Most men have a faint and distant notion from whom to look for parentage—that inestimable boon for which the most miserable often feel the most grateful—inestimable, not only because it confers upon us, if we will, an immortal hereafter of unrevealed joy and glory, but because nobody ever has, ever will, or probably ever can, estimate it rightly. Parents consider their children as under an undischargeable debt of gratitude to them for bringing them into the world at all, without sometimes fully considering a parent’s duties as well as his rights. Children are too apt to make light of the obligation, as well as many another obligation which succeeded it—the care of infancy, the guidance of youth, the love, unextinguishable in all but very cold and stony hearts, which attends our offspring from their birth to our own death-bed. It may be argued that all these acts and feelings on the part of parents, are but in obedience to a law of nature: that the man or woman is like the eagle or the dove, is impelled to nurture, protect, defend his offspring. But if so, the law of love and obedience of the offspring to the parent, is equally binding; and he who neglects the one, is equally a rebel to nature, and to God, as he who neglects the other.

Most men, I repeat, have a faint and distant notion from whom to look for parentage. This is not without exception. Good, as a general rule, the exceptions are quite sufficient to prove it. I myself am one. That I had a father, I take for granted: that I had a mother is perfectly certain. But as to who my father and my mother were, was for many years a question much more doubtful.

However, I will tell you all about it, and you shall judge for yourself.

My first recollections of the world are surrounded by somewhat strange scenery. Figure to yourself, reader, a town situated on the top of a high hill, like an eagle’s eyrie, but far more solid and substantial. The streets are paved with large round stones, and a gutter in the centre, tracking out like rays at every cross-road: the houses, stone-built, and somewhat ponderous, are tall and short, wide and narrow, as in most other towns, but there are some very fine churches in a somewhat severe style in the place, and it seems to possess two peculiar characteristics. Whether, because so far elevated that nothing could obstruct the drainage on every side, or because at that high point it caught the clouds as they whirled by, and attracted the wrath of every storm by its menacing front, it was the cleanest town in the universe. In vain did cooks and old women throw out cock’s-heads divested of their combs, and the gizzards of ducks and fowls—in vain on the Saturday night was every gutter in the place made the receptacle of all the dust of all the houses—in vain were a number of other untidy tricks practiced to defile the highways, and offend the olfactories of the passing stranger—before the Monday morning all was clear again—except in very rainy seasons, when I have known a dust-heap lie for a fortnight. This was one of its peculiar characteristics: cleanliness.

I cannot help thinking there is something very merry in dirt. The very merriest people I have ever seen in my life have been the dirtiest; but perhaps, after all, the impression to this effect which I have received, may be attributed to my residence in that old town, where the exceeding cleanliness I have mentioned, was closely associated with that of dullness. The very cheerful summer sun, as he looked down into the open streets, held up as upon a pedestal to his view, looked dull and even sad. The clear light of the summer day had a cool, calm, gentlemanly melancholy about it, which did not serve to rouse or to enliven. One looked up the street and saw a man, a single solitary man, so lost in the yellow sunshine at the end, that you could not tell whether he had pike, pitch-fork, or crosier in his hand—three-cornered hat, or round, or cap of liberty on his head. One looked down the street toward the valley below, and could hardly make out whether the lonely carriage drawn by four beasts of some kind, had really four horses, or four mules, or four rats without a tail—amongst them. Not another being did you see. No heads were put out of windows—no idle figures presented themselves before the doorways. Curiosity seemed dead in the place, as well as every thing else; and although the sound of a carriage wheels—especially coming from below, where there was a post-house—was very rare, it seemed not to awaken any interest in the inhabitants whatsoever, at least not more than was displayed in just raising the eyes from the calves’ feet, or the sheep’s trotters which were preparing for dinner, to look for one instant at the vehicle, as it passed. If an earthquake had rumbled up and down the street, it could not have produced less excitment—and probably would not have produced more. The carriage went in peace and sunshine upon its way, and the cook or the good house-wife bent her attention to her dishes again.

