Chapter C: H a P. XII

O! THERE is a sweet æra in the life of man, when (the brain being tender and fibrillous, and more like pap than any thing else)——a story read of two fond lovers, separated from each other by cruel parents, and by still more cruel destiny——

_Amandus_——He
_Amanda_——She——

each ignorant of the other’s course, He——east She——west _Amandus_ taken captive by the _Turks_, and carried to the emperor of _Morocco_’s court, where the princess of _Morocco_ falling in love with him, keeps him twenty years in prison for the love of his _Amanda._——

She—(_Amanda_) all the time wandering barefoot, and with dishevell’d hair, o’er rocks and mountains, enquiring for _Amandus!——Amandus! Amandus!—_making every hill and valley to echo back his name——

_Amandus! Amandus!_

at every town and city, sitting down forlorn at the gate——Has Amandus!—has my _Amandus_ enter’d?——till,——going round, and round, and round the world——chance unexpected bringing them at the same moment of the night, though by different ways, to the gate of _Lyons_, their native city, and each in well-known accents calling out aloud,

Is _Amandus_

still alive?

Is my _Amanda_

they fly into each other’s arms, and both drop down dead for joy.

There is a soft æra in every gentle mortal’s life, where such a story affords more _pabulum_ to the brain, than all the _Frusts_, and _Crusts_, and _Rusts_ of antiquity, which travellers can cook up for it.

——’Twas all that stuck on the right side of the cullender in my own, of what _Spon_ and others, in their accounts of _Lyons_, had _strained_ into it; and finding, moreover, in some Itinerary, but in what God knows——That sacred to the fidelity of _Amandus_ and _Amanda_, a tomb was built without the gates, where, to this hour, lovers called upon them to attest their truths——I never could get into a scrape of that kind in my life, but this _tomb of the lovers_ would, somehow or other, come in at the close —nay such a kind of empire had it establish’d over me, that I could seldom think or speak of _Lyons_—and sometimes not so much as see even a _Lyons-waistcoat_, but this remnant of antiquity would present itself to my fancy; and I have often said in my wild way of running on——tho’ I fear with some irreverence——“I thought this shrine (neglected as it was) as valuable as that of _Mecca_, and so little short, except in wealth, of the _Santa Casa_ itself, that some time or other, I would go a pilgrimage (though I had no other business at _Lyons_) on purpose to pay it a visit.”

In my list, therefore, of _Videnda_ at _Lyons_, this, tho’ _last_,—was not, you see, _least_ ; so taking a dozen or two of longer strides than usual cross my room, just whilst it passed my brain, I walked down calmly into the _basse cour_, in order to sally forth; and having called for my bill—as it was uncertain whether I should return to my inn, I had paid it——had moreover given the maid ten sous, and was just receiving the dernier compliments of Monsieur _Le Blanc_, for a pleasant voyage down the _Rhône_——when I was stopped at the gate——