower
That tasks not one laborious hour;
Nor claims the culture of his hand
To bloom along the fairy land,
But springs as to preclude his care,
And sweetly woos him-but to spare.
Strange that where all is peace beside,
There passion riots in her pride,
And lust and rapine wildly reign
To darken o'er the fair domain."

For instances proving this truth we have only to turn to the history of those "Edens of the eastern wave" that have been alike the home of beauty and of pirates, where nature has been royal in her bounty, and man brutal in his violence. The peaceful shepherd of Les Bas Landes represented on next page, though his eye cannot be gratified by flowers and verdure, and he has little companionship beyond that of his dog and his herds, is nevertheless unmolested and

free to pursue his simple thoughts wheresoever they may lead him. He cannot read, probably, and so the great world of books is closed to him, but he employs his leisure moments by knitting socks, casting every now and then a watchful eye upon his flocks, while his faithful dog is also mindful of his duty as guardian of the sheep. Owing to the fact that a large portion of the land is covered with water, the shepherds have recourse to stilts, as seen in the engraving, and show so much ease and agility in the management of them that they excite the surprise and admiration of the passing traveller who chances to encounter one of these wanderers through the wilds in his travels. But it is only at rare intervals that the fearful solitude of these dreary regions is broken in upon by any figure save that of the stilted shepherd of the Landes. Except in the immediate neighborhood of the rye-farms, the traveller would meet with but few traces of life or civilization; nor would the gloomy prospect be enlivened by any living form but that of the slow moving herdsman, and no sounds would relieve the silence but the subdued lowing of the herds. 'Flat, stale, and literally unprofitable," would be the verdict in regard to the landscape.

The shepherds of Les Bas Landes are exceedingly watchful of their flocks, and the docility of the latter is remarkable, while the good understanding existing between the dogs and sheep is no less so. The rapidity with which the shepherds draw their scattered flocks around them is not more surprising than the process by which they accomplish it is simple and beautiful. If the sheep are, at no great distance from him, he gives a peculiar whistle, and they leave off feeding and obey the call; if they are afar off and scattered, he utters a shrill cry, and instantly the flocks may be seen leaping over the swamps and scampering toward him. As soon as they have gathered around him, the shepherd sets off on his return to the cabin, or resting-place he has secured, and the sheep follow behind like so many well-trained hounds.

The noble-looking shepherd-dogs, two of which are usually attached to each flock, have a higher grade of duties to perform than those of chasing the animals together and biting the legs of stragglers. The flock is confided to their protection from the predatory attacks of wolves and bears,

[graphic][ocr errors][ocr errors][ocr errors][ocr errors][ocr errors][ocr errors][subsumed][ocr errors][ocr errors][merged small]

against whose approach they are constantly on the watch, and to whom they at once offer battle. The sheep themselves are so well aware of the friendly care of the dogs, and that they have nothing to fear from them, that they crowd about them as if really seeking their protection, and dogs and sheep may be seen resting together in perfect harmony. Being thus accustomed to scenes of such gentleness and magnanimity, the shepherds themselves are brave, generous and humane, and though, as may be imagined, they are nearly all of them without the least education as far as books

and the ways of the outside world are concerned, they have their own strict code of honor, and are exceedingly sensitive among themselves to the slightest dereliction from the paths of true morality. Behold him, then, in all his ignorance, the poor shepherd of the lowlands of France, inhabiter of the wilderness, knitting socks as he watches his docile flocks, yet invested with a dignity which many a blase man of the world might envy. His knowledge is small, and his world circumscribed, but he has a conscience that is "void of offence."

THE WANDERER.

BY MARY HELEN BOODEY.

December's sky is dark with clouds,
No sunshine lights their shade,
But deeper gloom my heart enshrouds
Than hangs o'er hill and glade.

Since early morn I've wandered on,
Weak, weary, grief-opprest,

Till now at last my strength is gone-
I only sigh for rest.

Before me rolls a eullen stream,

Hoarse murmuring in its bed,

Upon whose waves the lightning's gleam
At intervals is shed.