But let me say a little more of the town before I proceed farther; for it is an object of great interest to me, even in memory. From the hill on which it stood, and the old walls which surrounded it on every side, rising up from the verge of the descent, and looking like the battlements of a raised pie, might be seen a very rich and beautiful country, with a river running round the base of the large rock on which one stood. The situation was a very commanding one; for though rising ground, deserving the name of high hills, was to be seen in the distance, and many a sweep and undulation lay between, yet the elevation of the town was sufficient to domineer over the whole country around within any thing like cannon-shot. The walls, however, were destitute of guns; and the various gates, with their old stone arches, seemed formed for no other purpose than to let the morning and evening sun shine through, and the country-people to bring in eatables and drinkables for the supply of the place. They afforded, too, a place of refuge for certain old gentlemen who engaged themselves in examining all itinerant merchants, making good women open their baskets, and running long iron things, like spits, into loads of hay and straw, in order to make sure that there was no wine or brandy concealed within. For all these services they exacted a trifling toll, or excise duty, upon a great number of articles of provision brought into the town. They were very unobtrusive people, however, seldom, if ever seen, except in the early part of market-days, and ever ready to retreat into their little dens by the side of the gate, as soon as their functions were performed. The great church stood at one side of a little square, free and open enough—always very clean, like the rest of the town, but always looking exceedingly cool also—for the very summer sun looked cool there, as I have observed, and one hardly felt the difference between June and December, if the day was clear. I don’t know why all that square never looked gay or cheerful—for it seemed to have every thing to make it so; and I have seen it, on days of festivity, tricked out in all that could assist. On the Sunday, a great multitude of the good people of the town, dressed out in their brightest attire, were continually flocking in and out of the church. On festival days you would see garlands of flowers, and banners, and rich vestments, and beautifully dressed altars under arbors of green leaves, and a little body of soldiers, with gay uniforms, glittering muskets, and cocked-hats, would appear to keep the ground as a procession passed. But still it never looked cheerful. All these objects were seen in that clear, cool light in such a way as to make them look frosty.

Perhaps one cause of the general sombreness of the town, and the impression of uninhabitedness which it gave, might have been that there were no shops in the place. This may seem an extraordinary fact—but so it was. There were no real, proper, bona fide shops, with good, wide, open fronts showing their wares. As one walked along the principal street, indeed, which led through a large, heavy, white stone arch, down the easiest slope of the hill into the open country, here and there, in the window of what seemed a private dwelling-place, and which could only be reached by ascending a flight of steps from the street, one might see a ham hanging up, or a string of sausages, or some other edible thing. Again, farther on, you would see a small brass basin nailed to a door-post, and again, in another window, a lady’s cap, or a string or two of ribbons. When in want of any article, you climbed the steps, you had to open a door, and then another door, before you arrived at the person whom you expected to furnish them. When you got in you would find a tolerable store of different kinds of articles, gathered together in a neat little room, somewhat dull and shady, and not the least like a shop in the world. It would have puzzled any one in such a cell to judge accurately of the color or quality of what he was purchasing; but I must do the good people the justice to say that they did not at all take advantage of this obscurity to cheat their friends and customers, but that all they sold was generally good and what it pretended to be—more, indeed, than can be said of most goods and chattels at the present time. The irregularity of the streets, too, might have had some part in creating the sombreness—for they turned and wound in an inconceivable manner, and the houses, built according to the taste and will of the owner, without any regard to regularity—some sticking out six or seven yards beyond its neighbor—some turning at one angle and some at another—some towering up, and others crouching down—had an exceedingly awkward habit of casting long, blue shadows, whichever way the sun shone, in hard, straight lines, unbroken by even a cloud of dust.

I have never seen any other town like it but one, and that is the town of Angouleme. Perhaps it was Angouleme—though I cannot be quite sure; for it is long, long ago since I was there, and events and circumstances of a very mingled character have drawn line after line across the tablet of memory, till even the deep strokes graven upon it in early years are only faintly traceable here and there.

In looking back as far as my mind will carry roe into the past, there comes first a cloud—a pleasant, summer-like cloud, not altogether shapeless, yet very faint and soft in the outlines, and varying strangely as I look at it. Now it takes the form of a beautiful lady, with two or three lovely children playing around her. I am among them; but whether I am one of them or not I cannot tell. Then it changes to a tall, somewhat youthful-looking man, with a sword at his side, and a great broad belt over his right shoulder. Heavy buckskin gloves he must have worn; for I remember quite well the hard touch of them between my little fingers. I see his jack-boots, too, even now. They are the very plainest part of the cloud. But the masses roll over—and what is seen next? A French chÂteau, with as many little towers as a cruet-stand, some square, some round, some with conical roofs, some with long gables, and at the end there is a small building, which, in the nonsensical slang of London house-agents, would be called semi-detached. It has a little spire, like that of a church, and a bell in it. Probably it was the chapel of the chÂteau; and there is a fountain playing before the house in the morning sun, surrounded by gay beds of flowers, formed into strange shapes, as if cut out by those ingenious instruments with which cooks produce variety in the patterns of fancy pie-crust. But it is all a cloud, never fixed, and never very clearly defined.

