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diff --git a/old/60193-0.txt b/old/60193-0.txt deleted file mode 100644 index a06b8af..0000000 --- a/old/60193-0.txt +++ /dev/null @@ -1,2702 +0,0 @@ -The Project Gutenberg EBook of Vignettes, by Hubert Crackanthorpe - -This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most -other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions -whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of -the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at -www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you'll have -to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this ebook. - -Title: Vignettes - A Miniature Journal of Whim and Sentiment - -Author: Hubert Crackanthorpe - -Release Date: August 29, 2019 [EBook #60193] - -Language: English - -Character set encoding: UTF-8 - -*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK VIGNETTES *** - - - - -Produced by Richard Tonsing, hekula03, and the Online -Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This -book was produced from images made available by the -HathiTrust Digital Library.) - - - - - - - - - - Vignettes - - A Miniature Journal of Whim and Sentiment - - - By Hubert Crackanthorpe - - - John Lane - The Bodley Head - London and New York - 1896 - - - - - _The pursuit of experience is the refuge of the unimaginative._ - -[Sidenote: CONTENTS] - - - - - CONTENTS - - - PAGE - - _At Villeneuve-lès-Avignon_ 1 - - _Ascension day at Arles_ 6 - - _Spring in Béarn_ 9 - - _In the long grass_ 10 - - _Pau_ 11 - - _Castelsarrasin_ 13 - - _In the Basque country_ 15 - - _In the Landes_ 16 - - _Cette_ 18 - - _On Chelsea Embankment_ 19 - - _Pleasant Court_ 20 - - _The five sister pansies_ 23 - - _Our Lady of the Lane_ 24 - - _On the coast of Calvados_ 26 - - _In Normandy_ 27 - - _Paris in October_ 28 - - _La Côte d’Or from the train_ 29 - - _Lausanne_ 29 - - _Old Marseilles at Midday_ 30 - - _Monte Carlo_ 32 - - _At the Certosa di Val d’Ema_ 33 - - _Morning at Castello_ 36 - - _In the Campo Santo at Perugia_ 37 - - _Naples in November_:— - - _Late afternoon in the Strada del Chiaja_ 39 - - _From Posilipo_ 39 - - _In the Strada del Porto_ 40 - - _Moonlight_ 41 - - _At the Theatre Manzoni_ 42 - - _Pompeii_ 45 - - _In the Bay of Salerno_ 46 - - _Seville Dancing girls_ 47 - - _Sunrise_ 49 - - _Off Cape Trafalgar_ 50 - - _Rêverie_ 51 - - _In Richmond Park_ 52 - - _New Year’s Eve_ 53 - - _In St. James’ Park_ 55 - - _In the Strand_ 55 - - _Sunday afternoon_ 56 - - _Rêverie_ 57 - - _Enfantillage_ 62 - - - - - Vignettes - - - - -[Sidenote: AT VILLENEUVE-LÈS AVIGNON - April 23] - - -On the roof of the ruined church we lay, basking amid the hot, powdery -heather; the cinder-coloured roofs of the town flattened out beneath -us—a ragged patch of dead, decayed colour, burnt, as it seemed, out of -the rank, luscious green of the Rhône valley. Overhead, a thick, blue -sky hung heavy, and away and away, into the steamy haze of midday heat, -filtered the Tarascon road, a streak of dazzling white. To the east, the -sun was beating on the sandy slopes; to the west, the old Papal palace, -like a great, grey, sleeping beast, lifted its long, bare back above the -roofs of Avignon. - -The lizards scurried from cranny to cranny across the crumbling wall. -Below, in the cloister, a cat was curled by a black stack of brushwood. -The little _place_ stood empty, and stillness seemed to have fallen over -all things. - -The warmth lulled one to a delicious torpor. I was thinking of the -bustling Regent Street pavement, of the rumble of Piccadilly, of -newsboys yelling special editions in the Strand, drowsily conjuring up -these and other commonplace contrasts. - -Then Jeanne-Marie Latou began to speak. She sat between us, with her -legs hunched under her coarse, colourless skirt, and some stray wisps of -hair looking dingily yellow against the clean white of her _coiffe_. As -she talked, her brown skin puckered oddly about her tiny, shrunken eyes, -and her hands—browned also and squat—clasped themselves around her -knees. It was not often that Jeanne-Marie Latou spoke French; her -vocabulary was quite simple and limited, and every now and then, with an -impatient shake of her head, she would break out into _patois_. - -She was telling us of her nephew in Tunis—“_Un pays où on ne voit que -des sauvages_”—and of the sweetheart he had left behind at Barbentane; -repeating by heart, one after another, his queer, bald, little -letters—how he had been kicked by his horse (he was a _spahi_; “_zouave -à cheval_” she called it), and had been sick ten days in the hospital; -and how, without telling anyone, she had scraped together a hundred sous -to send out to him. Somehow, irresistibly, while she chattered, I seemed -to see that soldier nephew of hers—broad and straight and bronzed, his -fez stuck jauntily on the back of his head, noisily _noçant avec des -camarades_ with those hundred sous, which old Tante Latou had sent out -to him. - -By-and-bye, she related her journey to Valence, in the time when she had -worked as a cherry-packer for Madame Charbonnier in the Rue -Joseph-Vernet, insisting with comical, energetic wrinklings of her -forehead on her contempt for the _jargon de l’Ardèche_.... She had been -to Marseilles, too, last year—that was a great journey—eighteen of them -had gone from Villeneuve, “_femmes et filles et trois garçons, dans un -train ‘ambulant’—quatre francs et douze sous, aller et retour .... -Marseilles, vous savez_,” Jeanne-Marie Latou reiterated, “_c’est quelque -chose ... c’est quelque chose ... c’est quelque chose ... enfin, c’est -la plus jolie ville que j’ai trouvée_.” - -Afterwards, starting to recall bygone times, she described the breaking -up of the _Chartreuse_ in _quatre-vingt douze_, and the selling of the -whole building by auction in the little _place_, there, below us (not -for money—no one in the _pays_ had any money in those days—but for -_assignats_), and, Jeanne-Marie Latou explained, “_Ceux qui avaient peur -n’en prenaient pas, et ceux qui n’avaient pas peur en prenaient_.” And -her father, who had been a stone-worker, over there at Les Angles, had -bid _douze cents francs d’assignats_ for the house where the -_supérieure_ had lived—_douze cents francs d’assignats_ which no one had -ever asked him to pay. There Jeanne-Marie Latou had always -lived—seventy-seven years, it was now, as near as she could -remember—she, and her husband who had been dead these twenty-three -years. She could remember the time when the frescoes on the cloister -walls were bright and beautiful, and no grass grew between the flags. -Yes, she had seen all the other houses pass from family to family; there -were six of them now who had the right to use the old church as a barn, -“_ma foi, elle est bien grande, l’église_,” Jeanne-Marie Latou -concluded, smiling knowingly at us, “_Mais, quand