Philostratus wishes to be the ground on which his mistress presses her silver feet. TO HIS MISTRESS. 'Momus is said to have regarded the goddess Venus as almost faultless. What, indeed, could he have blamed in her? Yet he declared that he was not perfectly satisfied with one little habit,-the clocking of her sandal Had she gone with naked feet, as when she rose like sun-light from the ocean, she would have escaped all jests, and afforded no handle of mockery to even the most fastidious. So far the story goes. You, sweet love, seem to have acted with more prudence than Venus. Momus himself could not have carped at you. Your feet are bare; no sandal hides their symmetry: O feet most exquisitely moulded! How lovely are ye when unveiled! Happiness indeed would be mine, did you but rest them on my heart, or if I were the place on which they stood.' A witty modern Latin poet has given us a description of the feelings of lovers, just as enthusiastic as any of those I have inserted. It is needless to quote any more. The most delicate of the conceits in Anacreon's ode seems to me to be that of the mirror-wish. All the rest are grossly sensual. The Spectator tells an agreeable story of a favourable termination of a courtship between a diffident lover and a fond girl brought about by a mirror. Perhaps the lover's device there mentioned, was suggested by the following anecdote:-A gallant Frenchman being one day beside his mistress's toilette, took up a pocket-mirror which lay on the table, and wrote on it the following versicles: Iris en ce miroir toujours Vous pourrez voir l'objet que j'aime; When in this glass your charms you You see the features of my true love; THE FIDDLER OF MARSEILLES. EVERY clime is marked by its distinctive peculiarity, and enthu siasm is the peculiarity of the south. Next to Naples, no place in Europe is so full of enthusiastic inhabitants as Marseilles. During the hot days of the French Revolution, this place was celebrated for the mad vigour of its sons, and it has retained its character to the present moment. The mercurial temperament of the Marseillais is not at all wonderful, when you take into consideration the extraordinary mixture of their blood. Talk of the cross-breed of a Portuguese or Spaniard,-it is nothing compared with that of a genuine native of Marseilles. First of all, he boasts of Thessalian blood, with a slight smack of the Lygian Celtic. Then this is tinged with a spice of Roman, and then that is successively crossed with Tyrian, Sidonian, and Punic. Next comes the intermixture of all those nations which thronged Marseilles for purposes of traffic, and managed, by way of intermedio to their respective callings, to have love adventures with her dark-eyed daughters. Among them may be mentioned the natives of Great Britain and Ireland, the Turk, the Algerine, the Austrian, the Spaniard, the Russian, with the enterprising Dane, and the fair-haired Swede. And the pitch of enthusiasm of which the Marseillais is susceptible, may be imagined from the slight fact, that as the locusts chirp in the mulberry-trees, each with the intensity of some two dozen crickets, be will capture and confine it in a cage, and, while labouring under a fancy-engendered hallucination, he will come to the conclusion that the animal sings with all the rich melodious outpourings of the nightin gale!!! Among the most enthusiastic of the modern sons of Marseilles, was Monsieur Camillo Theodore Theophilo Cacofogo, by profession the most celebrated violincello player of France, and by nature the keenest sportsman of Marseilles. In the north of Europe game abounds, and, comparatively speaking, there are few sportsmen; in the south, innume rable sportsmen, and no game at all! The ruralizing gentry of Marseil les visit their bastides to no purpose at all as sportsmen. The bastides are little whitewashed buildings, with green shutters; and these are greater favourites with the Marseillais than are the beautifully-situated frischunger to the inhabitants of Innspruck. These bastides, to the number of many thousands, are scattered in every possible direction about Marseilles,-degenerate successors of the numerous costly villas which in the oldest times thronged the neighbourhood. In the imme diate vicinity of these bastides the gentlemen of that celebrated city enjoy the pleasures of the chasse. And once on a time, the morning being very beautiful, Monsieur Cacofogo was recreating himself with his fowling-piece, and looking about most attentively for game. No Leicestershire sportsman, or Highland deer-stalker, or annihilator of grouse and ptarmigan, could feel more excited by the genuine thirst of slaughter than did Monsieur Cacofogo on that memorable morning, He was full of pride and enthusiasm, and thought himself a finer fellow than any wild Indian on his own hunting-ground. He stared, however, east, west, north, and south, but to little purpose. Every now and then he cocked his gun, and putting it to his shoulder, cocked his eye, and fancying a victim, gloated over an imaginary shot. At length his lucky star, which was just then scintillating beautifully over his