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CXLIV.—AN ADVENTURE IN CALABRIA.
FROM A LETTER TO THE AUTHOR'S COUSIN, MADAME PIGALLE.

1. I Was once travelling in Calabria," a land of wicked pec» pie, who, I believe, do not love anybody over much, and least of all a Frenchman. To tell you the why and the wherefore would take too long; suffice it to say, that they hate us with a deadly hatred, and that one of our countrymen who falls into their hands is not likely to fare very well. In these mountains the roads are precipic.es. It was with difficulty that my horse made his way over them. I had for a companion a young man who took the lead. Thinking that he had hit upon a shorter and more practicable route," he led us astray. It served me right. What business had I to trust to a head of only twenty years?

2. We sought, while the day lasted, our way through these woods; but the more we sought the more we were baffled; and it was black night when we drew near to a very black-looking house. We entered, — not without suspicion, — but what could we do? There we found a whole family of charcoal-burners, Beated round a table, at which they forthwith invited us to take places. My young man did not wait for a second invitation. We soon made ourselves at home, and began to eat and drink; or rather my companion did. As for myself, I was occupied in examining the place and the aspects of our hosts. That they were charcoal-burners, their faces gave ample pledge; but as for the house — you would have taken it for an arsenal.

3. What an assortment of guns, pistols, sabres, knives, and cutlasses! Everything displeased me, and I saw that I also displeased everybody. My comrade, on the contrary, made himself quite one of the family; laughed and chatted with them, and, with an imprudence that I ought to have foreseen (but, alas! fate would have it so), informed them whence we came, where we were going, who we were. He told them, in short, that we were Frenchmen! Conceive of it! We, all the while, poor, bewildered travellers, far from all human succor, and in tho power of our mortal enemies!

4. And then, as if to omit nothing that might contribute to our destruction, he played the rich man; promised to pay these people whatever they might ask for our entertainment, and for guides the next day. Then he spoke of his valise," requested that they would take particular care of it, and put it at the head of his bed, remarking that he wanted no better bolster. Ah' youth, youth,' you are to be pitied. Cousin, one would have thought we had charge of the crown diamonds! All that there was in my companion's valise to occasion this amount of solicitude was a bundle of his sweetheart's letters!

5. Supper being ended, our hosts left us. They slept below, we in the room above that where we had supped. A loft, to which we had to mount seven or eight feet by a ladder, was our destined place of repose. It was a sort of nest, into which one had to insinuate himself by creeping under cross-beams, hung with provisions for the whole year. My comrade made his way up alone, and threw himself down, already half-asleep, with his head on the precious valise. As for myself, I determined to watch; and, making a good fire, I sat down near it.

6. The night wore away tranquilly enough, and was at length near its end. I was beginning to be reassured, when, just before the break of day, I heard our host and his wife talking and disputing down stairs. Listening intently at the chimney, which communicated with that below, I distinctly heard the husband utter these words: "Well, come, now, must we kill them both?" To which the woman replied, "Yes; " and I heard nothing more. How shall I describe my emotions? I remained almost breathless, my whole body frigid as marble. To have seen me, you would not have known whether I was dead or alive. Ah! when I but think of it, even now!

7. Two of us, almost without weapons, against twelve or fifteen, so remarkably well provided! And my comrade halfdead with sleep and fatigue! To call him — to make a noise — I did not dare; escape by myself I could not; the window was not very high from the ground, but beneath it were two savage bull-dogs, howling like wolves. Imagine, if you can, in what a dilemma I found myself. At the end of a long quarter of an hour I heard some one on the stairs, and, through the cracks of the door, I saw the father, with a lamp in one hand, and one of his big knives in the other. Up he came, his wife after him, I behind the door: he opened it; but, before entering, he put down the lamp, which his wife took; then he entered barefoot, and she, outside, said, in a low tone, shading the light with her hand, "Softly, go softly!"

8. When he got to the laddor he mounted, holding the knife between his teeth. Approaching the head of the bed, where my poor young companion, with throat uncovered, was lying, with

one hand the monster grasped his knife, and with the other

Ah! cousin — with the other — he seized a ham, which hung from the ceiling, cut a slice, and retired as he had entered. The door closed, the lamp disappeared, and I was left alone to my reflections.

9. As soon as the day dawned, all the family came bustling to waken us, as we had requested. They brought us something to cut, and spread, I assure you, a very clean and nice breakfast. Two chickens formed part of it, of which, our hostess told us, wo were to eat one and take away the other. Seeing these, I at length comprehended the meaning of those terrible words, "Must we kill them both?" And I think you, too, cousin, will have penetration enough to guess now what they signified.

10. Cousin, I have a favor to ask: do not tell this story. In the first place, as you cannot fail to perceive, I do not play a very enviable part in it. In the next place, you will spoil it. Indeed, I do not flatter: it is that face of yours which will ruin the effect of the recital. As for myself, without vanity I may 6ay, I have just the countenance one ought to have in telling a tale of terror. Original Translation From P. L. Courier

CXIiV. — IN ROME.

