CHAPTER XVI.

Nora Avenel had fled from the boyish love of Harley

L'Estrange--recommended by Lady Lansmere to a valetudinarian

relative of her own, Lady Jane Horton, as companion. But Lady

Lansmere could not believe it possible that the low-born girl could

long sustain her generous pride, and reject the ardent suit of one

who could offer to her the prospective coronet of a countess. She

continually urged upon Lady Jane the necessity of marrying Nora to

some one of rank less disproportioned to her own, and empowered the

lady to assure any such wooer of a dowry far beyond Nora's station.

Lady Jane looked around, and saw in the outskirts of her limited

social ring, a young solicitor, a peer's natural son, who was on

terms of more than business-like intimacy with the fashionable

clients whose distresses made the origin of his wealth. The young

man was handsome, well-dressed, and bland. Lady Jane invited him to

her house; and, seeing him struck dumb with the rare loveliness of

Nora, whispered the hint of the dower. The fashionable solicitor,

who afterward ripened into Baron Levy, did not need that hint; for,

though then poor, he relied on himself for fortune, and, unlike

Randal, he had warm blood in his veins. But Lady Jane's suggestions

made him sanguine of success; and when he formally proposed, and was

as formally refused, his self-love was bitterly wounded. Vanity in

Levy was a powerful passion; and with the vain, hatred is strong,

revenge is rankling. Levy retired, concealing his rage; nor did he

himself know how vindictive that rage, when it cooled into

malignancy, could become, until the arch-fiend OPPORTUNITY prompted

its indulgence and suggested its design.

Lady Jane was at first very angry with Nora for the rejection of a

suitor whom she had presented as eligible. But the pathetic grace of

this wonderful girl had crept into her heart, and softened it even

against family prejudice; and she gradually owned to herself that

Nora was worthy of some one better than Mr. Levy.

Now, Harley had ever believed that Nora returned his love, and that

nothing but her own sense of gratitude to his parents--her own

instincts of delicacy, made her deaf to his prayers. To do him

justice, wild and headstrong as he then was, his suit would have

ceased at once had he really deemed it persecution. Nor was his

error unnatural; for his conversation, till it had revealed his own

heart, could not fail to have dazzled and delighted the child of

genius; and her frank eyes would have shown the delight. How, at his

age, could he see the distinction between the Poetess and the Woman?

The poetess was charmed with rare promise in a soul of which the

very errors were the extravagances of richness and beauty. But the

woman--no! the woman required some nature not yet undeveloped, and

all at turbulent if brilliant strife with its own noble

elements--but a nature formed and full grown. Harley was a boy, and

Nora was one of those women who must find or fancy an Ideal that

commands and almost awes them into love.

Harley discovered, not without difficulty, Nora's new residence. He

presented himself at Lady Jane's, and she, with grave rebuke,

forbade him the house. He found it impossible to obtain an interview

with Nora. He wrote, but he felt sure that his letters never reached

her, since they were unanswered. His young heart swelled with rage.

He dropped threats, which alarmed all the fears of Lady Lansmere,

and even the prudent apprehensions of his friend, Audley Egerton. At

the request of the mother, and equally at the wish of the son,

Audley consented to visit at Lady Jane's, and make acquaintance with

Nora.

"I have such confidence in you," said Lady Lansmere, "that if you

once know the girl, your advice will be sure to have weight with

her. You will show her how wicked it would be to let Harley break

our hearts and degrade his station."

"I have such confidence in you," said young Harley, "that if you

once know my Nora, you will no longer side with my mother. You will

recognize the nobility which Nature only can create--you will own

that Nora is worthy a rank more lofty than mine; and my mother so

believes in your wisdom, that if you plead in my cause, you will

convince even her."

Audley listened to both with his intelligent, half-incredulous

smile; and wholly of the same advice as Lady Lansmere, and sincerely

anxious to save Harley from an indiscretion that his own notions led

him to regard as fatal, he resolved to examine this boasted pearl,

and to find out its flaws. Audley Egerton was then in the prime of

his earnest, resolute, ambitious youth. The stateliness of his

natural manners had then a suavity and polish which, even in later

and busier life, it never wholly lost; since, in spite of the

briefer words and the colder looks by which care and powers mark the

official man, the Minister had ever enjoyed that personal popularity

which the indefinable, external something, that wins and pleases,

can alone confer. But he had even then, as ever, that felicitous

reserve which Rochefoucault has called the "mystery of the

body"--that thin yet guardian vail which reveals but the strong

outlines of character, and excites so much of interest by provoking

so much of conjecture. To the man who is born with this reserve,

which is wholly distinct from shyness, the world gives credit for

qualities and talents beyond those that it perceives; and such

characters are attractive to others in proportion as these last are

gifted with the imagination which loves to divine the unknown.

At the first interview, the impression which this man produced upon

Nora Avenel was profound and strange. She had heard of him before as

the one whom Harley most loved and looked up to; and she recognized

at once in his mien, his aspect, his words, the very tone of his

deep tranquil voice, the power to which woman, whatever her

intellect, never attains; and to which, therefore, she imputes a

nobility not always genuine--viz., the power of deliberate purpose,

and self-collected, serene ambition. The effect that Nora produced

on Egerton was not less sudden. He was startled by a beauty of face

and form that belonged to that rarest order, which we never behold

but once or twice in our lives. He was yet more amazed to discover

that the aristocracy of mind could bestow a grace that no

aristocracy of birth could surpass. He was prepared for a simple,

blushing village girl, and involuntarily he bowed low his proud

front at the first sight of that delicate bloom, and that exquisite

gentleness which is woman's surest passport to the respect of man.

Neither in the first, nor the second, nor the third interview, nor,

indeed, till after many interviews, could he summon up courage to

commence his mission, and allude to Harley. And when he did so at

last, his words faltered. But Nora's words were clear to him. He saw

that Harley was not loved; and a joy that he felt as guilty, darted

through his whole frame. From that interview Audley returned home

greatly agitated, and at war with himself. Often, in the course of

this story, has it been hinted that under all Egerton's external

coldness, and measured self-control, lay a nature capable of strong

and stubborn passions. Those passions broke forth then. He felt that

love had already entered into the heart, which the trust of his

friend should have sufficed to guard.

"I will go there no more," said he, abruptly, to Harley.

"But why?"

"The girl does not love you. Cease then to think of her."

Harley disbelieved him, and grew indignant. But Audley had every

worldly motive to assist his sense of honor. He was poor, though

with the reputation of wealth--deeply involved in debt--resolved to

rise in life--tenacious of his position in the world's esteem.

Against a host of counteracting influences, love fought

single-handed. Audley's was a strong nature; but, alas! in strong

natures, if resistance to temptation is of granite, so the passions

that they admit are of fire.

Trite is the remark, that the destinies of our lives often date from

the impulses of unguarded moments. It was so with this man, to an

ordinary eye so cautious and so deliberate. Harley one day came to

him in great grief; he had heard that Nora was ill; he implored

Audley to go once more and ascertain. Audley went. Lady Jane Horton,

who was suffering under a disease which not long afterward proved

fatal, was too ill to receive him. He was shown into the room set

apart as Nora's. While waiting for her entrance, he turned

mechanically over the leaves of an album which Nora, suddenly

summoned away to attend Lady Jane, had left behind her on the

table. He saw the sketch of his own features; he read words

inscribed below it--words of such artless tenderness, and such

unhoping sorrow--words written by one who had been accustomed to

regard her genius as her sole confidant, under Heaven, to pour out

to it, as the solitary poet-heart is impelled to do, thoughts,

feelings, and confession of mystic sighs, which it would never

breathe to a living ear, and, save at such moments, scarcely

acknowledge to itself. Audley saw that he was beloved, and the

revelation, with a sudden light, consumed all the barriers between

himself and his own love. And at that moment Nora entered. She saw

him bending over the book. She uttered a cry--sprang forward--and

then sank down, covering her face with her hands. But Audley was at

her feet. He forgot his friend, his trust; he forgot ambition--he

forgot the world. It was his own cause that he pleaded--his own love

that burst forth from his lips. And when the two that day parted,

they were betrothed each to each. Alas for them, and alas for

Harley!

And now this man, who had hitherto valued himself as the very type

of gentleman--whom all his young contemporaries had so regarded and

so revered--had to press the head of a confiding friend and bid

adieu to truth. He had to amuse, to delay, to mislead his

boy-rival--to say that he was already subduing Nora's hesitating

doubts--and that within a little time, she could be induced to

consent to forget Harley's rank, and his parent's pride, and become

his wife. And Harley believed in Egerton, without one suspicion on

the mirror of his loyal soul.

Meanwhile Audley impatient of his own position--impatient, as strong

minds ever are, to hasten what they have once resolved--to terminate

a suspense that every interview with Harley tortured alike by

jealousy and shame--to put himself out of the reach of scruples, and

to say to himself, "Right or wrong, there is no looking back; the

deed is done;"--Audley, thus hurried on by the impetus of his own

power of will, pressed for speedy and secret nuptials--secret till

his fortunes, then wavering, were more assured--his career fairly

commenced. This was not his strongest motive, though it was one. He

shrank from the discovery of his wrong to his friend--desired to

delay the self-humiliation of such announcement, until, as he

persuaded himself, Harley's boyish passion was over--had yielded to

the new allurements that would naturally beset his way. Stifling his

conscience, Audley sought to convince himself that the day would

soon come when Harley could hear with indifference that Nora Avenel

was another's "The dream of an hour, at his age," murmured the elder

friend; "but at mine, the passion of a life!" He did not speak of

these latter motives for concealment to Nora. He felt that, to own

the extent of his treason to a friend, would lower him in her eyes.

