CHAPTER XIII.

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HARPER'S

NEW MONTHLY MAGAZINE.

No. XVI.--SEPTEMBER, 1851--VOL. III.

NAPOLEON BONAPARTE.

BY JOHN S.C. ABBOTT.

II. DAWNING GREATNESS.

While Napoleon was spending his few months of furlough in Corsica, he

devoted many hours every day to the careful composition, after the

manner of Plutarch, of the lives of illustrious Corsicans. Though he had

made considerable progress in the work, it was lost in the subsequent

disorders of those times. He also established a debating club, composed

of the several officers in the army upon the island, to discuss the

great political questions which were then agitating Europe. These

subjects he studied with most intense application. In this club he was a

frequent speaker, and obtained much distinction for his argumentative

and oratorical powers. Napoleon, at this time, warmly espoused the cause

of popular liberty, though most sternly hostile to lawless violence. As

the reign of terror began to shed its gloom on Paris, and each day

brought its tidings of Jacobin cruelty and carnage, Napoleon imbibed

that intense hatred of anarchy which he ever after manifested, and which

no temptation could induce him to disguise. One day he expressed himself

in the club so vehemently, that an enemy, Salicetti, reported him to the

government as a traitor. He was arrested, taken to Paris, and obtained a

triumphant acquittal. Some years after he had an opportunity to revenge

himself, most magnanimously, upon his enemy who had thus meanly sought

his life, and whom he could not but despise. Salicetti, in his turn,

became obnoxious to the Jacobins, and was denounced as an outlaw. The

officers of police were in pursuit of him, and the guillotine was

ravenous for his blood. He ungenerously sought concealment under the

roof of Madame Permon, the mother of the young lady who had suggested to

Napoleon the idea of "Puss in Boots." By this act he exposed to the most

imminent peril the lives of Madame Permon and of all the members of her

household. Napoleon was on terms of familiar intimacy with the family,

and Salicetti was extremely apprehensive that he might discover his

retreat, and report him to the police. Madame Permon also, knowing the

hatred with which Salicetti had sought Napoleon's life, participated in

these fears.

The very next morning Napoleon made his appearance in the saloon of

Madame Permon.

"Well, Madame Permon," said he, "Salicetti will now in his turn be able

to appreciate the bitter fruits of arrest. And to him they ought to be

the more bitter, since he aided, with his own hand, to plant the trees

which bear them."

"How!" exclaimed Madame Permon, with an air of affected astonishment,

"is Salicetti arrested?"

"And is it possible," replied Napoleon, "that you do not know that he

has been proscribed. I presumed that you were aware of the fact, since

it is in your house that he is concealed."

"Concealed in my house!" she cried, "surely, my dear Napoleon, you are

mad. I entreat you do not repeat such a joke in any other place. I

assure you it would peril my life."

Napoleon rose from his seat, advanced slowly toward Madame Permon,

folded his arms upon his breast, and fixing his eyes in a steadfast gaze

upon her, remained for a moment in perfect silence.

"Madame Permon!" he then said, emphatically, "Salicetti is concealed in

your house. Nay--do not interrupt me. I know that yesterday at five

o'clock he was seen proceeding from the Boulevard in this direction. It

is well known that he has not in this neighborhood any acquaintances,

you excepted, who would risk their own safety, as well as that of their

friends by secreting him."

"And by what right," Madame Permon replied, with continued duplicity,

"should Salicetti seek an asylum here? He is well aware that our

political sentiments are at variance, and he also knows that I am on the

point of leaving Paris."

"You may well ask," Napoleon rejoined, "by what right he should apply to

you for concealment. To come to an unprotected woman, who might be

compromised by affording a few hours of safety to an outlaw who merits

his fate, is an act of baseness to which no consideration ought to have

driven him."

"Should you repeat abroad this assertion," she replied, "for which there

is no possible foundation, it would entail the most serious consequences

upon me."

Again Napoleon, with much apparent emotion, fixed his steadfast gaze

upon Madame Permon, and exclaimed, "You, Madame, are a generous woman,

and Salicetti is a villain. He was well aware that you could not close

your doors against him, and he would selfishly allow you to peril your

own life and that of your child, for the sake of his safety. I never

liked him. Now I despise him."

With consummate duplicity Madame Permon took Napoleon's hand, and

fixing her eye unquailing upon his, firmly uttered the falsehood, "I

assure you, Napoleon, upon my honor, that Salicetti is not in my

apartments. But stay--shall I tell you all?"

"Yes! all! all!" he vehemently rejoined.

"Well, then," she continued, with great apparent frankness, "Salicetti

was, I confess, under my roof yesterday at six o'clock; but he left in a

few hours after. I pointed out to him the moral impossibility of his

remaining concealed with me, living as publicly as I do. Salicetti

admitted the justice of my objection, and took his departure."

Napoleon, with hurried step, traversed the room two or three times, and

then exclaimed, "It is just as I suspected. He was coward enough to say

to a woman, 'Expose your life for mine.' But," he continued, stopping

before Madame Permon, and fixing a doubting eye upon her, "you really

believe, then, that he left your house and returned home!"

"Yes!" she replied, "I told him that since he must conceal himself in

Paris, it were best to bribe the people of his own hotel, because that

would be the last place where his enemies would think of searching for

him."

Napoleon then took his leave, and Madame Permon opened the door of the

closet where Salicetti was concealed. He had heard every word of the

conversation, and was sitting on a small chair, his head leaning upon

his hand, which was covered with blood, from a hemorrhage with which he

had been seized. Preparations were immediately made for an escape from

Paris, and passports were obtained for Salicetti as the valet de chambre

of Madame Permon. In the early dawn of the morning they left Paris,

Salicetti as a servant, seated upon the box of the carriage. When they

had arrived at the end of the first stage, several miles from the city,

the postillion came to the window of the coach, and presented Madame

Pennon with a note, which, he said, a young man had requested him to

place in her hands at that post. It was from Napoleon. Madame Permon

opened it and read as follows:

"I never like to be thought a dupe. I should appear to be such to you,

did I not tell you that I knew perfectly well of Salicetti's place of

concealment.

"You see, then, Salicetti, that I might have returned the ill you did to

me. In so doing I should only have avenged myself. But you sought my

life when I never had done aught to harm you. Which of us stands in the

preferable point of view at the present moment? I might have avenged my

wrongs; but I did not. Perhaps you may say, that it was out of regard to

your benefactress that I spared you. That consideration, I confess, was

powerful. But you, alone, unarmed and an outlaw, would never have been

injured by me. Go in peace, and seek an asylum where you may cherish

better sentiments. On your name my mouth is closed. Repent and

appreciate my motives.

"Madame Permon! my best wishes are with you and your child. You are

feeble and defenseless beings. May Providence and a friend's prayers

protect you. Be cautious, and do not tarry in the large towns through

which you may have to pass. Adieu."

Having read the letter, Madame Permon turned to Salicetti, and said,

"You ought to admire the noble conduct of Bonaparte. It is most

generous."

"Generous!" he replied, with a contemptuous smile, "What would you have

had him do? Would you have wished him to betray me?"

The indignant woman looked upon him with disgust, and said, "I do not

know what I might expect _you_ to do. But this I do know, that it would

be pleasant to see you manifest a little gratitude."

When they arrived at a seaport, as Salicetti embarked on board a small

vessel which was to convey him to Italy, he seemed for a moment not to

be entirely unmindful of the favors he had received. Taking Madame

Permon's hands in his, he said, "I should have too much to say, were I

to attempt to express to you my gratitude by words. As to Bonaparte,

tell him I thank him. Hitherto I did not believe him capable of

generosity. I am now bound to acknowledge my mistake. I thank him."

Napoleon, after his acquittal from the charges brought against him by

Salicetti, remained in Paris for two or three months. He lived in the

most frugal manner, spending no money or time in dissipation or

amusements. He passed most of his hours in the libraries, reading

volumes of solid worth, and seeking the conversation of distinguished

men. Without any exhibition of vanity, he seemed to repose great

reliance upon his own powers, and was never abashed in the slightest

degree by the presence of others, of whatever rank or attainments.

Indeed he seemed, even then, to be animated by the assurance that he was

destined for some great achievements. His eye was surveying the world.

He was meditating upon the rise and fall of empires. France, Europe

even, seemed too small for his majestic designs. He studied with intense

interest the condition of the countless myriads of men who swarm along

the rivers and the hill-sides of internal Asia; and dreamed of being

himself the founder of an Empire there, in comparison with which the

dynasties of Europe should be insignificant. Indeed he never, in all his

subsequent career, manifested the least surprise in view of his

elevation. He rose from step to step, regarding each ascent as a matter

of course, never shrinking in the least degree from assuming any weight

of responsibility, and never manifesting the slightest embarrassment in

taking the command from the hands of gray-headed veterans.

While in Paris, he was, on the famous morning of the 20th of June, 1792,

walking with his friend Bourrienne, along the banks of the Seine, when

he saw a vast mob of men, women, and boys, with hideous yells and

frantic gestures, and brandishing weapons of every kind, rolling like an

inundation through the streets of the metropolis, and directing their

steps toward the palace of the imprisoned monarch. Napoleon ran before

them that he might witness their proceedings. Climbing, by an iron

fence, upon the balustrade of a neighboring building, he saw the squalid

mass of thirty thousand miscreants break into the garden of the

Tuileries, swarm through the doors of the regal mansion, and, at last,

compel the insulted and humiliated king, driven into the embrasure of a

window, to put the filthy red cap of Jacobinism upon his brow. This

triumph of the drunken vagrants, from the cellars and garrets of infamy,

over all law and justice, and this spectacle of the degradation of the

acknowledged monarch of one of the proudest nations on the globe,

excited the indignation of Napoleon to the highest pitch. He turned away

from the sight as unendurable, exclaiming, "The wretches! how could they

suffer this vile mob to enter the palace! They should have swept down

the first five hundred with grape shot, and the rest would have soon

taken to flight."

[Illustration: THE ATTACK UPON THE TUILERIES]

New scenes of violence were now daily enacted before the eyes of

Napoleon in the streets of Paris, until the dreadful 10th of August

arrived. He then again saw the triumphant and unresisted mob sack the

palace of the Tuileries. He witnessed the king and the royal family

driven from the halls of their ancestors, and followed by the frenzied

multitude, with hootings, and hissings, and every conceivable insult, in

momentary peril of assassination, until they took refuge in the

Assembly. He saw the merciless massacre of the faithful guards of the

king, as they were shot in the garden, as they were pursued and

poniarded in the streets, as they were pricked down with bayonets, from

the statues upon which they had climbed for protection, and in cold

blood butchered. He saw, with his bosom glowing with shame and

indignation, the drunken rioters marching exultingly through the streets

of the metropolis, with the ghastly heads of the slaughtered guards

borne aloft, upon the points of their pikes, as the trophies of their

victory.

These hideous spectacles wrought quite a revolution in the mind of

Napoleon. They effectually arrested the progress of all his tendencies

toward democracy. He had been a great admirer of constitutional liberty

in England, and a still greater admirer of republican liberty in

America. He now became convinced that the people of France were too

ignorant and degraded for self-government, that they needed the guidance

and control of resistless law. He hated and despised the voluptuousness,

the imbecility, and the tyranny of the effete monarchy. He had himself

suffered most keenly from the superciliousness of the old nobility who

grasped at all the places of profit and honor, merely to gratify their

own sensuality, and left no career open to merit. Napoleon had his own

fortune to make, and he was glad to see all these bulwarks battered

down, which the pride and arrogance of past ages had reared to foster a

worthless aristocracy; and to exclude the energetic and the aspiring,

unaided by wealth and rank, from all the avenues of influence and

celebrity. On the other hand the dominion of the mob appeared to him so

execrable that he said, "I frankly declare that if I were compelled to

choose between the old monarchy and Jacobin misrule, I should infinitely

prefer the former." Openly and energetically, upon all occasions,

fearless of consequences, he expressed his abhorrence of those

miscreants who were trampling justice and mercy beneath their feet, and

who were, by their atrocities, making France a by-word among all

nations. This is a key to the character of Napoleon. Those opposing

forces guided his future career. He ever, subsequently, manifested the

most decisive resolution to crush the Jacobins. He displayed untiring

energy in reconstructing in France a throne invincible in power, which

should govern the people, which should throw every avenue to greatness

open to all competitors, making wealth, and rank, and influence, and

power the reward of merit. Napoleon openly avowed his conviction that

France, without education and without religion, was not prepared for the

republicanism of the United States. In this sentiment La Fayette and

most of the wisest men of the French nation fully concurred. With an arm

of despotic power he crushed every lawless outbreak. And he gathered

around his throne eminent abilities, wherever he could find them, in the

shop of the artisan, in the ranks of the army, and in the hut of the

peasant. In France at this time, there was neither intelligence,

religion, nor morality, among the masses. There was no reverence for law

either human or divine. Napoleon expressed his high approval of the

constitutional monarchy of England, and declared that to be the model

upon which he would have the new government of France constructed. He

judged that France needed an imposing throne, supported by an

illustrious nobility and by a standing army of invincible power, with

civil privileges cautiously and gradually disseminated among the people.

And though in the pride of subsequent success he was disposed to gather

all power into his own hands, few persons could have manifested during

so long a reign, and through the temptations of so extraordinary a

career, more unwavering consistency.

One evening he returned home from a walk, through the streets of the

tumultuous metropolis, in which his ears had been deafened by the shouts

of the people in favor of a new republican constitution. It was in the

midst of the reign of terror, and the guillotine was drenched in blood.

"How do you like the new constitution?" said a lady to him. He replied,

hesitatingly, "Why, it is good in one sense, to be sure; but, all that

is connected with carnage, is bad," and then, as if giving way to an

outburst of sincere feeling, he exclaimed, emphatically, "_No! no! no!

away with this constitution. I do not like it!_"

The republicanism of the United States is founded on the intelligence,

the Christianity, and the reverence for law so generally prevalent

throughout the whole community. And should that dark day ever come, in

which the majority of the people will be unable to read the printed vote

which is placed in their hands, and lose all reverence for earthly law,

and believe not in God, before whose tribunal they must finally appear,

it is certain that the republic can not stand for a day. Anarchy must

ensue, from which there can be no refuge but in a military despotism.

In these days of pecuniary embarrassment Napoleon employed a bootmaker,

a very awkward workman, but a man who manifested very kindly feelings

toward him, and accommodated him in his payments. When dignity and

fortune were lavished upon the first consul and the emperor, he was

frequently urged to employ a more fashionable workman. But no

persuasions could induce him to abandon the humble artisan who had been

the friend of his youthful days. Instinctive delicacy told him that the

man would be more gratified by being the shoemaker of the emperor, and

that his interests would thus be better promoted than by any other

favors he could confer.

A silversmith, in one of Napoleon's hours of need, sold him a

dressing-case upon credit. The kindness was never forgotten. Upon his

return from the campaign of Italy, he called, rewarded him liberally,

and ever after employed him, and also recommended him to his marshals

and to his court in general. In consequence the jeweler acquired an

immense fortune.

Effects must have their causes. Napoleon's boundless popularity in the

army and in the nation, was not the result of accident, the sudden

outbreak of an insane delusion. These exhibitions of an instinctive and

unstudied magnanimity won the hearts of the people as rapidly as his

transcendent abilities and Herculean toil secured for him renown.

Napoleon with his political principles modified by the scenes of lawless

violence which he had witnessed in Paris, returned again to Corsica.

Soon after his return to his native island, in February, 1793, he, being

then 22 years of age, was ordered, at the head of two battalions, in

co-operation with Admiral Turget, to make a descent upon the island of

Sardinia. Napoleon effected a landing and was entirely successful in the

accomplishment of his part of the expedition. The admiral, however,

failed, and Napoleon, in consequence, was under the necessity of

evacuating the positions where he had entrenched himself, and of

returning to Corsica.

He found France still filled with the most frightful disorders. The king

and queen had both fallen upon the scaffold. Paoli, disgusted with the

political aspect of his own country, treasonably plotted to surrender

Corsica, over which he was the appointed governor, to the crown of

England. It was a treacherous act, and was only redeemed from utter

infamy by the brutal outrages with which France was disgraced. A large

party of the Corsicans rallied around Paoli. He exerted all the

influence in his power to induce Napoleon, the son of his old friend and

comrade, and whose personal qualities he greatly admired, to join his

standard. Napoleon, on the other hand, with far greater penetration into

the mysteries of the future, entreated Paoli to abandon the unpatriotic

enterprise. He argued that the violence with which France was filled was

too terrible to be lasting, and that the nation must soon return again

to reason and to law. He represented that Corsica was too small and

feeble to think of maintaining independence in the midst of the powerful

empires of Europe; that in manners, language, customs, and religion it

never could become a homogeneous part of England; that the natural

connection of the island was with France, and that its glory could only

be secured by its being embraced as a province of the French Empire. And

above all, he argued that it was the duty of every good citizen, in such

hours of peril, to cling firmly and fearlessly to his country, and to

exert every nerve to cause order to emerge from the chaos into which all

things had fallen. These were unanswerable arguments, but Paoli had

formed strong attachments in England, and remembered, with an avenging

spirit, the days in which he had fled before the armies of conquering

France.

The last interview which took place between these distinguished men, was

at a secluded convent in the interior of the island. Long and earnestly

they argued with each other, for they were devoted personal friends. The

veteran governor was eighty years of age, Napoleon was but twenty-two.

It was with the greatest reluctance that either of them could consent to

draw the sword against the other. But there was no alternative. Paoli

was firm in his determination to surrender the island to the English. No

persuasions could induce Napoleon to sever his interests from those of

his native country. Sadly they separated to array themselves against

each other in civil war.

As Napoleon, silent and thoughtful, was riding home alone, he entered a

wild ravine among the mountains, when suddenly he was surrounded by a

party of mountaineers, in the employ of Paoli, and taken prisoner. By

stratagem he effected his escape, and placed himself at the head of the

battalion of national guards over which he had been appointed commander.

Hostilities immediately commenced. The governor, who with his numerous

forces had possession of the town of Ajaccio, invited the English into

the harbor, surrendering to them the island. The English immediately

took possession of those heights on the opposite side of the gulf,

which, it will be remembered, that Napoleon had previously so carefully

examined. The information he gained upon this occasion was now of

special service to him. One dark and stormy night he embarked in a

frigate, with a few hundred soldiers, landed near the entrenchments,

guided the party in the darkness, over the ground, with which he was

perfectly familiar, surprised the English in their sleep, and, after a

short but sanguinary conflict, took possession of the fort. The storm,

however, increased to a gale, and when the morning dawned, they strained

their eyes in vain through the driving mist to discern the frigate. It

had been driven by the tempest far out to sea. Napoleon and his little

band were immediately surrounded by the allied English and Corsicans,

and their situation seemed desperate. For five days they defended

themselves most valiantly, during which time they were under the

necessity of killing their horses for food to save themselves from

starvation. At last the frigate again appeared. Napoleon then evacuated

the town in which he had so heroically contended against vastly

outnumbering foes, and, after an ineffectual attempt to blow up the

fort, succeeded in safely effecting an embarkation. The strength of

Paoli was daily increasing, and the English in greater numbers crowding

to his aid. Napoleon saw that it was in vain to attempt further

resistance, and that Corsica was no longer a safe residence for himself

or for the family. He accordingly disbanded his forces and prepared to

leave the island.

Paoli called upon Madame Letitia, and exhausted his powers of persuasion

in endeavoring to induce the family to unite with him in the treasonable

surrender of the island to the English. "Resistance is hopeless," said

he, "and by this perverse opposition, you are bringing irreparable ruin

and misery on yourself and family." "I know of but two laws," replied

Madame Letitia, heroically, "which it is necessary for me to obey, the

laws of honor and of duty." A decree was immediately passed banishing

the family from the island. One morning Napoleon hastened to inform his

mother that several thousand peasants, armed with all the implements of

revolutionary fury, were on the march to attack the house. The family

fled precipitately, with such few articles of property as they could

seize at the moment, and for several days wandered, houseless and

destitute, on the sea-shore, until Napoleon could make arrangements for

their embarkation. The house was sacked by the mob, and the furniture

entirely destroyed.

It was midnight when an open boat manned by four strong rowers, with

muffled oars, approached the shore in the vicinity of the pillaged and

battered dwelling of Madame Letitia. A dim lantern was held by an

attendant, as the whole Bonaparte family, in silence and in sorrow, with

the world, its poverty and all its perils, wide before them, entered the

boat. A few trunks and bandboxes, contained all their available

property. The oarsmen pulled out into the dark and lonely sea. Earthly

boat never before held such a band of emigrants. There sat Madame

Letitia, Joseph, Napoleon, Lucien, Louis, Jerome, Eliza, Pauline, and

Caroline. Little did those poor and friendless fugitives then imagine

that all the thrones of Europe were to tremble before them, and that

their celebrity was to fill the world. Napoleon took his stand at the

bows, for although the second son, he was already the commanding spirit

of the family. They soon ascended the sides of a small vessel which was

waiting for them in the offing, with her sails fluttering in the breeze,

and when the morning sun arose over the blue waters of the

Mediterranean, they were approaching the harbor of Nice. Here they

remained but a short time, when they removed to Marseilles, where the

family resided in great pecuniary embarrassment until relieved by the

rising fortunes of Napoleon.

[Illustration: THE EMIGRANTS.]

The English immediately took possession of the island, and retained it

for two years. The fickle Corsicans soon grew weary of their new

masters, in whose language, manners, and religion they found no

congeniality, and a general rising took place. A small force from France

effected a landing, notwithstanding the vigilance of the English

cruisers. Beacon fires, the signals of insurrection, by previous

concert, blazed from every hill, and the hoarse sound of the horn,

echoing along the mountain sides and through the ravines, summoned the

warlike peasants to arms. The English were driven from the island with

even more precipitation than they had taken possession of it. Paoli

retired with them to London, deeply regretting that he had not followed

the wise counsel of young Napoleon. Bonaparte never visited Corsica

again. He could not love the _people_ in whose defense he had suffered

such injustice. To the close of life, however, he retained a vivid

recollection of the picturesque beauties of his native island, and often

spoke, in most animating terms, of the romantic glens, and precipitous

cliffs, and glowing skies endeared to him by all the associations of

childhood. The poetic and the mathematical elements were both combined

in the highest degree in the mind of Napoleon, and though his manly

intellect turned away in disgust from mawkish and effeminate

sentimentalism, he enjoyed the noble appreciation of all that is

beautiful, and all that is sublime. His retentive memory was stored with

the most brilliant passages from the tragedies of Corneille, Racine, and

Voltaire, and no one could quote them with more appropriateness.

We now approach more eventful scenes in the life of this extraordinary

man. All the monarchies of Europe were allied, in arms, against the

French Revolution, and slowly, but resistlessly, their combined armies

were marching upon Paris. The emigrant nobles and monarchists, many

thousands in number, were incorporated into the embattled hosts of these

allies. The spirit of insurrection against the government began to

manifest itself very strongly in several important cities. Toulon, on

the shores of the Mediterranean, was the great naval depot and arsenal

of France. It contained a population of about twenty-five thousand

inhabitants. More than fifty ships-of-the-line and frigates were riding

at anchor in its harbor, and an immense quantity of military and naval

stores, of every description, was collected in its spacious magazines.

The majority of the inhabitants of this city were friends of the old

monarchy. Some ten thousand of the royalists of Marseilles, Lyons, and

other parts of the south of France, took refuge within the walls of

Toulon, and, uniting with the royalist inhabitants, surrendered the

city, its magazines, its ships, and its forts to the combined English

and Spanish fleet, which was cruising outside of its harbor. The English

ships sailed triumphantly into the port, landed five thousand English

troops, and eight thousand Spaniards, Neapolitans, and Piedmontese, took

full possession of the place. This treacherous act excited to the

highest pitch the alarm and the indignation of the revolutionary

government; and it was resolved that, at all hazards, Toulon must be

retaken, and the English driven from the soil of France. But the English

are not easily expelled from the posts which they once have occupied;

and it was an enterprise of no common magnitude to displace them, with

their strong army and their invincible navy, from fortresses so

impregnable as those of Toulon, and where they found stored up for them,

in such profuse abundance, all the munitions of war.

Two armies were immediately marched upon Toulon, the place invested, and

a regular siege commenced. Three months had passed away, during which

time no apparent progress had been effected toward the capture of the

town. Every exertion was made by the allied troops and the royalist

inhabitants to strengthen the defenses, and especially to render

impregnable a fort called the Little Gibraltar, which commanded the

harbor and the town. The French besieging force, amounting to about

forty thousand men, were wasting their time outside of the

entrenchments, keeping very far away from the reach of cannon balls. The

command of these forces had been intrusted to Gen. Cartaux, a

portrait-painter from Paris, as ignorant of all military science, as he

was self-conceited. Matters were in this state when Napoleon, whose

commanding abilities were now beginning to attract attention, was

promoted to the rank of Brigadier-general, and invested with the command

of the artillery train at Toulon. He immediately hastened to the scene

of action, and beheld, with utter astonishment, the incapacity with

which the siege was conducted. He found batteries erected which would

not throw their balls one half the distance between the guns and the

points they were designed to command. Balls also were heated in the

peasants' houses around, at perfectly ridiculous distances from the

guns, as if they were articles to be transported at one's leisure.

Napoleon requested the commander-in-chief, at whose direction these

batteries were reared, to allow him to witness the effect of a few

discharges from the guns. With much difficulty he obtained consent. And

when the general saw the shot fall more than half-way short of the mark,

he turned upon his heel, and said, "These aristocrats have spoiled the

quality of the powder with which I am supplied."

Napoleon respectfully but firmly made his remonstrance to the

Convention, assuring them that the siege must be conducted with far more

science and energy if a successful result was to be expected. He

recommended that the works against the city itself should be

comparatively neglected, and that all the energies of the assaults

should be directed against Little Gibraltar. That fort once taken, it

was clear to his mind that the English fleet, exposed to a destructive

fire, must immediately evacuate the harbor, and the town would no longer

be defensible. In fact, he pursued precisely the course by which

Washington had previously driven the British from Boston. The

distinguished American general turned aside from the city itself, and by

a masterly movement planted his batteries on Dorchester heights, from

which he could rain down a perfect tempest of balls upon the decks of

the English ships. The invaders were compelled to fly, and to take with

them their Tory allies. Napoleon did the same thing at Toulon. The

enterprise was, however, vastly more arduous, since the English had

foreseen the importance of that port, and had surrounded it with works

so unapproachable that they did not hesitate to call it their _Little

Gibraltar_. Napoleon, then but twenty-three years of age, undertook

their dislodgment. Dugommier, a scarred and war-worn veteran, was now

placed in the supreme command, and cordially sympathized with his young

artillery officer in all his plans. The agents of the Convention, who

were in the camp as spies to report proceedings to the government,

looked with much incredulity upon this strange way of capturing Toulon.

One morning some of these commissioners ventured to criticise the

direction of a gun which Napoleon was superintending. "Do you," he

tartly replied, "attend to your duty as a national commissioner, and I

will be answerable for mine with my head."

Napoleon's younger brother, Louis, visited him during the siege. They

walked out one morning to a place where an unavailing assault had been

made by a portion of the army, and two hundred mangled bodies of

Frenchmen were strewn over the ground. On beholding the slaughter which

had taken place, Napoleon exclaimed, "All those men have been needlessly

sacrificed. Had intelligence commanded here none of these lives need

have been lost. Learn from this, my brother, how indispensable and

imperatively necessary it is, that those should possess knowledge who

aspire to assume the command over others."

Napoleon, with an energy which seemed utterly exhaustless, devoted

himself to the enterprise he had undertaken. He shared all the toils and

all the perils of his men. He allowed himself but a few hours' sleep at

night, and then wrapped in his cloak, threw himself under the guns. By

the utmost exertions he soon obtained, from all quarters, a train of two

hundred heavy battering cannon. In the midst of a storm of shot and

shells incessantly falling around him, he erected five or six powerful

batteries, within point-blank range of the works he would assail. One

battery in particular which was masked by a plantation of olives, he

constructed very near the entrenchments of the enemy. He seemed utterly

regardless of his own safety, had several horses shot from under him,

and received from an Englishman so serious a bayonet wound in his left

thigh that for a time he was threatened with the necessity of

amputation. All these operations were carried on in the midst of the

storms of battle. There were daily and nightly skirmishes and sallies,

and deadly assaults, and the dreadful tide of successful and

unsuccessful war ever ebbed and flowed. One day an artillery man was

shot down by his side, and the ramrod which he was using was drenched

with blood. Napoleon immediately sprung into the dead man's place,

seized the rod, and to the great encouragement of the soldiers, with his

own hand, repeatedly charged the gun.

While the siege was in progress, one day, fifteen carriages, from Paris,

suddenly made their appearance in the camp, and about sixty men

alighting from them, dressed in gorgeous uniform, and with the pomp and

important air of embassadors from the revolutionary government,

demanded to be led into the presence of the commander-in-chief.

"Citizen general," said the orator of the party. "We come from Paris.

The patriots are indignant at your inactivity and delay. The soil of the

Republic has been violated. She trembles to think that the insult still

remains unavenged. She asks, Why is Toulon not yet taken? why is the

English fleet not yet destroyed? In her indignation she has appealed to

her brave sons. We have obeyed her summons and burn with impatience to

fulfill her expectations. We are volunteer gunners from Paris. Furnish

us with arms. To-morrow we will march against the enemy."

The general was not a little disconcerted by this pompous and

authoritative address. But Napoleon whispered to him, "Turn those

gentlemen over to me. I will take care of them." They were very

hospitably entertained, and the next morning, at daybreak, Napoleon

conducted them to the sea-shore, and gave them charge of several pieces

of artillery, which he had placed there during the night, and with which

he requested them to sink an English frigate whose black and threatening

hull was seen, through the haze of the morning, at anchor some distance

from the shore. The trembling volunteers looked around with most nervous

uneasiness in view of their exposed situation, and anxiously inquired if

there was no shelter behind which they could stand. Just then John Bull

uttered one of his most terrific roars, and a whole broadside of cannon

balls came whistling over their heads. This was not the amusement they

had bargained for, and the whole body of braggadocios took to

precipitate flight. Napoleon sat quietly upon his horse, without even a

smile moving his pensive and marble features as he contemplated, with

much satisfaction, the dispersion of such troublesome allies.

[Illustration: THE VOLUNTEER GUNNERS.]

Upon another occasion, when the enemy were directing their fire upon the

works which he was constructing, having occasion to send a dispatch from

the trenches, he called for some one who could write, that he might

dictate an order. A young private stepped out from the ranks and,

resting the paper upon the breastwork, began to write, as he dictated.

While thus employed, a cannon ball, from the enemy's battery, struck the

ground but a few feet from them, covering their persons and the paper

with the earth. "Thank you," said the soldier, gayly, "we shall need no

more sand upon this page." The instinctive fearlessness and readiness

thus displayed arrested the attention of Napoleon. He fixed his keen and

piercing eye upon him for a moment, as if scrutinizing all his mental

and physical qualities, and then said, "Young man! what can I do for

you?" The soldier blushed deeply, but promptly replied, "Every thing,"

and then touching his left shoulder with his hand, he added, "you can

change this worsted into an epaulet." A few days after, Napoleon sent

for the same soldier, to reconnoitre the trenches of the enemy, and

suggested that he should disguise his dress, as his exposure would be

very great. "Never," replied the soldier; "do you take me for a spy? I

will go in my uniform, though I should never return." He set out

immediately, and fortunately escaped unharmed. These two incidents

revealed character, and Napoleon immediately recommended him for

promotion. This was Junot, afterward Duke of Abrantes, and one of the

most efficient friends of Napoleon. "I love Napoleon," said Junot

afterward, most wickedly, "as my God. To him I am indebted for all that

I am."[1]

At last the hour arrived when all things were ready for the grand

attempt. It was in the middle watches of the night of the 17th of

December, 1793, when the signal was given for the assault. A cold storm

of wind and rain was wailing its midnight dirges in harmony with the

awful scene of carnage, destruction, and woe, about to ensue. The genius

of Napoleon had arranged every thing and inspired the desperate

enterprise. No pen can describe the horrors of the conflict. All the

energies of both armies were exerted to the utmost in the fierce

encounter. To distract the attention of the enemy, the fortifications

were every where attacked, while an incessant shower of bomb-shells were

rained down upon the devoted city, scattering dismay and death in all

directions. In the course of a few hours eight thousand shells from the

effective batteries of Napoleon were thrown into Little Gibraltar, until

the massive works were almost one pile of ruins. In the midst of the

darkness, the storm, the drenching rain, the thunder of artillery, and

the gleaming light of bomb-shells, the French marched up to the very

muzzles of the English guns, and were mown down like grass before the

scythe by the tremendous discharges of grape-shot and musketry. The

ditches were filled with the dead and the dying. Again and again the

French were repulsed, only to return again and again to the assault.

Napoleon was every where present, inspiring the onset, even more

reckless of his own life than of the lives of his soldiers. For a long

time the result seemed very doubtful. But the plans of Napoleon were too

carefully laid for final discomfiture. His mangled, bleeding columns

rushed in at the embrasures of the rampart, and the whole garrison were

in a few moments silent and still in death. "General," said Bonaparte to

Dugommier, broken down by fatigue and age, as he raised the tricolored

flag over the crumbling walls of the rampart, "go and sleep. We have

taken Toulon." "It was," says Scott, "upon this night of terror,

conflagration, tears, and blood, that the star of Napoleon first

ascended the horizon, and though it gleamed over many a scene of horror

ere it set, it may be doubted whether its light was ever blended with

that of one more dreadful."

Though Little Gibraltar was thus taken, the conflict continued all

around the city until morning. Shells were exploding, and hot shot

falling in the thronged dwellings. Children in the cradle, and maidens

in their chambers had limb torn from limb by the dreadful missiles.

Conflagrations were continually bursting forth, burning the mangled and

the dying, while piercing shrieks of dismay and of agony rose even above

the thunders of the terrific cannonade. The wind howled in harmony with

the awful scene, and a cold and drenching rain swept the streets. One

can not contemplate such a conflict without wondering that a God of

mercy could have allowed his children thus brutally to deform this fair

creation with the spirit of the world of woe. For the anguish inflicted

upon suffering humanity that night a dread responsibility must rest

somewhere. A thousand houses were made desolate. Thousands of hearts

were lacerated and crushed, with every hope of life blighted forever.

The English government thought that they did right, under the

circumstances of the case, to send their armies and take possession of

Toulon. Napoleon deemed that he was nobly discharging his duty, in the

Herculean and successful endeavors he made to drive the invaders from

the soil of France. It is not easy for man, with his limited knowledge,

to adjust the balance of right and wrong. But here was a crime of

enormous magnitude committed--murder, and robbery, and arson, and

violence--the breaking of every commandment of God upon the broadest

scale; and a day of Judgment is yet to come in which the responsibility

will be with precise and accurate justice awarded.

The direful tragedy was, however, not yet terminated. When the morning

sun dawned dimly and coldly through the lurid clouds, an awful spectacle

was revealed to the eye. The streets of Toulon were red with blood,

while thousands of the mangled and the dead, in all the most hideous

forms of mutilation, were strewed through the dwellings and along the

streets. Fierce conflagrations were blazing in many parts of the city,

while mouldering ruins and shattered dwellings attested the terrific

power of the midnight storm of man's depravity. The cannonade was still

continued, and shells were incessantly exploding among the terrified and

shrieking inhabitants.

Napoleon, having accomplished the great object of his exertions, the

capture of Little Gibraltar, allowed himself not one moment for triumph,

or repose, or regret; but, as regardless of the carnage around him, as

if he were contemplating a field over which the scythe of the mower had

passed, immediately prepared his guns to throw their plunging balls into

the English ships, and to harass them at every point of exposure. No

sooner did Lord Howe see the tricolored flag floating from the parapets

of Little Gibraltar, than, conscious that the city was no longer

tenable, he made signal for the fleet to prepare for immediate

evacuation. The day was passed by the English in filling their ships

with stores from the French arsenals, they having determined to destroy

all the munitions of war which they could not carry away. The victorious

French were straining every nerve in the erection of new batteries, to

cripple and, if possible, to destroy the retiring foe. Thus passed the

day, when another wintry night settled gloomily over the beleaguered and

woe-exhausted city. The terror of the royalists was dreadful. They saw,

by the embarkation of the British sick and wounded, the indications that

the English were to evacuate the city, and that they were to be left to

their fate. And full well they knew what doom they, and their wives and

their children, were to expect from republican fury in those days of

unbridled violence. The English took as many of the French ships of the

line as could be got ready for sea, to accompany them in their escape.

The rest, consisting of fifteen ships of the line and eight frigates,

were collected to be burned. A fire-ship, filled with every combustible

substance, was towed into their midst, and at ten o'clock the torch was

applied. The night was dark and still. The flames of the burning ships

burst forth like a volcano from the centre of the harbor, illumining the

scene with lurid and almost noonday brilliance. The water was covered

with boats, crowded with fugitives, hurrying, frantic with despair, in

the abandonment of homes and property, to the English and Spanish ships.

More than twenty thousand loyalists, men, women, and children, of the

highest rank, crowded the beach and the quays, in a state of

indescribable consternation, imploring rescue from the infuriate army of

the republicans howling like wolves around the walls of the city, eager

to get at their prey. In increase of the horror of the scene, a most

furious cannonade was in progress all the time from every ship and every

battery. Cannon balls tore their way through family groups. Bombs

exploded upon the thronged decks of the ships, and in the crowded boats.

Many boats were thus sunk, and the shrieks of drowning women and

children pierced through the heavy thunders of the cannonade. Husbands

and wives, parents and children, brothers and sisters were separated

from each other, and ran to and fro upon the shore in delirious agony.

The daughter was left mangled and dying upon the beach; the father was

borne by the rush into one boat, the wife into another, and no one knew

who was living, and who, mercifully, was dead. The ships, the magazines,

the arsenals were all now in flames. The Jacobins of Toulon began to

emerge from garrets and cellars, and frenzied with intoxication, like

demons of darkness, with torch and sword, rioted through the city,

attacked the flying royalists, tore their garments from their backs, and

inflicted upon maids and matrons every conceivable brutality. A little

after midnight two frigates, each containing many thousand barrels of

gunpowder, blew up, with an explosion so terrific, that it seemed to

shake, like an earthquake, even the solid hills. As at last the

rear-guard of the English abandoned the ramparts and hurried to their

boats, the triumphant republican army, nearly forty thousand strong,

came rushing into the city at all points. The allied fleet, with

favoring winds, spread its sails, and soon disappeared beneath the

horizon of the silent sea, bearing away nearly twenty thousand wretched

exiles to homelessness, penury, and a life-long woe.

Dugommier, the commander of the republican army, notwithstanding all his

exertions, found it utterly impossible to restrain the passions of his

victorious soldiers, and for many days violence and crime ran rampant

in the doomed city. The crime of having raised the flag of royalty, and

of having surrendered the city and its stores to the foe, was one not to

be forgiven. The Jacobin government in Paris sent orders for a bloody

and a terrible vengeance, that the loyalists all over France might be

intimidated from again conspiring with the enemy. Napoleon did every

thing in his power to protect the inhabitants from the fury which was

wreaked upon them. He witnessed, with anguish, scenes of cruelty which

he could not repress. An old merchant, eighty-four years of age, deaf

and almost blind, was guilty of the crime of being worth five millions

of dollars. The Convention, coveting his wealth, sentenced him to the

scaffold. "When I witnessed the inhuman execution of this old man," said

Napoleon, "I felt as if the end of the world was at hand." He exposed

his own life to imminent peril in his endeavors to save the helpless

from Jacobin rage. One day a Spanish prize was brought into the harbor,

on board of which had been taken the noble family of Chabrillant, well

known loyalists, who were escaping from France. The mob, believing that

they were fleeing to join the emigrants and the allied army in their

march against Paris, rushed to seize the hated aristocrats, and to hang

them, men and women, at the nearest lamp-posts. The guard came up for

their rescue and were repulsed. Napoleon saw among the rioters several

gunners who had served under him during the siege. He mounted a

platform, and their respect for their general secured him a hearing. He

induced them, by those powers of persuasion which he so eminently

possessed, to intrust the emigrants to him, to be tried and sentenced

the next morning. At midnight he placed them in an artillery wagon,

concealed among barrels of powder and casks of bullets, and had them

conveyed out of the city as a convoy of ammunition. He also provided a

boat to be in waiting for them on the shore, and they embarked and were

saved.

Though the representatives of the Convention made no allusion to

Napoleon in their report, he acquired no little celebrity among the

officers in the army by the energy and skill he had manifested. One of

the deputies, however, wrote to Carnot, "I send you a young man, who

distinguished himself very much during the siege, and earnestly

recommend to you to advance him speedily. If you do not, he will most

assuredly advance himself."

Soon after the capture of Toulon, Napoleon accompanied General Dugommier

to Marseilles. He was in company with him there, when some one, noticing

his feminine figure, inquired, "Who is that little bit of an officer,

and where did you pick him up?" "That officer's name," gravely replied

General Dugommier, "is Napoleon Bonaparte. _I picked him up_ at the

siege of Toulon, to the successful termination of which he eminently

contributed. And you will probably one day see that this _little bit of

an officer_ is a _greater man_ than any of us."

Napoleon was immediately employed in fortifying the maritime coast of

southern France, to afford the inhabitants protection against attacks

from the allied fleet. With the same exhaustless, iron diligence which

had signalized his course at Toulon, he devoted himself to this new

enterprise. He climbed every headland, explored every bay, examined all

soundings. He allowed himself no recreation, and thought not of repose.

It was winter, and cold storms of wind and rain swept the bleak hills.

But the energies of a mind more intense and active than was perhaps ever

before encased in human flesh, rendered this extraordinary man, then but

twenty-three years of age, perfectly regardless of all personal

indulgences. Drenched with rain, living upon such coarse fare as he

chanced to meet in the huts of fishermen and peasants; throwing himself,

wrapped in his cloak, upon any poor cot, for a few hours of repose at

night, he labored, with both body and mind, to a degree which no

ordinary constitution could possibly have endured, and which no ordinary

enthusiasm could have inspired. In a few weeks he accomplished that to

which others would have devoted years of energetic action. It seems

incredible that a human mind, in so short a time, could have matured

plans so comprehensive and minute, and could have achieved such vast

results. While other young officers, of his age, were sauntering along

the windings of mountain streams with hook and line, or strolling the

fields with fowling-pieces, or, in halls of revelry, with mirthful

maidens, were accomplishing their destiny in cotillions and waltzes,

Napoleon, in Herculean toil, was working day and night, with a sleepless

energy, which never has been surpassed. He divided the coast batteries

into three classes: those for the defense of men-of-war in important

harbors; those for the protection of merchant vessels, and those reared

upon promontories and headlands, under whose guns the coasting trade

could hover.

Having accomplished this vast undertaking in the two wintry months of

January and February, early in March, 1794, he joined the head-quarters

of the army of Italy in Nice, promoted to the rank of Brigadier-general

of Artillery. The personal appearance of Napoleon, at this time, was any

thing but prepossessing. He was diminutive in stature, and thin and

emaciated in the extreme. His features were angular and sharp, and his

complexion sallow. His hair, contrary to the fashion of the times, was

combed straight over his forehead. His hands were perfectly feminine in

their proportions. Quite regardless of the display of dress, he usually

appeared without gloves, which, he said, were a useless luxury, in a

plain round hat, with boots clumsily fitted to his feet, and with that

gray great-coat, which afterward became as celebrated as the white plume

of Henry IV. His eye, however, was brilliant, and his smile ever

peculiarly winning.

[Illustration: NIGHT STUDIES.]

Napoleon, upon his arrival at Nice, found the French army idly reposing

in their intrenchments among the Maritime Alps, and surrounded by

superior forces of Austrians and Sardinians. General Dumerbion, who was

in command, was a fearless and experienced soldier, but aged and infirm,

and suffering severely from the gout. The sun of returning spring was

causing the hills and the valleys to rejoice. Mild airs from the south

were breathing gently over the opening foliage, and the songs of birds

and the perfume of flowers lured to listless indulgence. Napoleon was

pale and emaciate from the toils of his batteries at Toulon, and from

his sleepless exertions in fortifying the coast. He now had an

opportunity for repose, and for the recruiting of his apparently

exhausted frame. He, however, did not allow himself one single day of

recreation or of rest. The very hour of his arrival found him intensely

occupied in informing himself respecting all the particulars of the

numbers, positions, the organization, and the available resources of the

two armies. He carefully examined every outpost of the French, and

reconnoitred with the most scrutinizing attention the line occupied by

the opposing hosts. He studied the map of the country. He galloped hour

after hour, and day after day through the ravines and over the

mountains, to make himself perfectly familiar with all the localities of

the region. After a day of incessant toil he would spend the night with

his maps and charts before him, with every meandering stream, every

valley, every river carefully laid down, and with pins, the heads of

some covered with red sealing-wax to represent the French, and others

with blue to designate the enemy, he would form all possible

combinations, and study the advantages or the perils of the different

positions which the republican army might assume. Having thrown himself

upon his cot for a few hours of repose, the earliest dawn of the morning

would find him again upon his horse's back, exploring all the intricate

and perilous fastnesses of the Alps.

A large force of Austrians were intrenched near Saorgia, along the banks

of the fertile Roya, in the enjoyment of ease and abundance, and

dreaming not of peril. Napoleon, with great deliberation, formed his

plan. He had foreseen all probable contingencies, and guarded against

every conceivable danger. A council was assembled. He presented his

suggestions so forcibly and so clearly, as to insure their immediate

adoption. Massena,[2] with fifteen thousand men, secretly and rapidly

was to ascend the banks of the Oreglia, a stream running parallel with

the Roya, till, far up near the sources of the two rivers, crossing over

to the Roya, he was to descend that valley, and fall unexpectedly upon

the Austrians in the rear. At the same time General Dumerbion, the

commander-in-chief, with ten thousand men, was to assail the enemy in

front. Napoleon, with ten thousand men, marching nearer to the

Mediterranean coast, was to seize the important posts there, and cut

off, from the fertile plains of the south, the retreat of the enemy.

Thus, in three weeks after Napoleon had made his appearance at the

head-quarters of the army in Nice, the whole force of the French was in

motion. The energy of the youthful general was immediately communicated

to the entire army. Desperate and sanguinary conflicts ensued, but the

plan was triumphantly successful. The Piedmontese troops, twenty

thousand strong, amazed at the storm thus suddenly bursting upon them,

precipitately fled. Saorgia, the principal depot of the allied forces,

and well stored with provisions and ammunition of every kind, was taken

by the French. Before the end of May the French were masters of all the

passes of the Maritime Alps, and their flags were waving in the breeze

from the summits of Mt. Cenis, Mt. Tende, and Mt. Finisterre. The news

of these sudden and unexpected victories went with electric speed

through France. With the nation in general the honor redounded to

Dumerbion alone, the commander-in-chief. But in the army it was well

understood to whose exertions and genius the achievements were to be

attributed. Though as yet the name of Napoleon had hardly been

pronounced in public, the officers and soldiers in the army were daily

contemplating, with increasing interest, his rising fame. Indeed General

Dumerbion was so deeply impressed by the sagacity and military science

displayed by his brigadier-general, that he unresistingly surrendered

himself to the guidance of the mind of Napoleon.

An incident occurred, during this brief campaign, which strikingly

illustrates the criminal disregard which Napoleon entertained for human

life. It was then the custom with the Convention at Paris always to have

representatives in the army to report proceedings. The wife of one of

these representatives, a virtuous and beautiful woman, fully appreciated

the intellectual superiority of Napoleon, and paid him very marked

attention. Napoleon, naturally of a grateful disposition, became

strongly but fraternally attached to her. One day walking out with her

to inspect some of the positions of the army, merely to give her some

idea of an engagement he ordered an attack upon one of the advanced

posts of the enemy. A brisk skirmish immediately ensued, and the roar of

artillery and the crackling of musketry reverberated sublimely through

the Alps. The lady, from a safe eminence, looked down with intensest

interest upon the novel scene. Many lives were lost on both sides,

though the French were entirely victorious. It was, however, a conflict

which led to no possible advantage, and which was got up merely for the

entertainment of the lady. Napoleon subsequently often alluded to this

wanton exposure of life as one of his most inexcusable acts. He never

ceased to regret it.

Some years after, when Napoleon was First Consul, this lady, then a

widow, friendless, and reduced to poverty, made her appearance at St.

Cloud, and tried to gain access to Napoleon. He was, however, so hedged

in by the etiquette of royalty, that all her exertions were unavailing.

One day he was riding on horseback in the park, conversing with some

members of his court, when he alluded to this event, which he so deeply

deplored. He was informed that the lady was then at St. Cloud. He

immediately sent for her, and inquired with most brotherly interest into

all of her history during the years which had elapsed since they parted.

When he heard her sad tale of misfortune, he said, "But why did you not

sooner make your wants known to me." "Sire," she replied, "I have for

many weeks been in vain seeking to obtain an audience." "Alas!" he

exclaimed, "such is the misfortune of those who are in power." He

immediately made ample provision for her future comfort.

The summer months rapidly passed away, while the French, upon the

summits of the mountains, were fortifying their positions, to resist the

attacks of a formidable army of Austrians and Piedmontese combining to

displace them. Napoleon was still indefatigable in obtaining a familiar

acquaintance with all the natural features of the country, in studying

the modes of moving, governing, and provisioning armies, and eagerly

watching for opportunities to work out his destiny of renown, for which

he now began to believe that he was created.

But suddenly he was arrested on the following extraordinary charge, and

narrowly escaped losing his head on the guillotine. When Napoleon,

during the preceding winter, was engaged in the fortification of the

maritime frontier, he proposed repairing an old state prison at

Marseilles, that it might serve as a powder magazine. His successor on

that station, proceeded to the execution of this plan, so evidently

judicious. Some disaffected persons represented this officer to the

Committee of Public Safety, as building a second Bastile, in which to

imprison patriotic citizens. He was accordingly at once arrested and

brought before the Revolutionary Tribunal. Here he so clearly proved

that the plan was not his own, but that he was merely carrying out the

suggestions of his predecessor, that he was released, and orders were

sent for the arrest of Napoleon. He was seized, and for fifteen days

held under arrest. An order, however, soon came from Paris for his

release. An officer entering his room, a couple of hours after midnight,

to communicate the tidings, found, much to his astonishment, Napoleon

dressed and seated before his table, with maps, books, and charts spread

out before him.

"What!" inquired his friend, "are you not in bed yet?"

"In bed!" Napoleon replied. "I have had my sleep and am already risen."

"What, so early'!" the other rejoined.

"Yes," continued Napoleon, "so early. Two or three hours of sleep are

enough for any man."

Though the representatives of the government, conscious of the value of

Napoleon's services, had written to the Convention, making such an

explanation of the facts that he was immediately set at liberty, still

they saw fit, in an ungenerous attempt at self-justification, to deprive

him of his rank as general of artillery, and to assign him a post in the

infantry in its stead. Napoleon, regarding this transfer as an insult,

threw up his commission in disgust, and retired, in comparative

indigence, to join his mother and the rest of the family, who were now

residing at Marseilles. This was in the autumn of 1794, Napoleon being

then 24 years of age. He spent the winter in comparative inaction, but

carefully studying the convulsions of the times, the history of past

revolutions, and the science of government. Tired of inactivity, early

in May he proceeded to Paris, to seek employment. He was, however,

unsuccessful. The government had its favorites to reward and promote,

and Napoleon, deeply chagrined and mortified, found all his offers of

service rejected. An old officer of artillery, who had seen but little

active service, was president of the military committee. Rather

superciliously he remarked to Napoleon, whose feminine and youthful

appearance did not indicate that he was born to command, "You are too

young to occupy stations of such responsibility as you seek." Napoleon

imprudently retorted, "Presence in the field of battle, sir, ought to

anticipate the claim of years." This personal reflection so annoyed the

president that he sought rather to obstruct than to aid the aspirations

of the young officer. His situation became daily more painful, as his

scanty funds were rapidly failing. He even formed the plan of going to

Turkey to offer his services to the Grand Seignior. "How singular it

would be," said he, at this time, to a companion, "if a little Corsican

officer were to become king of Jerusalem!"

One gloomy night at St. Helena, when Napoleon, unable to sleep, was

endeavoring to beguile the weary hours by conversation, he narrated the

following anecdote, illustrative of his destitution and his distress in

these early days of adversity. "I was, at this period, on one occasion

suffering from that extreme depression of spirits which suspend the

faculties of the brain, and render life a burden too heavy to be borne.

I had just received a letter from my mother, revealing to me the utter

destitution into which she was plunged. She had been compelled to flee

from the war with which Corsica was desolated, and was then at

Marseilles, with no means of subsistence, and having naught but her

heroic virtues to defend the honor of her daughters against the misery

and the corruption of all kinds existing in the manners of that epoch of

social chaos. I also, deprived of my salary and with exhausted

resources, had but one single dollar in my pocket. Urged by animal

instinct to escape from prospects so gloomy and from sorrows so

unendurable, I wandered along the banks of the river, feeling that it

was unmanly to commit suicide, and yet unable to resist the temptation

to do so. In a few more moments I should have thrown myself into the

water, when I ran against an individual, dressed like a simple

mechanic, who, recognizing me, threw himself upon my neck, and cried,

'Is it you, Napoleon? How glad I am to see you again!' It was Demasis,

an old friend and former comrade of mine in the artillery regiment. He

had emigrated, and had afterward returned to France, in disguise, to see

his aged mother.