1. I Am in Rome! Oft as the morning ray
Visits these eyes, waking, at once I cry,

'Whence this excess of joy! "What has befallen me1
And from within a thrilling voice replies,
Thou art in Rome! A thousand busy thoughts
Rush on my mind, a thousand images;
And I spring up as girt to run a race!

2. Thou art in Rome! the city that so long
Reigned absolute, the mistress of the world;
Thou art in Rome! the city where the Gauls,
Entering at sunrise through her open gates,
And, through her streets silent and desolate,
Marching to slay, thought they saw gods, not men;
The city that by temperance, fortitude,

And love of glory, towered above the clouds,
Then fell — but, falling, kept the highest seat,
And in her loneliness, her pomp of woo,
Where now she dwells, withdrawn into the wild,
Still o'er the mind maintains, from age to age,
Her empire undiminished.

3. There, as though

Grandeur attracted grandeur, are beheld
All things that strike, ennoble — from the depths
Of Egypt, from the classic fields of Greece,
Her groves, her temples — all things that inspire
Wonder, delight! Who would not say the forms
Most perfect, most divine, had by consent
Flocked thither to abide eternally,

Within those silent chambers where they dwell
In happy intercourse ?.

4 And I am there!

Ah! little thought I, when in school I sat,
A schoolboy on his bench, at early dawn
Glowing with Roman story, I should live
To tread the Appian, once an avenue
Of monuments most glorious, palaces,
Their doors sealed up and silent as the night,
The dwellings of the illustrious dead ; — to turn
Toward Tiber, and, beyond the city gate,
Pour out my unpremeditated verse,
Where on hie mule I might have met so oft
Horace" himself; — or climb the Palatine,"
Dreaming of old Evander" and his guest, —
Inscribe my name on some broad aloe-leaf,
That shoots and spreads within those very walls
Where Virgil" read aloud his tale divine,
Where his voice faltered, and a mother wept
Tears of delight!

5. But what a narrow space

Just underneath! In many a heap the ground
Heaves, as though Ruin in a frantic mood
Had done his utmost. Here and there appears,
As left to show his handiwork, not ours,
An idle column, a half-buried arch,
A wall of some great temple. It was once
The Forum," whence a mandate, eagle-winged,
Went to the ends of the earth. Let us descend,
Slowly. At every step much may be lost.
The very dust we tread stirs as with life;
And not the lightest breath that sends not up
Something of human grandeur. We are come,
Are now where once the mightiest spirits met
In terrible conflict; this, while Rome was free,
The noblest theatre on this side heaven!

6. Here the first Brutus" stood, — when o'er the corse
Of her so chaste all mourned, — and from his cloud
Burst like a god. Here, holding up the knife
That ran with blood, the blood of his own child,
Virginius" called down vengeance.

Here Cincinnatus" passed, his plough the while

Left in the furrow ; and how many more

Whose laurels fade not, who still walk the earth,

Consuls, dictators, still in curule" pomp

Sit and decide, and, as of old in Rome,

Name but their names, set every heart on fire!

7. Now all is changed; and here, as in the wild,
The day is silent, dreary as the night;
None stirring, save the herdsman and his herd,
Savage alike; or they that would explore,
And learnedly discuss; or they that come
(And there are many who have crossed the earth)
That they may give the hours to meditation,
And wander, often saying to themselves,
"This was the Roman Forum!" Rogeks.

CXLTI. — SELECT PASSAGES IN VERSE.

1. The Pleasures Of Hope. Campbell.

At summer eve, when Heaven's ethereal how
Spans with bright arch the glittering hills below,
Why to yon mountain turns the musing eye,
Whose sunbright summit mingles with the sky1
Why do those cliffs of shadowy tint appear
More sweet than all the landscape smiling near?
'T is distance lends enchantment to the view,
And robes the mountain in its azure hue.
Thus, with delight, we linger to survey
The promised joys of life's unmeasured way;
Thus from afar each dim-discovered scene
More pleasing seems than all the past hath been
And every form that Fancy can repair,
From dark oblivion, glows divinely there.

2. Fame. Pope.

Nor Fame I slight, nor for her favors call;

She comes unlooked for, if she comes at all.

But if the purchase cost so dear a price

As soothing Folly, or exalting Vice,

O! if the Muse" must flatter lawless sway,

And follow still where Fortune leads the way,—

Or if no basis bear my rising name,

But the fallen ruins of another's fame, —

Then teach me, Heaven! to scorn the guilty bays,"

Drive from my breast that wretched lust of praise;

Unblemished let me live, or die unknown;

O, grant an honest fame, or grant me none!

3. Death. Young.

Why start at death? Where is he? Death arrived
Is past; not come, or gone, — lie's never here!
Ere hope, sensation fails; black-boding man
Receives, not suffers, death's tremendous blow.

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