He spoke therefore but slightingly of Harley--treated the boy's suit

as a thing past and gone. He dwelt only on reasons that compelled

self-sacrifice on his side or hers. She did not hesitate which to

choose. And so, where Nora loved, so submissively did she believe in

the superiority of the lover, that she would not pause to hear a

murmur from her own loftier nature, or question the propriety of

what he deemed wise and good.

Abandoning prudence in this arch affair of life, Audley still

preserved his customary caution in minor details. And this indeed

was characteristic of him throughout all his career--heedless in

large things--wary in small. He would not trust Lady Jane Horton

with his secret, still less Lady Lansmere. He simply represented to

the former, that Nora was no longer safe from Harley's determined

pursuit under Lady Jane's roof, and that she had better elude the

boy's knowledge of her movements, and go quietly away for a while,

to lodge with some connection of her own.

And so, with Lady Jane's acquiescence, Nora went first to the house

of a very distant kinswoman of her mother's, and afterward to one

that Egerton took as their bridal home, under the name of Bertram.

He arranged all that might render their marriage most free from the

chance of premature discovery. But it so happened, on the very

morning of their bridal, that one of the witnesses he selected (a

confidential servant of his own) was seized with apoplexy.

Considering, in haste, where to find a substitute, Egerton thought

of Levy, his own private solicitor, his own fashionable

money-lender, a man with whom he was then as intimate as a fine

gentleman is with the lawyer of his own age, who knows all his

affairs, and has helped from pure friendship, to make them as bad as

they are! Levy was thus suddenly summoned. Egerton, who was in great

haste, did not at first communicate to him the name of the intended

bride; but he said enough of the imprudence of the marriage, and

his reasons for secrecy, to bring on himself the strongest

remonstrances; for Levy had always reckoned on Egerton's making a

wealthy marriage, leaving to Egerton the wife, and hoping to

appropriate to himself the wealth, all in the natural course of

business. Egerton did not listen to him, but hurried him on toward

the place at which the ceremony was to be performed; and Levy

actually saw the bride, before he had learned her name. The usurer

masked his raging emotions, and fulfilled his part in the rites. His

smile, when he congratulated the bride, might have shot cold into

her heart; but her eyes were cast on the earth, seeing there but a

shadow from heaven, and her heart was blindly sheltering itself in

the bosom to which it was given evermore. She did not perceive the

smile of hate that barbed the words of joy. Nora never thought it

necessary later to tell Egerton that Levy had been a refused suitor.

Indeed, with the exquisite taste of love, she saw that such a

confidence, the idea of such a rival, would have wounded the pride

of her high-bred, well-born husband.

And now, while Harley L'Estrange, frantic with the news that Nora

had left Lady Jane's roof, and purposely misled into wrong

directions, was seeking to trace her refuge in vain--now Egerton, in

an assumed name, in a remote quarter, far from the clubs in which

his word was oracular--far from the pursuits, whether of pastime or

toil, that had hitherto engrossed his active mind, gave himself up,

with wonder at himself, to the only vision of fairyland that ever

weighs down the watchful eyelids of hard Ambition. The world for a

while shut out, he missed it not. He knew not of it. He looked into

two loving eyes that haunted him ever after, through a stern and

arid existence, and said murmuringly, "Why, this, then, is real

happiness!" Often, often, in the solitude of other years, to repeat

to himself the same words, save that for _is_, he then murmured

_was_! And Nora, with her grand, full heart, all her luxuriant

wealth of fancy and of thought, child of light and of song, did she

then never discover that there was something comparatively narrow

and sterile in the nature to which she had linked her fate? Not

there, could ever be sympathy in feelings, brilliant and shifting as

the tints of the rainbow. When Audley pressed her heart to his own,

could he comprehend one finer throb of its beating? Was all the iron

of his mind worth one grain of the gold she had cast away in

Harley's love?

Did Nora already discover this? Surely no. Genius feels no want, no

repining, while the heart is contented. Genius in her paused and

slumbered: it had been as the ministrant of solitude: it was needed

no more. If a woman loves deeply some one below her own grade in the

mental and spiritual orders, how often we see that she unconsciously

quits her own rank, comes meekly down to the level of the beloved,

is afraid lest he should deem her the superior--she who would not

even be the equal. Nora knew no more that she had genius; she only

knew that she had love.

And so here, the journal which Leonard was reading changed its tone,

sinking into that quiet happiness which is but quiet because it is

so deep. This interlude in the life of a man like Audley Egerton

could never have been long; many circumstances conspired to abridge

it. His affairs were in great disorder; they were all under Levy's

management. Demands that had before slumbered, or been mildly urged,

grew menacing and clamorous. Harley, too, returned to London from

his futile researches, and looked out for Audley. Audley was forced

to leave his secret Eden, and re-appear in the common world; and

thenceforward it was only by stealth that he came to his bridal

home--a visitor, no more the inmate. But more loud and fierce grew

the demands of his creditors, now when Egerton had most need of all

which respectability, and position, and belief of pecuniary

independence can do to raise the man who has encumbered his arms,

and crippled his steps toward fortune. He was threatened with writs,

with prisons. Levy said "that to borrow more would be but larger

ruin"--shrugged his shoulders, and even recommended a voluntary

retreat to the King's Bench. "No place so good for frightening one's

creditors into compounding their claims; but why," added Levy, with

covert sneer, "why not go to young L'Estrange--a boy made to be

borrowed from?"

Levy, who had known from Lady Jane of Harley's pursuit of Nora, had

learned already how to avenge himself on Egerton. Audley could not

apply to the friend he had betrayed. And as to other friends, no man

in town had a greater number. And no man in town knew better that he

should lose them all if he were once known to be in want of their

money. Mortified, harassed, tortured--shunning Harley--yet ever

sought by him--fearful of each knock at his door, Audley Egerton

escaped to the mortgaged remnant of his paternal estate, on which

there was a gloomy manor-house long uninhabited, and there applied a

mind, afterward renowned for its quick comprehension of business, to

the investigation of his affairs, with a view to save some wreck

from the flood that swelled momently around him.

And now--to condense as much as possible a record that runs darkly

on into pain and sorrow--now Levy began to practice his vindictive

arts; and the arts gradually prevailed. On pretense of assisting

Egerton in the arrangement of his affairs--which he secretly

contrived, however, still more to complicate--he came down

frequently to Egerton Hall for a few hours, arriving by the mail,

and watching the effect which Nora's almost daily letters produced

on the bridegroom, irritated by the practical cares of life. He was

thus constantly at hand to instill into the mind of the ambitious

man a regret for the imprudence of hasty passion, or to embitter the

remorse which Audley felt for his treachery to L'Estrange. Thus ever

bringing before the mind of the harassed debtor images at war with

love, and with the poetry of life, he disattuned it (so to speak)

for the reception of Nora's letters, all musical as they were with

such thoughts as the most delicate fancy inspires to the most

earnest love. Egerton was one of those men who never confide their

affairs frankly to women. Nora, when she thus wrote, was wholly in

the dark as to the extent of his stern prosaic distress. And so--and

so--Levy always near--(type of the prose of life in its most cynic

form)--so, by degrees, all that redundant affluence of affection,

with its gushes of grief for his absence, prayers for his return,

sweet reproach if a post failed to bring back an answer to the

woman's yearning sighs--all this grew, to the sensible, positive man

of real life, like sickly romantic exaggeration. The bright arrows

shot too high into heaven to hit the mark set so near to the earth.

Ah! common fate of all superior natures! What treasure, and how

wildly wasted!

"By-the-by," said Levy, one morning, as he was about to take leave

of Audley and return to town--"by-the-by, I shall be this evening in

the neighborhood of Mrs. Egerton."

EGERTON.--"Say Mrs. Bertram!"

LEVY.--"Ay; will she not be in want of some pecuniary supplies?"

EGERTON.--"My wife!--not yet. I must first be wholly ruined before

she can want; and if I were so, do you think I should not be by her

side?"

LEVY.--"I beg pardon, my dear fellow; your pride of gentleman is so

susceptible that it is hard for a lawyer not to wound it unawares.

Your wife, then, does not know the exact state of your affairs?"

EGERTON.--"Of course not. Who would confide to a woman things in

which she could do nothing, except to tease one the more?"

LEVY.--"True, and a poetess, too! I have prevented your finishing

your answer to Mrs. Bertram's last letter. Can I take it--it may

save a day's delay--that is, if you do not object to my calling on

her this evening."

EGERTON (sitting down to his unfinished letter).--"Object! no!"

LEVY (looking at his watch).--"Be quick, or I shall lose the coach."

EGERTON (sealing the letter).--"There. And I should be obliged to

you if you _would_ call; and without alarming her as to my

circumstances, you can just say that you know I am much harassed

about important affairs at present, and so soothe the effects of my

very short answers--"

LEVY.--"To those doubly-crossed, very long, letters--I will."

"Poor Nora," said Egerton, sighing, "she will think this answer

brief and churlish enough. Explain my excuses kindly, so that they

will serve for the future. I really have no time, and no heart for

sentiment. The little I ever had is well-nigh worried out of me.

Still I love her fondly and deeply."

LEVY.--"You must have done so. I never thought it in you to

sacrifice the world to a woman."

EGERTON.--"Nor I either; but," added the strong man, conscious

of that power which rules the world infinitely more than

knowledge--conscious of tranquil courage--"but I have not sacrificed

the world yet. This right arm shall bear up her and myself too."

LEVY.--"Well said! But in the mean while, for heaven's sake, don't

attempt to go to London, nor to leave this place; for, in that case,

I know you will be arrested, and then adieu to all hopes of

Parliament--of a career."

