"But pray, zir, pardon me," said Ben, Sold as a slave to Ismaelitish men?' "Yes, boy, he was."-" Ay, zo I thought, d'ye zee— But Jacob had a younger son than he." "He had-named Benjamin."-"It was not I.' "Well Ben," said Glebe," so far you're right; But do you note their proper sense, 'In French!' cried Ben, “I cannot mark in French." Unless the moral's plainly caught." "Why, all that's red," cried Ben, "the red stuff here--And all my marks, I'm sure are mortal clear,' "How! stuff, Ben! stuff! call what is sacred, stuff? This is because you have not read enough." "Oh, I've more red," cried Ben, " red stuff; but stayAs I was going, zir, to say, Young Benjamin, he took his brother's part, What Billy-te-sense you talk about?" I'd willingly keep marking you a week." He with his uncle, Laban had agreed Their lambs if any marks they'd got, Were streak'd or pied-should be as Jacob's lot. Now that which Jacob did-such end in view, "Hold, Ben, I fear you now some error make." "Some of my marks are queerish ones, I know." But when folks see the matter plain and clear" If faithfully you mark the end." "If they don't suit you, zir, my marks I'll mend." That will suffice"-" I'm glad, zir, I've got through it! "Before you go, Ben, mark" (said Glebe)" once more." You see I've scarcely any in my pan; Yet, zir, I will oblige you, if I can; There's yet sufficient-if you'll be so kind To turn your coat afore; For I have made so many marks behind, There's not a jot of room for one mark more." "Eh! what?" (Emanuel cried)" good Lord! good lack! And have you with you ruddle mark'd my back? No, no, it cannot be; Yet let me see Zounds! yes; 'tis absolutely so! A pretty fellow with your cris cross row! Begone, you dunce! you blundering booby go!" "Dear, dear!" Ben cooly said, And scratch'd his head, "Why call me dunce, and scold me? I've only mark'd your Reverence as you told me. And you the faithful shepherd of the flock: I thought, d'ye zee, when you did scripture quote, FOR THE PORT FOLIO. Letters from the South of France, by an American gentleman. Lett. VI. DEAR H*** In my last letter I left you at the Pont du Gard. But I fear you will have but a poor conception of that admirable structure from the description you have received, although it was rendered minute, at the hazard of being thought tedious. One little incident, trifling in its nature but quite characteristic, I cannot refrain from relating to you before I get into my cabriolet. Mr. I. as you already know, makes one of our compagnons de voyage; but he takes so little interest in the objects of our research that he seems sometimes unconscious whether he is upon land or water. At the very moment when we were lost in silent wonder and admiration, produced by the stately size and elegant proportions of the Roman aqueduct, our meditations were broken up by I, who begged us to observe the little holes in the arches in which the swallows had made their nests! O, what a fall was there! Think how the susceptible nerves of the enthusiast must have been lacerated. But this is by no means the first instance of the kind. At Nismes, the same I seemed very uneasy least our party should actually leave the place, without seeing some castoff garment which his prying eye had discovered in one of the Roman Baths. By the way, such travellers are not rare. Mais allons. On the road to Avignon, we passed on our left a small district, which is said to produce the finest wine in the South of France. The country is quite mountainous, and is far from exhibiting signs of great fertility. Indeed, the finest wines are generally products of a light, dry, and gravelly soil. The north west wind blew violently, and whenever we ascended a high and bleak hill, it threatened to blow our carriages from the road. It was besides, uncomfortably cold. Strabo, you will find, speaks very particularly of this wind. In his description of the Crau or Fields of Hercules, situated between Marseilles and the mouths of the Rhone, he says, "all the country about this is subject to winds, but that of the North is so violent, that we are assured it shakes and rolls the stones before it, blows men from their cars, stripping them of their clothes and arms. From my own experience, I consider this fearful account by no means incredible. The violence of the wind in this vicinity, is said to depend upon the particular disposition of the neighbouring mountains. It was dusk when we descended the mountains of the Rhone Passing down the western bank of this river some distance, we crossed it for the second time on a long bridge built upon piles, and soon found ourselves under the ramparts of Avignon. We drove to the Hotel d' Europe, a large establishment, built after the custom of the south, so as to include a spacious court within its four sides. The entrance is through a large arched gateway. This plan certainly possesses many advantages, among which a free vintelation in warm weather to each of the numerous apartments is not the least