D'Artagnan, the King Maker — page 49: what you’re looking at

Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.

40 The Atlas. cushions and’ closing his eyes, as if, for once, he had no fear of a dagger being drawn on him, “Portugal is no longer the fiery forge where were struck out and fash- ioned those men of iron who set out, like Jason, to con- quer the outer world, as passengers start daily for Or- leans or Lyons. What daring ship-prows, what heroic swords! they left the unknown seas and smote those gold- bearing rocks which defended savages unwritten of by Pliny and Herodotus. “You will see her churches and palatial monasteries coated with gold, the mortar that binds the marble costlier than Parian, cemented with spice water, the images studded with precious stones, all wrung from tough and poisonous claws, but brought home with the black and red kings who contested their disposal, slaves to help in that building. Her discoverers, adventurers, sea kings, merchants, traders—you will see nothing but their tombs —and unless the Portuguese are different in memory from us, those tombs neglected—unfindable!” This a passing pang. “Some fifty years ago, it was absorbed by Spain, and its independent spirit quenched in blood. Time was when a conquered vassal gave no trouble for his life; so, his gen- eration; but the grandsons alone, having time to feel the old impressions revive, and the dread of the victor de- cline—these raise their crest! Now, Portugal should quiver with the throes of producing a native deliverer. [ have questioned those who ought to be well informed. They all say that Portugal is placid as the carp ponds at Fontainebleau.” ‘My lord, the rustics say—and I have learned a great deal from rustics, who are a store of past wisdom, if not of new ideas—that a river 1s still because either very dry or very deep.” “That is it. My informants may be superficial. Hence, I would rather rely on a non-prejudiced observer, who goes fresh to his mission, who is loyal to his king, and the good of the realm. All the more so as he never swerved to pick up the crumbs of the table, or served for them. You may have seen a picture in my gallery, by a Florentine, named—tut, tut, the name—it escapes me— but the picture is in my eyes as in his who painted it, ‘The CONNIE OOOKS (EO) =|