At this very moment, the confused murmur of voices and music stops all regular proceedings: old women and children tattling; apes, bears, and shew-boxes under the windows; the devil to pay in the inn; French rattling, English swearing, outrageous Italians, frisking minstrels; tambours de basque1 at every corner; myself distracted; a confounded squabble of cooks and haranguing German couriers just arrived, their masters following open mouthed; nothing to eat, the steam of ham and flesh-pots all the while provoking their appetite; Mynheers very busy with the realities, and smoking as deliberately, as if in a solitary lust-huys2 over the laziest canal in the Netherlands; squeaking chamber-maids in the galleries above, and prudish dames below, half inclined to receive the golden solicitations of certain beauties for admittance; but positively refusing them, the moment some creditable personage appears; eleven o’clock strikes; half the lights in the fair are extinguished; scruples grow less and less delicate; mammon prevails, darkness and complaisance succeed. Good night: may you sleep better than I shall!
LETTER VI
Utrecht, July 2d.
Well, thank heaven! Amsterdam is behind us: how I got thither signifies not one farthing; ’twas all along a canal, as usual. The weather was hot enough to broil an inhabitant of Bengal, and the odours, exhaling from every quarter, sufficiently powerful to regale the nose of a Hottentot.3 Under these agreeable circumstances, we entered the great city. The Stadt-huys being the only cool place it contained, I repaired thither, as fast as the heat permitted, and walked in a lofty marble hall magnificently covered, till the dinner was ready at the inn. That dispatched, we set off for Utrecht. Both sides of the way are lined with the country houses and gardens of opulent citizens, as fine as gilt statues and clipped hedges can make them. Their number is quite astonishing: from Amsterdam to Utrecht, full thirty miles, we beheld no other objects than endless avenues, and stiff parterres, scrawled and flourished in patterns, like the embroidery of an old maid’s work-bag. Notwithstanding this formal taste, I could not help admiring the neatness and arrangement of every inclosure, enlivened by a profusion of flowers, and decked with arbours, beneath which, a vast number of round, unmeaning faces were solacing themselves, after the heat of the day. Each lust-huys we passed, contained some comfortable party, dozing over their pipes, or angling in the muddy fishponds below. Scarce an avenue but swarmed with female josses; little squat pug-dogs waddling at their sides, the attributes, I suppose, of these fair divinities: – But let us leave them to loiter thus amiably in their Ælysian groves,1 and arrive at Utrecht; which, as nothing very remarkable claimed my attention, I hastily quitted, to visit a Moravian establishment at Siest, in its neighbourhood. The chapel, a large house late the habitation of Count Zinzendorf,2 and a range of apartments filled with the holy fraternity, are totally wrapped in dark groves, overgrown with weeds, amongst which some damsels were straggling, under the immediate protection of their pious brethren. Transversing the woods, we found ourselves in a large court built round with brick edifices, the grass plats in a deplorable way, and one ragged goat, their only inhabitant, on a little expiatory scheme, perhaps, for the failings of the fraternity. I left this poor animal to ruminate in solitude, and followed my guide into a series of shops furnished with gewgaws and trinkets, said to be manufactured by the female part of the society. Much cannot be boasted of their handy-works: I expressed a wish to see some of these industrious fair ones; but, upon receiving no answer, found this was a subject of which there was no discourse. Consoling myself as well as I was able, I put myself under the guidance of another slovenly disciple, who shewed me the chapel, and harangued, very pathetically, upon celestial love. In my way thither, I caught a distant glimpse of some pretty sempstresses, warbling melodious hymns, as they sat needling and thimbling at their windows above. I had a great inclination to have approached this busy group, but a roll of the brother’s eye corrected me. Reflecting upon my unworthiness, I retired from the consecrated buildings, and was driven back to Utrecht, not a little amused with my expedition. If you are as well disposed to be pleased as I was, I shall esteem myself very lucky, and not repent sending you so incorrect a narrative. I really have not time to look it over, and am growing so drowsy, that you will, I hope, pardon all its errors, when you consider that my pen writes in its sleep.
LETTER XXIII
November 8th.
