Mentone, Cairo, and Corfu. Woolson Constance Fenimore

that piety or curiosity?" I said.

      "I think it was Miss Trescott," said Baker.

      Now as Miss Elaine was present, this was a little cruel;

      but I learned afterwards that Baker had been rendered violent that day by hearing that his American politeness regarding Miss Elaine's self-bestowed society had been construed by that young lady into a hidden attachment to herself – an attachment which she "deeply regretted," but could not "prevent." She had confided this to several persons, who kept the secret in that strict way in which such secrets are usually kept. Indeed, with all the strictness, it was quite remarkable that Baker heard it. But not remarkable that he writhed under it. However, his remarks and manners made no difference to Miss Elaine; she attributed them to despair.

      While we were sitting on the wall the Professor came toiling up the hill; but he had not found the asphodel. However, when Janet had given him a few of her pretty phrases he revived, and told us that the plaza was the site of an ancient village called Podium-Pinum, and that the Lascaris once had a château there.

      "The same Lascaris who lived in the old castle at Mentone?" said Janet.

      "The same."

      "These old monks have plenty of wine, I suppose," said Inness, looking at the vine terraces which covered the sunny hill-side.

      "Very good wine was formerly made around Mentone," said the Professor; "but the vines were destroyed by a disease, and the peasants thought it the act of Providence, and for some time gave up the culture. But lately they have replanted them, and wine is now again produced which, I am told, is quite palatable."

      "That is but a cold phrase to apply to the bon petit vin blanc of Sant' Agnese, for instance," said Verney, smiling.

      Soon we started homeward. While we were winding down the narrow path, we met a Capuchin coming up, with his bag on his back; he was an old man with bent shoulders and a meek, dull face, to whom the task of patient daily begging would not be more of a burden than any other labor. But when we reached the narrow main street, and found a momentary block, another Capuchin happened to stand near us who gave me a very different impression. Among the carriages was a phaeton, with silken canopy, fine horses, and a driver in livery; upon the cushioned seat lounged a young man, one of Fortune's favorites and Nature's curled darlings, a little stout from excess of comfort, perhaps, but noticeably handsome and noticeably haughty – probably a Russian nobleman. The monk who stood near us with his bag of broken bread and meat over his back was of the same age, and equally handsome, as far as the coloring and outline bestowed by nature could go. His dark eyes were fixed immovably upon the occupant of the phaeton, and I wondered if he was noting the difference; it seemed as if he must be noting it. It was a striking tableau of life's utmost riches and utmost poverty.

      That evening there was music in the garden; a band of Italian singers chanted one or two songs to the saints, and then ended with a gay Tarantella, which set all the house-maids dancing in the moonlight. We listened to the music, and looked off over the still sea.

      "Isn't it beautiful?" said Mrs. Clary. "I think loving Mentone is like loving your lady-love. To you she is all beautiful, and you describe her as such. But perhaps when others see her they say: 'She is by no means all beautiful; she has this or that fault. What do you mean?' Then you answer: 'I love her; therefore to me she is all beautiful. As for her faults, they may be there, but I do not see them: I am blind.'"

      That same evening Margaret gave me the following verses which she had written:

MENTONE"And there was given unto them a short time before they went forward."

      Upon this sunny shore

      A little space for rest. The care and sorrow,

      Sad memory's haunting pain that would not cease,

      Are left behind. It is not yet to-morrow.

      To-day there falls the dear surprise of peace;

      The sky and sea, their broad wings round us sweeping,

      Close out the world, and hold us in their keeping.

      A little space for rest. Ah! though soon o'er,

      How precious is it on the sunny shore!

      Upon this sunny shore

      A little space for love, while those, our dearest,

      Yet linger with us ere they take their flight

      To that far world which now doth seem the nearest,

      So deep and pure this sky's down-bending light

      Slow, one by one, the golden hours are given

      A respite ere the earthly ties are riven.

      When left alone, how, 'mid our tears, we store

      Each breath of their last days upon this shore!

      Upon this sunny shore

      A little space to wait: the life-bowl broken,

      The silver cord unloosed, the mortal name

      We bore upon this earth by God's voice spoken,

      While at the sound all earthly praise or blame,

      Our joys and griefs, alike with gentle sweetness

      Fade in the dawn of the next world's completeness.

      The hour is thine, dear Lord; we ask no more,

      But wait thy summons on the sunny shore.

      II

      "Thy skies are blue, thy crags as wild,

      Thine olive ripe, as when Minerva smiled."

– Byron.

      "So having rung that bell once too often, they were all carried off," concluded Inness, as we came up.

      "Who?" I asked.

      "Look around you, and divine."

      We were on Capo San Martino. This, being interpreted, is only Cape Martin; but as we had agreed to use the "dear old names," we could not leave out that of the poor cape only because it happened to have six syllables. We looked around. Before us were ruins – walls built of that unintelligible broken stone mixed at random with mortar, which confounds time, and may be, as a construction, five or five hundred years old.

      "They – whoever they were – lived here?" I said.

      "Yes."

      "And it was from here that they were carried off?"

      "It was."

      "Were they those interesting Greek Lascaris?" said Mrs. Trescott.

      "No."

      "The Troglodytes?" suggested Mrs. Clary.

      "No."

      "The poor old ancient gods and goddesses of the coast?" said Margaret.

      "No."

      "But who carried them off?" I said. "That is the point. It makes all the difference in the world."

      "I know it does," replied Inness; "especially in the case of an elopement. In this case it happened to be Miss Trescott's friends (always with two r's), the Sarrasins. The story is but a Mediterranean version of the boy and the wolf. These ruins are the remains of an ancient convent built in – in the remote Past. The good nuns, after taking possession (perhaps they were inland nuns, and did not know what they were coming to when they came to a shore), began to be in great fear of the sea and Sarrasin sails. They therefore besought the men of Mentone and Roccabruna to fly to their aid if at any time they heard the bell of the chapel ringing rapidly. The men promised, and held themselves in readiness to fly. One night they heard the bell. Then westward ran the men of Mentone, and down the hill came those of Roccabruna, and together they flew out on Capo San Martino to this convent – only to find no Sarrasins at all, but only the nuns in a row upon their knees entreating pardon: they had rung the bell as a test. Not long afterwards the bell rang again, but no one went. This time it really was the Sarrasins, and the nuns were all carried off."

      "Very dramatic. The slight discrepancy that