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VO3O. 111.
The Alarm-Bell of Atri.
BY HENP.Y W. LONGFELLOW.
At Atri, in Abruzzo, a small town
Os ancient Roman date, but scant renown,
One of those little places that have run
Half up the hill, beneath a blazing sun,
And then sat down to rest, as if t,o say,
‘ I climb no further upward, come what
may,”
The Re Giovanni, now unknown to fame,
So many monarchs now have borne the
name.
Had a great bell hung in the market place,
Beneath a roof, projecting some small
space,
By way of shelter from the sun and rain.
Then rode he through the streets with all
his train,
And with the blast of trumpets loud and
long,
Made proclamation that whenever wrong
Was done to any man, he should but ring
The great bell in the square, and he, the
King,
Would cause the Syndic to decide thereon.
Such was tho proclamation of King John.
How happy the days in Atri sped,
What wrongs were righted, need not here
be said.
Suffice it that, as all things must decay,
The hempen rope at length was worn away.
• Unravelled at the end, and strand by
strand,
Loosened and wasted in the ringer’s hand,
Till one, who noticed this in passing by,
Mended the rope with braids of briony,
So that the leaves and tendrils of the vine
Hung like a votive garland at a.shrine.'
By chance it happened that in Atri dwelt
A knight, with a spur on heel and sword
in belt,
Who loved to hunt the ’wild-boar in the
woods,
Who loved his lalcons with their crimson
hoods,
Who loved his hounds and horses, and all
sports
And prodigalities of camps and courts;
Loved, or had loved them; for at last
grown old,
His only passion was the love of gold.
He sold his horses, sold his hawks and
hounds,
Rented his vineyards and his garden
grounds,
Kept but oue steed, his favorite steed of
all,
To starve and shiver in a naked stall,
And, day by day, sat brooding in his chair,,
Devising plans how best to hoard and spare.
At length he said: “What is the use or
need
To keep at my own cost this lazy steed,
Eating his head otf in my stable here,
When rents are low and provender is dear ?
Let him go feed upon the public ways;
I want him only for the holidays.”"
So the old steed was turned into the heat
Os the long, lonely, silent, shadowless
street;
And wandered in suburban lanes forlorn,
Barked at by dogs, and torn by brier and
thorn.
One afternoon, as in that sultry clime
It is the custom in the Summertime,
With bolted doors and window shutters
closed,
The inhabitants of Atri slept or dozed;
When suddenly upon their senses fell
The loud alarum of the accusing bell!
The Syndic started from his sweet repose
Turned on his couch and listened, and then
rose
And donned his robes, and with reluctant
pace,
Went panting forth into the market-place,
Where the great bell upon its cross beam
swung,
Reiterating with persistent tongue,
In half-articulated jargon, the old song:
‘'Some one hath done a wrong, hath done
a wrong!”
But ere he reached the belfry's light ar
cade,
He saw, or thought he saw, beneath its
shade,
Xo shape of human form, of woman born,
But a ; oor steed dejected and forlorn,
Who with uplifted head and eager eye
"Was tugging at the vines of briony.
‘’Demeneddio 1" cried the Syndic straight,
■‘ibis is the Knight of Atri’s steed of
state!
lie calls for justice, being sore distressed,
A.TJ GrU STOY, Gr-A,.. SEPTEMBER 10, 1870.
A nd pleads his cause as loudly as the best.”
Meanwhile from street and lane a noisy
crowd
Had rolled together like a Summer cloud,
And told the story ot the wretched beast
In five-and-twenty different ways at least,
With much gesticulation and appeal
To heathen gods, in their excessive zeal.
The Knight was called and questioned; in
reply
Did not confess the fact, did not deny;
Treated the matter as a pleasant jest,
And set at naught the Syndic and the rest,
Maintaining, in an angry undertone,
That he shoud do what pleased him with
his own.
And thereupon the Syndic gravely read
Tho proclamation of the King: then said:-
“Pride goeth forth on horseback grand and
gay,
But cometli back on foot and begs his way;
Fame is the perfume of heroic deeds,
Os flowers of chivalry and not of weeds!
These familiar proverbs; but 1 fear
They never yet have reached your knight
ly ear.
What fair renown, what honor, what re
pute
Can come to you from starving this poor
brnte ?