"He was about to leave me, when stopping, he exclaimed, 'But what is the

matter, Napoleon? You do not listen to me! You do not seem glad to see

me! What misfortune threatens you? You look to me like a madman about to

kill himself.' This direct appeal to the feelings which had seized upon

me, produced such an effect upon my mind, that, without hesitation, I

revealed to him every thing. 'Is that all?' said he, unbuttoning his

coarse waistcoat, and detaching a belt which he placed in my hands.

'Here are six thousand dollars in gold, which I can spare without any

inconvenience. Take them and relieve your mother.' I can not to this day

explain to myself how I could have been willing to receive the money,

but I seized the gold as by a convulsive movement, and, almost frantic

with excitement, ran to send it to my distressed mother. It was not

until the money had left my hands and was on its way to Marseilles that

I reflected upon what I had done. I hastened back to the spot where I

had left Demasis, but he was no longer there. For several days

continuously, I went out in the morning and returned not till evening,

searching every place in Paris where I could hope to find him. All the

researches I then made, as well as those I made after my accession to

power, were in vain. It was not till the Empire was approaching its fall

that I again discovered Demasis. It was now my turn to question him, and

to ask him what he had thought of my strange conduct, and why I had

never heard even his name for fifteen years. He replied that as he had

been in no need of money he had not asked me to repay the loan, although

he was well assured that I should find no difficulty in reimbursing him.

But he feared that if he made himself known, that I should force him to

quit the retirement in which he lived happily, occupying himself with

horticulture. I had very great difficulty in making him accept sixty

thousand dollars as an imperial reimbursement for the six thousand lent

to his comrade in distress. I also made him accept the office of

director-general of the crown gardens, with a salary of six thousand

dollars a year, and the honors of an officer of the household. I also

provided a good situation for his brother.

"Two of my comrades in the military school, and the two to whom I was

most closely united by the sympathies of early friendship, had, by one

of those mysteries of Providence which we often witness, an immense

influence upon my destiny. Demasis arrested me at the moment when I was

about to commit suicide; and Philippeau prevented my conquest of St.

Jean d'Acre. Had it not been for him I should have been master of this

key of the East. I should have marched upon Constantinople, and have

established an empire in Asia."

But reverses began now to attend the army in Italy. Defeat followed

defeat. They were driven by the Austrians from the posts to which

Napoleon had conducted them, and were retreating before their foes. The

Committee of Public Safety were in great trepidation. In their ignorance

they knew not what orders to issue. Some one who had heard of Napoleon's

achievements among the Alps suggested his name. He was called into the

meetings of the committee for advice. The local and technical

information he had acquired, his military science, and the vast

resources of his highly cultivated mind, placed him immediately at the

head of the committee. Though young in years, and still more youthful in

appearance, his gravity, his serious and pensive thoughtfulness, gave

oracular weight to his counsels, and his plans were unhesitatingly

adopted. He had studied the topography of the Maritime Alps with the

most enthusiastic assiduity, and was familiar with the windings and

characteristics of every stream, and the course of mountain ranges, and

with the military capabilities of the ravines and glens. The judicious

dispositions which he proposed of the various divisions of the army

arrested the tide of Austrian conquest, and enabled the French, though

much inferior in number to their allied foes, to defend the positions

they had been directed to occupy. During all this time, however, while

Napoleon, in the committee-room in Paris, was guiding the movements of

the army in Italy, he was studying in the public libraries, during every

leisure moment, with an assiduity so intense and inexhaustible that it

could not have been surpassed had he been inspired with the highest

ambition for literary and scientific honors.

In his occasional evening saunterings along the boulevards, as he saw

the effeminate young men of that metropolis, rolling in luxury, and, in

affected speech, criticising the tones of an opera singer, or the

exquisite moulding of a dancer's limbs, he could not refrain from giving

utterance to his contempt. When he was thus one evening treading the

dusty thoroughfares and looking upon such a spectacle, he impatiently

exclaimed, "Can it be, that upon such creatures fortune is willing to

lavish her favors! How contemptible is human nature." Though Napoleon

secluded himself entirely from haunts of revelry and scenes of

dissipation, and from all those dissolute courses into which the young

men of those days so recklessly plunged, he adopted this course, not

apparently from any conscientious desire to do that which was right in

the sight of God, but from what has been called "the expulsive power of

new affection." Ambition seemed to expel from his mind every other

passion. The craving to obtain renown by the performance of great and

glorious deeds; the desire to immortalize his name, as one of the

distinguished men and illustrious benefactors of the human race, had

infused itself so intensely throughout his whole nature, that animal

passion even was repressed, and all the ordinary pursuits of worldly

pleasure became in his view frivolous and contemptible. His ambition

needed but the spirit of religion to sanctify it, to make it as noble an

ambition as ever glowed in a human bosom. But alas! it all centred in

himself. He wished to benefit the human race, not because he loved his

fellow man, but that he might immortalize his own name.

At this time it can hardly be said that there was any religion in

France. Christianity had been all but universally discarded. The priests

had been banished; the churches demolished or converted into temples of

science or haunts of merriment; the immortality of the soul was denied,

and upon the gateways of the grave-yards there was inscribed, "Death is

an eternal sleep." Napoleon was consequently deprived of all the

influences of religion in the formation of his character. And yet his

mind was naturally, if it be proper so to speak, a devotional mind. His

temperament was serious, thoughtful, and pensive. The grand and the

mysterious engrossed and overawed him. Even his ambition was not

exulting and exhilarating, but sombre, majestic, and sublime. He thought

of Herculean toil and sleepless labor, and heroic deeds. For ease, and

luxury, and self-indulgence, he had no desire, but he wished to be the

greatest of men by accomplishing more than any other mortal had ever

accomplished. Even in youth life had but few charms for him, and he took

a melancholy view of man's earthly pilgrimage, after asserting that

existence was not a blessing. And when drawing near to the close of life

he asserted that he had known but few happy moments upon earth, and that

for those few he was indebted to the love of Josephine.

The National Convention now prepared another constitution for the

adoption of the people of France. The executive power, instead of being

placed in the hands of one king, or president, was intrusted to five

chiefs, who were to be called Directors. The legislative powers were

committed to two bodies, as in the United States. The first,

corresponding to the United States Senate, was to be called the _Council

of Ancients_. It was to consist of two hundred and fifty members, each

of whom was to be at least forty years of age, and a married man or a

widower. An unmarried man was not considered worthy of a post of such

responsibility in the service of the state. The second body was called

the _Council of Five Hundred_, from the number of members of which it

was to be composed. It corresponded with our House of Representatives,

and each of its members was to be at least thirty years of age.

This constitution was far superior to any other which had yet been

formed. It was framed by the moderate republicans, who wished to

establish a republican government, protecting France on the one hand

from the royalists, who would reestablish the Bourbons upon the throne,

and on the other hand from the misrule of the violent Jacobins, who

wished to perpetuate the reign of terror. This constitution was sent

down to the primary assemblies of the people, for their adoption or

rejection. It was accepted promptly in nearly all the rural districts,

and was adopted by acclamation in the army.

The city of Paris was divided into ninety-six sections, or wards, in

each of which, as in our cities, the inhabitants of that particular ward

assembled at the polls. When the constitution was tendered to these

several sections of Paris, forty-eight of them voted in its favor, while

forty-six rejected it. The royalists and the Jacobins, the two extremes,

united in the opposition, each party hoping that by the overthrow of the

Convention their own views might obtain the precedence. The Convention

declared that the majority of the nation had every where pronounced in

favor of the new constitution, and they prepared to carry its provisions

into effect. The opposing sections, now thoroughly aroused, began to

arm, resolved upon violent resistance. The Parisian mob, ever ready for

an outbreak, joined most heartily with their more aristocratic leaders,

and all Paris seemed to be rousing to attack the Convention. The

National Guard, a body of soldiers corresponding with the American

militia, though far better officered, equipped, and drilled, joined

promptly the insurgents. The insurrection-gun was fired, the tocsin

tolled, and the gloomy, threatening masses, marshaled under able

leaders, swarmed through the streets. The Convention was in the utmost

state of trepidation; for in those days of anarchy, blood flowed like

water, and life had no sacredness. It was not a mob of a few hundred

straggling men and boys who were to surround their hall with hootings

and to break their windows; but a formidable army of forty thousand men,

in battle array, with artillery and musketry, headed by veteran

generals, who had fought the battles of the old monarchy, with gleaming

banners and trumpet tones, were marching down from all quarters of the

city, upon the Tuileries. To meet this foe the Convention had at its

command but five thousand regular troops; and it was uncertain but that

they, in the moment of peril, might fraternize with the insurgents.

General Menou was appointed, by the Convention, to quell the

insurrection. He marched to meet the enemy. Napoleon, intensely

interested in the passing scenes, followed the solid columns of Menou.

But the general, a mild and inefficient man, with no nerve to meet such

a crisis, was alarmed in view of the numbers and the influence of his

antagonists, and retired before them. Shouts of victory resounded from

the National Guard, through all the streets of Paris. They were greatly

emboldened by this triumph, and felt confident that the regular troops

would not dare to fire upon the citizens. The shades of night were now

settling down over the agitated city. Napoleon having witnessed the

unsuccessful mission of Menou, ran through the streets to the Tuileries,

and ascending the gallery where the Convention was assembled,

contemplated, with a marble brow and a heart apparently unagitated, the

scene of consternation there. It was now eleven o'clock at night, and

the doom of the Convention seemed sealed. In the utmost alarm Menou was

dismissed, and the unlimited command of the troops intrusted to Barras.

The office was full of peril. Successful resistance seemed impossible,

and unsuccessful was certain death. Barras hesitated, when suddenly he

recollected Napoleon, whom he had known at Toulon, and whose military

science and energy, and reckless disregard of his own life, and of the

lives of all others, he well remembered. He immediately exclaimed, "I

know the man who can defend us, if any one can. It is a young Corsican

officer, Napoleon Bonaparte, whose military abilities I witnessed at

Toulon. He is a man who will not stand upon ceremony." Napoleon was in

the gallery at the time, and it is not impossible that the eye of Barras

chancing to light upon him, caused the suggestion.

He was immediately introduced to the Convention. They expected to see a

man of gigantic frame and soldierly bearing, brusque and imperious. To

their surprise there appeared before them a small, slender, pale-faced,

smooth-cheeked young man, apparently about eighteen years of age. The

president said, "Are you willing to undertake the defense of the

Convention?"--"Yes!" was the calm, laconic reply. After a moment's

hesitation, the president continued, "Are you aware of the magnitude of

the undertaking?" Napoleon fixed that eagle glance upon him, which few

could meet, and not quail before it, and replied, "Perfectly; and I am

in the habit of accomplishing that which I undertake." There was

something in the tone and the manner of this extraordinary man, which

secured for him immediately the confidence of all the members of the

House. His spirit so calm and imperturbable, in the midst of a scene so

exciting, impressed them with the conviction that they were in the

presence of one of no common powers. After the exchange of a few more

words, Napoleon said, "One condition is indispensable. I must have the

unlimited command, entirely untrammeled by any orders from the

Convention." It was no time for debate, and there was unhesitating

acquiescence in his demand.

[Illustration: NAPOLEON BEFORE THE CONVENTION.]

The promptness, energy, and unfailing resources of Napoleon, were now

most conspicuously displayed. At Sablons, about five miles from Paris,

there was a powerful park of artillery, consisting of fifty heavy guns.

Napoleon instantly dispatched Murat, with a party of dragoons to take

those guns, and bring them to the Tuileries. They were seized by the

mounted troops, but a few moments before a party of infantry arrived

from the sections, for the same purpose. The insurgents, though more

numerous, dared not attack the dragoons, and the guns were taken in

safety to Napoleon; and he disposed them, heavily charged with grape

shot, in such a way as to sweep all the avenues leading to the

Convention. The activity of the young general knew not a moment's

intermission. He was every where during the night, giving directions,

infusing energy, and inspiring courage. He was well aware of the fearful

odds against him; for with five thousand troops he was to encounter

forty thousand men, well armed, well disciplined, and under experienced

officers. They could easily besiege him, and starve him into surrender.

They could, from behind barricades, and from housetops and chamber

windows, soon so thin out his ranks, that resistance would be hopeless.

The officers of the National Guard, however, had no conception of the

firm, indomitable, unflinching spirit which they were to encounter. They

did not believe that any one would dare to fire upon the citizens of

Paris. The Convention were aroused to a most lively sense of the serious

aspect of affairs, when in the gloom of night eight hundred muskets were

brought in with an abundant supply of cartridges, by order of Napoleon,

to arm the members as a corps of reserve. This precaution indicated to

them the full extent of the danger, and also the unwavering

determination of the one who was intrusted with their defense. As the

light of morning dawned upon the city, the Tuileries presented the

aspect of an intrenched camp. Napoleon had posted his guns so as to

sweep all the bridges and all the avenues, through which an opposing

force could approach the capital. His own imperturbable calmness and

firmness and confidence, communicated itself to the troops he commanded.

The few laconic words with which he addressed them, like electric fire

penetrated their hearts, and secured devotion, even to death, to his

service.

The alarm bells were now ringing, and the _generale_ beating in all

parts of the city. The armed hosts, in dense black masses, were

mustering at their appointed rendezvous, and preparing to march in solid

columns upon the Convention. The members in their seats, in silence and

awe, awaited the fearful assault, upon whose issue their lives were

suspended. Napoleon, pale and solemn, and perfectly calm, imperturbable

and determined, had completed all his arrangements, and was waiting,

resolved that the responsibility of the first blow should fall upon his

assailants, and that he would take the responsibility of the second.

Soon the enemy were seen advancing from every direction, in masses which

perfectly filled the narrow streets of the city. With exultant music and

waving banners, they marched proudly on to attack the besieged band upon

every side, and confident, from their overpowering numbers, of an easy

victory. They did not believe that the few and feeble troops of the

Convention would dare to resist the people, but cherished the delusion

that a very few shots, from their own side, would put all opposition to

flight. Thus, unhesitatingly, they came within the sweep of the

grape-shot, with which Napoleon had charged his guns to the muzzle. But

seeing that the troops of the Convention stood firm, awaiting their

approach, the head of one of the advancing columns leveled their muskets

and discharged a volley of bullets at their enemies. It was the signal

for an instantaneous discharge, direct, sanguinary, merciless from every

battery. In quick succession explosion followed explosion, and a perfect

storm of grape-shot swept the thronged streets. The pavements were

covered with the mangled and the dead. The columns wavered--the storm

still continued; they turned--the storm still raged unabated; they fled

in utter dismay in every direction; the storm still pursued them. Then

Napoleon commanded his little division impetuously to follow the

fugitives, and to continue the discharge, but with blank cartridges. As

the thunder of these heavy guns reverberated along the streets, the

insurgents dispersed through every available lane and alley, and in less

than an hour the foe was nowhere to be found. Napoleon sent his division

into every section and disarmed the inhabitants, that there could be no

re-gathering. He then ordered the dead to be buried, and the wounded to

be conveyed to the hospitals, and then, with his pale and marble brow as

unmoved as if no event of any great importance had occurred, he returned

to his head-quarters at the Tuileries.

"How _could you_," said a lady, "thus mercilessly fire upon your own

countrymen?" "A soldier," he coolly replied, "is but a machine to obey

orders. This is _my seal_, which I have impressed upon Paris."

Subsequently Napoleon never ceased to regret the occurrence; and tried

to forget, and to have others forget that he had ever deluged the

streets of Paris with the blood of Frenchmen.

Thus Napoleon established the new government of France called the

Directory, from the five Directors, who composed its executive. But a

few months passed away before Napoleon, by moral power, without the

shedding of a drop of blood, overthrew the constitution which his

unpitying artillery had thus established. Immediately after the quelling

of the sections, Napoleon was triumphantly received by the Convention.

It was declared, by unanimous resolve, that his energy had saved the

Republic. His friend Barras, became one of the Directors, and Napoleon

was appointed Commander-in-chief of the Army of the Interior, and

intrusted with the military defense and government of the metropolis.

The defeat of the insurgents was the death-blow to all the hopes of the

Royalists, and seemed to establish the Republic upon a permanent

foundation. Napoleon manifested the natural clemency of his disposition

very strongly in this hour of triumph. When the Convention would have

executed Menou as a traitor, he pleaded his cause and obtained his

acquittal. He urged, and successfully, that as the insurgents were now

harmless, they should not be punished, but that a vail of oblivion

should be thrown over all their deeds. The Convention, influenced not a

little by the spirit of Napoleon, now honorably dissolved itself, by

passing an act of general amnesty for all past offenses, and

surrendering the government to the Directory.

The situation of Napoleon was now flattering in the extreme. He was but

twenty-five years of age. The distinguished services he had rendered;

the high rank he had attained, and the ample income at his disposal,

gave him a very elevated position in the public view. The eminence he

had now attained was not a sudden and accidental outbreak of celebrity.

It was the result of long years of previous toil. He was now reaping the

fruit of the seed which he had sown in his incessant application to

study in the military school; in his continued devotion to literary and

scientific pursuits, after he became an officer; in his energy, and

fearlessness, and untiring assiduity at Toulon; in his days of wintry

exposure, and nights of sleeplessness in fortifying the coast of France,

and in his untiring toil among the fastnesses of the Alps. Never was

reputation earned and celebrity attained by more Herculean labor. If

Napoleon had extraordinary genius, as unquestionably he had, this genius

stimulated him to extraordinary exertions.

Immediately upon the attainment of this high dignity and authority, with

the ample pecuniary resources accompanying it, Napoleon hastened to

Marseilles, to place his mother in a position of perfect comfort. And he

continued to watch over her with most filial assiduity, proving himself

an affectionate and dutiful son. From this hour the whole family,

mother, brothers, and sisters were taken under his protection, and all

their interests blended with his own.

The post which Napoleon now occupied was one of vast responsibility,

demanding incessant care, and moral courage, and tact. The Royalists and

the Jacobins were exceedingly exasperated. The government was not

consolidated, and had obtained no command over the public mind. Paris

was filled with tumult and disorder. The ravages of the revolution had

thrown hundreds of thousands out of employment, and starvation was

stalking through the streets of the metropolis. It became necessary for

the government, almost without means or credit, to feed the famishing.

Napoleon manifested great skill and humanity, combined with unflinching

firmness in repressing disorders. It was not unfrequently necessary to

appeal to the strong arm of military power to arrest the rising array of

lawless passion. Often his apt and pithy speeches would promote

good-nature and disperse the crowd. On one occasion a fish-woman of

enormous rotundity of person, exhorted the mob, with most vehement

volubility, not to disperse, exclaiming, "Never mind these coxcombs with

epaulets upon their shoulders; they care not if we poor people all

starve, if they can but feed well and grow fat." Napoleon, who was as

thin and meagre as a shadow, turned to her and said, "Look at me, my

good woman, and tell me which of us two is the fatter." The Amazon was

completely disconcerted by this happy repartee; and the crowd in

good-humor dispersed.

[Illustration: THE AMAZON DISCOMFITED.]

[Footnote 1: It is pleasant to witness manifestations of gratitude. God

frowns upon impiety. The wealthy, illustrious, and miserable Junot, in a

paroxysm of insanity, precipitated himself from his chamber window, and

died in agony upon the pavement.]

[Footnote 2: Andre Massena rose from a common soldier to the rank of a

commander, and became Duke of Rivoli and Marshal of France. "He was,"

said Napoleon, "a man of superior talent. He generally, however, made

bad dispositions previously to a battle. It was not until the dead began

to fall about him that he began to act with that judgment which he ought

to have displayed before. In the midst of the dying and the dead, and of

balls sweeping away those who encircled him, he gave his orders, and

made his dispositions with the most perfect coolness and judgment. It

was truly said of him, that he never began to act with skill until the

battle was going against him. He was, however, _a robber_. He went

halves with the contractors and commissaries of the army. I signified to

him often, that if he would discontinue his peculations I would make him

a present of a hundred and fifty or two hundred thousand dollars, but he

had acquired such a habit that he could not keep his hands from money.

On this account he was hated by the soldiers, who mutinied against him

three or four times. However, considering the circumstances of the

times, he was precious. Had not his bright parts been sullied by

avarice, he would have been a great man." Massena lived through all the

wars of Napoleon, and died of chagrin, when the master, whom he adored,

was an exile at St. Helena.]

THE TREASON OF BENEDICT ARNOLD.

BY BENSON J. LOSSING.

[Illustration: BENEDICT ARNOLD.]

[The engravings which illustrate this article, are from Lossing's

_Pictorial Field-Book of the Revolution_, now in course of publication

by Harper and Brothers.]

The defection of Arnold, and his attempt to betray the strong post of

West Point and its dependencies into the power of the British army, was

the ripened head of faction which had been festering in the Legislature

and the Camp for more than three years. The stern and disinterested

patriotism which marshaled a beleaguering army around Boston, and

declared, in solemn council, the thirteen Anglo-American colonies to be

free and independent states, had become diluted by the commingling of

selfish ambition. Already Church, Duche, Galloway, Zubley, and other

smaller traitors who, like Peter, were courageous when danger appeared

remote, and boasted loudly of their love for the patriot cause, until

the hour of its trial came, had denied their allegiance to the new faith

by words or deeds, and gave countenance to multitudes of the weak,

timid, and unprincipled, who openly espoused the cause of the king.

As the contest advanced, and the night of the Revolution grew darker,

ambitious men became bolder; and, already, general officers and their

minions had secretly plotted against the good Washington, and found

abettors in Congress. Arnold, however, had nothing to do with these

intrigues, for none made him a confidant, and he seldom confided in

others. Yet it was not until his bolder act alarmed the whole people,

and awakened them to vigilance and the keenest scrutiny of the conduct

of their officers in the field, that the factious spirit was abashed. In

his treason it culminated--it came to a head; in his failure it

waned--it discharged its impurities, and healthier action ensued.

The time when Arnold's defection was discovered, in the autumn of 1780,

was the gloomiest period of the war. Public credit had sunk to the

lowest point of distrust. No prestige of a great achievement during the

campaign, like that of the capture of Burgoyne, could secure loans

abroad. The people of America were impoverished and discouraged. The

whole business of the country was controlled by heartless speculators.

The continental bills had so depreciated that seven hundred dollars in

paper sold for one dollar in specie. The governmental machinery of the

Confederation worked inefficiently. New York city, the Virginia sea

board, and almost the whole of the Carolinas and Georgia were in

possession of the enemy, and the French army under Rochambeau, whose

advent gave such joy and hope to the patriots, was lying idle at

Newport, unwilling to engage in a campaign till another spring. In this

hour of its weakness and distress, Arnold sought the utter ruin of his

country, for the wicked purpose of gratifying petty spite; for the base

consideration of paltry, perishing gold!

Arnold was innately wicked and treacherous. The mother who bore him was

an exemplar of piety and sweetness of character, and daily counseled her

boy with words of heavenly wisdom. Yet, from earliest childhood he was

wayward, disobedient, reckless, and profane. A stranger to physical

fear, and always heedless of the consequences resulting from action, his

hands were ever ready to do the bidding of a perverse nature or the

impulses of circumstances. When the tocsin of Freedom was sounded at

Lexington and Concord, his impetuous spirit was aroused, and his

feelings assumed the character of the most zealous patriotism. He was

doubtless sincere, and went into the contest with a soul filled with

desires to cast back the surges of despotism, which were beating higher

and higher against the liberties of his country. His brave exploits on

Lake Champlain; his wondrous journey through the wilderness from the

Kennebeck to the St. Lawrence; his assault on the capital of the

Canadas, and his brilliant deeds at Ridgefield, Compo, and Saratoga

excited the astonishment and admiration of his countrymen. Congress

awarded him special honors, and the name of Arnold was a host in the

Northern Department. As a soldier and leader he was the bravest of the

brave, skillful and high-souled; but in his social relations he was a

moral coward, deceptive, mean-spirited, and debased. Washington admired

his military genius, but despised his avarice, selfishness, and

profligacy. He was ever distrustful of his patriotism, because he lacked

the essential elements of that virtue, except personal courage. He was

disliked by the leading men in the army, for he quarreled with all his

peers, and was reserved toward his subordinates. His avarice was

notorious. "Money is this man's God, and to get enough of it, he would

sacrifice his country," said Colonel Brown, in a hand-bill, almost four

years before Arnold's defection. From the hour when temptation lured him

at Montreal and St. John's, till the termination of his command in

Philadelphia, he was guilty of peculations, fraudulent, and unworthy

acts, which dimmed the lustre of his military fame.

Justice, however, demands some light touches upon this dark picture.

Envy, the bane of happiness, and the sure accompaniment of honors, was

rank among his fellow-officers. The brilliancy of Arnold's personal acts

eclipsed their achievements, and doubtless the jealous feelings excited

thereby were powerful and not very remote causes of his defection. At

the outset, when, in company with Ethan Allen, he assisted in the

capture of Ticonderoga, he felt aggrieved by the seeming neglect of the

civil authorities of Connecticut and Massachusetts; and during the five

years succeeding, fresh instances of neglect occurred, and obstacles

were continually placed in the way of his advancement and popularity, by

those who hoped to shine in proportion to the waning of his fame. The

very men who conspired against Washington, were most prominent in

opposition to Arnold, and that officer saw no hope of justice, real or

shadowy, at the hands of Congress, for faction was as rife there as in

the army. With contracted vision he beheld, in the conduct of its

political representatives, the ingratitude and injustice of his country;

and the hatred which he fostered for the few was extended to the

_cause_, of which they were the accredited supporters. This feeling, and

the hope of large pecuniary reward, by which he might relieve himself of

heavy and increasing embarrassments, extinguished his patriotism, and

beckoned him to the bad pre-eminence of a mercenary traitor.

From Cain to Catiline, the world hath seen

Her traitors--vaunted votaries of crime--

Caligula and Nero sat alone

Upon the pinnacle of vice sublime;

But they were moved by hate, or wish to climb

The rugged steeps of Fame, in letters bold

To write their names upon the scroll of time;

Therefore their crimes some virtue did enfold--

But, Arnold! thine had none; 'twas all for sordid gold.

ESTELLE ANNA LEWIS.

In consequence of a bad wound received in his leg while gallantly

fighting at Saratoga (and which was yet unhealed), Arnold was not fit

for active service when the British evacuated Philadelphia in the spring

of 1778. Washington, desirous of keeping him employed, appointed him

military governor of that city, in command of a small corps of soldiers.

Fond of show, and feeling the importance of his station, Arnold adopted

a style of living incompatible with his resources and the character of a

republican. He made the fine old mansion of William Penn his residence;

kept a coach-and-four; gave splendid soirees and banquets, and charmed

the gayer portion of Philadelphia society with his princely displays.

His station, and the splendor of his equipage, captivated the daughter

of Edward Shippen, a leading loyalist, and afterward Chief Justice of

the State. Her beauty and accomplishments won the heart of the widower

of forty. She had bloomed but eighteen summers, and admirers of every

degree coveted her smiles; yet she gave her hand to Arnold, and they

were married. Stanch Whigs shook their heads in distrust, and the

equally stanch loyalists were gratified. To the former, this union

augured of evil; to the latter, it had promises of hope. Both were right

interpreters.

Arnold's extravagance soon brought importunate creditors to his door.

Rather than retrench his expenses, he procured money by a system of

fraud and prostitution of his official power. The city being under

martial law, his power was supreme. He forbade shopkeepers selling

certain articles, and then, through agents, he trafficked in those very

articles, and sold them at enormous profits. The people were incensed,

and a deputation went before the President and Council of Pennsylvania,

and preferred charges against him. These were laid before Congress, and

that body referred the whole matter to Washington, to be adjudicated by

a military tribunal.

After a delay of more than a year Arnold was tried, and found guilty of

two of four charges preferred against him. The court pronounced the

mildest sentence in its power--a mere reprimand by the Commander-in-chief.

Washington performed the duty with the greatest delicacy. "Our profession,"

he said, "is the chastest of all. Even the shadow of a fault tarnishes the

lustre of our finest achievements. The least inadvertence may rob us of the

public favor, so hard to be acquired. I reprimand you for having forgotten

that, in proportion as you had rendered yourself formidable to our enemies,

you should have been guarded and temperate in your deportment toward your

fellow-citizens. Exhibit anew those noble qualities which have placed

you on the list of our most valued commanders. I will myself furnish

you, as far as it may be in my power, with opportunities of regaining

the esteem of your country."

What punishment could have been lighter! Yet Arnold was greatly

irritated. He had anticipated a full acquittal, and a triumphant

vindication of his honor. Even this slight punishment deeply wounded his

pride, and instead of receiving it with the generous feelings of true

honor and dignity, he resented it as a meditated wrong. The rank weed of

treason was already growing luxuriantly in his heart, for he had been

for nine months in secret correspondence with the enemy in New York; now

it bloomed, and its fruit expanded under the genial heat of intense

hatred, fed by mortified pride, foiled ambition, the pressure of

embarrassments, the want of employment, intercourse with loyalists, and

a sense of public injustice.

When the great fete, called the _Mischianza_ was given in Philadelphia

in honor of General Sir William Howe, on his departure from America in

the spring of 1778, Captain John Andre was the most active and talented

officer engaged in its preparation. He was a wit, a poet, and a painter.

Thwarted in an engagement of marriage with the charming Honora Sneyd, by

the unwise scruples of her father, on account of the suitor's youth and

obscurity, Andre placed in his bosom the miniature of his idol, painted

by his own hands, joined the army, and came to America to seek, in the

excitement of the camp, an alleviation of sufferings inflicted by

disappointed love. He landed in Canada; was captured at St. John's on

the Sorel, where he saved the picture of Honora by concealing it in his

mouth; was taken to Pennsylvania; was exchanged, and finally rejoined

the army in New York.

[Illustration: JOHN ANDRE.]

[Illustration: SIR HENRY CLINTON.]

Among the young ladies of Philadelphia who graced the _Mischianza_, was

the gay and brilliant Margaret Shippen, who afterward became the wife of

Arnold. Andre was a frequent guest at her father's table, and Margaret

continued her acquaintance with him, by epistles, even after her

marriage. Through this channel her husband opened a correspondence with

Sir Henry Clinton, the Commander-in-chief of the British forces in

America, and then quartered in New York. For a long time Arnold's

letters were vague. His advances were slow and cautious. He assumed the

name of _Gustavus_, and couched his letters in commercial phrases.

Profound secrecy was observed by both. Arnold's wife, it is believed,

was ignorant of the true intent of her husband's letters, and Clinton

had no other confidant than Andre and Colonel Beverly Robinson. The

latter was the son-in-law of Frederick Phillipse, one of the largest

landholders in America. Twenty years before, Washington, then a Virginia

colonel, had enjoyed the hospitalities of his house, and there became

enamored of Mary Phillipse, the betrothed of Roger Morris, his old

companion in arms in the battle of Monongahela. Of course his suit was

rejected, and the young soldier gave his heart and hand to a charming

widow of his own province. Robinson had an extensive acquaintance among

the American officers. He early espoused the patriot cause, even as

early as the era of the Stamp Act; but when the Declaration of

Independence was promulgated, he was unwilling to accede to so bold a

measure as the dismemberment of the British Empire, and he took up arms

for the king.

[Illustration: Bev. Robinson]

West Point, on the Hudson, fifty miles above New York, made strong by

nature, and strengthened by art, was an object of covetous desire to Sir

Henry Clinton. It was the key to the northern country and the route to

Canada, and the strong link of co-operation between the patriots of the

Eastern and Middle States. Arnold knew its value to both parties, and he

resolved to make its betrayal the equivalent for personal honors and a

large sum of money. When his determination was fixed, and his plans were

arranged, his deportment was suddenly changed. Hitherto he had been

sullen and indifferent; now his patriotism glowed with all the apparent

ardor of his earlier career. Hitherto he had pleaded the bad state of

his wounds as an excuse for inaction; now they healed rapidly. He was

now anxious to join his old companions in arms, and to General Schuyler,

Robert R. Livingston, and other influential men in Congress, he

expressed his impatience to be in the camp or the field. Rejoiced at the

change, and believing him sincere, they wrote letters to Washington

commendatory of Arnold, and, in pursuance of his intimation, suggested

his appointment to the command of West Point. At the same time Arnold

visited the camp to pay his respects to the commander-in-chief, and

expressed his desire to have a command, like that at West Point, for his

wounds would not now allow him to perform active service on horseback in

the field. Washington was surprised, but, unsuspicious of wrong, acceded

to his request, and on the 3d of August, 1780, gave him written

instructions. His command included West Point and its dependencies from

Stony Point to Fishkill.

[Illustration: ROBINSON'S HOUSE.]

Upon a fertile plateau, high above the river, and at the foot of a range

of lofty hills, nearly opposite West Point, was the confiscated country

seat of Colonel Beverly Robinson, a spacious mansion for the times, and

now a pleasant residence. There Arnold established his quarters, and

elaborated his wicked scheme; and there he was joined by his wife and

infant son, when his plans were ripe, and his treason almost

consummated.

It was a part of Washington's plan for the autumn campaign, to make an

attack upon the city of New York, with the combined French and American

forces, the former to approach by the way of Long Island, and the other

by crossing Kingsbridge at the head of York, or Manhattan Island. Arnold

communicated the details of this plan to Sir Henry Clinton, and proposed

that when the assailants approached, a large British force should

proceed up the Hudson to the Highlands in a flotilla under Admiral

Rodney, when the traitor should surrender West Point and its

dependencies, excusing himself with the plea of a weak garrison. The

anticipated result was a retreat of Washington toward the Highlands to

regain the fortress and save his ample stores and the probable capture

of the French army.

Sir Henry Clinton was delighted with the plan, and eagerly sought to

carry it out. Hitherto he was not certified of the real name and

character of _Gustavus_, although for some months he had suspected him

to be General Arnold. Unwilling to proceed further upon uncertainties,

he proposed sending an officer to some point near the American lines to

have a personal interview with his correspondent. Arnold consented, and

insisted that young Andre, now the adjutant-general of the British army,

and high in the confidence of Sir Henry Clinton, should be the officer

sent. They agreed to meet at Dobb's Ferry, upon the Neutral Ground, some

twenty miles above New York. Thither Andre, accompanied by Colonel

Robinson, proceeded; but the vigilance of the British water-guard

prevented the approach of Arnold, and the conference was deferred.

Sir Henry Clinton, anxious to effect definite arrangements with Arnold,

sent the Vulture sloop-of-war up the river, as far as Teller's Point,

nearly opposite Haverstraw, with Colonel Robinson on board. That

officer, under pretense of making inquiries respecting his confiscated

property, communicated with Arnold, who, in an ambiguous answer,

informed him that a flag and a boat would be sent to the Vulture on the

night of the twentieth, to be used as circumstances might require. This

fact was communicated to Clinton, and on the morning of that day, Major

Andre, after singing a song and taking wine with some fellow-officers,

at Kip's Bay, proceeded by land to Dobb's Ferry, and from thence in a

barge to the Vulture. He was instructed not to change his dress, go

within the American lines, receive papers, or in any other way act as a

spy. It was supposed that Arnold himself would come to the Vulture, and

that there the whole plan would be arranged. The wily general was not to

be caught, and he chose a meeting place which involved less personal

hazard.

About half way between Stony Point and Haverstraw, lived Joshua Hett

Smith, a brother of the Tory Chief Justice of New York. To his house

Arnold repaired, and employed him to proceed to the Vulture, at night,

and bring a gentleman to the western shore of the Hudson. Smith was an

active man, of considerable influence in his neighborhood, and is

supposed to have been the _dupe_, not the voluntary aid of Arnold in his

treasonable preparations. Unable to procure oarsmen, Smith did not

proceed to the Vulture until the night of the twenty-first. As soon as

the moon went down, he glided silently out of Haverstraw creek, with

muffled oars, and at a little past midnight reached the vessel anchored

in the middle of the river. It was a serene, starry night, and not a

ripple was upon the bosom of the waters. Cautiously he approached the

Vulture, and, by proper signal, obtained admission on board. His oarsmen

waited but a few minutes, when Smith, accompanied by a British officer,

descended into the boat. The latter was dressed in the scarlet uniform

of the royal army, but all was covered with a long blue surtout,

buttoned to the chin, and a plain cocked hat covered his head. Not a

word was spoken as they moved noiselessly toward a deep-shaded estuary

at the foot of Long Clove Mountain, a little below Haverstraw. Smith led

the officer, in the gloom, to a thicket near by, and there, in a low

whisper, introduced John Anderson (the name assumed by Major Andre in

his correspondence) to General Arnold, and then retired. The

conspirators were left alone. There, in the deep shadows of night,

concealed from human cognizance, they discussed their dark plans, and

plotted the utter ruin of the patriot cause. There the arch-traitor,

eager for the coveted gold of a royal purchaser, higgled with the king's

broker about the price of his infamy; there the perjured recusant,

satisfied with the _word_ of an honest man (for he dared not accept a

written bond), "sold his birth-right for a mess of pottage."

[Illustration: SMITH'S HOUSE.]

The hour of dawn approached, and their conference was not ended. Smith

came, and urged the necessity for haste, for the water-guard would soon

be on the alert, and it would be difficult to return to the Vulture.

Much was yet to be done, and Andre reluctantly consented to accompany

Arnold to Smith's house, nearly four miles distant, and await the

darkness of another night to return to the vessel. Expecting a

protracted interview, Arnold had brought two horses with him. While it

was yet dark they mounted, and as they passed in the rear of Haverstraw,

in the dim twilight of earliest dawn, the voice of a sentinel gave Andre

the first intimation that he was within the American lines. He perceived

the danger, but it was too late to recede. They reached Smith's house

before sunrise, and at that moment the boom of a cannon came up from the

bosom of the bay. Several discharges quickly succeeded each other, and

soon the Vulture, galled by an iron four-pounder upon Teller's Point,

weighed anchor, and dropped down the river beyond the vision of the

conspirators. Deep inquietude stirred the soul of Andre. He was within

the enemy's lines, without flag or pass. If detected, he would be called

a spy--a name he hated as much as that of traitor. The ingenious

sophistry of Arnold allayed his apprehensions, and in an upper room of

Smith's house, the plan of operations was determined, and there Andre

passed a day of great solicitude. The plan was simple. Washington had

gone to Hartford, to confer with the French officers. It was agreed to

consummate the scheme during the absence of the Commander-in-chief,

instead of waiting for the uncertain movements of the armies. The

garrison at West Point was to be weakened by dispersion, and Clinton was

to sail up the river with a strong force, and take possession.

At noon, the whole plan being arranged, Arnold placed in Andre's

possession, several papers, explanatory of the condition of West Point

and its dependencies. Zealous in the service of his king and country,

Andre disobeyed the commands of his general, and received them. At

Arnold's suggestion, he placed them in his stockings under his feet, and

receiving a pass from the traitor (printed on the next page), waited

impatiently for the approach of night.

Fully believing that no obstacle now interposed in the way of success,

Arnold prepared for the reception of Rodney's flotilla with a strong

force under Clinton. Pretending that it needed repairing, a link from

the great iron chain which spanned the Hudson at West Point, was taken

out and sent to the smith, and the garrison at Fort Clinton, on the

Point, was weakened by scattering the troops in detachments among the

several redoubts in the vicinity. Colonel Lamb, who commanded the

garrison, wondered at the movement, but did not suspect his chief. So

skillfully had Arnold managed all his plans, that no suspicion of his

defection was abroad; and Washington held his conference with Rochambeau

and Ternay, satisfied that West Point was in safe hands.

[Illustration: copy of pass for John Anderson]

When night approached, Smith positively refused to convey Andre back to

the Vulture, but offered to accompany him to the borders of the Neutral

Ground on the east side of the Hudson. Andre remonstrated in vain. There

was no alternative but to remain. He exchanged his uniform for a

citizen's dress, and at twilight, mounted on good horses, and

accompanied by a negro servant, Smith and Andre crossed King's Ferry

(now Verplanck's Point), and turned their faces toward White Plains.

Andre was moody, for he felt uneasy. They met with no interruption,

until near the little village of Crompond, eight miles from King's

Ferry, when they were hailed by a sentinel. Arnold's pass was examined,

known to be genuine, and the travelers were about to pass on, when the

officer of the post magnified the dangers of the road, and persuaded

them to halt for the night. Sleep was a stranger to the eyes of Andre,

and at dawn they were in the saddle. When they approached Pine's Bridge,

and he was assured that he was upon neutral ground, beyond the American

lines, his gloomy taciturnity was exchanged for cheerful garrulity, and

he conversed in an almost playful manner upon poetry, the arts,

literature, and common topics. A mile above the bridge, Smith handed him

a small sum in Continental bills, and they parted, the former to proceed

to Arnold's quarters and report his success, the latter to hasten toward

New York. Andre, being told that the _Cow-boys_[3] were more numerous on

the Tarrytown road, took that direction, contrary to the advice of Smith

and others, who directed him to proceed by the way of White Plains.

Andre was anxious to be among his friends, and as these marauders were

such, he concluded that the Tarrytown road would be the safer for him,

for if he fell into their hands, he would be taken to New York, whither

he was hastening. This was his fatal mistake.

On the morning when Andre left Pine's Bridge, a little band of seven

young volunteers, went out near Tarrytown to watch the movements of the

_Cow-boys_ and other depredators. Four of them (John Yorks, John Dean,

James Romez, and Abraham William) agreed to tarry upon a hill which

commanded an extensive view of the highway, while the remaining three

(John Paulding, Isaac Van Wart, and David Williams) were to be concealed

in the bushes on the bank of a small stream, near the road. At ten

o'clock in the morning, while engaged in playing cards, the young men

saw a horseman approach from the direction of Sleepy Hollow. They

confronted him, and demanded a knowledge of his business and

destination. "I hope, gentlemen, that you belong to our party," said the

traveler. "What party?" inquired Williams, who had presented his

firelock to his breast. "The lower party" (meaning the British), quickly

replied the horseman.

[Illustration: MAP SHOWING ANDRE'S WHOLE ROUTE. (_The fine lines

indicate the highways he traveled_.)]

"I am a British officer, out upon urgent business. I hope you will not

detain me a minute."

He was ordered to dismount, when he instantly discovered his fatal

mistake. "My God!" he exclaimed, half laughing, "we must do anything to

get along;" and then showed them Arnold's pass, for the traveler was

Major Andre. The young militia men were not as easily satisfied as the

sentinel at Crompond. They insisted upon searching him. They made him

strip; ripped up the housings of his saddle, and finally ordered him to

pull off his boots. He reluctantly obeyed, and beneath his feet were the

papers given him by Arnold.

[Illustration: PRESENT APPEARANCE OF THE PLACE WHERE ANDRE WAS

CAPTURED.]

Andre offered his captors tempting bribes of money and merchandise, if

they would allow him to pass on, but their patriotism was too dear to be

bought with a price. They conducted him to the quarters of Colonel

Jameson at North Castle, the nearest post, and delivered him up. That

officer, with obtuseness of perception most extraordinary, resolved to

send him immediately to General Arnold! Major Tallmadge, with better

judgment, boldly expressed his belief that Arnold was a traitor, and

finally induced Jameson to send the prisoner to Colonel Sheldon's

quarters at North Salem, until more should be known respecting him, for,

they had no suspicion of the rank and character of the young man in

their custody. Jameson, however, would not suspect the fidelity of his

general, and actually sent a letter to inform him that "a Mr. John

Anderson" was a prisoner in his hands.

On the morning of the 24th of September, the day fixed upon by the

conspirators for the surrender of the fort, Washington returned from

Hartford. It was two days earlier than Arnold expected him. The traitor

was astounded when a messenger rode up, a little after sunrise, and

announced the intention of the Commander-in-chief to breakfast with him.

On approaching Arnold's quarters, Washington directed La Fayette and

Hamilton, who were with him, to go on and breakfast with Mrs. Arnold,

while he turned down a lane to the river to inspect a redoubt upon the

bank.

[Illustration: THE BREAKFAST ROOM.]

Arnold and his guests were at breakfast when a messenger came in haste

with a letter for the general. It was from Jameson, announcing the

arrest of Andre, instead of the expected intelligence that the enemy

were moving up the river. Agitated, but not sufficiently to excite the

special notice of his guests, he arose from the table, hastened to the

room of his wife, kissed his sleeping babe, and telling his spouse in

hurried words that they must part, perhaps forever, left her in a swoon,

mounted the horse of one of his aids standing at the door, dashed across

the fields and down a declivity to a narrow pathway on the borders of a

morass to a dock built by Colonel Robinson, and throwing himself into

his barge, nerved the oarsmen with promises of large rewards of rum and

money for swiftness of speed, and was soon sweeping through the Race at

Fort Montgomery. The old dock from whence the traitor escaped, is still

there, but the Hudson River Railway has spanned the mouth of the swale,

and cleft the rocky point, so that little of the original features of

the scenery remain.

[Illustration: VIEW AT ROBINSON'S DOCK.]

Washington went over to West Point before going to Arnold's quarters. He

was surprised when informed by Lamb that the general had not been at the

garrison for two days. He recrossed the river, and when he approached

Robinson's house, Hamilton, greatly excited, met him, and revealed the

dreadful secret of Arnold's guilt and flight. His guilt was made

manifest by the arrival of the papers taken from Andre, and his flight

confirmed the dark tale which they unfolded. With these papers came a

letter from Andre to Washington, frankly avowing his name and character.

"Whom can we trust now?" said the Chief with calmness, while feelings of

the deepest sorrow were evidently at work in his bosom, as he laid

before La Fayette, Hamilton, and Knox the evidences of treason.

The condition of Mrs. Arnold excited Washington's liveliest sympathy.

But one year a mother and not two a bride, the poor young creature had

received a blow of the most appalling nature. She raved furiously and

mourned piteously, alternately. The tenderest care was bestowed upon

her, and she was soon sent in safety to New York, whither her fallen

husband had escaped.

Pursuit of the traitor was unavailing. He had four hours the start. The

Vulture was yet lying below Teller's Point, awaiting the return of

Andre, and to the security of her bulwarks Arnold escaped. She proceeded

to New York that evening, and Sir Henry Clinton, informed of the failure

of the scheme, was unwilling to hazard an attack upon the Highland

fortresses, now that the patriots were thoroughly awake.

The main body of the American army was lying at Tappan, on the west side

of the Hudson, near the present terminus of the New York and Erie

Railroad. Thither Andre was conveyed, after being brought to West Point,

and in a stone house, near the head-quarters of the commander-in-chief,

he was strongly guarded. On the twenty-ninth of September a court

martial was convened near by, for his trial, and, after a patient

investigation, it being proven, and confessed by the prisoner himself,

that he was in the American lines (though not voluntarily) without a

flag, they gave it as their opinion that he ought to suffer death as a

spy. All hearts were alive with sympathy for the condemned, and

Washington would gladly have saved his life; but the stern demands of

the cruel and uncompromising rules of war, denied the petitions of

mercy, and the Commander-in-chief was obliged to sign his death-warrant.

He was sentenced to be hung on the afternoon of the first of October.

[Illustration: WASHINGTON'S HEAD-QUARTERS AT TAPPAN.]

Andre exhibited no fear of death, and to the last the workings of his

genius were displayed. On the morning of the day appointed for his

execution, he sketched a likeness of himself with a pen and ink, and

conversed cheerfully with those around him upon the pleasures of

painting and kindred arts. But the _manner_ of his death disturbed his

spirit. He pleaded earnestly to be _shot_ as a soldier, not _hung_ as a

spy. But even this poor boon could not be allowed, for the rules of war

demanded death by a cord and not by a bullet. His execution was delayed

one day in consequence of the intercession of Sir Henry Clinton, and a

hope that Arnold might be obtained and righteously suffer in his stead.

All was unavailing, and Major Andre, in the bloom of manhood, was hung

at Tappan on the second of October, 1780, at the age of twenty-nine

years.

[Illustration: ANDRE'S PEN-AND-INK SKETCH OF HIMSELF.]

The youth, accomplishments, and gentleness of manners of the young

soldier, endeared him to all, and his fate was deeply regretted on both

sides of the Atlantic. His king caused a mural monument, of elegant

device, to be erected to his memory in Westminster Abbey; and in 1831,

the Duke of York had his remains removed from Tappan and taken to

London, where they now repose beneath his marble memorial, among those

of many heroes and poets of old England. A halo of melancholy sweetness

surrounds the name and character of the unfortunate youth which

increases in glory with the flight of time.

[Illustration: ANDRE'S MONUMENT IN WESTMINSTER ABBEY.]

The traitor, though unsuccessful, received ten thousand guineas from the

British treasury, and the commission of a brigadier from the king. He

served his new master faithfully. With the spirit of a demon he

desolated, with fire and sword, the beautiful country near the mouth of

the Thames, in Connecticut, almost in sight of the roof which sheltered

his infancy; and with augmented ferocity he spread distress and ruin, to

the extent of his power, upon the Virginia shores of the Chesapeake, and

along the fertile borders of the James and the Appomattox. Hated and

despised by his new companions in arms, and insulted and contemned in

public places after the war, Arnold became an outcast like Cain, and

like Esau he found no place for repentance, though he sought it

diligently with tears. He died in obscurity in the British metropolis,

in 1801, and who knows the place of his grave?

[Illustration: PAULDING'S MONUMENT AND ST. PETER'S CHURCH.]

The captors of Andre were highly applauded by the people, and honored

and rewarded by Congress. That body awarded to each a silver medal,

having on one side the word FIDELITY, and on the other, VINCIT AMOR

PATRAE; "the love of country conquers." They were also allowed each an

annual pension of two hundred dollars, during their lives. Public esteem

for their services has erected monuments over the remains of two of

them. Paulding's mortality sleeps beneath a chaste marble cenotaph in

the old St. Peter's church-yard, two miles eastward of Peekskill; and

over the dust of Van Wart, in the Greenburgh church-yard, near the banks

of the beautiful Nepara, in Westchester county, stands a plain monument

of white marble. The former was erected by the corporation of the city

of New York; the latter by citizens of Westchester county. No public

memorial yet marks the place of rest of David Williams in the

church-yard at Livingstonville, in Schoharie county.

[Illustration: VAN WART'S MONUMENT.]

The traitor and his victim, the captors, judges, and executioner, have

all gone to the spirit-land whither the ken of the historian and the

moralist may not follow; and the myriads of hearts which beat with

sympathy or indignation, as the sad intelligence of the tragedy at

Tappan winged its way over our land, or sped to the abodes of

intelligent men in the Old World, are pulseless and forgotten. Charity

would counsel tenderly respecting each,

"No farther seek his merits to disclose,

Or draw his frailties from their dread abode,

(There they alike in trembling hope repose)

The bosom of his father, and his God."

GRAY.

Yet it is well, occasionally, to lift the vail from past events, though

they may be dark and forbidding in aspect, for to the wise and

thoughtful they convey lessons of wisdom, and to the foolish and

inconsiderate, the wayward and the wicked, they may speak a word of

warning in season to curb an evil spirit and promote righteousness.

[Footnote 3: The _Cow-boys_ were a set of people mostly, if not wholly

refugees, belonging to the British side, and engaged in plundering

cattle near the lines and driving them to New York. The name indicates

their vocation. There was another description of banditti called

_Skinners_, who lived for the most part within the American lines, and

professed attachment to the American cause; but in reality they were

more unprincipled, perfidious, and inhuman than the _Cow-boys_

themselves; for these latter exhibited some symptoms of fellow-feeling

for their friends, whereas the _Skinners_ committed their depredations

equally upon friends and foes.

By a law of the State of New York, every person refusing to take an oath

of fidelity to the State, was considered as forfeiting his property. The

large territory between the American and British lines, extending nearly

thirty miles from north to south, and embracing Westchester county, was

populous and highly cultivated. This was the famous Neutral Ground. A

person living within that space, who took the oath of fidelity, was sure

to be plundered by the _Cow-boys_; and if he did not take it, the

_Skinners_ would come down upon him, call him a Tory, and seize his

property as confiscated by the State. Thus the execution of the laws was

assumed by robbers, and the innocent and guilty were involved in a

common ruin.

It is true, the civil authority endeavored to guard against these

outrages, as far as it could, by legislative enactments and executive

proclamations; but, from the nature of the case, this formidable

conspiracy against the rights and claims of humanity could be crushed

only by a military arm. The detachments of Continental troops and

militia, stationed near the lines, did something to lessen the evil; yet

they were not adequate to its suppression, and frequently this force was

so feeble as not to afford any barrier against the inroads of the

banditti. The _Skinners_ and _Cow-boys_ often leagued together. The

former would sell their plunder to the latter, taking in exchange

contraband articles from New York. It was not uncommon for the farce of

a skirmish to be acted near the American lines, in which the _Skinners_

never failed to come off victorious; and then they would go boldly into

the interior with their booty, pretending it had been captured from the

enemy while attempting to smuggle it across the lines.--_Sparks_.]

MEMORIES OF MEXICO.

The first action fought by the American army in the valley of Mexico, on

the 20th August, 1847, was at Contreras. It was an attack upon a

fortified camp, in which lay General Valencia with 6000 Mexicans,

composed of the remnant of the army beaten by Taylor, on the hills of

Buena Vista. It was styled "The Army of the North;" most of the soldiers

composing it being from the northern departments--the hardy miners of

Zacatecas and San Luis Potosi--and they were esteemed "the flower of the

Mexican army."

