The Actress in High Life

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The Actress in High Life

The Project Gutenberg eBook, The Actress in High Life, by Sue
Petigru Bowen
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Title: The Actress in High Life An Episode in Winter Quarters
Author: Sue Petigru Bowen

Release Date: November 30, 2005 [eBook #17191]
Language: English
Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1
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ACTRESS IN HIGH LIFE***
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THE ACTRESS IN HIGH LIFE:
An Episode in Winter Quarters.
(Sue Petigru Bowen)

"Grim-Visag'd War hath smooth'd his wrinkled front; And now, instead
of mounting barbed steeds, To fright the souls of fearful adversaries,
He capers nimbly in a lady's chamber, To the lascivious pleasing of a
lute."
New York: Derby & Jackson.
1860.
Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1860, in the Clerk's
office of the District Court of South Carolina. C.A. Alvord, Printer,
New York.

THE ACTRESS IN HIGH LIFE;
AN EPISODE IN WINTER QUARTERS.
CHAPTER I.
I was a traveler, then, upon the moor, I saw the hare that raced about
with joy, I heard the woods and distant waters roar, Or heard them not,
as happy as a boy; The pleasant season did my heart employ. My old
remembrances went from me wholly, And all the ways of men so vain

and melancholy.
Wordsworth.
Gentle Reader: Wherever you may be, in bodily presence, when you
cast your eyes on this page, let it for a few hours transport your
complying spirit to a remote region and a bygone day. We may alter
names without injury to our story; but every real character, or event,
has its own time, place, and accidents; to tear it from them is like
transplanting a tree from its native spot; it must be trimmed and pruned,
and robbed of its due proportions and its natural grace.
Here, then, on this lovely day, near the end of the year 1812, you are in
Alemtejo--the largest, poorest, and, in every sense, worst peopled
province of Portugal. As its name implies, you are, as to Lisbon,
beyond the Tagus. Hasten eastward over this sandy, arid plain, covered
with a forest of stunted sea-pines, through whose tops the west wind
glides with monotonous and melancholy moans, fit music for the
wilderness around you. Nor need you loiter on this desolate moor,
scantily carpeted with heaths of different kinds and varying hues. The
drowsy tinkling of the cowbell amidst yonder brushwood, the goats
sportively clambering over that ledge of rocks, and those distant dusky
spots upon the downs, which may be sheep, tell you that all life has not
left the land. You may, perchance, on your journey, see a goatherd or a
shepherd here or there; by rarer chance may meet some wayfarer like
yourself, but as likely a robber as an honest man; and may find shelter,
at least, in one of the few and comfortless vendas, the wretched inns the
route affords.
You need not pause to gaze on many a wild scene, some beautiful, and
even here and there a fertile spot; nor loiter in this provincial town--rich,
perhaps, in Moorish ruins, but in nothing else--but hasten onward till
you reach that elevated point, where the road, one hundred miles from
Lisbon, winds over the ridge of yonder hill. The chilly night winds of
the peninsula have gone to sleep. Here, even in midwinter, the sun at
this hour shoots down scorching rays upon your head. Seat yourself by
the road-side, on this ledge of slate-rock, at the foot of the cork-oak,
which so invitingly spreads out its sheltering arms. Here while you take

breath, cast your eyes around you.
You are no longer in the midst of broken, desolate wastes. To the
south-west rises the Serra d'Ossa--its sides clothed with evergreen oaks,
and a dense growth of underbrush sheltering the wolf and the wild boar,
while the northern slope of its rocky ridge is thatched with snow.
Before you is spread out the valley of the Guadiana. Sloping downward
toward the mighty stream, lie pasture, grove and field, gaily mingled
together. There, to the east, sits Elvas, on a lofty hill, whose sides are
covered with vineyards,