He who serves well and speaks not merits
more
Than they who clamor loudest at the door.
Therefore the law decrees, that as this
steed
Served you in youth, henchforth you shall
take heed
To comfort his old age, and to provide
Shelter in stall, and food and field beside.”
Tbe Knight withdrew abashed ; the people
all
Led borne the steed in triumph to his stall.
The King heard and approved, and laugh
ed.- in glee,
And cried aloud : “right well it pleaseth
me!
Church bells at best but ring us to the
door
But go not in to mass; my bell doth more:
It cometli into court and pleads the cause
Os creature dumb and unknown to the
laws!
And this shall make in every Christian
clime,
The Bell of Atri famous for all time.”
[From Lippiccott.]
STORY OF THE SAPPHIRE,
How I came to form an intimate friend
ship with M. le Comte de Sieycres it
hardly enters into the purpose of this nar
rative to tell. We Americans are only
too fond of boasting about such intima
cies, and minutely narrating every par
ticular respecting their origin and pro
gress. But as the relation I wish to give
is merely that of one incident in the
eventful life of the Count—one, too, in
which he was only a spectator and not
an actor—l shall have no occasion to
offend the reader by any egotistical de
tails.
When I first made the acquaintance of
M. de Sieycres in the Spring of 1865, he
was about sixty years of age, though he
appeared much older by reason of his in
firm health, lie suffered terribly at times
from some painful and iccurable internal
malady, which forced him to lead a very
quiet and secluded life; the only dissipa
tion which he ever allowed himself being’
an occasional visit to the opera or theatre,
for he was passionately fond of both mu
sical and dramatic entertainments. He
was a handsome, delicate-looking, cour
teous old gentleman, with an air and a
d< rneanor winch always struck me as be
ing anachronisms. Though he was al
ways dressed with great care and in the
very latest fashion, I could never look
upon the garb of the nineteruth century
as suited to him, and always fancied
that he should have worn the powder,
the point-lace ruffles, the velvet coat
and satin inexpressibles of the ancient
regime. His white slender hands seem
ed formed to be half hidden beneath
folds of point de Bruxelles or point d’Alen
con; his small, shapely foot required the
blaze of a diamond buckle on the instep;
and his finely-cut features suggested the
notion of an unfinished miniature, lack
ing the snowy cloud of powder which
should have hidden the lingering dark
; ness of the still abundant looks.
His abode seemed as little suited to
him as his costume. He occupied a suite
of rooms on toe newly opened Boulevard
Malesherbes—“more central and less
costly than the Faubourg St. Germaiu,”
he laughingly remarked when I ventured
to comment upon the singularity of his
choice ot residence. But when once
the glowing sunshine and snowy newness
of the street were left behind, a step across
the threslihold of his rooms swept the
modern Paris and the France of to-day
out of existence, and bore the visitor
back to the by-gone days when Robes
pierres and Bonapartes were as yet un
known. The salon was hung with fine
cld Gobelin tapestry (preserved as if by
a miracle when the chateau de Sieycres
had been sacked during the first Revolu
tion), while the ponderous carved chairs,
and massive cabinets dark with age, and dim
antique mirrors in tarnished gilt frames,
revived memories of the magnificent age
of Louis Quatorze. The dining-room
was paneled with carved oak, that had
once adorned the chapel of some princely
mansion, while the bed-chamber beyond,
with its draperies of ancient but still
brilliant brocade, its pictures by Wasteau
and Greuze, its toilet table veiled with
lace and fluttering with ribbons, recalled
the days ot Pompadour and Dubarry—
that frivolous, sinful secd-thne whose ter
rible harvest was the Revolution and its
sickle the guillotine. The library, how
ever, was the room where the Count usu
ally received me. It was the smallest of
the suite, and was hung with dark and
Utretcht velvet, whose sombre hue show
ed ofi to advantage one or two fine
statues and several antique busts which
stood on pedestals in the spaces between
the carved bookcases. Here I spent
many a pleasant hour conversing with
my astute and accomplished host respect
ing most of the leading topics of the
day, always excepting politics, for upon
that subject he was ever extremely reti
cent. I gathered from his conversation
that he was a Legitimist by birth and iu
clinatioo, but an Orleanist from convic
tion; and some sly satirical remarks
which he occasionally let fall convinced
me that he regarded the reigning powers
with no favorable eye. But both from
temperament and ill health he was unfitted
to take an active part in political life.