On the previous day powder enough was burned to have cured the

atmosphere for twenty miles around, yet there was nothing done. We held

the ground, however, in mud up to our ankles. In this we lay shivering

under a cold drizzle until the morning. By daylight we were at it in

earnest. During the night two of our best brigades had crept,

unperceived, through the clay "barrancas" close up to the rear of the

enemy's camp, ready to spring. At daybreak old Riley shouted, "_Forward

and give them h-ll!_" and before our foes--not expecting us from that

quarter--could bring their artillery to bear upon us, we were in the

midst of them. The action lasted just seventeen minutes. At the end of

that time we had laid our hands upon thirty of Valencia's cannon, and

taken about a thousand prisoners; and had the satisfaction of seeing the

rest of them, in their long yellow mantles, disappearing through the

fissures of the lava fields, in rapid flight along the road to Mexico.

We followed, of course, but as our cavalry had not been able to cross

the Pedregal, and the enemy were our superiors in retreat, we were soon

distanced. As we came down upon the village of San Angel, the occasional

blast of a light infantry bugle, with the "crack--crack--cr-r-r-ack" of

our rifles in front, told us that we had still more work to do before

entering the halls of the Montezumas. We were, in fact, driving in the

light troops of Santa Anna's main army, lying we knew not where, but

somewhere between us and the far-famed city.

It is not my intention to give an account of the battle that followed,

nor should I have entered into these details of the fight at Contreras,

but to put the reader in possession of "situations," and, moreover, to

bring to his notice an incident that occurred, during that action, to a

friend--the hero of this narrative--whom I will now introduce. I was

then a Sub., and my friend, Richard L----, was the captain of my

company; young as myself, and full as ardent in pursuit of the red glory

of war. We had long known each other, had gone through the campaign

together, and, more than once, had stood side by side under the leaden

shower. I need not say how a juxtaposition of this kind strengthens the

ties of friendship.

We had come out of Resaca and Monterey unscathed. We had passed through

Cerro Gordo with "only a scratch." So far we had been fortunate, as I

esteemed it. Not so my friend; he wished to get a wound, for the honor

of the thing. He was accommodated at Contreras; for the bullet from an

escopette had passed through his left arm below the elbow-joint. It

appeared to be only a flesh wound; and as his sword-arm was still safe,

he disdained to leave the field until the "day was done." Binding the

wounded limb with a rag from his shirt, and slinging it in his sash, he

headed his company in the pursuit. By ten o'clock we had driven the

enemy's skirmishers out of San Angel, and taken possession of the

village. Our commander-in-chief was as yet ignorant of the position of

the Mexican army; and we halted, to await the necessary reconnoisance.

Notwithstanding the cold of the preceding night, the day had become hot

and oppressive. The soldiers, wearied with watching, marching, and the

fight, threw themselves down in the dusty streets. Hunger kept many

awake, for they had eaten nothing for twenty hours. A few houses were

entered, and the _tortillas_ and _tasajo_ drawn forth; but there is but

little to be found, at any time, in the larder of a Mexican house; and

the jail-like doors of most of them were closely barred. The unglazed

windows were open; but the massive iron railings of the "reja" defended

them from intrusion. From these railings various flags were

suspended--French, German, Spanish, and Portuguese--signifying that the

inmates were foreigners in the country, and therefore entitled to

respect. Where no excuse for such claim existed, a white banner, the

emblem of peace, protruded through the bars; and perhaps this was as

much respected as the symbols of neutrality.

It was the season when fashion deserts the Alameda of Mexico, and

betakes itself to _monte_, cock-fighting, and intriguing, in the

romantic "pueblos" that stud the valley. San Angel is one of these

pueblos, and at that moment many of the "familias principales" of the

city were domiciled around us. Through the rejas we could catch an

occasional glimpse of the inmates in the dark apartments within.

It is said that, with woman, curiosity is stronger than fear. It

appeared to be so in this case. When the inhabitants saw that pillage

was not intended, beautiful and stylish women showed themselves in the

windows and on the "balcons," looking down at us with a timorous yet

confiding wonder. This was strange, after the stories of our barbarity,

in which they had been so well drilled; but we had become accustomed to

the high courage of the Mexican females, and it was a saying among us,

that "the women were the best men in the country." Jesting aside, I am

satisfied, that had they taken up arms instead of their puny countrymen,

we should not have boasted so many easy victories.

Our bivouac lasted about an hour. The reconnoisance having been at

length completed, the enemy was discovered in a fortified position

around the convent and bridge of Churubusco. Twiggs' division was

ordered forward to commence the attack, just as the distant booming of

cannon across the lava fields, told us that our right wing, under Worth,

had sprung the enemy's left at the hacienda of San Antonio, and was

driving it along the great national road. Both wings of our army were

beautifully converging to a common focus--the pueblo of Churubusco. The

brigade to which I was attached still held the position where it had

halted in San Angel. We were to move down to the support of Twiggs'

division, as soon as the latter should get fairly engaged. Our place in

the line had thrown us in front of a house somewhat retired from the

rest, single-storied, and, like most of the others, flat-roofed, with a

low parapet around the top. A large door and two windows fronted the

street. One of the windows was open, and knotted to the reja was a small

white handkerchief embroidered along the borders, and fringed with fine

lace. There was something so delicate, yet striking in the appeal, that

it at once attracted the attention of L---- and myself. It would have

touched the compassion of a Cossack; and _we_ felt at the moment that we

would have protected that house against a general's order to pillage.

We had seated ourselves on the edge of the banquette, directly in front

of the window. A bottle of wine by some accident had reached us; and as

we quaffed its contents, our eyes constantly wandered upon the open

reja. We could see no one. All was dark within; but we could not help

thinking that the owner of the kerchief--she who had hurriedly displayed

that simple emblem of truce--could not be otherwise than an interesting

and lovely creature.

At length the drums beat for Twiggs' division to move forward, and,

attracted by the noise, a gray-haired old man appeared at the window.

With feelings of disappointment, my friend and I turned our glances upon

the street, and for some moments watched the horse artillery as it swept

past. When our gaze was again directed to the house, the old man had a

companion--the object of our instinctive expectation; yet fairer even

than our imagination had portrayed.

The features indicated that she was a Mexican, but the complexion was

darker than the half-breed, the Aztec blood predominated. The crimson,

mantling under the bronze of her cheeks, gave to her countenance that

picture-like expression of the mixed races of the Western World. The

eye, black, with long fringing lash, and a brow upon which the jetty

crescent seemed to have been painted. The nose slightly aquiline,

curving at the nostril; while luxuriant hair, in broad plaits, fell far

below her waist. As she stood on the sill of the low window, we had a

full view of her person--from the satin slipper to the _reboso_ that

hung loosely over her forehead. She was plainly dressed in the style of

her country. We saw that she was not of the aristocracy, for, even in

this remote region, has Paris fashioned the costume of that order. On

the other hand, she was above the class of the "poblanas," the

demoiselles of the showy "naguas" and naked ankles. She was of the

middle rank. For some moments my friend and myself gazed upon the fair

apparition in silent wonder.

She stood awhile, looking out upon the street, scanning the strange

uniforms that were grouped before her. At length her eye fell upon us;

and as she perceived that my comrade was wounded, she turned toward the

old man.

"Look, father, a wounded officer! ah, what a sad thing, poor officer."

"Yes, it is a captain, shot through the arm."

"Poor fellow! he is pale--he is weary. I shall give him sweet water,

shall I, father?"

"Very well, go, bring it."

The girl disappeared from the window; and in a few moments returned with

a glass, containing an amber-colored liquid--the essence of the

pine-apple. Making a sign toward L----, the little hand that held the

glass was thrust through the bars of the reja. Being nearer, I rose, and

taking the glass, handed it to my friend. L---- bowed to the window, and

acknowledging his gratitude in the best Spanish he could muster, drank

off the _agua dulce_. The glass was returned; and the young girl took

her station as before.

We did not enter into conversation, neither L---- nor myself; but I

noticed that the incident had made an impression upon my friend. On the

other hand, I observed the eyes of the girl, although at intervals

wandering away, always return, and rest upon the features of my comrade.

L---- was handsome; besides, he bore upon his person the evidence of a

higher quality--courage; the quality that, before all others, will win

the heart of a woman.

All at once, the features of the girl changed their expression, and she

uttered a scream. Turning toward my friend, I saw the blood dripping

through the sash. His wound had re-opened.

I threw my arms around him, as several of the soldiers rushed forward;

but before we could remove the bandage L---- had swooned.

"May I beseech you to open the door?" said I, addressing the young girl

and her father.

"_Si--si, senor_," cried they together, hurrying away from the window.

At that moment the rattle of musketry from Coyoacan, and the roar of

field artillery, told us that Twiggs was engaged. The long roll echoed

through the streets, and the soldiers were speedily under arms.

I could stay no longer, for I had now to lead the company; and leaving

L---- in charge of two of the men, I placed myself at its head. As the

"Forward" was given, I heard the great door swing upon its hinges; and

looking back as we marched down the street, I saw my friend conducted

into the house. I had no fears for his safety, as a regiment was to

remain in the village.... In ten minutes after I was upon the field of

battle, and a red field it was. Of my own small detachment every second

soldier "bit the dust" on the plain of Portales. I escaped unhurt,

though my regiment was well peppered by our own artillerists from the

_tete de pont_ of Churubusco. In two hours we drove the enemy through

the _garita_ of San Antonio de Abad. It was a total rout; and we could

have entered the city without firing another shot. We halted, however,

before the gates--a fatal halt, that afterward cost us nearly 2000 men,

the flower of our little army. But, as I before observed, I am not

writing a history of the campaign.

An armistice followed, and gathering our wounded from the fields around

Churubusco, the army retired into the villages. The four divisions

occupied respectively the pueblos of Tacubaya, San Angel, Mixcoac, and

San Augustin de les Cuevas. San Angel was our destination; and the day

after the battle my brigade marched back, and established itself in the

village.

I was not long in repairing to the house where I had left my friend. I

found him suffering from fever, burning fever. In another day he was

delirious; and in a week _he had lost his arm_; but the fever left him,

and he began to recover. During the fortnight that followed, I made

frequent visits; but a far more tender solicitude watched over him.

Rafaela was by his couch; and the old man--her father--appeared to take

a deep interest in his recovery. These, with the servants, were the only

inmates of the house.

The treacherous enemy having broken the armistice, the storming of the

Palace-castle of Chapultepec followed soon after. Had we failed in the

attempt not one of us would ever have gone out from the valley of

Mexico. But we _took the castle_, and our crippled forces entered the

captured city of the Montezumas, and planted their banners upon the

National Palace. I was not among those who marched in. Three days

afterward I was _carried in_ upon a stretcher, with a bullet hole

through my thigh, that kept me within doors for a period of three

months.

During my invalid hours L---- was my frequent visitor; he had completely

recovered his health, but I noticed that a change had come over him, and

his former gayety was gone.

Fresh troops arrived in Mexico, and to make room, our regiment, hitherto

occupying a garrison in the city, was ordered out to its old quarters at

San Angel. This was welcome news for my friend, who would now be near

the object of his thoughts. For my own part, although once more on my

limbs, I did not desire to return to duty in that quarter; and on

various pretexts, I was enabled to lengthen out my "leave" until the

treaty of Guadalupe Hidalgo.

Once only I visited San Angel. As I entered the house where L---- lived,

I found him seated in the open _patio_, under the shade of the orange

trees. Rafaela was beside him, and his only hand was held in both of

hers. There was no surprise on the part of either, though I was welcomed

cordially by both--by her, as being the friend of the man she loved.

Yes, she loved him.

"See," cried L----, rising, and referring to the situation in which I

had found them. "All this, my dear H., in spite of my misfortunes!" and

he glanced significantly at his armless sleeve. "Who would not love

her?"

The treaty of Guadalupe was at length concluded, and we had orders to

prepare for the route homeward. The next day I received a visit from

L----.

"Henry," said he, "I am in a dilemma."

"Well, major," I replied, for L---- as well as myself had gained a

"step." "What is it?"

"You know I am in love, and with whom you know. What am I to do with

her?"

"Why, marry her, of course. What else?"

"I dare not."

"Dare not!"

"That is--not now."

"Why not? Resign your commission, and remain here. You know our regiment

is to be disbanded; you can not do better."

"Ah! my dear fellow, that is not the thing that hinders me."

"What then?"

"Should I marry her, and remain, our lives would not be safe one moment

after the army had marched. Papers containing threats and ribald jests

have from time to time been thrust under the door of her house--to the

effect that, should she marry 'el official Americano'--so they are

worded--both she and her father will be murdered. You know the feeling

that is abroad in regard to those who have shown us hospitality."

"Why not take her with you, then?"

"Her father, he would suffer."

"Take him, too."

"That I proposed, but he will not consent. He fears the confiscation of

his property, which is considerable. I would not care for that, though

my own fortune, as you know, would be small enough to support us. But

the old man will go on no terms, and she will not leave him."

The old man's fears in regard to the confiscation were not without good

foundation. There was a party in Mexico, while we occupied the city,

that had advocated "annexation"--that is, the annexing of the whole

country to the United States. This party consisted chiefly of pure

Spaniards, "ricos" of the republic, who wanted a government of stability

and order. In the houses of these many of our officers visited,

receiving those elegant hospitalities that were in general denied us by

Mexicans of a more patriotic stamp. Our friends were termed

"Ayankeeados," and were hated by the populace. But they were "marked" in

still higher quarters. Several members of the government, then sitting

at Queretaro--among others a noted minister--had written to their agents

in the city to note down all those who, by word or act, might show

kindness to the American army. Even those ladies who should present

themselves at the theatre were to be among the number of the proscribed.

In addition to the Ayankeeados were many families--perhaps not otherwise

predisposed to favor us--who by accident had admitted us within their

circle--such accident as that which had opened the house and heart of

Rafaela to my friend L----. These, too, were under "compromisa" with the

rabble. My comrade's case was undoubtedly what he had termed it--a

dilemma.

"You are not disposed to give her up, then?" said I, smiling at my

anxious friend, as I put the interrogation.

"I know you are only jesting, Henry. You know me too well for that. No!

Rather than give her up, I will stay and risk every thing--even life."

"Come, major," said I, "there will be no need for you to risk any thing,

if you will only follow my advice. It is simply this--come home with

your regiment; stay a month or two at New Orleans, until the excitement

consequent upon our evacuation cools down. Shave off your mustache, put

on plain clothes; come back and marry Rafaela."

"It is terrible to think of parting with her. Oh!--"

"That may all be; I doubt it not; but what else can you do?"

"Nothing--nothing. You are right. It is certainly the best--the only

plan. I will follow it," and L---- left me.

I saw no more of him for three days, when the brigade to which he

belonged entered the city on its road homeward. He had detailed his

plans to Rafaela, and bade her for a time farewell.

The other three divisions had already marched. Ours was to form the

rear-guard, and that night was to be our last in the city of Mexico. I

had retired to bed at an early hour, to prepare for our march on the

morrow. I was about falling asleep when a loud knock sounded at my door.

I rose and opened it. It was L----. I started as the light showed me his

face--it was ghastly. His lips were white, his teeth set, and dark rings

appeared around his eyes. The eyes themselves glared in their sockets,

lit up by some terrible emotion.

"Come!" cried he, in a hoarse and tremulous voice. "Come with me, Henry,

I need you."

"What is it, my dear L----? A quarrel? A duel?"

"No! No! nothing of the sort. Come! come! come! I will show you a sight

that will make a wolf of you. Haste! For God's sake, haste!"

I hurried on my clothes.

"Bring your arms!" cried L----, "you may require them."

I buckled on my sword and pistol-belt, and followed hastily into the

street. We ran down the Calle Correo toward the Alameda. It was the road

to the Convent of San Francisco, where our regiment had quartered for

the night. As yet I knew not for what I was going. Could the enemy have

attacked us? No--all was quiet. The people were in their beds. What

could it be? L---- had not, and would not explain; but to my inquiries,

continually cried, "Haste--come on!" We reached the convent, and,

hastily passing the guard, made for the quarters occupied by my friend.

As we entered the room--a large one--I saw five or six females, with

about a dozen men, soldiers and officers. All were excited by some

unusual occurrence. The females were Mexicans, and their heads were

muffled in their rebosos. Some were weeping aloud, others talking in

strains of lamentation. Among them I distinguished the face of my

friend's betrothed.

"Dearest Rafaela!" cried L----, throwing his arms around her--"it is my

friend. Here, Henry, look here! look at this!"

As he spoke, he raised the reboso, and gently drew back her long black

hair. I saw blood upon her cheek and shoulders! I looked more closely.

It flowed from her ears.

"Her ears! _O God! they have been cut off!_"

"Ay, ay," cried L----, hoarsely; and dropping the dark tresses, again

threw his arms around the girl, and kissed away the tears that were

rolling down her cheeks--while uttering expressions of endearment and

consolation.

I turned to the other females; they were all similarly mutilated; some

of them even worse, for their foreheads, where the U.S. had been freshly

burned upon them, were red and swollen. Excepting Rafaela, they were all

of the "poblana" class--the laundresses--the mistresses of the soldiers.

The surgeon was in attendance, and in a short time all was done that

could be done for wounds like these.

"Come!" cried L----, addressing those around him, "we are wasting time,

and that is precious; it is near midnight. The horses will be ready by

this, and the rest will be waiting; come, Henry, you will go? You will

stand by us?"

"I will, but what do you intend?"

"Do not ask us, my friend, you will see presently."

"Think, my dear L----," said I in a whisper, "do not act rashly."

"Rashly! there is no rashness about me--you know that. A cowardly act,

like this, can not be revenged too soon. Revenge! what am I talking of!

It is not revenge, but justice. The men who could perpetrate this

fiendish deed are not fit to live on the earth, and, by heavens! not one

of them shall live by the morning. Ha, dastards! they thought we were

gone; they will find their mistake. Mine be the responsibility--mine the

revenge. Come, friends! Come!" And so saying, L---- led the way, holding

his betrothed by the hand. We all followed out of the room, and into the

street.

On reaching the Alameda a group of dark objects was seen among the

trees. They were horses and horsemen; there were about thirty of the

latter, and enough of the former to mount the party who were with L----.

I saw from their size that the horses were of our own troops, with

dragoon saddles. In the hurry L---- had not thought of saddles for our

female companions, but the oversight was of no consequence. _Their_

habitual mode of riding was _a la Duchess de Berri_, and in this way

they mounted. Before summoning me, L---- had organized his band--they

were picked men. In the dim light I could see dragoon and infantry

uniforms, men in plain clothes, followers of the army, gamblers,

teamsters, Texans, desperadoes, ready for just such an adventure. Here

and there I could distinguish the long-tailed frock--the undress of the

officer. The band in all mustered more than forty men.

We rode quietly through the streets, and, issuing from the gate of Nino

Perdido, took the road for San Angel. As we proceeded onward, I gathered

a more minute account of what had transpired at the village. As soon as

our division had evacuated, a mob of thirty or forty ruffians had

proceeded to the houses of those whom they termed "Ayankeeados," and

glutted their cowardly vengeance on their unfortunate victims. Some of

these had been actually killed in attempting to resist; others had

escaped to the Pedregal which runs close to the village; while a

few--Rafaela among the number--after submitting to a terrible atrocity,

had fled to the city for protection.

On hearing the details of these horrid scenes, I no longer felt a

repugnance in accompanying my friend. I felt as he did, that men capable

of such deeds were "not fit to live," and we were proceeding to execute

a sentence that was just though illegal. It was not our intention to

punish all; we could not have accomplished this, had we so willed it. By

the testimony of the girls, there were five or six who had been the

promoters and ringleaders of the whole business. These were well known

to one or other of the victims, as in most instances it had been some

old grudge for which they had been singled out as objects of this

cowardly vengeance. In Rafaela's case it was a ruffian who had once

aspired to her hand, and been rejected. Jealousy had moved the fiend to

his terrible revenge.

It is three leagues from Mexico to San Angel. The road runs through

meadows and fields of magueys. Except the lone _pulqueria_, at the

corner where a cross-path leads to the hacienda of Narvarte, there is

not a house before reaching the bridge of Coyoacan. Here there is a

cluster of buildings--"fabricas"--that, during the stay of our army, had

been occupied by a regiment. Before arriving at this point we saw no

one; and here only people who, waked from their sleep by the tread of

our horses, had not the curiosity to follow us.

San Angel is a mile further up the hill. Before entering the village we

divided into five parties, each to be guided by one of the girls.

L----'s vengeance was especially directed toward the _ci-devant_ lover

of his betrothed. She herself, knowing his residence, was to be our

guide.

Proceeding through narrow lanes, we arrived in a suburb of the village,

and halted before a house of rather stylish appearance. We had

dismounted outside the town, leaving our horses in charge of a guard. It

was very dark, and we clustered around the door. One knocked--a voice

was heard from within--Rafaela recognized it as that of the ruffian

himself. The knock was repeated, and one of the party who spoke the

language perfectly, called out:

"Open the door! Open, Don Pedro!"

"Who is it?" asked the voice.

"_Yo_," (I) was the simple reply.

This is generally sufficient to open the door of a Mexican house, and

Don Pedro was heard within, moving toward the "Saguan."

The next moment the great door swung back on its hinges, and the ruffian

was dragged forth. He was a swarthy, fierce-looking fellow--from what I

could see in the dim light--and made a desperate resistance, but he was

in the hands of men who soon overpowered and bound him. We did not delay

a moment, but hurried back to the place where we had left our horses. As

we passed through the streets, men and women were running from house to

house, and we heard voices and shots in the distance. On reaching our

rendezvous, we found our comrades, all of whom had succeeded in making

their capture.

There was no time to be lost; there might be troops in the

village--though we saw none--but whether or not, there were "leperos"

enough to assail us. We did not give them time to muster. Mounting

ourselves and our prisoners we rode off at a rapid pace, and were soon

beyond the danger of pursuit.

Those who have passed through the gate of Nino Perdido will remember

that the road leading to San Angel runs, for nearly a mile, in a

straight line, and that, for this distance, it is lined on both sides

with a double row of large old trees. It is one of the drives (_paseos_)

of Mexico. Where the trees end, the road bends slightly to the south. At

this point a cross road strikes off to the pueblito of Piedad, and at

the crossing there is a small house, or rather a temple, where the pious

wayfarer kneels in his dusty devotions. This little temple, the

residence of a hermitical monk, was uninhabited during our occupation of

the valley, and, in the actions that resulted in the capture of the

city, it had come in for more than its share of hard knocks. A battery

had been thrown up beside it, and the counter-battery had bored the

walls of the temple with round shot. I never passed this solitary

building without admiring its situation. There was no house nearer it

than the aforementioned "tinacal" of Narvarte, or the city itself. It

stood in the midst of swampy meadows, bordered by broad plats of the

green maguey, and this isolation, together with the huge old trees that

shadowed and sang over it, gave the spot an air of romantic loneliness.

On arriving under the shelter of the trees, and in front of the lone

temple, our party halted by order of their leader. Several of the

troopers dismounted, and the prisoners were taken down from their

horses. I saw men uncoiling ropes that had hung from their saddle-bows,

and I shuddered to think of the use that was about to be made of them.

"Henry," said L----, riding up to me, and speaking in a whisper, "_they_

must not see this."--He pointed to the girls.--"Take them some distance

ahead and wait for us, we will not be long about it, I promise."

Glad of the excuse to be absent from such a scene, I put spurs to my

horse, and rode forward, followed by the females of the party. On

reaching the circle near the middle of the paseo I halted.

It was quite dark, and we could see nothing of those we had left behind

us. We could hear nothing--nothing but the wind moaning high up among

the branches of the tall poplars; but this, with the knowledge I had of

what was going on so near me, impressed me with an indescribable feeling

of sadness.

L---- had kept his promise; he was not long about it. In less than ten

minutes the party came trotting up, chatting gayly as they rode, but

_their prisoners had been left behind_!...

As the American army moved down the road to Vera Cruz, many traveling

carriages were in its train. In one of these were a girl and a

gray-haired old man. Almost constantly during the march a young officer

might be seen riding by this carriage, conversing through the windows

with its occupants within.

A short time after the return-troops landed at New Orleans, a bridal

party were seen to enter the old Spanish cathedral; the bridegroom was

an officer who had lost an arm. His fame, and the reputed beauty of the

bride, had brought together a large concourse of spectators.

"She loved me," said L---- to me on the morning this his happiest day;

"she loved me in spite of my mutilated limb, and should I cease to love

her because she has--no, I see it not; she is to me the same as ever."

And there were none present who saw it; few were there who knew that

under those dark folds of raven hair were the _souvenirs_ of a terrible

tragedy....

The Mexican government behaved better to the Ayankeeados than was

expected. They did not confiscate the property; and L---- is now

enjoying his fortune in a snug hacienda, somewhere in the neighborhood

of San Angel.

THE POOLS OF ELLENDEEN.

Joel Jerdan was a thriving retail hosier, in a close street at the

eastern end of the vast metropolis. He had a snug little shop, and a

nice, snug little wife, together with an annually increasing nice little

family; and Joel himself, if we except one weakness, was the most

diligent and steady little fellow to be found within the circuit where

the musical bells of Bow are heard. Small in person, pleasing in

exterior, and scrupulously neat in his attire, Joel Jerdan was always

considered a peculiarly dapper, civil, smart tradesman. His father had

pursued the same business in the same house; and though there were not

large profits, there was certainly contentment, which Joel very wisely

judged was far better. It did not require any vivid stretch of

imagination to form a comparison between the venerable Izaak Walton, of

piscatorial celebrity, and our hosier; for, like that immortal angler,

Joel was devoted to his calling and usually confined to precincts of no

large dimensions, but making his escape whenever he could to enjoy the

sole recreation of his existence--that recreation being the sport with

which Izaak's name is ever associated.

Joel Jerdan was a worthy disciple of this renowned piscator--at least,

he would have been had he strictly followed that master's injunctions;

but, if truth must be all confessed, the _one_ weakness already alluded

to in our little hosier, consisted of indulgence beyond the bounds of

strict sobriety, when any prolonged or favorable "sport" more than

usually elated his spirits. On such occasions, Patty, his faithful wife,

of course lectured the recreant hosier most severely; while he, shocked

and humbled, meekly promised "never to do so any more," and kept his

word until betrayed into temptation again. Being a water-drinker at

home, from motives of prudence, not to say necessity, it did not require

much in the way of stimulus to render poor little Joel addle-headed.

Whenever he could spare an hour or two on the long summer evenings,

after the business of the day was pretty well over, leaving the shop to

Patty's care, away sallied Joel to the docks, there to watch his float

and forget his cares, until night's sombre shadows warned him that all

sober citizens were retiring bedward. It was only at rare intervals that

Joel enjoyed a whole day's fishing; for, in the first place, he could

not absent himself from pressing daily duties, and, in the second, he

had no friend resident in the country within easy access, to whom he

could resort for an introduction to babbling streams and flowery meads.

He had toiled early and late, as his excellent father had done before

him; and when Patty's brother retired from official life (he was a

nobleman's butler), and became proprietor of a small public-house about

fifty miles from London, situated on the banks of a river much resorted

to by anglers, and sent a hearty invitation to Joel to come and visit

him, what words may paint the bright anticipations of the exulting

hosier? He had not been well of late--needed summer holidays; and, in

short Joel could not resist the tempting offer.

Patty urged her husband with affectionate solicitude, to "keep watch"

over himself; but she loved him too well, and was too unselfish, to

object to his accepting her brother's hospitality. "Make hay while the

sun shines, my dear," she said; "you may never have such another

opportunity. Business is slack just now--besides, baby is weaned, and I

can mind the shop with Charlie; only--" here there was a private

whispered admonition, the tenor of which may be inferred from Joel's

answer, accompanied by a hearty kiss: "I promise you, my ducky, that I

will never taste a drop, except when I get wet-footed, and _then_ only

just enough to keep the cold out."

"Ah, that cold, Joel!" replied Patty, "it's a queer thing, _that cold

is!_ always trying to gain a footing; and nothing but a sip of brandy to

keep it out!" And the wife shook her head.

It was too much felicity for Joel Jerdan!--the gathering together his

scanty assortment of rods and tackle--the laying out his hard-earned

money to purchase more--the packing his portmanteau and setting out on a

gay summer's morning!

Yet his dreams fell short of reality when Joel first beheld the paradise

of greenerie wherein "The Swan" nestled on the picturesque beauties of

Wood End. Here he could fish off the bank from a variegated

flower-garden, whose roses hung over the broad, deep waters, where

monsters of the finny tribes abounded. Here he _did_ fish off the

emerald bank; but, alas! the fish were strangely shy or cunning. Joel

labored most assiduously; but somehow, he caught nothing. There was

always _something_ wrong; either it was too hot, or the water was too

clear, or the fish wouldn't take the particular bait at that particular

spot, and they must be sought up or down stream for miles. And so Joel

followed the river's course patiently, day by day striving most manfully

to ensnare the wary inhabitants of the treacherous element, on whose

tranquil bosom wan lilies reposed as peacefully as primroses on the

hill-side graves reflected nigh. "Try the pools of Ellendeen," said one;

and "Try the pools of Ellendeen," said another, until Joel determined he

_would_ try these far-famed still waters, though it was a good way up

stream to reach them. However, a farmer offered to give him a lift in

his cart, and drop him on the road to market, leaving Joel to work his

way back to Wood End as might suit his sport or inclination; and well

supplied with refreshing viands, stowed away in his basket, slung across

his shoulder sportsman-like with leathern belt, Joel set forth to try

his luck in the "bottomless pit," for so the deepest pool of Ellendeen

was significantly named by the peasant-folk, with whom the domain

bounding the water was in ill-repute.

Solemn and stately were the neighboring woods, and a gray castellated

mansion frowned on the summit of a high hill overhanging the water. It

was uninhabited now, the family were extinct, and, of course, there was

a legend attached.

A former lord of Ellendeen was most anxious for a son and heir; but on

his unhappy lady presenting him with nothing but daughters, he swore

that on the birth of the next he would throw it into the pool beside the

wood. He did so with his own wicked hands more than once; and tradition

said that no less than four baby daughters of the ancient race of

Ellendeen were engulfed in those deep, dismal waters, which refused to

yield their dead, and, in short, proved to be "bottomless." However,

whether it was that they were left very much to themselves, or that the

fish in Ellendeen Pools were really finer than elsewhere, report had not

exaggerated their abundance and size; and Joel, to his infinite

satisfaction, managed to capture some "splendid fellows," according to

his own phrase.

It was a solitary place. The river here was dark and sleeping; it was a

fitting scene for the enactment of the baby tragedy. The air was

sultry, as if a storm were brewing, clouds were lowering, and the heat

was intense. There was "no cold" to keep out, and Joel's feet were

perfectly dry, but so was his throat; and Edwards, his kindly

brother-in-law, had placed a flask of brandy in the basket, saying he

might like "a little in water by-and-by." Joel was very thirsty and he

drank a vast deal of water out of a horn cup, pouring in just enough

spirit to take the "chill off," which in his heated condition, was not

safe or pleasant.

"I'll not forget my promise to my dear little Patty," said Joel to

himself, as he sipped. "Not one drop of brandy _alone_ will I touch. Ah,

bless me! how her precious heart would ache if she were to hear this

tale of the wicked lord and those dear innocents? She'd most think she

could see their pretty upturned faces in the water. _I_ wonder, now, if

there's any truth in such a queer story." And Joel fell into a reverie

as he wondered; and, sitting down on the bank, he fell asleep, and

dreamt that instead of hooking a fine heavy fish he had pulled out a

baby girl! Great was his horror, and he awoke with a start, to find that

darkness was rapidly gathering round him, while a few pattering drops

now and then betokened the approach of a storm, as the grumbling thunder

faintly died away in the distance. One draught to fortify himself, and

Joel commenced his homeward route--a rather difficult undertaking,

seeing that he was a stranger, and obliged to diverge frequently from

the immediate proximity of the river, which, however, was a sure guide,

as it flowed past "The Swan's" very door. But rivers are stray, winding

things; and after an hour's hard toiling over uneven paths, moving

slowly and carefully, for caution was extremely necessary on the river's

bank, poor little Joel Jerdan became thoroughly nervous and exhausted,

as the rain pelted down and the thunder burst over head. Wet through in

a trice, he had recourse to his brandy-flask. "Even Patty would

recommend it now," said he; and his thoughts reverted to his snug little

room behind the shop, where, beside a comfortable fire, he was wont to

enjoy a frugal supper with his beloved helpmate. Now, here he was,

wandering and houseless, uncertain of the way, wet through, and no sight

or sound of human kind to greet his longing eyes or ears. No. He only

heard the rushing of waters, the wailing of winds, and those strange,

mysterious noises which issue from desolate woods by night. It was

enough to appall a stouter heart than Joel Jerdan's; no wonder he had

recourse to the brandy-flask!

"Catch me a-going a-fishing in a strange place again!" murmured he to

himself; "only catch me at it, that's all!"

An impression that he was trespassing on haunted ground, and that, at

the same time, his basket became heavier and heavier, oppressed Joel

Jerdan with a sensation almost approaching to suffocation; and he

ejaculated aloud, as if to increase his courage--talking _at_ himself

_to_ himself--"Who says that Joel is tipsy? Who dares to say so

is--is--a reprobate. Who dares to say that Joel Jerdan carries a basket

full of dead babies instead of fish?" But just as the reeling piscator

came to this portion of his argument, a light appeared but a short

distance off, and, as he made toward it, a low, dull sound, as of

monotonous knocking, fell on his ear, notwithstanding his perceptions

were not particularly acute.

Joel staggered onward until he reached a building from whence the sounds

appeared to proceed; and, creeping slowly toward an aperture, peeped in

with a remarkably sagacious expression of countenance, no doubt, had the

darkness permitted it to be visible. What he beheld there caused him to

start backward so suddenly that, coming in contact with a felled tree,

whose bared trunk was stretched along the ground, he fell violently on

his face, the blood spurting from his nose, and a cry escaping at the

same moment from the hapless intruder. Joel Jerdan had seen three

spectral-looking men working at a coffin, engaged in finishing the

dismal receptacle with all their might, as if it was wanted in a hurry.

When he recovered from temporary stupor occasioned by his fall, the

scared little man in vain essayed to speak or move; for his tongue clave

to the roof of his mouth, and his legs were powerless to sustain his own

slight weight. Once, indeed, he thickly muttered, "Brandy, more brandy!"

but immediately sank back helpless and hopeless, for he heard a voice

say, "We'll put him in when it is finished; it is just done. We're in

good time, and it'll be the safest place for the drunken rascal." Poor

Joel Jerdan! to be put in a coffin alive at the suggestion of one whom

he considered an evil spirit!

He heard another one say, "Halloo! let's have a look into his basket!

Ho, ho, they are fine plump ones. Put them in with him, and let's be off

at once."

Off at once! _Where?_ thought the terrified and miserable man--where are

they off to? To the "bottomless pit" of Ellendeen, said Conscience, and

for stealing the dread secrets of the haunted pool, in the shape of the

long sought-for Ellendeen babies! As to the brandy-drinking, _that_ was

nothing--ghostly beings never interfered with such terrestrial matters!

The knocking discontinued, a tramping of feet was heard, a bustle as of

preparation, and Joel felt himself lifted up and laid in what he felt by

instinct to be--a coffin! Oh, it was most horrible! and, with a violent

effort, he jerked aside the lid which was placed lightly over him, half

raising himself as he did so.

"If he turns restive," said an authoritative, stern voice, "we must

secure him better, or he'll be in the water before his time comes, and

make food for the fishes instead of sport for Beelzebub."

So they _were_ conveying him to his nameless majesty, dead babies and

all, perhaps mistaking him for the wicked defunct Lord of Ellendeen

himself! Oh, as to his fishing in the still, deep pools, what had it

done for him? whither had it led him? Joel retained sense to be aware

that his impotent struggles only rendered things worse; for he was in

powerful hands, and they tossed him about like a feather. Could his dear

wife behold her husband in a coffin, what would her feelings be? And as

Joel thought of this, his tears began to flow copiously. He sobbed and

wailed like an infant, whining, and in a sickly maudlin tone; but it had

a lulling effect, and he fell off into a sleep just as he was conscious

of being lifted into a boat, and, amid gleaming torches, rowed rapidly

from land, but whether "up" or "down" stream he could not tell. But of

course they are taking me to the "bottomless pit," and there they will

cast me in with my unhallowed load, he thought.

Could it be the brandy that made Joel Jerdan confound the fish he had

caught with the Ellendeen heiresses, who had slumbered beneath the wave

for upward of a century? With a stifled cry for pardon on his lips,

insensibility succeeded; and when Joel awoke next day at noon, in his

own cosy bed at "The Swan," with the sun's bright beams streaming in

through the chinks of closely-drawn curtains, he shuddered at the

remembrance of his horrible adventure, much wondering how he came

_there_, and also how he had come by a bandaged cheek, from which the

blood was still streaming, and a head which throbbed to agony at every

breath he drew.

"What a terrific vision!" he exclaimed feebly, but aloud. "Demons rowing

me in a coffin to the bottomless pool of Ellendeen! Joel Jerdan! Joel

Jerdan! it is a warning to prepare for thy latter end!"

"Nay, nay, brother Joel!" exclaimed the cheerful voice of his

brother-in-law; "it isn't a death-warning, but only a gentle hint not to

attack the brandy-flask too often; your head is none of the strongest,

and won't bear it. However, be comforted, for you have brought back four

as fine fish as have been caught hereabouts for long and many a day,

though both they and you came to Wood End in _rayther_ a queer sort, it

must be owned--all packed up in a coffin together."

"Brother Edwards," murmured Joel, solemnly, "they were _not_ fish; they

were the babes of Ellendeen!"

"Poor fellow, so he is wandering again! There must be another blister

on!" exclaimed Mr. Edwards, compassionately. And by the time another

blister was put on, and more drugs had been administered, Joel's fever

was so far reduced that he was able to collect his thoughts and attempt

a description of the prodigious scenes he had gone through. "Why, that

was old Matthew Filkins and his two big sons whom you took for demons,"

shouted Mr. Edwards, as he listened attentively to Joel's account of his

midnight adventures. "Mat is a teetotaller, and thinks nothing of

parceling a man to Beelzebub if he gets drunk; and between ourselves,

brother Joel, I do not think that Matthew is far wrong, for drunkenness

is the high-road to ruin at all times."

"Yes, yes, I know that," groaned Joel. "But they put me in a coffin,

and rowed me away. How do I come _here_? Oh, I am a doomed man! I am a

doomed man! I shall not be long out of my real coffin!"

"Not if you go on like this, my brother," replied Mr. Edwards,

impressively, and with a serious air. "You have received a severe

contusion on the head, besides other injuries; and it is absolutely

necessary that you be kept quiet, and discard these foolish fancies. Old

Matthew Filkins is our only undertaker hereabouts; his workshop and

wood-yard are close to the river side, and by water he frequently

conveys his dismal but needful burdens. The wooden box in which he laid

you for safety was required urgently for the body of a poor lad who died

of infectious fever, and was laid in his mother's hovel midst living

brothers and sisters. Mat is a kind-hearted man, and he did that for the

poor widow which he would have scrupled to do for a rich one; though

night or day on the river is all the same to him, for he could guide a

boat blindfold: man and boy, for seventy years, Matthew Filkins has

journeyed on that highway. He thought that he was doing best by you; he

found, by a letter in your coat-pocket, that you came from 'The Swan,'

Wood End, and, as he dropped down stream past our door, he deposited

_you_, brother Joel, on the threshold where we found you, in a sad state

indeed. I believe old Mat considered his dismal box tainted from having

had one in your state in it, far more so than when it contained the

remains of the poor boy for whom it was destined."

"And so it was, so it was, brother Edwards," exclaimed the penitent and

humbled Joel; "and before I am put in a coffin again, I deserve to be

buried alive if I am not a reformed man. When I get drunk _again_, may I

be hurled into the pools of Ellendeen, along with the little misses of

respected memory. But I say, brother, we must keep this mishap a secret

from Patty, for she would be hard of belief as to it's being a reality,

as you say it is; she would stick to the warning, and make sure I was a

doomed man."

Very grateful and pleased was Patty, as time progressed and temptations

multiplied, to find that her dear husband was proof against the

strongest. Never was he known to be in the least degree inebriated after

his return from the memorable expedition to Wood End; and not even to

keep the "cold out," would he sip a drop of "fire-water" undiluted. The

"warning" had not been in vain; and a long while after the events

recorded had taken place, when Patty was made acquainted with them by

her loving husband, who detested all concealments from the partner of

his cares, she exclaimed in pitying tones, "It was very natural, my

dear, that your thoughts should run on the terrible story about those

precious babies, you that have little ones of your own. For _my_ part,

nothing in the wide world would tempt _me_ to go a-fishing in those deep

dark pools of Ellendeen; I should expect, every time I pulled up a heavy

weight to see a dear baby instead of a fish!"

"But my dear," deprecatingly returned Joel, "even if the tale be true,

it happened a century back, you know."

"Ah, Jo, Jo!" cried Patty, with a sly smile, "if I had a brandy-flask in

my basket, _perhaps_ I might forget _that_ important fact."

A WATERSPOUT IN THE INDIAN OCEAN.

One of the noblest and most beautiful sights in the world is a gallant,

symmetrical, full-rigged ship, clothed with mighty wings from keel to

truck, cleaving through the waves under the influence of a "right

merrie" wind abeam. There is something exceedingly grand, to behold it

steadily gliding along, like a thing instinct with life; to see its

towering pyramidal sails swelling to the generous breeze; to glance from

its fluttering ensigns, and bright sides, and snowy canvas, to the

contrasting deep blue sea, sparkling beneath the vertical rays of the

tropical sun; to hastily run over in one's mind a few only of the

spirit-stirring associations conjured by the object. But it is not with

a ship in this exhilarating position that I have now to deal; to the

reverse--it is with one which lay like "a painted ship upon a painted

ocean"--being a large East Indiaman, chartered to convey troops to the

Bombay presidency, and lying totally becalmed not far from the tropics.

I was languidly swinging in my hammock, one sultry morning, when not a

breath of air was stirring strong enough "to blow a lady's curl aside,"

when I heard a sound which convinced me that something unusual had

occurred to arouse the listless idlers lounging on the upper deck. It

speedily increased to such a degree that all between decks who were able

(myself included) rushed up, pell-mell, to discover the reason, and soon

there were none left below but the miserable sick, who could not crawl

from their stifling berths.

"What's the kick-up?" roared the gigantic corporal of the grenadier

company, the moment he got his head above the combing of the hatchway.

"Niver sighted sich a jamb sin' the meet at Ballyshannon!" echoed a

voluble Irish comrade. "Maybe a tu-an'-thirty-punder wouldn't mak'

buthermilk of us all just now."

"Can ye no kape that long red rope i' yer own impty hid, but ye must let

every body know ye're a gomulah? Ain't it a watherspout, eh?" fiercely

responded a brother Emeralder.

"A watherspout! an' what's that, avick? Summat to ate?"

"Ate! ye gossoon! Ay, it's summat as'll soon ate _yer_, big and ugly as

yer are."

Some few happy-go-lucky reprobates laughed at Pat's sapience, but the

majority felt the matter to be far too serious to permit their indulging

in senseless merriment, and strove, with uncontrollable interest, to

secure some position whence they could behold an object of which they

had heard or read highly-colored accounts. I myself instantly sprang

into the shrouds, and the whole spectacle then burst full upon me in

all its novel grandeur.

As already mentioned, not a breath of air was stirring, and the vessel

herself lay sluggishly on the briny ocean, the sails hanging in bags, or

clewed up in festoons to the yards, and the masts motionless as Pompey's

Pillar. At the distance of very little more than the ship's length, the

sea was bubbling up in the shape of spiral cones of varying height and

sizes, all of them springing from within a circle, the circumference of

which might be equal to that of the ring of an equestrian circus. The

vertical rays of the sun invested the falling spray with an

indescribable beauty, but the level water appeared of a dull, strong,

white color. The phenomenon was attended by a very loud and

long-continued hissing noise, of a peculiar and terrifying kind. This

was but the commencement of a waterspout. Every moment we expected to

see the several columns unite in one; and, from their contiguity, there

would, in such a case, be no hope of final escape. Either the ship would

be totally engulfed, or every atom of mast, rigging, and all above deck,

would be whirled a hundred fathoms through the air.

Travelers say that the serpent possesses the basilisk power of

fascinating its prey by the glare of its eye, and certainly a waterspout

is equal in that terrible attribute, for scarcely a man in the ship that

saw it was able to withdraw his gaze from the fearful spectacle. All

other faculties seemed to be absorbed, and even had they had the

opportunity to flee, few would have been able to move a foot.

Many on board were personally cognizant that any extraordinary

concussion of the air, as that produced by the firing of guns, had been

known to cause waterspouts to subside, and the captain of our ship had

given orders to train two of the main-deck large carronades (for we were

armed _en flute_) upon it, with heavy charges. But so riveted and

entranced were all, that it was with extreme difficulty that either

soldiers or sailors could be got to move; and only when some of the

officers literally placed their own shoulders to the wheel, and

exhorted, and even struck the gaping, bewildered men, were the guns

charged and trained in the waist of the ship. Scarcely was this done,

when five or six of the largest columns suddenly joined together, as

though by a species of magnetic attraction, and formed one of colossal

magnitude, high as the maintopsail-yard, the spiral motion rapidly

increasing, and the whole body seeming to near the ship.

"We shall soon know our fate," exclaimed the captain. "Now, Tom," said

he, to the old man-o'-war's gunner, "do your best--your very best."

"Ay, ay, sir!" replied the tough old salt, in that muttering, indistinct

manner, common to old seamen when much excited. "Avast a minute!"

grumbled he to an assistant, who was busy with the chocks. "Hand me that

monkey's tail!"

Eagerly clutching with his fish-hooks of fingers the short iron crowbar

so denominated, he rammed it as far as he could down the ample mouth of

the piece, in a peculiar direction.

"Away, skylarkers! Sea-room, ye red-coats! There: _de_-press a

little--more--so, avast!" He took a quick squint down the short but

deadly tube, and then turned to the artillery-man presiding over the

other carronade, with "Ship mate, are you all clear for a run?"

"All ready?" inquired the captain.

"All ready, sir," repeated the veteran tar.

"Very good," was the reply; and, springing on the capstan-head, the

latter sang out at the top of his voice, "Now men, I want every one of

you--red-coats and blue-jackets--to try your lungs! They're strong

enough on most occasions, and don't be behindhand now. Our lives depend

upon it." Here he paused; and, pointing significantly to the tremendous

spout, which enlarged and neared the ship every moment, he impressively

demanded, "Do you see yon big fellow?"

"Ay, ay," said the tarry-jackets.

"Yes," said the red-coats.

"Very well, then, all I've got to say, is, that if we don't thrash him,

he will thrash us! So no demi-semi-quavers, but give three hearty cheers

to frighten him away, for he's a real coward. Hats off, and up at arm's

length!" They obeyed.

"Now, my hearties," continued he, well knowing in what strain to address

them, "let us try if our throats can not drown the bark of these two

bull-dogs of ours! Why, we're good-for-nothing, if we can't make as much

din as a couple of rusty iron candlesticks! Hu-r-r-ah!"

As the gallant commander waved his hat aloft, the keen eye of the old

gunner glistened with uncommon ardor, and, squirting a long stream of

suspicious-looking fluid some odd fathoms from the ship's side, he

muttered, "Here goes a re'g'lar wide-awaker"--applied the match to the

priming--bang! bang! the two "candlesticks" blended into one

simultaneous roar, accompanied by hurrahs which of themselves shook the

sultry air.

The steady state of the ship was highly favorable to the marksmen, and

the skill of the old gunner produced a result equal to his most sanguine

expectations, for the "monkey's tail" struck fairly athwart the spout at

an elevation of some fifteen feet, and the whole immense body

immediately fell with a crash like that of a steeple, and before the

cheering ended, all had subsided--old Neptune's face became unwrinkled

as heretofore, ship and shadow again became double, rainbow-hued

dolphins again glided like elfin shadows just beneath the translucent

surface, flying-fish again skipped along it with redoubled zest, the

huge albatross again inertly stretched its immense wings, the screaming

sea-hawk again descended from the regions of immensity, where it had

been soaring at an elevation far beyond the pierce of human vision, the

white side of the insatiate shark again glanced in fearful proximity to

the imprisoned ship; aboard which ship hearts rose as the waves fell,

fear was indignantly kicked out of its brief abiding-place, tongues

were again in active commission, feet were again pattering, and arms

again swinging about, shrill orders were again bandied, the pet monkey

ran chattering aloft to complete its lately suspended dissection of the

marine's cap, tarry-jackets again freshened their quids, hitched their

voluminous trowsers, and made vigorous renewed allusion to their

precious eyes and limbs, and red-coats once more found themselves at the

usual discount.

So heavily had the guns been charged, that they rebounded across the

deck, overturning a score of the very "finest pisantry in the world,"

who one and all vehemently asserted in the rich brogue, and with the

lively gesticulations of their native land, that they were "kilt

intirely, an' no misthake, at all, at all!"

I have only to add, that a glorious spanking breeze followed within a

few hours; and many a poor fellow blessed the waterspout, from a vague

notion that to its agency we were indebted for the grateful change. But

what mysterious affinity there could be between a waterspout in a calm,

and a breeze springing up soon afterward, I leave my scientific friends

to discover and explain. Such things are above a plain seaman's

philosophy.

MAURICE TIERNAY,

THE SOLDIER OF FORTUNE.

[Continued from the August Number.]

CHAPTER XXXVIII.

A ROYALIST "DE LA VIEILLE ROCHE."

On a hot and sultry day of June, I found myself seated in a country

cart, and under the guard of two mounted dragoons, wending my way toward

Kuffstein, a Tyrol fortress, to which I was sentenced as a prisoner. A

weary journey was it; for in addition to my now sad thoughts, I had to

contend against an attack of ague, which I had just caught, and which

was then raging like a plague in the Austrian camp. One solitary

reminiscence, and that far from a pleasant one, clings to this period.

We had halted on the outskirts of a little village called "Broletto,"

for the siesta; and there, in a clump of olives, were quietly dozing

away the sultry hours, when the clatter of horsemen awoke us; and on

looking up, we saw a cavalry escort sweep past at a gallop. The corporal

who commanded our party hurried into the village to learn the news, and

soon returned with the tidings that "a great victory had been gained

over the French, commanded by Bonaparte in person; that the army was in

full retreat; and this was the dispatch an officer of Melas's staff was

now hastening to lay at the feet of the emperor."

"I thought several times this morning," said the corporal, "that I heard

artillery; and so it seems I might, for we are not above twenty miles

from where the battle was fought."

"And how is the place called?" asked I, in a tone skeptical enough to be

offensive.

"Marengo," replied he; "mayhap the name will not escape your memory."

How true was the surmise, but in how different a sense from what he

uttered it! But so it was; even as late as four o'clock the victory was

with the Austrians. Three separate envoys had left the field with

tidings of success; and it was only late at night that the general,

exhausted by a disastrous day, and almost broken-hearted, could write to

tell his master that "Italy was lost."

I have many a temptation here to diverge from a line that I set down for

myself in these memoirs, and from which as yet I have not wandered--I

mean, not to dwell upon events wherein I was not myself an actor; but I

am determined still to adhere to my rule; and leaving that glorious

event behind me, plod wearily along my now sad journey.

Day after day we journeyed through a country teeming with abundance;

vast plains of corn and maize, olives, and vines every where: on the

mountains, the crags, the rocks, festooned over cliffs, and spreading

their tangled networks over cottages, and yet every where poverty,

misery, and debasement, ruined villages, and a half-naked, starving

populace, met the eye at every turn. There was the stamp of slavery on

all, and still more palpably was there the stamp of despotism in the air

of their rulers.

I say this in sad spirit; for within a year from the day in which I

write these lines, I have traveled the self-same road, and with

precisely the self-same objects before me. Changed in nothing, save what

time changes, in ruin and decay! There was the dreary village as of

yore; the unglazed windows closed with some rotten boarding, or occupied

by a face gaunt with famine. The listless, unoccupied group still sat or

lay on the steps before the church; a knot of nearly naked creatures sat

card-playing beside a fountain, their unsheathed knives alongside of

them; and, lastly, on the wall of the one habitation which had the

semblance of decency about it, there stared out the "double-headed

eagle," the symbol of their shame and their slavery! It never can be the

policy of a government to retard the progress and depress the energies

of a people beneath its rule. Why, then, do we find a whole nation,

gifted and capable as this, so backward in civilization? Is the fault

with the rulers? or are there, indeed, people, whose very development is

the obstacle to their improvement; whose impulses of right and wrong

will submit to no discipline; and who are incapable of appreciating true

liberty? This would be a gloomy theory; and the very thought of it

suggests darker fears for a land to which my sympathies attach me more

closely!

If any spot can impress the notion of impregnability, it is Kuffstein.

Situated on an eminence of rock over the Inn, three sides of the base

are washed by that rapid river, a little village occupies the fourth;

and from this the supplies are hoisted up to the garrison above, by

cranes and pulleys; the only approach being by a path wide enough for a

single man, and far too steep and difficult of access to admit of his

carrying any burden, however light. All that science and skill could do

is added to the natural strength of the position, and from every

surface of the vast rock itself the projecting mouths of guns and

mortars show resources of defense it would seem madness to attack.

