Shall of the work together we have wrought, Beyond our aspiration and our thought, Some not unworthy issue yet receive; For love is fellow-service I believe.’ * * * * * The tale, we said, instructive was, but short; Could he not give another of the sort? He feared his second might his first repeat, ‘And Aristotle teaches, change is sweet; But come, our younger friend in this dim night Under his bushel must not hide his light.’ I said I’d had but little time to live, Experience none or confidence could give. ‘But I can tell to-morrow, if you please, My last year’s journey towards the Pyrenees.’ To-morrow came, and evening, when it closed, The penalty of speech on me imposed. _MY TALE._ _A la Banquette, or a Modern Pilgrimage._ I stayed at La Quenille, ten miles or more From the old-Roman sources of Mont Dore; Travellers to Tulle this way are forced to go, —An old high-road from Lyons to Bordeaux,— From Tulle to Brives the swift Corrèze descends, At Brives you’ve railway, and your trouble ends; A little _bourg_ La Quenille; from the height The mountains of Auvergne are all in sight; Green pastoral heights that once in lava flowed, Of primal fire the product and abode; And all the plateaux and the lines that trace Where in deep dells the waters find their place; Far to the south above the lofty plain, The Plomb du Cantal lifts his towering train. A little after one, with little fail, Down drove the diligence that bears the mail; The _courier_ therefore called, in whose _banquette_ A place I got, and thankful was to get; The new postillion climbed his seat, _allez_, Off broke the four cart-horses on their way. Westward we roll, o’er heathy backs of hills, Crossing the future rivers in the rills; Bare table-lands are these, and sparsely sown, Turning their waters south to the Dordogne. Close-packed we were, and little at our ease, The _conducteur_ impatient with the squeeze; Not tall he seemed, but bulky round about, His cap and jacket made him look more stout; In _grande tenue_ he rode of _conducteur_; Black eyes he had, black his moustaches were, Shaven his chin, his hair and whiskers cropt; A ready man; at Ussel when we stopt, For me and for himself, bread, meat, and wine, He got, the _courier_ did not wait to dine; To appease our hunger, and allay our drouth, We ate and took the bottle at the mouth; One draught I had, the rest entire had he, For wine his body had capacity. A peasant in his country blouse was there, He told me of the _conseil_ and the _maire_. Their _maire_, he said, could neither write nor read, And yet could keep the registers, indeed; The _conseil_ had resigned—I know not what.— Good actions here are easily forgot: He in the _quarante-huit_ had something done, Were things but fair, some notice should have won. Another youth there was, a soldier he,