Audley's haughty countenance darkened; as the dog, in his bravest

mood, turns dismayed from the stone plucked from the mire, so, when

Ambition rears itself to defy mankind, whisper "disgrace and a

jail," and, lo, crest-fallen, it slinks away! That evening Levy

called on Nora, and ingratiating himself into her favor by praise of

Egerton, with indirect humble apologetic allusions to his own former

presumption, he prepared the way to renewed visits; she was so

lonely, and she so loved to see one who was fresh from seeing

Audley--one who would talk to her of _him_! By degrees the friendly

respectful visitor thus stole into her confidence; and then, with

all his panegyrics on Audley's superior powers and gifts, he began

to dwell upon the young husband's worldly aspirations, and care for

his career; dwelt on them so as vaguely to alarm Nora--to imply

that, dear as she was, she was still but second to Ambition. His way

thus prepared, he next began to insinuate his respectful pity at her

equivocal position, dropped hints of gossip and slander, feared that

the marriage might be owned too late to preserve reputation. And

then what would be the feelings of the proud Egerton if his wife

were excluded from that world, whose opinion he so prized?

Insensibly thus he led her on to express (though timidly) her own

fear--her own natural desire, in her letters to Audley. When could

the marriage be proclaimed? Proclaimed! Audley felt that to proclaim

such a marriage, at such a moment, would be to fling away his last

cast for fame and fortune. And Harley, too--Harley still so uncured

of his frantic love. Levy was sure to be at hand when letters like

these arrived.

And now Levy went further still in his determination to alienate

these two hearts. He contrived, by means of his various agents, to

circulate through Nora's neighborhood the very slanders at which he

had hinted. He contrived that she should be insulted when she went

abroad, outraged at home by the sneers of her own servant, and

tremble with shame at her own shadow upon her abandoned bridal

hearth.

Just in the midst of this intolerable anguish, Levy reappeared. His

crowning hour was ripe. He intimated his knowledge of the

humiliations Nora had undergone, expressed his deep compassion,

offered to intercede with Egerton "to do her justice." He used

ambiguous phrases that shocked her ear and tortured her heart, and

thus provoked her on to demand him to explain; and then, throwing

her into a wild state of indefinite alarm, in which he obtained her

solemn promise not to divulge to Audley what he was about to

communicate, he said, with villainous hypocrisy of reluctant shame,

"that her marriage was not strictly legal; that the forms required

by the law had not been complied with; that Audley, unintentionally

or purposely, had left himself free to disown the rite and desert

the bride." While Nora stood stunned and speechless at a falsehood

which, with lawyer-like show, he contrived to make truth-like to her

inexperience, he hurried rapidly on, to reawake on her mind the

impression of Audley's pride, ambition, and respect for worldly

position. "These are your obstacles," said he; "but I think I may

induce him to repair the wrong, and right you at last." Righted at

last--oh infamy!

Then Nora's anger burst forth. She believe such a stain on Audley's

honor!

"But where was the honor when he betrayed his friend? Did you not

know that he was intrusted by Lord L'Estrange to plead for him. How

did he fulfill the trust?"

Plead for L'Estrange! Nora had not been exactly aware of this. In

the sudden love preceding those sudden nuptials, so little touching

Harley (beyond Audley's first timid allusions to his suit, and her

calm and cold reply) had been spoken by either.

Levy resumed. He dwelt fully on the trust and the breach of it, and

then said--"In Egerton's world, man holds it far more dishonor to

betray a man than to dupe a woman; and if Egerton could do the one,

why doubt that he would do the other? But do not look at me with

those indignant eyes. Put himself to the test; write to him

to say that the suspicions amid which you live have become

intolerable--that they infect even yourself, despite your

reason--that the secrecy of your nuptials, his prolonged absence,

his brief refusal, on unsatisfactory grounds, to proclaim your tie,

all distract you with a terrible doubt. Ask him, at least (if he

will not yet declare your marriage), to satisfy you that the rites

were legal."

"I will go to him," cried Nora impetuously.

"Go to him!--in his own house! What a scene, what a scandal! Could

he ever forgive you?"

"At least, then, I will implore him to come here. I can not write

such horrible words; I can not--I can not--Go, go."

Levy left her, and hastened to two or three of Audley's most

pressing creditors--men, in fact, who went entirely by Levy's own

advice. He bade them instantly surround Audley's country residence

with bailiffs. Before Egerton could reach Nora, he would thus be

lodged in a jail. These preparations made, Levy himself went down to

Audley, and arrived, as usual, an hour or two before the delivery of

the post.

And Nora's letter came; and never was Audley's grave brow more dark

than when he read it. Still, with his usual decision, he resolved to

obey her wish--rang the bell, and ordered his servant to put up a

change of dress, and send for post-horses.

Levy then took him aside, and led him to the window.

"Look under yon trees. Do you see those men? They are bailiffs. This

is the true reason why I come to you to-day. You can not leave this

house."

Egerton recoiled. "And this frantic, foolish letter at such a time,"

he muttered, striking the open page, full of love in the midst of

terror, with his clenched hand.

O Woman, Woman! if thy heart be deep, and its chords tender, beware

how thou lovest the man with whom all that plucks him from the hard

cares of the work-day world is a frenzy or a folly! He will break

thy heart, he will shatter its chords, he will trample out from its

delicate frame-work every sound that now makes musical the common

air, and swells into unison with the harps of angels.

"She has before written to me," continued Audley, pacing the room

with angry, disordered strides, "asking me when our marriage can be

proclaimed, and I thought my replies would have satisfied any

reasonable woman. But now, now this is worse, immeasurably

worse--she actually doubts my honor! I, who have made such

sacrifices--actually doubts whether I, Audley Egerton, an English

gentleman, could have been base enough to--"

"What?" interrupted Levy, "to deceive your friend L'Estrange? Did

not she know _that_?"

"Sir," exclaimed Egerton, turning white.

"Don't be angry--all's fair in love as in war; and L'Estrange will

live yet to thank you for saving him from such a _mésalliance_. But

you are seriously angry; pray, forgive me."

With some difficulty, and much fawning, the usurer appeased the

storm he had raised in Audley's conscience. And he then heard, as if

with surprise, the true purport of Nora's letter.

"It is beneath me to answer, much less to satisfy such a doubt,"

said Audley. "I could have seen her, and a look of reproach would

have sufficed; but to put my hand to paper, and condescend to write,

'I am not a villain, and I will give you the proofs that I am

not'--never."

"You are quite right; but let us see if we can not reconcile matters

between your pride and her feelings. Write simply this: 'All that

you ask me to say or to explain, I have instructed Levy, as my

solicitor, to say and explain for me; and you may believe him as you

would myself.'"

"Well, the poor fool, she deserves to be punished; and I suppose

that answer will punish her more than a lengthier rebuke. My mind is

so distracted I can not judge of these trumpery woman-fears and

whims; there, I have written as you suggest. Give her all the proof

she needs, and tell her that in six months at farthest, come what

will, she shall bear the name of Egerton, as henceforth she must

share his fate."

"Why say six months?"

"Parliament must be dissolved before then. I shall either obtain a

seat, be secure from a jail, have won field for my energies, or--"

"Or what?"

"I shall renounce ambition altogether--ask my brother to assist me

toward whatever debts remain when all my property is fairly

sold--they can not be much. He has a living in his gift--the

incumbent is old, and, I hear, very ill. I can take orders."

"Sink into a country parson!"

"And learn content. I have tasted it already. She was _then_ by my

side. Explain all to her. This letter, I fear, is too unkind--But to

doubt me thus!"

Levy hastily placed the letter in his pocket-book; and, for fear it

should be withdrawn, took his leave.

And of that letter he made such use, that the day after he had given

it to Nora, she had left the house--the neighborhood; fled, and not

a trace! Of all the agonies in life, that which is most poignant and

harrowing--that which for the time most annihilates reason, and

leaves our whole organization one lacerated, mangled _heart_--is

the conviction that we have been deceived where we placed all the

trust of love. The moment the anchor snaps, the storm comes on--the

stars vanish behind the cloud.

When Levy returned, filled with the infamous hope which had

stimulated his revenge--the hope that if he could succeed in

changing into scorn and indignation Nora's love for Audley, he might

succeed also in replacing that broken and degraded idol--his amaze

and dismay were great on hearing of her departure. For several days

he sought her traces in vain. He went to Lady Jane Horton's--Nora

had not been there. He trembled to go back to Egerton. Surely Nora

would have written to her husband, and, in spite of her promise,

revealed his own falsehood; but as days passed and not a clew was

found, he had no option but to repair to Egerton Hall, taking care

that the bailiffs still surrounded it. Audley had received no line

from Nora. The young husband was surprised and perplexed,

uneasy--but had no suspicion of the truth.

At length Levy was forced to break to Audley the intelligence of

Nora's flight. He gave his own color to it. Doubtless she had gone

to seek her own relations, and take, by their advice, steps to make

her marriage publicly known. This idea changed Audley's first shock

into deep and stern resentment. His mind so little comprehended

Nora's, and was ever so disposed to what is called the common-sense

view of things, that he saw no other mode to account for her flight

and her silence. Odious to Egerton as such a proceeding would be, he

was far too proud to take any steps to guard against it. "Let her do

her worst," said he, coldly, masking emotion with his usual

self-command; "it will be but a nine-days' wonder to the world--a

fiercer rush of my creditors on their hunted prey--"

"And a challenge from Lord L'Estrange."

"So be it," answered Egerton, suddenly placing his hand at his

heart.

"What is the matter? Are you ill?"

"A strange sensation here. My father died of a complaint of the

heart, and I myself was once told to guard, through life, against

excess of emotion. I smiled at such a warning then. Let us sit down

to business."

But when Levy had gone, and solitude reclosed round that Man of the

Iron Mask, there grew upon him more and more the sense of a mighty

loss, Nora's sweet loving face started from the shadows of the

forlorn walls. Her docile, yielding temper--her generous,

self-immolating spirit--came back to his memory, to refute the idea

that wronged her. His love, that had been suspended for awhile by

busy cares, but which, if without much refining sentiment, was still

the master-passion of his soul, flowed back into all his

thoughts--circumfused the very atmosphere with a fearful softening

charm. He escaped under cover of the night from the watch of the

bailiffs. He arrived in London. He himself sought every where he

could think of for his missing bride. Lady Jane Horton was confined

to her bed, dying fast--incapable even to receive and reply to his

letter. He secretly sent down to Lansmere to ascertain if Nora had

gone to her parents. She was not there. The Avenels believed her

still with Lady Jane Horton.