Three thousand men, under the command of General Urleben, held this

fortress at the time I speak of; and by their habits of discipline and

vigilance, showed that no over-security would make them neglect the

charge of so important a trust. I was the first French prisoner that had

ever been confined within the walls, and to the accident of my uniform

was I indebted for this distinction. I have mentioned that in Genoa they

gave me a staff-officer's dress and appointments, and from this casual

circumstance it was supposed that I should know a great deal of

Massena's movements and intentions, and that by judicious management I

might be induced to reveal it.

General Urleben, who had been brought up in France, was admirably

calculated to have promoted such an object, were it practicable. He

possessed the most winning address, as well as great personal

advantages; and although now past the middle of life, was reputed one of

the handsomest men in Austria. He at once invited me to his table, and

having provided me with a delightful little chamber, from whence the

view extended four miles along the Inn, he sent me stores of books,

journals, and newspapers, French, English, and German, showing by the

very candor of their tidings a most flattering degree of confidence and

trust.

If imprisonment could ever be endurable with resignation, mine ought to

have been so. My mornings were passed in weeding or gardening a little

plot of ground outside my window, giving me ample occupation in that

way, and rendering carnations and roses dearer to me, through all my

after life, than without such associations they would ever have been.

Then I used to sketch for hours, from the walls, bird's-eye views,

prisoner's glimpses, of the glorious Tyrol scenery below us. Early in

the afternoon came dinner, and then, with the general's pleasant

converse, a cigar, and a chess-board, the time wore smoothly on till

nightfall.

An occasional thunder-storm, grander and more sublime than any thing I

have ever seen elsewhere, would now and then vary a life of calm but not

unpleasant monotony; and occasionally, too, some passing escort, on the

way to or from Vienna, would give tidings of the war; but except in

these, each day was precisely like the other, so that when the almanac

told me it was autumn, I could scarcely believe a single month had

glided over. I will not attempt to conceal the fact, that the inglorious

idleness of my life, this term of inactivity at an age when hope, and

vigor, and energy, were highest within me, was a grievous privation;

but, except in these regrets, I could almost call this time a happy one.

The unfortunate position in which I started in life, gave me little

opportunity, or even inclination, for learning. Except the little Pere

Michel had taught me, I knew nothing. I need not say that this was but a

sorry stock of education, even at that period; when I must say, the

sabre was more in vogue than the grammar.

I now set steadily about repairing this deficiency. General Urleben lent

me all his aid, directing my studies, supplying me with books, and at

times affording me the still greater assistance of his counsel and

advice. To history generally, but particularly that of France, he made

me pay the deepest attention, and seemed never to weary while impressing

upon me the grandeur of our former monarchies, and the happiness of

France when ruled by her legitimate sovereigns.

I had told him all that I knew myself of my birth and family, and

frequently would he allude to the subject of my reading, by saying, "The

son of an old 'Garde du Corps' needs no commentary when perusing such

details as these. Your own instincts tell you how nobly these servants

of a monarchy bore themselves--what chivalry lived at that time in men's

hearts, and how generous and self-denying was their loyalty."

Such and such like were the expressions which dropped from him from time

to time; nor was their impression the less deep, when supported by the

testimony of the memoirs with which he supplied me. Even in deeds of

military glory, the Monarchy could compete with the Republic, and

Urleben took care to insist upon a fact I was never unwilling to

concede--that the well-born were ever foremost in danger, no matter

whether the banner was a white one or a tricolor.

"_Le bon sang ne peut meutir_" was an adage I never disputed, although

certainly I never expected to hear it employed in the disparagement of

those to whom it did not apply.

As the winter set in I saw less of the general. He was usually much

occupied in the mornings, and at evening he was accustomed to go down to

the village, where, of late, some French emigre families had

settled--unhappy exiles, who had both peril and poverty to contend

against! Many such were scattered through the Tyrol at that period, both

for the security and the cheapness it afforded. Of these Urleben rarely

spoke; some chance allusion, when borrowing a book or taking away a

newspaper, being the extent to which he ever referred to them.

One morning, as I sat sketching on the walls, he came up to me, and

said, "Strange enough, Tiernay, last night I was looking at a view of

this very scene, only taken from another point of sight; both were

correct, accurate in every detail, and yet most dissimilar--what a

singular illustration of many of our prejudices and opinions. The sketch

I speak of was made by a young countrywoman of yours--a highly gifted

lady, who little thought that the accomplishments of her education were

one day to be the resources of her livelihood. Even so," said he,

sighing, "a marquise of the best blood of France is reduced to sell her

drawings!"

As I expressed a wish to see the sketches in question, he volunteered to

make the request, if I would send some of mine in return, and thus

accidentally grew up a sort of intercourse between myself and the

strangers, which gradually extended to books, and music, and, lastly, to

civil messages and inquiries of which the general was ever the bearer.

What a boon was all this to me! What a sun-ray through the bars of a

prisoner's cell was this gleam of kindness and sympathy! The very

similarity of our pursuits, too, had something inexpressibly pleasing in

it, and I bestowed ten times as much pains upon each sketch, now that I

knew to whose eyes it would be submitted.

"Do you know, Tiernay," said the general to me, one day, "I am about to

incur a very heavy penalty in your behalf--I am going to contravene the

strict orders of the War Office, and take you along with me this evening

down to the village."

I started with surprise and delight together, and could not utter a

word.

"I know perfectly well," continued he, "that you will not abuse my

confidence. I ask, then, for nothing beyond your word, that you will not

make any attempt at escape; for this visit may lead to others, and I

desire, so far as possible, that you should feel as little constraint as

a prisoner well may."

I readily gave the pledge required, and he went on--

"I have no cautions to give you, nor any counsels. Madame d'Aigreville

is a royalist."

"She is madame, then!" said I, in a voice of some disappointment.

"Yes, she is a widow, but her niece is unmarried," said he, smiling at

my eagerness. I affected to hear the tidings with unconcern, but a

burning flush covered my cheek, and I felt as uncomfortable as possible.

I dined that day as usual with the general; adjourning after dinner to

the little drawing-room, where we played our chess. Never did he appear

to me so tedious in his stories, so intolerably tiresome in his

digressions, as that evening. He halted at every move--he had some

narrative to recount, or some observation to make, that delayed our game

to an enormous time; and at last, on looking out of the window, he

fancied there was a thunder-storm brewing, and that we should do well to

put off our visit to a more favorable opportunity.

"It is little short of half a league," said he, "to the village, and in

bad weather is worse than double the distance."

I did not dare to controvert his opinion, but, fortunately, a gleam of

sunshine shot, the same moment, through the window, and proclaimed a

fair evening.

Heaven knows I had suffered little of a prisoner's durance--my life had

been one of comparative freedom and ease; and yet, I can not tell the

swelling emotion of my heart with which I emerged from the deep archway

of the fortress, and heard the bang of the heavy gate, as it closed

behind me. Steep as was the path, I felt as if I could have bounded down

it without a fear! The sudden sense of liberty was maddening in its

excitement, and I half suspect that had I been on horseback in that

moment of wild delight, I should have forgotten all my plighted word and

parole, though I sincerely trust that the madness would not have endured

beyond a few minutes. If there be among my readers one who has known

imprisonment, he will forgive this confession of a weakness, which to

others of less experience will seem unworthy, perhaps dishonorable.

Dorf Kuffstein was a fair specimen of the picturesque simplicity of a

Tyrol village. There were the usual number of houses, with carved

galleries and quaint images in wood, the shrines and altars, the little

"Platz," for Sunday recreation, and the shady alley for rifle practice.

There were also the trelliced walks of vines, and the orchards, in the

midst of one of which we now approached a long, low farm-house, whose

galleries projected over the river. This was the abode of Madame

d'Aigreville.

A peasant was cleaning a little mountain pony, from which a side-saddle

had just been removed as we came up, and he, leaving his work, proceeded

to ask us into the house, informing us as he went, that the ladies had

just returned from a long ramble, and would be with us presently.

The drawing-room into which we were shown was a perfect picture of

cottage elegance; all the furniture was of polished walnut wood, and

kept in the very best condition. It opened by three spacious windows

upon the terrace above the river, and afforded a view of mountain and

valley for miles on every side. An easel was placed on this gallery, and

a small sketch in oils of Kuffstein was already nigh completed on it.

There were books, too, in different languages, and, to my inexpressible

delight, a piano!

The reader will smile, perhaps, at the degree of pleasure objects so

familiar and every-day called forth; but let him remember how removed

were all the passages of my life from such civilizing influences--how

little of the world had I seen beyond camps and barrack-rooms, and how

ignorant I was of the charm which a female presence can diffuse over

even the very humblest abode.

Before I had well ceased to wonder, and admire these objects, the

marquise entered.

A tall and stately old lady, with an air at once haughty and gracious,

received me with a profound courtesy, while she extended her hand to the

salute of the general. She was dressed in deep mourning, and wore her

white hair in two braids along her face. The sound of my native

language, with its native accent, made me forget the almost profound

reserve of her manner, and I was fast recovering from the constraint her

coldness imposed, when her niece entered the room. Mademoiselle, who

was, at that time, about seventeen, but looked older by a year or two,

was the very ideal of "brunette" beauty; she was dark-eyed and

black-haired, with a mouth the most beautifully formed; her figure was

light, and her foot a model of shape and symmetry. All this I saw in an

instant, as she came, half-sliding, half-bounding, to meet the general:

and then turning to me, welcomed me with a cordial warmth, very

different from the reception of Madame la Marquise.

Whether it was the influence of her presence, whether it was a partial

concession of the old lady's own, or whether my own awkwardness was

wearing off by time, I can not say--but gradually the stiffness of the

interview began to diminish. From the scenery around us we grew to talk

of the Tyrol generally, then of Switzerland, and lastly of France. The

marquise came from Auvergne, and was justly proud of the lovely scenery

of her birth-place.

Calmly and tranquilly as the conversation had been carried on up to this

period, the mention of France seemed to break down the barrier of

reserve within the old lady's mind, and she burst out in a wild flood of

reminiscences of the last time she had seen her native village. "The

Blues," as the revolutionary soldiers were called, had come down upon

the quiet valley, carrying fire and carnage into a once peaceful

district. The chateau of her family was razed to the ground; her husband

was shot upon his own terrace; the whole village was put to the sword;

her own escape was owing to the compassion of the gardener's wife, who

dressed her like a peasant boy, and employed her in a menial station, a

condition she was forced to continue so long as the troops remained in

the neighborhood. "Yes," said she, drawing off her silk mittens, "these

hands still witness the hardships I speak of. These are the marks of my

servitude."

It was in vain the general tried at first to sympathize, and then

withdraw her from the theme; in vain her niece endeavored to suggest

another topic, or convey a hint that the subject might be unpleasing to

me. It was the old lady's one absorbing idea, and she could not

relinquish it. Whole volumes of the atrocities perpetrated by the

revolutionary soldiery came to her recollection; each moment, as she

talked, memory would recall this fact or the other, and so she continued

rattling on with the fervor of a heated imagination, and the wild

impetuosity of a half-crazed intellect. As for myself, I suffered far

more from witnessing the pain others felt for me, than from any offense

the topic occasioned me directly. These events were all "before my

time." I was neither a Blue by birth nor adoption; a child during the

period of revolution, I had only taken a man's part when the country,

emerging from its term of anarchy and blood, stood at bay against the

whole of Europe. These consolations were, however, not known to the

others, and it was at last, in a moment of unendurable agony, that

mademoiselle rose and left the room.

The general's eyes followed her as she went, and then sought mine with

an expression full of deep meaning. If I read his look aright, it spoke

patience and submission; and the lesson was an easier one than he

thought.

"They talk of heroism," cried she, frantically--"it was massacre! And

when they speak of chivalry, they mean the slaughter of women and

children!" She looked round, seeing that her niece had left the room,

suddenly dropped her voice to a whisper, and said, "Think of her

mother's fate; dragged from her home, her widowed, desolate home, and

thrown into the Temple, outraged and insulted, condemned on a mock

trial, and then carried away to the guillotine! Ay, and even then, on

that spot, which coming death might have sanctified, in that moment,

when even fiendish vengeance can turn away, and leave its victim at

liberty to utter a last prayer in peace, even then, these wretches

devised an anguish greater than all death could compass. You will

scarcely believe me," said she, drawing in her breath, and talking with

an almost convulsive effort, "you will scarcely believe me in what I am

now about to tell you, but it is the truth--the simple but horrible

truth. When my sister mounted the scaffold there was no priest to

administer the last rites. It was a time, indeed, when few were left;

their hallowed heads had fallen in thousands before that. She waited for

a few minutes, hoping that one would appear; and when the mob learned

the meaning of her delay, they set up a cry of fiendish laughter, and

with a blasphemy that makes one shudder to think of, they pushed forward

a boy, one of those blood-stained 'gamins' of the streets, and made him

gabble a mock litany! Yes, it is true: a horrible mockery of our

service, in the ears and before the eyes of that dying saint."

"When? in what year? in what place was that?" cried I, in an agony of

eagerness.

"I can give you both time and place, sir," said the marquise, drawing

herself proudly up, for she construed my question into a doubt of her

veracity. "It was in the year 1793, in the month of August; and as for

the place, it was one well seasoned to blood--the Place de Greve, at

Paris."

A fainting sickness came over me as I heard these words; the dreadful

truth flashed across me that the victim was the Marquise D'Estelles, and

the boy, on whose infamy she dwelt so strongly, no other than myself.

For the moment, it was nothing to me that she had not identified me with

this atrocity; I felt no consolation in the thought that I was unknown

and unsuspected. The heavy weight of the indignant accusation almost

crushed me. Its falsehood I knew, and yet, could I dare to disprove it?

Could I hazard the consequences of an avowal, which all my subsequent

pleadings could never obliterate. Even were my innocence established in

one point, what a position did it reduce me to in every other.

These struggles must have manifested themselves strongly in my looks,

for the marquise, with all her self-occupation, remarked how ill I

seemed. "I see, sir," cried she, "that all the ravages of war have not

steeled your heart against true piety; my tale has moved you strongly."

I muttered something in concurrence, and she went on. "Happily for you,

you were but a child when such scenes were happening! Not, indeed, that

childhood was always unstained in those days of blood; but you were, as

I understand, the son of a Garde du Corps, one of those loyal men who

sealed their devotion with their life. Were you in Paris then?"

"Yes, madam," said I, briefly.

"With your mother, perhaps?"

"I was quite alone, madam; an orphan on both sides."

"What was your mother's family-name?"

Here was a puzzle; but at a hazard I resolved to claim her who should

sound best to the ears of La Marquise. "La Lasterie, madam," said I.

"La Lasterie de La Vignoble--a most distinguished house, sir. Provencal,

and of the purest blood. Auguste de La Lasterie married the daughter of

the Duke de Miriancourt, a cousin of my husband's, and there was another

of them who went as embassador to Madrid."

I knew none of them, and I supposed I looked as much.

"Your mother was, probably, of the elder branch, sir;" asked she.

I had to stammer out a most lamentable confession of my ignorance.

"Not know your own kinsfolks, sir; not your nearest of blood!" cried

she, in amazement. "General, have you heard this strange avowal? or is

it possible that my ears have deceived me?"

"Please to remember, madam," said I, submissively, "the circumstances in

which I passed my infancy. My father fell by the guillotine."

"And his son wears the uniform of those who slew him!"

"Of a French soldier, madam, proud of the service he belongs to;

glorying to be one of the first army in Europe."

"An army without a cause is a banditti, sir. Your soldiers, without

loyalty, are without a banner."

"We have a country, madam."

"I must protest against this discussion going further," said the

general, blandly, while in a lower tone he whispered something in her

ear.

"Very true, very true," said she; "I had forgotten all that. Monsieur de

Tiernay, you will forgive me this warmth. An old woman, who has lost

nearly every thing in the world, may have the privilege of bad temper

accorded her. We are friends now, I hope," added she, extending her

hand, and, with a smile of most gracious meaning, beckoning to me to sit

beside her on the sofa.

Once away from the terrible theme of the Revolution, she conversed with

much agreeability; and her niece having reappeared, the conversation

became animated and pleasing. Need I say with what interest I now

regarded mademoiselle; the object of all my boyish devotion; the same

whose pale features I had matched for many an hour in the dim half light

of the little chapel; her whose image was never absent from my thoughts

waking or sleeping; and now again appearing before me in all the grace

of coming womanhood!

Perhaps to obliterate any impression of her aunt's severity--perhaps it

was mere manner--but I thought there was a degree of anxiety to please

in her bearing toward me. She spoke, too, as though our acquaintance was

to be continued by frequent meetings, and dropped hints of plans that

implied constant intercourse. Even excursions into the neighborhood she

spoke of; when, suddenly stopping, she said, "But these are for the

season of spring, and before that time Monsieur de Tiernay will be far

away."

"Who can tell that?" said I. "I would seem to be forgotten by my

comrades."

"Then you must take care to do that which may refresh their memory,"

said she, pointedly; and, before I could question her more closely as to

her meaning, the general had risen to take his leave.

"Madame La Marquise was somewhat more tart than usual," said he to me,

as we ascended the cliff; "but you have passed the ordeal now, and the

chances are, she will never offend you in the same way again. Great

allowances must be made for those who have suffered as she has.

Family--fortune--station--even country--all lost to her; and even hope

now dashed by many a disappointment."

Though puzzled by the last few words, I made no remark on them, and he

resumed,

"She has invited you to come and see her as often as you are at liberty;

and, for my part, you shall not be restricted in that way. Go and come

as you please, only do not infringe the hours of the fortress; and if

you can concede a little now and then to the prejudices of the old lady,

your intercourse will be all the more agreeable to both parties."

"I believe, general, that I have little of the Jacobin to recant," said

I, laughing.

"I shall go farther, my dear friend, and say none," added he. "Your

uniform is the only tint of 'blue' about you." And thus chatting, we

reached the fortress, and said good-night.

I have been particular, perhaps tiresomely so, in retailing these broken

phrases and snatches of conversation; but they were the first matches

applied to a train that was long and artfully laid.

CHAPTER XXXIX.

"A SORROWFUL PARTING."

The general was as good as his word, and I now enjoyed the most

unrestricted liberty; in fact the officers of the garrison said truly,

that they were far more like prisoners than I was. As regularly as

evening came, I descended the path to the village, and, as the bell

tolled out the vespers, I was crossing the little grass plot to the

cottage. So regularly was I looked for, that the pursuits of each

evening were resumed as though only accidentally interrupted. The

unfinished game of chess, the half read volume, the newly begun drawing,

were taken up where we had left them, and life seemed to have centred

itself in those delightful hours between sunset and midnight.

I suppose there are few young men who have not, at some time or other of

their lives, enjoyed similar privileges, and known the fascination of

intimacy in some household, where the affections became engaged as the

intellect expanded; and, while winning another's heart, have elevated

their own. But to know the full charm of such intercourse, one must have

been as I was--a prisoner--an orphan--almost friendless in the world--a

very "waif" upon the shore of destiny. I can not express the intense

pleasure these evenings afforded me. The cottage was my home, and more

than my home. It was a shrine at which my heart worshiped--for I was in

love! Easy as the confession is to make now, tortures would not have

wrung it from me then!

In good truth, it was long before I knew it; nor can I guess how much

longer the ignorance might have lasted, when General Urleben suddenly

dispelled the clouds, by informing me that he had just received from the

minister of war at Vienna a demand for the name, rank, and regiment of

his prisoner, previous to the negotiation for his exchange.

"You will fill up these blanks, Tiernay," said he, "and within a month,

or less, you will be once more free, and say adieu to Kuffstein."

Had the paper contained my dismissal from the service, I shame to own it

would have been more welcome! The last few months had changed all the

character of my life, suggested new hopes and new ambitions. The career

I used to glory in had grown distasteful; the comrades I once longed to

rejoin were now become almost repulsive to my imagination. The marquise

had spoken much of emigrating to some part of the new world beyond seas,

and thither my fancy alike pointed. Perhaps my dreams of a future were

not the less rose-colored, that they received no shadow from any thing

like a "fact." The old lady's geographical knowledge was neither

accurate nor extensive, and she contrived to invest this land of promise

with odd associations of what she once heard of Pondicherry--with

certain features belonging to the United States. A glorious country it

would, indeed, have been, which, within a month's voyage, realized all

the delights of the tropics, with the healthful vigor of the temperate

zone, and where, without an effort beyond the mere will, men amassed

enormous fortunes in a year or two. In a calmer mood, I might, indeed

must, have been struck with the wild inconsistency of the old lady's

imaginings, and looked with somewhat of skepticism on the map for that

spot of earth so richly endowed; but now I believed every thing,

provided it only ministered to my new hopes. Laura, evidently, too,

believed in the "Canaan" of which, at last, we used to discourse as

freely as though we had been there. Little discussions, would, however,

now and then vary the uniformity of this creed, and I remember once

feeling almost hurt at Laura's not agreeing with me about zebras, which

I assured her were just as trainable as horses, but which the marquise

flatly refused ever to use in any of her carriages. These were mere

passing clouds; the regular atmosphere of our wishes was bright and

transparent. In the midst of these delicious day dreams, there came one

day a number of letters to the marquise by the hands of a courier on his

way to Naples. What were their contents I never knew, but the tidings

seemed most joyful, for the old lady invited the general and myself to

dinner, when the table was decked out with white lilies on all sides;

she herself, and Laura also, wearing them in bouquets on their dresses.

The occasion had, I could see, something of a celebration about it.

Mysterious hints of circumstances I knew nothing of were constantly

interchanged, the whole ending with a solemn toast to the memory of the

"Saint and Martyr;" but who he was, or when he lived, I knew not one

single fact about.

That evening--I can not readily forget it--was the first I had ever an

opportunity of being alone with Laura! Hitherto the marquise had always

been beside us; now she had all this correspondence to read over with

the general, and they both retired into a little boudoir for the

purpose, while Laura and myself wandered out upon the terrace, as

awkward and constrained as though our situation had been the most

provoking thing possible. It was on that same morning I had received the

general's message regarding my situation, and I was burning with anxiety

to tell it, and yet knew not exactly how. Laura, too, seemed full of her

own thoughts, and leaned pensively over the balustrade and gazed on the

stream.

"What are you thinking of so seriously?" asked I, after a long pause.

"Of long, long ago," said she sighing, "when I was a little child. I

remember a little chapel like that yonder, only that it was not on a

rock over a river, but stood in a small garden; and though in a great

city, it was as lonely and solitary as might be--the Chapelle de St.

Blois."

"St. Blois, Laura," cried I; "oh, tell me about that!"

"Why you surely never heard of it before," said she, smiling. "It was in

a remote quarter of Paris, nigh the outer Boulevard, and known to but a

very few! It had once belonged to our family; for in olden times there

were chateaux and country houses within that space, which then was part

of Paris, and one of our ancestors was buried there! How well I remember

it all! The dim little aisle, supported on wooden pillars; the simple

altar, with the oaken crucifix, and the calm, gentle features of the

poor cure."

"Can you remember all this so well, Laura?" asked I, eagerly, for the

theme was stirring my very heart of hearts.

"All--everything--the straggling weed-grown garden, through which we

passed to our daily devotions--the congregation standing respectfully to

let us walk by, for my mother was still the great Marquise D'Estelles,

although my father had been executed, and our estates confiscated. They

who had known us in our prosperity, were as respectful and devoted as

ever; and poor old Richard, the lame sacristan, that used to take my

mother's bouquet from her, and lay it on the altar; how every thing

stands out clear and distinct before my memory! Nay, Maurice, but I can

tell you more, for strangely enough, certain things, merely trifles in

themselves, make impressions that even great events fail to do. There

was a little boy, a child somewhat older than myself, that used to serve

the mass with the Pere, and he always came to place a footstool or a

cushion for my mother. Poor little fellow, bashful and diffident he was,

changing color at every minute, and trembling in every limb; and when he

had done his duty, and made his little reverence, with his hands crossed

on his bosom, he used to fall back into some gloomy corner of the

church, and stand watching us with an expression of intense wonder and

pleasure! Yes, I think I see his dark eyes glistening through the gloom,

ever fixed on me! I am sure, Maurice, that little fellow fancied he was

in love with me!"

"And why not, Laura; was the thing so very impossible? was it even so

unlikely?"

"Not that," said she archly, "but think of a mere child; we were both

mere children; and fancy him, the poor little boy, of some humble house,

perhaps; of course he must have been _that_, raising his eyes to the

daughter of the great 'marquise;' what energy of character there must

have been to have suggested the feeling; how daring he was, with all his

bashfulness!"

"You never saw him afterward?"

"Never!"

"Never thought of him, perhaps?"

"I'll not say that," said she, smiling. "I have often wondered to

myself, if that hardihood I speak of had borne good or evil fruit. Had

he been daring or enterprising in the right, or had he, as the sad times

favored, been only bold and impetuous for the wrong!"

"And how have you pictured him to your imagination?" said I, as if

merely following out a fanciful vein of thought.

"My fancy would like to have conceived him a chivalrous adherent to our

ancient royalty, striving nobly in exile to aid the fortunes of some

honored house, or daring, as many brave men have dared, the heroic part

of La Vendee. My reason, however, tells me, that he was far more likely

to have taken the other part."

"To which you will concede no favor, Laura; not even the love of glory."

"Glory, like honor, should have its fountain in a monarchy," cried she

proudly. "The rude voices of a multitude can confer no meed of praise.

Their judgments are the impulses of the moment. But why do we speak of

these things, Maurice? nor have _I_, who can but breathe my hopes for a

cause, the just pretension to contend with _you_, who shed your blood

for its opposite."

As she spoke, she hurried from the balcony, and quitted the room. It was

the first time, as I have said, that we had ever been alone together,

and it was also the first time she had ever expressed herself strongly

on the subject of party. What a moment to have declared her opinions,

and when her reminiscences, too, had recalled our infancy! How often was

I tempted to interrupt that confession, by declaring myself, and how

strongly was I repelled by the thought that the avowal might sever us

forever. While I was thus deliberating, the marquise, with the general

entered the room, and Laura followed in a few moments.

The supper that night was a pleasant one to all save me. The rest were

gay and high-spirited. Allusions, understood by _them_, but not by _me_,

were caught up readily, and as quickly responded to. Toasts were

uttered, and wishes breathed in concert, but all was like a dream to me.

Indeed my heart grew heavier at every moment. My coming departure, of

which I had not yet spoken, lay drearily on my mind, while the bold

decision with which Laura declared her faith showed that our destinies

were separated by an impassable barrier.

It may be supposed that my depression was not relieved by discovering

that the general had already announced my approaching departure, and the

news, far from being received with any thing like regret, was made the

theme of pleasant allusion, and even congratulation. The marquise

repeatedly assured me of the delight the tidings gave her, and Laura

smiled happily toward me, as if echoing the sentiment.

Was this the feeling I had counted on? were these the evidences of an

affection, for which I had given my whole heart? Oh, how bitterly I

reviled the frivolous ingratitude of woman! how heavily I condemned

their heartless, unfeeling nature. In a few days, a few hours, perhaps,

I shall be as totally forgotten here, as though I had never been, and

yet these are the people who parade their devotion to fallen monarchy,

and their affection for an exiled house! I tried to arm myself with

every prejudice against royalism. I thought of Santron and his selfish,

sarcastic spirit. I thought of all the stories I used to hear of

cowardly ingratitude, and noble infamy, and tried to persuade myself

that the blandishments of the well-born were but the gloss that covered

cruel and unfeeling natures.

For very pride sake, I tried to assume a manner cool and unconcerned as

their own. I affected to talk of my departure as a pleasant event, and

even hinted at the career that Fortune might hereafter open to me. In

this they seemed to take a deeper interest than I anticipated, and I

could perceive that more than once the general exchanged looks with the

ladies most significantly. I fear I grew very impatient at last. I

grieve to think that I fancied a hundred annoyances that were never

intended for me, and when we arose to take leave, I made my adieux with

a cold and stately reserve, intended to be strongly impressive, and cut

them to the quick.

I heard very little of what the general said as we ascended the cliff. I

was out of temper with him, and myself, and all the world; and it was

only when he recalled my attention to the fact, for the third or fourth

time, that I learned how very kindly he meant by me in the matter of my

liberation, for while he had forwarded all my papers to Vienna, he was

quite willing to set me at liberty on the following day, in the perfect

assurance that my exchange would be confirmed.

"You will thus have a full fortnight at your own disposal, Tiernay,"

said he, "since the official answer can not arrive from Vienna before

that time, and you need not report yourself in Paris for eight or ten

days after."

Here was a boon now thrown away! For my part, I would a thousand times

rather have lingered on at Kuffstein than have been free to travel

Europe from one end to the other. My outraged pride, however, put this

out of the question. La marquise and her niece had both assumed a manner

of sincere gratification, and I was resolved not to be behindhand in my

show of joy! I ought to have known it, said I again and again. I ought

to have known it. These antiquated notions of birth and blood can never

co-exist with any generous sentiment. These remnants of a worn-out

monarchy can never forgive the vigorous energy that has dethroned their

decrepitude! I did not dare to speculate on what a girl Laura might have

been under other auspices; how nobly her ambition would have soared;

what high-souled patriotism she could have felt; how gloriously she

would have adorned the society of a regenerated nation. I thought of her

as she was, and could have hated myself for the devotion with which my

heart regarded her!

I never closed my eyes the entire night. I lay down and walked about

alternately, my mind in a perfect fever of conflict. Pride, a false

pride, but not the less strong for that, alone sustained me. The general

had announced to me that I was free. Be it so; I will no longer be a

burden on his hospitality. La marquise hears the tidings with pleasure.

Agreed, then--we part without regret! Very valorous resolutions they

were, but come to, I must own, with a very sinking heart and a very

craven spirit.

Instead of my full uniform, that morning I put on half dress, showing

that I was ready for the road; a sign, I had hoped, would have spoken

unutterable things to la marquise and Laura.

Immediately after breakfast, I set out for the cottage. All the way, as

I went, I was drilling myself for the interview, by assuming a tone of

the coolest and easiest indifference. They shall have no triumph over me

in this respect, muttered I. Let us see if I can not be as unconcerned

as they are! To such a pitch had I carried my zeal for flippancy, that I

resolved to ask them whether they had no commission I could execute for

them in Paris or elsewhere. The idea struck me as excellent, so

indicative of perfect self-possession and command. I am sure I must have

rehearsed our interview at least a dozen times, supplying all the

stately grandeur of the old lady, and all the quiet placitude of Laura.

By the time I reached the village I was quite strong in my part, and as

I crossed the Platz I was eager to begin it. This energetic spirit,

however, began to waver a little as I entered the lawn before the

cottage, and a most uncomfortable throbbing at my side made me stand for

a moment in the porch before I entered. I used always to make my

appearance unannounced, but now I felt that it would be more dignified

and distant were I to summon a servant, and yet I could find none. The

household was on a very simple scale, and in all likelihood the labors

of the field or the garden were now employing them. I hesitated what to

do, and after looking in vain around the "cour" and the stable-yard, I

turned into the garden to seek for some one.

I had not proceeded many paces along a little alley, flanked by two

close hedges of yew, when I heard voices, and at the same instant my own

name uttered.

"You told him to use caution, Laura, that we know little of this Tiernay

beyond his own narrative--"

"I told him the very reverse, aunt. I said that he was the son of a

loyal Garde du Corps, left an orphan in infancy, and thrown by force of

events into the service of the Republic; but that every sentiment he

expressed, every ambition he cherished, and every feeling he displayed

was that of a gentleman; nay, farther--" But I did not wait for more,

for, striking my sabre heavily on the ground to announce my coming, I

walked hurriedly forward toward a small arbor where the ladies were

seated at breakfast.

I need not stop to say how completely all my resolves were routed by the

few words I had overheard from Laura, nor how thoroughly I recanted all

my expressions concerning her. So full was I of joy and gratitude, that

I hastened to salute her before ever noticing the marquise, or being

conscious of her presence.

The old lady, usually the most exacting of all beings, took my omission

in good part, and most politely made room for me between herself and

Laura at the breakfast-table.

"You have come most opportunely, Monsieur de Tiernay," said she, "for

not only were we just speaking of you, but discussing whether or not we

might ask of you a favor."

"Does the question admit of a discussion, madame?" said I, bowing.

"Perhaps not, in ordinary circumstances, perhaps not; but--" she

hesitated, seemed confused, and looked at Laura, who went on,

"My aunt would say, sir, that we may be possibly asking too much--that

we may presume too far."

"Not on my will to serve you," broke I in, for her looks said much more

than her words.

"The matter is this, sir," said the aunt, "we have a very valued

relative--"

"Friend," interposed Laura, "friend, aunt."

"We will say friend, then," resumed she; "a friend in whose welfare we

are deeply interested, and whose regard for us is not less powerful,

has been for some years back separated from us by the force of those

unhappy circumstances which have made so many of us exiles! No means

have existed of communicating with each other, nor of interchanging

those hopes or fears for our country's welfare which are so near to

every French heart! He in Germany, we in the wild Tyrol, one half the

world apart! and dare not trust to a correspondence the utterance of

those sympathies which have brought so many to the scaffold!"

"We would ask of you to see him, Monsieur de Tiernay, to know him,"

burst out Laura; "to tell him all that you can of France--above all, of

the sentiments of the army; he is a soldier himself, and will hear you

with pleasure."

"You may speak freely and frankly," continued the marquise; "the count

is man of the world enough to hear the truth even when it gives pain.

Your own career will interest him deeply; heroism has always had a charm

for all his house. This letter will introduce you; and, as the general

informs us, you have some days at your own disposal, pray give them to

our service in this cause."

"Willingly, madame," replied I, "only let me understand a little

better--"

"There is no need to know more," interrupted Laura; "the Count de

Marsanne will himself suggest every thing of which you will talk. He

will speak of us, perhaps--of the Tyrol--of Kuffstein; then he will lead

the conversation to France--in fact, once acquainted you will follow the

dictates of your own fancy."

"Just so, Monsieur de Tiernay, it will be a visit with as little of

ceremony as possible--"

"Aunt!" interrupted Laura, as if recalling the marquise to caution, and

the old lady at once acknowledged the hint by a significant look.

I see it all, thought I, De Marsanne is Laura's accepted lover, and I am

the person to be employed as a go-between. This was intolerable, and

when the thought first struck me I was out of myself with passion.

"Are we asking too great a favor, Monsieur de Tiernay?" said the

marquise, whose eyes were fixed upon me during this conflict.

"Of course not, madam," said I, in an accent of almost sarcastic tone.

"If I am not wrong in my impressions the cause might claim a deeper

devotion; but this is a theme I would not wish to enter upon."

"We are aware of that," said Laura, quickly, "we are quite prepared for

your reserve, which is perfectly proper and becoming."

"Your position being one of unusual delicacy," chimed in the marquise.

I bowed haughtily and coldly, while the marquise uttered a thousand

expressions of gratitude and regard to me.

"We had hoped to have seen you here a few days longer, monsieur," said

she, "but perhaps, under the circumstances, it is better as it is."

"_Under the circumstances_, madam," repeated I, "I am bound to agree

with you;" and I turned to say farewell.

"Rather _au revoir_, Monsieur de Tiernay," said the marquise,

"friendship, such as ours, should at least be hopeful; say then '_au

revoir_.'"

"Perhaps Monsieur de Tiernay's hopes run not in the same channel as our

own, aunt," said Laura, "and perhaps the days of happiness that _we_

look forward to, would bring far different feelings to _his_ heart."

This was too pointed--this was insupportably offensive! and I was only

able to mutter, "You are right, mademoiselle;" and then, addressing

myself to the marquise, I made some blundering apologies about haste and

so forth; while I promised to fulfill her commission faithfully and

promptly.

"Shall we not hear from you?" said the old lady, as she gave me her

hand. I was about to say, "under the circumstances, better not," but I

hesitated, and Laura, seeing my confusion, said, "It might be unfair,

aunt, to expect it; remember how he is placed."

"Mademoiselle is a miracle of forethought and candor too," said I.

"Adieu! adieu forever!" The last word I uttered in a low whisper.

"Adieu, Maurice," said she, equally low, and then turned away toward the

window.

From that moment until the instant when, out of breath and exhausted, I

halted for a few seconds on the crag below the fortress, I knew nothing;

my brain was in a whirl of mad, conflicting thought. Every passion was

working within me, and rage, jealousy, love, and revenge were

alternately swaying and controlling me. Then, however, as I looked down

for the last time on the village and the cottage beside the river, my

heart softened, and I burst into a torrent of tears. There, said I, as I

arose to resume my way, there is one illusion dissipated; let me take

care that life never shall renew the affliction! Henceforth I will be a

soldier, and only a soldier.

(TO BE CONTINUED.)

THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF A SENSITIVE SPIRIT.

My earliest recollections are of a snug, modest-looking cottage, far

away in the country, whose shady garden was full of the sweet breath of

roses, and honeysuckle, and many other flowers. This house and this

garden were, to my tiny apprehension, the sum and substance of all

delight; and, truly, never was a scene more calculated to strike on the

young soul in its bud of being, and to touch those mysterious chords yet

unjarred by the world's rough hand. My father was an humble and

unpretending country pastor, void of ambition, except as he could train

the soul for Heaven. Alike removed from envying the powerful or scorning

the poor, he, with calm dignity of mien and tenderness of heart, pursued

the duties of his sacred calling. It seems so far back, that I can

scarcely say whether it be a recollection of this life or a dream of

some other but there we sit, on the evening of a summer's day, in our

shady alcove, my father reading aloud, my mother at her work, little

Edward and myself at their feet. We little ones are playing with some

wild flowers, and form these into a variety of devices. Suddenly I break

off, and look up in my father's face. He is not reading now. His eyes

are resting on some object in the distance. His face wears a strange

expression--a kind of faded, unearthly look. I did not know what this

was then--I know it now. I am fascinated by this shadow on the beloved

face, till I feel a strange pang at my heart, the first that has ever

visited it. My father at last looks down, kindly pats my curly head, and

says, "Why, how quiet we all are!" Upon this, I look at my mother, and

see that her blue eyes are full of tears. She hurries into the house; my

father follows; and I, finding my little brother fast asleep on his

flowers, bury my face in my hands, and burst into a passion of weeping.

I can not tell why I wept, but a shadow had come into my gay young

heart; and, clasping little Edward in my arms, at last I sobbed myself

to sleep also.

Yet another evening, and we sit in our humble parlor. We youngsters have

had a merry day of it, for some little friends have been taking tea with

us. The spirit of our exuberant glee has not yet died away, but we are

quiet now, for it is the hour of prayer. Sally, our sole domestic, with

her red arms, and red, good-humored face, tries to look demurely at

us--which, in truth, she can not accomplish--and, by various telegraphic

nods and shakes of the head, secures our good behavior. My mother plays

on the piano, and we sing a hymn. We all join, in our way, Sally's rough

voice setting off my mother's wonderfully. I wonder if the angels in

Heaven sing as sweetly as she. I believe, in my small mind, that my

father thinks so, for sometimes he does not sing, but listens to her,

and looks at her, in a kind of rapt, admiring way. The hymn over, we

listen to a portion of the Holy Book--God's Book--for that is the name

by which we know it. Then my father prays, and we pray, in our simple

manner, to the great Father above the blue sky. The religion of our dear

home is neither morose nor sullen. All pleasant, simple delights are

ours. Our merry laugh is not chidden, and we are early taught to

minister to others. Thus it follows that we, unasked, give our weekly

pence to the poor little boy whose father died last week, of whose

desolate condition, and that of his mother, we hear our parents speak.

We know very well, though none ever told us, that these same dear

parents are ministering angels to the afflicted and distressed. We do

sometimes wonder where the money comes from that helps the poor; for

when I, seized with an envious fit, ask why I can not have gay apparel,

like one of my little friends--why I must wear an old frock, while she

displays a new one--my father shakes his head, and says, "My dear Mary,

I can not afford finery for my children." Then a light breaks upon me,

and I know that father is careful, and mother is careful, and that we

must be careful, too, that we may give to the poor. And now, after the

lapse of some months, I observe again the old look on my father's face.

He has a short cough, and seems tired with doing very little. His deep,

dark eyes have a strange shadow about them, and there is a peculiar

tenderness in his whole manner. Somehow, we children are more silent

than we used to be. We do not feel so much inclined to be noisy and

boisterous as heretofore. Days and weeks pass on. The shadow deepens on

the beloved face. We are now told that our father is very ill, and urged

to be quiet. In these days, we do much as we like--wander about the

field at the back of our house, and through the shady garden, but the

spirit of gladness has left our young hearts, and we go hither and

thither with a strange weight resting on us. Fatigued, we sit beneath

the aged elm. The happy birds sing in its branches. Far off, the cattle

are lowing in the meadows, and sheep bleating on the hill-side. The busy

hum of haymakers comes to us, but it does not make us merry as once it

did.

Then come times of deeper gloom. We all tread on tiptoe. We just step

within our father's room. His breath is very short and quick, and his

eyes are bright--oh, how bright! He places his hand upon our heads, and,

in trembling accents, commits us to our Heavenly Father. We hear him say

he is tired, and will sleep. All is hushed. He closes his eyes. We watch

long to see him wake, but he is now a pure seraph in the presence of his

God; and, through life's pilgrimage, he is henceforth to be to those who

love him a memory, a dream of other days, and yet a burning and shining

light, whose rays penetrate not the less, because they are mild and

benign.

For some time after this event all seems a blank. There is a sale at our

house. Our cherished things are going to be taken from us. Then I

understand that we are poor. My mother has a little, but not enough for

our support; so she is fain to accept an offer that has been made her by

a distant relative, who keeps a boarding-school for young ladies in a

distant county. My mother is to assist in the school. She does not much

like the scheme. She is telling all to a sympathizing friend. She speaks

rather in a shuddering way of her relative, whom she describes as

overbearing and tyrannical. Henceforth I look on this lady as a kind of

dragon, and my state of mind toward her is not such as to insure her

regard. I can not now speak of the tokens of affection we receive from

our loving friends. Now the children call with nosegays of wild flowers.

Now my little brother has a rabbit given him; I a canary. Now cakes and

sweetmeats are thrust into our hands from humble donors, with tears and

blessings. Now my mother receives anonymous gifts, from a L20 note, down

to a pair of knitted stockings to travel in, accompanied by an

ill-spelt, ill-written blessing and prayer, "That the Almighty will set

his two eyes on the purty lady and her children, and make his honor's

bed in heaven, although he did not worshyp the blessed Vargin." My

mother smiles through her tears, for she knows this is from old Judy,

our Romish neighbor, whom, in a fit of illness, she befriended, long

ago. And so, after much loving leave-taking, we depart, and at length

reach our destination.

And now we alight from the hackney-coach, and take a timid survey of our

new abode. It is a gaunt brick building, large and stately, with

"Miss ----'s Establishment for Young Ladies," inscribed on a brass plate

on the door. I hold my mother's hand, and feel that it trembles, as we

are ushered into a stark, staring room, which, at this cool season of

the year, is without fire. The door opens, and our relative appears. She

imprints a fashionable kiss on my mother's pale cheek, and notices our

presence by the words, "Fine children, but very countrified, my dear

cousin." We have tea in a small parlor, where is a fire, but I observe

that my mother can not eat; and little Edward bursting into a fit of

crying, with the words, "I do not like this house--I want to go home,"

we are all dissolved together, at which Miss ---- frowns mentally,

ejaculating, "No spirit, no energy--a bad beginning, truly." I wonder,

in my simple soul, what this energy means, of which my mother has been

said to be deficient. It can not be that she has done wrong in letting

those tears flow which have filled her eyes so often during the day, for

I have often seen people weep at our house in the olden time, when they

have been relating their troubles, when my father's gentle eye would

grow more kind, his voice more soft. He would then speak another

language, which now I know to be the language of promise, breathed by

the great Eternal himself in the ear of his suffering ones.

I pass over some weeks, during which my mother has been duly installed

into her office of teacher--rising early, to give lessons before

breakfast; afterward walking out with the young people; then teaching

all through the livelong day, till evening brings some repose. She

always puts us to bed herself, and this is not a very hurried operation,

for we clasp her round the neck, call her "dear mamma," and tell her how

much we love her. She will then listen to our simple devotions, and tear

herself away. Then we hear her in a room adjoining, pouring forth her

soul in song. She sings the old lays, but there is another tone mingling

with them--one that affects the listener to tears; for, stealing out of

bed and opening the door, I have met other listeners, whose gay young

faces showed that those saddened melodies had touched some mysterious

chord, awaking it to sadness and tears.

My mother was greatly beloved by the young people. I soon found out that

this fact was any thing but pleasing in the eyes of the lady superior,

who could not imagine how a person so devoid of energy, as she termed

it, could possess so much influence. Nevertheless, this best of all

influence--the influence of affection--was possessed in no common

degree. With what zest and pleasure was every little office

rendered--with what sweetmeats were we feasted--what bouquets were

placed on my mother's table--what numerous presents of needlework were

made her--how her wishes were anticipated--I know well. I know, too, how

much my dear parent suffered in this house--how unequal her strength was

to her labors--how the incessant small tyranny to which she was

subjected ate out all the life of her spirit. Still she never

complained; but I could hear her sometimes, in the silence of night,

weeping bitterly, and calling on her beloved dead, who, when on earth,

had never allowed one shadow to cross her path which he could avert.

Thus four years were passed, during which my brother died. This second

blow pierced me to the heart, but, strange to say, mamma bore it calmly.

I wondered at her, till I noticed how very thin she had become--how very

trembling and frightened with every little thing--and how attentive the

young people were to her wishes. Then the old agony came over my heart,

and I knew all.

About this time, a gentleman, who had known and loved my father, dying,

left my mother a legacy of L100. This sum enabled her to take a lodging

near our old home, and here, some two months after our return, she died,

in the full assurance of faith. Our faithful old Sally was now married

to an honest yeoman, and from this good creature we received much kind

attention....

I pass over some years, in which I experienced all the trials of a

shabby-genteel life at a large school, where I was placed by the

kindness of a distant friend. After trials and vicissitudes of no

ordinary kind, I found myself, by the death of a relative in India,

whose name I had never heard, entitled to the sum of L5000. With this

wealth, which to my young imagination seemed boundless, I retired to my

native village, in the quiet shades to enjoy the peace for which I had

long sighed....

A stranger hand writes that Mary---- resided for some time in the

retreat she had chosen, the idolized of the poor, the friend of the

afflicted, more like an angel than aught belonging to this lower sphere,

yet showing that she was of the earth, by the look of tender melancholy

which haunted her cheek, and said how surely, "early griefs a lengthened

shadow fling." She died in her youthful bloom, and the bitter sobs and

lamentations of the poor testified to her worth. Her money still remains

for them in perpetuity, but the meek, dove-like eyes are darkened, and

gone the voice whose music made many glad. So have we seen a stream

suddenly dried up, whose presence was only known by the verdure on its

margin, scarcely known, scarcely cared for, except by the humble

floweret, but, when gone, its absence was deplored by the sterility

where once were bloom and freshness.

ESCAPE FROM A MEXICAN QUICKSAND.

BY CAPT. MAYNE REID

A few days afterward, another "adventure" befell me; and I began to

think that I was destined to become a hero among the "mountain men."

A small party of the traders--myself among the number--had pushed

forward ahead of the caravan. Our object was to arrive at Santa Fe, a

day or two before the wagons, in order to have every thing arranged with

the governor for their entrance into that capital. We took the route by

the Cimmaron.

Our road, for a hundred miles or so, lay through a barren desert,

without game, and almost without water. The buffalo had already

disappeared, and deer were equally scarce. We had to content ourselves

on the dried meat which we had brought from the settlements. We were in

the deserts of the _Artemisia_. Now and then we could see a stray

antelope bounding away before us, but keeping far out of range. They,

too, seemed to be unusually shy.

On the third day after leaving the caravan, as we were riding near the

Cimmaron, I thought I observed a pronged head disappearing behind a

swell in the prairie. My companions were skeptical, and would none of

them go with me; so, wheeling out of the trail, I started alone. One of

the men--for Gode was behind--kept charge of my dog, as I did not choose

to take him with me, lest he might alarm the antelopes. My horse was

fresh and willing; and whether successful or not, I knew that I could

easily overtake the party by camping time.

I struck directly toward the spot where I had seen the object. It

appeared to be only half a mile or so from the trail. It proved more

distant--a common illusion in the crystal atmosphere of these upland

regions.

A curiously-formed ridge--_a couteau des prairies_, on a small

scale--traversed the plain from east to west. A thicket of cactus

covered part of its summit. Toward this thicket I directed myself.

I dismounted at the bottom of the slope, and leading my horse silently

up among the cacti-plants, tied him to one of their branches. I then

crept cautiously through the thorny leaves, toward the point where I

fancied I had seen the game. To my joy, not one antelope, but a brace of

those beautiful animals, was quietly grazing beyond; but alas! too far

off for the carry of my rifle. They were fully three hundred yards

distant, upon a smooth, grassy slope. There was not even a sage-bush to

cover me, should I attempt to "approach" them. What was to be done?

I lay for several minutes, thinking over the different tricks known in

hunter-craft for taking the antelope. Should I imitate their call?

Should I hoist my handkerchief, and try to lure them up? I saw that they

were too shy; for, at short intervals, they threw up their graceful

heads, and looked inquiringly around them. I remembered the red blanket

on my saddle. I could display this upon the cactus-bushes--perhaps it

would attract them.

I had no alternative; and was turning to go back for the blanket; when,

all at once, my eye rested upon a clay-colored line running across the

prairie, beyond where the animals were feeding. It was a break in the

surface of the plain--a buffalo-road--or the channel of an _arroyo_--in

either case the very cover I wanted--for the animals were not a hundred

yards from it; and were getting still nearer to it as they fed.

Creeping back out of the thicket, I ran along the side of the slope

toward a point, where I had noticed that the ridge was depressed to the

prairie level. Here, to my surprise, I found myself on the banks of a

broad arroyo, whose water--clear and shallow--ran slowly over a bed of

sand and gypsum.

The banks were low--not over three feet above the surface of the

water--except where the ridge impinged upon the stream. Here there was a

high bluff; and, hurrying around its base, I entered the channel; and

commenced wading upward.

As I had anticipated, I soon came to a bend, where the stream, after

running parallel to the ridge, swept round and _canyoned_ through it. At

this place I stopped; and looked cautiously over the bank. The antelopes

had approached within less than rifle range of the arroyo; but they were

yet far above my position. They were still quietly feeding, and

unconscious of danger. I again bent down, and waded on.

It was a difficult task proceeding in this way. The bed of the creek was

soft and yielding, and I was compelled to tread slowly and silently,

lest I should alarm the game; but I was cheered in my exertions by the

prospect of fresh venison for my supper.

After a weary drag of several hundred yards, I came opposite to a small

clump of wormwood-bushes, growing out of the bank. "I may be high

enough," thought I, "these will serve for cover."

I raised my body gradually, until I could see through the leaves. I was

in the right spot.

I brought my rifle to a level; sighted for the heart of the buck; and

fired. The animal leaped from the ground, and fell back lifeless.

I was about to rush forward, and secure my prize, when I observed the

doe--instead of running off as I had expected--go up to her fallen

partner, and press her tapering nose to his body. She was not more than

twenty yards from me; and I could plainly see that her look was one of

inquiry, and bewilderment! All at once, she seemed to comprehend the

fatal truth; and throwing back her head, commenced uttering the most

piteous cries--at the same time running in circles around the body!

I stood wavering between two minds. My first impulse had been to reload,

and kill the doe; but her plaintive voice entered my heart, disarming me

of all hostile intentions. Had I dreamed of witnessing this painful

spectacle, I should not have left the trail. But the mischief was now

done. "I have worse than killed her," thought I, "it will be better to

dispatch her at once."

Actuated by these principles of a common, but to her fatal, humanity, I

rested the butt of my rifle, and reloaded. With a faltering hand, I

again leveled the piece, and fired.

My nerves were steady enough to do the work. When the smoke floated

aside, I could see the little creature bleeding upon the grass--her head

resting against the body of her murdered mate!

I shouldered my rifle; and was about to move forward, when, to my

astonishment, I found that I was caught by the feet! I was held firmly,

as if my legs had been screwed in a vice!

I made an effort to extricate myself--another, more violent, and equally

unsuccessful--and, with a third, I lost my balance, and fell back upon

the water!

Half-suffocated, I regained my upright position; but only to find that I

was held as fast as ever!

Again I struggled to free my limbs. I could neither move them backward

nor forward--to the right nor the left; and I became sensible that I was

gradually going down. Then the fearful truth flashed upon me--_I was

sinking in a quicksand_!

A feeling of horror came over me. I renewed my efforts with the energy

of desperation. I leaned to one side, then to the other, almost

wrenching my knees from their sockets. My feet remained fast as ever. I

could not move them an inch!

The soft clingy sand already overtopped my horse-skin boots, wedging

them around my ankles, so that I was unable to draw them off; and I

could feel that I was still sinking, slowly but surely, as though some

subterraneous monster were leisurely dragging me down! This very thought

caused me a fresh thrill of horror; and I called aloud for help! To

whom! There was no one within miles of me--no living thing. Yes! the

neigh of my horse answered me from the hill, mocking my despair!

I bent forward, as well as my constrained position would permit; and,

with frenzied fingers, commenced tearing up the sand. I could barely

reach the surface; and the little hollow I was able to make, filled up

almost as soon as it had been formed.

A thought occurred to me. My rifle might support me, placed

horizontally. I looked around for it. It was not to be seen. It had sunk

beneath the sand!

Could I throw my body flat, and prevent myself from sinking deeper? No.