même, ils se chicanent -toujours._”... - -And with that, she rose slowly and bid us good-bye, and wished us good -health, toddling grotesquely away down the steps. - -After she had gone, we stayed a long while up on the hot roof, watching -the dark shadows creep from under the broken bridge across the rippling -Rhône, as it swept past towards the sea. And I wondered more drowsily -than ever concerning old Jeanne-Marie Latou, and her soldier nephew, -with the _spahis_, away over there in Tunis, and that great journey of -hers to Marseilles—eighteen of them from the dead little town below, -“_femmes et filles et trois garçons, dans un train ‘ambulant’—quatre -francs et douze sous, aller et retour_.” - - - - -[Sidenote: ASCENSION DAY AT ARLES] - - -The population pours out from mass, flooding every crooked -street—rubicund peasants in starched Sunday blouses; olive-skinned, -Greek-featured _Arlésiennes_ in quaint, lace head-dresses; strutting -_petits messieurs en chapeau rond_ and tight-fitting _complets_; -shouting shoals of boys; zouaves, indolent and superb, in flowing red -knickerbockers, white spats, and jauntily-poised fez. - -A bleating of lambs, plaintive, incessant and dirge-like, fills the -_Place du Forum_; heaped over the gravel they lie, their legs tied under -their bellies, and their skinny necks helplessly outstretched: and -beyond, the great, green umbrellas of a regiment of wrinkled -beldams—fruit-sellers encamped in rows before their baskets.... A -strange complication of odours—of cheese, of fish and of flowers—floats -in the air: at every alley-corner some auctioneer stands -posted—shouting, perspiring vendors of knives, pocket-books, -glass-cutters, chromo-lithographs, cement, songs, _sabots_. An old -top-hatted Jew nasally vaunts a wine-testing fluid, and tells horrible -and interminable tales of vintages manufactured from decayed dates, from -vinegar and sugar, or from plaster-of-Paris; a travelling pedicure -operates on the box-seat of a gorgeously-painted van, to the -accompaniment of a big drum and clashing cymbals; the inevitable strong -man defiantly challenges the crowd to split a flag-stone across his -bare, hirsute chest; and a blind-folded fortune-telling wench chaunts -with mechanical shamelessness the young men’s amorous indiscretions. - -Outside the town, the boulevard is gay with the glitter of pedlars’ -wares, and flapping, gaudy stuffs, red, green and yellow and blue; -travelling showmen are bustling with final preparations, hammering -together their skeleton booths, or unfolding gaunt rolls of battered -canvas; the steam-orchestra of a _Grand Musée fin de siècle_ bellows -from its rows of brass-mouthed trumpets a deafening, wheezy tune; and -everywhere, beneath the tunnel of pale green plane-trees, a thick, -drifting tide of men and women. - - - - -[Sidenote: SPRING IN BÉARN - May 1] - - -Of a sudden it seems to have come—the poplars fluttering their golden -green; the fruit-trees tricked out in fête-day frocks of frail -snow-white; the hoary oaks uncurling their baby leaves; and the lanes -all littered with golden broom.... - -The blue flax sways like a sensitive sea; the violets peep from amid the -moss; beneath every hedgerow the primroses cluster; and the rivulets -tinkle their shrill, glad songs.... - -Dense levies of orchises empurple the meadows, where the butterflies -hasten their wavering flight; the sunlight breathes through the -pale-leafed woods; and the air is sweet with the scent of the spring, -and loud with the humming of wings.... - - * * * * * - -It lasts but a week—a fleeting mood of dainty gaiety; a quick discarding -of the brown shabbiness of winter for a smiling array of white and gold, -fresh-green, and turquoise-blue.... - -And then, it has flitted, and through the long, parched months -relentlessly blazes the summer sun. - - - - -[Sidenote: IN THE LONG GRASS - May 13] - - -A mysterious, impenetrable jungle of green stems, quivering with the -play of a myriad baby shadows. A close crowd of flowers—naïve-faced, -white-cheeked daisies; buttercups, glistening gold; dandelions like -ragged medallions; stubbly bearded thistles; sleek-stalked orchises, -white, and mauve, and purple; corpulent, heavy-leafed clover, and skinny -ragged robin. And, topping them all, the languidly nodding heads of a -thousand seeded grasses, and the dishevelled crests of the red -sorrel.... - -A ceaseless humming of wings—deep-toned and solemn, cheerily bustling, -high-pitched and idle.... - -Hidden in the green-stemmed jungle, a world of creatures silently -busy—hurrying ants; heavy, gray cockchafers, drowsily lumbering; tiny, -red spiders, fidgeting from blade to blade; grasshoppers, with their -great sensitive eyes, humanly expressive; shiny, black beasts, wriggling -their scuttling bodies; fierce-looking flying things, their vivid red -bodies, now poised motionless, now darting capriciously to and fro. - -One after another they come for a peep at me. A pair of blue-bottles, -chasing one another, dash past; a furry bee chaunts lustily as he -bustles from flower to flower; and dark, evil-looking flies hover, -hanging their long, sneaking legs.... - - - - -[Sidenote: PAU - May 14] - - -I went there again to-day; but I did not see her. It is a year now since -I met her, sitting alone before her basket, in a corner of the deserted -square. Her face was tanned deep russet, and wrinkled to a tragic -listlessness; she had eyebrows white as clean linen, and full-veined, -tremulous hands. When I first spoke to her, I did not know that she was -blind. She pulled some handkerchiefs from her basket, and offered them -to me in a quavering, far-away voice, explaining that she had hemmed -them herself; for she had been brought up as a _couturière_. I asked her -how long she had been blind:— - -“It is forty-eight years since I saw anything, _monsieur_. When I was -young I had a great trouble.... For eighteen months I wept, and when I -went back to work, my eyes were worn out, and I could see no more.... It -is forty-eight years now, _monsieur_, since I saw anything.... -_Heureusement, il n’y en a plus pour longtemps ... ce sera bientôt -fini...._” - -She spoke simply, and with quiet dignity; though I could see that she -was crying a little, as she fingered her handkerchiefs with her -full-veined, tremulous hands. - - - - -[Sidenote: CASTELSARRASIN - May 17] - - -From afar off, high against the sky, we could see the ragged line of its -roofs, like an ancient, tattered crest along the back of a precipitous, -inaccessible-looking hill. - -To reach it we waded the Luys de France, with the water swishing under -our horses’ bellies, and climbed a mule-track, tight-paved with cobbles, -waywardly winding beneath the contorted limbs of leafy, Spanish -chestnuts. The track led us around the outside of the village, close -under the shadow of its houses—discoloured-yellow