important. The French auberges have generally the most sonorous titles. Besides the one, designating our present abode, I may name the Hotel des Empereurs, Hotel des Ambassadeurs, Hotel de Luxembourg, &c. It was in this Hotel that Marshal Brun was basely butchered by an infuriated mob in 1814, and the very apartment in which the foul act was committed was among those allotted to our use. The blood, it is true, has been washed from the floor, but the infamy of the deed cannot be so easily removed. I will give you the particulars of this affair as they have been related to me. Finding himself extremely unpopular in the Southern Departments of which he held the military command, the Marshal set out for Paris. On his way he was obliged to go through Avignon. Wishing to avoid this town, he stopped without the ramparts and endeavoured to procure a relais. Perceiving however that he could get no horses, he ventured into town. It was soon known to the inhabitants that Brun, their enemy, was within the walls. A violent popular commotion ensued. The Hotel d' Europe was quickly surrounded by an infuriated mob, which the mayor, at the head of the police, endeavoured in vain to quell and disperse. Finding himself closely besieged in his lodgings, the Marshal barricaded the entrance, and seated himself at a table with a brace of pistols before him. But his enemies seemed bent on his destruction, and two of the most daring mounted the roof, removed the tiles, and soon succeeded in making a breach through the ceiling. Viewing his case now as hopeless, the Marshal seized one of his pistols and fired it in the direction of his head, with a view, it is supposed, of preventing himself from falling alive into the hands of his enemies. The ball carried off a portion of the scull, but the wound was not mortal. The respite was however but momentary, for one of the villains springing into the chamber shot the Marshal dead with the remaining pistol. Avignon, the Avenio Cavarum of the ancients, is a large city, beautifully situated on the Rhone, between the rivers Logue and Durance which have their confluence within half a mile of each other. Like most towns of ancient origin, its streets are narrow and crooked. According to Borose, the historian, it was the first city founded in Gaul by the children of Japhet. Be this as it may, we may safely consider Avignon as one of the oldest towns of Gaul. It is surrounded by high and beautiful ramparts, built with hewn stone, and surmounted with towers about fifty yards apart. These walls were erected by the popes, before the invention of gun-powder. Four gates, always closed at night, are placed at opposite points. The space between the walls and the Rhone is planted with elms and appropriated as a promanade. But the weather during our stay was too unfavourable to allow us a view of the delightful spot, enlivened by the gayety for which it is celebrated. A noble stone bridge once crossed the river opposite the town. A few of its arches are still standing, the rest having been swept away by a flood. Viewed through the dusky veil of evening, it forcibly reminded me of Addison's allegorical bridge in his Vision of Mirza. Avignon, together with the Compte Venaissin has been subject to many masters, and since it was governed by Rome, has belonged successively to the Burgundians, the kingdom of Arles, the counts of Provence and the sovereigns of Napies. In the fourteenth century it became the property of Pope Clement the VI. who purchased it from Queen Jane of Naples for the sum of 80,000 florins. The see of Rome still asserts a claim to Avignon but it may be now considered as firmly and inseparably united to the Crown of France. The most remarkable epoch in the history of this ancient city is the removal of the Holy seat from Rome to its walls. This event took place in 1309, when Clement V. the reigning Pope, driven by intestine broils, and led on by partiality for his own country, summoned his cardinals to attend him beyond the Alps. Having wandered sometime through Poitiers and Gascony, levying heavy contributions for his support upon the cities through which he passed, he finally repaired to Avignon, where he determined to establish his Court. Corruption followed in his train and also fixed her residence in this city. Pride, ambition, and avarice seized on all around, and dissoluteness soon spread from the courtiers to the citizens, who are still distinguished for some of their traits, nor have they yet lost a certain air and manner truly Italian. But amidst all the ostentation and luxury, letters and the arts flourished. The first object which attracted our notice was the Palace of the Popes, an enormous gothic pile, remarkable for the height and number of its towers. This once magnificent palace, the strength and size of which has enabled it to sustain several seiges even when artillery was employed, was commenced in 1336 when Benedict XII. filled the papal chair. His predecessors continued |