This morning I awoke in the glow of sunshine; the air blew fresh and fragrant: never did I feel more elastic and enlivened. A brisker flow of spirits, than I had for many a day experienced, animated me with a desire of rambling about the shore of Baii, and creeping into caverns and subterraneous chambers. Off I set along Chaija, and up strange paths which impend over the grotto of Posilipo;3 amongst the thickets, mentioned a letter or two ago: for, in my present lively humour, I disdained ordinary roads, and would take paths and ways of my own. A society of kids did not understand what I meant, by intruding upon their precipices; and, scrambling away, scattered sand and fragments upon the good people, that were trudging along the pavement below. I went on from pine to pine, and thicket to thicket, upon the brink of rapid declivities. My conductor, a shrewd savage Sir William had recommended me, cheered our route with stories that had passed in the neighbourhood, and traditions about the grot over which we were travelling. I wish you had been of the party, and sat down by us on little smooth spots of sward, where I reclined; scarcely knowing which way caprice was leading me. My mind was full of the tales of the place, and glowed with a vehement desire of exploring the world beyond the grot. I longed to ascend the promontory of Misenus, and follow the same dusky route down which the Sybil conducted Æneas.1 With these dispositions I proceeded; and, soon, the cliffs and copses opened to views of the Baian bay, with the little isles of Niscita and Lazaretto, lifting themselves out of the waters. Procita and Ischia appeared at a distance, invested with that purple bloom so inexpressibly beautiful, and peculiar to this fortunate climate. I hailed the prospect, and blessed the transparent air, that gave me life and vigour to run down the rocks, and hie, as fast as my savage, across the plain to Puzzoli. There we took bark, and rowed out into the blue ocean, by the remains of a sturdy mole:2 many such, I imagine, adorned the bay in Roman ages, crowned by vast lengths of slender pillars; pavilions at their extremities, and taper cypresses spiring above their ballustrades: this character of villa, occurs very frequently in the paintings of Herculaneum.3 We had soon crossed over the bay, and landing on a bushy coast, near some fragments of a temple, which they say was raised to Hercules, advanced into the country by narrow tracks, covered with moss, and strewed with shining pebbles; to the right and left, broad masses of luxuriant foliage, chesnut, bay, and ilex, that shelter the ruins of columbariums and sepulchral chambers, where the dead sleep snug, amidst rampant herbage. The region was still, save when a cock crew from the hamlets; which, as well as the tombs, are almost concealed by thickets. No parties of smart Englishmen, and connoisseurs were about. I had all the land to myself, and mounted its steeps, and penetrated into its recesses, with the importance of a discoverer. What a variety of narrow paths, between banks and shades, did I wildly follow! my savage laughing loud at my odd gestures, and useless activity. He wondered I did not scrape the ground for medals, and pocket little bits of plaster, like other plausible young travellers, that had gone before me. After ascending some time, I followed him into the piscina mirabilis, the wondrous reservoir which Nero4 constructed to supply his fleet, when anchored in the neighbouring bay. ’Tis a grand labyrinth of solid vaults and pillars, as you well know; but you cannot conceive the
partial gleams of sunshine which played on the arches, nor the variety of roots and ivies trailing from the cove. A noise of trickling waters prevailed, that had almost lulled me to sleep, as I rested myself on the celandine1 which carpets the floor; but, curiosity urging me forwards, I gained the upper air; walked amongst woods a few minutes; and then, into grots and dismal excavations (prisons they call them) which began to weary me. After having gone up and down, in
this manner, for some time, we at last reached an eminence, that looked over the Mare Morto, and Elysian fields trembling with poplars. The Dead lake, a faithful emblem of eternal tranquillity, looked deep and solemn. A few peasants were passing along its margin, their shadows moving on the water: all was serene and peaceful. The meridian sun played on the distant sea. I enjoyed the pearly atmosphere, and basked in the pure beams, like an inhabitant of Elysium. Turning from the lake, I espied a rock, at about a league distant, whose summit was clad with verdure; and, finding this to be the promontory of Misenus, I immediately set my face to that quarter. We passed several dirty villages, inhabited by an ill-favoured generation, infamous for depredations and murders. Their gardens, however, discover some marks of industry; the fields are separated by neat hedges of cane, and corn seemed to flourish in the inclosures. I walked on, with slowness and deliberation; musing at every step, and stopping, ever and anon, to rest myself by springs and tufted bay trees; when insensibly we began to leave the cultivated lands behind us, and to lose ourselves in shady wilds, which, to all appearance, no mortal had ever trodden. Here, were no paths; no inclosures; a primeval rudeness characterized the whole scene.