and musty-white, -fissured and bestained, battered and starved, till everywhere their -bones protruded, bulging, bursting beams. - -Low, sloping roofs, moss-grown, the colour of old gold, over-lapped the -walls, like huge, ill-fitting caps; shading row upon row of wooden -balconies, filled with a decrepid multitude of things, which, it seemed, -could never have been new—broken earthenware pots; rickety rush-bottomed -chairs; strips of old linen; worn-out bass brooms; stacks of dead -branches.... - -Two geese, a yellow dog, and a little black pig had the village street -all to themselves. The clock on the tower of the whitewashed church -pointed half-past ten, though the twilight had not yet come. And our -horses’ hoofs clattered, almost brutally, past the dank-smelling, -mud-floored rooms, and the cracked, worm-eaten shutters, wearily moaning -with the dull fatigue of stiff-jointed old age. - -Toiling up the hill, on the other side, we met a crooked old woman, -barefooted, clad in a single frayed shirt, carrying a truss of sainfoin -on her head. - -“_Adechats_,” she mumbled mechanically, and toiled on barefooted up the -stony path, steadying the truss of sainfoin with both hands.... - - - - -[Sidenote: IN THE BASQUE COUNTRY - May 23] - - -All day an intense impression of lusty sunlight, of quivering -golden-green ... a long, white road that dazzles, between its rustling -dark-green walls; blue brawling rivers; swelling upland meadows, -flower-thronged, luscious with tall, cool grass; the shepherd’s -thin-toned pipe; the ragged flocks, blocking the road, cropping at the -hedge-rows as they hurry on towards the mountains; the slow, straining -teams of jangling mules—wine-carriers coming from Spain; through dank, -cobbled village streets, where the pigs pant their bellies in the -roadway, and the sandal-makers flatten the hemp before their doors; and -then, out again into the lusty sunlight, along the straight, powdery -road that dazzles ahead interminably towards a mysterious, hazy horizon, -where the land melts into the sky.... - -And, at last, the cool evening scents; soft shadows stealing beneath the -still, silent oaks; and, all at once, a sight of the great -snow-mountains, vague, phantasmagoric, like a mirage in the sky; and of -the hills, all indigo, rippling towards a pale sunset of liquid gold. - - * * * * * - - - - -[Sidenote: IN THE LANDES - May 27] - - -Since sunrise I had been travelling—along the straight-stretching roads, -white with summer sand, interminably striped by the shadows of the -poplars; across the great, parched plain, where, all the day’s length, -the heat dances over the waste land, and the cattle bells float their -far-away tinkling; through the desolate villages, empty but for the -beldames, hunched in the doorways, pulling the flax with horny, -tremulous fingers; and on towards the desolate silence of the flowerless -pine-forests.... - -And there the night fell. The sun went down unseen; a dim flickering -ruddled the host of tree trunks; and the darkness started to drift -through the forest. The road grew narrow as a footpath, and the mare -slackening her pace, uneasily strained her white neck ahead. - -Out of the darkness a figure sprang beside me. A shout rang out—words of -an uncouth _patois_ that I did not understand. And the mare, terrified, -galloped forward, snorting, and swerving from side to side.... - -And a strange, superstitious fear crept over me—a dreamy dread of the -future; a helpless presentiment of evil days to come; a sense, too, of -the ruthless nullity of life, of the futile deception of effort, of -bitter revolt against the extinction of death, a yearning after faith in -a vague survival beyond.... - -And the words of the old proverb returned to me mockingly:— - - “The eye is not satisfied with seeing, - nor the ear with hearing.” - - - - -[Sidenote: CETTE - June 5, Midday] - - -A pure stretch of sky; a flat sweep of sea; cobalt-blue, rich and -opaque, pervading all things. In the harbour, battered, blue-painted -barges, their decks loaded with oranges; bargemen in blue blouses, -asleep across the glaring pavement; and along the quay, indefinitely, as -far as the eye can reach, row upon row of barrels, repeating from their -up-turned ends the same stifling note of colour.... The sea licks the -jetty wall, lazily, rhythmically: everywhere a sensation of listless -oppression, of lifeless torpor.... - - - - -[Sidenote: ON CHELSEA EMBANKMENT - June 26] - - -I have sat there, and seen the winter days finish their short-spanned -lives, and all the globes of light, crimson, emerald, and pallid yellow, -start, one by one, out of the russet fog that creeps up the river. - -But I like the place best on these hot summer nights, when the sky hangs -thick with stifled colour, and the stars shine small and shyly, for then -the pulse of the city is hushed, and the scales of the water flicker -golden and oily under the watching regiment of lamps. The bridge clasps -its gaunt arms tight from bank to bank, and the shuffle of a retreating -figure sounds loud and alone in the quiet.... - -There, if you wait long enough, you may hear the long wail of the siren, -that seems to tell of the anguish of London, till a train hurries to -throttle its dying note, roaring and rushing, thundering and blazing -through the night, tossing its white crest of smoke, charging across the -bridge, into the dark country beyond.... - - - - -[Sidenote: PLEASANT COURT - June 28] - - -It is known only to the inhabitants of the quarter. To find it, you must -penetrate a winding passage, wedged between high walls of dismal brick. -Turn to the right by the blue-lettered advertisement of Kop’s Ale, and -again to the left through the two posts, and you come to Pleasant-court. -And when you are there, you can go no farther; for at the far end there -is no way out. - -There are thirteen houses in Pleasant-court—seven on the one side, and -six on the other. They are alike, every one; low-walled as country -cottages; built of blackish brick, with a six-foot plot before each, and -slate roofs that glimmer wanly on the wet, winter mornings. - -But winter is not the season to see Pleasant-court at its best. The -drain-sluice is always getting choked, so that pools of mud and brown -water loiter near the rickety fence that flanks each six-foot enclosure; -and, at Christmas-time, “most everyone is a bit out,” and young Hyams in -the Walworth-road stacks half his back shop with furniture from -Pleasant-court; and all day long the children of the lodger at No. 5 -never stop squalling with chapped faces, and the “Lowser’s” wife makes -much commotion at nights, threatening to “settle” her husband, and -sending her four children to clatter about the pavement. - -In the summer, however, everyone smartens up, and by the time that -sultry June days have come, Pleasant-court attempts a rural