asked a lady to whom I had the honour of
paying a morning-visit at the Château Belaux.
In driving back to the city of
Bordeaux, your thoughts are diverted by
other objects. You are amused by flocks of
party-coloured sheep, in which the black individuals
are more valuable (on account of
their wool) than white ones. You behold
crops of pine-cones carried into town, to have
their kernels eaten as nuts by the populace.
You start at the sight of wretched horses
and asses, mere living carcases, grazing on a
way-side patch of green. They are victims
destined to take their turn in that oblong,
swampy pond (it covers two hectares) on the
left, which is surrounded by a lofty paling
of strong willow-poles. On an island in the
middle, reached by a green peninsula, is a
tight little cottage. The pond is a leech-marsh,
the house is for the guardian, and the
palisading is to protect the leeches from
thieves, who would otherwise come down by
night, trouble the water by beating it with
sticks, and then, entering it naked-legged,
would run off with a good catch hanging by
the mouth to their flesh-coloured pantaloons.
The medicinal leech is a valuable description
of live stock, being exported from Médoc not
only into the interior of France, but even to
the United States of America. The young
fry are backward in their education; they
are three years before they learn to suck.
When they once begin they make up for lost
time. To their voracity those wretched
animals are delivered, till they drop down
bloodless and exhausted in the marsh. The
guardian of that leech-lake must surely sometimes
dream (if ever he is feverish or has the
nightmare), that his sanguinary charge are
getting up a revolt, are mounting the bank in
insurrection, and are crawling in at the key-hole
and through the chinks of the windows,
and the door, to attack him with their
cupping-machines, as he lies undressed and
helpless in bed. Certainly, the leech-herd
ought to receive a handsome salary.*

Past mulberry-trees, whose leaves feed
silkworms; past buildings, wherein the worms
are reared: past gay villas with luxurious
gardens; past suburban places of entertainment,
you roll, till you enter proud Bordeaux,
wondering whether you will arrive too late
to console yourself at the table-d'hôte with
a sample-bottle of old St. Estèphe.

GUZLA.

GUZLA was the daughter of an old man
who lived at Beyrout, in Syria, in circumstances
of ease. No one knew to what race
or country the old man belonged, and few could
tell precisely at what period he had begun to
inhabit that city. Some said that his face had
been known in the market-place for more
than half a century; others that he had
settled there but recently. The truth seemed
to be that he had at various times been a
citizen of Beyrout; that he had often been
absent for long periods; but that he had at
length set up his tent there for good. They
called him Effendi Ibrahim, a name not commonly
adopted by Christians in the East;
yet Guzla was known to frequent the Church
of the Maronites with her mother: a grave
woman, whose face was always veiled, even
when persons of her own sex only were present.

Effendi Ibrahim was always magnificently
dressed, and never appeared in public but
with a certain state. He was proud of a fine
white beard that flowed down over the breast
of his caftan; and ostentatiously exhibited
the jewels on his fingers. Many merchants,
therefore, were willing to believe in his respectability
despite—some ugly rumours that
spoke of piracy and unlawful connexions—
and more than one made overtures for the
hand of Guzla, on behalf of son or self.
That she would have a splendid dowry no one
could doubt; so there was no danger that
the world would laugh at the connexion.

The female gossips of the city, moreover,
spread abroad the report that Guzla was
marvellously beautiful. But, as her beauty
was of a peculiar kind, they found it difficult
to convey a notion of it by comparisons. Her
cheeks were not round and plump and rosy:
nor were her eyes full of fire and merriment;
her lips did not pout; and her figure by no
means admitted of that luxury of description
in which oriental match-makers are fond of
indulging. She was rather serious than gay,
and had something firm and masterly about
her appearance. Was she sickly, or boyish,
or awkward? The suggestion roused the
anger of the good ladies; who declared that
they had never seen anything so delicate and
maidenly, except, (and they hinted this with
some reserve and compunction), a certain portrait,
before which the faithful signed themselves
as they entered the church. This was a
bold comparison; but the truth was that they
meant that Guzla had the bearing of a saint
and not of a sultana.

Most of those who had previously aspired
to bring her home, dropped away when they
understood what was meant; for they wanted
something very different from a saint. One or
two, however, more practical, felt that a good
dowry should make them put up with many
disagreeable things. They persevered so far
as to lay their suit before the father; who received
them with a sort of ferocious jocularity,
endeavoured to represent himself as a very
dangerous person to deal with, and finally
declined their offers. He was persuaded, he
said, that Guzla would not make a good wife
for any such persons; and that, if she were not
happy, he should be obliged to kill his son-in-law.

As for Guzla, she heard little or nothing
of these discussions—spending all her time
with her mother in the inner rooms of her

*See volume viii., page 492.