He now grew most seriously alarmed; and, in the midst of that alarm,

Levy contrived that he should be arrested for debt; but he was not

detained in confinement many days. Before the disgrace got wind, the

writs were discharged--Levy baffled. He was free. Lord L'Estrange

had learned from Audley's servant what Audley would have concealed

from him out of all the world. And the generous boy--who, besides

the munificent allowance he received from the Earl, was heir to an

independent and considerable fortune of his own, when he should

obtain his majority--hastened to borrow the money and discharge all

the obligations of his friend. The benefit was conferred before

Audley knew of it, or could prevent. Then a new emotion, and perhaps

scarce less stinging than the loss of Nora, tortured the man who had

smiled at the warning of science; and the strange sensation at the

heart was felt again and again.

And Harley, too, was still in search of Nora--would talk of nothing

but her--and looked so haggard and grief-worn. The bloom of the

boy's youth was gone. Could Audley then have said, "She you seek is

another's; your love is razed out of your life. And, for

consolation, learn that your friend has betrayed you?" Could Audley

say this? He did not dare. Which of the two suffered the most?

And these two friends, of characters so different, were so

singularly attached to each other. Inseparable at school--thrown

together in the world, with a wealth of frank confidences between

them, accumulated since childhood. And now, in the midst of all his

own anxious sorrow, Harley still thought and planned for Egerton.

And self-accusing remorse, and all the sense of painful gratitude,

deepened Audley's affection for Harley into a devotion as to a

superior, while softening it into a reverential pity that yearned to

relieve, to atone;--but how--oh; how?

A general election was now at hand, still no news of Nora. Levy kept

aloof from Audley, pursuing his own silent search. A seat for the

borough of Lansmere was pressed upon Audley not only by Harley, but

his parents, especially by the Countess, who tacitly ascribed to

Audley's wise counsels Nora's mysterious disappearance.

Egerton at first resisted the thought of a new obligation to his

injured friend; but he burned to have it some day in his power to

repay at least his pecuniary debt: the sense of that debt humbled

him more than all else. Parliamentary success might at last obtain

for him some lucrative situation abroad, and thus enable him

gradually to remove this load from his heart and his honor. No other

chance of repayment appeared open to him. He accepted the offer, and

went down to Lansmere. His brother, lately married, was asked to

meet him; and there, also, was Miss Leslie the heiress, whom Lady

Lansmere secretly hoped her son Harley would admire, but who had

long since, no less secretly, given her heart to the unconscious

Egerton.

Meanwhile, the miserable Nora, deceived by the arts and

representations of Levy--acting on the natural impulse of a heart so

susceptible to shame--flying from a home which she deemed

dishonored--flying from a lover whose power over her she knew to be

so great, that she dreaded lest he might reconcile her to dishonor

itself--had no thought save to hide herself forever from Audley's

eye. She would not go to her relations--to Lady Jane; that were to

give the clew, and invite the pursuit. An Italian lady of high rank

had visited at Lady Jane's--taken a great fancy to Nora--and the

lady's husband, having been obliged to precede her return to Italy,

had suggested the notion of engaging some companion--the lady had

spoken of this to Nora and to Lady Jane Horton, who had urged Nora

to accept the offer, elude Harley's pursuit, and go abroad for a

time. Nora then had refused;--for she then had seen Audley Egerton.

To this Italian lady she now went, and the offer was renewed with

the most winning kindness, and grasped at in the passion of despair.

But the Italian had accepted invitations to English country houses

before she finally departed for the Continent. Meanwhile Nora took

refuge in a quiet lodging in a sequestered suburb, which an English

servant in the employment of the fair foreigner recommended. Thus

had she first came to the cottage in which Burley died. Shortly

afterward she left England with her new companion, unknown to

all--to Lady Jane as to her parents.

All this time the poor girl was under a moral delirium--a confused

fever--haunted by dreams from which she sought to fly. Sound

physiologists agree that madness is rarest among persons of the

finest imagination. But those persons are, of all others, liable to

a temporary state of mind in which judgment sleeps--imagination

alone prevails with a dire and awful tyranny. A single idea gains

ascendency--expels all others--presents itself every where with an

intolerable blinding glare. Nora was at that time under the dread

one idea--to fly from shame!

(TO BE CONTINUED.)

FOOTNOTE:

[8] Continued from the July Number.

HENRY CLAY.

PERSONAL ANECDOTES, INCIDENTS, ETC.

We have just returned from the Park and City-Hall, and from

witnessing the long procession, "melancholy, slow," that accompanied

the remains of the "Great Commoner" and great statesman, HENRY CLAY,

to their temporary resting-place in the Governor's Room. It was not

the weeping flags at half-mast throughout the city; not the tolling

of the bells, the solemn booming of the minute-guns, nor the

plaintive strains of funereal music, which brought the tears to the

eyes of thousands, as the mournful cavalcade passed on. For here

were the lifeless limbs, the dimmed eye, the hushed voice, that

never should move, nor sparkle, nor resound in eloquent tones again!

The last time we had seen Henry Clay was, standing in an open

barouche, on the very spot where his hearse now paused, in front of

the City-Hall. He was addressing then a vast concourse of his

fellow-citizens, who had assembled to do him honor; and never shall

we forget the exquisite grace of his gestures, the melodious tones

of his matchless voice, and the _interior look_ of his eyes--as if

he were rather spoken _from_, than _speaking_. It was an occasion

not to be forgotten.

It is proposed, in the present article, to afford the reader some

opportunity of judging of the character and manner of Mr. Clay, both

as an orator and a man, and of his general habits, from a few

characteristic anecdotes and incidents, which have been well

authenticated heretofore, or are now for the first time communicated

to the writer. Biography, in Mr. Clay's case, has already occupied

much of the space of all our public journals; we shall, therefore,

omit particulars which are now more or less familiar to the general

reader.

It was the remark of a distinguished Senator, that Mr. Clay's

eloquence was absolutely intangible to delineation; that the most

labored and thrilling description could not embrace it; and that, to

be understood, it must be _seen_ and _felt_. During his long public

life he enchanted millions, and no one could tell _how_ he did it.

He was _an orator by nature_. His eagle eye burned with true

patriotic ardor, or dashed indignation and defiance upon his foes,

or was suffused with tears of commiseration or of pity; and it was

because _he_ felt, that he made _others_ feel. "The clear

conception, the high purpose, the firm resolve, the dauntless

spirit, speaking on the tongue, beaming from the eye, informing

every feature, and urging the whole man onward, right onward to his

object"--_this_ was the eloquence of Henry Clay; or, rather, to

pursue the definition, "it was something greater and higher than

eloquence; it was _action_--noble, sublime, GOD-like."

While the coffin containing all that remained of the great Orator of

Nature was being carried up the steps of the City-Hall, a by-stander

remarked, in hearing of the writer:

Well, we never shall look upon _his_ like again. What an orator he

was! I heard him speak but once, yet that once I shall always

remember. It was a good many years ago, now. It was in the immense

car-house, or dépôt, at Syracuse. The crowd was immense; and every

eye was turned toward the platform from which he was to speak, as if

the whole crowd were but one expectant face.

Presently he arose--tall, erect as a statue; looked familiarly

around upon the audience, as if he were in an assembly of personal

friends (as in truth he was), and began. He commenced amidst the

most breathless silence; and as he warmed up with his subject, there

was not a look of his eye, not a movement of his long, graceful

right arm, not a swaying of his body, that was not full of grace

and effect. Such a voice I never heard. It was wonderful![9]

Once he took out his snuff-box, and, after taking a pinch of snuff,

and returning the box to his pocket, he illustrated a point which he

was making by an anecdote:

"While I was abroad," said he, "laboring to arrange the terms of the

Treaty of Ghent, there appeared a report of the negotiations, or

letters relative thereto; and several quotations from my remarks or

letters, touching certain stipulations in the treaty, reached

Kentucky, and were read by my constituents.

"Among them, was an odd old fellow, who went by the nickname of

'_Old Sandusky_,' and he was reading one of these letters, one

evening, at a near resort, to a small collection of the neighbors.

As he read on, he came across the sentence, 'This must be deemed a

_sine qua non_."

"'What's a _sine qua non_?' said a half-dozen by-standers.

"'Old Sandusky' was a little bothered at first, but his good sense

and natural shrewdness was fully equal to a 'mastery of the Latin.'

"'_Sine--qua--non?_' said 'Old Sandusky,' repeating the question

very slowly; 'why, _Sine Qua Non_ is three islands in Passamaquoddy

Bay, and Harry Clay is the last man to give them up! 'No _Sine Qua

Non_, no treaty,' he says; and he'll stick to it!'"

You should have seen the laughing eye, the change in the speaker's

voice and manner, said the narrator, to understand the electric

effect the story had upon the audience.

Previous to Mr. Clay's entrance upon public life in the service of

his country, and while he was yet young in the practice of the law,

in Kentucky, the following striking incident is related of him:

Two Germans, father and son, were indicted for murder, and were

tried for the crime. Mr. Clay was employed to defend them. The act

of killing was proved by evidence so clear and strong, that it was

considered not only a case of murder, but an exceedingly aggravated

one. The trial lasted five days, at the close of which he addressed

the jury in the most impassioned and eloquent manner; and they were

so moved by his pathetic appeals, that they rendered a verdict of

manslaughter only. After another hard day's struggle, he succeeded

in obtaining an arrest of judgment, by which his clients, in whose

case he thought there was an absence of all "malice prepense," were

set at liberty.