air. On the -left-hand side a jaded creeper pushes its grimy greenery under the -windows; some of the grass plots grow quite bushy with tough, wizened -stalks; and the geranium pots at No. 7 strike flaming specks of -vermilion. - -Last March the “Lowser” and his wife and his four children moved over to -Southwark; the lodger at No. 5 is in work again; and now the quiet of -seclusion is restored to Pleasant-court. - -The children sprawl the afternoon through on the hot alley floor; Mrs. -Hodgkiss hangs her washing to bulge and flap across the court, like a -line of white banners; and on the airless evenings, the women, limp, -with their straggling hair, and loose, bedraggled skirts, lean their -bare, fleshy elbows over the fence, lingering to gossip before they go -to dinner. - -And on Saturday nights, the inhabitants of Pleasant-court troop out to -join the rumble and the rattle of the Walworth-road, and to swell the -life that shuffles down its pavement, past the flaring naphtha lights, -the stall-keepers bawling in the gutter, and every shop ablaze with -gross jets of gas. - - - - -[Sidenote: THE FIVE SISTER PANSIES - August 19] - - -These are their names—Carlotta, Lubella, Belinda, Aminta, Clarissa. By -the old bowling-green they stand, a little pompously perhaps, with a -slight superfluity of dignity, conscious of their own full, comely -contours—a courtly group of rotund dames. Heavy Carlotta, the eldest, -lover of blatant luxury, overblown, middle-aged, in her gown of rich -magenta, all embroidered with tawdry gilt; Lubella, wearing portly -velvet of dark purple, sensual, indolent, insolent as an empress of old, -gleaming her thin, yellow eye; insignificant Belinda, bedecked in silly, -sentimental mauve, all for dallying with the facile gossip of -galanterie, gushing, giggling, gullible; unsophisticated Aminta, with -tresses of flaming gold, amiable and obvious as a common stage heroine; -and Clarissa, the youngest, slyly smirking the while, above her frock of -milk-white innocence. - - - - -[Sidenote: OUR LADY OF THE LANE - Sept. 17] - - -Whenever the London sun touches the small, dusky shops with a jumble of -begrimed colour—the old gold and scarlet of hanging meat; the metallic -green of mature cabbages; the wavering russet of piled potatoes; the -sharp white of fly-bills, pasted all awry—then the moment to see her is -come. You will find her, bareheaded and touzled; her dingy, peaked shawl -hanging down her back, and in front the bellying expanse of her soiled -apron; blocking the pavement; established by her own corner of the Lane, -all littered with the cries of children, and the fitful throbbing of the -asphalte beneath the hollow hammering of hoofs. - -She carries always a baby by her breast; her bare forearms are as bulky -as any man’s; in her eyes is a froward scowl; and, when she laughs, it -is with a harsh, strident gaiety. But she never fails to wear her -squalid portliness with a robust and defiant dignity, that makes her -figure definitely symbolic of Cockney maternity. - - - - -[Sidenote: ON THE COAST OF CALVADOS - Sept. 26] - - -The leaden sea plashed her indolent rhythm: all along the lonely shore -the orchards stood motionless, sombre, metallic-looking in the lifeless, -thunder-charged air; and amid a rugged flare of smoky flame, the sun -went down in the West. - -A baby breeze rustled past, fleeing before the distant storm: then, all -grew still again, while, across the horizon, a quiet rift broke, -revealing a long, lurid line of fantastic coast—mysterious, desolate -valleys, and ragged towering cliffs. - -The leaden sea plashed her indolent rhythm; and the bleak bulk of a -steamer, pitching in the offing, moved like a beast in distress. - -And once again, fresh and cool, carrying the scent of the storm, the -breeze came fleeing, trailing an inky stain over the sea; and across the -West there defiled a vague squadron of gigantic pillars of rain. - -The parched trees swayed their boughs, uneasily whispering; and, of a -sudden, wrapping all things in a dense shroud of dark-grey mist, -clattered the ponderous rain. - -And overhead, on, through the growing night, the white, jagged flashes -of lightning, and the frenzied flight of the screaming wind, and the -dull booming of thunder told of the great, distant battle of the clouds. - - - - -[Sidenote: IN NORMANDY - Sept. 30] - - -A mauve sky, all subtle; a discreet rusticity, daintily modern, -femininely delicate; a whole finikin arrangement of trim trees, of -rectangular orchards, of tiny, spruce houses, tall-roofed and -pink-faced, with white shutters demurely closed. Here and there a prim -farmyard; a squat church-spire; and bloused peasants jogging behind -rotund white horses, along a straight and gleaming road. In all the -landscape no trace of the slovenly profusion of the picturesque; but -rather a distinguished reticence of detail, fresh, coquettish, almost -dapper. - - - - -[Sidenote: PARIS IN OCTOBER - October 4] - - -Paris in October—all white and a-glitter under a cold, sparkling sky, -and the trees of the boulevards trembling their frail, russet leaves; -garish, petulant Paris; complacently content with her sauntering crowds, -her monotonous arrangements in pink and white and blue; ever busied with -her own publicity, her tiresome, obvious vice, and her parochial -modernity coquetting with cosmopolitanism.... - - - - -[Sidenote: LA CÔTE D’OR FROM THE TRAIN - October 6] - - -Strips of ruddy earth: poplars flecked with gold, and vineyards with -autumn red; the dark, sleek Saône; and beyond, the pale green plain, -spacious and smooth, stretching away and away towards the blue haze that -wraps the Côte d’Or, hesitating and soft as the lines of a woman’s body. - -The sun sets, trailing a wash of pale, watery gold; torn, inky clouds -spatter the sky; sombre shadows fill the acacia-groves; and on, on, -pounds the train, untiring, rhythmically throbbing. - - - - -[Sidenote: LAUSANNE - October 7] - - - “_Tout paysage est un état d’âme._” - -Often must Amiel, who lived his life on the shores of this great lake, -have brooded over her moods. Deep-blue, she lies plunged in silent -meditation; wrapped in the opal-tinted mists of evening, she dreams the -vague, glad dreams of fancy; now she smiles, she laughs even, as little -ripples, all gilded by the sun-rays, trip across her surface; she has -her grey days of gloom, and her dark days of despair: she has also her -_jours de fête_, and her _jours de grande toilette_, under a sky -heavy-loaded with blue: often, in the moonlight, she lies white, -tranquil, statuesque, like a beautiful, sleeping woman: at times her -humour is bewilderingly capricious; the fleeting, furious rages of a -spoilt child sweep across her; or, ink-coloured, she sulks during long -hours, sullenly wrathful. - - - - -[Sidenote: OLD MARSEILLES AT MIDDAY - October 10] - - -Up every