head, gleamed upon an actual living bird in a little pine-grove. Monsieur Cacofogo leaped with joy. He clapped his gun to his shoulder, cocked his eye with fierce determination, and insinuated himself gently along upon tiptoe. The manner and attitude would have charmed the victim, had it had sufficient sense to be charmed, or had there been sufficient light for the charm to work. Suddenly the shadow of the pine-branches hid the bird from his open eye. Monsieur Cacofogo was on the point of saying something not over civil to his lucky star, when the Great Bear, just setting behind a hill to the north, once more made visible the unconscious flutterer. His delight was increased. Again went the gun to his shoulder, and again he took deliberate aim; but he was afraid to fire-he might miss the object. It was still dark, or nearly so; and as birds are very rare about Marseilles, and when met are real phenomena, it was necessary to be very cautious, and to make the most of so unexpected a wonder. So Monsieur Cacofogo stood with deadly aim at the bird until there should be light sufficient for his bloody purpose. At length the opal morn approached the gates of Heaven, and a ray of light fell upon the little pine-grove. There, sure enough, was the bird-and such a bird!! All birds were rare; but this was a rarity among rare birds. Monsieur Cacofogo had never seen anything like it before. All the finches of the grove' are devoured both at Marseilles and in Italy as delicacies; but this finch, if, indeed, it were a finch, would, from its novelty, make an excellent morsel at that day's dinner; for Monsieur Cacofogo was a bit of a gourmet. He smacked his lips in keen anticipation of the relish. There was now abundant light for the commencement of hostilities. The artist then did his best, and off went the gun. I have him!' screamed Monsieur Cacofogo, imitating with his voice the dull sound made by the feathers of a bird when it is hit and falls. He rushed to the foot of the tree where the bird had been perched; he looked about, but failed to see it,-and putting on his spectacles, was nowise more successful. He kicked the stones here and there, and ferreted about, but to no purpose. At last he stumbled upon a solitary feather, and, after regarding it with a deep sigh and a melancholy smile, he placed it very gingerly in his button-hole, like a veritable ornithological decoration. Fairly gone,' kept constantly repeating Monsieur Cacofogo, as if he were trying the two words to extempore variations on his violincello. But fortune was only flirting with the artist,-his misfortune was not to last. He had charged his gun, and was proceeding mournfully kicking every tuft of grass, to see if it concealed the lost or any fresh bird, when suddenly it started up, and pop went Monsieur Cacofogo's gun, as if by inspiration. He missed it, however, though he brought down two apples from a neighbouring pine. As for the bird, it gave a shrill chirrup, clapped its wings as if in derision of the sportsman's mal-address, careering from the pine-grove to a hill, and from the hill to a plain, fairly skimmed away towards the sea-shore. The artist looked at his watch-it was only eight o'clock; he had three or four good hours before him, and he was determined to have the fugitive as a relish to that day's dinner. Monsieur Cacofogo pursued vigorously, and every now and then thought he had made certain of his prey; but just as he was about to touch the trigger it was sure to fly off. Monsieur Cacofogo waxed warm, and as his baulks were repeated he became spiteful against the object of pursuit, for his blood was up from vexation. In this manner the couple proceeded for a very considerable distance:―rough and smooth, mountain and valley, had yielded to their unsparing vigour. The two travellers had left to their right Cassis and Ciotat, and traversed the broad plain that extends from Signe to St. Cyr. Noon had long passed, evening was nigh at hand, and both the bird and sportsman were worn out with fatigue. At last, towards dusk, they approached the pretty little village of St. Cyr, and the lights streaming from the windows of the Aigle Noir fairly invited the sportsman to enter. Monsieur Cacofogo was actually dying from hunger and thirst; his exhausted nature required repose, and, leaving his fowling-piece at the door, he entered the auberge. Over the door hung the usual' Ici on loge à pied et à cheval;' but, as the bird did not come under either category, it passed on to other quarters. The artist, however, soon forgot the fatigues and disappointments of the day. He supped heartily, and slept luxuriously, and during his sleep dreamed of nothing but putting salt upon birds' tails. Monsieur Cacofogo, like a keen sportsman, was up and stirring with the earliest dawn, and before taking the road to Marseilles he heaved a deep sigh while looking towards the beautiful neighbourhood of Castellet, where, no doubt, the slippery object of his pursuit had sought a comfortable shelter. Pensively he turned, and walked by a half-ruined wall covered with creepers and flowers, stirring ever and anon their leaves with