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interchanging glance conveyed between them, and as they passed through the vineyards, and clambered up the tower called Pilate's Tower, from a tradition that he once dwelled there, and, as they traced the remains of Roman works, which spoke of ages past, how did their hearts vibrate in unison, and receive additional strength of love, from the knowledge that they were feeling and thinking together. How beautifully the sun gilded the red and varied-coloured leaves of the autumnal vines; how it sparkled on the distant reach of the river, and illumined the farthest verge of the horizon-how cloudless was the atmosphere-so cloudless, they forgot that storms could ever disturb or darken its brilliancy. For the first time in her existence, Lady Herbert felt that her wishes were not illusions; that the early aspirations of her heart were realized, that she was appreciated and understood. Oh! that being understood, what a world of vitality there is comprised in the word. Miss Herbert, too, seemed to revive under the genial weather, and the beautiful scenery was to her as to her mother, like awakening from a dull dream to behold the beauties of a fairy land. To Sir Edward Mowbray, the life and fire of youth added that additional zest a first love gives to existence, and he imbodied the fair objects he beheld in nature in that fairer object still, Miss Herbert. It is impossible not to experience some returning gratitude for feelings as delicately expressed as those which he evinced towards her, and Sarah breathed that perfumed atmosphere of love, which, when it has evaporated, renders every after scene of life scentless, and joyless. They were six days on the river, having stopped at various places, St. Vallier, Tournon, et Tain, Ancone, Montelimart, &c. &c. One evening, on landing at the latter place, to pass the night, they were considerably alarmed: owing to a high sandbank, they found it very difficult to get on shore, and could only do so at some miles from the village.

Even there the sand lay so deep upon the adjoining ground that it was impossible for the ladies to walk through it. They were obliged, therefore, to return to the boat, while Lord de Montmorenci and one of their servants went to obtain assistance, leaving Sir Edward and the rest of their attendants to protect the ladies. Lord de Montmorenci felt exceedingly anxious, for he understood something of the Provençal language, and he had heard the boatmen talking together in a manner which made him suspect their hones

ty. He affected ignorance, however, and of course said nothing to Lady Herbert regarding the opinion he entertained of the boatmen, but he warned Sir Edward and the servants (the latter were fortunately English) to be prepared, in case they should make any open attack upon them. This, however, he did not apprehend; but he feared lest they might run the boat into one of the dangerous whirlpools, and upset it purposely for the sake of plunder. He gave orders, therefore, that on no account should they unmoor the raft from the spot where it was stationed. And, as the servants were well armed, he left them in tolerable security, but thought, "in future I will never let any lady under my protection, come down the Rhone."

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It was some time before he could procure a vehicle at Ancone, in which to convey Lady Herbert and her daughter; at length, however, he met with a civil woman, kept a small inn, and who let her cart, and hired a couple of countrymen to the English Lord, for a considerable sum of money. It was not often that such as he and his company came to her house; she must make a good harvest, she thought; but in other respects she was civil and obliging, and it was pleasant to be cheated in such an agreeable man

ner.

Lord de Montmorenci returned with all speed to his com panions, and found, as he had surmised, that the boatmen had grumbled considerably, saying their boat was not in a safe part of the river, and they had wished to move farther on; but at the command, and even threats of Sir Edward, they had been obliged to remain where they were. And now the ladies removed into the cart, and whatever was most valuable was placed with them, and they reached the widow's inn in safety. To them the little difficulties, and the novel mode of conveyance, were so many pleasurable events. But an occurrence which took place a short time after their arrival at Nice, would have made them think and feel far otherwise had they been aware of the risk they ran. An English family who had taken one of these conveyances, were purposely run upon a shallow, and under pretence of saving their luggage were plundered, and escaped narrowly from drowning. Fortunately they did not apprehend danger of any kind, and their journey was to them one of unmixed pleasure.

The next day brought the travellers to Avignon, where remembrances of the past crowded thick upon them. Here

VOL. II.

13

superstition had held her court; and here the impure had found a regal seat; and pontiffs kept their unholy sway. Here, too, Petrarch had lived, had loved, had written: yes! even in the "iniqua corte," as in the valley of Vaucluse; his spirit pervaded the whole, and lent high interest to the gloomy city, for gloomy it is to the greatest degree. The impression which Lady Herbert said she could not shake off, was that of terror in modern days, when blood was flowing in the streets, and the madness of the people, who committed every barbarous cruelty in the name of freedom, was at its highest. Vainly she endeavoured to shake off this sensation; it clung to her; and in despite of Petrarch, and softer reminiscences, she wished herself away. One day, however, was given to Valclusa; and in its close and sheltering valley amongst its low rocks, and by the margin of its gushing stream, the very spirit of love and peace seemed to breathe in all their fulness of delight.