The water was two feet in depth. I should drown at once!

This last hope left me as soon as formed. I could think of no plan to

save myself. I could make no further effort. A strange stupor seized

upon me. My very thoughts became paralyzed. I knew that I was going mad.

For a moment _I was mad_!

After an interval, my senses returned. I made an effort to rouse my mind

from its paralysis, in order that I might meet death--which I now

believed to be certain--as a man should.

I stood erect. My eyes had sunk to the prairie level, and rested upon

the still bleeding victims of my cruelty. My heart smote me at the

sight. Was I suffering a retribution of God?

With humbled and penitent thoughts, I turned my face to heaven, almost

dreading that some sign of omnipotent anger would scowl upon me from

above. But no. The sun was shining as bright as ever; and the blue

canopy of the world was without a cloud.

I gazed upward, and prayed, with an earnestness known only to the hearts

of men in positions of peril like mine.

As I continued to look up, an object attracted my attention. Against the

sky, I distinguished the outlines of a large dark bird. I knew it to be

the obscene bird of the plains--the buzzard-vulture. Whence had it come?

Who knows? Far beyond the reach of human eye, it had seen, or scented,

the slaughtered antelopes; and, on broad silent wing, was now descending

to the feast of death.

Presently another, and another, and many others, mottled the blue field

of the heavens, curving and wheeling silently earthward. Then, the

foremost swooped down upon the bank; and, after gazing around for a

moment, flapped off toward its prey.

In a few seconds the prairie was black with filthy birds, who clambered

over the dead antelopes; and beat their wings against each other, while

they tore out the eyes of the quarry with their fetid beaks.

And now came gaunt wolves--sneaking and hungry--stealing out of the

cactus-thicket; and loping, coward-like, over the green swells of the

prairie. These, after a battle, drove away the vultures; and tore up the

prey--all the while growling and snapping vengefully at each other.

"Thank heaven! I shall at least be saved from this!"

I was soon relieved from the sight. My eyes had sunk below the level of

the bank. I had looked my last on the fair green earth. I could now see

only the clayey walls that contained the river, and the water that ran

unheeding past me.

Once more I fixed my gaze upon the sky; and, with prayerful heart,

endeavored to resign myself to my fate.

In spite of my endeavors to be calm, the memories of earthly pleasures,

and friends, and home, came over me--causing me, at intervals, to break

into wild paroxysms, and make fresh though fruitless struggles.

Again I was attracted by the neighing of my horse.

A thought entered my mind, filling me with fresh hopes. "Perhaps my

horse--"

I lost not a moment. I raised my voice to its highest pitch; and called

the animal by name. I knew that he would come at my call. I had tied him

but slightly. The cactus-limb would snap off. I called again, repeating

words that were well known to him. I listened with a bounding heart. For

a moment there was silence. Then I heard the quick sounds of his hoof,

as though the animal was rearing and struggling to free himself. Then I

could distinguish the stroke of his heels, in a measured and regular

gallop!

Nearer came the sounds--nearer and clearer, until the gallant brute

bounded out on the bank above me. There he halted, and flinging back his

tossed mane, uttered a shrill neigh. He was bewildered, and looked upon

every side, snorting loudly!

I knew that, having once seen me, he would not stop until he had pressed

his nose against my cheek--for this was his usual custom. Holding out my

hands, I again uttered the magic words.

Now looking downward he perceived me; and, stretching himself, sprang

out into the channel. The next moment I held him by the bridle!

There was no time to be lost. I was still going down; and my armpits

were fast nearing the surface of the quicksand.

I caught the lariat; and, passing it under the saddle-girths, fastened

it in a tight, firm knot. I then looped the trailing end, making it

secure around my body. I had left enough of the rope, between the

bit-ring and the girths, to enable me to check and guide the animal--in

case the drag upon my body should be too painful.

All this while the dumb brute seemed to comprehend what I was about. He

knew, too, the nature of the ground on which he stood; for, during the

operation, he kept lifting his feet alternately to prevent himself from

sinking.

My arrangements were at length completed; and, with a feeling of

terrible anxiety, I gave my horse the signal to move forward. Instead of

going off with a start, the intelligent animal stepped away slowly, as

though he understood my situation! The lariat tightened--I felt my body

moving, and, the next moment, experienced a wild delight--a feeling I

can not describe--as I found myself dragged out of the sand!

I sprang to my feet with a shout of joy. I rushed up to my steed; and,

throwing my arms around his neck, kissed him with as much delight as I

would have kissed a beautiful girl. He answered my embrace with a low

whimper, that told me I was understood.

I looked for my rifle. Fortunately it had not sunk deeply, and I soon

found it. My boots were behind me, but I staid not to look for

them--being smitten with a wholesome dread of the place where I had left

them.

I was not long in retreating from the arroyo; and, mounting, I galloped

back to the trail.

It was sundown before I reached camp; where I was met by the inquiries

of my wondering companions: "Did you come across the 'goats?'" "Where's

your boots?" "Whether have you been hunting or fishing?"

I answered all these questions by relating my adventures; and, for that

night, I was again the hero of the camp-fire.

THE BEAR-STEAK.

A GASTRONOMIC ADVENTURE.

The Englishman's predilection for a beef-steak is almost proverbial; but

we fancy it would take some time to reconcile John Bull in general to a

bear-steak, however much we might expatiate to him on its excellence

and the superiority of its flavor over that of his old-established

favorite, however confidently we might assure him that the bear was a

most delicate feeder, selecting the juiciest fruits of the forest and

the most esculent roots of the earth for his ordinary nourishment. It

might be supposed that this dislike to bear's flesh as an article of

food arose from our national aversion to every thing that is outlandish;

but the following gastronomic adventure, related in the pages of a

modern French traveler, proves that our frog-eating neighbors find it

just as difficult to surmount their aversion to feeding on the flesh of

Master Bruin, as the most sturdy and thoroughbred Englishman among us.

M. Alexandre Dumas, after a long mountainous walk, arrived about four

o'clock one fine autumn afternoon at the inn at Martigny. Exercise and

the keen mountain air had combined to sharpen his appetite, and he

inquired from the host, with some degree of eagerness, at what hour the

_table-d'hote_ dinner was usually served.

"At half past five," replied the host.

"That will do very well," rejoined M. Dumas; "I shall then have time to

visit the old castle before dinner."

Punctual to the appointed hour the traveler returned, but found to his

dismay that every seat at the long table was already occupied. The host,

however, who appeared to have taken M. Dumas, even at first sight, into

his especial favor, approached him with a courteous smile, and, pointing

to a small side-table carefully laid out, said: "Here, sir, this is your

place. I had not enough of bear-steak left to supply the whole _table

d'hote_ with it; and, besides, most of my guests have tasted this bear

already, so I reserved my last steak for you: I was sure you would like

it." So saying, the good-natured host placed in the centre of the table

a fine, juicy-looking steak, smoking hot, and very tempting in

appearance; but glad would the hungry traveler have been could he only

have believed that it was a beef, and not a bear-steak, which now lay

before him. Visions of the miserable-looking animals he had seen

drowsily slumbering away existence in a menagerie, or covered with mud,

and led about by a chain, for the amusement of the multitude, presented

themselves to the traveler's eyes, and he would fain have turned away

from the proffered treat. But he could not find it in his heart to be so

ungracious as to express a dislike to food which the host evidently

considered as the choicest delicacy the country could afford. He

accordingly took his seat at the table, and cut off a small slice of the

steak; then screwing his courage to the sticking-point, and opening his

mouth wide, as if about to demolish a bolus, he heroically gulped the

dreaded morsel. _Ce n'est que le premier pas qui coute._ He had no

sooner achieved this feat than he began to think that bear-flesh was,

after all, not quite so bad a thing as he had expected. He swallowed a

second morsel. "It was really the tenderest and most juicy steak he had

ever tasted." "Are you sure this is a bear-steak?" he inquired of the

landlord.

"Yes, sir, I can assure you it is," replied the good-natured bustling

man as he hurried off to attend upon his other guests at the

_table-d'hote_. Before he returned to M. Dumas at the side-table,

three-quarters of the steak had disappeared; and, highly gratified at

finding his favorite dish was so much approved of, he renewed the

conversation by observing: "That was a famous beast, I can tell you; it

weighed three hundred and twenty pounds."

"A fine fellow indeed he must have been," rejoined the traveler.

"It cost no small trouble to kill him."

"I can well believe that," rejoined M. Dumas, at the same time raising

the last morsel to his mouth.

"He devoured half the huntsman who shot him!" added the loquacious

landlord.

Hastily flinging aside the loathed morsel which he had just placed

within his lips, the traveler indignantly exclaimed: "How dare you pass

such jokes upon a man when he is in the middle of his dinner?"

"I can assure you, sir, I am not joking," replied the landlord: "I am

only telling you the simple truth."

The traveler, whose appetite for further food of any description

whatever was by this time effectually destroyed, rose from table, and

with a look of horror, begged that the host would acquaint him with the

particulars of the tragedy which had now acquired in his eyes so painful

an interest. The good man, nothing loth to hear himself talk, yielded a

ready acquiescence to this request, and continued his story as follows:

"You must know, sir, the man who killed this bear was a poor peasant

belonging to the village of Foula, and named William Mona. This animal,

of which there now only remains the small morsel you have left upon your

plate, used to come every night and steal his pears, giving a special

preference to the fruit of one fine pear-tree laden with bergamottes.

Now it so happened that William Mona unfortunately also preferred the

bergamottes to all other fruit. He at first imagined it was some of the

children of the village who committed these depredations in his orchard,

and having consequently loaded his gun with powder only, he placed

himself in ambush that he might give them a good fright. Toward eleven

o'clock at night he heard a distant growl. 'Ho, ho!' said he, 'there is

a bear somewhere in the neighborhood.' Ten minutes afterward a second

growl was heard; but this time it was so loud and so near at hand that

he began to fear he should scarcely have time to reach a place of

refuge, and threw himself flat upon the ground, in the earnest hope that

the bear would be satisfied with taking his pears instead of devouring

himself. A few moments of anxious suspense ensued, during which the

bear, passing within ten paces of the terrified peasant, advanced in a

straight line toward the pear-tree in question. He climbed it with the

utmost agility, although its branches creaked beneath the weight of his

ponderous body; and having secured for himself a comfortable position,

committed no small havoc among the luscious bergamottes. Having gorged

himself to his heart's content, he slowly descended from the tree, and

returned in tranquil dignity toward his mountain-home. All this had

occupied about an hour, during which time had appeared to travel at a

much slower pace with the man than it did with the bear.

"William Mona was, however, at heart a brave and resolute man, and he

said to himself, as he watched his enemy's retiring steps: 'He may go

home _this_ time, if he pleases, but, Master Bruin, we shall meet

again.' The next day one of his neighbors, who came to visit him, found

him sawing up the teeth of a pitchfork, and transforming them into

slugs.

"'What are you about there?' he asked.

"'I am amusing myself,' replied William. The neighbor, taking up one of

the pieces of iron, turned it over and over in his hand, like a man who

understood such things, and then said quietly:

"'If you were to own the truth, William, you would acknowledge that

these little scraps of iron are destined to pierce a tougher skin than

that of the chamois.'

"'Perhaps they may,' replied William.

"'You know that I am an honest fellow,' resumed Francis (for so was the

neighbor called): 'well, if you choose, we will divide the bear between

us; two men in such a case are better than one.'

"'That's as it may be,' replied William, at the same time cutting his

third slug.

"'I'll tell you what,' continued Francis, 'I will leave you in full

possession of the skin, and we will only share the flesh between us,

together with the bounty offered by government for every bear that is

killed, and which will give us forty francs apiece.'

"'I should prefer having the whole myself,' replied William.

"'But you can not prevent me from seeking the bear's track in the

mountain, and placing myself in ambush on his passage.'

"'You are free to do that, if you please.' So saying, William, who had

now completed the manufacture of his slugs, began to measure out a

charge of powder double in amount to that usually placed in a carabine.

"'I see you intend to use your musket?' said Francis.

"'Yes, of course I do; three iron slugs will do their work more surely

than a leaden bullet.'

"'They will spoil the skin.'

"'Never mind that, if they do their work more effectually.'

"'And when do you intend to commence your chase?'

"'I will tell you that to-morrow.'

"'Once more, then--are you quite determined not to let me share the

chance with you?'

"'Yes, I prefer managing the whole matter myself, and sharing neither

the danger nor the profit--_chacun pour soi_.'

"'Farewell, then, neighbor--I wish you success.'

"In the evening, as Francis was passing Mona's dwelling, he saw the

huntsman quietly seated on the bench before his door, engaged in smoking

his pipe. He once more approached him and said:

"'See, I bear you no ill-will--I have discovered the bear's track,

therefore I might lie in wait for him and shoot him, if I pleased,

without your help; but I have come once more to you, to propose that we

should attack him together.'

"'Each one for himself,' replied William, as before.

"Francis knew nothing of Mona's proceedings during the remainder of that

evening, except that his wife saw him take up his musket at about

half-past ten o'clock, roll up a bag of gray sack-cloth, place it under

his arm, and leave the house. She did not venture to ask him what he was

about; for Mona, in such cases, was apt to tell her to hold her tongue,

and not trouble herself about matters which did not concern her.

"Francis had really in the mean time tracked the bear, as he had said he

would. He had followed its traces as far as the border of William's

orchard, and, not liking to trespass upon his neighbor's territory, he

then took up his post on the borders of the pine-wood which lay on the

slope of the hill overhanging Mona's garden.

"As it was a clear night, he could observe with ease from this spot all

that was going on below. He saw the huntsman leave his house, and

advance toward a gray rock, which had rolled down from the adjoining

heights into the centre of his little inclosure, and now stood at the

distance of about twenty paces from his favorite pear-tree. There Mona

paused, looked round as if to ascertain that he was quite alone,

unrolled his sack, and slipped into it, only allowing his head and his

two arms to emerge above the opening. Having thus in a great measure

concealed his person, he leaned back against the rock, and remained so

perfectly still that even his neighbor, although he knew him to be

there, could not distinguish him from the lifeless stone. A quarter of

an hour thus elapsed in patient expectation. At last a distant growl was

heard, and in less than five minutes afterward the bear appeared in

sight. But whether by accident, or whether it were that he had scented

the second huntsman, he did not on this occasion follow his usual track,

but diverging toward the right, escaped falling into the ambush which

Francis had prepared for him.

"William, in the meantime, did not stir an inch. It might have been

imagined that he did not even see the savage animal for which he was

lying in wait, and which seemed to brave him by passing so closely

within the reach of his gun. The bear, on his side, appeared quite

unconscious of an enemy's presence, and advanced with rapid strides

toward the tree. But at the moment when he rose upon his hind legs, in

order to clasp the trunk with his fore-paws, thus leaving his breast

exposed, and no longer protected by his broad and massive shoulders, a

bright flash of light illuminated the face of the rock, and the whole

valley re-echoed with the report of the doubly-loaded gun, together with

the loud howl which proceeded from the wounded animal. The bear fled

from the fatal spot, passing once more within ten paces of William

without perceiving him. The latter had now taken the additional

precaution of drawing the sack over his head, and rested motionless as

before against the face of the rock.

"Francis, with his musket in his hand, stood beneath the shelter of the

wood, a silent and breathless spectator of the scene. He is a bold

huntsman, but he owned to me that he fairly wished himself at home when

he saw the enormous animal, furious from its wound, bearing straight

down upon the spot where he stood. He made the sign of the cross (for

our hunters, sir, are pious men), commended his soul to God, and looked

to see that his gun was well loaded. Already was the bear within a few

paces of the pine-wood; in two minutes more a deadly encounter must take

place, in which Francis was well aware that either he or the bear _must_

fall, when suddenly the wounded animal paused, raised his nostrils in

the air, as if catching some scent which was borne by the breeze, and

then uttering one furious growl, he turned hastily round, and rushed

back toward the orchard.

"'Take care of yourself, William--take care!' exclaimed Francis, at the

same time darting forward in pursuit of the bear, and forgetting every

thing else in his anxiety to save his old comrade from the terrible

danger which threatened him; for he knew well that if William had not

had time to reload his gun, it was all over with him--the bear had

evidently scented him. But suddenly a fearful cry--a cry of human terror

and human agony--rent the air: it seemed as though he who uttered it had

concentrated every energy in that one wild, despairing cry--an appeal to

God and man--'Help! oh, help, help!' A dead silence ensued: not even a

single moan was heard to succeed that cry of anguish. Francis flew down

the slope with redoubled speed, and as he approached the rock, he began

yet more clearly to distinguish the huge animal, which had hitherto been

half-concealed beneath its shade, and perceived that the bear was

trampling under foot, and rending to pieces, the prostrate form of his

unfortunate assailant.

"Francis was now close at hand; but the bear, still intent upon his

prey, did not even seem aware of his presence. He did not venture to

fire, for terror and dismay had unnerved his arm, and he feared that he

might miss his aim, and perhaps shoot his unhappy friend, if indeed he

yet continued to breathe. He took up a stone and threw it at the bear.

The infuriated animal turned immediately upon this new and unexpected

foe, and raising himself upon his hind legs, prepared to give him that

formidable hug, which the experienced huntsman well knew would prove a

_last embrace_. Paralyzed with fear, his presence of mind had well-nigh

deserted him, when all of a sudden he became conscious that the animal

was pressing the point of his gun with its shaggy breast. Mechanically

almost he placed his finger upon the lock, and pulled the trigger. The

bear fell backward--the ball had this time done its work effectually. It

had pierced through his breast, and shattered the spinal bone. The

huntsman, leaving the expiring animal upon the ground, now hastened to

his comrade's side. But, alas! it was too late for human assistance to

be of any avail. The unfortunate man was so completely mutilated, that

it would have been impossible even to recognize his form. With a

sickening heart, Francis hastened to call for help; for he could

perceive by the lights which were glancing in the cottage-windows that

the unwonted noise had roused many of the villagers from their slumbers.

"Before many moments had elapsed, almost all the inhabitants of the

village were assembled in poor Mona's orchard, and his wife among the

rest. I need not describe the dismal scene. A collection was made for

the poor widow through the whole valley of the Rhone, and a sum of seven

hundred francs was thus raised. Francis insisted upon her receiving the

government bounty, and sold the flesh and the skin of the bear for her

benefit. In short, all her neighbors united to assist her to the utmost

of their power. We innkeepers also agreed to open a subscription-list at

our respective houses, in case any travelers should wish to contribute a

trifle; and in case you, sir, should be disposed to put down your name

for a small sum, I should take it as a great favor."

"Most assuredly," replied M. Dumas, as he rose from the table, and cast

a parting glance of horror at the last morsel of the bear-steak,

inwardly vowing never again to make experiments in gastronomy.

WEOVIL BISCUIT MANUFACTORY.

At Weovil, in the south of England, are produced biscuits for the royal

navy. There the motive power is a large steam-engine, whose agency is

visible in all parts of the establishment. The services of this engine

commence with the arrival of a cargo of wheat under the walls of the

building; and we should have a very imperfect notion of the ingenuity

displayed in the establishment if we did not examine some of the earlier

processes. Let us, then, begin with the beginning; and having observed

that the wheat is lifted by a steam-worked crane from the lighter to the

uppermost floor, let us descend to the floor below, and examine the

first process to which it is submitted--that of cleaning. The grain

supplied from above flows in a continual stream into one end of a

cylinder of fine wirework, about two feet in diameter and ten in length

which revolves steadily in a horizontal position. A spiral plate runs

through the interior of this cylinder, dividing it into several

sections, and thus forming a sort of Archimedean screw. The revolutions

of this cylinder carry the grain onward through its whole length, so

that in the passage any particles of dirt that may have been mixed with

it fall through the interstices of the wirework. The effectual character

of this operation is exemplified by the quantities of dirt deposited

from wheat which to all appearance was clean before entering the

cylinder; the grain thus thoroughly cleansed, descends another stage to

the grinding-room (for the wheat is ground on the premises), where ten

pairs of millstones are worked by the same steam-power. There is nothing

peculiar in the process of grinding; but the manner in which the flour

is afterward collected deserves notice. As it flows from the several

stones, it is led into horizontal troughs, along which it is propelled

by the action of perpetual screws working in each trough. The contents

of all the troughs are brought to one point, whence, by means of a

succession of plates or buckets revolving round a wheel, on the

principle of a chain-pump or dredging-machine, the flour is lifted to

the story above, where it is cooled, sifted, and put into sacks, for

removal to the bakehouse. It is not long since we observed in a

newspaper the announcement of an invention for collecting and saving the

impalpable powder, which flies off in the process of grinding corn, and

which, containing the purest portions of the flour, has hitherto been

wasted. This saving has not yet been effected at Weovil, as our whitened

appearance on leaving the millroom sufficiently testified; but

doubtless, the zeal and ingenuity that has introduced the improvements

we are describing will not stop short while any thing remains to be

done.

We now arrive at the bakehouse, the principal theatre of Mr. Grant's

ingenuity. We are in a large room on the ground floor--it may be one

hundred and twenty feet in length, lofty, and well lighted, the centre

portions of which are occupied by machinery of no very complex aspect;

and it may be a dozen men and boys slip-shod and bare-armed, are moving

here and there among it. There is no bustle, no confusion; and

notwithstanding the unceasing movements of the machinery, very little

noise. We are at once sensible that we are witnessing a scene of

well-organized industry; but we can hardly persuade ourselves that we

see the whole staff employed in converting flour into biscuit at the

rate of one hundred sacks per day. In the midst of the general activity,

the eye is caught by the figure of one man whose attitude of repose

contrasts strangely with the movements going on all round him. He seems

to have nothing to do but to lean listlessly with one or both of his

elbows on the top of a sort of box or chest, much resembling an ordinary

stable corn-bin, which stands against the wall at the left of the

entrance; yet that occupation will not account for the mealy state of

his bare arms; let us look into the bin, and see if we can discover any

thing. The bottom of it is filled with water, just above the surface of

which, extending from end to end, we see a circular shaft, armed with

iron blades, crossing it at intervals of two inches apart, and

protruding six inches or more on each side of the axle, at right angles

with it, and with each other. In one corner of the bin is the mouth of a

pipe, which, even while we look, discharges an avalanche of flour into

the water; at the same moment some invisible power causes the shaft to

revolve--slowly at first, that the light dust may not entirely blind us;

then, as the flour becomes more and more saturated with water, rapidly

and more rapidly, until the whole is thoroughly mixed up together; and

in the space of four and a half minutes, one hundred-weight of flour is

converted into dough. The revolutions of the shaft now cease, and our

hitherto inactive friend proceeds to transfer the contents of the bin to

a board placed to receive them, in masses resembling in shape Brobdignag

pieces of pulled bread. Again, we see that the surface which a moment

since was free from mark or indentation, is now scored all over in

hexagonal figures. The lower side of the plate, in fact, consists of a

bed of sharp-edged punches of hexagonal form, reminding us in appearance

of a gigantic honey-comb, which at one blow divides the dough into

single biscuits, leaving no superfluous material except the trifling

inequalities of the outer edges. Twenty-four whole biscuits, with a due

complement of halves, are cut out at one stroke, each of which is at the

same time impressed with the broad arrow of Her Most Gracious Majesty.

We now see why the old circular form of the biscuit has given way to the

hexagonal. The latter shape manifestly economizes labor in the

manufacture and space in stowage, while it is hardly more liable than

the former to waste by breakage. When it is borne in mind that before

the introduction of this machinery every single biscuit was separately

kneaded, shaped, and stamped by hand, the extent to which the productive

powers of the establishment have been increased may be imagined.

We have now arrived at the last stage of the process, and must, for a

time, lose sight of the biscuits; but we will accompany them to the

mouth of the oven. A range of nine ovens occupies one side of the

building, but only four of them are ordinarily in use. We are informed

that one man attends to two ovens. We notice that the fires by which

they are heated are continually burning in one corner of them, even

while the baking goes on; so that as soon as one batch of biscuits is

withdrawn, the floor is ready for another. A light frame, on which are

deposited the trays of biscuits as they issue from the stamp-office, is

wheeled up to the oven; the trays are transferred by the baker to the

mouth, and thence, by means of a long pole, armed with a hook, pushed to

the farthest recesses of the oven, where they are carefully ranged, side

by side, to the number of twelve, when the cargo is complete, and the

door is shut upon them. Formerly it was the work of two men to charge

the oven; one wielded the peel, which the other supplied with single

biscuits; and we have watched with much amusement the unerring accuracy

with which constant practice had enabled the latter to hit the mark from

a distance of several feet. The new mode is perhaps more prosaic: but

not only is the saving of labor great, but it is easy to conceive that

the action of the heat can be regulated with more uniformity under it

than under the tedious system of introducing and removing the biscuits

singly. In fourteen minutes the baking is completed; and thus, in

twenty-eight minutes from the first admixture with water, we have a sack

of flour weighing one hundred weight, converted into the like weight of

biscuits, fit for immediate consumption. A subsequent exposure of two or

three days to the high temperature of a room over the ovens, is all that

is required to render them fit for packing and storing. We have stated

that at present four only out of nine ovens are in use; and the hours of

working are from 7 30 A.M. to 2 P.M. Even this limited amount of work is

more than sufficient to keep up the requisite supply of bread for the

navy; and it is frequently found necessary to stop on alternate days, to

prevent the stores accumulating beyond what is desirable. If the whole

force of the establishment were set in motion, it would easily, our

guide informs us, supply 10,000 men with half a pound of meal and half a

pound of biscuit per day. The quality also of the bread is improved, by

the uniformity with which all the processes of making it are conducted

under the operation of the machinery.

We do not know whether the apparatus we have been describing is in use

in any other establishment; probably it is. There seems no reason why it

should not be brought into general operation. Though few, if any

bakeries can have to supply so large a demand as that of the Royal Navy,

there must be many of sufficient extent to make it worth while saving

labor at the cost of the machinery; and though at Weovil it is only

applied to making biscuit, the principle of it would seem applicable to

the manufacture of any kind of bread. The great labor of the baker is in

kneading. The process that effectually kneads flour and water would work

equally well if other ingredients were mixed with those primary

elements. Due regard being had to the rights of the inventor, we would

wish to see his machinery widely employed in private as well as public

establishments. It might prove a powerful ally in the cause of cheap

bread. It might also be worth the consideration of brickmakers whether

the machinery here described might not be advantageously applied to the

purposes of their business. There seems a sufficient similarity in the

two processes to render such an application of it very practicable.

MEMS FOR MUSICAL MISSES.

Sit in a simple, graceful, unconstrained posture. Never turn up the

eyes, or swing about the body: the expression you mean to give, if not

heard and felt, will never be understood by those foolish motions which

are rarely resorted to but by those who do not really feel what they

play. Brilliancy is a natural gift, but great execution may be acquired:

let it be always distinct, and however loud you wish to be, never

thump. _Practice_ in private music far more difficult than that you play

in general society, and aim more at pleasing than astonishing. Never

bore people with ugly music merely because it is the work of some famous

composer, and do not let the pieces you perform before people not

professedly scientific be too long. If you mean to play at all, do so at

once when requested: those who require much pressing are generally more

severely criticised than others who good-humoredly and unaffectedly try

to amuse the company by being promptly obliging. Never carry books about

with you unasked; learn by heart a variety of different kinds of music

to please all tastes. Be above the vulgar folly of pretending that you

can not play for dancing; for it proves only that if not disobliging,

you are stupid. The chief rule in performing this species of music is to

be strictly accurate as to time, loud enough to be heard amid the

dancers' feet, and always particularly distinct--_marking_ the time: the

more expression you give, the more life and spirit, the better will your

performance be liked: good dancers can not dance to bad music. In

waltzes the first note in the bass of every bar must be strongly

accented. In quadrilles the playing, like the dancing, must be gliding.

In reels and strathspeys the bass must _never_ be running--always

octaves--struck with a strong staccato touch; and beware of playing too

quick. In performing simple airs, which very few people can do fit to be

listened to, study the _style_ of the different nations to which the

tunes belong. Let any little grace be clearly and neatly executed, which

is never done brilliantly or well by indifferent performers of a higher

style of merit. Make proper pauses; and although you must be strictly

accurate as to time, generally speaking, it should sometimes be relaxed

to favor the expression of Irish and Scotch airs. Beware of being too

sudden and abrupt in your _nationalities_--caricaturing them as it

were--which ignorant and sometimes indeed scientific performers often

do, totally spoiling by those "quips and cranks" what would otherwise be

pleasing, and which sounds also to those who really understand the

matter very ridiculous. Do not _alter_ national airs; play them simply,

but as _full_ as you please, and vary the bass. In duets, communicate

your several ideas of the proper expression to your fellow-performer, so

that you may play into one another's hands--give and take, if I may so

express myself; and should a mistake occur, do not pursue your own

track, leaving your unfortunate companion in difficulties which will

soon involve yourself; but cover it as well as you can, and the

generality of listeners will perhaps never discover that one was made,

while the more sapient few will give you the credit you deserve.

As regards singing, practice two or three times a day, but at first not

longer than ten minutes at a time, and let one of these times be before

breakfast. Exercise the extremities of the voice, but do not dwell long

upon those notes you touch with difficulty. Open the mouth at all

times, in the higher notes especially, open it to the ears, as if

smiling. Never dwell upon consonants. Be distinct from one note to

another, yet carry them on glidingly. Never sing with the slightest cold

or sore throat. Vocalize always upon A, and be careful to put no B's

before it. Never take breath audibly. Begin to shake _slowly_ and

steadily. Practice most where the _voce di petto_ and the _voce di gola_

join, so as to attain the art of making the one glide imperceptibly into

the other. The greatest sin a singer can commit is to sing out of tune.

Be clear, but not shrill; deep, but not coarse.

When you intend to sing, read the words, and see that you understand

them, so as to give the proper expression. Let all your words be heard:

it is a great and a common fault in English singers to be indistinct.

Study flexibility. Practice both higher, louder, and lower than you sing

in public; and when practicing, open your mouth wider than it would be

graceful to do in company. Do not change the sound of the letters; sing

as like speaking as you can. It is better to sing _quite plain_ than to

make too many turns and trills: these, when attempted at all, should be

executed very neatly. Study simplicity: it is better to give no

expression than false expression. Never appear to sing with effort or

grimace; avoid affectation and every peculiarity. Never sit when you

sing, if you can possibly help it, but stand _upright_. Give more

strength in ascending than in descending. Do not suffer yourself to be

persuaded to sing soon after eating. Accidental sharps ought to be sung

with more emphasis than accidental flats. The Italian vowels _a_ and _i_

have always the same sound, but _e_ has two different ones: the first

like the _ai_ in _pain_; the other like _ea_ in _tear_, _wear_, or

_swear_. _O_ has also two sounds: one like _o_ in _tone_; the other like

the _au_ in _gaudy_. Articulate strongly your _double_ consonants when

singing French or Italian. The voice is said to be at its best at

eight-and-twenty, and to begin to decline soon after forty, when the

more you strain and try to reach the higher notes that are beginning to

fail you, the quicker you hasten the decay of your powers. Children

should never be allowed to sing much, or to strain their voices: fifteen

or sixteen is soon enough to begin to practice constantly and steadily

the two extremities of the voice; before that age, the middle notes only

should be dwelt upon, or you run the risk of _cracking_, as it is

termed, the tones. Never force the voice in damp weather, or when in the

least degree unwell; many often sing out of tune at these times who do

so at no other. Take nothing to clear the voice but a glass of cold

water; and always avoid pastry, rich cream, coffee, and cake, when you

intend to sing.

POULAILLER, THE ROBBER.

Cartouche had been arrested, tried, condemned, and executed, some seven

or eight years, and no longer occupied the attention of the good people

of Paris, to whom his almost melo-dramatic life and death had afforded

a most interesting and enduring topic. They were languishing, like the

Athenians of old, for something new, when there arose a rumor that

another robber, more dextrous, more audacious, more extraordinary, ay,

and more cruel than Cartouche, was roaming about the streets of their

city. What was his name?--whence did he come?--were questions in the

mouth of every one, as each of his numerous daring acts was made

public--questions which no one could answer.

In vain was every arm of the police put in requisition, crime after

crime was committed with impunity, and terror reigned supreme.

At last the criminal himself disdained concealment, and all Paris--nay,

a considerable portion of Europe--trembled at the name of POULAILLER.

He appeared about the year 1730, and astonished the world by deeds, some

of them so shocking, and at the same time so wonderful, that they gave

some color to the belief of many, that he was aided by supernatural

agency.

This belief was supported by a history of the circumstances attending

his birth.

There lived in a village on the coast of Brittany a man, poor but of

good repute and well-beloved by his neighbors, an intrepid mariner, but

as poor as Job himself when his friends came to comfort him. A robust

and well-knit frame, combined with a fine, frank countenance,

well-bronzed by the sea breezes, was looked on favorably by all, and by

none more than by the young lasses, whose furtive glances rested with

pleasure on the manly form and gallant bearing of Jacques Poulailler.

His strength was prodigious, and his temerity upon the ocean incredible.

Such qualities are appreciated in every country; and among the beauties

of the village, one remarkable for her superiority in wealth, as well as

natural gifts, was attracted by them, and Jacques Poulailler had the

good fortune to find favor in the eyes of her who was known in her

little world as _La belle Isabeau Colomblet_.

At no great distance from this maritime village, on the crest of a rock

lashed by the waves, which at high tides was perfectly insulated, dwelt

a personage of whose origin every one was ignorant. The building where

he had established himself had long been of evil fame throughout the

country, and was only known as _La Tour Maudite_. The firesides

resounded with tales of terror enacted in this lonely and ominous

theatre. Fiends, in the olden time, had made it their abode, as was

currently reported, and believed. From that time, it was asserted, that

no human being could dwell there without having previously entered into

a compact with the evil one. The isolation of the place, the continued

agitation of the waves at its base, the howlings of the wind around its

frowning battlements, the traces of the thunder-bolts which from time to

time had blackened and almost charred its walls, the absence of bush or

tree, or any thing in the shape of blossom or verdure--for neither

wall-flower, nor even moss, would grow there--had produced their effect

on the superstitious spirit of the neighbors, and the accursed place had

remained untenanted by any thing earthly for forty or fifty years.

One gloomy day, however, a man was seen prowling about its vicinity: he

came and went over the sands; and, just as the storm was rising, he

threw himself into a boat, gained the offing, and disappeared.

Every one believed that he was lost; but next morning there he was.

Surprised at this, the neighbors began to inquire who he could be; and,

at last, learned that he had bought the tower of the proprietor, and had

come to dwell there. This was all the information that their restless

curiosity could obtain. Whence did he come?--what had he done? In vain

were these questions asked. All were querists, and none found a

respondent. Two or three years elapsed before his name transpired. At

last it was discovered, nobody knew how, that his name was Roussart.

He appeared to be a man about six feet in height, strongly built, and

apparently about thirty years of age. His countenance was all but

handsome, and very expressive. His conduct was orderly and without

reproach, and, proving himself to be an experienced fisherman, he became

of importance in that country.

No one was more weather-wise than Roussart, and no one turned his

foreknowledge to such good account. He had been seen frequently to keep

the sea in such fearful tempests, that all agreed that he must have been

food for fishes if he had not entered into some agreement with Satan.

When the stoutest hearts quailed, and ordinary men considered it

suicidal to venture out, Roussart was to be seen braving the tumult of

winds and waves, and always returned to the harbor safe and sound.

People began to talk about this, and shook their heads ominously. Little

cared Roussart for their words or gestures; but he was the only one in

the commune who never went to church. The cure at last gave out that he

was excommunicated; and from that time his neighbors broke off all

communication with him.

Things had arrived at this point, when it was rumored in the village

that the gallant fisherman, Jacques Poulailler, had touched the heart of

_La belle Isabeau_. Soon their approaching marriage became the topic of

the village; and, finally, one Sunday, after mass, the bans were first

published by the vicar.

The lads of the village, congregated on the shore, were congratulating

Poulailler on the auspicious event, when Roussart suddenly appeared

among them.

His presence was a surprise: he had always avoided the village meetings

as much as others had sought them; and this sudden change in his habits

gave a new impulse to curiosity.

The stranger appeared to seek some one with his eyes, and presently

walked straight up to the happy Jacques, who, intoxicated with joy, was

giving and receiving innumerable shakes of the hand.

"Master Poulailler," said Roussart, "you are going to be married, then?"

"That seems sure," replied Poulailler.

"Not more sure than that your first-born will belong to the evil one. I,

Roussart, tell you so."

With that he turned on his heel, and regained his isolated dwelling,

leaving his auditors amazed at his abrupt and extraordinary

announcement, and poor Jacques more affected by it than any one else.

From that moment Roussart showed himself no more in the neighborhood,

and soon disappeared altogether, without leaving a trace to indicate

what had become of him.

Most country people are superstitious--the Bretons eminently so, and

Jacques Poulailler never forgot the sinister prophecy of Roussart. His

comrades were not more oblivious; and when, a year after his marriage,

his first-born came into the world, a universal cry saluted the infant

boy as devoted to Satan. _Donne au diable_ were the words added to the

child's name whenever it was mentioned. It is not recorded whether or no

he was born with teeth, but the gossips remarked that during the

ceremony of baptism the new-born babe gave vent to the most tearful

howlings. He writhed, he kicked, his little face exhibited the most

horrible contortions; but as soon as they carried him out of the church,

he burst out into laughter as unearthly as it was unnatural.

After these evil omens, every body expected that the little Pierre

Poulailler would be ugly and ill-formed. Not a bit of it: on the

contrary, he was comely, active, and bold. His fine, fresh complexion,

and well-furnished mouth, were set off by his brilliant black eyes and

hair, which curled naturally all over his head. But he was a sad rogue,

and something more. If an oyster-bed, a warren, or an orchard was

robbed, Pierre Poulailler was sure to be the boy accused. In vain did

his father do all that parent could to reform him: he was incorrigible.

Monsieur le cure had some difficulty to bring him to his first

communion. The master of the village exhausted his catalogue of

corrections--and the catalogue was not very short--without succeeding in

inculcating the first notions of the Christian faith and the doctrine of

the cross. "What is the good of it?" would the urchin say. "Am not I

devoted to the devil, and will not that be sufficient to make my way?"

At ten years of age, Pierre was put on board a merchant-ship, as

cabin-boy. At twelve, he robbed his captain, and escaped to England with

the spoil. In London he contrived to pass for the natural son of a

French duke; but his numerous frauds forced him again to seek his native

land, where, in his sixteenth year, he enlisted as a drummer in the

regiment of Champagne, commanded by the Count de Varicleres. Before he

had completed his eighteenth year he deserted, joined a troop of

fortune-telling gipsies, whom he left to try his fortune with a regular

pilferer, and finally engaged himself to a rope-dancer. He played

comedy, sold orvietan with the success of Doctor Dulcamara himself; and,

in a word, passed through all the degrees which lead to downright

robbery.

Once his good angel seemed to prevail. He left his disreputable

companions, and entered the army honorably. For a short time there were

hopes of him; it was thought that he would amend his life, and his

superiors were satisfied with his conduct. But the choicest weapon in

the armory of him to whom he had been devoted, was directed against him.

A _vivandiere_--the prettiest and most piquante of her tribe--raised a

flame in his heart that burnt away all other considerations; but he

might still have continued in a comparatively respectable course, if the

sergeant-major had not stood forward as his rival. The coquette had in

her heart a preference for Pierre; and, the sergeant taking advantage of

his rank, insulted his subordinate so grossly, that he was repaid by a

blow. The sergeant's blood was up, and as he rushed to attack Pierre,

the soldier, drawing his sabre, dangerously wounded his superior

officer, who, after lingering a few days, went the way of all flesh.

Pierre would have tasted the tender mercies of the provost-marshal; but

fortunately, the regiment was lying near the frontier, which our hero

contrived to cross, and then declared war against society at large.

The varied knowledge and acquirements of the youth--his courage, true as

steel, and always equal to the occasion--the prudence and foresight with

which he meditated a _coup de main_--the inconceivable rapidity of his

execution--his delicate and disinterested conduct toward his comrades

all contributed to render him famous, in the _famosus_ sense, if you

will, and to raise him to the first place.

Germany was the scene of his first exploits. The world had condemned him

to death, and he condemned the world to subscribe to his living.

At this period, he had posted himself in ambush on the crest of a hill,

whence his eye could command a great extent of country; and certainly

the elegance of his mien, his graceful bearing, and the splendor of his

arms, might well excuse those who did not take him for what he really

was. He was on the hill-side when two beautiful young women appeared in

sight. He lost no time in joining them; and, as youth is communicative,

soon learnt, in answer to his questions, that, tired of remaining in the

carriage, they had determined to ascend the hill on foot.

"You are before the carriage, then, mademoiselle?"

"Yes, sir; can not you hear the whip of the postillions?"

The conversation soon became animated, and every moment made a deeper

inroad into the heart of our handsome brigand: but every moment also

made the situation more critical. On the other side of the hill was the

whole band ranged in order of battle, and ready to pounce upon the

travelers. Having ascertained the place of abode of his fair companions,

and promised to avail himself of the first opportunity to pay his

compliments to them there, he bade them politely adieu, and having

gained a path cut through the living rock, known but to few, descended

with the agility of a chamois to his party whom he implored not to

attack the carriage which was approaching.

But if Poulailler had his reasons for this chivalrous conduct, his band

were actuated by no such motives, and they demurred to his prayer. He at

once conquered their hesitation by bidding them name the value that they

put on their expected booty, purchased the safety of the travelers by

the sum named, and the two fair daughters of the Baron von Kirbergen

went on their way full of the praises of the handsome stranger whose

acquaintance they had made, and in blissful ignorance of the peril they

had passed.

That very day, Poulailler left his lieutenant in the temporary command

of the band, mounted his most beautiful horse, followed his beloved to

the castle of her father, and introduced himself as the Count Petrucci

of Sienna, whom he had lately robbed, and whose papers he had taken care

to retain, with an eye to future business.

His assumed name, backed by his credentials, secured for him a favorable

reception, and he well knew how to improve the occasion. An accomplished

rider, and bold in the chase, he won the good opinion of the baron;

while his musical and conversational talent made him the pet of the

drawing-room. The young and charming Wilhelmina surrendered her heart to

the gay and amiable cavalier; and all went merrily, till one fine

morning Fortune, whose wheel is never stationary, sent the true count to

the castle. It was no case of the two Sosias, for no two persons could

well be more unlike; and as soon as the real personage saw his

representative, he recognized him as the robber who had stolen his purse

as well as his name.

Here was a pretty business. Most adventurers would have thrown up the

game as desperate; but our hero, with a front worthy of Fathom himself,

boldly proclaimed the last visitor to be an impostor, and argued the

case so ably, and with such well-simulated indignation at the audacity

of the new-comer, that the baron was staggered, and dispatched

messengers to the partners of a mercantile house at Florence, to whom

the true Petrucci was well known.

To wait for the result of the inquiry would have been a folly of which

Poulailler was not likely to be guilty; so he made a moonlight flitting

of it that very night--but not alone. Poor Wilhelmina had cast in her

lot with her lover for good or for evil, and fled with him.

The confusion that reigned in the best of all possible castles, the next

morning, may be conceived; but we must leave the baron blaspheming, and

the baroness in hysterics, to follow the fugitives, who gained France in

safety, and were soon lost in the labyrinths of Paris.

There he was soon joined by his band, to the great loss and terror of

the honest people of the good city. Every day, M. Herault, the

lieutenant of police, was saluted by new cases of robbery and violence,

which his ablest officers could neither prevent nor punish. The

organization of the band was so complete, and the head so ably directed

the hands, that neither life nor property was considered safe from one

moment to another. Nor were accounts of the generosity of the chief

occasionally wanting to add to his fame.

One night, as Poulailler was traversing the roofs with the agility of a

cat, for the purpose of entering a house whose usual inmates were gone

into the country, he passed the window of a garret whence issued a

melancholy concert of sobs and moans. He stopped, and approached the

apartment of a helpless family, without resources, without bread, and

suffering the pangs of hunger. Touched by their distress, and

remembering his own similar sufferings before Fortune favored him, he

was about to throw his purse among them, when the door of the chamber

opened violently, and a man, apparently beside himself, rushed in with a

handful of gold, which he cast upon the floor.

"There," cried he, in a voice broken by emotion--"there, take--buy--eat;

but it will cost you dear. I pay for it with my honor and peace of mind.

Baffled in all my attempts to procure food for you honestly, I was on my

despairing return, when I beheld, at a short distance from me, a tall,

but slight-made man, who walked hurriedly, but yet with an air as if he

expected some one. Ah! thought I, this is some lover; and yielding to

the temptation of the fiend, I seized him by the collar. The poor

creature was terrified, and, begging for mercy, put into my hands this

watch, two gold snuff-boxes, and those louis, and fled. There they are;

they will cost me my life. I shall never survive this infamy."

The starving wife re-echoed these sentiments, and even the hungry

children joined in the lamentations of the miserable father.

All this touched Pierre to the quick. To the great terror of the family,

he entered the room, and stood in the midst.

"Be comforted," said he to the astonished husband; "you have robbed a

robber. The infamous coward who gave up to you this plunder, is one of

Poulailler's sentinels. Keep it; it is yours."

"But who are you?" cried the husband and wife; "who are you, and by what

right is it that you thus dispose of the goods of another?"

"By the right of a chief over his subalterns. I am Poulailler."

The poor family fell on their knees, and asked what they could do for

him.

"Give me a light," said Pierre, "that I may get down into the street

without breaking my neck."

This reminds one of the answer which Rousseau gave to the Duc de

Praslin, whose Danish dog, as it was running before the carriage, had

upset the peripatetic philosopher.

"What can I do for you?" said the duke to the fallen author of _La

Nouvelle Heloise_, whose person he did not know.

"You can tie up your dog," replied Jean-Jacques, gathering himself up,

and walking away.

Poulailler having done his best to render a worthy family happy, went

his way, to inflict condign punishment on the poltroon who had so

readily given up the purse and the watches.

The adventures of this accomplished robber were so numerous and

marvelous, that it is rather difficult to make a selection. One evening,

at the _bal de l'Opera_, he made the acquaintance of a charming woman,

who, at first, all indignation, was at length induced to listen to his

proposal, that he should see her home; and promised to admit him, "if

Monseigneur should not be there."

"But who is this Monseigneur?" inquired Pierre.

"Don't ask," replied the fair lady.

"Who is he, fairest?"

"Well, how curious you are; you make me tell all my secrets. If you must

know, he is a prince of the church, out of whose revenues he supports

me; and I can not but show my gratitude to him."

"Certainly not; he seems to have claims which ought to be attended to."

By this time they had arrived at an elegantly furnished house, which they

entered, the lady having ascertained that the coast was clear; and

Poulailler had just installed himself, when up drove a

carriage--Monseigneur in person.

The beauty, in a state of distraction, threw herself at the feet of her

spark, and implored him to pass into a back cabinet. Poulailler obeyed,

and had hardly reached his hiding-place, when he beheld, through the

glazed door, Monseigneur, who had gone to his Semele in all his

apostolical magnificence. A large and splendid cross of diamonds,

perfect in water, shot dazzling rays from his breast, where it was

suspended by a chain of cat's-eyes, of great price, set in gold; the

button and loop of his hat blazed with other precious stones; and his

fingers sparkled with rings, whose brilliants were even greater and more

beautiful than those that formed the constellation of his cross.

It is very seldom that the human heart, however capacious, has room for

two grand passions in activity at the same time. In this instance,

Poulailler no sooner beheld the rich and tempting sight, than he found

that the god of Love was shaking his wings and flying from his bosom,

and that the demon of Cupidity was taking the place of the more

disinterested deity. He rushed from his hiding-place, and presented

himself to the astonished prelate with a poniard in one hand and a

pistol in the other, both of which he held to the sacred breast in the

presence of the distracted lady. The bishop had not learned to be

careless of life, and had sufficient self-possession in his terror not

to move, lest he should compromise his safety, while Poulailler

proceeded to strip him with a dexterity that practice had rendered

perfect. Diamonds, precious stones, gold, coined and ornamental, rings,

watch, snuff-box, and purse, were transferred from the priest to the

robber with marvelous celerity; then turning to the lady, he made her

open the casket which contained the price of her favors, and left the

house with the plunder and such a laugh as those only revel in who win.

The lieutenant of police began to take the tremendous success of our

hero to heart, and in his despair at the increasing audacity of the

robber, caused it to be spread among his spies, archers, and sergeants,

that he who should bring Poulailler before him should be rewarded with

one hundred pistoles, in addition to a place of two thousand livres a

year.

M. Herault was seated comfortably at his breakfast, when the Count de

Villeneuve was announced. This name was--perhaps is--principally borne

by two celebrated families of Provence and Languedoc. M. Herault

instantly rose and passed into his cabinet, where he beheld a personage

of good mien, dressed to perfection, with as much luxury as taste, who

in the best manner requested a private interview. Orders were

immediately issued that no one should venture to approach till the bell

was rung; and a valet was placed as a sentinel in an adjoining gallery

to prevent the possibility of interruption.

"Well, Monsieur le Compte, what is your business with me?"

"Oh, a trifle; merely a thousand pistoles, which I am about to take

myself from your strong box, in lieu of the hundred pistoles and the

snug place which you have promised to him who would gratify you by

Poulailler's presence. I am Poulailler, who will dispatch you to the

police of the other world with this poisoned dagger, if you raise your

voice or attempt to defend yourself. Nay, stir not--a scratch is

mortal."

Having delivered himself of this address, the audacious personage drew

from his pockets some fine but strong whipcord, well hackled and

twisted, and proceeded to bind the lieutenant of police hand and foot,

finishing by making him fast to the lock of the door. Then the robber

proceeded to open the lieutenant's secretaire, the drawers of which he

well rummaged, and having filled his pockets with the gold which he

found there, turned to the discomfited lieutenant with a profound bow,

and after a request that he would not take the trouble to show him out,

quietly took his departure.

There are some situations so confounding, that they paralyze the

faculties for a time; and the magistrate was so overcome by his

misfortune, that, instead of calling for aid, as he might have done when

the robber left him, he set to work with his teeth in vain endeavors to

disengage himself from the bonds which held him fast. An hour elapsed

before any one ventured to disturb M. Herault, who was found in a rage

to be imagined, but not described, at this daring act. The loss was the

least part of the annoyance A cloud of epigrams flew about, and the

streets resounded with the songs celebrating Poulailler's triumph and

the defeat of the unfortunate magistrate, who dared not for some time to

go into society, where he was sure to find a laugh at his expense.

But ready as the good people of Paris were with their ridicule, _they_

were by no means at their ease. The depredations of Poulailler increased

with his audacity, and people were afraid to venture into the streets

after nightfall. As soon as the last rays of the setting sun fell on the

Boulevards, the busy crowds began to depart; and when that day-star sank

below the horizon, they were deserted. Nobody felt safe.

The Hotel de Brienne was guarded like a fortress; but difficulty seemed

to give additional zest to Poulailler. Into this hotel he was determined

to penetrate, and into it he got. While the carriage of the Princess of

Lorraine was waiting at the opera, he contrived to fix leathern bands,

with screws, under the outside of the bottom of the body, while his

associates were treating the coachman and footman at a _cabaret_,

slipped under the carriage in the confusion of the surrounding crowd

when it drew up to the door of the theatre, and, depending on the

strength of his powerful wrists, held on underneath, and was carried

into the hotel under the very nose of the Swiss Cerberus.

When the stable-servants were all safe in their beds, Poulailler quitted

his painful hiding-place, where the power of his muscles and sinews had

been so severely tested, and mounted into the hay-loft, where he

remained concealed three nights and four days, sustaining himself on

cakes of chocolate. No one loved good cheer better than he, or indulged

more in the pleasures of the table; but he made himself a slave to

nothing, save the inordinate desire of other men's goods, and patiently

contented himself with what would keep body and soul together till he

was enabled to make his grand _coup_.

At last, Madame de Brienne went in all her glory to the Princess de

Marsan's ball, and nearly all the domestics took advantage of the

absence of their mistress to leave the hotel in pursuit of their own

pleasures. Poulailler then descended from the hay-loft, made his way to

the noble dame's cabinet, forced her secretaire, and possessed himself

of two thousand louis d'or and a portfolio, which he doubtless wished to

examine at his ease; for, two days afterward, he sent it back (finding

it furnished with such securities only as he could not negotiate with

safety), and a polite note signed with his name, in which he begged the

princess graciously to receive the restitution, and to accept the

excuses of one who, had he not been sorely pressed for the moderate sum

which he had ventured to take, would never have thought of depriving the

illustrious lady of it; adding, that when he was in cash, he should be

delighted to lend her double the amount, should her occasions require

it.

This impudent missive was lauded as a marvel of good taste at

Versailles, where, for a whole week, every one talked of the consummate

cleverness, and exquisite gallantry of the _Chevalier_ de Poulailler.

This title of honor stuck, and his fame seemed to inspire him with

additional ardor and address. His affairs having led him to Cambray, he

happened to have for a traveling companion, the dean of a well-known

noble Belgian chapter. The conversation rolled on the notorieties of the

day, and Poulailler was a more interesting theme than the weather. But

our chevalier was destined to listen to observations that did not much

flatter his self-esteem, for the dean, so far from allowing him any

merit whatever as a brigand, characterized him as an infamous and

miserable cut-purse, adding, that at his first and approaching visit to

Paris, he would make it his business to see the lieutenant of police,

and reproach him with the small pains he took to lay so vile a scoundrel

by the heels.