the top of his gun-barrel. Suddenly he heard the shrill cry of a bird, and a flutter of wings; he looked up with a start, and beheld the direct object of his thoughts! He shot at hazard-the bird was too quick for the artist, and he ran after it helterskelter across a vineyard, regardless of the mischief he occasioned at every step. In so doing he forgot Marseilles, and became more and more intent upon his sport. From point to point, from valley to valley, he kept up the pursuit, unabated in vigour, inveterate in resolve against his game, until night once more overtook him in his career, and he had reached the beautiful town of Hyères. He paused,-looked around, luxuriated on the scenery, and felt refreshed by the fragrance wafted from the neighbouring orange-groves. Monsieur Cacofogo had heard much of Hyères, and was very par tial to oranges; and, being toil-spent and thirsty, he walked, while dinner was preparing, into the lovely Hesperian gardens of Monsieur Filke, that he might gratify his longing for his favourite fruit. The air was calm, cool and balmy, the moon was at its full, and Monsieur Cacofogo plucked and eat oranges, and hummed and warbled all the pretty airs he could think of. 'Ah!' said he, at length, if I had my violincello now, how I would execute the "Champs paternels de Joseph in Egypt!" Presently he stopped short, and bent his body, by way of mark of interrogation, upon a caper-plant which covered a low wall, and on which the moon was shining with a delicious flood of light. The leaves of the plant were gently waving with the breeze, and there sat his friend the bird! From the note of interrogation Monsieur Cacofogo changed his position into the point of admiration. He put up his fowling-piece, and prepared for the onslaught; but, generally speaking, not being a particularly hasty man, reflection came and arrested his finger, already coiled round the trigger. First, he saw that he was only about five paces from his game, and no true sportsman would be guilty of taking advantage of such a space; secondly, the poor little creature would, like Romulus of old, have disappeared amid the clatter and tempest of his fowling-piece; and thirdly and lastly, it was forbidden at Hyères, as at every other place, to use fire-arms at eleven o'clock at night. Monsieur Cacofogo was a peaceful citizen, (though no father of a family), and paid proper obedience to the laws; but Monsieur Cacofogo was as patient as a dromedary, and as hardy as a buffalo; and, in spite of fatigue and every other countervailing consideration, being determined not to lose his advantage, he posted himself during the whole night with deadly aim at his unfortunate victim. Meanwhile the bird, all unconscious of danger, fluttered its wings, arranged its feathers, chirped, hopped about, enjoyed the freshness of the air, and then, also like a peaceful denizen, popped its head under its wing, and was soon still and stationary in blissful repose. Monsieur Cacofogo became in due time impatient for the morn. He objurgated a trifle, and pulled out his watch, thinking the night more than usually tardy. At length the bashful morn, ashamed of being so lazy, irradiated the shores of Hyères with her rosy blushes. Then warbling over the following couplet, 'Quand on fut toujours vertuense, the artist stepped back ten paces, and. proud of the fair play he was giving, he aimed deliberately, covering well his game, and pulled the trigger. But no explosion followed. He looked-the powder was damp from the night-air. He rattled out an oath, and awakened the bird, which, seeing how matters stood, gave a cool chirrup, and mounting on wing, flew away to the south. Monsieur Cacofogo was furious as a mad bull. He raved, he stamped, he was going to pull his hair, --but he bethought himself that it would be pity to spoil his last wig, so he became more placid; but he was not the less determined. He vowed vengeance against the fugitive, which he had been all night roasting in imagination, and eating with a nice sauce aux câpres ; then vehemently denouncing it to destruction, he took the road towards Var. He was quite beside himself,-drank when he could, ate what he could gather on the road-side, kept his eye upon his game, followed it over rough and smooth ground, and fired, in the hopelessness of his despair, at such a distance, that only charmed shot could have reached the object of his fury. In this way, agonized with fatigue, and atrabilious about the region of the liver, he arrived at Nice, and tumbled into bed at the Aigle Noir. Nature bestowed upon him the bounty of an eighteen hours' sleep. When he awoke he rang the bell, and, on the appearance of the garçon, he fiercely demanded breakfast. The garçon shrugged his shoulders, smiled, bowed, and said, Che demanda la sua eccellenza?' Here's a pretty go!' said Monsieur Cacofogo. It seems, then, that I am in Italy, and I can't speak a word of Italian. Confound the bird and all its tribe!' Being put to his wits' end, Monsieur Cacofogo had recourse to the universal language, and opening his capacious jaws, he made signs that he wanted to cram something into them. |