XXXI
O there is a sweet √¶ra in the life of man, when (the brain being tender and fibrillous, and more like pap than anything else)вБ†вЄЇвБ†a story read of two fond lovers, separated from each other by cruel parents, and by still more cruel destinyвБ†вЄЇвБ†
AmandusвБ†вЄЇвБ†He
AmandaвБ†вЄЇвБ†SheвБ†вЄЇвБ†
each ignorant of the otherвАЩs course,
HeвБ†вЄЇвБ†east
SheвБ†вЄЇвБ†west
Amandus taken captive by the Turks, and carried to the emperor of MoroccoвАЩs court, where the princess of Morocco falling in love with him, keeps him twenty years in prison for the love of his Amanda.вБ†вЄЇвБ†
SheвБ†вАФ(Amanda) all the time wandering barefoot, and with dishevellвАЩd hair, oвАЩer rocks and mountains, enquiring for Amandus!вБ†вЄЇвБ†Amandus! Amandus!вБ†вАФmaking every hill and valley to echo back his nameвБ†вЄЇвБ†
Amandus! Amandus!
at every town and city, sitting down forlorn at the gateвБ†вЄЇвБ†Has Amandus!вБ†вАФhas my Amandus enterвАЩd?вБ†вЄЇвБ†till,вБ†вЄЇвБ†going round, and round, and round the worldвБ†вЄЇвБ†chance unexpected bringing them at the same moment of the night, though by different ways, to the gate of Lyons, their native city, and each in well-known accents calling out aloud,
Is Amandus
Is my Amanda
}
still alive?
they fly into each otherвАЩs arms, and both drop down dead for joy.
There is a soft √¶ra in every gentle mortalвАЩs life, where such a story affords more pabulum to the brain, than all the Frusts, and Crusts, and Rusts of antiquity, which travellers can cook up for it.
вЄЇвАЩTwas all that stuck on the right side of the cullender in my own, of what Spon and others, in their accounts of Lyons, had strained into it; and finding, moreover, in some Itinerary, but in what God knowsвБ†вЄЇвБ†That sacred to the fidelity of Amandus and Amanda, a tomb was built without the gates, where, to this hour, lovers called upon them to attest their truthsвБ†вЄЇвБ†I never could get into a scrape of that kind in my life, but this tomb of the lovers would, somehow or other, come in at the closeвБ†вЄЇвБ†nay such a kind of empire had it establishвАЩd over me, that I could seldom think or speak of LyonsвБ†вАФand sometimes not so much as see even a Lyons-waistcoat, but this remnant of antiquity would present itself to my fancy; and I have often said in my wild way of running onвБ†вЄЇвБ†though I fear with some irreverenceвБ†вЄЇвАЬI thought this shrine (neglected as it was) as valuable as that of Mecca, and so little short, except in wealth, of the Santa Casa itself, that some time or other, I would go a pilgrimage (though I had no other business at Lyons) on purpose to pay it a visit.вАЭ
In my list, therefore, of Videnda at Lyons, this, though last,вБ†вАФwas not, you see, least; so taking a dozen or two of longer strides than usual across my room, just whilst it passed my brain, I walked down calmly into the Basse Cour, in order to sally forth; and having called for my billвБ†вАФas it was uncertain whether I should return to my inn, I had paid itвБ†вЄЇвБ†had moreover given the maid ten sous, and was just receiving the dernier compliments of Monsieur Le Blanc, for a pleasant voyage down the Rh√іneвБ†вЄЇвБ†when I was stopped at the gateвБ†вЄЇвБ†