Juvat arva videre,
Non rastris, hominum non ulli obnoxia curæ.2
The idea of going almost out of the world, soothed the tone of mind, into which, a variety of affecting recollections had thrown me. I formed conjectures about the promontory to which we were tending, and, when I cast my eyes around the savage landscape, transported myself four thousand years into antiquity, and half persuaded myself, I was one of Æneas’s companions. After forcing our way about a mile, through glades of shrubs and briars, we entered a verdant opening, at the base of the cliff which takes its name from Misenus.3 The poets of the Augustan age, would have celebrated such a meadow with the warmest raptures: they would have discovered a nymph in every flower, and detected a dryad under every tree. Doubtless, imagination never formed a lovelier prospect. Here were clear streams and grassy hillocks; leafy shrubs, and cypresses spiring out of their bosom:
Et circum irriguo surgebant lilia prato
Candida purpureis mista papaveribus.4
But, as it is not the lot of human animals to be contented, instead of reposing in the vale, I scaled the rock, and was three parts dissolved in attaining its summit; a flat spot, covered with herbage, where I lay contemplating the ocean, and fanned by its breezes. The sun darted upon my head: I wished to avoid its immediate influence; no tree was near; deep below, lay the pleasant valley; ’twas a long way to descend. Looking round and round, I spied something like a hut, under a crag, on the edge of a dark fissure. Might I avail myself of its covert? My conductor answered in the affirmative; and added, that it was inhabited by a good old woman, who never refused a cup of milk, or slice of bread, to refresh a weary traveller. Thirst and fatigue urged me speedily down an intervening slope of stunted mytle. Though oppressed with heat, I could not help deviating a few steps from the direct way, to notice the uncouth rocks which rose frowning on every quarter. Above the hut, their appearance was truly formidable: dark ivy crept among the crevices, and dwarf aloes with sharp spines, such as Lucifer himself might be supposed to have sown. Indeed, I knew not whether I was approaching some gate that leads to his abode, as I drew near a gulph (the fissure lately mentioned) and heard the hollow gusts which were imprisoned below. The savage, my guide, shuddered as he passed by, to apprize the old woman of my coming. I felt strangely, and stared around me; and but half liked my situation. To say truth, I wished myself away, and heartily regretted the green vale. In the midst of my doubts, forth tottered the old woman.
‘You are welcome,’ said she, in a feeble voice, but a better dialect, than I had heard in the neighbourhood. Her look was more humane, and she seemed of a superior race to the inhabitants of the surrounding valleys. My savage treated her with peculiar deference. She had just given him some bread, with which he retired to a respectful distance, bowing to the earth, I caught the mode, and was very obsequious, thinking myself on the point of experiencing a witch’s influence, and gaining, perhaps, some insight into the volume of futurity. She smiled at my agitation, and kept beckoning me into the cottage. Now, thought I to myself, I am upon the verge of an adventure. O Quixote!1 O Sylvio di Rosalva! how would ye have strutted in such a situation! What fair Infantas would ye not have expected to behold, condemned to spinning-wheels, and solitude? I, alas, saw nothing but clay walls, a straw bed, some glazed earthen bowls, and a wooden crucifix. My shoes were loaded with sand: this, my old hostess perceived; and, immediately kindling a fire in an inner part of the hovel, brought out some warm water to refresh my feet, and set some milk and chestnuts before me. This patriarchal politeness was by no means indifferent, after my tiresome ramble. I sat down opposite to the door which fronted the unfathomable gulph; beyond, appeared the sea, of a deep cerulean, foaming with waves. The sky also, was darkening apace with storms. Sadness came over me like a cloud, and I looked up to the old woman for consolation. ‘And you too are sorrowful, young stranger,’ said she, ‘that come from the gay world!
how must I feel, who pass year after year in these lonely mountains?’ I answered, that the weather affected me, and my spirits were exhausted by the walk. All the while I spoke, she looked at me with such a melancholy earnestness, that I asked the cause; and began again to imagine myself in some fatal habitation,
where more is meant than meets the ear.