The journey passed off without the occurrence of any thing remarkable;

but, about a month after this colloquy, M. Herault received a letter,

informing him, that on the previous evening, M. de Potter,

_chanoine-doyen_ of the noble chapter of Brussels, had been robbed and

murdered by Poulailler, who, clad in the habits of his victim, and

furnished with his papers, would enter the barrier St. Martin. This

letter purported to be written by one of his accomplices, who had come

to the determination of denouncing him, in the hope of obtaining pardon.

The horror of M. Herault at the death of this dignified ecclesiastic,

who was personally unknown to him, was, if the truth must be told,

merged in the delight which that magistrate felt in the near prospect of

avenging society and himself on this daring criminal. A cloud of police

officers hovered in ambush at each of the barriers, and especially at

that which bore the name of the saint who divided his cloak with the

poor pilgrim, with directions to seize and bring into the presence of M.

Herault a man habited as an ecclesiastic, and with the papers of the

dean of the Brussels chapter. Toward evening the Lille coach arrived,

was surrounded, and escorted to the hotel des Messageries; and, at the

moment when the passengers descended, the officers pounced upon the

personage whose appearance and vestments corresponded with their

instructions.

The resistance made by this personage only sharpened the zeal of the

officers who seized him, and, in spite of his remonstrances and cries,

carried him to the hotel of the police, where M. Herault was prepared

with the proofs of Poulailler's crimes. Two worthy citizens of Brussels

were there, anxious to see the murderer of their friend, the worthy

ecclesiastic, whose loss they so much deplored: but what was their joy,

and, it must be added, the disappointment of M. Herault, when the

supposed criminal turned out to be no other than the good Dean de Potter

himself, safe and sound, but not a little indignant at the outrage which

he had sustained. Though a man of peace, his ire so far ruffled a

generally calm temper, that he could not help asking M. Herault whether

Poulailler (from whom a second letter now arrived, laughing at their

beards) or he, M. Herault, was the chief director of the police?

William of Deloraine, good at need--

By wily turns, by desperate bounds,

Had baffled Percy's best bloodhounds.

Five times outlawed had he been,

By England's king and Scotland's queen.

But he was never taken, and had no occasion for his

neck-verse at Hairibee,

even if he could have read it. Poulailler was arrested no less than five

times, and five times did he break his bonds. Like Jack Sheppard and

Claude Du Vall, he owed his escape in most instances to the frail fair

ones, who would have dared any thing in favor of their favorite, and

who, in Jack's case, joined on one occasion without jealousy in a

successful effort to save him.

Poulailler was quite as much the pet of the petticoats as either of

these hempen heroes. With a fine person and accomplished address, he

came, saw, and overcame, in more instances than that of the fair

daughter of the Baron von Kirbergen; but, unlike John Sheppard or Claude

Du Vall, Poulailler was cruel. Villains as they were, John and Claude

behaved well, after their fashion, to those whom they robbed, and to the

unhappy women with whom they associated. In their case, the "ladies" did

their utmost to save them, and men were not wanting who endeavored to

obtain a remission of their sentence. But Poulailler owed his fall to a

woman whom he had ruined, ill-treated, and scorned. The ruin and

ill-treatment she bore, as the women, poor things, will bear such

atrocities; but the scorn roused all the fury which the poets, Latin and

English, have written of; and his cruelties were so flagrant, that he

could find no man to say, "God bless him."

Wilhelmina von Kirbergen had twice narrowly escaped from a violent

death. Poulailler, in his capricious wrath, once stabbed her with such

murderous will, that she lay a long time on the verge of the grave, and

then recovered to have the strength of her constitution tried by the

strength of a poison which he had administered to her in insufficient

quantities. Henry the Eighth forwarded his wives, when he was tired of

them, to the other world, by form of what was, in his time, English law;

but when Poulailler "felt the fullness of satiety," he got rid of his

mistresses by a much more summary process. But it was not till this

accomplished scoundrel openly left Wilhelmina for a younger and more

beautiful woman, that she, who had given up station, family, and

friends, to link herself with his degrading life, abandoned herself to

revenge.

She wrote to him whom she had loved so long and truly, to implore that

they might once more meet before they parted in peace forever.

Poulailler, too happy to be freed on such terms, accepted her

invitation, and was received so warmly, that he half repented his

villainous conduct, and felt a return of his youthful affection. A

splendid supper gave zest to their animated conversation; but toward the

end of it Poulailler observed a sudden change in his companion, who

manifested evident symptoms of suffering. Poulailler anxiously inquired

the cause.

"Not much," said she; "a mere trifle. I have poisoned myself, that I may

not survive you."

"Quoi! coquine, m'aurais-tu fait aussi avaler le boucon?" cried the

terrified robber.

"That would not have sufficiently avenged me. Your death would have been

too easy. No, my friend, you will leave this place safe and well; but it

will be to finish the night at the Conciergerie; and, to-morrow, as they

will only have to prove your identity, you will finish your career on

the wheel in the Place de Greve."

So saying, she clapped her hands, and, in an instant, before he had time

to move, the Philistines were upon him. Archers and other officers

swarmed from the hangings, door, and windows. For a few moments,

surrounded as he was, his indomitable courage seemed to render the issue

doubtful; but what could one man do against a host armed to the teeth?

He was overpowered, notwithstanding his brave and vigorous resistance.

His death, however, was not so speedy as his wretched mistress

prophesied that it would be. The love of life prevailed, and in the hope

of gaining time which he might turn to account in effecting his escape,

he promised to make revelations of consequence to the state. The

authorities soon found out that he was trifling with them, and the

_procureur-general,_ after having caused him to be submitted to the most

excruciating torture, left him to be broken on the wheel alive. He was

executed with all the accursed refinement of barbarity which disgraced

the times; and his tormentors, at last, put the finishing stroke to his

prolonged agonies, by throwing him alive into the fire that blazed at

his feet.

Nothing can justify such penal atrocities. If any thing could,

Poulailler, it must be admitted, had wrought hard to bring down upon

himself the whole sharpness of the law of retaliation. Upward of one

hundred and fifty persons had been murdered by him and his band.

Resistance seemed to rouse in him and them the fury of devils. Nor was

it only on such occasions that his murderous propensities were glutted.

At the village of St. Martin, he caused the father, the mother, two

brothers, a newly-married sister, her husband, and four relations, or

friends, to be butchered in cold blood.

One of his band was detected in an attempt to betray him. Poulailler had

him led to a cellar. The traitor was placed upright in an angle of the

wall, gagged, and there they built him in alive. Poulailler, with his

own hand, wrote the sentence and epitaph of the wretch on the soft

plaster; and there it was found some years afterward, when the cellar in

which this diabolical act of vengeance was perpetrated passed into the

hands of a new proprietor.

It was current in the country where Poulailler first saw the light, and

where his father, mother, brethren, and sisters still lived an honorable

life, embittered only by the horrible celebrity of their relation, that,

on the night which followed the day of Pierre's execution, the isolated

tower, which had been uninhabited since its last occupier so

mysteriously disappeared, seemed all on fire, every window remaining

illuminated by the glowing element till morning dawned. During this

fearful nocturnal spectacle, it was affirmed, that infernal howlings and

harrowing cries proceeded from the apparently burning mass, and some

peasants declared that they heard Pierre Poulailler's name shouted from

the midst of the flames in a voice of thunder.

The dawn showed the lonely tower unscathed by fire, but a fearful

tempest arose, and raged with ceaseless fury for thrice twenty-four

hours. The violence of the hurricane was such, that it was impossible

during that time for any vessel to keep the sea; and when at length the

storm subsided, the coast was covered with pieces of wreck, while the

waves continued for many days to give up their dead at the base of the

rock, from whose crest frowned _La Tour Maudite_.

SCIENTIFIC FANTASIES.

A RE-INSTALLATION AND A DRAMA.

[Translated from Berthoud by B. Harrison.]

I.

With animals it is the same as with men; some enjoy an unmerited

reputation, while others find themselves the subjects of an undeserved

opprobrium.

Among the victims of popular prejudice, I would mention the Toad.

Yes! at this name alone, you begin to exclaim against the ugliness of

the animal, the venom he ejaculates, and a thousand other calumnies with

which the poor beast is very unjustly charged.

I will not seek to disguise the fact--granted, the toad is ugly; but,

then, I do not think that ugliness hinders those who are afflicted with

it from possessing a crowd of excellent qualities and virtues. The negro

Eustache and M. de Monthyon were not handsome, and yet the former, with

the acclamations of all France, has been crowned by the Academy; the

latter has consecrated his immense fortune to charitable institutions.

We could further cite, in support of our opinion, a great number of

politicians, nay even of artists, who have attained renown far otherwise

than by the regularity of their features or by their personal

attractions; but we would not pain any one.

Now, as to the toad, though he is ugly and calumniated he does not the

less possess a multitude of domestic virtues, which ought to place him

far higher in the esteem of impartial persons, than the dove, whom we

cite so often as a model of tenderness, yet who, let it be noticed in

passing, employs one half of her life in quarreling with her mate, and

the other in exchanging with him blows of the beak, often bloody.

If you doubt the truth of my assertions, be kind enough to follow me

into the forest of Meudon, where toads are found in greater abundance

perhaps than any where else in the environs of Paris.

And first, do you hear in the distance that strange chant which is not

wanting in melody and charm, when it rises afar in the air, like the

plaint of love? That little cry, flute-like, short, monotonous, repeated

several times in succession, at brief intervals, varies in such a

manner, that one seems to hear it retire and approach on one side or

another, like the sound of a trumpet by which the motions of a flag are

directed. The greater part of the time one can not determine whence

proceeds this strange music, often attributed to some bird, and without

our being willing to acknowledge the obscure and unknown singer who

produces it. It is the announcement of the betrothal--it is the

love-song of the Batrachian.

Never was love more sincere, or more devoted. When once the toad has

pledged his faith to a spouse, not only does he exhibit toward her a

romantic fidelity, but he, moreover, protects her at the peril, and

often even at the sacrifice of his life. If any one attacks a female,

the male rushes in front of the aggressor, provokes him swells himself

out in sign of defiance, and endeavors to irritate him, in order to give

his companion time to fly, and take refuge in a safe asylum.

If, on the other hand, nothing disturbs him, he quits not his spouse for

a moment; he surrounds her with anxious and tender attentions, lays

before her the most delicate morsels of the prey he hunts for her, only

eats after she has finished, and altogether acts in a manner, that might

make many a Parisian husband blush. Further, he is fiery, jealous; he

permits no rival to approach her to whom he is united. Woe to the

audacious one who would seek to win her affection! almost invariably he

pays with his life for his impudent endeavors.

This model husband, when he becomes a father has no less tenderness for

his children than for their mother. When the hour, dear to the ancient

Lucina, arrives, it is he who performs for his companion, the tender

duties of the occasion; he takes the eggs in his arms, and places them

along the body of the female, to which they remain attached till the

period of hatching.

At this epoch alone, the female approaches the water, in it she deposits

her eggs, and therein the eggs undergo the different transformations

peculiar to the Batrachians. Then the double mission of father and

mother is ended.

You see, that in writing an eulogium on the toad, and in seeking to

_re-install_ him in public favor, we have not been utopian.

Besides, the toad is a very sociable animal, and readily becomes the

companion and the friend of man. Often, he establishes his dwelling in

our houses. Pennant relates the history of a toad, who took up his abode

under a staircase, and who, every evening as soon as he saw the lights,

came into the dining-room. He suffered himself to be taken up and

placed on the table, where they fed him with worms, flies, and

wood-lice. He took these insects delicately, inflated himself to express

his gratitude, and knew very well how to ask them to put him on the

table, when they pretended not to be willing to do so. This toad lived

thirty-six years, and then was the victim of an accident.

II.

Another being, no less contemptuously regarded than the toad, is the

spider; and yet the study of the spider's habits, would render him, who

gave himself up to it, witness of fantastic and tragic dramas, often of

a nature to throw into the shade all that our gloomiest melodramatists

invent, even of the most sinister and most affecting kind.

One day, a spider fell into a large glass vase, forgotten for a long

time in a library. How, and by what course of peripatetics this accident

happened, I know not. I can only tell you, that it was a large domestic

spider, with an enormous oval abdomen, and its back of a blackish color,

on which were marked two longitudinal lines of yellow spots. The animal

caught in this transparent snare, as a wolf in a pitfall, set to work,

running round the bottom of the vase, with all the speed his eight legs

could achieve.

When he had satisfied himself that no outlet was to be found on the

ground-floor, he attempted to scale the glassy sides, which formed

around him a circle of slippery and invisible walls; but his claws,

sharp and bent like the tiger's, slipped on the hard, bare crystal, and

after a quarter of an hour spent in the useless struggle, he fell back

fatigued, discouraged, and panting into the middle of the vase. There he

rolled and gathered his limbs together, resigned to die, as a gladiator

of old kneeled in the midst of the arena, when he saw the Roman ladies

raise their white hands and depress their delicate thumbs, to demand the

death of the victim.

A witness of the captive's efforts, feeling curious to know what would

be the other acts of the drama now begun, took the glass vase and placed

it in his cabinet, where there was the least light, so that he might be

able to watch the spider without disturbing it.

The latter remained immovable, rolled up, and dead to all appearance,

until night closed in. Then, the observer, carelessly stretched in his

easy chair, heard a movement, imperceptible, but which sounded at the

bottom of the vase. He drew near to it with a light--immediately the

spider feigned death. He was obliged, therefore, for that evening, to

give up knowing all that took place, and the prisoner remained free from

_surveillance_ till the next day morning.

Then it was seen that the bottom of the vase was diapered all round, and

about an inch up, with myriads of little whitish points, placed at

distances almost geometrically regular. The spider slept in the middle.

The next day silver threads were found, starting from each of these

points to those opposite; these formed the warp of the web. The third

day, the woof enlaced the threads of the warp, and thus a vast net was

made to outstretch above the bottom of the glass vase; and some threads,

arranged at equal distances, fixed this elastic floor, and rendered it

firm.

The spider, notwithstanding these gigantic labors, remained still in

view, and wanted a dwelling. It had indeed a floor, or rather a carpet,

on which it could walk without wearing or breaking its claws; the nets

for hunting were stretched, but there was need of an apartment where it

could find shelter and concealment, besides, it had no bed to sleep on.

With difficulty and unheard-of trouble, it succeeded in fixing, at some

distance above the net, thirty of the white points, of which I told you

before. These served as fixtures for a roof, which was constructed down

to the net, rounded, fashioned little by little like a horn, furnished

with threads finer, silkier, more closely woven, and more deeply

colored, and thus became a nest impenetrable to the eye, and impervious

to moisture. Some drops of water poured on this dwelling glided down its

walls without penetrating them the least in the world, fell in trembling

pearls through the net, and stopped at the bottom of the vase, where

they evaporated.

The spider had drawn the threads, which an approximative calculation

might estimate, without exaggeration, at two thousand feet in length,

from six spinners attached to the abdomen, and which secrete a grayish

fluid, instantly transformed, by contact with the air, into silky

threads, and of astonishing strength, if we consider their tenuity! A

single spider's-thread, if not broken by a shock, will sustain a weight

of 270 grains!

Once his establishment finished, the spider took to passing the days and

nights on the threshold of his dwelling, waiting with unexampled

patience until chance should bring him some prey. This, however, did not

happen; flies were yet scarce, and there was nothing in the vase of a

kind to attract them. Two months rolled by, during which the poor animal

grew remarkably thin.

At last, one day, moved by compassion, the observer threw a fly to the

famished creature. The little insect fell on the net, caught its wings

in the invisible meshes, which covered the principal tissue, and

struggled violently. Immediately the spider ran up, quickly but heavily,

seized its prey with its eight feet at once, griped it with its

formidable jaws, shaped like a hook, and dragged the body into his nest.

An hour after he brought out of his house the remains of the fly, and

threw them into the obscurest corner, the one most distant from his web,

nor did he leave them without covering them with tissue, so as to hide

entirely from sight the aspect of his charnel-house. Thus Brutus cast

his mantle over the body of Caesar.

Every day, at the same hour, the observer threw a fly into the vase. It

was not long before he perceived that the spider, as soon as the time

for its repast arrived, came out of its retreat, advanced over the web,

watched for the fall of the fly, and was no more frightened at the

movement, which before caused it to fly and return to its dwelling, when

the provider's hand brought its dinner.

A short time later, instead of waiting until he had withdrawn, it ran

immediately and with boldness to the fly, and did not even take the

trouble to drag it within to eat it. Curious to know how far this

familiarity might be carried, he took a fly by one of its wings and

presented it to the spider. The first time it returned frightened to its

nest, and remained there closely concealed; but the next day, pressed by

hunger, it rushed on the fly with the speed of an arrow, seized it, and

hurried away with it to the recesses of its apartments. Once and again

and again, the observer repeated this trial. At the end of this time,

the spider fed on the fly in the fingers of the observer. It went so far

even as to come out of the vase by the help of the finger its master

presented. Thus free, it ran along the wrist, the arm, and the breast of

the naturalist to get a fly which he held in his other hand as far off

as possible.

The observer took a lively interest in his pensioner, and loved it

almost as much as Pelisson did his. He procured then some books on

natural history, in order to find out to which sex the spider of the

glass vase belonged. He ascertained that it was a female by the filiform

pulps which were lengthened near her jaws, and by the legs of the thorax

being shorter and broader than those of the abdomen. Having made this

discovery, he resolved to marry the recluse, and for this purpose sought

a male of handsome appearance and worthy of the tenderness of so lovely

a conquest. He had little difficulty; for it was spring time, and love

moved the Arachnides as well as the rest of nature.

Once in possession of a fine male with pulps well swelled, limbs long

and slender, eight bright eyes, and a conquering and off-hand address,

he brought it in triumph to his guest. He laid him softly on the web, at

the extremity opposite the spider's nest, and withdrew to a little

distance, yet so that he could still observe all that took place.

Soon he saw the coquette come out of her boudoir, and advance toward the

stranger with that voluptuous movement which imparts such a lively charm

to the walk of Spanish ladies, and which Fanny Ellsler reproduced with

so much grace, poetry, and felicity in those days, already growing

distant, when she danced at the Opera. I assure you that to see her

thus, this hideous creature was beautiful, gilded by the glorious beams

of her passion, and glistening with the halo of love. For his part, the

male did not show himself awkward, but made proof of his fashion and

gallantry his fore-feet caressed in a subduing manner the demi-curves

formed by his legs; a sub-lieutenant of hussars could not put more

foppery into the twisting of the conquering bends of his curled

mustache. He advanced toward her at a rapid pace, stamping with his

feet, strutting, fluttering; the lady recoiled and fled, but in such a

manner as to let him divine that she wished to be followed. The happy

lover sped on after her retreating steps. Nevertheless he began to

exhibit a singular reserve and fear, the evidence of which, however, was

unmistakable. On her part, the female waited for him with a cunning

which gave her eyes a strange expression. At length she turned her head

and walked right before him, preoccupied as it appeared, in getting rid

of some threads in which her feet were caught.

Then the male bounded on her, seized her in his arms, gave her a kiss,

and took to flight--she turned. It was no longer a bold coquette that

walked, it was a lioness that chases her prey; it was Diana before

Actaeon. The male, all trembling, sought to fly; he attempted to climb

the sides of the vase. Vain efforts! Margaret of Burgundy advanced to

her victim; fascinated him; stopped him. The unfortunate one betook

himself to a corner trembling. She, her claw high and threatening as a

poinard, struck him, slew him, and, after having contemplated him, who

was but ere now her husband, she devoured him.

The observer, curious to learn the motives of so much barbarity, wished

to ascertain if the death of the poor male was the chastisement of a

personal fault, or the result of a system of assassination. He therefore

put another male into the vase. Alas! no room was left for doubt! the

crime of this cruel wife was without excuse, without extenuating

circumstances; the most humane jury must have condemned her with all the

aggravations foreseen by the law! The second victim shared the same fate

as the first. To this wretch, murder was a necessity after love. During

a whole month she lived on the corpses of her husbands.

While this month rolled on she was contented with devouring nothing but

the male spiders, which were thrown in. Soon after, however, she found

this dish palling and insipid, refused to eat, but not to kill them, and

returned to flies with an evident pleasure.

Notwithstanding so many murders, the spider continued always to lead a

peaceful life, undisturbed by remorse, in her vase of glass.

One day the window of the apartment, where the vase was, was left open;

a swallow entered the room, saw the spider, and with a single blow of

his beak, avenged all the victims of the murderess, so well, that the

vase was found and may to this day be found empty and without a guest.

We promised you _a re-installation and a drama_! Have we not kept our

promise?

THE HOUSEHOLD OF SIR THOS. MORE.

[Continued from the August Number.]

LIBELLUS A MARGARETA MORE, QUINDECIM ANNOS NATA, CHELSEIAE INCEPTVS.

"Nulla dies sine linea."

Who coulde have thoughte that those ripe grapes whereof dear Gaffer ate

soe plentifullie, should have ended his dayes? This event hath filled ye

house with mourning. He had us all about his bed to receive his

blessing; and 'twas piteous to see father fall upon his face, as Joseph

on the face of Jacob, and weep upon him and kiss him. Like Jacob, my

grandsire lived to see his well-beloved son attain to ye height of

earthlie glory, his heart unspoyled and untouched.

* * * * *

The days of mourning for my grandsire are at an end; yet father still

goeth heavilie. This forenoon, looking forthe of my lattice, I saw him

walking along the river side, his arm cast about Will's neck; and 'twas

a dearer sight to my soul than to see the king walking there with his

arm around father's neck. They seemed in such earnest converse, that I

was avised to ask Will, afterwards, what they had been saying. He told

me that, after much friendly chat together on this and that, father fell

into a muse, and presently, fetching a deep sigh, says:

"Would to God, son Roper, on condition three things were well

established in Christendom, I were put into a sack, and cast presently

into the Thames." Will sayth:

"What three soe great things can they be, father, as to move you to such

a wish?"

"In faith, Will," answers he, "they be these: First, that whereas the

most part of Christian princes be at war, they were at universal peace.

Next, that whereas the Church of Christ is at present sore afflicted

with divers errors and heresies, it were well settled in a godly

uniformity. Last, that this matter of the king's marriage were, to the

glory of God, and the quietness of alle parties, brought to a good

conclusion."

Indeed, this last matter preys on my father's soul. He hath even knelt

to the king to refrain from exacting compliance with his grace's will

concerning it; movingly reminding him, even with tears, of his grace's

own words to him on delivering the great seal, "First look unto God,

and, after God, unto me." But the king is heady in this matter; stubborn

as a mule or wild ass's colt, whose mouths must be held with bit and

bridle if they be to be governed at alle; and the king hath taken ye

bit between his teeth, and there is none dare ride him. All for love of

a brown girl, with a wen on her throat, and an extra finger.

* * * * *

How short a time agone it seemeth, that in my prosperity I sayd, "We

shall never be moved; Thou, Lord, of Thy goodness hast made our hill soe

strong!" ... Thou didst turn away Thy face, and I was troubled!

* * * * *

Thus sayth Plato: of Him whom he soughte, but hardly found: "Truth is

his body, and Light his shadow." A marvelous saying for a heathen.

Hear also what St. John sayth: "God is Light; and in him is no darkness

at all." "And the Light was the life of men: and the Light shineth in

darkness, and the darkness comprehended it not."

Hear also what St. Augustine sayth: "They are the most uncharitable

towards error who have never experienced how hard a matter it is to come

at the Truth."

Hard, indeed. Here's father agaynst Will, and agaynst Erasmus, of whom

he once could not speak well enough; and now he says that if he upholds

such and such opinions, his dear Erasmus may be the devil's Erasmus for

what he cares. And here's father at issue with half ye learned heads in

Christendom concerning ye king's marriage. And yet, for alle that, I

think father is in the right.

He taketh matters soe to heart that e'en his appetite fails. Yesterday

he put aside his old favorite dish of brewis, saying, "I know not how

'tis, good Alice; I've lost my stomach, I think, for my old relishes"

... and this, e'en with a tear in his eye. But 'twas not the brewis, I

know, that made it start.

* * * * *

He hath resigned the Great Seal! And none of us knew e'en of his

meditating it, nor of his having done soe, till after morning prayers

to-day, when, insteade of one of his gentlemen stepping up to my mother

in her pew with the words, "Madam, my Lord is gone," he cometh up to her

himself, with a smile on's face, and sayth, low bowing as he spoke,

"Madam, my Lord is gone." She takes it for one of the manie jests

whereof she misses the point; and 'tis not till we are out of church, in

ye open air, that she fully comprehends my Lord Chancellor is indeed

gone, and she hath onlie her Sir Thomas More.

A burst of tears was no more than was to be lookt for from poor mother;

and, in sooth, we alle felt aggrieved and mortyfide enough; but 'twas a

short sorrow; for father declared that he had cast Pelion and Ossa off

his back into the bottomless pit; and fell into such funny antics that

we were soon as merry as ever we were in our lives. Patteson, so soon as

he hears it, comes leaping and skipping across the garden, crying, "A

fatted calf! let a fatted calf be killed, masters and mistresses, for

this my brother who was dead is alive again!" and falls a-kissing his

hand. But poor Patteson's note will soon change; for father's diminished

state will necessitate ye dismissal of all extra hands; and there is

manie a servant under his roof whom he can worse spare than the poor

fool.

In the evening he gathers us alle about him in the pavillion, where he

throws himself into his old accustomed seat, casts his arm about mother,

and cries, "How glad must Cincinnatus have been to spy out his cottage

again, with Racilia standing at the gate!" Then, called for curds and

cream; sayd how sweet ye soft May air was coming over the river, and

bade Cecil sing "The king's hunt's up." After this, one ballad after

another was called for, till alle had sung their lay, ill or well, he

listing the while with closed eyes, and a composed smile about his

mouth; the two furrows between his brows relaxing graduallie till at

length they could no more be seene. At last he says,

"Who was that old prophet that could not or would not prophesy for a

King of Judah till a minstrel came and played unto him? Sure, he must

have loved as I do, the very lovely song of one that playeth well upon

an instrument, yclept the human heart; and have felt, as I do now, the

spirit given him to speak of matters foreign to his mind. 'Tis of res

angusta domae, dear brats, I must speak; soe, the sooner begun, the

sooner over. Here am I, with a dear wife and eight loved children ...

for my daughters' husbands and my son's wife are my children as much as

any; and Mercy Giggs is a daughter too ... nine children, then, and

eleven grandchildren, and a swarm of servants to boot, all of whom have

as yet eaten what it pleased them, and drunken what it suited them at my

board, without its being any one's business to say them nay. 'Twas the

dearest privilege of my Lord Chancellor; but now he's dead and gone, how

shall we contract the charges of Sir Thomas More?"

We looked from one to another, and were silent.

"I'll tell ye, dear ones," he went on, "I have been brought up at

Oxford, at an inn of Chancery, at Lincoln's Inn, and at the King's

Court; from the lowest degree, that is, to the highest; and yet have I

in yearly revenues at this present, little above one hundred pounds

a-year; but then, as Chilo sayth, 'honest loss is preferable to

dishonest gain: by the first, a man suffers once; by the second,

forever;' and I may take up my parable with Samuel, and say: 'Whose ox

have I taken? whose ass have I taken? whom have I defrauded? whom have I

oppressed? of whose hand have I received any bribe to blinde mine eyes

therewith?' No, my worst enemies can not lay to my charge any of these

things, and my trust in you is, that, rather than regret I should not

have made a purse by any such base methods, you will all cheerfully

contribute your proportions to the common fund, and share and share

alike with me in this my diminished state."

We all gat about him, and by our words and kisses gave warrant that we

would.

"Well, then," quoth he, "my mind is, that since we are all of a will to

walk down-hill together, we will do soe at a breathing pace, and not

drop down like a plummet. Let all things be done decently and in order:

we won't descend to Oxford fare first, nor yet to the fare of New Inn.

We'll begin with Lincoln's Inn diet, whereon many good and wise men

thrive well; if we find this draw too heavily on the common purse, we

will, next year, come down to Oxford fare, with which many great and

learned doctors have been conversant; and, if our purse stretch not to

cover e'en this, why, in heaven's name! we'll go begging together, with

staff and wallet, and sing a Salve Regina at every good man's door,

whereby we shall still keep company, and be merry together!"

* * * * *

Now that the first surprise and grief, and the first fervour of

fidelity and self-devotion have passed off, we have subsided into how

deep and holy a quiet!

We read of the desertion of the world as a matter of course; but, when

our own turn comes, it does seem strange, to find ourselves let fall

down the stream without a single hand outstretched to help us;

forgotten, in a moment, as though we had never been, by those who lately

ate and laughed at our table. And this, without any fault or offense of

ours, but merely from our having lost the light of the king's

countenance. I say, it does seem strange; but how fortunate, how blessed

are those to whom such a course of events only seems strange,

unaccompanied by self-reproach and bitterness! I could not help feeling

this, in reading an affectionate letter deare father writ this forenoon

to Erasmus, wherein he sayd, "I have now obtained what, from a child, I

have continually wished! that, being entirely quit of businesse and all

publick affairs, I might live for a time only to God and myself."

Having no hankering after the old round he soe long hath run, he now, in

fact, looks younger every day; and yet, not with the same kind of youth

he had before his back was bowed under the chancellorship. 'Tis a more

composed, chastised sort of rejuvenescence: rather the soft warmth of

autumn, which sometimes seems like May, than May itself: the enkindling,

within this mortal tabernacle, of a heavenly light that never grows dim,

because it is immortal; and burns the same yesterday, to-day, and

forever: a youthfulness of soul and mind characterised by growth;

something with which this world and its fleeting fancies has nothing to

do; something that the king can neither impart nor take away.

We have had a tearfull morning ... poor Patteson has gone. My father

hath obtained good quarters for him with my Lord Mayor, with a

stipulation that he shall retain his office with the Lord Mayor for the

time being, as long as he can fill it at all. This suits Patteson, who

says he will sooner shift masters year by year, than grow too fond of

any man again, as he hath of father; but there has been sad blubbering

and blowing of noses.

* * * * *

This afternoon, coming upon Mercy seated in ye alcove, like unto the

image of some saint in a niche, her hands folded on her lap, and her

eyes steadfastly agaze on the setting sun, I could not but mark how

years were silentlie at work upon her, as doubtless upon us alle; the

tender, fearfulle girl having thus graduallie changed into the sober,

high-minded woman. She is so seldom seene in repose, so constantly astir

and afoot in this or that kind office, mostly about the children, that I

had never thought upon it before; but now I was alle at once avised to

marvel that she who had so long seemed fitter for heaven than earth,

shoulde never literallie have vowed herself ye spouse of Christ, more

in especiall as all expectation of being ye spouse of anie else must

long since have died within her.

I sayd, "Mercy, thou lookst like a nun: how is't thou hast ne'er become

one in earnest?"

She started; then sayd, "Could I be more usefull? more harmless? less

exposed to temptation? or half so happy as I am now? In sooth, Meg, the

time has been when methought, how sweet ye living death of the

cloister! How good that must needs be which had the suffrages of

Chrysostom the golden-mouthed, and holy Ambrose, and our own Anselm! How

peacefull, to take wing like ye dove, and fly away from a naughty

world, and be at rest! How brave, to live alone, like St. Antony, in the

desert! only, I would have had some books with me in my cave, and 'tis

uncertayn whether St. Antony had knowledge of letters, beyond ye

heaven-taught lesson, 'God is love' ... for methought so much reflection

and no action would be too much for a woman's mind to bear--I might goe

mad: and I remembered me how the dove that gladly flew away from the

ark, gladly flew back, and abode in ye ark till such time as a new home

was ready for her. And methought, cannot I live apart from sin here, and

now; and as to sorrow, where can we live apart from that? Sure, we may

live on ye skirts of the world in a spiritt as truly unwordlie as

though we were altogether out of it: and here I may come and go, and

range in the fresh air, and love other folks' children, and read my

Psalter, and pore over the sayings of the wise men of old, and look on

the faces I love, and sit at the feet of Sir Thomas More. Soe, there,

Meg, are my poor reasons for not caring to be a nun. Our deare Lord is

in himself all that our highest, holiest affections can seek or

comprehend; for he made these our hearts; he gave us these our

affections; and through them the Spirit speaks. Aspiring to their

source, they rise up like the white smoke and bright flame; while, on

earth, if left unmastered, they burn, suffocate, and destroy. Yet they

have their naturall and innocent outlets even here; and a woman may warm

herself by them without scorching, and yet be neither a wife nor a nun."

* * * * *

Ever since father's speech to us in ye pavillion, we have beene of one

heart and one soul; neither have any of us said that aught of the things

we possessed were our own, but we have had all things in common. And we

have eaten our meat with gladness and singleness of heart.

This afternoon, expressing to father my gratefull sense of our present

happiness.... "Yes, Meg," returns he, "I, too, am deeply thankful for

this breathing space."

"Do you look on it as no more, then?" I sayd.

"As no more, Meg: we shall have a thunder-clap by-and-by. Look out on

the Thames. See how unwontedlie clear it is, and how low the swallows

fly.... How distinctlie we see the green sedges on Battersea bank, and

their reflected images in the water. We can almost discern the features

of those poor knaves digging in the cabbage gardens, and hear 'em talk,

so still is ye air. Have you ne'er before noted these signs?"

"A storm is brewing," I sayd.

"Aye, we shall have a lightning-flash anon. So still, Meg, is also our

moral atmosphere just now. God is giving us a breathing space, as he did

to the Egyptians before the plague of hail, that they might gather their

live stock within doors. Let us take for example them that believed and

obeyed him; and improve this holy pause."

Just at this moment, a few heavie drops fell agaynst the window pane,

and were seene by both. Our eyes met; and I felt a silent pang.

"Five days before the Passover," resumed father, "all seemed as still

and quiet as we are now; but Jesus knew his hour was at hand. E'en while

he yet spake familiarly among the people, there came a sound from

heaven, and they that stood by said it thundered; but _he_ knew it for

the voice of his dear Father. Let us, in like manner, when the clap

cometh, recognise in it the voice of God, and not be afraid with any

amazement."

* * * * *

Gammer Gurney is dead, and I must say I am glad of it. The change, to

her, must be blessed, and there seemed some danger lest, after having

escaped being ducked for a witch, she shoulde have been burnt for a

heretic. Father looked on her as an obstinate old woman; Will counted

her little short of a saint and prophetess, and kept her well supplied

with alle she could need. Latterly she was stone deaf; so 'tis a happy

release.

The settled purpose of father's soul, just now, is to make up a marriage

between Mercy and Dr. Clement. 'Tis high advancement for her, and there

seems to have been some old liking between 'em we never knew of.

* * * * *

Though some months have passed since my father uttered his warning

voice, and all continues to go quiet, I cannot forbear, now and then, to

call his monition to mind, and look about for the cloud that is to bring

the thunder-clap; but the expectation sobers rather than saddens me.

This morning, leaning over the river wall, I was startled by the cold,

damp hand of some one from behind being laid on mine. At the same time a

familiar voice exclaimed, "Canst tell us, mistress, why fools have hot

heads and hands icy cold?"

I made answer, "Canst tell me, Patteson, why fools should stray out of

bounds?"

"Why, that's what fools do every day," he readily replied; "but this is

All Fools' Day, mine own special holiday; and I told my Lord Mayor

overnight, that if he lookt for a fool this morning, he must look in the

glass. In sooth, mistress Meg, I should by rights wear the gold chain

and he the motley; for a proper fool he is, and I shall be glad when his

year's service to me is out. The worst o' these Lord Mayors is, that we

can't part with 'em till their time's up. Why now, this present one hath

not so much under standing as would foot an old stocking; 'twas but

yesterday when, in quality of my taster, he civilly enough makes over

to me a half-eaten plate of gurnet, which I wave aside, thus, saying, I

eat no fish of which I cannot affirm 'rari sunt boni,' few are the bones

... and I protest to you he knew it not for fool's latin. Thus I'm

driven, from mere discouragement, to leave prating for listening, which

thou knowest, mistress, is no fool's office; and among ye sundrie

matters I hear at my lord's table ... for he minds not what he says

before his servants, thereby giving new proof 'tis he shoulde wear the

motley ... I note his saying that ye king's private marriage will

assuredlie be made publick this coming Easter, and my Lady Anne will be

crowned ... more by token, he knows ye merchant that will supply the

Genoa velvet and cloth of gold, and the masquers that are to enact the

pageant. For the love o' safety, then, mistress Meg, bid thy good father

e'en take a fool's advice, and eat humble pie betimes, for, doubt not

this proud madam to be as vindictive as Herodias, and one that, unless

he appease her full early, will have his head set before her in a

charger. I've said my say."

* * * * *

Three bishops have been here this forenoon, to bid father to ye

coronation, and offer him twenty pounds to provide his dress; but father

hath, with courtesie, declined to be present. After much friendly

pressing, they parted, seemingly on good terms; but I have misgivings of

ye issue.

* * * * *

A ridiculous charge hath been got up 'gainst dear father; no less than

of bribery and corruption. One Parnell complaineth of a decree given

agaynst him in favour of one Vaughan, whose wife, he deponeth, gave

father a gilt flaggon. To ye noe small surprise of the Council, father

admitted that she had done soe: "But, my lords," proceeded he, when they

had uttered a few sentences of reprehension somewhat too exultantlie,

"will ye list the conclusion of the tale? I bade my butler fill the cup

with wine, and having drunk her health, I made her pledge me, and then

restored her the gift, and would not take it again."

As innocent a matter, touching the offering him a pair of gloves

containing forty pounds, and his taking the first and returning the

last, saying he preferred his gloves without lining, hath been made

publick with like triumph to his own good fame; but alack! these

feathers show which way sets the wind.

WORDSWORTH, BYRON, SCOTT, AND SHELLEY.

William Wordsworth is generally allowed to have exercised a deeper and

more permanent influence upon the literature and modes of thinking of

our age, than any of the great poets who lived and wrote during the

first quarter of the present century. In proportion as his fame was of

slower growth, and his poems were longer in making their way to the

understanding and affections of his countrymen, so their roots seem to

have struck deeper down, and the crown of glory that encircles his

memory is of gold, that has been purified and brightened by the fiery

ordeal through which it has passed. Tennyson says of the laureate wreath

which he so deservedly wears, that it is

Greener from the brows

Of him who uttered nothing base.

And this, which seems at first sight negative praise, is, in reality, a

proof of exquisite discernment; for it is just that which constitutes

the marked distinction between Wordsworth and the other really original

poets who are likely to share with him the honor of representing

poetically to posterity the early part of the nineteenth century. In

their crowns there is alloy, both moral and intellectual. His may not be

of so imperial a fashion; the gems that stud it may be less dazzling,

but the gold is of ethereal temper, and there is no taint upon his robe.

Weakness, incompleteness, imperfection he had, for he was a mortal man

of limited faculties, but spotless purity is not to be denied him--he

uttered nothing base. Our readers will anticipate us in ranking with

him, as the representative poets of their age, Byron, Scott, and

Shelley. Of each of these we shall say a few words, especially in this

representative character.

Lord Byron's poems are the actual life-experience of a man whose birth

and fortune enabled him to mix with the highest society, and whose

character led him to select for his choice that portion of it which

pursued pleasure as the main if not the sole object of existence. Under

a thin disguise of name, country, and outward incident, they present us

with the desires which actuated, the passions which agitated, and the

characters which were the ideals of the fashionable men and women of the

earlier part of this century. Limited and monotonous as they are in

their essential nature, ringing perpetual changes upon one passion and

one phase of passion, the brilliance of their diction, the voluptuous

melody of their verse, the picturesque beauty of their scenery, well

enough represent that life of the richer classes, which chases with

outstretched arms all the Protean forms of pleasure, only to find the

subtle essence escape as soon as grasped, leaving behind in its place

weariness, disappointment, and joyless stagnation. The loftiest joys

they paint are the thrillings of the sense, the raptures of a fine

nervous organization; their pathos is the regret, and their wisdom the

languor and the satiety of the jaded voluptuary. These form the staple,

the woof of Lord Byron's poetry, and with it is enwoven all that which

gives outward variety and incessant stimulating novelty to the pursuits

of an Englishman of fashion. These pursuits are as numerous, as

absorbing, and demand as much activity of a kind as those of the student

or the man of business. Among them will be found those upon which the

student and the man of business are employed, though in a different

spirit, and with a different aim. Thus we frequently see among the

votaries of pleasure men who are fond of literature, of art, of

politics, of foreign travel, of all manly and active enterprise but all

these will be pursued, not as duties to be done, in an earnest, hopeful,

self-sacrificing spirit, "that scorns delights and lives laborious

days," but for amusement, for immediate pleasure to be reaped, as a

resource against ennui and vacuity, to which none but the weakest and

most effeminate nature will succumb. This difference of object and of

motive necessitates a difference in the value of the results. The soil,

which is plowed superficially, and for a quick return, will bear but

frail and fading flowers; the planter of oaks must toil in faith and

patience, and sublime confidence in the future. And so, into whatever

field the wide and restless energies of men like Lord Byron carry them,

they bring home no treasures that will endure--no marble of which

world-lasting statue or palace may be hewn or built--no iron, of which

world-subduing machines may be wrought. Poems, pictures, history,

science, the magnificence and loveliness of Nature, cities of old

renown, adventures of desperate excitement, new manners, languages, and

characters, supply them with an ever fresh flow of sensation and

emotion, keep the senses and the faculties cognate with sense in a

pleasant activity, but no well-based generalization is gained for the

understanding; facts are not even carefully observed and honestly

studied; pleasant sensation was the object, and that once obtained,

there is no more worth in that which produced it, though in it may lie a

law of God's manifestation, one of those spiritual facts, to know and

obey which would seem the chief purpose of man's existence, to discover

and make them known, the noblest glory and highest function of genius.

It is in this spirit that Lord Byron has questioned Life: "Oh! where can

pleasure be found?" and Life, echo-like, would only answer, "Where!" It

is because he put that question more earnestly, lived up to its spirit

more fearlessly, and more faithfully and experimentally reported the

answer, that he is so eminently a representative poet--representative of

what a large and important class in every country actually is, of what a

far larger class aspires to be. It is in his fearless attempt at solving

the problem of life in his own way, his complete discomfiture, and his

unshrinking exhibition of that discomfiture, that the absolute and

permanent value of his social teaching consists. For he was endowed with

such gifts of nature and of fortune, so highly placed, so made to

attract and fascinate, adorned with such beauty and grace, with such

splendor of talents, with such quick susceptibility to impressions, with

such healthy activity of mind, with such rich flow of speech, with such

vast capacity of enjoyment, that no one is likely to make the experiment

he made from a higher vantage-ground, with more chances of success. And

the result of his experience he has given to the world, and has thrown

over the whole the charm of a clear, vigorous, animated style, at once

masculine, and easy, and polished, sparkling with beauty, instinct with

life, movement, and variety; by turns calm, voluptuous, impassioned,

enthusiastic, terse, and witty, and always most prominent that

unstudied grace, that Rubens-like facility of touch, which irresistibly

impresses the reader with a sense of power, of strength not put fully

forth, of resources carelessly flowing out with exhaustless prodigality,

not husbanded with timid anxiety, and exhibited with pompous

ostentation. It is the combination of these qualities of the artist,

with his peculiar fearlessness and honesty of avowal--his plain,

unvarnished expression of what he found pleasant, and chose for his

good, that will ever give him a high, if not almost the highest place

among the poets of the nineteenth century, even with those readers who

perceive and lament the worthlessness of his matter, the superficiality

and scantiness of his knowledge, the want of purity and elevation in his

life and character. Those will best appreciate his wonderful talents who

are acquainted with the works of his countless imitators, who have

admirably succeeded in re-producing his bad morality, his superficial

thoughts, and his characterless portraits, without the fervor of his

feeling, the keenness of his sensations, the ease and vigor of his

language, the flash of his wit, or the knowledge of the world, and the

manly common-sense which redeemed and gave value to what else had been

entirely worthless.

If the name of Lord Byron naturally links itself with the fashionable

life of great cities; with circles where men and women live mutually to

attract and please each other; where the passions are cherished as

stimulants and resources against ennui, are fostered by luxurious

idleness, and heightened by all the aids that an old and elaborate

material civilization can add to the charms of beauty, and the

excitements of brilliant assemblies; where art and literature are

degraded into handmaids and bondslaves of sensuality; where the vanity

of social distinction fires the tongue of the eloquent speaker, wakens

the harp of the poet, colors the canvas of the painter, moulds the

manners and sways the actions, directs even the loves and the hatreds of

all; no less naturally does the name of Sir Walter Scott stand as the

symbol and representative of the life and tastes of the country

aristocracy, who bear the titles and hold the lands of the feudal

barons, and of the country gentlemen whose habits and manners are in

such perfect contrast to those of the Squire Westerns to whose places

they have succeeded. Possessing in a high degree the active and athletic

frame, the robust health, the hardy training, the vigorous nerve, the

bold spirit, the frank bearing, and the genial kindness of the gentlemen

of the olden time, he could heartily appreciate and unhesitatingly

approve all that time and revolution had spared of feudal dominion and

territorial grandeur. The ancient loyalty, so happily tempering the

firmness of a principle with the fervor of a feeling, never beat higher

in the heart of a cavalier of the seventeenth than in that of the

Scottish advocate of the nineteenth century. Every one will remember

that he refused to write a life of Mary Queen of Scots, because in

reference to her conduct, his feelings were at variance with his

judgment. And in painting those old times in which his imagination

delighted to revel, all that would most have revolted our modern

mildness of manners, and shocked our modern sense of justice, was

softened down or dropped out of sight, and the nobler features of those

ages, their courage, their devotion, their strength and clearness of

purpose, their marked individuality of character, their impulses of

heroism and delicacy, their manly enterprise, their picturesque costumes

and manners of life, were all brought into bold relief, and placed

before the reader with such fullness of detail, in such grandeur of

outline, in such bright and vivid coloring, as gave even to the

unimaginative a more distinct conception of, and a more lively sympathy

with the past than they could gain for themselves of the present, as it

was whirling and roaring round them, confusing them with its shifting of

hues and forms, and stunning them with its hurricane of noises. And

apart from the fascination which History, so presented, must have for

the descendants of men and classes of historical renown, for the

hereditary rulers and the privileged families of a great country, and

though probably the creator of the splendid pageantry was definitely

conscious of no such purpose, yet there must have mingled with this

fascination, and have infused into it a deeper and more personal

feeling, the regretful sense that the state of society so glowingly

depicted had passed away--a foreboding that even its last vestiges were

fast disappearing before the wave of democratic equality, and the

uprising of a new aristocracy of wealth and intellect. If at the time

those famous verse and prose romances came upon the world in a

marvelously rapid succession, all that the public were conscious of was

a blind pleasure and unreflecting delight, it is no less true that in an

age of revolution they raised up before it in a transformed and

glorified life the characters, the institutions, the sentiments and

manners of an age of absolute government by the strong arm or by divine

right--of an age of implicit belief, inspiring heroic action,

sanctioning romantic tenderness, harmonizing and actuating all the

virtues that adorn and elevate fallen humanity; and that since then

there has arisen in our country a thoughtful reverence and love for the

past--a sense of the livingness and value of our history--a desire and a

determination to appreciate and comprehend, and so not forfeit, the

inheritance of wisdom, forethought, brave action, and noble self-denial,

which our ancestors have bequeathed to us. How many false and puerile

forms this feeling has taken it does not fall within our present scope

to notice. In spite of white waistcoat politics and Pugin pedantries,

the feeling is a wise and a noble one--one which is the surety and the

safeguard of progress; and that much of it is owing to the interest

excited so widely and so deeply by Sir Walter Scott's writings, those

will be least disposed to deny who have thought most on the causes which

mould a nation's character, and the influences which work out a nation's

destiny.

It is in no fanciful or arbitrary spirit of system that, while we assign

to Byron the empire over the world of fashion and of pleasure, and seek

the mainspring of Scott's popularity in the sway of old historical

traditions over a landed aristocracy, and the longing regret with which

they look back to a state of society passed or rapidly passing away, we

should regard Shelley as the poetical representative of those whose

hopes and aspirations and affections rush forward to embrace the great

Hereafter, and dwell in rapturous anticipation on the coming of the

golden year, the reign of universal freedom, and the establishment of

universal brotherhood. By nature and by circumstance he was marvelously

fitted for his task--gentle, sensitive, and fervid, he shrank from the

least touch of wrong, and hated injustice with the zeal and passion of a

martyr; while, as if to point him unmistakably to his mission, and

consecrate him by the divine ordination of facts, he was subjected at

his first entrance into life to treatment, both from constituted

authority and family connection, so unnecessarily harsh, so stupidly

cruel, as would have driven a worse man into reckless dissipation, a

weaker man into silent despair. "Most men," he says himself,

"Are cradled into poetry by wrong;

They learn in suffering what they teach in song."

Whether this be the best or most usual training for the poet may well be

doubted, but it is quite indubitable that such discipline will soonest

open a man's eyes to the evils of existing institutions, and the vices

of old societies; and will lend to his invectives that passion which

raises them above satire--to his schemes, that enthusiasm which redeems

them from being crotchets; will turn his abstract abhorrence of

oppression into hatred against the oppressors--his loathing of

corruption into a withering scorn and contempt for tyrants and their

tools, the knaves and hypocrites who use holy names and noble offices to

promote their selfish ends, and to fetter and enslave their brother men.

And so it happened with Shelley. The feelings of poignant anguish and

bitter indignation, which had been roused in him by cruelty and

injustice toward himself, colored all his views of society, and at once

sharpened his hostility to the civil and religious institutions of his

country, and lent more glowing colors to the rainbow of promise that

beamed upon him from the distance, through the storm of bloodshed and

revolution. Add to to this, that his mind was ill-trained, and not well

furnished with facts; that he reveled with the delight of an eagle on

the wing in the most audacious speculations, and was drawn on by the

force of mental gravitation toward the boldest and most startling

conclusions; that he was at once pure and impassioned--sensuous and

spiritual; that he could draw from form, color, and sound a voluptuous

enjoyment, keener and more intense than the grosser animal sensations of

ordinary men; that his intellect hungered and thirsted after absolute

truth, after central being, after a living personal unity of all things.

Thus he united in himself many of the mightiest tendencies of our

time--its democratic, its skeptical, its pantheistic, its socialistic

spirit; and thus he has become the darling and the watchword of those

who aim at reconstructing society, in its forms, in its principles, and

in its beliefs--who regard the past as an unmitigated failure, as an

entire mistake--who would welcome the deluge for the sake of the new

world that would rise after the subsidence of the waters. Nor has their

affectionate admiration been ill-bestowed. With one exception, a more

glorious poet has not been given to the English nation; and if we make

one exception, it is because Shakspeare was a man of profounder insight,

of calmer temperament, of wider experience, of more extensive knowledge;

a greater philosopher, in fact, and a wiser man; not because he

possessed more vital heat, more fusing, shaping power of imagination, or

a more genuine poetic impulse and inspiration. After the passions and

the theories, which supplied Shelley with the subject-matter of his

poems have died away and become mere matters of history, there will

still remain a song, such as mortal man never sung before, of

inarticulate rapture and of freezing pain--of a blinding light of truth

and a dazzling weight of glory, translated into English speech, as

colored as a painted window, as suggestive, as penetrating, as intense

as music.

We have assigned to three great poets of our age the function of

representing three classes, distinct in character, position, and taste.

But as these classes intermingle and become confused in life, so that

individuals may partake of the elements of all three, and, in fact, no

one individual can be exactly defined by his class type, so the poets

that represent them have, of course an influence and a popularity that

extend far beyond the classes to whose peculiar characteristics and

predominant tastes we have assumed them to have given form and

expression. Men read for amusement, to enlarge the range of their ideas

and sympathies, to stimulate the emotions that are sluggish or wearied

out: and thus the poet is not only the interpreter of men and of classes

to themselves, but represents to men characters, modes of life, and

social phenomena with which they are before unacquainted, excites

interest, and arouses sympathy, and becomes the reconciler, by causing

misunderstandings to vanish, as each man and each class comprehends more

fully the common humanity that lies under the special manifestation, the

same elemental passions and affections, the same wants, the same

desires, the same hopes, the same beliefs, the same duties. It is thus

especially that poets are teachers, that they aid in strengthening and

civilizing nations, in drawing closer the bonds of brotherhood.