The rattling thunder, peal on peal,
Echoes along the sky;

Despair has seized me, and I feel
I care not if I die.

I cannot cross the swelling tide

Which threatens to o'erflow

The banks which bloomed in summer's pride

Three little months ago.

The ghostly trees their spectral arms

Toss wildly in the wind;

A sense of fear my breast alarms

No shelter can I find.

The rain has drenched my garments thro',

An ague chills my frame;

My eyes are dim, and seem to view
Strange forms with eyes of flame.

O, let me then, ye friendly rocks,
Into your shelter creep,
And dream my mother gently rocks
Her weary child to sleep!

Outside the wind may wildly shriek,
The rain may still sweep on,
But I will press my fevered cheek
Upon a smooth cold stone.

Like to the wild beasts of the field,
All shelterless am I,

Save for the home the caverns yield,
And unto them I fly.

What thoughts are rushing on me now
Of home, and friends, and love!
A cold dew gathers on my brow,
A light shines from above.

1

[merged small][merged small][merged small][graphic][merged small]

CHAPTER I.

CAPTAIN ALICK'S LEGACY.

BY M. T. CALDOR.

A PORTLY elderly gentleman was slowly pacing along the nicely-kept gravelled walk which cut a rich brown semi-circle in the velvety green of a small lawn in front of a neat substantial cottage. The air of the man suited that of the place. He was dressed with extreme neatness; his irongray hair was smoothly brushed, his slightly darker beard trimly cut, his boots polished to a charm, and his linen immaculate; and yet there was nothing about him that would strike you as singularly incongruous if he had chosen to take the hoe or shovel and go to the assistance of the stout serving-man who was busily at work in the vegetable garden behind the cottage. A man who had been steady and brave to face any experience, however trying; who had known something of privation and hardship while he had been at ease midst luxury and refinement; who had borne his part resolutely amidst many strange and startling scenes, for all he walked so quietly now along the walk before his simple cottage home. This one read, half unconscious of the discovery, while gazing at the firm, dignified, and yet benevolent face.

held sway at Thurston Cottage, and had reigned triumphant in that to her-glorious sphere fifteen years come Christmas. And though Captain Alick was famed for many a mile as a generous, attentive host to his own sex, and a devoted slave to all the children in the neighborhood, it was very seldom that a lady was included in the list of his invited guests. It was tacitly conceded by all his acquaintance that he was not a marrying man; yet, somehow, no one thought of accusing him of antipathy or hostility to his fair friends. Whatever in the past had wrenched away from him the sweet solace and joy of a wife's affection, which, of all others, a nature like his seemed to require, from Captain Alick's lips came no hint or explanation.

Widow Nancy was secure from molestation, and, it must be conceded, managed the liberal means given over to her care in the most judicious manner. A betterkept table was not found in the whole shire, and a guest might search far and wide, and fail of securing more palatable or delicious dishes than mine host of Thurston Cottage distributed from his seat at the head of the board.

But we have left him all this time waiting the arrival of a guest, whose coming has evidently excited unusual interest; since he has left his seat on the cosy piazza to come down to the walk, every now and then glancing questioningly toward the avenue gate.

He is gratified at length by the sound of rolling wheels, and turns his head with a quick start, while there comes a thoughtful half-tremulous smile across his lips.

Captain Alick Thurston was a man to inspire respect, whether from high or low, rich or poor, refined or ignorant persons. There was a natural inborn authority in his very gesture which could not fail of effect. Those calm blue eyes could glint sparks as fierce as those from clashing steel; the lips, somewhat irresolute and tremulous just now, could shut down into the grimmest determination; that smooth shapely hand, wrinkled though it had grown with the years of half a century, had still an iron grip or ponderous blow at command of the firm-strung muscles. He was not a man to be lightly held by friend or foe; nor tamely loved, one would say, seeing what tender depths those blue eyes now and then revealed. And yet Captain Alick had never married. A stout-framed, resolute housekeeper, Widow Nancy Bourne, [Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1866, by THOMES & TALBOT, Boston, Mass., in the Office of the Librarian of Congress, Washington.]