"How often," said Lady Herbert, as she leant against a laurel-tree," how often, in my young days, have I, in imagination, sought these haunts; how often roved in the shade of these beautiful leaves-more imperishable than the classic temples of Greece or Rome, for here the hearts of thousands yet unborn will come, with hallowing sense of the poet's love, to do homage to his memory, and to see their own feelings written upon every tree and every stone. But the day and hour are gone, when I could have been a worthy worshipper here!"

"Is it, indeed, gone?" asked Lord de Montmorenci, with a peculiar tremor of voice, which seemed to imply a blissful doubt; " yet let me not be answered; rather let me repeat one of his sonnets which certainly was written here; it may be, on this very spot." And he recited, in his peculiarly beautiful pronunciation of the language, and in that tone of voice which, in itself was music, the following son

net:

PETRARCH'S SONNET.

S' una fede amorosa un cor non finto,
Un languir dolce, un desiar cortese,
I' oneste voglie in gentil fuoco accese;
Si un lungo error, in cicco laberinto,
Se nella fronte ogni pensier depinto,
Od in voce interrotte a pena intese,
Or da paura, or da vergogna offese,

Si un pallor di viola e d'amor tinto,
S' aver altrui più cara che se stess,
Se lagrimar e sospirar mai sempre,
Pascendori di duol d' ira e d'affanno,
S'arder da lunge, ed agghiacciar da presso,
Son le cagion ch' amando i mi distempre,
Vostro donna 'le pecato et mio sia 'l danno.

Lady Herbert drank in these words of love, as her arm rested within that of her companion; and, after a moment's silence, she said, "that was one of my favourite sonnets, and I once tried to clothe it in English verse, but I am aware it is feeble and incorrect." Still she repeated the lines to one, who valued all their feeling.

If loving faith, a heart unfeigned,
Courteous desire and languor sweet,

And honest will, in gentle fires that meet:
If error blind, in labyrinth dark contained,

If, on the countenance every thought's explained,
If interrupted sounds, scarce heard,

Of shame or fear rule every word,

If with love's violet paleness, stained,

If to hold other than ourselves more dear,
If to lament and sigh for e'er

Feeding on grief, on rage, on fear,

To burn when absent, to freeze when near,
Are causes sad, why love hath madness sent,
Thine is the crime-be mine the punishment.

This echo of his own feelings was too much for Lord de Montmorenci; he felt that he was loved even as he himself loved; there was no doubt, no coldness now.

"Thine, thine," he said, " for ever."

A tremor, as of sudden illness, shook Lady Herbert's frame, as she faintly rejoined, "wo is menever." Her daughter at that instant came towards them.

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She was rested," she said, "and could now continue to explore the beauties of Vaucluse."

How Lady Herbert's heart reproached her, for feeling for the first time, that she wished her child were absent; and, as if nature responded to her own wretchedness, a sudden and deafening thunderstorm broke out immediately from over their heads. Sarah Herbert, who had been from a child terrified at similar tempests, even in England, was now, when the sound rebounded from rock to rock, with a violence she had never before witnessed, in a state of agita

tion, which alarmed her mother far more than the convul sion of the elements.

66

'Dear, dearest mamma," she cried,

me!"

66 save me, save

And Lady Herbert held her in a close embrace as she replied,

"May you ever find shelter and safety in my arms.”

CHAPTER XVIII

The sea lay like a glass outspread
So quietly, so measured,

The gentle ripple of the tide,
Laved the ocean's rocky side:

Blue was the clouded vault of heaven,
Save where the last bright tints of even
In one broad blaze of golden light,
Dazzled the fascinating sight,

Till the dimm'd eye cast down, to muse,
Dropp'd ringlets like the Iris hues
Of gaudy peacock's sweeping train,
And closed their lids, to see again:
When next they cast their glance around,
They rested on the rich red ground,
Which 'neath the scriptural olive's green,
Made holy feature in the scene:

Thence wandering to th' horizon's bound
The conic hills their crescent wound
In grand fantastic shapes, and rise
Gigantic-mingling with the skies
Wearied at length of wondering maze,
The eye returns to fix its gaze
On the near rock-the brilliant green,
Of Caroubiers that intervene,
And twine their foliage, gaily bright,
With the blue olive's paley light.

WHO that has ever seen, can forget the view of Nice, as it is presented to the eye from the Montagne de Montalban, looking over orange and citron groves, down upon the port,

* Caroubier, a peculiar evergreen tree of bright and brilliant colouring, indigenous to that country, its foliage like the laburnum,

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