The Count hnd never married, and,
like most men ot cultivated tastes and
ample means who arc compelled through
circumstances to lead lonely lives, he had
become a«collcctor—not of books nor pic
tures, nor yet of autographs, but of an
tique and historical jewelry. lie had
some of the finest antique gems, and cer
tainly tho most remarkable specimens of
ancient Etruscan jewelry, that I ever
seen in private hands. His collection of
historical ornaments-was nearly as valua
ble, while it was still more interesting to
me from the fact that he knew and de
lighted to relate the legend attached to
each trinket. That diamond buckle had
sparkled on the arched instep of Louis
XY r ., yon filagree bracelet had encircled
the rounded arm of Madame de Mailly,
and Ann of Austria had looped back her
abundant tresses with his pearl spray;
here was a silver-hiltcd dagger which had
belonged to Marguerite de Valois, and
there a jeweled fan which bore on the
sticks Madame de Pompadour’s initials,
formed ot tiny diamonds and minute
emeralds; Louis XIV. had dipped his
fingers into this enameled snuff-box, and
Adrienne Lecouvreur had decked her
breast with that brooch of rubies and
turquoises. One eopaitment in the case
which contain* and these treasures was en
tirely devoted to rings, of which the
Count possessed a great number ; among
them one set with a forget-me-not of sap
phires, a love token presented by Augus
tus the Strong to Aurora Von Konigs
mark; and a plain hoop of gold enamel
ed with ivy-leaves which had been worn
by the saint-like Madame Elizabeth, the
sister of Louis XVI. Among these cost
ly relics of departed personages and by
gone days, ornaments of modern work
manship were occasionally to be met with,
but the Count usually passed these over
in silence, and if pressed to relate their
history would only shake his head and
either smile or sigh as the case may be.
One evening, after we had been chat
ting together on different subjects for
some time, M. de Sieycres unlocked his
jeweled cabinet to display to me a seal
ring supposed to have once belonged to
Henri Quatre, as it bore engraved on the
topaz with which it was set the initials
11. R., surmounted by a crown. On
touching a spring concealed in the gold
chasing, the stone rose, revealing a tiny
but exquisitely executed miniature of a
fair-faced damsel, the portrait, as the
Count declared, of that Ileunette d’En
traigucs who at onetime rivaled Gabrielle
d’Estrees in the affection of the fickle
Henri. After l had duly inspected and
admired this new treasure, I continued
to investigate the contents of the cabinet,
finding ever fresh sources of interest and
amusement. At last I took up a ring
which I had never before observed. It
was of modern workmanship—a good
sized and remarkably fine sapphire of a
lustrous deep azure hue in a setting of
black enamel, a style in which I had
frequently seen diamonds mounted, but
never before any other precious stone.
Portions of the euamel were cracked, and
other portions partly fused, and the
whole ornament, apart from the sapphire
itself, looked as though it had once been
subjected to the action of fire. I examin
ed it for some moments in silence, then
turning to the Count, who was still busied
with his new purchase, I laid it before
him.
“Might I, without indiscretion, seek
to learn the history attached to this
riug?” I asked.
He took it up with a slight but per
ceptible start. “I did not know that
this sapphire was here,” he said, after a
moment pause. “Well, I will tell you
its story. It is a tragic one, but I feel
in a gossiping mood to night, and not
ill inclined to wander back amid the
scene and personages of the past. So, if you
will pardon in advance any possible
pr flixity and garrulousness on my part
(remember, my friend, that I am an old
man),l will recall for your benefit tbe
history of this sapphire ring.
You know how often I have smiled at
the enthusiastic admiration which the
charms ot our Parisian actresses have
aroused in your breast. Oue evening
you go to the Gymuase, and you come
to me the next day raving about the pi
quant loveliness of Celine Montalaud,
blonde beauty of Blanche Pierson, the
splendid eyes of Madame Pasco, and the
virginal charms of Mademoiselle Dela
porte. Next you visit La Lyrique and
words tail you wherein to express your
admiration for tlat beauty compounded
cf snow and moonlight, Christine Nils
son., You might be petrified or frozen
by this admiration did you go on tbe fol
lowing evening to La Gaiete, where the
faultless forms*of Mademoiselles Colotnb
ler and Thesee claim your attention and
call forth enthusiasm. It is well that in
the multitude of counsel there is safety,
or I might long ere this have seen you
sighing forth your soul ut the feet of one
ot those superb but not unapproachable
divinities.”
