Lively, fickle, and unaccustomed to restraint, she was difficult to manage. Happily, a rare aptitude and an exquisite sensibility caused great hopes to be entertained of her. Niva's character interested M. Ramier, an intelligent young man, then a professor in the school of Choron. His generous soul was touched at seeing such a beautiful soul crushed by hard fortune. He tendered her a friendly hand, and from that moment he considered it his duty to open for this young girl a way to a happier future.

At first it was but a natural pride in his waif which caused Ramier to present Mdlle. Niva to Choron; but this sentiment soon changed and manifested itself in a way which astonished even him.

Mademoiselle Niva was admitted to Choron's school and confided to the particular care of Ramier. His class was composed of men, children, and young girls. It was conducted with the most perfect order; not a word was ever heard to shock propriety. The severity of Ramier was so great in this regard that he was the butt of the pleasantry of his comrades.

The first lessons which Madlle. Niva received from Ramier were original enough. After having presented her to her class-mates, he called her to him, and said, "Mademoiselle Niva, they doubtless speak very ill of me to you, do they not? Own it frankly. They tell you that I am a grumbler, harsh, and hard to please." Niva responded to this question by a

mischievous smile. "Well, well," said Ramier, "but you will see that they have calumniated me; for to-morrow I will set you no other task than to wash your face, and after that we will see." A general laugh followed the speech of the professor. On the morrow Niva presented herself in a somewhat better plight. "Now," said Ramier, you will devote yourself to your hands; and I give you a week for that important ablution." In a week the metamorphosis was complete; the beautiful teeth of Madlle. Niva were as white as ivory, her collar was adjusted with more taste, her hair well combed, her dress in better keeping with her pretty figure; in a word, there was an entirely new aspect in affairs, and the feminine instinct had been aroused.

Ramier then devoted himself to her musical education. Having entire control over her, he watched her with a severe eye, marked out her hours of study, and

made her give him a minute account of her time. Every action of this young girl was under his control; no one could seduce him from his solicitous task, and neither her mother nor Choron ever opposed the will of Ramier.

Little by little Niva's voice, becoming controllable by numerous and well graduated exercises, acquired a remarkable sonority. Enchanted by the progress of his pupil, Ramier no longer confined his instructions to music. The intelligence of Niva was ready for everything; but it was not without much trouble on his part and many tears on hers that it was brought under control. The use of rigorous means was also necessary to bring her into habits of obedience and regular labor. There were many attempts at revolt, many threats of returning to native freedom. But Ramier was immovable: he kept her constantly under the yoke of his will. In other respects Ramier was extremely kind to Niva. He gave her all his time; he neglected his private affairs to watch over her education; he provided for a part of her needs—in a word, he became her providence.

Thus Niva grew under the instructions of Ramier. She was no longer the poor little girl whom he found in the street; she had become a charming person, with a slender figure, refined and distinguished manners, conversing with ease. He could not look at her without pride; he could not hear her praised without saying to himself" It is I who have made her what she is." When it was whispered around him, "What a charming person! what wit! what talent!" his heart bounded with joy.

During her lessons, when she sung at his side, and her voice broke forth in sad and plaintive strains, his eyes were constantly fixed on her. He looked at her with delight; he breathed with difficulty, so much did he fear to lose one of those accents, the utterance of which It was he had been able to teach her. because Niva was the work of his hands, the echo of his soul. Entrancing sight! to look upon the unfolding of an intelligence which owes its existence to you. Ramier, who had devoted three precious years of his life to the education of this young girl, to bend her to his slightest will, to accustom her to a passive obedience, now that he had obtained what he desired, now that he had made her a perfectly charming creature, was afflicted at the perfection of his work.

This

obedience, this docility, this unclouded sweetness, chagrined him and made him unhappy. He would have had a little mutiny, some caprices. He wished that Niva did not believe herself obliged to obey without uttering complaint. He would have seen her a woman, and his equal. This will be understood. Ramier loved Niva. The poor girl whom he had educated with so much severity, whom but now he had treated with so little consideration, was mistress of his heart. He was kneeling before the work of his own hands. It was a passion the more profound because he dared not manifest it. The question was how to pass the gulf which separated him from Niva-how to lay aside the semblance of an almost paternal authority in order to avow the tender sentiments with which she had inspired him-how to abandon the severe and dignified character which he had sustained till then, that he might bow himself before a girl who trembled before him? Niva, who owed everything to Ramier, who feared as much as she respected him, how would she receive the avowal of a sentiment which she was far from supposing to exist in her benefactor. Love is a jealous god, who will have independence. On the other side, the character of Ramier was too high-toned, he was too deeply penetrated with the noble mission which had fallen to his lot, to abuse for a moment the boundless confidence with which he had inspired his youthful pupil.