They expressed their gratitude in the warmest terms to their

deliverer, in which they were joined by an old and ill-favored

female, the wife of one and the mother of the other, who adopted a

different mode, however, of tendering _her_ thanks, which was by

throwing her arms round Mr. Clay's neck, and repeatedly kissing him,

in the presence of a crowded court-room!

Mr. Clay respected her feelings too much to repulse her; but he was

often afterward heard to say, that it was "the longest and strongest

embrace he ever encountered in his professional practice!"

In civil suits, at this period, Mr. Clay gained almost equal

celebrity, and especially in the settlement of land claims, at that

time an important element in Western litigation. It is related of

him, at this stage of his career, that being engaged in a case which

involved immense interests, he associated with him a prominent

lawyer to whom he intrusted its management, as urgent business

demanded his absence from court. Two days were occupied in

discussing the legal points that were to govern the instructions of

the court to the jury, on every one of which his colleague was

frustrated. Mr. Clay returned, however, before a decision was

rendered, and without acquainting himself with the nature of the

testimony, or ascertaining the manner in which the discussion had

been conducted, after conferring a few moments with his associate,

he prepared and presented in a few words the form in which he wished

the instructions to be given, accompanying it with his reasons,

which were so convincing that the suit was terminated in his favor

in less than one hour after he re-entered the court-room.

Thus early, and in a career merely professional, did Henry Clay

commence his sway over the minds of deliberative men.

The subjoined incident, connected with Mr. Clay's style of

"stump-speaking" is related in "Mallory's Life" of our illustrious

subject. It illustrates his tact and ingenuity in seizing and

turning to good account trivial circumstances:

Mr. Clay had been speaking for some time, when a company of

riflemen, who had been performing military exercise, attracted by

his attitude, concluded to "go and hear what the fellow had to say,"

as they termed it, and accordingly drew near. They listened with

respectful attention, and evidently with deep interest, until he

closed, when one of their number, a man of about fifty years of age,

who had seen much back-wood's service, stood leaning on his rifle,

regarding the young speaker with a fixed and sagacious look.

He was apparently the Nimrod of the company, for he exhibited every

characteristic of a "mighty hunter." He had buckskin breeches, and

hunting-shirt, coon-skin cap, black bushy beard, and a visage of the

color and texture of his bullet-pouch. At his belt hung the knife

and hatchet, and the huge, indispensable powder-horn across a breast

bare and brown as the hills he traversed in his forays, yet it

covered a brave and noble heart.

He beckoned with his hand to Mr. Clay to approach him.

Mr. Clay immediately complied.

"Young man," said he, "you want to go to the Legislature, I see."

"Why, yes," replied Mr. Clay; "yes, I _should_ like to go, since my

friends have put me up as a candidate before the people. I don't

wish to be defeated, of course; few people do."

"Are you a good shot, young man?" asked the hunter.

"I consider myself as good as any in the county."

"Then you shall go: but you must give us a specimen of your skill;

we must see you shoot."

"I never shoot any rifle but my own, and that is at home," said the

young orator.

"No matter," quickly responded the hunter, "here's _Old Bess_; she

never failed yet in the hands of a marksman. She has put a bullet

through many a squirrel's head at a hundred yards, and day-light

through many a red-skin _twice_ that distance. If you can shoot

_any_ gun, young man, you can shoot 'Old Bess!'"

"Very well, then," replied Mr. Clay, "put up your mark! put up your

mark!"

The target was placed at about the distance of eighty yards, when,

with all the coolness and steadiness of an old experienced marksman,

he drew "Old Bess" to his shoulder, and fired. The bullet pierced

the target near the centre.

"Oh, that's a chance-shot! a chance-shot!" exclaimed several of his

political opponents; "he might shoot all day, and not hit the mark

again. Let him try it over!--let him try it over!"

"No, no," retorted Mr. Clay, "_beat that_, and _then_ I will!"

As no one seemed disposed to make the attempt, it was considered

that he had given satisfactory proof of being, as he said, "the best

shot in the county;" and this unimportant incident gained him the

vote of every hunter and marksman in the assembly, which was

composed principally of that class of persons, as well as the

support of the same throughout the county. Mr. Clay was frequently

heard to say: "I had never before fired a rifle, and have not

since!"

It was in turning little things like these to account, that Mr.

Clay, in the earlier period of his career, was so remarkable. Two

other instances in this kind, although not new, may be appropriately

mentioned in this connection.

In 1805 an attempt was made to obtain the removal of the capital

from Frankfort, Kentucky. Mr. Clay, in a speech delivered at the

time, reverted to the physical appearance of the place, as

furnishing an argument in favor of the proposed removal. Frankfort

is walled in on all sides by towering, rocky precipices, and in its

general conformation, is not unlike a great pit. "It presents," said

Mr. Clay, in his remarks upon the subject, "the model of an inverted

hat. Frankfort is the body of the hat, and the lands adjacent are

the brim. To change the figure, it is Nature's great penitentiary;

and if the members would know the bodily condition of the

prisoners, let them look at those poor creatures in the gallery."

As he said this, he directed the attention of the members of the

Legislature to some half-dozen emaciated, spectre-like specimens of

humanity, who happened to be moping about there, looking as if they

had just stolen a march from the grave-yard. On observing the eyes

of the House thus turned toward them, and aware of their ill-favored

aspect, they screened themselves with such ridiculous precipitancy

behind the pillars and railing, as to cause the most violent

laughter. This well-directed hit was successful; and the House gave

their votes in favor of the measure.

The second instance is doubtless more familiar to the reader; but

having "spoken of guns," it may not be amiss to quote it here:

During an excited political canvass, Mr. Clay met an old hunter, who

had previously been his devoted friend, but who now opposed him, on

the ground of "the Compensation bill."

"Have you a good rifle, my friend?" asked Mr. Clay.

"Yes," said the hunter.

"Does it ever flash in the pan?" continued Mr. Clay.

"It never did but once in the world," said the hunter, exultingly.

"Well, what did you do with it? You didn't throw it away, did you?"

"No; I picked the flint, tried it again, and brought down the game."

"Have _I_ ever 'flashed,'" continued Mr. Clay, "except on the

'Compensation bill?'"

"No, I can't say that you ever did."

"Well, will you throw _me_ away?" said Mr. Clay.

"No, no!" responded the huntsman, touched on the right point; "no;

_I'll pick the flint, and try you again!_"

And ever afterward he was the unwavering friend of Mr. Clay.

From the same authority we derive another election anecdote, which

Mr. Clay was wont to mention to his friends. In a political canvass

in Kentucky, Mr. Clay, and Mr. Pope a one-armed man, were candidates

for the same office. An Irish barber, residing at Lexington, had

always given Mr. Clay his vote, and on all occasions, when he was a

candidate for office, electioneered warmly for him. He was "Irish

all over," and was frequently in "scrapes," from which Mr. Clay

generally succeeded in rescuing him. Somebody, just before the

election took place, "came the evil eye" over him; for when asked

who he was going to vote for, he replied, "I mane to vote for the

man who can't put more nor _one hand_ into the threasury!"

A few days after the election, the barber met Mr. Clay in Lexington,

and approaching him, began to cry, saying that he had wronged him,

and repented his ingratitude. "My wife," said he, "got round me,

blubbering, and tould me that I was _too bad_, to desert, like a

base spalpeen, me ould frind. 'Niver's the time,' says she 'when

you got in jail or in any bad fix _niver's_ the time he didn't come

and help you out. Och! bad luck to ye for not giving him your

vote!'" Mr. Clay never failed to gain his vote afterward.

An anecdote is related of Mr. Clay, aptly illustrating his ability

to encounter opposition, in whatever manner presented. A Senator

from Connecticut had endeavored to inspire the younger members of

the Senate with a respect for him, nearly allied to awe; and to this

end was accustomed to use toward them harsh and haughty language,

but especially to make an ostentatious display of his attainments,

and his supposed superior knowledge of the subject under discussion.

Mr. Clay could ill brook his insolent looks and language, and

haughty, overbearing manner, and took occasion in his speech to hit

them off, which he did by quoting Peter Pindar's Magpie,

"Thus have I seen a magpie in the street,

A chattering bird we often meet,

A bird for curiosity well known,

With head awry,

And cunning eye,

Peep knowingly into a marrow-bone!"

"It would be difficult," says the biographer who relates this

circumstance, "to say which was the greater, the merriment which

this sally caused, or the chagrin of the satirized Senator."

A striking instance of the simplicity as well as humanity of Mr.

Clay's character is given in the following authentic anecdote of

him, while a member of the House of Representatives:

"Almost every body in Washington City will remember an old he-goat,

which formerly inhabited a livery-stable on Pennsylvania Avenue.

This animal was the most independent citizen of the metropolis. He

belonged to no party, although he frequently gave pedestrians

'striking' proofs of his adhesion to the 'leveling' principle; for,

whenever a person stopped any where in the vicinity, 'Billy' was

sure to 'make at him,' horns and all. The boys took delight in

irritating him, and frequently so annoyed him that he would 'butt'

against lamp-posts and trees, to their great amusement.

"One day, Henry Clay was passing along the avenue, and seeing the

boys intent on worrying Billy into a fever, stopped, and with

characteristic humanity expostulated with them upon their cruelty.

The boys listened in silent awe to the eloquent appeal of the

'Luminary of the West,' but it was all Cherokee to Billy, who--the

ungrateful scamp!--arose majestically on his hind legs, and made a

desperate plunge at his friend and advocate. Mr. Clay, however,

proved too much for his horned adversary. He seized both horns of

the dilemma, and then came the 'tug of war.' The struggle was long

and doubtful.

"'Ha!' exclaimed the statesman, 'I've got you fast, you old rascal!

I'll teach you better manners than to attack your friends! But,

boys, he continued, 'what shall I do _now_?'

