Monastier, and there but one. Now of the three who
sat down with me to dinner, one was certainly not beautiful--a poor
timid thing of forty, quite troubled at this roaring _table d'hote_,
whom I squired and helped to wine, and pledged and tried generally to
encourage, with quite a contrary effect; but the other two, both
married, were both more handsome than the average of women. And
Clarisse? What shall I say of Clarisse? She waited the table with a
heavy placable nonchalance, like a performing cow; her great grey eyes
were steeped in amorous languor; her features, although fleshy, were of
an original and accurate design; her mouth had a curl; her nostril spoke
of dainty pride; her cheek fell into strange and interesting lines. It
was a face capable of strong emotion, and, with training, it offered the
promise of delicate sentiment. It seemed pitiful to see so good a model
left to country admirers and a country way of thought. Beauty should at
least have touched society; then, in a moment, it throws off a weight
that lay upon it, it becomes conscious of itself, it puts on an
elegance, learns a gait and a carriage of the head, and, in a moment,
_patet dea_. Before I left I assured Clarisse of my hearty admiration.
She took it like milk, without embarrassment or wonder, merely looking
at me steadily with her great eyes; and I own the result upon myself was
some confusion. If Clarisse could read English, I should not dare to add
that her figure was unworthy of her face. Hers was a case for stays; but
that may perhaps grow better as she gets up in years.

Pont de Montvert, or Greenhill Bridge, as we might say at home, is a
place memorable in the story of the Camisards. It was here that the war
broke out; here that those southern Covenanters slew their Archbishop
Sharpe. The persecution on the one hand, the febrile enthusiasm on the
other, are almost equally difficult to understand in these quiet modern
days, and with our easy modern beliefs and disbeliefs. The Protestants
were one and all beside their right minds with zeal and sorrow. They
were all prophets and prophetesses. Children at the breast would exhort
their parents to good works. "A child of fifteen months at Quissac spoke
from its mother's arms, agitated and sobbing, distinctly and with a loud
voice." Marshal Villars has seen a town where all the women "seemed
possessed by the devil," and had trembling fits, and uttered prophecies
publicly upon the streets. A prop