Meanwhile, Niva made progress daily: She had surpassed the highest hopes of Ramier. Her aptitude at appreciating the most delicate shades of expression was surprising. Her beautiful voice, her striking figure, her large and vigorous style, were the astonishment of all who heard her. Whenever she sung in Ramier's class there was no end to the stamping and applause. In the world her success was yet greater. She was overwhelmed with presents and kind attentions: then, with tearful eyes, she would say to Ramier, "My master, it is to you that I owe all this."

Niva had been three years in Choron's school, before she was heard by any other person except the pupils of Ramier. One day Choron said to Ramier, "When shall we hear your prodigy?" This malicious question showed that Choron had allowed himself to be prejudiced against Niva by the wounded self-love of her companions, who were jealous of

the preference of Ramier, and the particular care he bestowed upon her. A day was fixed on which Niva should be heard. This sort of presentation had always taken place at formal lessons, over which Choron presided. It was an imposing sight. Each professor, with his class, defiled before the head of the establishment, who approved or censured. It was not Choron whom the scholars feared the most, but the criticism of their comrades. A smile, a murmur made them tremble, and utterly confused them. It was on a Saturday, in the year 1829, that Niva was to make her début before all the pupils of Choron's school. The ban and arrière-ban had been summoned. There were also some strange ladies, who, knowing the romantic story of the young artist, had expressed a desire to hear her. curiosity was general. All were eager to observe the result of three years of study; every person had come with feelings more or less favorably disposed towards the débutante.

The

Choron says to Ramier, "My good fellow, we are ready." Conducted by her teacher, Niva advanced upon the platform. She trembles, her breast heaves with effort. Ramier is at the piano-forte, his heart oppressed with agitation. He strikes a few chords, and whispers to Niva, "Courage!" Niva then commences to sing that beautiful air of Nicolini's,—

"Or che son vicino a te,
Stanca son di palpitar,"

which Madame Pasta gave with such grand magnificence of style. When Niva reached the touching passage,—

"Tanto amore e tanta fe."

All

a storm of applause overwhelms her voice. Choron springs upon the platform, weeping like a child, and throwing himself upon Niva's neck, covers her with kisses, unable to utter a word. the pupils rise spontaneously. Ramier, leaning his head upon the instrument, endeavors to master his emotion: at the sight of him, Niva disengages herself from the arms of Choron and springs towards her benefactor: "Bravo, bravo!" on all sides. It was a thrilling scene, the brightest day of Ramier.

Some time previous Choron had enriched the class of Ramier with a new pupil,-a young man of attractive exterior. He called himself Rifaut. The

first time that he saw and heard Niva he was struck with admiration. From that moment he did not lose sight of her. Assiduously attentive to her, he never lost an opportunity to pay her a compliment. Ramier did not long remain ignorant of this bit of romance. He took it as a sore affliction. He essayed to crush this budding attachment; but, as almost always happens in such cases, the remedy aggravated the evil.

One Sunday in the month of May, 1830, Ramier and Niva were to dine at the house of some person of rank, who had taken an interest in the prospects of the young singer. Niva excused herself on the ground of indisposition. Ramier went alone; but, anxious about the health of his pupil, he slipped out immediately after dinner and went from the Chausée d'Antin to the Rue Babyone, where Niva lived. As the weather was beautiful, he followed the Boulevard des Invalides. It was, perhaps, eight o'clock, in the evening. Bearing an enormous bouquet for Niva, his heart was in one of those perfectly happy moods which are so rarely enjoyed in this life, when he saw two persons approaching him. At once his eyes swam, his knees bent and trembled: he endeavored to walk, but in vain: he was obliged to lean against a tree: he had recognized Niva on the arm of Rifaut! Dumb with astonishment, the sweat stood in great drops upon the face of Ramier: his grief was of that kind which cannot find relief in tears. After a few silent moments, Ramier, summoning all his self-possession, went on his way without a word, leaving Niva in utter consternation. For him, all was over. never alluded to the occurrence with his pupil, never addressed a reproach to her: he continued his care as if nothing had altered the sentiments which he had for her. Some months afterwards the revolution of July occurred, which put an end to the school of Choron. A fortnight after this event Ramier quitted Paris.