Said she, ‘Your features are wonderfully like those of an unfortunate young person, who, in this retirement….’ the tears began to fall as she pronounced these words: she seemed older than before, and bent to the ground with sorrow. My curiosity was fired. ‘Tell me,’ continued I, ‘what you mean? who was this youth, for whom you are so interested? and why did he seclude himself in this wild region? Your kindness might no doubt alleviate, in some measure, the horrors of the place; but, may God defend me from passing the night near such a gulph! I would not trust myself in a despairing moment….’ ‘It is,’ said she, ‘a place of horrors. I tremble to relate what has happened on this very spot; but your manner interests me; and, though I am little given to narrations, for once I will unlock my lips, concerning the secrets of yonder fatal chasm. I was born in a distant part of Italy, and have known better days. In my youth, fortune smiled upon my family; but in a few years they withered away; no matter, by what accident: I am not going, however, to talk much of myself. Have patience a few moments! A series of unfortunate events reduced me to indigence, and drove me to this desert, where, from rearing goats, and making their milk into cheese, by a different method than is common in the Neopolitan state, I have, for about thirty years, prolonged a sorrowful existence. My silent grief and constant retirement, had made me appear, to some, a saint; and, to others, a sorceress. The slight knowledge I have of plants, has been exaggerated; and, some years back, the hours I gave up to prayer, and the recollection of former friends, lost to me for ever! were cruelly intruded upon, by the idle and the ignorant. But soon I sunk into obscurity: my little recipes were disregarded; and you are the first stranger, who, for these twelve months past, has visited my abode. Ah, would to God its solitude had ever remained inviolate! It is now three and twenty years’ – and she looked upon some characters cut on the planks of the cottage – ‘since I was sitting by moon-light, under that cliff you view to the right, my eyes fixed on the ocean; my mind lost in the memory of my misfortunes; when I heard a step, and starting up, a figure stood before me. It was a young man, in a rich habit, with streaming hair, and looks, that bespoke the utmost terror. I knew not what to think of this sudden apparition. ‘Mother,’ said he, with faultering accents, ‘let me rest under your roof; and deliver me not up to those, who thirst after my blood. Take this gold; take all, all! Surprize held me speechless; the purse fell to the ground; the youth stared wildly on every side: I heard many voices beyond the rocks; the wind bore them distinctly; but, presently, they died away. I took courage, and assured the youth, my c
ot should shelter him. ‘O! thank you; thank you!’ answered he, and pressed my
hand. He shared my scanty provision. Overcome with toil (for I had worked hard in the day) sleep closed my eyes for a short interval. When I awoke, the moon was set, but I heard my unhappy guest sobbing in darkness. I disturbed him not. Morning dawned, and he was fallen into a slumber. The tears bubbled out of his closed eye-lids, and coursed one another down his wan cheeks. I had been too wretched myself, not to respect the sorrows of another: neglecting therefore my accustomed occupations, I drove away the flies that buzzed around his temples. His breast heaved high with sighs, and he cried loudly in his sleep, for mercy. The beams of sun dispelling his dream, he started up like one that had heard the voice of an avenging angel, and hid his face with his hands. I poured some milk down his parched throat. ‘Oh mother!’ did he exclaim, ‘I am a wretch unworthy of compassion; the cause of innumerable sufferings; a murderer! a parricide!’ My blood curdled to hear a stripling utter such dreadful words, and behold such agonizing sighs swell in so young a bosom: for I marked the sting of conscience, urging him to disclose, what I am going to relate. It seems he was of high extraction, nursed in the pomps and luxuries of Naples, the pride and darling of his parents, adorned with a thousand lively talents, which the keenest sensibility conspired to improve. Unable to fix any bounds to whatever became the object of his desires, he passed his first years in roving from one extravagance to another; but, as yet, there was no crime in his caprices. At length, it pleased Heaven to visit his family, and make their idol the slave of an unworthy assion. He had a friend who from his birth had been devoted to his interest and placed all his confidence in him. This friend loved to distraction a young creature, the most graceful of her sex (as I can witness); and she returned his affection. In the exultation of his heart, he shewed her to the wretch, whose tale I am about to tell. He sickened at her sight. She too, caught fire at his glances. They languished; they consumed away, they conversed, and his persuasive language finished, what his guilty glances had begun. Their flame was soon discovered; for he disdained to conceal a thought, however dishon-ourable. The parents warned the youth in the tenderest manner; but advice and prudent counsels were to him so loathsome, that, unable to contain his rage, and infatuated with love, he menaced the life of his friend, as the obstacle of his enjoyment. Coolness and moderation were opposed to violence and frenzy, and he found himself treated with a contemptuous gentleness. Stricken to the heart, he wandered about for some time, like one intranced. Meanwhile the nuptials were preparing, and the lovely girl he had perverted, found ways to let him know, she was about to be torn from his embraces. He raved; and, rousing his dire spirit, applied to a malignant daemon, who sold the most inveterate poisons. These he presented, like a cup of pure iced water, to his friend; and, to his own affectionate father. They drank the draught, and soon began to pine. He marked the progress of their dissolution with a horrid firmness. He let the moment pass, beyond which all antidotes were vain. His friend expired; and the young criminal, though he beheld the dews of death hang on his parent’s forehead, yet stretched not forth his hand. In a short space, the miserable father breathed his last, whilst
Vathek and Other Stories Page 34