A handsome but very plainly-appointed coach comes moderately up the avenue. Captain Alick is ready to open the coach door when it draws up before the front flight of stone steps. A tall gentleman, something near his own age, at red in the extreme of elegance, descends, and extends a thin hand, from which he had just drawn a delicate lavender glove.

"Well, captain, you are hale and hearty, I see. I was afraid you were going into a decline, that was such a forlorn, solemn sort of letter which summoned me here."

“O, I am well enough, and I perceive you are very little changed, Dick! It's rather shabby in you, old boy, that I should have to send to get you here at Thurston Cottage," says Captain Alick, grasping the outstretched hand, and shaking it heartily.

"O, you know how tied I am. What with my private affairs, and my Parliament duties, there's little enough time for recreation. I put aside a dozen calls to get down here now, because, somehow, your letter gave me to understand your reasons were urgent and important."

As he spoke, the Honorable Richard Merton looked sharply and questioningly, with his piercing gray eyes, into the smiling face before him.

"You are not far from right, Dick. I had my good reasons for urging the visit, so don't repent before you have actually crossed my threshold. It will do you good to get a little whiff of country air and a 'moment's rest from 'cankerous cares.' You are the same restless soul, Dick. I wonder you haven't fretted the spirit from the body. You're more woefully like a shadow than ever. But come in, come in, Dick! I'm all alone. I've saved myself especially for your benefit. Widow Nancy will give us dinner a little earlier than usual, in consideration of the appetite your long ride must have induced."

They passed into the house arm in arm, the plain-spoken, great-hearted, simpleminded country gentleman, and the worldly, wily, deep-learned city politician.

The conversation was desultory and careless until after the dinner, to which the Honorable Mr. Merton had done ample justice, was removed, and the nut and wine-tray set before them. Then suddenly dropped away from Captain Alick's face the bland genial smile of the host. He filled his guest's glass, and slowly drained his own, then looked over the table with grave, almost wistful eyes.

"Now, then, at last I am to hear an explanation of this odd whim," thought the Honorable Mr. Merton; and looked up with eager attention.

"Dick," began Captain Alick, "we have been good friends all our lives, haven't

we? I am sure I have loved you as well as I could have loved a brother. When I was a foolish youngster, I made brother, and sister, and parent of you. Why, Dick, you ruled me like a tutor in those old days, and I was hot-blooded and impetuous, and full of all a boy's pride and obstinacy, too. I have wondered, sometimes, as I recalled my unfaltering devotion, and tried to guess out the causes. Being such a desolate wretch, with no home friends, and brought up by my guardian with such chilling stateliness, would naturally, I suppose, throw a warm-hearted boy into the arms of the first kind-hearted person who took pains to win his affection. And you had wonderful tact, Dick; you have always had that, boy and man."

Captain Alick's eye was a little hazy, his tone grew dreamy, and he talked on like one unconscious of a listener.

Richard Merton glanced sharply across the table, just the slightest shade of annoyance crossed his thin sallow face, and his lip curled in a faint sneer. He took up the silver nutcrackers carefully, selected the finest walnut, and, as he crushed the shell, replied, in an unconcerned tone:

"Really, captain, so many things have come between in all these years, that I cannot recall anything accurately concerning those old days. With me bygones are indeed bygones."

"The past is more a living truth to me than the present. I live here alone in peace and quiet, and ponder over every little circumstance in the lives of some who have been lying in their graves these fifteen years. I lose myself in trying to fathom the mystery of the Father's dealings with us. Why are the wicked allowed to work their evil deeds? why are the pure and innocent left to perish in such woeful straits ?"

The sneer on the Honorable Richard's thin lips increased visibly.

"The man is a monomaniac!" thought he, shrugging his shoulders.

Captain Alick caught something of this, and hastily flinging back with one hand the iron-gray masses of hair which swept across his forehead, he spoke suddenly, and in an entirely changed voice:

"Dick, I have learned at last the truth concerning Miriam Grey."

The Honorable Richard Merton started now in good earnest. A wave of crimson

« AnteriorContinua »