staircase-street—dark crevasses, pinched between tall, peeling -cliffs; along the quay, flaunting, tattered, brawling colours, sweating -and swarming with noisy life—negroes, Chinamen, Arabs, Lascars, -Italians, Greeks—the angry hum of a thousand tongues and the clatter of -straining mules.... At midday, when all the smooth stone pavement lies -bathed in lusty sunshine, you may feel the pulse of old Marseilles -quicken to fever-heat its turbulent throbbing.... - -Across the sea, polished as a pool of molten metal, the Southern sun -strews his golden highway; the frail forest of masts stiffens, congealed -like a fine etched pattern; side by side lie the herds of steamers, -silent, drowsy, vermilion-bellied beasts; and over there, to the left, -high above the city, the slim silhouette of Notre-Dame de la Garde shows -a glimmer of dusky gilt.... - -Oh! for the crude crowd of blatant hues and the flood of fierce vitality -that belong to old Marseilles at midday! - - - - -[Sidenote: MONTE CARLO - October 15] - - -High, beneath the lofty dome of sullen sky, like a great white globe of -electric light, the full moon hangs; beyond the bay, the twinkling -lights of Monaco are dropping long golden tears into the sea: no breath -of breeze to sway the black drooping palms; only the full, solemn phrase -of Gounod’s “Ave Maria,” slowly recurring to linger in the still, grave -air of the night.... - -The moonbeams spangle with silver the twin minarets of the temple of -Chance; and stately officials swing back its portals to meet the silent -tide of worshippers that ceaselessly ebbs and flows, blackening the -broad flight of marble steps. - -Within, through the great marble vestibule, where the shuffle of feet -rings hollow, they hurry to huddle around the bright green shrines of -the goddess, to await, with tense, yellow faces, the unflagging tide of -her relentless caprices. - - - - -[Sidenote: AT THE CERTOSA DI VAL D’EMA - October 20] - - -I sat on the terrace of the old palace, waiting for the coming of the -rain-clouds. The sunshine was gone, and with it the city’s witty -sparkle; the sirocco’s breath puffed warm and moist; and Florence, all -ruddled and sullen, lay chaunting her ponderous notes of bronze. - -Below, knee-deep in the yellow, straggling stream, a fisherman swayed -his net, slowly straining the supple framework; and while I watched him, -of a sudden, a fitful longing to see the place again laid hold of me—to -see it, just as it had been last year, on that mellow September -afternoon, all garnished with soft light, all fragrant with coquettish -simplicity and pleasant, prosperous peace. And soon, as the sky -darkened, and the rain-clouds—a sombre, swelling herd—gathered above the -cypresses of San Miniato, I seemed to hear the organ’s stately roll, and -to perceive, through the obscurity of the half-darkened chapel, a -crowding circle of white-robed figures. The chaunt of the church bells -beat the air: all else seemed stilled—love and the quickening joy of -life—and with a sort of childish inconsequence, bred perhaps of the -curious, literary habit, I fell to envying them a little—those tall, -white-robed fathers—their miniature rows of monkish gardens, and their -solitary pacings beneath the pale-lemon cloisters.... - -So I started to go there, rattling through the dust in the face of the -coming storm. By the roadside, the grey olives matched the sky; all -around, the vines hung delicately dying, drooping in tired curves their -fragile garlands of pallid-gold leaves; and here and there peeped specks -of scarlet, like lingering traces of some bygone _fête_. - -But, before we had climbed the hill, the rain came—a deliberate prelude -of monstrous drops; and a veil, as of grey gauze, blurred the -white-faced villas peopling the hill-sides, and changed the cypresses to -dim, spiky sentinels.... - -It was Brother Agostino who came to the gate, greeting me, so I fancied, -with a quick smile of recognition; then, before the groups of noisy -village youths and raffish, Florentine cabmen, who encumbered the -corridor, his features dropped back to the patient vacancy of habitual -fatigue. - -Over the tiled floor of the cloister-court rattled the dance of the -rain; the great well, over-grown with rank grass, wore a forlorn, -decrepit air; and a musty scent, as of approaching decay, floated over -the vast garden. - -In the chapel, a band of blatant Americans joined us, listening -complacently to Brother Agostino’s perfunctory explanations concerning -the frescoes, the stained-glass windows, the exquisite tomb of the -monastery’s founder. - -And the place seemed all changed: its fine distinction was gone: the old -Certosa exposed to the hurried gaze of every passing tourist; and -stern-faced Brother Agostino, footsore and weary, degraded to the _rôle_ -of a common, obsequious guide. - - * * * * * - - - - -[Sidenote: MORNING AT CASTELLO - October 30] - - -The morning’s breath tastes cool and clean. The distant hills seem yet -asleep, tranquil and dark—a long, low, wavering wall. Above the plain -floats a lingering, pearly film, and the air grows busy with a vague -rumour of awakening life—the rumble of wheels, the cracking of whips, -the plaintive whistling of far-off trains.... - -On its way to Florence the early train swings by; hordes of -brown-skinned, barefooted children sprawl noisily along all the street; -the men lean idly watching the ceaseless tale of lean _barrocci_, -lumbering, jolting over the crooked flags; and before every open doorway -the women group their chairs, to sit at their straw-plaiting the long -day through.... - -Beyond, across the dusty-green of countless olives, you can see the -glittering roofs of Florence, the _Duomo’s_ burly dome, and the pale -outline of Giotto’s tower; but it is rather the sense of old-world -slowness, the continual accumulation of friendly, trivial incident, that -makes the intimate charm of this suburban street.... - - - - -[Sidenote: IN THE CAMPO SANTO AT PERUGIA - November 1] - - -The young moon hangs amid a steely sky; the land, empty and darkening, -rolls like a billowing sea towards the Western orange glow; and high -behind us the tall hill lifts Perugia’s ragged silhouette. - -Down the steep road they came—grave _bourgeois_; bands of brown-faced -youths, chewing thin cigars; aged peasant-women, with faded, wrinkled -eyes; chattering country-girls, gaudy handkerchiefs around their hair; -toddling children; uncouth men from the mountains, sullenly wrapped in -fur-trimmed cloaks, while, posted in rows on either side, the crippled -beggars offer their dusty hats, and whine for charity in the Virgin’s -name. - -Before the red gate of the Campo Santo the crowd surges; within, every -alley is black with the press of people. It is the day of the dead. To -visit the dead all the town is come. - -... The pale specks of a myriad, tiny lamps; the glow