"'Why, trip up his feet, Mr. Clay.' Mr. Clay did as he was told, and

after many severe efforts brought Billy down on his side. Here he

looked at the boys imploringly, seeming to say, 'I never was in such

a fix as _this_ before!'

"The combatants were now nearly exhausted; but the goat had the

advantage, for he was gaining breath all the while the statesman was

losing it.

"'Boys!' exclaimed Mr. Clay, puffing and blowing, 'this is rather an

awkward business. What am I to do _next_?"

"'Why, don't you know?' said a little fellow, making his own

preparations to run, as he spoke: 'all you've got to do is to let

go, and run like blazes!' The hint was taken at once, much to the

amusement of the boys who had been 'lectured.'"

The collisions between Mr. Clay and Randolph in Congress and out of

it, are well known to the public. The following circumstance,

however, has seldom been quoted. When the Missouri Compromise

question was before Congress, and the fury of the contending parties

had broken down almost every barrier of order and decency, Mr.

Randolph, much excited, approaching Mr. Clay, said:

"Mr. Speaker, I wish you would leave the House. I will follow you to

Kentucky, or any where else in the world."

Mr. Clay regarded him with one of his most searching looks for an

instant; and then replied, in an under-tone:

"Mr. Randolph, your proposition is an exceedingly serious one, and

demands most serious consideration. Be kind enough to call at my

room to-morrow morning, and we will deliberate over it together."

Mr. Randolph called punctually at the moment; they talked long upon

the much-agitated subject, without coming to any agreement, and Mr.

Randolph arose to leave.

"Mr. Randolph," said Mr. Clay, as the former was about stepping from

the house, "with your permission, I will embrace the present

occasion to observe, that your language and deportment on the floor

of the House, it has occurred to me, were rather indecorous and

ungentlemanly, on several occasions, and very annoying, indeed, to

me; for, being in the chair, I had no opportunity of replying."

While admitting that this might, perhaps, be so, Mr. Randolph

excused it, on the ground of Mr. Clay's inattention to his remarks,

and asking for a pinch of snuff while he was addressing him, &c, &c.

Mr. Clay, in reply, said:

"Oh, you are certainly mistaken, Mr. Randolph, if you think I do not

listen to you. I frequently turn away my head, it is true, and ask

for a pinch of snuff; still, I hear every thing you say, although I

may _seem_ to hear nothing; and, retentive as I know your memory to

be, I will wager that I can repeat as many of your speeches as you

yourself can!"

"Well," answered Randolph, "I don't know but I _am_ mistaken; and

suppose we drop the matter, shake hands, and become good friends

again?"

"Agreed!" said Mr. Clay, extending his hand, which was cordially

grasped by Mr. Randolph.

During the same session, and some time before this interview, Mr.

Randolph accosted Mr. Clay with a look and manner much agitated, and

exhibited to him a letter, couched in very abusive terms,

threatening to cowhide him, &c., and asked Mr. Clay's advice as to

the course he should pursue in relation to it.

"What caused the writer to send you such an insulting epistle, Mr.

Randolph?" asked Mr. Clay.

"Why, I suppose," said Randolph, "it was in consequence of what I

said to him the other day."

"What _did_ you say?"

"Why, sir, I was standing in the vestibule of the house, when the

writer came up and introduced to me a gentleman who accompanied him;

and I asked him what right he had to introduce that man to me, and

told him that the man had just as good a right to introduce _him_ to

me; whereat he was very indignant, said I had treated him

scandalously, and turning on his heel, went away. I think that must

have made him write the letter."

"Don't you think he was _a little out of his head_ to talk in that

way?" asked Mr. Clay.

"Why, I've been thinking about that," said Randolph: "I _have_ some

doubts respecting his sanity."

"Well, that being the case, would it not be the wisest course

not to bring the matter before the House? I will direct the

sergeant-at-arms to keep a sharp look-out for the man, and to cause

him to be arrested should he attempt any thing improper."

Mr. Randolph acquiesced in this opinion, and nothing more was ever

heard of the subject.

Another incident, touching Mr. Clay and Mr. Randolph, will be read

with interest:

At one time Mr. Randolph, in a strain of most scorching irony, had

indulged in some personal taunts toward Mr. Clay, commiserating his

ignorance and limited education, to whom Mr. Clay thus replied:

"Sir, the gentleman from Virginia was pleased to say, that in one

point at least he coincided with me--in an humble estimate of my

philological acquirements. Sir, I know my deficiencies. I was born

to no proud patrimonial estate from my father. I inherited only

infancy, ignorance, and indigence. I feel my defects: but, so far as

my situation in early life is concerned, I may without presumption

say, they are more my misfortune than my fault. But, however I may

deplore my inability to furnish to the gentleman a better specimen

of powers of verbal criticism, I will venture to say my regret is

not greater than the disappointment of this committee, as to the

strength of his argument."

The particulars of the duel between Mr. Randolph and Mr. Clay may be

unknown to some of our readers. The eccentric descendant of

Pocahontas appeared on the ground in a huge morning gown. This

garment constituted such a vast circumference that the "locality of

the swarthy Senator," was at least a matter of very vague

conjecture. The parties exchanged shots, and the ball of Mr. Clay

hit the centre of the visible object, but Mr. Randolph was not

there! The latter had fired in the air, and immediately after the

exchange of shots he walked up to Mr. Clay, parted the folds of his

gown, pointed to the hole where the bullet of the former had pierced

his coat, and, in the shrillest tones of his piercing voice,

exclaimed, "Mr. Clay, you owe me a coat--you owe me a coat!" to

which Mr. Clay replied, in a voice of slow and solemn emphasis, at

the same time pointing directly at Mr. Randolph's heart, "Mr.

Randolph, I thank God that I am no _deeper_ in your debt!"

The annexed rejoinder aptly illustrates Mr. Clay's readiness at

repartee:

At the time of the passage of the tariff-bill, as the house was

about adjourning, a friend of the bill observed to Mr. Clay, "We

have done pretty well to-day." "Very well, indeed," rejoined Mr.

Clay--"_very_ well: we made a good stand, considering we lost both

our _Feet_;" alluding to Mr. Foote of New York, and Mr. Foot of

Connecticut, both having opposed the bill, although it was

confidently expected, a short time previous, that both would support

it.

After the nomination of General Taylor as a candidate for the

Presidency, made by the Whig Convention at Philadelphia, in June,

1848, many of the friends of Mr. Clay were greatly dissatisfied, not

to say exasperated, by what they deemed an abandonment of principle,

and unfairness in the proceedings of that body: meetings were held

in this city, at which delegates from the northern and western parts

of this State and from the State of New Jersey attended, and various

arrangements, preliminary to placing Mr. Clay again in nomination

for that office, were made, and perfected. These steps were not

concealed, and many of the friends of General Taylor were so

uncharitable as to avow their belief that this dissatisfaction was

fostered and encouraged by Mr. Clay himself. The following extract

from a letter written to a friend in this city,[10] one who had from

the beginning opposed the movement, will exhibit Mr. Clay's true

sentiments on that subject:

"ASHLAND, _16th October, 1848_.

"MY DEAR SIR--I duly received your obliging letter of the

5th instant, and I have perused it with the greatest

satisfaction.

"The vivid picture which you have drawn of the enthusiastic

attachment, the unbounded confidence, and the entire

devotion of my warm-hearted friends in the city of New York,

has filled me with the liveliest emotions of gratitude.

"There was but one more proof wanting of their goodness, to

complete and perpetuate my great obligations to them, and

that they have kindly given, in deference to my anxious

wishes; it was, not to insist upon the use of my name as a

candidate for the Presidency, after the promulgation of my

desire to the contrary."

In another letter, to the same party, written a few weeks earlier,

occurs the following touching passage, indicating his sense of the

oppressive loneliness with which he was then surrounded. Referring

to the recent departure of his son James on his mission to Portugal,

accompanied by his family, he says:

"If they had, as I hope, a prosperous voyage, they will have

arrived at Liverpool about the same day that I reached home.

My separation from them, probably for a length of time, the

uncertainty of life rendering it not unlikely that I may

never see them again, and the deep and affectionate interest

I take in their welfare and happiness, has been extremely

painful.

"I find myself now, toward the close of my life, in one

respect, in a condition similar to that with which I began

it. Mrs. Clay and I commenced it alone: and after having had

eleven children, of whom four only remain, our youngest son

is the sole white person residing with us."

We are indebted to the same obliging gentleman from whom we derive

the foregoing, for the following graphic description of a visit paid

to Mr. Clay in his sick chamber at Washington:

"On Monday, the first of March last, at about one o'clock, at the

National Hotel, Washington, having sent in my name, Mr. Clay kindly

admitted me to his room. I found it darkened by heavy closed

curtains, and the sufferer seated in an easy chair at the remote

end, near a moderate coal-fire. I approached him rapidly, and,

taking his extended soft hand and attenuated fingers, said, 'My dear

sir, I am most honored and gratified by this privilege of being

again permitted to renew to you, personally, the expression of my

unabated attachment and reverence.'

"'But, my dear sir,' he playfully answered, 'you have a very cold

hand to convey these sentiments to an invalid such as I am. Come,

draw up a chair, and sit near me; I am compelled to use my voice but

little, and very carefully.'

"Doing as he desired, I expressed my deep regret that he was still

confined to a sick room, and added, that I hoped the return of

spring, and the early recurrence of warmer weather would mitigate

his more urgent symptoms, and enable him again to visit the Senate

Chamber.

"'Sir,' said he, 'these are the kind wishes of a friend, but that

hope does not commend itself to my judgment. You may remember that

last year I visited the Havanna, in the expectation that its

remarkably genial and mild climate would benefit me--but I found no

relief; thence to New Orleans, a favorite resort of mine, with no

better result. I even became impatient for the return of autumn,

thinking that possibly its clear bracing atmosphere at Ashland might

lessen my distressing cough; but sir, the Havanna, New Orleans, and

Ashland have all failed to bring me any perceptible benefit.'

