464 A Tale of the Pyrenees. [Nov. 
daily labour ; he watched the flocks, and engaged in the natural interests 
of his new associates. He was calmed, but not forgetful. On the moun- 
tain-tops his spirit became elevated, and the sadness of a despairing man 
clothed itselfin the rich attire of poetical feeling. As he wandered over 
the unbeaten tracks of that region, tending the herds committed to him by 
his employer, his thoughts wandered far and free—more purely than 
heretofore, but not less wildly, or less peacefully. Solitude, that turns 
the current of our common sentiments, drew off from his their dross and 
vileness, but deepened and strengthened them. In such.a mood, he 
composed, from time to time, many rude and irregular songs referring to 
his own condition, and used as the interpreters and relief of his strong 
emotions. Lying beneath the forest-shade, or gazing down upon the 
surface of the fair world, it was then he used to sing his unheard plaints, 
inspired only by that innate feeling which is the soul of poetry. One of 
these singular compositions, preserved by himself in writing, and after- 
wards produced as a document of legal evidence, furnishes some idea, 
though inadequate, of that sweet music which in a few minds is not 
produced by culture or imitation, but seems whispered at the hour of 
birth by some angel of heaven, ere the spirit which receives it has 
become perfectly human. 
“The animals of the desert,’—(thus he sung)—“ fly from before the face 
of man, which inspires them with terror ; and I also, miserable and in tears, 
imitate them to lengthen my desolate life. : 
“ The unfortunate are enough in the earth, but none so unfortunate as me; 
I have been driven from my own hearth for attempting to sit alone thereasa 
master. 7 
“ I lay in ashes—in chains ; but was it not my own madness? Of my life, 
one-half has passed in a dungeon—the other half, in a dungeon of the soul. 
Why did I love so truly? She cared neither for my prayers, nor my sighing, 
but for another. 
“I see the sun’s rising and its sinking; I count the shadows as they | 
diminish to specks, and lengthen again as they were in the morning. They 
change the surface ; but the earth is always what it was. I believe neither 
the smiles nor any countenance of a woman; it is evil underneath. 
« My home! my home! ~The wind passes by me here in louder gusts, but 
not so sweetly to mine ear. I did not wander here before the days of my’ 
sorrow. Oh, my home! thou wert a garden of blessedness ; but I am sen- 
tenced away. ' 
“ Ye who pursue Etchehon, seek him not at Barcus, for he is composing 
songs at Eginton, the fairest of the pasturages of the Pyrenees, inhabited by 
the shepherds of La Soule.” 
That Etchehon was for a time soothed by the simple tenor of his pre- 
sent life, is very probable. But that he soon felt an inquietude under the 
very stillness, and a longing to see once more the familiar things of his 
native place, is pretty evident, from the querulous tone that occasionally 
creeps into these fragments of his verse. This feeling, indeed grew 
upon him more and more; he would make little excursions from his 
proper beat to catch a glimpse of some neighbouring height and over- 
hanging forest; and, after a few weeks, he determined to steal once — 
more into some of his old haunts, and learn correctly what had followed 
upon the death of Eguiapal. 
It was a dark, cold night, and the villagers of Barcus were for the — 
most part collected in their homes; when -some one coming from the 
fields later than was usual, discovered a heavy mass as of a cloud passing 