of garlands -against the crowding slabs of snow-white marble, that mark the -children’s graves; the glitter of every small, spruce mortuary chapel; -and the glad scent of freshly-scattered flowers.... - -Death loses its squalor; and becomes something demure, sociable, almost -gay.... - - - - -[Sidenote: NAPLES IN NOVEMBER - _Late afternoon in the Strada del Chiaja_ - November 9] - - -Up the squalid, ill-paved street, lumber the great landaus—an -interminable, toiling stream, carrying home from the _corso_ the morose, -sallow-faced ladies of the Neapolitan nobility, and crushing on either -side the hedge of gaping hobbledehoys that line the niggardly pavement. - - -[Sidenote: _From Posilipo_ - Nov. 12] - -Heaped beneath us all Naples, white and motionless in the silent blaze -of the midday sun; circling the bay, still and smooth and blue as the -sky above, a misty line of white villages; dark, velvety shadows draping -the hills; on the horizon, rising abruptly, Capri’s notched -silhouette—_tout semble suer la beauté—la bonne et franche beauté -criarde des pays chauds européens_. - - * * * * * - - -[Sidenote: _In the Strada del Porto_ - Nov. 12] - -A strip of treacherous pavement slimy with garbage; the wan flicker of -foul lanterns, vaguely revealing the black shapes of sail-like awnings -above a network of mysterious masts; and the sodden, continuous uproar -of a reeking crowd—hawkers of fruit, of fish, of assorted -cigar-ends—fiercely clamouring together in the darkness.... - -By-and-bye, through the obscurity, peers the glossy vermilion of piled -capsicums, the scarlet sparkle of bleeding pomegranates, and the hard -flashing of scattered, silvery sardines. Here and there, behind a -chestnut-brazier that shoots long, licking tongues of ruddy flame, the -vacant, battered countenance of some aged crone; or amid a frenzied -cracking of whips the clattering passage of a team of trembling mules, -straining at a lean-shafted, high-wheeled cart, passing across the -street, to disappear, engulfed in cavernous blackness, beneath a noisome -archway. Bands of sailors jostle their way down the alley, rudely -rebuffing the obscene advances of slatternly women; the night grows -airless and stifling, under the dingy stars that speckle the black strip -of sky overhead; and the street comes to possess a satanic fascination, -almost epic in its intensity.... - - -[Sidenote: _Moonlight_ - Nov. 29] - -The long line of lamps casts countless, trembling pillars of dusky gold -into the sea: the night is full of stifled light—a pale, quivering -suffusion of mysterious blue. The Castello d’Oro floats, black as ink, -like a shapeless hulk; across the empty sky a solitary, ghostly cloud -lies sleeping; somewhere, beyond the bay, the moonlight is dancing; and -the rhythm of the sleek, rolling waves drowsily, lazily, rises and -falls. - -A boy and a girl lean together, watching the waves: some mandolines -start a faint twanging; the distant rattle of a cab—then all is quiet; -and the glow above Vesuvius, sullenly pulsing, alone breaks in upon the -delicate serenity of the night.... - - -[Sidenote: _At the Theatre Manzoni_ - Nov. 26] - -I have been to many first-nights there, for I have found a certain -childish charm in the small, shabby, blue-and-white theatre, the tiers -of minute boxes, close-packed with faces, the noisy Neapolitan pit, and -the inevitable row of callow critics, sucking their pencil-stumps, each -with his hat tight-jammed behind his head. - -But especially there lingers in my mind the memory of a certain brief, -mediæval drama, where a little flaxen-haired lady, wearing a low-cut -dress of arsenic-green satin, passionately implored mercy of a -curly-pated knight in a shirt of maroon-coloured velvet, for a great -wrong she had done him. She wept piteously, poor little creature, -tearing tremulously at her fluffy locks, and on her knees appealing to -us all to help her. But the little knight kept his wooden gaze -obdurately averted from her, till, exhausted, she sank dying on to a -gilt-legged couch. - -The actors were only marionettes. The little lady was somewhat obviously -painted, and the little knight stood a trifle stiffly, as if suffering -slightly from stage-fright. But the pit sat the scene out in breathless -silence, and the row of callow critics sucked their pencil-stumps with -renewed vigour, and jammed their hats tighter behind their heads. For in -some curious, inexplicable way the thing was quite moving—he was so -brutal, the little curly-pated knight in his shirt of maroon-coloured -velvet; and she, poor, sobbing, little flaxen-haired lady, pleaded so -desperately.... - -Once before, in my childhood, through a half-closed door, I saw a girl -plead with that same tense fragility. She, too, had flaxen hair, and -wore a low-necked dress of green satin; and he, the man, stood stiffly, -turning his gaze away from her, obdurately. And each scene, as I now -compose them, seems to contain a kindred underlying element of grotesque -unreality. - - * * * * * - - - - -[Sidenote: POMPEII - Nov. 28] - - -It was an old mill. There were white columns of peeling plaster flanking -the granary, and stacks of frowsy brushwood blocking the door. Part of -it had fallen away; tall, rank grass grew between the rottening rafters -of the roof; and remnants of battered frescoes, that had once adorned -the walls of the upper rooms, were now spread bare to sun and wind and -rain. And the meal-troughs were full of blossoming wild-flowers. Beside -the mill stood a small, square Moorish house, roofed with lava, scowling -with dirt; and beside the house, guarding a public well, was a gaunt -crane of mouldering wood. Across the sleekly rippling mill-stream a -ragged peasant family were ranged the length of a strip of powdery -soil—the father, the mother, two sons, four daughters, and a toddling -child—and beyond them stretched the great dead-grey expanse of roofless -walls—the sun-dried corpse of the ruined Roman town. In the twilight the -sea lay towards Capri the colour of yellow mud; and Vesuvius, turning a -vague, velvety black, was trickling his smoky breath towards the bay. - -There was a great immobility in the air—an immobility that seemed born -of long ages: and, somehow, more than the ruined town itself—defaced by -German tourists and uniformed guides—this corner of the country supplied -a bitter sense of shortness of life, the impassive sloth of time.... - - - - -[Sidenote: IN THE BAY OF SALERNO - Nov. 30] - - -To gaze across the black sweep of sea, out into the mystery of the -night; to hear the restless waves slowly sighing through the darkness, -as they beat the rocks a thousand feet beneath; to love a little so, -with quiet pressure of hands, and listlessly to ponder on strange -meanings of life and love and death. - -And so, amid a still serenity of dreamy sadness, to forget the mad -turmoil