"'May I ask, my dear sir, what part of the twenty-four hours are you

most comfortable?'

"'Fortunately, sir, _very_ fortunately--I should add,

_mercifully_--during the night. Then, I am singularly placid and

composed: I am very wakeful, and during the earlier part of it my

thoughts take a wide range, but I lie most tranquilly, without any

sensation of weariness, or nervous excitement, and toward day fall

into a quiet and undisturbed sleep; this continues to a late hour in

the morning, when I rise and breakfast about ten o'clock.

Subsequently my cough for an hour or two, is very exhausting. After

one o'clock, and during the evening, I am tolerably free of it, and

during this period, I see a few of my close personal friends. And

thus passes the twenty-four hours.'

"'I was grieved to learn, through the public prints, that Mrs. Clay

has been ill; may I hope that she is better?'

"'She has been sick; indeed, at one time, I was much alarmed at her

situation; but I thank GOD,' (_with deep emotion_,) 'she is quite

recovered.'

"'I almost expected the gratification of meeting your son James and

his wife here.'

"'No, sir; you may remember that I once told you that he had made a

very fortunate investment in the suburbs of St. Louis. This property

has become valuable, and requires his attention and management: he

has removed thither with his family. It's a long way off, and I

would not have them make a winter journey here; beside, I have every

comfort and attention that a sick man can require. My apartments, as

you perceive, are far removed from the noise and bustle of the

house; and I am surrounded by warm and anxious friends, ever seeking

to anticipate my wishes.'

"During this brief conversation--in which we were quite alone--Mr.

Clay had several paroxysms of coughing. Once he rose and walked

across the room to a spittoon. The most careful use of his voice

seemed greatly and constantly to irritate his lungs. I could not

prolong the interview, though thoroughly impressed with the

belief--since mournfully verified--that it would be the last.

"I rose, took my leave, invoking God's blessing on him; and, as in

the presence of Royalty, bowed myself out of the room backward.

"On rising from his seat, as above remarked, he stood as erect and

commanding as ever; and while sitting in close proximity to him, his

burning eye fixed intently upon me, it seemed as if rays of light

were emitted from each. This phenomenon is not unusual in

consumptive patients, the extraordinary brilliancy of the eye being

often remarked; but in Mr. Clay's case it was so intense as to make

me almost nervous, partaking as it did of the supernatural.

"I have thus given you the arrangement, and very nearly the precise

words,[11] of this my last interview with one of the greatest men of

the age. It was altogether a scene to be remembered--a sick room,

with the thoughts of a nation daily directed to it! It is full of

pathos, and approaches the sublime."

The day previous to the call and conversation above described, the

Editor of the _Knickerbocker Magazine_ saw Mr. Clay in the street at

Washington, and thus mentions the fact in the "Gossip" of his April

Number: "Passing the National Hotel at two o'clock, on this bright

and cloudless warm Sunday, we saw a tall figure, clad in a blue

cloak, attended only by a lady and child, enter a carriage before

the door. Once seen, it was a face never to be forgotten. It was

Henry Clay. That eagle-eye was not dimmed, although the great

statesman's force was abated. We raised our hat, and bowed our

reverence and admiration. Our salutation was gracefully returned,

and the carriage was driven away.

"As we walked on, to keep an engagement to dine, we thought of the

late words of that eminent patriot: 'If the days of my usefulness,

as I have too much reason to fear, be indeed passed, I desire not to

linger an impotent spectator of the oft-scanned field of life. I

have never looked upon old age, deprived of the faculty of

enjoyment, of intellectual perceptions and energies, with any

sympathy; and for such I think the day of fate can not arrive too

soon.' One can hardly choose but drop a tear over such a remark from

such a man."

Thus "broken with the storms of state," and scathed with many a

fiery conflict, Henry Clay gradually descended toward the tomb.

"During this period," says one of his Kentucky colleagues, "he

conversed much and cheerfully with his friends, and took great

interest in public affairs. While he did not expect a restoration to

health, he cherished the hope that the mild season of spring would

bring him strength enough to return to Ashland, that he might die in

the bosom of his family. But, alas! spring, that brings life to all

Nature, brought no life nor hope to him. After the month of March,

his vital powers rapidly wasted, and for weeks he lay patiently

awaiting the stroke of death. The approach of the destroyer had no

terror for him. No clouds overhung his future. He met his end with

composure, and his pathway to the grave was lightened by the

immortal hopes which spring from the Christian faith. Not long

before his death, having just returned from Kentucky, I bore to him

a token of affection from his excellent wife. Never can I forget his

appearance, his manner, or his words. After speaking of his family

and his country, he changed the conversation to his own fortune,

and, looking on me with his fine eyes undimmed, and his voice full

of its original compass and melody, he said: 'I am not afraid to

die, sir; I have hope, faith, and some confidence: I do not think

any man can be entirely certain in regard to his future state, but I

have an abiding trust in the merits and mediation of our Saviour.'"

"On the evening previous to his departure," writes his excellent

pastor and faithful attendant, Rev. Dr. Butler, "sitting an hour in

silence by his side, I could not but realize--when I heard him in

the slight wanderings of his mind, to other days and other scenes,

murmuring the words, 'My mother, mother, mother!' and saying, 'My

dear wife!' as if she were present. I could not but realize then,

and rejoiced to think, how near was the blessed re-union of his

weary heart with the loved dead, and the living who must soon

follow him to his rest, whose spirits even then seemed to visit and

to cheer his memory and his hope."

Mr. Clay's countenance immediately after death looked like an

antique cast. His features seemed to be perfectly classical; and the

repose of all the muscles gave the lifeless body a quiet majesty,

seldom reached by living human being. His last request was that his

body might be buried, not in Washington, but in his own family vault

in his beloved Kentucky, by the side of his relations and friends.

May he rest in peace in his honored grave!

FOOTNOTES:

[9] A gentleman, after hearing one of Mr. Clay's magnificent

performances in the Senate, thus describes him: "Every

muscle of the orator's face was at work. His whole body

seemed agitated, as if each part was instinct with a

separate life; and his small white hand, with its blue veins

apparently distended almost to bursting, moved gracefully,

but with all the energy of rapid and vehement gesture. The

appearance of the speaker seemed that of a pure intellect,

wrought up to its mightiest energies, and brightly shining

through the thin and transparent vail of flesh that invested

it." It is much to be lamented that no painting exists of

the departed statesman that really does him justice. What a

treasure to the country, and to the friends of the "Great

Commoner," would be a portrait, at this time, from the

faithful and glowing pencil of our pre-eminent artist,

Elliott! But it is now "too late".

[10] NICHOLAS DEAN, Esq., President of the Croton Aqueduct

Board, a life-long friend of Mr. Clay.

[11] They were reduced to writing immediately afterward.

A DUEL IN 1830.

I had just arrived at Marseilles with the diligence, in which three

young men, apparently merchants or commercial travelers, were the

companions of my journey. They came from Paris, and were

enthusiastic about the events which had lately happened there, and

in which they boasted of having taken part. I was, for my part,

quiet and reserved; for I thought it much better, at a time of such

political excitement in the south of France, where party passions

always rise so high, to do nothing that would attract attention; and

my three fellow-travelers no doubt looked on me as a plain,

common-place seaman, who had been to the luxurious metropolis for

his pleasure or on business. My presence, it seemed, did not

incommode them, for they talked on as if I had not been there. Two

of them were gay, merry, but rather coarse boon-companions; the

third, an elegant youth, blooming and tall, with luxuriant black

curling hair, and dark soft eyes. In the hotel where we dined, and

where I sat a little distance off, smoking my cigar, the

conversation turned on various love-adventures, and the young man,

whom they called Alfred, showed his comrades a packet of delicately

perfumed letters, and a superb lock of beautiful fair hair.

He told them that in the days of July he had been slightly wounded,

and that his only fear, while he lay on the ground, was, that if he

died, some mischance might prevent Clotilde from weeping over his

grave. "But now all is well," he continued. "I am going to fetch a

nice little sum from my uncle at Marseilles, who is just at this

moment in good-humor, on account of the discomfiture of the Jesuits

and the Bourbons. In my character of one of the heroes of July, he

will forgive me all my present and past follies: I shall pass an

examination at Paris, and then settle down in quiet, and live

happily with my Clotilde." Thus they talked together; and by-and-by

we parted in the court-yard of the coach-office.

Close by was a brilliantly-illumined coffee-house. I entered, and

seated myself at a little table, in a distant corner of the room.

Two persons only were still in the saloon, in an opposite corner,

and before them stood two glasses of brandy. One was an elderly,

stately, and portly gentleman, with dark-red face, and dressed in a

quiet colored suit; it was easy to perceive that he was a clergyman.

But the appearance of the other was very striking. He could not be

far from sixty years of age, was tall and thin, and his gray, indeed

almost white hair, which, however, rose from his head in luxurious

fullness, gave to his pale countenance a peculiar expression that

made one feel uncomfortable. The brawny neck was almost bare; a

simple, carelessly-knotted black kerchief alone encircled it; thick,

silver-gray whiskers met together at his chin; a blue frock-coat,

pantaloons of the same color, silk stockings, shoes with thick

soles, and a dazzlingly-white waistcoat and linen, completed his

equipment. A thick stick leant in one corner, and his broad-brimmed

hat hung against the wall. There was a certain convulsive twitching

of the thin lips of this person, which was very remarkable; and

there seemed, when he looked fixedly, to be a smouldering fire in

his large, glassy, grayish-blue eyes. He was, it was evident, a

seaman like myself--a strong oak that fate had shaped into a mast,

over which many a storm had blustered, but which had been too tough

to be shivered, and still defied the tempest and the lightning.