Wordsworth has said of himself, "The poet is a teacher. I wish to be

considered as a teacher, or as nothing." If we are asked wherein lay the

value of his teaching, we reply, that it lay mainly in the power that

was given him of unfolding the glory and the beauty of the material

world, and in bringing consciously before the minds of men the high

moral function that, belonged in the human economy to the imagination,

and in thereby redeeming the faculties of sense from the comparatively

low and servile office of ministering merely to the animal pleasures, or

what Mr. Carlyle has called "the beaver inventions." That beside, and in

connection with this, he has shown the possibility of combining a state

of vivid enjoyment, even of intense passion, with the activity of

thought, and the repose of contemplation. He has, moreover, done more

than any poet of his age to break down and obliterate the conventional

barriers that, in our disordered social state, divide rich and poor into

two hostile nations; and he has done this, not by bitter and passionate

declamations on the injustice and vices of the rich, and on the wrongs

and virtues of the poor, but by fixing his imagination on the elemental

feelings, which are the same in all classes, and drawing out the beauty

that lies in all that is truly natural in human life. Dirt, squalor,

disease, vice, and hard-heartedness, are not natural to any grade of

life; where they are found, they are man's work, not God's; and the

poet's business is not with the misery of man's making, but with the

escape from that misery revealed to those that have eyes to see, and

ears to hear--we mean, that no true poet will be merely a painter of

that which is low, deformed, essentially inhuman, as his ultimate and

highest aim, though, as means, he may, as the greatest poets have done,

use them to move and rouse the sleeping soul. This, we say, in answer to

those that asserted that Wordsworth was not a true painter of manners

and character from humble life: we say he was, for that he painted, as

minutely as served his aim, that which was essential to its occupations

and its general outward condition--that which it must be, if Christian

men are to look upon the inequalities of wealth and station as a

permanent element in society. And all this which he taught in his

writings, he taught equally by his life. And furthermore, he manifested

a deep sense of the sacredness of the gift of genius, and refused to

barter its free exercise for aught that the world could hold out to him,

either to terrify or to seduce; and he lived to prove, not only that the

free exercise of poetic genius is its own exceeding great reward,

bringing a rich harvest of joy and peace, and the sweet consciousness of

duty well discharged, and God's work done; but, what was quite as much

needed in our time, he showed that for the support and nourishment of

poetic inspiration, no stimulants of social vanity, vicious sensuality,

or extravagant excitement, were requisite, and that it could flourish in

the highest vigor on the simple influence of external nature, and the

active exercise of the family affections.

THE LAST DAYS OF THE EMPEROR ALEXANDER.

[Translated from the French of Alexandre Dumas with omissions and

additions, by Miss Jane Strickland.]

The knowledge of an extensively organized conspiracy embittered the last

years of the Emperor Alexander, and increased his constitutional

melancholy. His attachment to Tzarsko Zelo made him linger longer at his

summer palace than was prudent in a man subject to erysipelas. The wound

in his leg re-opened with very unfavorable symptoms, and he was

compelled to leave his favorite residence in a closed litter for St.

Petersburgh; and the skill and firmness of Mr. Wyllie, his Scotch

surgeon, alone saved the diseased limb from amputation. As soon as he

was cured, he returned again to Tzarsko Zelo, where the spring found him

as usual alone, without a court or chamberlain, only giving audience to

his ministers twice a week. His existence resembled rather that of an

anchorite weeping for the sins of his youth, than that of a great

emperor who makes the happiness of his people.

He regulated his time in the following manner: in summer he rose at

five, and in winter at six o'clock every morning, and as soon as the

duties of the toilet were ended, entered his cabinet, in which the

greatest order was observed.

He found there a cambric handkerchief folded, and a packet of new pens.

He only used these pens in signing his name, and never made use of them

again. As soon as he had concluded this business, he descended into the

garden, where, notwithstanding the report of a conspiracy which had

existed two years against his life and government, he walked alone, with

no other guards than the sentinels always stationed before the palace of

Alexander. At five he returned, to dine alone, and after his solitary

meal was lulled to sleep by the melancholy airs played by the military

band of the guard regiment on duty. The selection of the music was

always made by himself, and he seemed to sink to repose, and to awake,

with the same sombre dispositions and feelings which had been his

companions throughout the day.

His empress, Elizabeth, lived like her consort, in profound solitude,

watching over him like an invisible angel. Time had not extinguished in

her heart the profound passion with which the youthful Czarowitz had

inspired her at first sight, and which she had preserved in her heart,

pure and inviolate. His numerous and public infidelities could not

stifle this holy and beautiful attachment, which formed at once the

happiness and misery of a delicate and sensitive woman.

At this period of her life, the empress at five-and-forty retained her

fine shape and noble carriage, while her countenance showed the remains

of considerable beauty, more impaired by sorrow than time. Calumny

itself had never dared to aim her envenomed shafts at one so eminently

chaste and good. Her presence demanded the respect due to virtue, still

more than the homage proper to her elevated rank.

She resembled indeed more an angel exiled from heaven, than the imperial

consort of a prince who ruled a large portion of the earth.

In the summer of 1825, the last he was destined to see, the physicians

of the emperor unanimously recommended a journey to the Crimea, as the

best medicine he could take. Alexander appeared perfectly indifferent

to a measure which regarded his individual benefit, but the empress,

deeply interested in any event likely to restore her husband's health,

asked and obtained permission to accompany him. The necessary

preparations for this long absence overwhelmed the emperor with

business, and for a fortnight he rose earlier, and went to bed later,

than was customary to him.

In the month of June, no visible alteration was observed in his

appearance, and he quitted St. Petersburgh after a service had been

chanted, to bring down a blessing from above on his journey. He was

accompanied by the empress, his faithful coachman Ivan, and some

officers belonging to the staff of General Diebitch. He stopped at

Warsaw a few days, in order to celebrate the birthday of his brother,

the Grand-Duke Constantine, and arrived at Tangaroff in the end of

August, 1825. Both the illustrious travelers found their health

benefited by the change of scene and climate. Alexander took a great

liking to Tangaroff, a small town on the borders of the Sea of Azof,

comprising a thousand ill-built houses, of which a sixth-part alone are

of brick and stone, while the remainder resemble wooden cages covered

with dirt. The streets are large, but then they have no pavement, and

are alternately loaded with dust, or inundated with mud. The dust rises

in clouds, which conceals alike man and beast under a thick vail, and

penetrates every where the carefully closed jalousies with which the

houses are guarded and covers the garments of their inhabitants. The

food, the water, are loaded with it; and the last can not be drunk till

previously boiled with salt of tartar, which precipitates it; a

precaution absolutely necessary to free it from this disagreeable and

dangerous deposit.

The emperor took possession of the governor's house, where he sometimes

slept and took his meals. His abode there in the day-time rarely

exceeded two hours. The rest of his time was passed in wandering about

the country on foot, in the hot dust or wet mud. No weather put any stop

to his out-door exercise, and no advice from his medical attendant nor

warning from the natives of Tangaroff, could prevail upon him to take

the slightest precaution against the fatal autumnal fever of the

country. His principal occupation was planning and planting a great

public garden, in which undertaking he was assisted by an Englishman

whom he had brought with him from St. Petersburgh for that purpose. He

frequently slept on the spot on a camp-bed, with his head resting upon a

leather pillow.

If general report may be credited, planting gardens was not the

principal object that engrossed the Russian emperor's attention. He was

said to be employed in framing a new constitution for Russia, and unable

to contend at St. Petersburgh with the prejudices of the aristocracy,

had retired to this small city, for the purpose of conferring this

benefit upon his enslaved country.

However this might be, the emperor did not stay long at a time at

Tangaroff, where his empress, unable to share with him the fatigues of

his long journeys, permanently resided, during his frequent absences

from his head-quarters. Alexander, in fact, made rapid excursions to the

country about the Don, and was sometimes at Tcherkask, sometimes at

Donetz. He was on the eve of departure for Astracan, when Count

Woronzoff in person, came to announce to his sovereign, the existence of

the mysterious conspiracy which had haunted him in St. Petersburgh, and

which extended to the Crimea, where his personal presence could alone

appease the general discontent.

The prospect of traversing three hundred leagues appeared a trifle to

Alexander, whom rapid journeys alone diverted from his oppressive

melancholy. He announced to the empress his departure, which he only

delayed till the return of a messenger he had sent to Alapka. The

expected courier brought new details of the conspiracy, which aimed at

the life, as well as the government of Alexander. This discovery

agitated him terribly. He rested his aching head on his hands, gave a

deep groan, and exclaimed, "Oh, my father, my father!" Though it was

then midnight, he caused Count Diebitch to be roused from sleep and

summoned into his presence. The general, who lodged in the next house,

found his master in a dreadfully excited state, now traversing the

apartment with hasty strides, now throwing himself upon the bed with

deep sighs and convulsive starts. He at length became calm, and

discussed the intelligence conveyed in the dispatches of Count

Woronzoff. He then dictated two, one addressed to the Viceroy of Poland,

the other to the Grand-Duke Nicholas.

With these documents, all traces of his terrible agitation disappeared.

He was quite calm, and his countenance betrayed nothing of the emotion

that had harassed him the preceding night.

Count Woronzoff, notwithstanding this apparent calmness, found him

difficult to please, and unusually irritable, for Alexander was

constitutionally sweet-tempered and patient. He did not delay his

journey on account of this internal disquiet, but gave orders for his

departure from Tangaroff, which he fixed for the following day.

His ill-humor increased during the journey; he complained of the badness

of the roads and the slowness of the horses. He had never been known to

grumble before. His irritation became more apparent when Sir James

Wyllie, his confidential medical attendant, recommended him to take some

precaution against the frozen winds of the autumn; for he threw away

with a gesture of impatience the cloak and pelisse he offered, and

braved the danger he had been entreated to avoid. His imprudence soon

produced consequences. That evening he caught cold, and coughed

incessantly, and the following day on his arrival at Orieloff, an

intermittent fever appeared, which soon after, aggravated by the

obstinacy of the invalid, turned to the remittent fever common to

Tangaroff and its environs in the autumn.

The emperor, whose increasing malady gave him a presage of his

approaching death, expressed a wish to return to the empress, and once

more took the route to Tangaroff; contrary to the prayers of Sir James

Wyllie, he chose to perform a part of the journey on horseback, but the

failure of his strength finally forced him to re-enter his carriage. He

entered Tangaroff on the fifth of November, and swooned the moment he

came into the governor's house. The empress, who was suffering with a

complaint of the heart, forgot her malady, while watching over her dying

husband. Change of place only increased the fatal fever which preyed

upon his frame, which seemed to gather strength from day to day. On the

eighth, Wyllie called in Dr. Stephiegen, and on the thirteenth they

endeavored to counteract the affection of the brain, and wished to bleed

the imperial patient. He would not submit to the operation, and demanded

iced-water, which they refused. Their denial irritated him, and he

rejected every thing they offered him, with displeasure. These learned

men were unwise to deprive the suffering prince of the water, a safe and

harmless beverage in such fevers. In fact, nature herself sometimes, in

inspiring the wish, provides the remedy. The emperor, on the afternoon

of that day wrote and sealed a letter, when, perceiving the taper

remained burning he told his attendant to extinguish it, in words that

plainly expressed his feelings in regard to the dangerous nature of his

malady. "Put out that light, my friend, or the people will take it for a

bier candle, and will suppose I am already dead."

On the fourteenth of November, the physicians again urged their

refractory patient to take the medicines they prescribed, and were

seconded by the prayers of the empress. He repulsed them with some

haughtiness, but quickly repenting of his hastiness of temper, which in

fact was one of the symptoms of the disease, he said, "Attend to me,

Stephiegen, and you too, Sir Andrew Wyllie. I have much pleasure in

seeing you, but you plague me so often about your medicine, that really

I must give up your company if you will talk of nothing else." He

however was at last induced to take a dose of calomel.

In the evening, the fever had made such fearful progress that it

appeared necessary to call in a priest. Sir Andrew Wyllie, at the

instance of the empress, entered the chamber of the dying prince, and

approaching his bed with tears in his eyes, advised him "to call in the

aid of the Most High, and not to refuse the assistance of religion as he

had already done that of medicine."

The emperor instantly gave his consent. Upon the fifteenth, at five

o'clock in the morning, a humble village priest approached the imperial

bed to receive the confession of his expiring sovereign. "My father, God

must be merciful to kings," were the first words the emperor addressed

to the minister of religion; "indeed they require it so much more than

other men." In this sentence all the trials and temptations of the

despotic ruler of a great people--his territorial ambition, his

jealousy, his political ruses, his distrusts, and over-confidences, seem

to be briefly comprehended. Then, apparently perceiving some timidity in

the spiritual confessor his destiny had provided for him, he added, "My

father, treat me like an erring man, not as an emperor." The priest drew

near the bed, received the confession of his august penitent, and

administered to him the last sacraments.

Then having been informed of the emperor's pertinacity in rejecting

medicine, he urged him to give up this fatal obstinacy, remarking, "that

he feared God would consider it absolutely suicidal." His admonitions

made a deep impression upon the mind of the prince, who recalled Sir

Andrew Wyllie, and, giving him his hand, bade him do what he pleased

with him. Wyllie took advantage of this absolute surrender, to apply

twenty leeches to the head of the emperor, but the application was too

late, the burning fever continually increased, and the sufferer was

given over. The intelligence filled the dying chamber with weeping

domestics, who tenderly loved their master.

The empress still occupied her place by the bed-side, which she had

never quitted but once, in order to allow her dying husband to unbosom

himself in private to his confessor. She returned to the post assigned

her by conjugal tenderness directly the priest had quitted it.

Two hours after he had made his peace with God, Alexander experienced

more severe pain than he had yet felt; "Kings," said he, "suffer more

than others." He had called one of his attendants to listen to this

remark, with the air of one communicating a secret. He stopped, and then

as if recalling something he had forgotten, said in a whisper, "they

have committed an infamous action."

What did he mean by those words? Was he suspicious that his days had

been shortened by poison? or did he allude, with the last accents he

uttered, to the barbarous assassination of the Emperor Paul? Eternity

can alone reveal the secret thoughts of Alexander I. of Russia.

During the night, the dying prince lost consciousness. At two o'clock in

the morning, Count Diebitch came to the empress, to inform her that an

old man, named Alexandrowitz, had saved many Tartars in the same malady.

A ray of hope entered the heart of the imperial consort at this

information, and Sir Andrew Wyllie ordered him to be sought for with

haste.

This interval was passed by the empress in prayer, yet she still kept

her eyes fixed upon those of her husband, watching with intense

attention the beams of life and light fading in their unconscious gaze.

At nine in the morning, the old man was brought into the imperial

chamber almost by force. The rank of the patient, perhaps, inspiring him

with some fear respecting the consequences that might follow his

prescriptions, caused his extreme unwillingness. He approached the bed,

looked at his dying sovereign, and shook his head. He was questioned

respecting this doubtful sign. "It is too late to give him medicine;

besides, those I have cured were not sick of the same malady."

With these words of the peasant physician, the last hopes of the empress

vanished; but if pure and ardent prayers could have prevailed with God,

Alexander would have been saved.

On the sixteenth of November, according to the usual method of measuring

time, but on the first of December, if we follow the Russian calendar,

at fifty minutes after ten in the morning, Alexander Paulowitz, Emperor

of all the Russias, expired. The empress, bending over him felt the

departure of his last breath. She uttered a bitter cry, sank upon her

knees, and prayed. After some minutes passed in communion with heaven,

she rose, closed the eyes of her deceased lord, composed his features,

kissed his cold and livid hands, and once more knelt and prayed.

The physicians entreated her to leave the chamber of death, and the

pious empress consented to withdraw to her own. The autopsy exhibited

the same appearance generally discovered in those subjects whose death

has been caused by the fever of the country: the brain was watery, the

veins of the head were gorged, and the liver was soft. No signs of

poison were discovered; the death of the emperor was in the course of

nature.

The body of the emperor lay in state, on a platform raised in an

apartment of the house where he died. The presence-chamber was hung with

black, and the bier was covered with a cloth of gold. A great many wax

tapers lighted up the gloomy scene. A priest at the head of the bier

prayed continually for the repose of his deceased sovereign's soul. Two

sentinels, with drawn swords, watched day and night beside the dead, two

were stationed at the doors, and two stood on each step leading to the

bier. Every person received at the door a lighted taper, which he held

while he remained in the apartment. The empress was present during these

masses, but she always fainted at the conclusion of the service. Crowds

of people united their prayers to hers, for the emperor was adored by

the common people. The corpse of Alexander I. lay in state twenty-one

days before it was removed to the Greek monastery of St. Alexander,

where it was to rest before its departure for interment in St.

Petersburgh.

Upon the 25th December, the remains of the emperor were placed on a

funeral car drawn by eight horses, covered to the ground with black

cloth ornamented with the escutcheons of the empire. The bier rested on

an elevated dais, carpeted with cloth of gold; over the bier was laid a

flag of silver tissue, charged with the heraldic insignia proper to the

imperial house. The imperial crown was placed under the dais. Four

major-generals held the cords which supported the diadem. The persons

composing the household of the emperor and empress, followed the bier

dressed in long black mantles, bearing in their hands lighted torches.

The Cossacks of the Don every minute discharged their light artillery,

while the sullen booming of the cannon added to the solemnity of the

imposing scene.

Upon its arrival at the church, the body was transferred to a catafalco

covered with red cloth, surmounted by the imperial arms in gold,

displayed on crimson velvet. Two steps led up to the platform on which

the catafalco was placed. Four columns supported the dais upon which the

imperial crown, the sceptre, and the globe rested.

The catafalco was surrounded by curtains of crimson velvet and cloth of

gold, and four massy candelabra, at the four corners of the platform,

bore wax tapers sufficient to dispel the darkness, but not to banish the

gloom pervading the church, which was hung with black, embroidered with

white crosses. The empress made an attempt to assist at this funeral

service, but her feelings overpowered her, and she was borne back to the

palace in a swoon; but as soon as she came to herself, she entered the

private chapel, and repeated there the same prayers then reciting in the

church of St. Alexander.

While the remains of the Emperor Alexander were on their way to their

last home, the report of his dangerous state which had been forwarded

officially to the Grand-Duke Nicholas, was contradicted by another

document, which bore date of the 29th of November, announcing that

considerable amendment had taken place in the emperor's health, who had

recovered from a swoon of eight hours' duration, and had not only

appeared collected, but declared himself improved in health.

Whether this was a political ruse of the conspirators or the new

emperor, remains quite uncertain; however, a solemn _Te Deum_ was

ordered to be celebrated in the cathedral of Casan, at which the

empress-mother and the Grand-Dukes Nicholas and Michael were present.

The joyful crowds assembled at this service scarcely left the imperial

family and their suite a free space for the exercise of their devotions.

Toward the end of the _Te Deum_, while the sweet voices of the choir

were rising in harmonious concert to heaven, some official person

informed the Grand-Duke Nicholas, that a courier from Tangaroff had

arrived with the last dispatch, which he refused to deliver into any

hand but his own. Nicholas was conducted into the sacristy, and with one

glance at the messenger divined the nature of the document of which he

was the bearer. The letter he presented was sealed with black. Nicholas

recognized the handwriting of the empress-consort, and hastily opening

it, read these words:

"Our angel is in heaven; I still exist on earth, but I hope soon to be

re-united to him."

The bishop was summoned into the sacristy by the new emperor, who gave

him the letter, with directions to break the fatal tidings it contained

to the empress-mother with the tenderest care. He then returned to his

place by the side of his august parent, who alone, of the thousands

assembled there, had perceived his absence.

An instant after, the venerable bishop re-entered the choir, and

silenced the notes of praise and exultation with a motion of his hand.

Every voice became mute, and the stillness of death reigned throughout

the sacred edifice. In the midst of the general astonishment and

attention he walked slowly to the altar, took up the massy silver

crucifix which decorated it, and throwing over that symbol of earthly

sorrow and divine hope, a black vail, he approached the empress-mother,

and gave her the crucifix in mourning to kiss.

The empress uttered a cry, and fell with her face on the pavement; she

comprehended at once that her eldest son was dead.

The Empress Elizabeth soon realized the sorrowful hope she had

expressed. Four months after the death of her consort she died on her

way from Tangaroff, at Beloff, and soon rejoined him she had

pathetically termed, "_her_ angel in heaven."

The historical career of the Emperor Alexander is well known to every

reader, but the minor matters of every-day life mark the man, while

public details properly denote the sovereign.

The faults of Alexander are comprised in his infidelity to a beautiful,

accomplished, and affectionate wife. He respected her even while

wounding her delicate feelings by his criminal attachments to other

women. After many years of mental pain, the injured Elizabeth gave him

the choice of giving her up, or banishing an imperious mistress, by whom

the emperor had a numerous family.

Alexander could not resolve to separate forever from his amiable and

virtuous consort--he made the sacrifice she required of him.

His gallantry sometimes placed him in unprincely situations, and brought

him in contact with persons immeasurably beneath him. He once fell in

love with a tailor's wife at Warsaw, and not being well acquainted with

the character of the pretty grisette, construed her acceptance of the

visit he proposed making her, into approbation of his suit. The fair

Pole was too simple, and had been too virtuously brought up, to

comprehend his intentions. Her husband was absent, so she thought it

would not be proper to receive the imperial visit alone; she made,

therefore, a re-union of her own and her husband's relations--rich

people of the bourgeoise class--and when the emperor entered her saloon,

he found himself in company with thirty or forty persons, to whom he was

immediately introduced by his fair and innocent hostess. The astonished

sovereign was obliged to make himself agreeable to the party, none of

whom appear to have divined his criminal intentions. He made no further

attempt to corrupt the innocence of this beautiful woman, whose

simplicity formed the safeguard of her virtue.

A severe trial separated him forever from his last mistress, who had

borne him a daughter this child was the idol of his heart, and to form

her mind was the pleasure of his life. At eighteen the young lady

eclipsed every woman in his empire by her dazzing beauty and graceful

manners. Suddenly she was seized with an infectious fever, for which no

physician in St. Petersburgh could find a remedy. Her mother, selfish

and timid, deserted the sick chamber of the suffering girl, over whom

the bitter tears of a father were vainly shed, while he kept incessant

vigils over one whom he would have saved from the power of the grave at

the expense of his life and empire. The dying daughter asked incessantly

for her mother upon whose bosom she desired to breathe her last sigh,

but neither the passionate entreaties nor the commands of her imperial

lover could induce the unnatural parent to risk her health by granting

the interview for which her poor child craved, and she expired in the

arms of her father, without the consolation of bidding her mother a last

adieu.

Some days after the death of his natural daughter, the Emperor Alexander

entered the house of an English officer, to whom he was much attached.

He was in deep mourning, and appeared very unhappy.

"I have just followed to the grave." he said, "as a private person, the

remains of my poor child, and I can not yet forgive the unnatural woman

who deserted the death-bed of her daughter. Besides, my sin, which I

never repented of, has found me out, and the vengeance of God has fallen

upon its fruits. Yes, I deserted the best and most amiable of wives, the

object of my first affection, for women who neither possessed her beauty

nor merit. I have preferred to the empress even this unnatural mother,

whom I now regard with loathing and horror. My wife shall never again

have cause to reproach my broken faith."

Devotion and his strict adherence to his promise balmed the wound,

which, however, only death could heal. To the secret agony which through

life had haunted the bosom of the son was added that of the father, and

the return of Alexander to the paths of virtue and religion originated

in the loss of this beloved daughter, smitten, he considered, for his

sins.

The friendship of this prince for Madame Krudener had nothing criminal

in its nature, though it furnished a theme for scandal to those who are

apt to doubt the purity of Platonic attachments between individuals of

opposite sexes.

In regard to this emperor's political career, full of ambition and

stratagem, we can only re-echo his dying words to his confessor: "God

must be merciful to kings!" His career, however, varied by losses on the

field, or humiliated by treaties, ended triumphantly with the laurels of

war and the olives of peace; and he bore to his far northern empire the

keys of Paris as a trophy of his arms. His moderation demands the praise

of posterity, and excited the admiration of the French nation at large.

His immoral conduct as a man and a husband was afterward effaced by his

sincere repentance, and he died in the arms of the most faithful and

affectionate of wives, who could not long survive her irreparable loss.

His death was deeply lamented by his subjects, who, if they did not

enroll his name among the greatest of their rulers, never have hesitated

to denote him as the best and most merciful sovereign who ever sat upon

the Russian throne.

AN EPISODE IN THE LIFE OF JOHN RAYNER.

I.

It was the strangest and most beautiful sight in the world--certainly

the most beautiful they had ever seen or dreamt of; and the party, after

surmounting the perils of the ascent, stood gazing in astonished

amazement. "The Falls of Niagara may be very grand," observed they; not

that they could speak from experience, never having crossed the Atlantic

to view them; the sight of the Pyramids of Egypt, worth a pilgrimage

thither, and all the other known wonders of the earth, natural and

artificial, equally imposing and sublime, but it was scarcely to be

conceived that any one of them could vie in beauty with the Glaciers of

Switzerland.

The party, some half-dozen in number, and of the English nation, had

arrived at Chamouny in the night, later by some hours than they ought to

have done, owing to the break-down of their nondescript vehicle, called

a char-a-banc, just after they had quitted St. Martin, a quiet little

village, whence the view of Mont Blanc is splendid in the extreme.

They were weary with traveling, and sought their beds at once, the

earliest riser among them--and he not until the sun was up--rushing to

his window, before his eyes were half open, to see if any view was to be

obtained.

He pulled aside the curtain, and stood transfixed; utterly regardless of

the bipeds, male and female, human and animal, whose attention might be

attracted upward by the unusual apparition of a gentleman exhibiting

himself at the open window in his costume _de nuit_, his tasseled

nightcap stretching a yard into the air. But John Rayner was a man much

more accustomed to act from impulse than from reflection, and it is

possible that in this instance the scene he beheld excused it.

The Glacier de Bosson was before him--the large, unbroken Glacier de

Bosson--with its color of bright azure, and its shining peaks of gold,

rising to a sky more deeply blue than we ever see it in England,

glittering along as far as the eye could reach. A glimpse of the Mer de

Glace was caught in the distance, its white surface presenting a

contrast to the blue of the glaciers.

John Rayner soon summoned his party; and, after a hasty breakfast, they

commenced preparations for a visit to the Mer de Glace. They were soon

ready--considering that some of the party were ladies, and one a staid

damsel of five-and-forty, methodical and slow: another, a fair young

bride, indulged in every wish and whim. The usual appendage of mules and

guides accompanied them, and they were a long while ascending the

mountain--five hours at the least--but the road was sufficiently

exciting, and to some minds sufficiently dangerous, to keep away ennui.

The young girl, too, and indeed she was little more, was perpetually

throwing them into a state of agitation with her sudden screams of

terror, although the guides, with their Alpenstocks, seeing her fears,

were more attentive to her than to all the rest of them put together.

Once they thought she had certainly gone over, mule and all: it was when

a descending party appeared almost right above their heads, advancing

toward them, and she was just at a broken and rugged corner, where there

was scarcely room for one mule to step, without being precipitated into

the depths below. But the danger was surmounted, and on they went, the

mules nearly on end; for it is scarcely possible to conceive a more

perpendicular ascent. Part of the way lay through groves of tall

pine-trees, and flowers and wild strawberries were growing around.

But now they gained the height, and how strangely beautiful was the

scene that broke upon them! it certainly, as the gazers observed, could

have no rival in nature. It was one of the sunniest days, too, that ever

rose on that picturesque land: had it been less fine, the greater part

of the scene's beauty would probably have been lost.

The azure-tinted plains of ice, in their rugged sublimity, were

stretched out broad and large, their surface glittering as if all sorts

of precious stones were thrown there. The bright-green emerald, the pale

sapphire, the gay amber, the purer topaz, the sweet-tinted amethyst, the

richer garnet, the blue turquoise, the darker lapis lazuli, the rare

jacinth, the elegant onyx, the delicate opal, the gaudy gold, and the

brilliant diamond. All gay and glittering colors were there, presenting

a dazzling profusion of tints such as the eye had never yet rested on.

Pinnacles of snow rose up to the heavens, and frozen torrents, arrested

midway in their course, hung over the waves of ice below. Plains, plains

of ice, were extended there, clear and transparent; masses of white,

shining snow, in all fanciful shapes, were crowded, as if they were

rocks, one above another, and magnificent pinnacles, or aiguilles, as

they are appropriately termed, raised their golden tops to the dark blue

sky, numbers of them upon numbers, as far away in the distance as the

eye could reach. It is impossible to do justice in description to the

exquisite coloring of these heaps or rocks of ice, between each of which

yawned a fissure or abyss, fearful to look down upon. You may have

witnessed the blue of a Southern sky, and the rich blue of the Rhone's

waters--wondrously dark and rich as they roll on from Geneva's lake; you

may have seen the bright plumage of rare birds, rivaling the exquisite

tint that is known as "ultramarine," but never, never have you imagined

any thing so lovely as the transparent azure of portions of these masses

of ice.

There are more things in heaven and earth, Hamlet tells us, than are

dreamt of in our philosophy. It is very probable; and there are

certainly more places. When John Rayner's geographical master at school

expounded to him the dreamy, repellant attributes of the Icy Sea, making

him shiver as he listened, he little thought there was _another_ icy sea

nearer home, one that he might some time visit, and whose strangely

magnificent beauty would cling to his recollections for all his future

years.

The guides began pointing out to him some of the glistening peaks by

name: the Aiguilles Rouges, the Col de Baume, the Grands Periades, the

Grands Mulets, the Egralets, and others. And--strange, strange scene! in

the midst of this region of petrifaction, this enduring ice of ages, the

green banks, verdant as our plains in the spring-time, lay on the edge

of the white waters; causing them to think of the blending of climes

that they would never see blended--the smiling pastures of Arcadia in

the midst of the desolation of the North Pole.

They were gathered in a group close to the little chalet, as it is

called, partaking of the refreshments they had brought with them, all

save that pretty plaything the young bride, who, her terrors subsided,

sat twisting some wood-strawberries round her straw-bonnet, much to the

staining and detriment of its white ribbons, as John Rayner's staid aunt

kept assuring her, when some fresh comers appeared upon the scene. They

consisted of a lady and gentleman, a man servant, in undress livery, and

some guides. He, the gentleman, was young and remarkably handsome,

aristocratic to the last degree, and there was an air of reserve and

hauteur about him, conspicuous at the first glance. But he was forgotten

when his companion, whom he had assisted from her mule and placed upon

his arm, turned her countenance to their view. Seldom has a human face

been formed so classically faultless, and though there was not the

slightest coloring in her features, the delicate beauty of their form

was such, that could a painter have transferred them to canvas, he would

need to toil for fame no more. Her hair was of the deepest shade, next

to black, and her eyes were blue, but such a blue--dark and lovely as

were the edges of the masses of ice she was looking at. They did not

advance toward our party, preferring, no doubt, to shroud themselves in

their habits of aristocratic reserve, and keep themselves aloof from

promiscuous travelers. Once she withdrew her arm from his, and began

slipping about on the waves of ice, trying hard to climb them; and, as

she thus amused herself, he strolled away and approached nearer the

other party. But he took no notice of it, save one or two involuntary

glances of admiration which shot from his eyes as they fell upon the

fair young wife before mentioned, who still sat weaving her

strawberries, not quite consistent, as John Rayner's maiden aunt

stiffly observed, with his devotion to _his_ young wife down there.

"I wonder if they are English?" quoth Miss Rayner--the first "wonder" an

Englishwoman expresses, and that invariably, when strangers appear in

sight in a foreign land.

"English! of course not!" retorted her young lady-relative, pushing up

the wreath to see how many stains she could count upon her bonnet, and

who, since she crossed the channel, had been pleased to express a mania

for every body and every thing that was foreign.

But the day at length wore away, with its pleasure, toil, and

excitement; and not sorry were they, after their perpendicular descent,

to find themselves safe in the inn at Chamouny.

Early the next morning they went out to visit the source of the

Arveyron; but it calls for little notice here, and its description would

scarcely be read after that of the Icy Sea. They were standing by the

grove of pines that skirts the rivulet, bargaining with some little

children for the minerals they so anxiously displayed, when the same

couple they had seen the day before, amid the glaciers, advanced toward

them, but this time quite unattended. The gentleman was attired in a

sort of shooting-coat, his tall slender form appearing to advantage in

this mode of dress; and the young lady was enveloped in a Cashmere, her

lovely features colorless as ever; but she hastily shook her vail over

them as she neared the strangers.

They had scarcely passed, when the gentleman, in drawing something from

his pocket--a sketch-book it looked like--let fall a gold pencil-case,

probably out of the book. It was unperceived by him, and he continued

his way, the pencil-case rolling to the feet of John Rayner. He picked

it up, and stepping after the stranger, returned it into his hand.

He proffered his thanks politely and very courteously. There was

something extremely prepossessing in his manner when he spoke, and in

his smile also, in spite of the hauteur visible in his features when

they were at rest.

"He is an Englishman, then!" cried John's good aunt, who had been

watching and listening.

"And a nobleman to boot," added John.

On the blood-red stone of the chased pencil-case was engraved an

elaborate coat-of-arms, surmounted by a viscount's coronet.

During their quiet journey back to St. Martin, in the char-a-banc, they,

having nothing better to do, began discussing the episode, as John

Rayner himself named it. Miss Rayner, who, many years before, had owned

a real countess for a godmother, and still boasted of a cousin--she did

not say how many removes--in an embassador's lady, had, as a matter of

course, all the peerage at her fingers' ends, and knew the names and

ages of every body in it, as well as she did the Church Catechism. So

she began speculating upon which of the peers' sons it was, and trying

to recollect who among them had recently wedded.

"I have it!" she cried at last, "It is Lord L----. He was married just

before we left England--to that old admiral's daughter, you know, John,

with the wooden leg: he is something at the Admiralty. An exceedingly

fine young man is Viscount L----, but so was his father before him,

though I dare say he is altered now. He stood for our county in early

life, and I saw him ride round the town the day of his election."

"My good madam," interrupted a gentleman, leaning down from his seat by

the driver to speak, "the party we saw this morning is just as much like

Lord L---- as you are like me. He is a regular dwarf, is L----; stands

five feet one in his boots."

"How do _you_ know Viscount L----?" snappishly demanded the lady, vexed

at finding herself, with all her aristocratic lore, at fault.

"I was at college with him," was the reply, as the speaker threw away

the end of his cigar.

"It is useless to discuss the matter further," observed John Rayner. "We

have seen the last of them, and the prospect here is worth all the

coronets in Europe."

They were leaving the Glacier de Bosson, with its form of grace, and its

color of brilliant blue shading itself off above to snowy whiteness; but

shining cataracts, silvery and beautiful, were rushing down from the

heights, amid the trees, the rocks, and the green, green banks. And

further on, as the char-a-banc continued its way out of the valley, the

snowy range of mountains appeared, their outline sharply cut against the

clear summer sky, and the pinnacles, domes, and obelisks, as they might

be fancied, shooting up to it; with Mont Blanc--Mont Blanc so splendidly

radiant--seen from thence, standing forth in all its glory.

II.

It may have been several months prior to the date of the events recorded

above, that a family-party were gathered one evening in the drawing-room

of a handsome house, situated near to one of those parts of London much

frequented by lawyers. A lady of advancing years sat in an easy-chair;

the worsted-work with which she had been occupied was thrown aside, and

she had placed her hand fondly upon the head of a young girl, who knelt

before the recently-lighted fire, enjoying its blaze, for the autumn

evenings were growing chilly. A stranger would have been struck at once

with the girl's beauty. Had a masterly hand sculptured out her features

from marble, they could not have been more exquisitely moulded, and they

were pale as the purest ivory. She seemed to be about eighteen, and a

cherished, petted child.

Two ladies, each more than thirty years of age, sat also in the

apartment. They were quiet-looking women, dressed with a plainness which

formed a contrast to the elegant attire of the younger lady. One sat

before her desk, the other--having drawn close to the window, for she

was near-sighted--sat reading attentively.

"Louisa, my dear," observed the mother, removing her hand from her

youngest daughter's head, "I think you should put your writing aside:

it is getting too late to see."

"In a few minutes, mother: my epistle is just finished, and I want to

send it by to-night's post."

"Is it for the convent?" inquired the youngest girl.

"It is."

"As a matter of certainty," she rejoined; a saucy smile--in which might

be traced a dash of derision--illuminating her features.

The expression was observed, and a deep sigh broke from the two elder

sisters; the one looking up from her book, which was a Roman-Catholic

edition of the "Lives of the Saints," to give vent to it.

At the same moment a servant entered, and presented a salver to his

mistress. She took a note from it, and broke the seal. The man quitted

the room, and Frances, like a spoiled child, leaned her head upon her

mother's lap to look at the handwriting.

"It is from your papa, my dearest, written from the office; but a couple

of lines. He says he shall bring home a client to dinner--a nobleman,

who will probably take a bed at our house. It may be as well, perhaps,

that I order some trifling additions to the table."

"The dinner is very well, madam," meekly observed one of her elder

daughters. "It is handsome and good: will not the enlarging of it savor

much of worldly vanity?"

"Additions! to be sure, mamma!" cried Frances. "What are you dreaming

of, Mary? it is a nobleman who is coming, did you not hear?" And bending

forward, she pulled hastily the bell, that Mrs. Hildyard might issue her

orders.

But while they are up-stairs dressing, it may be as well to give a short

intimation of who the parties are.

Mr. Hildyard was an eminent lawyer, ranking high in his profession, of

unblemished character, and of great wealth. He was of the Roman Catholic

persuasion. His family consisted but of the three daughters we have

already seen. The two elder ones, Louisa and Mary, had been placed in

early childhood at a convent in one of the midland counties.

Merry-hearted girls they were when they entered it; but at their

departure, after a sojourn there of several years, their joyous spirits

had been subdued to gloom. The world and all its concerns was to them a

sin; and they decidedly deemed that no person was worthy to live in it,

save those who were continually out of it "in the spirit," and whose

time was passed in the offices of religion, and in ecclesiastical

acerbities. They returned home young women, while their little sister,

the willful child, Frances, was but eight years of age. Most

passionately fond of this child, coming to them so many years after the

birth of the others, were Mr. and Mrs. Hildyard; and, like too many fond

parents, they merged her future well-being in present indulgence. Oh!

better had it been for Frances Hildyard to have turned into stone her

heart's best feelings, and to have lived a life of contented gloom as

her sisters did, than to have grown up the vain, self-willed girl which

she had done, reveling in the world and its vanities as if it were to be

her resting-place forever.

It is impossible to tell you how Frances Hildyard was idolized--how

indulged. This is no ideal story, and I speak but of things as they

were. When only seven years of age, she dined at table with her parents,

at their late dinner-hour. Her will was law in the house; the very

servants, taking their tone from their superiors, made her their idol,

or professed to do so. The most insidious flatteries were poured into

her ear, and every hour in the day, one eagerly drank-in theme was

whispered there--the beauty of Miss Frances. This indulgence, coupled

with that fostered vanity, brought forth its fruits--and can you wonder

at it? Good seeds were in her heart--good, holy seeds, planted in it by

God, as they are in the heart of all; but in lieu of being carefully

fostered and pruned, they were let run to waste, and the baneful weeds

overgrew them.

A governess was provided for her, a kind, judicious Catholic woman. Send

Frances to the convent, indeed! What object would Mr. and Mrs. Hildyard

have had to doat upon had their precious child been removed from their

sight? Mrs. Mainwaring was anxious for the welfare of her charge, and to

do her duty; but Frances was the most rebellious pupil. The governess

appealed to the mother, and Mrs. Hildyard, with showers of kisses and

presents, implored Frances to be more attentive; but Frances heard her

whisper to the governess not to be harsh with her darling child. It was

a continued scene of struggle for mastery, and Mrs. Mainwaring threw up

her engagement. A French lady was procured in her place, who had the

accommodation, to use no more reprehensible term, to assimilate her

views to those of Miss Frances. And so she grew up; her extreme beauty

palliating to the household all her little willful faults, and the

admiration she excited filling the very crevices of her heart. To hear

the echo of the word "beautiful" coupled with Frances Hildyard, was of

itself, to her, worth living for. But soon one was to come, for whose

admiration she would alone care, one for whose step she would learn to

listen, and in whose absence existence would be irksome.

She was the first, on the evening which has been mentioned, to enter the

drawing-room, after dressing for dinner. Her attire proved she had not

forgotten that a noble stranger was to partake of their hospitality. Mr.

Hildyard was standing before the fire with a gentleman. They both moved

as she advanced, and her father, taking her hand, said, "My love, allow

me to introduce Lord Winchester. Your lordship sees my youngest

daughter, Miss Frances Hildyard."

She saw that he was young and handsome--she saw that he was noble and

courteous beyond any that she had hitherto formed acquaintance with, but

she saw not the whole of his fascinations then.

He led Mrs. Hildyard in to dinner, and sat next to her; Frances was on

his other hand. The two elder sisters, in their quiet gray silk dresses,

sat opposite, and Mr. Hildyard occupied his customary place at the foot

of the table.

Vain girl! She was looking her very best, and she tried to look it. She

was conscious that he regarded her with no common admiration. She was

used to that; but she was _not_ used to this homage from a nobleman.

The secret of his visit was made known to the family--to no one else.

Viscount Winchester, but following the example set him by many another

noble viscount, had got himself into a scrape: plainly speaking, he had

run headlong into debt, and was in the hands of the Jews. The

respectable old earl, his father, shocked and astonished, had, in the

first flush of anger, refused to assist him, and the viscount,

threatened with arrest, and not daring to apply to the family-solicitor,

had flown to Mr. Hildyard, of whom he had a slight knowledge. So here he

was located, _en famille_, in the lawyer's house; it may be said,

secreted, for the servants were left in ignorance of his name and rank,

and the family were denied to visitors.

Upon Frances chiefly devolved the care of entertaining him. Louisa and

Mary--even had the necessity of any task so vain and useless as that of

amusing a handsome young gentleman occurred to their minds--possessed

not the time to attend to it, what with their voluminous correspondence

kept up with the convent, and their multifarious religious duties at

home, and its ceremonies abroad; and Mrs. Hildyard was in delicate

health, and rarely descended from her apartments until late in the day.

It was nearly a week before he left the house. For four days the earl

had continued obstinate; and after he relented, it took two more to

arrange matters, so that Lord Winchester might be free again. He and

Frances had become very friendly with each other; it is too early yet to

say, attached--but the seeds for that were sown. He quitted the house,

but not to remain absent from it forever--now a morning visit, now a

friendly dinner with them. Neither did it seem any thing but a natural

occurrence that he should frequently return to his friends from whom he

had received so much kindness. But it needed not his whisperings to

Frances, to convince her that she was the magnet that drew him thither,

for she saw it in every look, and traced it in every action.

III.

The winter had come. Frost and snow lay chillingly upon the ground, when

one afternoon the visiting-carriage of Mrs. Hildyard drew up to her

house, and Frances, followed by her mother, leaped lightly out of it. A

radiant smile of happiness was on her beautiful face, for a well-known

cab, elegant in all its appurtenances, was in waiting at the door,

giving sure token that its owner was within.

Lord Winchester's visits had been frequent and constant; and oh, the

change that had come over the feelings of Frances Hildyard--over her

whole life! She had learned to love; but few could imagine how wildly

and passionately.

There he was, as she entered the morning-room, striding up and down it

impatiently. A hasty embrace, while they were yet uninterrupted, and

Lord Winchester walked forward to shake hands with Mrs. Hildyard.

"So, Frances," he whispered, when an opportunity, offered and others

were in the room to draw off attention from them, "you are tiring

already of your conquest?"

Tiring of him! A faint blush upon her pure cheek, and a look of inquiry,

formed her only answer.

"It was unkind not to reply to my note, when I so earnestly urged it."

"What note?" she asked.

"The one I sent you yesterday."

"I had no letter from you yesterday."

"Think again, my love. James tells me he delivered it as usual into the

hands of your own maid."

"Then she never gave it me," answered Frances, earnestly.

"Some negligence!" ejaculated Lord Winchester.

But the visitors who had been present were leaving, and their

conversation was interrupted.

As soon as she was at liberty, Frances hastened to her room, and ringing

for her maid, a chattering French girl, demanded if she had not received

a note for her on the previous day.

"Most certainly," answered the girl, jabbering on with her false accent,

and occasionally introducing a word of her native language. "It came

when you were out, mademoiselle, and I placed it here on your

toilet-table."

"Then where is it?" inquired Frances.

"Mais--I supposed you took it," replied the attendant, looking puzzled;

and she was beginning to scan the ground, as if thinking it might have

fallen there, when Miss Louisa Hildyard entered the apartment, and the

servant was dismissed.

"I--I took the liberty, Frances," began Miss Hildyard, clearing her

throat, and speaking in the mild, monotonous manner which distinguished

her and her sister, "to open a letter yesterday which was addressed to

you."

The thoughts of Frances reverted to the lost note, and the impetuous

flush of anger rose to her brow. Her answer was delivered in a tone of

the utmost astonishment:

"You--opened--a--letter--addressed--to--me!" was her exclamation, with a

pause between every word.

"I did," meekly replied Miss Louisa.

"And you presumed--was it from here? Did you find it here?" reiterated

Frances, pointing to the dressing-table.

"It was--- I did," responded the elder lady, scarcely above a whisper,

"and I am now come to converse--"

But Frances, with a perfect torrent of passion, overwhelmed her words.

"And how could you--how dared you break the seal of a letter which bore

my address? how dare you presume to stand in my presence and assert it?"

"The superscription was in Viscount Winchester's handwriting, and the

seal bore his arms," was the placid reply. "A sufficient warranty for my

proceeding, for I had suspected there was a private understanding going

on between you, and deemed it my duty to look into it."

"And don't you know," exclaimed Frances, stamping her foot in her

passion, "that the act you have been guilty of is so vile, that, but

recently, one committing it was deemed worthy of a felon's death upon

the scaffold? That degradation so utter can have been committed by my

father's child!"

"This storm of passion and violence is very bad," deplored Miss Louisia

Hildyard, crossing her hands upon her chest. "May the Virgin bring your

mind to habitual meekness!"

"May the Virgin bring you to a sense of the shameful act you have

stooped to, and keep you out of my apartments for the future!" retorted

the exasperated girl, who, in truth to say, was looked upon as little

better than a heathen, in religious matters, by her pious sisters.

Miss Louisa took a small ivory crucifix from her bosom, kissed it, and

crossed herself, while ejaculating audible aspirations for patience.

"Retire from my presence," resumed Frances, haughtily, "and return to my

maid, whom I will send after you, the letter you have robbed me of."

"It is no longer in my possession," sighed Miss Louisa, coolly taking a

seat as if in open defiance of her sister's imperious command. "I am in

the habit of consulting Sister Mildred, my dear old preceptress at the

convent, upon all points, and I submitted Lord Winchester's

communication to her by last night's post, requesting her advice as to

what course we ought to pursue with you upon this deplorable matter."

Frances turned quite wild. "You eavesdropper--you impersonation of all

jealousy--- how dared you do so? This is worse and worse! Consult the

nuns about yourselves and your own concerns; go and live with them and

stop with them if you like; but who gave you right or power over mine?

"The right and the power that one soul has to concern itself for the

well-being of another. Had Viscount Winchester--"

"Had Viscount Winchester come with his coronet in hand, and laid it at

_your_ feet," interrupted Frances, vehemently, "you would have grasped

at the offer--unsuitable to him as you would be in years. We should have

had no saintly appeals to the convent then."

Miss Louisa gave a faint scream, and nearly fainted. To do her justice,

it was not so much her sister's ill-judged words that affected her--not

even the irreverent allusion to her age--as the coupling her holy and

catholic person, though only in idea, in union with one who was a sworn

enemy to the true faith.

"Oh, that you had been reared among our pious sisterhood!" she

aspirated, looking on Frances with compassion, "you would then know the

terrible sin you have been guilty of in encouraging the addresses of

this lost man."

"I wish the pious sisterhood had been in the sea before they had taught

you these disgraceful tricks," retorted the young lady. "Why don't you

attend to your priests, and your visitings, and your week-day masses,

and your holy robes, and leave rational people to pursue their way

unmolested?"

This last was a hint at her sister's embroidery; they never were without

a "holy robe" in hand, intended for the decoration of some priest or

another.

"Thanks be to the saints and to their blessed servants who tutored me,

you can not provoke me to anger, Frances. What I have done, I have done

for your good. It is incumbent on us to stop this affair in the bud,

rather than suffer you to become deeply attached to this young nobleman.

Alas! that hearts still dead to the spirit, _should_ be guilty of

passion so reprehensible for a fellow-creature!"

"Whatever attachment there may be between me and Lord Winchester, it

does not concern you."

"You can never marry him."

"I shall not ask your consent."

Miss Louisa Hildyard fell upon one knee when she heard these words, and

prayed for reformation to the sinful heart of her young sister.

"You might as well marry the--the--" she seemed to hesitate for a mild

expression, "the person down below who is not an angel," she continued,

tapping the floor with her foot, lest Frances should mistake her

meaning; "you might as well marry _him_, as a man professing the

religion they call Protestant."

The pale face of Frances bore a tinge of red--always a sign in her of

deep emotion. She liked not the turn the discussion was taking, for she

had been nurtured in the doctrines of the Romish faith, and even she,

careless as she was of fulfilling the duties of her religion, owned to

prejudices against those of an opposite creed, though her all-potent

love for Lord Winchester willingly buried in his case these prejudices

in oblivion.

"Oh, Frances! think of your soul! How can that be saved if you willfully

ally yourself with one who can never enter into the fold of Christ?"

"Have you increased my obligations to you," interrupted Frances, trying

to smother her sister's words, "by informing papa that you are a

breaker-open of other people's letters?"

"My lips are sealed upon the subject until the arrival of the answer of

Sister Mildred," replied Miss Hildyard. "I shall be guided, as I ever

am, by her advice."

IV.

The answer of "Sister Mildred" was not long in coming. It was a

voluminous epistle, partly consisting of pathetic lamentations over the

"stray lamb who seemed prone to wonder;" and earnestly urging, nay,

commanding her dear daughter Louisa to consult at once with her

confessor, and to let him see and explain the danger to Mr. Hildyard.

Mr. and Mrs. Hildyard were sufficiently confounded when the unwelcome

news was made known to them. That they were taken with Lord Winchester

as a fascinating man and pleasing companion, could not be denied; but

that their greatly-beloved daughter should have become attached to one

lying under the ban of their faith, was an overwhelming blow. The first

time that Mr. Hildyard entered his drawing-room, after hearing the tale,

appearances seemed to confirm it, for there sat Frances at the piano,

playing ever and anon a few bars with one hand, and his lordship was

leaning over her and speaking in whispers. Mrs. Hildyard had dozed

asleep upon the sofa, her frequent habit after dinner, and Miss Mary

Hildyard sat at the table underneath the light of the great chandelier,

forming a wreath of flowers, intended, when worked, to ornament a vail

for the profession of a young friend, who was about to become a nun.

Altogether, what with the old lady's doze, and the younger one's

preoccupation, they had it pretty much to themselves, and Mr. Hildyard

walked across the well-carpeted room without being perceived, in time to

see the viscount toying with his daughter's ringlets. Frances started up

when she saw her father.

"What do you do, Frances, so far from the fire?" he cried with asperity,

the first time in her life she ever remembered harsh tones used to her.

"Is it so cold a night?" inquired the young man.

"Very cold, my lord," was the short reply.

"This room is warm any where," observed Frances, as she slowly

approached the table where her sister was sitting.

"Shall I sing you your favorite songs to-night, papa?" she inquired.

"No. I am in no mood for singing?"

"Will you give me my revenge at chess?" asked the viscount of Mr.

Hildyard.

"If your lordship will excuse me, I shall feel obliged."

So with this chilling reception of course his lordship soon walked

himself off, and then Mr. Hildyard spoke to Frances.

Kindly and cautiously he pointed out to her how impossible it was that

she could ever marry Lord Winchester, or any one save a professor of her

own creed. He told her to choose from the whole world--that he and her

mother had but her happiness at heart, but she must choose a Roman

Catholic. "I hope," he continued, "that a mistake has arisen upon this

point, and that you do not love Lord Winchester--that it will be no pain

to you not to see him again."

Her heart beat tumultuously, and a film gathered before her eyes; but

she turned her face, with its agitation, away from their view, and gave

an evasive answer.

"Because to-morrow I shall write to him," proceeded Mr. Hildyard, "that

a stop may be put to this at once, and forever."

V.

Astonished as Mr. and Mrs. Hildyard may have been, that was nothing

compared with the indignant amazement of the earl when the affair broke

upon him. For Mr. Hildyard, not contented with writing fully to Lord

Winchester, had dropped an explanatory note to the earl, intimating his

hope that the latter would urge upon his son the futility of the

expectation that Miss Frances Hildyard could ever become Viscountess

Winchester.

That the viscount admired Frances was beyond a doubt; nay, that he loved

her; but that he had entertained any serious thoughts of making her his

wife, was a mistake. He was not so ready to give up the attractions of

bachelorship. He had passed his leisure hours most agreeably by the side

of Frances, without any ultimate end in view, and without giving a

thought to one.

What commotion there was in the house when the supercilious letter of

the haughty old peer arrived at Mr. Hildyard's. A lawyer's daughter a

fit mate for the heir to one of the most ancient earldoms! Had Mr.

Hildyard and his wife ever entertained so aspiring a thought, they were

now plainly undeceived.

Lord Winchester was forbidden the house; all intercourse with him, even

but a passing nod, should they meet in public, was denied to Frances;

and she who had never been chidden or crossed, who did not know what

control was, had her mother and sisters constantly peeping and peering

over her, night and day.

But their vigilance was sometimes eluded. There were servants in the

house, who, devoted to Frances's interests or to the viscount's bribery,

frequently passed letters from one to the other, and even contrived to

bring about interviews between them. One unlucky evening, however, that

Frances was missing from the sitting-room, her eldest sister bethought

herself to go in search of her--a suspicion, it may have been, rife in

her heart.

Reception-rooms and other chambers were searched in vain, and the lady

stealthily made her way to the apartments of the servants, scaring one

that she met on the road by her unusual appearance there. The

housekeeper's parlor was at the end of a passage, and Miss Hildyard

advanced to it, and turned the handle of the door, and--she did not

faint, but sank down upon a chair with a succession of groans so loud,

that they might have been heard at any given place within three

miles--Lord Winchester stood there, clasping her sister in his arms,

and, to use poor Miss Louisa's expression to her mother afterward,

actually KISSING her!--kissing her cheek as fast as he could kiss.