of passion, to grow indifferent to all desire, and to wait, -while the heart fills full of grave gratitude towards an unknown God. - -And then, once more, to understand how life is but a little thing, and -love but a passionate illusion, and to envy the sea her sighing in the -days when the end shall have come. - - - - -[Sidenote: SEVILLE DANCING GIRLS - December 10] - - -The entertainment draws to its close, for it is past four in the -morning. In the hall, several of the oil-lamps have already sputtered -out; the rest are burning with dull, blear-eyed weariness. A score of -unshaven Spaniards, close muffled in _capas_ and lowering _sombreros_, -sprawl in limp attitudes over the empty benches, and the circle of gaudy -women that fill the stage sit listless, pasty-faced, somnolent. - -And then, for the last time, the frenzy passes. The guitars start their -sudden, bitter twanging, and the women their wild, rhythmical beating of -hands. - -Amid volleys of harsh, frenzied plaudits la Manolita dances, swaying her -soft, girlish frame with a tense, exasperated restraint; supple as a -serpent; coyly, subtly lascivious; languidly curling and uncurling her -bare white arms. - -Out in the cold night air, as I hasten home through the narrow, sleeping -streets, her soft, girlish frame still sways before my eyes, to the -bitter twanging of guitars. - - - - -[Sidenote: SUNRISE] - - -To ride alone beneath the stars, through the long indefinite hours of -the night; to climb the slumbering mountain-hulks; to hear the dull roar -of the river, toiling unwearied through the darkness below; to break, -with a sudden clattering of hoofs, the gloomy stillness of distant -village-streets, and on through the twilight that precedes the dawn, to -journey, without flagging, high up against the sky, across a desolate, -limitless plain. - -To scout the future; to unlearn the past; and to brood vaguely, as the -night broods.... - -To elude desire; to disdain the thrill of hate; to forget the long -aching of love, and to commune, in tender serenity, with the grave-eyed -Spirit of Rest. - -And then, while the night slinks away across the hills, to push on -towards the sunrise; to watch the marshalling of ruddy heralds across -the East, and at last to meet the Great God’s dazzling glory, bursting -in splendour across the empty land. - - - - -[Sidenote: OFF CAPE TRAFALGAR - December 18] - - -We paced the bridge together, chatting till his watch should be done. -The dim, uneasy outline of the steamer’s bows loomed before us; now and -again we could feel her pulse quicken, her sinews tighten, as, like a -living thing, she flinched from each lashing of the waves. - -He was telling me tales of the yellow fever at Rio de Janeiro, of the -crowd of vessels lying in the harbour without a soul on board, of six -weeks he had spent in the hospital there, where twelve hundred -fever-stricken creatures lay packed on the floor of a single ward, and -the doctors dared only shout to the patients from behind a railed -gangway. - -And, while he still talked, up from the East crept the first flicker of -the dawn, revealing flocks of ruddy-sailed smacks tossing off the -Spanish shore; then, slowly, the throng of black billows turned to -reddish-green, and across the sky, from behind the African coast, poured -a deep, blood-red stain. The mirage rose, lifting into space the low -line of black hills, and the growing glow set a carpet of cloud ablaze, -till it hung, stretched across the sky, like a vast awning of beaten, -burnished copper. - - - - -[Sidenote: RÊVERIE - December 25] - - -I dreamed of an age grown strangely picturesque—of the rich enfeebled by -monotonous ease; of the shivering poor clamouring nightly for justice; -of a helpless democracy, vast revolt of the ill-informed; of priests -striving to be rational; of sentimental moralists protecting iniquity; -of middle-class princes; of sybaritic saints; of complacent and pompous -politicians; of doctors hurrying the degeneration of the race; of -artists discarding possibilities for limitations; of pressmen befooling -a pretentious public; of critics refining upon the ’busman’s methods; of -inhabitants of Camberwell chattering of culture. - -And I dreamed of this great, dreamy London of ours; of her myriad -fleeting moods; of the charm of her portentous provinciality; and I -awoke all a-glad and hungering for life.... - - - - -[Sidenote: IN RICHMOND PARK] - - -In the wan, lingering light of the winter afternoon, the park stood all -deserted; sluggishly drowsing, so it seemed, with its spacious distances -muffled in greyness; colourless, fabulous, blurred. One by one, through -the damp, misty air, loomed the tall, stark, lifeless, elms. Overhead -there lowered a turbid sky, heavy-charged with an unclean yellow. And, -amid the ruddy patches of dank and rottening bracken, the little mare -picked her way noiselessly. The rumour of life seemed hushed; there was -only the vague, listless rhythm of the creaking saddle.... - -The daylight faded; a shroud of ghostly mist enveloped the earth, and up -from the vaporous distance crept slowly the evening darkness.... - - - - -[Sidenote: NEW YEAR’S EVE - December 31] - - -It was New Year’s eve. The old, old scene. A London night; a heavy-brown -atmosphere splashed with liquid, golden lights; the bustling -market-place of sin; a silent crowd of black figures drifting over a -wet, flickering pavement. - -The slow, grave notes from a church tower took command of the night. The -last one faded: the old year had slipped by. And then a woman laughed—a -strident, level laugh; and there swept through all the crowd a mad, -feverish tremor. The women ran one to the other, kissing, wildly -welcoming the New Year in; and the men, shouting thickly, snatched at -them as they ran. And the cabmen touted eagerly for fares. - -Across the road, by a corner, a street missionary stood on a chair—an -undersized, poorly clad man, with a wizened, bearded face. - -... “Repent ... repent ... and save your souls to-night from the eternal -torments of hell-fire.” - -The women jostled him, pelted him with foul gibes; and one—a young -girl—broke into a peal of hysterical laughter. - -And I mused wonderingly on the ugliness of sin. - - - - -[Sidenote: IN ST. JAMES’S PARK - January 15] - - -A sullen glow throbs overhead: golden will-o’-wisps are threading their -shadowy groupings of gaunt-limbed trees; and the dull, distant rumour of -feverish London waits on the still, night air. The lights of Hyde Park -corner blaze like some monster, gilded constellation, shaming the dingy -stars; and across the East there flares a sky-sign—a gaudy, crimson -arabesque. - -And all the air hangs draped in the mysterious, sumptuous splendour of a -murky London night.... - - - - -[Sidenote: IN THE STRAND - January 27] - - -The city disgorges. - -All along the Strand, down the great, ebbing