I only laughed. I was by this time
pretty well accustomed to the badinage
ot my old friend, and it was not the first
time that he rallied me on this subject.
‘Ti you had been familiar with our
stage some years ago, even so late as 1854
your'autnnation would h ivo been more
intelligible and more excusable. Mad
ame Doehe was then in all the brilliancy
of those unrivaled charms which combin
ed the threefold lustre of beautv, genius
aud rare distinction of manners You
saw her, I believe, in Les Parasites at
the Odeon the other night, and you pro
nounced her to be the most distioguish
ed-looking woman you had yet seen in
Europe, with the one exception of the
Empress of Austria. Can you picture to
yourself what she must have been years
ago, when all Paris was in tears over La
Dame aux Cornelias ? Then at the
Francais there were Madeline Brohan,
in those days beautiful as a poet’s dream;
her fascinating sister Augustine; charm
ing Delphine Fix, and Judith of the
snowy complexion and velvety black
eyes; while imperious and splendid Cru
velli at the Opera, lovely Rose Cheri at
the Gymnase, and the two goddesses of
the danc\ Rosati and Cerito, disputed
the palm of loveliness elsewhere. Those
were palmy days of our theatres, when
Rachel acted and Cruvelli sang and
Rosati danced, when a premiere dansuese
was an artist and ballet-dancing indeed
the poetry of motion; and when Madame
Allan drew crowds to the Francais to
weep over her acting in La Foie fait
Pear. What replaces these great ar
tists to-day? Instead of Cruvelli we
have Schneider; instead of Rachel.
Theresa; instead of Cerito, we have the
corps de ballet of the Puche auz lioisi
instead of the elegance, the grace, the
genius of Doche, we are called upon to
admire the unveiled loveliness of Made
moiselle Colombier in the role of Eve in
Le Paradis Perdu.
“But I have wandered far from my
subject. You know I begged you in
advance to excuse the garrulousness; so,
craving your pardon, I will try to tell my
story in a more direct fashion.
“The mo3t beautiful woman I have
ever seen upon the boards of a Parisian
theatre was the heroiue of my tale. She
was a Spanish dancer. Inez Castrejin
by name, and she was a member of a
troupe imported from Madrid by the
managemement of the Grand Opera.
Although she was not one of the leading
dancers, her extraordinary beauty and
perfect grace, joined to a sort of unso
phisticated gayety in her gestures and
acting, which was at once novel and at
tractive, rendered her speedily a univer
sal favorite. Her dancing had all the
dash and daring peculiar to her native
land, while at the same time it partook of
the bounding, artless joyousness of a
mirthful child Her features and form
were alike almost faultless, and her
great, lustrous black eyes were full of
expression. One of her greatest charms
was her hair, which, whenever the
exigencies of her role permitted, she suf
fered to fall uutressed around her shoul
ders. It covered her like a royal mantle
(‘plus longue qu’ un maateau de roi,’ as
Alfred de Musset has it), and it fell far
below the border of her ballet dress
such dresses in those days being worn
far longer than they are now.
“Nothwithstanding her personal loveli
ness and the perilous nature of her profes
sion, her reputation was spotless. She lived
simply and humbly, and eveu contrived
to save something, out of her moderate
salary, while palaces and parures of dia
monds, carriages and cashmere shawls,
were proffered for her acceptance in
vain. It was said that she was of gypsy
blood—a report that was probably true
as after events j wed that she possessed
the untamed so as well as the stead
fast charity of U... 0 wild race.
“One evenii. e .fa r the opera I supposed
at the Case Anglais. There was a
large party of us assembled in one of the
private cabiuets, and I think wc had r.li
taken more than was good for us of the
celebrated old Chablis for which this es
tablishment is famed. The conversation
turned upon the performance we had
just witnessed, and several persons pres
ent extolled the beauty and modesty cf
Inez Ca9trejo:i. In the midst of this
conversation the door opened and gave
adlmittance to one of the most celebrated
lions of the day—the Yicomte Gas
ton dc Gon lrecourt.
£sTo. 26.