He

He had lived six months at the town of when there arrived a young cantatrice who was the subject of high eulogy. She was about to give a concert. Upon the appointed day the large saloon of the Hotel de Ville was thronged: all the best society of the place was present. Ramier was among the first there, and placed himself just in front of the piano-forte. After an overture, played by the amateurs of the town, the prima donna appeared. The programme announced an air by Nicolini. young vocalist approached the pianoforte with confidence, and, without appearing in the least disconcerted by her numerous audience, she began with much sweetness that beautiful adagio,—

"Or che son vicino a te:

The

Her voice then she stopped short. trembled, her visage paled. She endeavored to recommence; but it was impossible! Her eyes filled with tears. Seeing her about to swoon, Ramier sprang to her aid, placed her in a chair, took the music from her hands, and stepped forward to sing in her place:

"Or che son vicino a te, Stanca son di palpitar"

with an accent and an expression which thrilled the whole assembly. The evening was broken up; the concert could not go on. Niva, for it was she, had recognized Ramier, who, after singing the air, went out and left the town on the next day.

Ten years after the event just related, they gave an opera at the Royal Academy of Music which attracted all Paris. A prima donna beloved by the public achieved a great success. In the fourth act, during one of the most dramatic scenes in the composition, sobs were heard from an obscure corner of the orchestra: it was Ramier, who wept hot tears at recognizing Niva in the person of the favorite prima donna, who calls herself now-a-days, Rosina Stoltz.

A

XV.

ADIEU, BARCELONA !

ND now, in the midst of all thy gaieties, adieu, Barcelona-fairest of the towns of Spain! I leave thy Rambla and thy sea-washed walk, thy greenswarded ramparts and thy Catalonian towers, thy vine-hills and thy mountain tops of snow. Softer, they tell me, are the maids of Andalusia, and milder the airs of the Murcian shore. But thy Pyrenean skies have been a heaven to me, and the grace of thy veiled daughters has held my roving heart captive for ninety days!

Now then, vamos! Already I see before me, rising up out of the southern sea, and beckoning me on, the minarets and the palm-trees of Valencia.

XVI.

TO VALENCIA.

THE starting of the Valencian Diligencia from the great square of Barcelona is a spectacle for men and boys, if not for angels. The huge, ponderous vehicle is itself a piece of joinery which, if exhibited as a curiosity in any of our States, not too far south or west, would bring a shilling per head quick. It has the air of an old stager, indeed. Yet, though on its last spokes, it, like all veterans, dies hard. Its well-patched appearance indicates that it has passed through many hair-breadth escapes, and accidents by flood and field. But no turning of somersets, no getting stuck in the mud, no involuntary voyages down the mountain torrents, have ever succeeded in dislocating its original timbers. There it stands its leathern top clouted like old shoes--its body as unwashed as the great body of the Spanish people-and its interior crammed full of men, women and babies, every one of the former of whom, before taking his place, has made his last will and testament, and got an insurance on his ribs for double their value.

For the last hour, all have been packed, passengers and luggage. But there is bad luck in starting in a hurry in Spain. No corre priesa. The postilions

are mounted; let them have their nap out. The mules, too, the whole eight of them, are asleep, each on his three legs. All-passengers, postilions and mulesare waiting for the conductor, with his mail-bags.

Here he comes. One leap, and he is on his box. The tail of his cap reaches the small of his back; and his moustache mounts, scarcely less than the length of his cap, in the air. A volley of preparatory oaths and sacramentis clears the road of boys, beggars and bystanders. And now, vamos! Crack your whip, cochero;-go it, ropes! The conductor swears and shouts at the top of his voice; the postilions put the spurs into the poor brutes' sides; and a runner, keeping pace with the cantering caravan, plays the lash most dexterously about backs and bellies. The whole affair sweeps down the avenue "like mad." And, possibly, before they are well off the pavement, as uneven, in many parts of the town, as the rolling sea, a movement will take place in the stomachs of some of the travellers, analogous to that experienced by the passengers of a Dover and Calais steam-packet, on leaving the quay. A couple of heads, maybe, are seen dangling out of each window, in such a state of wretchedness, as must throw the most compassionate and decorous of observers into an uncontrollable fit of laughter. So they go out of the town-gates-the passengers cascading— the postilions cracking their whips-the exhausted runner laying on his last blows the conductor still calling upon the saints, and uttering over his poor brutes' heads half the imprecations contained in the vernacular.