The retiring Miss Louisa had never in all her life received such a

shock. It was enough to turn her hair gray. Such a thing had never been

heard of in the convent. And that she should witness a young sister of

hers, almost an infant it might be said, quietly suffering herself to be

upon such dreadfully familiar terms with one of the other sex--and he

_not_ a holy priest, or even a Catholic! What a humiliating confession

she should have for her spiritual director the next day!--what an octavo

budget for Sister Mildred and the nuns!

Lord Winchester, instead of sinking through the floor with contrition,

appeared little daunted. He raised his head proudly up, and placing

Frances's hand within his arm, demanded of Miss Louisa if she had any

commands for him.

This hardihood put the finishing stroke upon Miss Louisa's agitation.

She fell into hysterics, and screamed so loud, that the housekeeper,

followed by the servants, came rushing in.

But the scene next day was terrible. Mr. Hildyard had been at a

political meeting, but the next morning he assembled the whole of the

family in conclave.

"Will you," he cried to Frances, after an hour spent in fruitless

discussion and recrimination, "will you, or will you not, give up this

man?"

"I will not," she murmured.

"Frances, do you remember how I and your mother--there she stands--have

cherished you? Do you know that you are entwined round our hearts as

never child was yet entwined? Will you outrage this affection of years

for the sake of a stranger--and he an apostate?"

Ah! Mr. and Mrs. Hildyard, you now see the effects of your woefully

indulgent training. What response does Frances make? Why, she turns away

her head, and makes none.

"Frances, for the last time," continued her father, "will you undertake

to renounce all friendship with Viscount Winchester--that he shall be to

you henceforth as if you had never met? It must be sworn upon the

crucifix."

The faint crimson shone in her cheek, and her voice and hands trembled

as she replied, in a low tone,

"I will never promise it."

VI.

"If any thing can recall her to a sense of her duty," remarked Miss

Louisa Hildyard, as she consulted that night alone with her father and

mother, the family priest being alike present, "it will be a prolonged

residence in that blessed convent. There her mind may be led to peace.

Oh, that she had been brought up in it!"

"You say right, my daughter," acquiesced the priest. "I see no other way

to reclaim her; for here, alas! the temptations of worldly life must

ever interfere, and counteract all good effects that might be wrought.

Place her in the convent. I myself will be her conductor thither, and

will offer up my prayers that the step may conduce to her spiritual

welfare."

Mr. and Mrs. Hildyard started, and the former smoothed his hand across

his brow, as if pain had settled there.

"Your inclinations may be at variance with this counsel," continued the

holy father, breaking the silence which had followed, "but will you

oppose them to the salvation of her immortal soul? _I see no other way

to save it._"

And so it was decided; but not until the night hours had grown into

morning.

"Oh, the holy work that will have been wrought, should the heart of

this erring lamb be won over to a peaceful life, and embrace the vail!"

uttered the priest in the ear of Miss Louisa, as he bestowed upon her

the night benediction, ere retiring from the council. "We shall say then

that that carnal-minded apostate was sent to this house in mercy."

VII.

But three days had elapsed, when a traveling-carriage drove into the

outer yard of the convent of the Nuns of the Visitation in ---- shire. A

young lady descended from it, and those in attendance gently led her

forward, now through one court-yard, now through another, until the

interior of the convent was gained. Then the great gates closed with a

bang that almost shook the building, and Frances Hildyard was shut out

from the world she had so idolized.

JOYS AND PERILS OF LUMBERING.

[From "Forest Life and Forest Trees," by J.S. SPRINGER--a unique and

truly American work, in the press of Harper and Brothers.]

Lumbermen not only cut and haul from clumps and communities, but

reconnoitre the forest, hill, vale, and mountain side for scattering

trees; and when they are deemed _worth_ an _effort_, no location in

which they may be found, however wild or daring, can oppose the skill

and enterprise of our men.

For taking logs down mountain sides, we adopt various methods, according

to the circumstances. Sometimes we construct what are termed dry

sluice-ways, which reach from the upper edge of a precipice down to the

base of the hill. This is made by laying large poles or trunks of

straight trees together the whole distance, which is so constructed as

to keep the log from running off at the sides. Logs are rolled into the

upper end, the descent or dip often being very steep; the log passes on

with lightning-like velocity, quite burying itself in the snow and

leaves below. From the roughness of the surfaces, the friction is very

great, causing the bark and smoke to fly plentifully.

At other times, when the descent is more gradual, and not too steep, and

when there is not a sufficient quantity to pay the expense of a

sluice-way, we fell a large tree, sometimes the Hemlock, trim out the

top, and cut the largest limbs off a foot, more or less, from the trunk.

This is attached to the end of the log by strong chains, and as the oxen

draw the load, this drag thrusts its stumpy limbs into the snow and

frozen earth, and thus prevents the load from forcing the team forward

too rapidly. Should the chain give way which attaches the hold-back to

the load, nothing could save the team from sudden destruction.

There is a mountain on the "west branch" of the Penobscot where

Pine-trees of excellent quality stand far up its sides, whose tops

appear to sweep the very clouds. The side which furnishes timber rises

in terraces of gigantic proportions, forming a succession of abrupt

precipices and shelving table-land. There are three of these giant

mountain steps, each of which produces lumber which challenges the

admiration and enterprise of the log-men. The ascent to these Alpine

groves is too abrupt to allow the team to ascend in harness; we

therefore unyoke and drive the oxen up winding pathways. The yokes and

chains are carried up by the workmen, and also the bob-sled in pieces,

after taking it apart. Ascending to the uppermost terrace, the oxen are

re-yoked and the sled adjusted. The logs being cut and prepared as

usual, are loaded, and hauled to the edge of the first precipice,

unloaded, and rolled off to the table of the second terrace, where they

are again loaded, hauled, and tumbled off as before, to the top of the

first rise, from which they are again pitched down to the base of the

mountain, where for the last time they are loaded, and hauled to the

landing.

To obtain logs in such romantic locations was really as hazardous as it

was laborious, varying sufficiently from the usual routine of labor to

invest the occasion with no ordinary interest. It was, indeed, an

exhibition well calculated to awaken thrilling emotions to witness the

descent of those massive logs, breaking and shivering whatever might

obstruct their giddy plunge down the steep mountain side, making the

valleys reverberate and ring merrily with the concussion.

In other instances loads are eased down hill sides by the use of "tackle

and fall," or by a strong "warp," taking a "bight" round a tree, and

hitching-to one yoke of the oxen. In this manner the load is "tailed

down" steeps where it would be impossible for the "tongue oxen" to

resist the pressure of the load. Sometimes the warp parts under the test

to which it is thus subjected, when the whole load plunges onward like

an avalanche, subjecting the poor oxen to a shocking death.

But the circumstance which calls forth the most interest and exertion is

the "rival load." When teams are located with sufficient proximity to

admit of convenient intercourse, a spirit of rivalry is often rife

between the different crews on various points. The "largest tree," the

"smartest chopper," the "best cook," the "greatest day's work," and a

score of other superlatives, all invested with attractions the greater

from the isolated circumstances of swamp life.

The "crack" load is preceded by all needful preliminaries. All defective

places in the road are repaired. New "skids" are nicely peeled by hewing

off the bark smoothly, and plentifully as well as calculatingly laid

along the road. All needful repairs are made on the bob-sled, and the

team put in contending plight. The trees intended for the "big load" are

carefully prepared, and hauled to some convenient place on the main road

singly, where they are reloaded, putting on two and sometimes three

large trees. All things in readiness, the men follow up with handspikes

and long levers. Then comes the "tug of war;" rod by rod, or foot by

foot, the whole is moved forward, demanding every ounce of strength,

both of men and oxen united, to perform the feat of getting it to the

landing. Were life and fortune at stake, more could not be done under

the circumstances. The surveyor applies the rule, and the result gives

either the one or the other party "whereof to glory." If not

"teetotalers," the vanquished "pay the bitters" when they get down

river. Men love and will have excitement; with spirits never more

buoyant, every thing, however trifling, adds to the stock of "fun alive"

in the woods. Every crew has its "Jack," who, in the absence of other

material, either from his store of "mother-wit" or "greenness,"

contributes to the merry shaking of sides, or allows himself to be the

butt of good-natured ridicule.

But while the greater part of swamp life is more or less merry, there

are occasional interruptions to the joyousness that abounds. Logging

roads are generally laid out with due regard to the conveniences of

level or gently descending ground. But in some instances the unevenness

of the country admits only of unfavorable alternatives. Sometimes there

are moderate rises to ascend or descend on the way to the landing; the

former are hard, the latter dangerous to the team. I knew a teamster to

lose his life in the following shocking manner: On one section of the

main road there was quite a "smart pitch" of considerable length, on

which the load invariably "drove" the team along on a forced trot. Down

this slope our teamster had often passed without sustaining any injury

to himself or oxen. One day, having, as usual, taken his load from the

stump, he proceeded toward the landing, soon passing out of sight and

hearing. Not making his appearance at the expiration of the usual time,

it was suspected that something more than usual had detained him.

Obeying the impulses of a proper solicitude on his behalf, some of the

hands started to render service if it were needed. Coming to the head of

the hill down which the road ran, they saw the team at the foot of it,

standing with the forward oxen faced about up the road, but no teamster.

On reaching the spot, a most distressing spectacle presented itself;

there lay the teamster on the hard road, with one of the sled-runners

directly across his bowels, which, under the weight of several tons of

timber, were pressed down to the thickness of a man's hand. He was still

alive, and when they called out to him, just before reaching the sled,

he spoke up as promptly as usual, "Here am I," as if nothing had been

the matter. These were the only and last words he ever uttered. A "pry"

was immediately set, which raised the deadfall from his crushed body,

enabling them to extricate it from its dreadful position. Shortly after,

his consciousness left him, and never more returned. He could give no

explanation; but we inferred, from the position of the forward oxen,

that the load had forced the team into a run, by which the tongue

cattle, pressed by the leaders, turning them round, which probably threw

the teamster under the runner, and the whole load stopped when about to

poise over his body.

He was taken to the camp, where all was done that could be done under

the circumstances to save him but to no purpose. His work was finished.

He still lingered, in an apparently unconscious state, until midnight,

when his spirit, forsaking its bruised and crushed tenement, ascended

above the sighing pines, and entered the eternal state. The only words

he uttered were those in reply to the calling of his name. As near as we

could judge, he had lain two hours in the position in which he was

found. It was astonishing to see how he had gnawed the rave[4] of the

sled. It was between three and four inches through. In his agony he had

bitten it nearly half off. To do this, he must have pulled himself up

with his hands, gnawed a while, then fallen back again through

exhaustion and despair. He was taken out to the nearest settlement, and

buried.

At a later period, we lost our teamster by an accident not altogether

dissimilar. It was at the winding up our winter's work in hauling. Late

in the afternoon we had felled and prepared our final tree, which was to

finish the last of the numerous loads which had been taken to the

well-stowed landing. Wearied with the frequency of his travels on the

same road for the same purpose, this last load was anticipated with no

ordinary interest; and when the tree was loaded, he seemed to

contemplate it with profound satisfaction. "This," said he, "is my last

load." For the last time the team was placed in order, to drag from its

bed the tree of a hundred summers. Onward it moved at the signal given,

and he was soon lost to view in the frequent windings of the forest

road. It was nearly sundown, and, had it not been for closing up the

winter's work that day, the hauling would have been deferred until next

morning.

The usual preparations for our evening camp-fire had been made, and the

thick shadows of evening had been gathering for an hour, and yet he did

not come. Again and again some one of the crew would step out to listen

if he could catch the jingling of the chains as they were hauled along;

but nothing broke upon the ear in the stillness of the early night.

Unwilling longer to resist the solicitude entertained for his safety,

several of us started with a lantern for the landing. We continued to

pass on, every moment expecting to hear or meet him, until the landing

was finally reached. There, quietly chewing the cud, the oxen were

standing, unconscious of the cause that detained them, or that for the

last time they had heard the well-known voice of their devoted master.

Hastening along, we found the load properly rolled off the sled, but

heavens! what a sight greeted our almost unbelieving vision! There lay

the poor fellow beneath that terrible pressure. A log was resting across

his crushed body. He was dead. From appearances, we judged that, after

having knocked out the "fid," which united the chain that bound the

load, the log rolled suddenly upon him. Thus, without a moment's

warning, he ceased in the same instant to work and live. It proved,

indeed, his "last load."

To contemplate the sameness of the labor in passing to and fro from the

swamp to the landing several times a day, on a solitary wilderness-road,

for a term of several months, with only those respites afforded in

stormy weather and on Sundays, one might think himself capable of

entering into the feelings of a teamster, and sympathetically share with

him the pleasurable emotions consequent upon the conclusion of his

winter's work. While it must be conceded that, of things possessing

every element capable of contributing pleasure, we sometimes weary

through excess, let it not be supposed that our knight of the goad has

more than usual occasion to tire, or sigh for the conclusion of the

hauling-season To be sure, "ta and fra" the livelong winter, now with a

load wending along a serpentine road, as it winds through the forest, he

repeats his visits to the swamp, and then the landing; but he is

relieved by the companionship of his dumb but docile oxen, for whom he

contracts an affection, and over whom he exercises the watchful

vigilance of a faithful guardian, while he exacts their utmost service.

He sees that each performs his duty in urging forward the laboring sled.

He watches every hoof, the clatter of shoes, the step of each ox, to

detect any lameness. He observes every part and joint of the bob-sled

while it screeches along under the massive log bound to it. He examines

the chains, lest they should part, and, above all, the objects more

watched than any others, the "fid-hook" and the "dog-hook," the former

that it does not work out, the latter that it loose not its grappling

hold upon the tree. Sometimes his little journeys are spiced with the

infinite trouble which a long, sweeping stick will give him, by suddenly

twirling and oversetting the sled every time it poises over some abrupt

swell in the road. There is really too much to be looked after, thought

of, and cared for, in his passage to the landing, to allow much

listlessness or burdensome leisure. As well might a pilot indulge

irresponsible dormancy in taking a fine ship into port, as for a

teamster to be listless under his circumstances. No: the fact is, that,

with the excitement attendant upon each load as it moves to the landing,

ten times the number of tobacco quids are required that abundantly

suffice him on his return.

Then look at the relaxation and comfort of the return. The jingling

chains, as they trail along on the hard-beaten way, discourse a constant

chorus. With his goad-stick under his arm or as a staff, he leisurely

walks along, musing as he goes, emitting from his mouth the curling

smoke of his unfailing pipe, like a walking chimney or a locomotive;

anon whistling, humming, or pouring forth with full-toned voice some

favorite air or merry-making ditty. He varies the whole exercise by

constant addresses to the oxen, individually and collectively: "Haw,

Bright!" "Ge, Duke!" "Whoap! whoap!" "What ye 'bout there, you lazy----"

"If I come there, I'll tan your old hides for you!" "Pschip, pschip, go

along there!" Knowing him not half in earnest, unless it happens to be

a sharp day, the oxen keep on the even tenor of their way, enjoying the

only apparent comfort an ox can enjoy while away from his crib--chewing

the cud.

Recently, however, the wolves have volunteered their services, by

accompanying the teams, in some places, on their way to and from the

landing, contributing infinitely more to the fears than conscious

security of the teamsters.

Three teams, in the winter of 1844, all in the same neighborhood, were

beset with these ravenous animals. They were of unusually large size,

manifesting a most singular boldness, and even familiarity, without the

usual appearance of ferocity so characteristic of the animal.

Sometimes one, and in another instance three, in a most unwelcome manner

volunteered their attendance, accompanying the teamster a long distance

on his way. They would even jump on the log and ride, and approach very

near the oxen. One of them actually jumped upon the sled, and down

between the bars, while in motion.

Some of the teamsters were much alarmed, keeping close to the oxen, and

driving on as fast as possible. Others, more courageous, would run

toward and strike at them with their goad-sticks; but the wolves sprang

out of the way in an instant. But, although they seemed to act without a

motive, there was something so cool and impudent in their conduct that

it was trying to the nerves--even more so than an active encounter. For

some time after this, fire-arms were a constant part of the teamster's

equipage. No further molestation, however, was had from them that

season.

One of my neighbors related, in substance, the following incidents: "A

short time since," said he, "while passing along the shores of

Mattawamkeag River in the winter, my attention was suddenly attracted by

a distant howling and screaming--a noise which might remind one of the

screeching of forty pair of old cart-wheels (to use the figure of an old

hunter in describing the distant howling of a pack of wolves). Presently

there came dashing from the forest upon the ice, a short distance from

me, a timid deer, closely pursued by a hungry pack of infuriated wolves.

I stood and observed them. The order of pursuit was in single file,

until they came quite near their prey, when they suddenly branched off

to the right and left, forming two lines; the foremost gradually closed

in upon the poor deer, until he was completely surrounded, when,

springing upon their victim, they instantly bore him to the ice, and in

an incredibly short space of time devoured him, leaving the bones only;

after which they galloped into the forest and disappeared." On the same

river a pack of these prowling marauders were seen just at night,

trailing along down the river on the ice. A family living in a log house

near by happened to have some poison, with which they saturated some

bits of meat, and then threw them out upon the ice. Next morning early

the meat was missing, and, on making a short search in the vicinity, six

wolves were found "dead as hammers," all within sight of each other.

Every one of them had dug a hole down through the snow into the frozen

earth, in which they had thrust their noses, either for water to quench

the burning thirst, or to snuff some antidote to the fatal drug. A

bounty was obtained on each of ten dollars, besides their hides, making

a fair job of it, as well as ridding the neighborhood of an annoying

enemy. The following account of a wolf chase will interest the reader:

"During the winter of 1844, being engaged in the northern part of Maine,

I had much leisure to devote to the wild sports of a new country. To

none of these was I more passionately addicted than that of skating. The

deep and sequestered lakes of this northern state, frozen by intense

cold, present a wide field to the lovers of this pastime. Often would I

bind on my rusty skates, and glide away up the glittering river, and

wind each mazy streamlet that flowed on toward the parent ocean, and

feel my very pulse bound with joyous exercise. It was during one of

these excursions that I met with an adventure which, even at this period

of my life, I remember with wonder and astonishment.

"I had left my friend's house one evening, just before dusk, with the

intention of skating a short distance up the noble Kennebeck, which

glided directly before the door. The evening was fine and clear. The new

moon peered from her lofty seat, and cast her rays on the frosty pines

that skirted the shore, until they seemed the realization of a

fairy-scene. All Nature lay in a quiet which she sometimes chooses to

assume, while water, earth, and air seemed to have sunken into repose.

"I had gone up the river nearly two miles, when, coming to a little

stream which emptied into the larger, I turned in to explore its course.

Fir and hemlock of a century's growth met overhead, and formed an

evergreen archway, radiant with frost-work. All was dark within; but I

was young and fearless, and as I peered into the unbroken forest, that

reared itself to the borders of the stream, I laughed in very

joyousness. My wild hurra rang through the woods, and I stood listening

to the echo that reverberated again and again, until all was hushed.

Occasionally a night-bird would flap its wings from some tall oak.

"The mighty lords of the forest stood as if naught but time could bow

them. I thought how oft the Indian-hunter concealed himself behind these

very trees--how oft the arrow had pierced the deer by this very stream,

and how oft his wild halloo had rung for his victory. I watched the owls

as they fluttered by, until I almost fancied myself one of them, and

held my breath to listen to their distant hooting.

"All of a sudden a sound arose; it seemed from the very ice beneath my

feet. It was loud and tremendous at first, until it ended in one long

yell. I was appalled. Never before had such a noise met my ears. I

thought it more than mortal--so fierce, and amid such an unbroken

solitude, that it seemed a fiend from hell had blown a blast from an

infernal trumpet. Presently I heard the twigs on the shore snap, as if

from the tread of some animal, and the blood rushed back to my forehead

with a bound that made my skin burn, and I felt relieved that I had to

contend with things of earthly and not spiritual mould, as I first

fancied. My energies returned, and I looked around me for some means of

defense. The moon shone through the opening by which I had entered the

forest, and considering this the best means of escape, I darted toward

it like an arrow. It was hardly a hundred yards distant, and the swallow

could scarcely excel my desperate flight; yet, as I turned my eyes to

the shore, I could see two dark objects dashing through the underbrush

at a pace nearly double that of my own. By their great speed, and the

short yells which they occasionally gave, I knew at once that they were

the much-dreaded gray wolf.

"I had never met with these animals, but, from the description given of

them, I had but little pleasure in making their acquaintance. Their

untamable fierceness, and the untiring strength which seems to be a part

of their nature, render them objects of dread to every benighted

traveler.

"'With their long gallop, which can tire

The hound's deep hate, the hunter's fire,'

they pursue their prey, and naught but death can separate them. The

bushes that skirted the shore flew past with the velocity of light as I

dashed on in my flight. The outlet was nearly gained; one second more,

and I would be comparatively safe, when my pursuers appeared on the bank

directly above me, which rose to the height of some ten feet. There was

no time for thought; I bent my head and dashed wildly forward. The

wolves sprang, but, miscalculating my speed, sprang behind, while their

intended prey glided out into the river.

"Nature turned me toward home. The light flakes of snow spun from the

iron of my skates, and I was now some distance from my pursuers, when

their fierce howl told me that I was again the fugitive. I did not look

back; I did not feel sorry or glad; one thought of home, of the bright

faces awaiting my return, of their tears if they should never again see

me, and then every energy of mind and body was exerted for my escape. I

was perfectly at home on the ice. Many were the days I spent on my

skates, never thinking that at one time they would be my only means of

safety. Every half minute an alternate yelp from my pursuers made me but

too certain they were close at my heels. Nearer and nearer they came; I

heard their feet pattering on the ice nearer still, until I fancied I

could hear their deep breathing. Every nerve and muscle in my frame was

stretched to the utmost tension.

"The trees along the shore seemed to dance in the uncertain light, and

my brain turned with my own breathless speed; yet still they seemed to

hiss forth with a sound truly horrible, when an involuntary motion on my

part turned me out of my course. The wolves close behind, unable to stop

and as unable to turn, slipped, fell, going on far ahead, their tongues

lolling out, their white tusks gleaming from their bloody mouths, their

dark, shaggy breasts freckled with foam; and as they passed me their

eyes glared, and they howled with rage and fury. The thought flashed on

my mind that by this means I could avoid them, viz., by turning aside

whenever they came too near; for they, by the formation of their feet,

are unable to run on ice except on a right line.

"I immediately acted on this plan. The wolves, having regained their

feet, sprang directly toward me. The race was renewed for twenty yards

up the stream; they were already close on my back, when I glided round

and dashed past my pursuers. A fierce growl greeted my evolution, and

the wolves slipped upon their haunches and sailed onward, presenting a

perfect picture of helplessness and baffled rage. Thus I gained nearly a

hundred yards each turning. This was repeated two or three times, every

moment the wolves getting more excited and baffled, until, coming

opposite the house, a couple of stag-hounds, aroused by the noise, bayed

furiously from their kennels. The wolves, taking the hint, stopped in

their mad career, and after a moment's consideration turned and fled. I

watched them till their dusky forms disappeared over a neighboring hill;

then, taking off my skates, I wended my way to the house, with feelings

better to be imagined than described."

Such annoyances from these migrating beasts, in the vicinity of logging

berths as above named, are of recent date. Up to 1840 I had been much in

the wild forests of the northeastern part of Maine, clearing wild land

during the summer and logging in the winter, and up to this period had

never seen a satisfactory evidence of their presence. But since this

period they have often been seen, and in such numbers and of such size

as to render them objects of dread.

[Footnote 4: "Rave," the railing of the sled.]

THE HIGHEST HOUSE IN WATHENDALE.

CHAPTER THE FIRST.

High up among the mountains of Westmoreland, there is a valley which we

shall call Wathendale. The lowest part of this valley, is some hundreds

of feet above the heads of the dwellers on the nearest mail-road; and

yet, as if such a place of abode was not near enough to the sky, there

are houses as high up as they can well be put, in the hollows of the

mountains which overlook the dale. One of these small farmsteads is as

old-fashioned a place as can be seen; and well it may be so; for the

last owners were fond of telling that the land had been in their family

for five hundred years. A stranger might wonder what could carry any

body up to such a place five hundred years ago; but the wonder would

only show that the stranger did not know what was doing in the district

in those days. Those were the days when the tenants of the Abbots of

Furness used to hold land in the more fertile spots, in companies of

four--one of whom was always to be ready to go forth to fight in the

Border wars. And those were the days when the shepherds and herdsmen in

the service of the Abbey used to lead their sheep and cattle as far up

the mountains as they could find food--to be the better out of the way

of the marauders from the north. Besides the coarse grass of these

uplands, there were the sprouts of the ash and holly, which were a good

food for the beasts. To be sure, there were wolves, up in those lonely

places; but they were kept out by rough stone walls, which were run up

higher and higher on the mountain side, as the woods receded before the

tillage of new settlers. The first of the Fells, who made their boast of

a proprietorship of five hundred years, was probably a shepherd of the

Abbots of Furness; who, having walled in some of the sprouting and

sheltering wood on this upland, and built himself a hut of stones in the

midst, became regarded as the tenant first, and then the proprietor,

like many of the dwellers in the vales below. When the woods were

decayed and gone, the croft came under tillage; and no tradition has

told of the time when the Fells did not yearly crop, in one way or

another, the three fields which were seen from below, like little

patches of green beside the fissure which contained the beck (or brook)

that helped to feed the tarn (or mountain pond) a quarter of a mile

below.

There was grumbling in this mountain nest about the badness of our times

in comparison with the old days; grumbling in a different dialect from

that which is heard in our cities; but in much the same spirit. In this

house, people were said to be merrier formerly--the girls spinning and

weaving, and the lads finding plenty to do in all weathers; while the

land produced almost every thing that the family wanted--with the help

of the hill-side range for the cows and sheep. A man had not to go often

to market then; and very rarely was it necessary to buy any thing for

money, though a little bartering might go forward among the Dalesmen on

occasion. Now--but we shall see how it was "now."

Mrs. Fell and her daughter Janet were making oaten bread one December

day;--a work which requires the full attention of two persons. The

cow-boy appeared at the door, with a look of excitement very unusual in

him. He said somebody was coming; and the somebody was Backhouse, the

traveling merchant. The women could not believe it--so late in the year;

but they left their baking to look out; and there, sure enough, was the

peddler, with his pack on his shoulders, toiling up the steep. They saw

him sit down beside the barn, and wipe his brows, though it was

December. They saw him shoulder his pack again; and then the women

entered into consultation about something very particular that they had

to say to him. As people who live in such places grow dull, and get to

think and speak with extraordinary slowness, the plot was not complete

when the peddler appeared at the door. He explained himself quickly

enough; had thought he would make one more round, as the season was

mild--did not know how long the snow might lie when it did

come--believed people liked to wear something new at Christmas; so here

he was. When would he take his next round? O! when the weather should

allow of his bringing his stock of spring goods. He detected some

purpose under the earnestness with which he was pressed to say when he

would come. He would come when the Fells pleased, and bring what they

pleased. He must come before the first of April, and must bring a bunch

of orange flowers, and a white shawl, and--

"Two sets of the orange flowers," said Janet.

"What! two brides!" exclaimed Backhouse. "Are they to be both married in

one day?"

Mrs. Fell explained that there was to be a bride's maid, and that Janet

wished that her friend should be dressed exactly like herself. Backhouse

endeavored to prove that only brides should wear orange flowers; but

Janet was sure her friend would be best pleased to wear what she wore;

and the peddler remembered that nobody within call of the chapel bell

would know any better; so he promised all that was desired. And next, he

sold half the contents of his pack, supplying the women with plenty of

needlework for the winter evenings. Brides enjoy having a new wardrobe

as much in the mountains as in towns--perhaps more.

Whenever the young carpenter, Raven, came up to see his betrothed, he

found her sewing, and some pretty print, or muslin, or bit of gay silk

lying about. It was all very pleasant. The whole winter went off

pleasantly, except for some shadow of trouble now and then, which soon

passed away. For instance, Raven was once absent longer than usual, by

full three days; and when he did come, there were marks left which told

that he had staid away because he had been ashamed of two black eyes.

"He had been drinking, I dare say," said Mrs. Fell to Janet afterward,

with the air of indifference with which drunkenness is apt to be spoken

of in the district. "I don't wonder he did not like to show himself."

"I don't think it is his way," observed Janet.

"No; it is not a habit with him; and they all do get too much, now and

then--two or three times a year--and it will be seldomer than that when

he comes to live up here."

Raven was to be adopted as a son, on marrying the only child, and it was

very right; for Fell was growing old; and he was more feeble than his

years warranted. Rheumatism plagued him in the winter, and he was

overworked in the summer. Raven would help to manage the little farm,

and he would do all the carpentering work, and put the whole place in

repair, outside and in. Every thing was to go well after the wedding.

Sally, the bridesmaid, came in good time to put the orange flowers into

her coarse Dunstable bonnet, which streamed with white ribbons. It was a

fine April morning, when the party set off down the mountain for their

walk of three miles to the chapel. The mother remained at home When

Fell returned, he told her it had gone off extremely well, and the

clergyman had spoken very kindly; and that Fleming's cart was ready, as

had been promised, to take the young people to the town where they were

to be entertained at dinner. It was all right, and very pleasant. And

the old people sat down to dinner, dressed in their best, and saying,

many times over, that it was all right with them, and very pleasant. The

only thing was--if Raven's name had but been Fell! The Fells having

lived here for five hundred years--

"The family, but not always the name," the wife observed. There was a

Bell that lived here once; and the land would be in the family still, in

the best way it could, as they had no children but Janet.

Well; that was true, Fell agreed; and it was all right, and very

pleasant.

CHAPTER THE SECOND.

That evening, three ladies went up to the chapel to see the sunset from

the church-yard, which commanded an exquisite view. It was a place in

which, at such an hour, it was easy to forget, even with the graves

before their eyes, that there was sin or sorrow in the world. The ladies

sat on the steps till the last glow had faded from the clouds, and the

mountains stood up, clear and solemn, against a green sky, from which

every tinge of sunset had vanished; and then they came down, with

thoughts as bright and calm as the stars which were beginning to come

out overhead. When they entered on a long stretch of straight road, they

saw before them an odd-looking group. In the dusk it seemed as if a man

and a woman were carrying something very heavy--moving toward them at a

pace hopelessly slow. A woman was some way in advance of them--loitering

and looking back. When they came up to her, it was a young woman, with

orange flowers in her bonnet, and a smart white shawl on her shoulders.

She was carrying a man's hat, new, but half covered with mud. It was now

too clear that the heavy thing which the other two were trying to haul

along was a man. Never did man look more like a brute. His face, when it

could be seen, was odious; swollen, purple, without a trace of reason or

feeling left in it; but his head hung so low, with his long black hair

dipping on the ground, that it was not easy to see his face. His legs

trailed behind him, and his new clothes were spattered with dirt.

"It looks like apoplexy," said, the elder lady to her companions: and

she asked the young woman who was carrying the hat, whether the man was

in a fit.

"No, ma'am; he has only been overcome. It is his wedding. He was married

this morning."

"Married this morning! And is that his wife?"

"Yes, ma'am; and the other is bridegroom's man."

It would have touched any heart to see poor Janet, as the ladies

passed--her honest, sun-burned face, all framed in orange flowers,

grave and quiet, while she put forth her utmost strength (which was not

small) to hold up her wretched husband from the dirt of the road. The

other man was a comely youth, dressed in his best, with a new plaid

fastened across his breast. The ladies looked back, and saw that it

would never do. The elder lady returned, and laying her hand on the poor

young woman's shoulder, said,

"This is no work for you. It is too much for you. Let him lie, while I

speak to the people at this farm-house. I know them; and they will send

a man to take him into the house."

Poor Janet spoke very calmly when she said they could take him a little

further; but her lips quivered slightly. The lady spoke to a man who was

feeding calves in a stable; and asked him to help to dip the

bridegroom's head in a cistern by the road-side, and then take him into

the house.

"How far is it from his home?" the lady inquired of Sally. "The High

House in Wathendale! You will not get him there to-night at this rate."

The farm-house people promised a cart, if the party could wait till it

came by.

"How could such a thing happen?" said the lady. "Is there no one to

teach this man his duty better than this? Does he know the clergyman?"

"Yes, ma'am," said Sally, adding very simply, "but there would be no use

in the clergyman speaking to him now, he would not understand."

"No, indeed," replied the lady. "But he will feel ill enough to-morrow,

and then I hope somebody that he respects will speak to him in a way

that he will remember."

"To think," she said to her companions, as they walked away past the

cistern where the groveling bridegroom was undergoing his ducking, "that

that is the creature whom the poor girl bound herself this morning to

love, cherish, and obey! What a beginning of the cherishing!"

Fell and his wife had not expected the young people home early; but it

was much later than the latest time they had fixed, before they heard

any thing of them. When at last the party appeared, emerging from the

night mist, all the three sober ones were dreadfully weary. The ascent

had been terrible; for Raven had not yet begun to recover.

No fine sentiment was wasted upon the occasion; for the indifference

which had rather shocked the ladies, was the real state of mind of

people too much accustomed to the spectacle of intemperance. Mrs. Fell

declared she was vexed with him--that she was; and then she put on her

bedgown, in order to sit up with her daughter, for Raven was now so sick

that he must be waited on all night. Mrs. Fell said repeatedly, as so

often before, that all men were apt to take too much now and then; and

it would happen less often now he had come to live up here. Yet, her

husband's words would run in her head, that it was all right, and very

pleasant. When, in the dawn of the morning, her daughter made her go to

bed, she dropped asleep with those words in her ears; while poor Janet,

chilly, sick at heart, and worn out, was at length melting into tears.

When, the next afternoon, her husband sat nursing his aching head beside

the fire-place, he was struck with some compunction at the sight of her

red eyes. Of course, he declared, as drunkards always do, it should

never happen again. Of course, he laid the blame, as drunkards always

do, on other people. Of course, he said, as drunkards always do, that it

was no habit of his; and that this was an accident--for once and away.

Of course, his wife believed him, as young wives always do.

For some time it appeared all true, and every thing went on very

cheerfully. On the fine days there was as much field-work as both men

could do; and so many repairs were needed of gates and posts, cart and

cow-house, dwelling-house and utensils, that all the rainy days for six

months were too little for the carpentering Raven had upon his hands. He

had not been tipsy above twice in all that time: once on a stormy day,

when he had sat lazily scorching himself before the fire, with the

laborer and cow-boy, who were driven in by stress of weather, and who

yawned till they made the whole party weary. Raven disappeared for a

couple of hours in the afternoon, and came out of the barn to supper in

a state far from sober. The other time was when he had gone to market in

October, to sell oats. At all other times he worked well, was kind to

the old people, and very fond of Janet, and justified Fell's frequent

declaration, that it was all right now, and very pleasant.

The winter was the trying season. Sometimes the dwellers in the high

house were snowed up, and many days were too stormy for work. The men

grew tired of sitting round the fire all day, hearing the wind blow, and

the rain pelt; and the women were yet more tired of having them there.

There were no books; and nobody seemed to think of reading. There were

some caricatures of the Pope and of Bonaparte, and a portrait of King

George the Third, on the walls; and these were all the intellectual

entertainment in the house, unless we except four lines of a hymn which

Janet had marked on her sampler, when she was a child. Raven went more

and more to the barn, sometimes on pretense of working; but his hammer

and saw were less and less heard; and instead of coming in cheerfully to

supper, he was apt to loiter in, in a slouching way, to hide the

unsteadiness of his gait, and was quarrelsome with Fell, and cross to

Janet. He never conducted himself better, however; never was more

active, affectionate, helpful, and considerate, than at the time when

old Fell sank and died--during that month of early spring when Janet was

confined. He was like son and daughter at once, Mrs. Fell declared--and

doctor and nurse, too, for that matter: and his father-in-law died,

blessing him, and desiring him to take care of the farm, and prosper on

it, as it had been in the family for five hundred years.

When the old man was buried, and the seed all in the ground, and Janet

about again, Raven not only relaxed his industry, but seemed to think

some compensation due to him for his late good behavior. Certain repairs

having been left too long untouched, and Mrs. Fell being rather urgent

that they should not be further neglected, it came out that Raven had

sold his tools. Sold his tools!--Yes; how could he help it? It was

necessary, as they had all agreed, to change away the old cow for a

spring calver; and what could he do but sell his tools to pay the

difference? Janet knew, and so did her mother, though neither of them

said so, that more money had gone down his throat, all alone in the

barn, than would have paid for the exchange of cows.

The decline of their property began with this. When decline has begun

with the "statesmen" of the Lake District, it is seldom or never known

to stop; and there was nothing to stop it in this case. On a small farm,

where the health and industry of the owner are necessary to enable him

to contend with the new fashions and improvements of the low country,

and where there is no money capital behind to fall back upon, any

decline of activity is fatal; and in two or three years Raven's health

had evidently given way. His industry had relaxed before. He lost his

appetite; could not relish the unvaried and homely fare which his land

supplied; craved for dainties which could not be had, except by

purchase; lost his regular sleep, and was either feverish and restless,

or slept for fifteen hours together, in a sort of stupor. His limbs lost

their strength, and he became subject to rheumatism. Then he could not

go out in all weathers to look after his stock. One of his best sheep

was missing after a flood; and it was found jammed in between two rocks

in the beck, feet uppermost--drowned, of course. Another time, four more

sheep were lost in a snowdrift, from not being looked after in time.

Then came the borrowing a plow. It was true, many people borrowed a

plow; nobody thought much of that--nobody but Mrs. Fell. She thought

much of it; for her husband, and his father before him, had always used

their own plows. Then came borrowing money upon the land, to buy seed

and stock. It was true, many "statesmen" mortgaged their land; but then,

sooner or later, it was always found too difficult to pay the interest,

and the land went into the hands of strangers; and Mrs. Fell sighed when

she said she hoped Raven would remember that the farm had been in the

Family for five hundred years. Raven answered that he was not likely to

forget it for want of being told; and from that moment the fact was not

mentioned again Mrs. Fell kept it in her heart, and died in the hope

that no new-fangled farmer, with a south country name would ever drive

his plow through the old fields.

CHAPTER THE THIRD.

After her mother's death, Janet found her hands over-full of work, when

her heart was, as she thought, over-full of care. She did not know how

much more she could bear. There were two children now, and another

coming. Fine children they were; and the eldest was her pride and

comfort. He was beginning to prattle; and never was speech so pretty as

his. His father loved to carry him about in his arms; and sometimes,

when he was far from sober, this child seemed to set his wits straight,

and soften his temper, in a sort of magical way. There was the drawback

that Raven would sometimes insist on having the boy with him when he was

by no means fit to have the charge of so young a child: but the mother

tried to trust that all would be well; and that God would watch over an

innocent little creature who was like an angel to his sinning parent.

She had not considered (as too many do not consider) that the "promises"

are given under conditions, and that it is impious to blame Providence

for disasters when the conditions are not observed. The promises, as she

had heard them at chapel, dwelt on her mind, and gave her great comfort

in dark seasons; and it would have been a dreary word to her if any one

had reminded her that they might fail through man's neglect and sin. She

had some severe lessons on this head, however. It was pleasant to hear

that day and night, seed-time and harvest, should not cease; and when

difficulties pressed, she looked on the dear old fields, and thought of

this: but, to say nothing of what day and night were often to her--the

day as black to her spirits as night, and the night as sleepless as the

day--seed-time was nothing, if her husband was too ill or too lazy to

sow his land; and the harvest month was worse than nothing if there was

no crop: and there was no true religion in trusting that her babes would

be safe if she put them into the hands of a drunkard, who was as likely

as not to do them a mischief. And so she too sadly learned. One day,

Raven insisted on carrying the boy with him into the barn. He staggered,

stumbled, dashed the child's head against the door-post, and let him

fall. It was some minutes before the boy cried; and when he did, what a

relief it was! But, O! that cry! It went on for days and nights, with an

incessant prattle. When at last he slept, and the doctor hoped there

would be no lasting mischief, the prattle went on in his sleep, till his

mother prayed that he might become silent, and look like himself again.

He became silent; but he never more looked like himself. After he seemed

to be well, he dropped one pretty word after another--very slowly--week

by week, for long months; but the end of it was that he grew up a dumb

idiot.

His father had heart and conscience enough to be touched by this to the

point of reformation. For some months, he never went down into the

valley at all, except to church, for fear of being tempted to drink. He

suffered cruelly, in body as well as mind, for a time; and Janet wished

it had pleased God to take the child at once, as she feared her husband

would never recover his spirits with that sad spectacle always before

his eyes. Yet she did not venture to propose any change of scene or

amusement, for fear of the consequences. She did her utmost to promote

cheerfulness at home; but it was a great day to her when Backhouse,

paying his Spring visit, with his pack, produced, among the hand-bills,

of which he was the hawker, one which announced a Temperance meeting in

the next vale. The Temperance movement had reached these secluded vales

at last, where it was only too much wanted; and so retired had been the

life of the family of the High House, that they had not even heard of

it. They heard much of it now; for Backhouse had sold a good many

ribbons and gay shawls among members who were about to attend Temperance

festivals.

When he told of processions, and bands of music, and public

tea-drinkings, and speeches, and clapping, with plenty of laughter, and

here and there even dancing, or a pic-nic on a mountain, Janet thought

it the gayest news she had ever heard. Here would be change and society,

and amusement for her husband--not only without danger, but with the

very object of securing him from danger. Raven was so heartily willing,

that the whole household made a grand day of it--laborer, cow-boy, and

all. The cows were milked early, and for once left for a few hours. The

house was shut up, the children carried down by father and mother; and,

after a merry afternoon, the whole party came home pledged teetotalers.

This event made a great change in Raven's life. He could go down among

his old acquaintances now, for he considered himself a safe man; and

Janet could encourage his going, and be easy about his return; for she,

too, considered all danger over. Both were deceived as to the kind and

degree of safety caused by a vow.

The vow was good, in as far as it prevented the introduction of drink at

home, and gave opportunity for the smell, and the habit, and the thought

of drink to die out. It was good as a reason for refusing, when a buyer

or seller down in the vale, to seal a bargain with a dram. It was good

as keeping all knowledge of drinking from the next generation in the

house. It was good as giving a man character in the eyes of his

neighbors and his pastor. But, was it certainly and invariably good in

every crisis of temptation? Would it act as a charm when a weak man--a

man weak in health, weak in old associations, weak in self-respect--should

find himself in a merry company of old comrades, with fumes of grog rising

on every side, intoxicating his mind before a drop had passed his lips?

Raven came to know, as many have learned before him, that self-restraint

is too serious a thing to be attained at a skip, in a moment, by taking an

oath; and that reform must have gone deeper, and risen higher, than any

process of sudden conversion, before a man should venture upon a vow;

and in such a case, a vow is not needed. And if a man is not strong

enough for the work of moral restraint, his vow may become a snare, and

plunge him in two sins instead of one. A temperance-pledge is an admirable

convenience for the secure; but it must always be doubtful whether it will

prove a safeguard or a snare to the infirm. If they trust wholly to it,

it will, too probably, become a snare--and thus it was with poor Raven.

When the temperance-lecturer was gone, and the festival was over, and the

flags were put away, and the enthusiasm passed, while his descents among

his old companions were continued, without fear or precaution, he was in

circumstances too hard for a vow, the newness of which had faded. He

hardly knew how it happened. He was, as the neighbors said, "overcome."

His senses once opened to the old charm, the seven devils of drink

rushed into the swept and garnished house, and the poor sinner was left

in a worse state than ever before.

Far worse; for now his self-respect was utterly gone. There is no need

to dwell on the next years--the increase of the mortgage, the decrease

of the stock--the dilapidation of house, barn, and stable--the

ill-health and discomfort at home, and the growing moroseness of him who

caused the misery.

No more festivals now! no talk to the children of future dances! and so

few purchases of Backhouse, that he ceased to come, and the household

were almost in rags. No more going to church, therefore, for any body!

When the wind was in the right quarter for bringing to the uplands the

din-dinning of the chapel-bell, Janet liked to hear it, though it was no

summons to her to listen to the promises. The very sound revived the

promises in her mind. But what could she make of them now? An incident,

unspeakably fearful to her, suddenly showed her how she ought to view

them. The eldest girl was nursing her idiot-brother's head in her lap

while the younger children were at play, when the poor fellow nestled

closer to her.

"Poor Dan!" said she. "You can't play about, and be merry, like the

others: but I will always take care of you, poor Dan!"

Little Willy heard this, and stopped his play. In another moment his

face flushed, his eyes flashed, he clenched his hands, he even stamped,

as he cried out,

"Mother, it's too bad! Why did God make Dan different from the rest?"

His panic-stricken mother clapped her hand over his mouth. But this was

no answer to his question. She thought she must be a wicked mother, that

a child of hers should ask such a question as that. It was not often

that she wept; but she wept sorely now. It brought her back to the old

lesson of the seed-time and harvest. The promise here, too, failed,

because the conditions were not fulfilled. The hope had been broken by a

collision with the great natural laws, under which alone all promise can

be fulfilled. But how explain this to Willy? How teach him that the

Heavenly Father had made Dan as noble a little fellow as ever was seen,

and that it was his own father there that had made him an idiot.

When Raven came in, he could not but see her state; and he happened to

be in so mild a mood, that she ventured to tell him what her terror and

sorrow were about. He was dumb for a time. Then he began to say that he

was bitterly punished for what was no habit of his, but that he vowed--

"No, no--don't vow!" said his wife, more alarmed than ever. She put her

arm round his neck, and whispered into his ear,

"I dare not hear you vow any more. You know how often--you know you had

better not. I dare not hear you promise any more."

He loosened her arm from his neck, and called Willy to him. He held the

frightened boy between his knees, and looked him full in the face, while

he said,

"Willy, you must not say that God made Dan an idiot. God is very good,

and I am very bad. _I_ made Dan an idiot."

The stare with which Willy heard this was too much for his mother. She

rushed up-stairs and threw herself upon the bed, where she was heard

long afterward sobbing as if her heart would break.

"Father," said Willy, timidly, but curiously, "did you make mother cry

too?"

"Yes, Willy, I did. It is all my doing."

"Then I think you are very wicked."

"So I am--very wicked. Take care that you are not. Take care you are

never wicked."

"That I will. I can't bear that mother should cry."

CHAPTER THE FOURTH.

Janet did all she could to arrest the ruin which all saw to be

inevitable. Her great piece of success was the training she gave to her

eldest daughter, little Sally. By the time she was twelve years old, she

was the most efficient person in the house. Without her, they could

hardly have kept their last remaining cow; and many a time she set her

mother at liberty to attend upon her father and protect him, when

otherwise the children must have engrossed her.

There was no cow-boy now; and her mother too often filled the place of

the laborer, when the sowing or reaping season would otherwise have

passed away unused. It was a thing unheard of in the district that a

woman should work in the fields; but what else could be done? Raven's

wasted and trembling limbs were unequal to the work alone; and, little

as he could do at best, he could always do his best when his wife was

helping him. So Sally took care of poor Dan and the four younger ones,

and made the oaten bread with Willy's help, and boiled the potatoes, and

milked and fed the cow, and knitted, at all spare minutes; for there was

no prospect of stockings for any body, in the bitter winter, but from

the knitting done at home. The children had learned to be thankful now,

when they could eat their oat-bread and potatoes in peace. They seldom

had any thing else; and they wanted nothing else when they could eat

that without terror.

But their father was now sometimes mad. It was a particular kind of

madness, which they had heard the doctor call by a long name (delirium

tremens), and they thought it must be the most terrible kind of all,

though it always went off, after a fit of it, which might last from a

day to a week. The doctor had said that it would not always go off--that

he would die in one of the attacks. The dread was lest he should kill

somebody else before that day came; for he was as ungovernable as any

man in bedlam at those times, and fearfully strong, though so weak

before and after them.

When it was possible, the children went down into the valley, and sent

up strong men to hold him; but if the weather was stormy, or if their

father was in the way, they could only go and hide themselves out of his

sight, among the rocks in the beck, or up in the loft, or somewhere; and

then they knew what their mother must be suffering with him. By degrees

they had scarcely any furniture left whole but their heavy old-fashioned

bedsteads. The last of their crockery was broken by his overturning the

lame old table at which they had been dining. Then their mother said,

with a sigh, that they must somehow manage to buy some things before

winter. There really was nothing now for any of them to eat out of. She

must get some wooden trenchers and tin mugs; for she would have no more

crockery. But how to get the money! for the whole of the land was

mortgaged now.

A little money was owing for oats when November arrived; and the

purchaser had sent word that he should be at a certain sale in Langdale,

at Martinmas; and that if Raven should be there, they could then settle

accounts. Now, this money had been destined to go as far as it would

toward the payment of interest due at Christmas. But if Raven went to

the sale (the usual occasions for social meetings in the lake-district,

in spring and autumn), he would only waste or lose the money. He had

long ceased to bring home any money, unless his wife was with him; and

then it was she that brought it, and, if possible, without his

knowledge. She must go with him, and lay out the money immediately, in

necessaries for the house and the children, before her husband could

make away with it, in a worse way than if he threw it into the sea.

They went, at dawn, in a clear cold November day. Raven had taken care

of himself for a day or two, aware of the importance of the occasion,

and anxious not to disable himself for the first social meeting he had

enjoyed for long, and thinking, in spite of himself, of the glasses of

spirits which are, unhappily, handed round very often indeed at these

country-sales. As the walk was an arduous one for an infirm man, and the

days were short, and the sale was to last two days, the children were

to be left for one night. Oatmeal and potatoes enough were left out for

two days, and peat, to dry within the house, for fuel. Willy engaged to

nurse the baby, while Sally looked to the cow. Their mother promised the

little ones some nice things for the winter, if they were good while she

was gone; and their father kissed them all, and said he knew they would

be good.

And so they were, all that first day; and a very good dinner they made,

after playing about the whole morning; and they all went instantly to

sleep at night, while Sally sat knitting for an hour longer by the dim

red light of the peat fire. The next day was not so fine. The mountain

ridges were clear; but the sky was full of very heavy gray clouds; and

before dinner, at noon, there was some snow falling. It came on thicker

and thicker; and the younger children began to grow cross, because they

could not go out to play, and did not know what to do with themselves.

Sally cheered them with talking about how soon mother would come home.

Mother had not come, however, when the little things, worried and tired,

went to bed. Nor had she come, hours after, when Sally herself wanted

very much to be asleep. She had looked out at the door very often, and

it was still snowing; and the last time, such a cloud of snow was driven

against her face, that it was a settled matter in her mind at once that

father and mother would not be home to-night. They would stay in the

vale for daylight, and come up to breakfast. So she put on another peat,

to keep in the fire, and went to bed.

In the morning, it seemed dark when baby cried to get up; and well it

might; for the window was blocked up with snow, almost to the very top.

When the door was opened, a mass of snow fell in, though what remained

was up to Willy's shoulders. The first thing to be done was to get to

the cow, to give her her breakfast, and bring baby's. So Sally laid on

her last dry peat, and filled the kettle; and then she and Willy set to

work to clear a way to the cow. They were obliged to leave baby to the

little ones; and it took an hour to cross the yard. Willy was to have

brought in some fuel; but the peat-stack was at the end of the house,

and, as they could see, so completely buried in snow, as to be

hopelessly out of reach. Here was the milk, however, and there was a

little of the oatmeal left, and some potatoes. Sally wished now they had

brought in more from the barn; but who could have thought they would

want any more? Father would get them presently, when he came.

But nobody came all that day. Late at night all the children but Sally

were asleep at last though they had been too cold and too hungry to go

to rest quietly as usual. The fire had been out since noon; and the last

cold potatoes had been eaten in the afternoon. Sally was lying with the

baby cuddled close to her for warmth; and, at last, she fell asleep too,

though she was very unhappy. In the morning, she felt that their

affairs were desperate. Willy must get down the mountain, be the snow

what it might, and tell somebody what state they were in; for now there

was no more food for the cow within reach, and she gave very little milk

this morning; and there was nothing else. It had not snowed for some

hours; and Willy knew the way so well that he got down to the valley,

being wet to the neck, and having had a good many falls by the way. At

the first farm-house he got help directly. The good woman took one of

the laborers with her, with food, and a basket of dry peat, and a

promise to clear the way to the oat-straw and hay for the relief of the

cow. The farmer set off to consult the neighbors about where Raven and

his wife could be; and the rest of the family dried the boy's clothes,

and gave him a good bowl of porridge.

In a very short time, all the men in the valley, and their dogs, were

out on the snow, their figures showing like moving specks on the white

expanse. Two of them, who had been at the sale, knew that Raven and his

wife had set out for home, long before dark on the second day. Raven

was, as might be expected, the worse for liquor; but not so much so but

that he could walk, with his wife to keep him in the path. They might

possibly have turned back; but it was too probable that they were lost.

Before night, it was ascertained that they had not been seen again in

Langdale; and in two days more, during which the whole population was

occupied in the search, or in taking care of the children, their fate

was known. Raven's body was found a little way from the track, looking

like a man in a drunken sleep. Some hours after, the barking of a dog

brought the searchers to where Janet was lying, at the foot of a

precipice about thirty feet deep. Her death must have been immediate.

It seemed that her husband, overcome by the effect of the cold (which,

however, had not been excessive) on his tipsy brain, had fallen down in

sleep or a stupor; and that Janet, unable to rouse him, had attempted to