There lay a gloomy resignation as well as a wild fanaticism in those

features. The large bony hand, with its immense fingers, was spread

out or clenched, according to the turn which the conversation with

the clergyman took. Suddenly he stepped up to me. I was reading a

royalist newspaper. He lighted his cigar.

"You are right, sir; you are quite right not to read those infamous

Jacobin journals." I looked up, and gave no answer. He continued: "A

sailor?"

"Yes, sir."

"And have seen service?"

"Yes."

"You are still in active service?"

"No." And then, to my great satisfaction, for my patience was

well-nigh exhausted, the examination was brought to a conclusion.

Just then, an evil destiny led my three young fellow-travelers into

the room. They soon seated themselves at a table, and drank some

glasses of champagne to Clotilde's health. All went on well; but

when they began to sing the _Marseillaise_ and the _Parisienne_, the

face of the gray man began to twitch, and it was evident a storm was

brewing. Calling to the waiter, he said with a loud voice, "Tell

those blackguards yonder not to annoy me with their low songs!"

The young men sprang up in a fury, and asked if it was to them he

alluded.

"Whom else should I mean," said the gray man, with a contemptuous

sneer.

"But we may drink and sing if we like, and to whom we like," said

the young man. "_Vive la République et vive Clotilde!_"

"One as blackguardly as the other!" cried the gray-beard tauntingly;

and a wine-glass, that flew at his head from the hand of the

dark-haired youth, was the immediate rejoinder. Slowly wiping his

forehead, which bled and dripped with the spilled wine, the old man

said quite quietly "To-morrow, at the Cap Verd!" and seated himself

again with the most perfect composure.

The young man expressed his determination to take the matter on

himself; that he alone would settle the quarrel, and promised to

appear on the morrow at the appointed time. They then all departed

noisily. The old man rose quietly, and turning to me, said: "Sir,

you have been witness to the insult; be witness also to the

satisfaction. Here is my address: I shall expect you at five

o'clock. Good-night, Monsieur l'Abbé! To-morrow, there will be one

Jacobin less, and one lost soul the more. Good-night!" and taking

his hat and stick, he departed. His companion the abbé followed soon

after.

I now learned the history of this singular man. He was descended

from a good family of Marseilles. Destined for the navy while still

young, he was sent on board ship before the Revolution, and while

yet of tender years. Later, he was taken prisoner; and after many

strange adventures, returned in 1793 to France: was about to marry,

but having been mixed up with the disturbances at Toulon, managed to

escape by a miracle to England; and learned before long that his

father, mother, one brother, a sister of sixteen years of age, and

his betrothed, had all been led to the guillotine to the tune of the

_Marseillaise_. Thirst for revenge, revenge on the detested

Jacobins, was now his sole aim. For a long time he roved about in

the Indian seas, sometimes as a privateer, at others as a

slave-dealer; and was said to have caused the tri-colored flag much

damage, while he acquired a considerable fortune for himself. With

the return of the Bourbons, he came back to France, and settled at

Marseilles. He lived, however, very retired, and employed his large

fortune solely for the poor, for distressed seamen, and for the

clergy. Alms and masses were his only objects of expense. It may

easily be believed, that he acquired no small degree of popularity

among the lower classes and the clergy. But, strangely enough, when

not at church, he spent his time with the most celebrated

fencing-masters, and had acquired in the use of the pistol and the

sword a dexterity that was hardly to be paralleled. In the year

1815, when the royalist reaction broke out in La Vendee, he roved

about for a long time at the head of a band of followers. When at

last this opportunity of cooling his rage was taken from him by the

return of order, he looked out for some victim who was known to him

by his revolutionary principles, and sought to provoke him to

combat. The younger, the richer, the happier the chosen victim was,

the more desirable did he seem. The landlord told me he himself knew

of seven young persons who had fallen before his redoubted sword.

The next morning at five o'clock, I was at the house of this

singular character. He lived on the ground-floor, in a small simple

room, where, excepting a large crucifix, and a picture covered with

black crape, with the date, 1794, under it, the only ornaments were

some nautical instruments, a trombone, and a human skull. The

picture was the portrait of his guillotined bride; it remained

always vailed, excepting only when he had slaked his revenge with

blood; then he uncovered it for eight days, and indulged himself in

the sight. The skull was that of his mother. His bed consisted of

the usual hammock slung from the ceiling. When I entered, he was at

his devotions, and a little negro brought me meanwhile a cup of

chocolate and a cigar. When he had risen from his knees, he saluted

me in a friendly manner, as if we were merely going for a morning

walk together; afterward he opened a closet, took out of it a case

with a pair of English pistols, and a couple of excellent swords,

which I put under my arm; and thus provided, we proceeded along the

quay toward the port. The boatmen seemed all to know him: "Peter,

your boat!" He seated himself in the stern.

"You will have the goodness to row," he said; "I will take the

tiller, so that my hand may not become unsteady."

I took off my coat, rowed away briskly, and as the wind was

favorable, we hoisted a sail, and soon reached Cap Verd. We could

remark from afar our three young men, who were sitting at breakfast

in a garden, not far from the shore. This was the garden of a

_restaurateur_, and was the favorite resort of the inhabitants of

Marseilles. Here you find excellent fish; and also, in high

perfection, the famous _bollenbresse_, a national dish in Provence,

as celebrated as the _olla podrida_ of Spain. How many a

love-meeting has occurred in this place! But this time it was not

Love that brought the parties together, but Hate, his step-brother;

and in Provence the one is as ardent, quick, and impatient as the

other.

My business was soon accomplished. It consisted in asking the young

men what weapons they chose, and with which of them the duel

was to be fought. The dark-haired youth--his name was M----

L----,--insisted that he alone should settle the business, and his

friends were obliged to give their word not to interfere.

"You are too stout," he said to the one, pointing to his portly

figure; "and you"--to the other--"are going to be married; besides,

I am a first-rate hand with the sword. However, I will not take

advantage of my youth and strength, but will choose the pistol,

unless the gentleman yonder prefers the sword."

A movement of convulsive joy animated the face of my old captain:

"The sword is the weapon of the French gentleman," he said; "I shall

be happy to die with it in my hand."

"Be it so. But your age?"

"Never mind; make haste, and _en garde_."

It was a strange sight: the handsome young man on one side,

overbearing confidence in his look, with his youthful form, full of

grace and suppleness; and opposite him that long figure, half

naked--for his blue shirt was furled up from his sinewy arm, and his

broad, scarred breast was entirely bare. In the old man, every sinew

was like iron wire: his whole weight resting on his left hip, the

long arm--on which, in sailor fashion, a red cross, three lilies,

and other marks, were tattooed--held out before him, and the

cunning, murderous gaze riveted on his adversary.

"'Twill be but a mere scratch," said one of the three friends to me.

I made no reply, but was convinced beforehand that my captain, who

was an old practitioner, would treat the matter more seriously.

Young L----, whose perfumed coat was lying near, appeared to me to

be already given over to corruption. He began the attack, advancing

quickly. This confirmed me in my opinion; for although he might be a

practiced fencer in the schools, this was proof that he could not

frequently have been engaged in serious combat, or he would not have

rushed forward so incautiously against an adversary whom he did not

as yet know. His opponent profited by his ardor, and retired step by

step, and at first only with an occasional ward and half thrust.

Young L----, getting hotter and hotter, grew flurried; while every

ward of his adversary proclaimed, by its force and exactness, the

master of the art of fence. At length the young man made a lunge;

the captain parried it with a powerful movement, and, before L----

could recover his position, made a thrust in return, his whole body

falling forward as he did so, exactly like a picture at the Académie

des Armes--"the hand elevated, the leg stretched out"--and his sword

went through his antagonist, for nearly half its length, just under

the shoulder. The captain made an almost imperceptible turn with his

hand, and in an instant was again _en garde_. L---- felt himself

wounded; he let his sword fall, while with his other hand he pressed

his side; his eyes grew dim, and he sank into the arms of his

friends. The captain wiped his sword carefully, gave it to me, and

dressed himself with the most perfect composure. "I have the honor

to wish you good-morning, gentlemen: had you not sung yesterday, you

would not have had to weep to-day;" and thus saying, he went toward

his boat. "'Tis the seventeenth!" he murmured; "but this was easy

work--a mere greenhorn from the fencing-schools of Paris. 'Twas a

very different thing when I had to do with the old Bonapartist

officers, those brigands of the Loire." But it is quite impossible

to translate into another language the fierce energy of this speech.

Arrived at the port, he threw the boatman a few pieces of silver,

saying: "Here, Peter; here's something for you."

"Another requiem and a mass for a departed soul, at the church of

St. Géneviève--is it not so, captain? But that is a matter of

course." And soon after we reached the dwelling of the captain.

The little negro brought us a cold pasty, oysters, and two bottles

of _vin d'Artois_. "Such a walk betimes gives an appetite," said the

captain, gayly. "How strangely things fall out!" he continued, in a

serious tone. "I have long wished to draw the crape-vail from before

that picture, for you must know I only deem myself worthy to do so

when I have sent some Jacobin or Bonapartist into the other world,

to crave pardon from that murdered angel; and so I went yesterday to

the coffee-house with my old friend the abbé, whom I knew ever since

he was field-preacher to the Chouans, in the hope of finding a

victim for the sacrifice among the readers of the liberal journals.

The confounded waiters, however, betray my intention; and when I am

there, nobody will ask for a radical paper. When you appeared, my

worthy friend, I at first thought I had found the right man, and I

was impatient--for I had been waiting for more than three hours for

a reader of the 'National' or of 'Figaro.' How glad I am that I at

once discovered you to be no friend of such infamous papers! How

grieved should I be, if I had had to do with you instead of with

that young fellow!" For my part, I was in no mood even for

self-felicitations. At that time, I was a reckless young fellow,

going through the conventionalisms of society without a thought; but

the event of the morning had made even me reflect.

"Do you think he will die, captain?" I asked. "Is the wound mortal?"