The first distinct and definite recollection that I have, is that of finding myself in the town I have mentioned, and in the house of one of the clergy of the place—an excellent good man, if one ever lived. But that is a general recollection, and the most clear as well as the earliest of my more particular recollections is that of having sat by the side of a large pond, or little lake, formed by the stream which flowed round the hill, and with a good stout rod of very plain construction, and a tremendously thick line and large hook, throwing in some kind of bait, I forget what, in the desperate hope of catching a gigantic pike, which was reported to frequent that water. My line lay in the tank for a long while without the slightest movement of the little cork float attached to it. I got somewhat weary, and began to think fishing poor sport. I laid my rod down upon the bank, gathered a heap of stones, and began throwing them as far as I could toward the centre of the piece of water. This was not pure idleness; for I had some indefinite notion, I believe, of driving the fish nearer to the shore. The day had hitherto been fine. A bright, soft, sleepy light, had lain upon the bosom of the water. But it was now about four o’clock, and the day began to change. First there came a shadow, then a breeze tossing up little waves, then thick, dashing drops of rain. I ran some twenty steps back under a little ledge of the rock, which afforded some shelter; for it would seem I had been possessed with a notion in my early youth, that I ought not to get wet; and there, from my little den, I looked out at the storm as it swept over the lake. It struck me then as very beautiful, and I dare say would have struck me more now; for through the thick drops, I could see here and there the blue sky shining like a loving eye watching the earth, and to the westward came a gleam of gold, telling that the storm would not last long.

What induced me to look down for my rod and line, I do not know; but when at the end of a quarter of an hour I did so, the float had totally disappeared, and the rod itself, though heavy enough to my notions, seemed suddenly endowed with the power of locomotion, and was walking away into the water. One dart forward, and I caught it, just as it was pitching over, but it had been nearly tugged out of my hand again ere I had got it fast. With triumph and with joy I found that there must be a fish at the end of the line, and a large one. I had caught gudgeons enough in my day, but I had no notion how to manage a large fish now I had hooked him. The only art I had was to pull away, and perhaps it was quite as lucky as not; for had the united strength of myself and the fish been superior to that of the line, the latter must have given way. But as it was, the fish was somewhat exhausted by his first tugs at the rod, and he suffered me very quietly to draw him in within a few yards of the shore. Luckily the line, though twisted round the top of the rod, was carried down to my hand, though without any reel; but there were some twenty or thirty yards of line wound upon a piece of stick beyond my hands. Luckily I say, for just as I was pulling my captive on, and could catch a sight of his glorious bulk, he seemed to me to put his tail in his mouth, and then with a great spring darted rapidly away. The top of the rod broke through in a moment, and the line ran through my hands like a knife. I caught it on the winder, however, and checked my enemy in his course. He gave a sulky tug or two, but then suffered me to pull him in again, and a desperate struggle we had of it when he found himself once more coming near the bank. When I found I could not manage him, I gave him line off my hands; and then refreshed, though with a heart I am ashamed to say beating how fast, I hauled away, and joyfully found his resistance diminishing. It was the labor of nearly an hour, however, before I got him close up to the bank, and then twice he got away from me, once, nearly bringing me into the water by the sudden dart he gave as I kneeled down to lift him on shore. At length, however, I landed him safely, and judge of my joy when I beheld a trout weighing five pounds at least, and magnified by my imagination to ten or fifteen.

He had got the hook quite down into his throat, which probably was the secret of my success; for had it been in his mouth, he and I must have pulled his jaw off between us. I did not stop even to make an attempt to take it out, but gathering up the fragments of my rod, while he lay panting and flapping on the grass, I lifted him up by the hook and carried him up triumphantly toward the town. I would not go in through the ordinary gates, however. I believe it was that a fear seized me lest I should be charged a duty on my fish; but as the house where I lived was close to the walls, and had a little garden in one of the old towers, through which there was a door and a stone stair-case, I hurried thither, found my way in by the back-door, and venturing to do what I had never done before, hurried, uncalled, into the room of good Father Bonneville at an hour when I knew he was always at study. Happily it was Thursday: I knew there was no fish in the house, and that our dinner, on the following day, was destined to be pumpkin-soup and a salad. This might well excuse my presumption, and it did.

Never in my life did I see a man more delighted than good Father Bonneville, though he hurried away a book which he had been reading when I came in—I believe it was the Old Testament—as if there had been something very shameful in it. He admired the trout immensely, looked at it on one side and then on the other, declared it the finest trout he had ever seen, and patting me on the head, asked me if I had really caught that all by myself.

I assured him that I had had no help whatever, and then added, slyly, “You know it is Friday to-morrow, Father.”

“Ah, my son, my son,” he replied, with a rueful shake of the head but a smile upon his lips, “we must not think too much of improving our fare, especially on meagre days; but the fish is a very fine fish notwithstanding, and we will have it for dinner to-morrow.”

I have dwelt long upon this little incident; for it was a very important one in my eyes at the time, and was not altogether without its influence upon my life. But I shall only pause to state here that Father Bonneville made more of me from that time forth than he had ever done before. Previously he had contented himself by giving me my lessons daily, by speaking a few kindly words to me at meal times, and turning me over for the rest of the day to his good old housekeeper. Now, however, I seemed to be fit for something better. Father Bonneville was very fond of fish, as most priests are, and every Tuesday and Thursday evening I was down at the banks of the lake or of the river; and as I had great perseverance, and rapidly became skillful, Father Bonneville very rarely went without fish of some kind for his dinner on Wednesdays and Fridays, so that fasting became somewhat of a farce—except in Lent indeed—except in Lent, when he made tremendous work with us.

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