tide, the omnibuses, a -congested press of gaudy craft, drift westwards, jostling and jamming -their tall, loaded decks, with a clanking of chains, a rumble of -lumbering wheels, a thudding of quick-loosed brakes, a humming of -hammering hoofs.... - -The empty hansoms slink silently past; the street hawkers—a long row of -dingy figures—line the pavement edge; troops of frenzied newsboys dart -yelling through the traffic; and here and there a sullen-faced woman -struggles to stem the tide of men. - -Somewhere, behind Pall Mall, unheeded the sun has set: the sky is -powdered with crimson dust; one by one the shops gleam out, blazing -their windows of burnished glass; the twilight throbs with a ceaseless -shuffle of hurrying feet; and over all things hovers the spirit of -London’s grim unrest. - - - - -[Sidenote: SUNDAY AFTERNOON - February 20] - - -It was a little street, shabbily symmetrical—a double row of -insignificant, dingy-brick houses. Muffled in the dusk of the fading -winter afternoon, it seemed sunk in squalid, listless slumber. In the -distance a church-bell was tolling its joyless mechanical Sunday tale. - -A man stood in the roadway, droning the words of a hymn-tune. He was old -and decayed and sluttish: he wore an ancient, baggy frock-coat, and, -through the cracks in his boots, you could see the red flesh of his -feet. His gait was starved and timid: the touch of the air was very -bitter. And when he had finished his singing, he remained gazing up at -the rows of lifeless windows, with a look of dull expectancy in his -bloodshot, watery eyes. - - - - -[Sidenote: RÊVERIE - April 15] - - -The English Midlands, sluggishly effluent, a massy profusion of -well-upholstered undulations; Normandy, coquettish, almost dapper, in -its discreet rusticity, its finikin spruceness, its distinguished -reticence of detail; the plains of Lombardy in midsummer, all glutted -with luscious vegetation; Switzerland, tricked out in cheap -sentimentality, in a catchpenny crudity of tone; Andalucia, savagely -harsh, with its bitter, exasperated colouring.... - -In every country there links a personality, and the contemplation of the -memories of the lands where one has lived, of the books one has -cherished, of the women one has loved, brings with it a strange sense of -the incomprehensible promptings of caprice. - -With the fluctuations of mood, Musset seems puerile or passionate; -Amiel, lachrymose or exquisitely perceptive; Baudelaire, _macabre_ or -impassively statuesque; Pater, tortuous or infinitely dexterous; -Meredith, irksome or gorgeously prismatic. - -There are women whom we worshipped years ago, who would certainly fail -to move us to-day; books that enthralled us in our childhood, which we -hesitate to open again; places we had read of with delight, and for that -reason shrink from surveying. - - * * * * * - -And so to-night, beneath the lime-tree, by the dog-rose hedge, whilst -the grasshoppers scrape their ceaseless chorus, and the flies roam like -specks of gold, and the fawn-coloured cattle stalk home from the -pastures, I wonder dreamily how I have come to love so steadfastly the -whole wayward grace of this country-side—the melancholy of its wide -plains, burnt to dun colour by the Southern sun; the desolate silence of -those dark, endless pine forests that lie beyond; the hesitating -contours of wooded slopes; the distant Pyrenees, a long, ragged, -snow-capped wall; the dazzling-white roads, stretching between their -tall, slim poplars, straight towards the horizon; the tumble-down, -white-faced villages, huddled on the hilltops; their battered, sloping -roofs, tilted all awry, like loose-fitting, peaked caps of faded-red -tiles; the farmyards, strewn with dingy ox-bedding, and littered with a -decrepit multitude of objects, which, it seems, can never have been -new—broken earthenware pots, rickety, rush-bottomed chairs, stacks of -dead branches, still rustling their brown, winter leaves; the slow-paced -oxen ploughing the land; the peasants, men, women, and children, swaying -in line as they sow the maize, with the poultry pecking behind; the -jangling bells of the dilapidated, yellow-wheeled courier; the -market-days, the sea of blue _bérets_, the press of blue blouses, the -incoherent waving of ox-goads, the bristling of curved horns, the -shifting mass of sleek, fawn-coloured backs; the narrow, ramshackle -streets of the town; the line of plane-trees on the _place d’armes_, -beneath which groups of grave _bourgeois_ are for ever pacing; and the -Gave, spurting over the rocks, under the old Norman bridge.... - - * * * * * - -The sun slips behind a bank of inky cloud, slowly trailing its -pale-green stain, and the old, penetrating charm of this tiny corner of -the earth returns, and the old longing to bind myself to it, to have my -place in its life, always, through the years to come.... - - * * * * * - -The oxen have gone their way along the road; the lengthy twilight -shadows steal across the garden; from the church-spire up on the hill -the Angelus rings out; quite near at hand a tree-frog starts piping his -shrill, clear note, and the cockchafers their angry whirling; and then, -of a sudden, the violet night has fallen, wrapping all earth and sky in -her mysterious, impenetrable blackness.... - - * * * * * - - - - -[Sidenote: ENFANTILLAGE - April 23] - - -Have you never longed to wander there, in that wonderful cloudland -beyond the sea, where, like droves of monstrous cattle, close-huddled -and drowsy, they lie the day through—the comely, milk-white summer -clouds, slow and sleek and swelling; the quick-scudding darkling clouds, -tattered with travelling across the sky; the mighty thunder-clouds, -violet and lowering; the flocks of fluffy-white baby clouds; and all the -sun’s great gaudy guard, from the daintily gilded sunset spars to the -blood-red bands that frequent the South? - -Sometimes, at even-fall, when the sea lies calm in her opal tints, you -may discern the distant lines of their strange, fantastic home, vague, -phantasmagoric, like a mirage beyond the horizon. - -Perhaps, after death, we may linger there, and watch them silently sail -away towards the lands we have loved long ago!... - - - - - FINIS - - - - -[Illustration: _Printed by R. 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April 1895, 317 pp., 14 Illustrations. - Volume VI. July 1895, 335 pp., 16 Illustrations. - Volume VII. October 1895, 320 pp., 20 Illustrations. - Volume VIII. January 1896, 406 pp., 26 Illustrations. - Volume IX. April 1896, 256 pp., 17 Illustrations. - ------------------------------------------------------------------------- - - - - - TRANSCRIBER’S NOTES - - - 1. Silently corrected typographical errors and variations in spelling. - 2. Retained anachronistic, non-standard, and uncertain spellings as - printed. - 3. 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