Once on the queen's highway, the whole concern would soon be lost sight of; for it goes down in the holes of the road like a ship in the troughs of the sea. You think they have all descended into the pit which has no bottommules, riders and diligence. But, anon, you see them slowly staggering up the next summit of the billowy road, all tight and right. Therein lies the great peculiarity of the Spanish stage-coach, that when it goes into the mire deep enough to bring it to a complete standstill, everything about the machine gives, nothing breaks. The ropes stretch a

point; they don't part. The braces settle; but the superincumbent body does not come to the ground. Anywhere out of Spain, a single screw left loose will bring a fall to the best-contrived vehicle, as well as the most upright-standing man or woman; but, here, nothing is more common, at least, in the case of diligences, than for them to have all their screws loose at once. Then they go the fastest. The matter may not be quite comprehensible-'tis a Cosa de España.

Of course, I did not myself go to Valencia in the diligencia. By no means. I waited a week, and went by my good ship, the Barcino. I was desirous of making one more voyage in company with my friend, the Don. And there, sure enough, he still was, doing battle on the panel with the pigskins; and there was Sancho Panza, standing aghast, alike at the fury of his master, and the loss of the liquor. The good knight, now that I had become familiar with him and his trusty squire, in the streets of Barcelona, seemed to me more like life-Spanish life-than ever. This was true also of the inn-keeper, and the inn-keeper's two princesses, and the half-dozen fellows who had tossed Sancho Panza in the blanket. Accordingly, we were at once "hale fellow well met."

An

After the other passengers had retired for the night, the cloth was laid for our supper. The Don came down from his door, and was placed at the head of the table, though in his shirt-tails. Ostende rabbit had been ordered to be stewed expressly for Sancho Panza, as the best thing to stop his mouth, and put an end to his proverbs. Sancho at sea, by the way, proved to be a good deal of a Jonah, and would inevitably have sunk the ship from the exceeding weight of his sayings, had not his attention been adroitly turned to something he relished even better than his own puns. The inn-keeper, after placing his damsels each on one side of the worshipful, though somewhat disconcerted knight of La Mancha, set himself down as my right-hand man; and the way in which we all drew on the only remaining skin of his well-preserved Benicarlo, was worthy of the very best days of Spanish history. I must do mine host the justice to say-and I do it most cheerfullythat excepting myself, of course, he was the last of the party to go under the table; while Sancho Panza, I regret to add, led the way, falling off with a half

finished proverb on his lips, and in a manner highly derogatory to the dignity of a personage who was one day to be the governor of an island. The Don disappeared from the table soon after the ladies; and it is not known what became of him. Not a little nettled he seemed, as I thought, towards the close of the sitting, that nobody would believe a word of what he repeatedly affirmed respecting the beautiful foot of Dulcinea del Toboso. Very likely, he went back before morning to his panel. I can simply say, that when I arose from my seat at the supper-table, neither he, nor any other of the guests was there to wish me buenas tardes; and that on awaking next morning, the only thing I noticed was the fact that the Barcino was dropping anchor in the roadstead of Valencia.

XVII.

SPANISH BREAKERS.

Ir was blowing a small gale of wind; for the Mediterranean is a moody sea, changing sometimes very quickly from smiles to frowns. A gale of wind, and no harbor at Valencia, or within a hundred miles of it;-such is the inhospitality of this rock-bound, though beautiful coast. Therefore, I had my choice between continuing on to Alicante, with a chance of meeting no better luck, and being obliged to go even to Cartegena, and the extremest south, or of landing in an open boat in the breakers. I had much more time for reflection than was needed for deciding a question which had for me, in fact, but one side to it. Yet, hour after hour passed away; and no boat was seen pushing off from the shore. No good comes from hurrying in Spain. El que se apresura se muere; y el que no, tam bien. He who hurries, dies; and he who does not, dies too. The sea was running so high on the beach, that the boatmen had a good excuse for their dilatoriness, and kept us waiting full half a day.

At length, just as I was making up my mind that they would not come at all, off they shoved. It was a good-sized barge, with a dozen or twenty lusty fellows, in red caps, at the oars. We were lying almost three-quarters of a mile from the shore; and the boat, now tossed to the top of the waves, and now completely lost to view in the hollow, took,