CHAPTER II.

I. THE SNOW-SHOES.

As soon as Martha had gone, Ellen began to make such preparations as she

thought necessary for the night. She placed the furniture of the room in

order. She brought in some wood from the back room and laid it down very

gently by the side of the fire, so as to have a sufficient supply of

fuel at hand. She also brought the water pail and put it under the seat

of the settle, in order that the water might not freeze, and by means of

a long-handled tin dipper she filled the tea kettle full, in order that

there might be an ample supply of hot water, should any occasion occur

requiring any. She then brought a small blanket and held it to the fire,

and when it was very thoroughly warm, she put it very gently under the

counterpane, around her aunt's feet, fearing that her feet might be

cold. In fact they were very cold. Ellen extinguished the lamp, too, and

put it away upon her table near the window, lest the light of it should

shine upon her aunt's eyes and disturb her sleep. The light of the fire

was sufficient to illuminate the room. The light of the fire, too,

seemed more cheerful to Ellen than that of the lamp. It flashed brightly

upon the walls and ceiling, and diffused a broad and genial glow all

over the floor.

Ellen made all these arrangements in the most quiet and noiseless manner

possible. During all the time her aunt lay silent and motionless, as if

in a profound slumber.

After Ellen had extinguished the lamp, she paused a moment, looking

around the room to see if there was any thing which she had forgotten.

She could not think of any thing else to do, and so she concluded to sit

down and watch by her aunt until Martha should return.

She took a cushion from a great rocking chair which stood in a corner of

the room, and put it down upon the bear skin rug. She then sat down upon

the cushion and laid her head upon the pillow by the side of her aunt.

She then gently took her aunt's hand and laid it upon her cheek, in the

position in which her aunt herself had placed it, when Ellen had laid

her head down there before. She looked timidly into her aunt's face as

she did this, to see whether any signs that she was awake could be

observed. The eyes of the patient opened a very little, and a faint

smile lighted up her pale features for a moment, and Ellen thought that

she could perceive a gentle pressure upon her cheek from her aunt's

hand. In a moment, however, both the hand and the face returned to their

state of repose, as before.

Ellen remained quiet in this position a few minutes, looking into the

fire, and wondering when Martha would come back, when she felt something

gently touching her upon the shoulder. She looked round and found that

it was Lutie climbing up upon her. Lutie had jumped up from the floor to

the couch, and had crept along to where Ellen was lying, and was now

cautiously stepping over upon her.

"Ah, Lutie," said she. "Is it you? It is time for you to go to bed."

Lutie's bed was out in the back room. There was no door leading from the

room where Ellen was, directly into the back room. It was necessary to

go into a sort of entry first, and from this entry into the back room by

a separate door. All this may be clearly understood by referring to the

plan.

It happened, however, that there was an old window in the partition

between the great room and the back room. The reason why this window was

in the partition was this. The house was first built without any back

room, and then the window on that side looked out upon the yard. When at

last the back room was built, the window was rendered useless, but it

was not closed up. There was a curtain over it, and this curtain was

always left drawn. The back room was used for storage of various things,

and for rough and heavy work on extraordinary occasions.

Lutie's bed was in a box in a corner of this room. The place is marked L

in the plan. The bed was made of carpets and was very warm. Lutie was

always put out there every night at nine o'clock. She was not allowed to

remain at the fireside all night, lest she should do some damage to the

various things which were placed there on cold nights to keep them warm.

Lutie was accustomed to remain quietly in her bed until Martha got up in

the morning. She always knew when Martha got up, however early it might

be, for she could see the glow of the fire which Martha made, shining

through the old window in the partition between the rooms. When Lutie

saw this light she would go to the window, jump up upon the sill

outside, and mew for Martha to let her in.

Although it was not yet nine o'clock, and though Ellen would have liked

Lutie's company as long as she remained alone with her aunt, she thought

she would put her out.

"I may fall asleep myself," said she, "and then you will creep along

upon Aunt Anne, and disturb her. So you must go, Lutie."

She accordingly took up the kitten and carried her out. When she opened

the door into the entry, she saw quite a little drift of snow, which had

blown in under the edge of the door from the outer platform.

"Ah, it is a cold and stormy night," said she, "but you must get into

bed as soon as you can, and get warm."

Ellen stopped a moment to listen to the sound of the storm, as it howled

and roared among the trees of the forest, and then went back again to

her place at the fireside.

She moved her cushion and rug to the foot of the couch, and then

bringing a pillow from the bedroom, she put it upon the couch, at the

foot of it, so that she could sit upon the cushion, and lay her head

upon her own pillow, without any danger of incommoding or disturbing her

aunt. She then sat down and laid her head upon this pillow, with her

face toward the fire. She determined, however, though she thus laid her

head down, not to go to sleep, but to keep awake, if she possibly could,

until Martha or Hugh should return.

She did go to sleep, however, notwithstanding all her resolution. She

was asleep in fifteen minutes after she had laid her head down.

[Illustration: ELLEN ASLEEP.]

Lutie fell asleep too, very soon, in her bed in the back room, and

Ellen's aunt was asleep, so that all were asleep. There was no one

watching or awake in all the house.

Ellen slept several hours. In the mean time the wind and storm raged

more and more violently without, and the snow fell from the skies and

was driven along the ground faster and faster. Great drifts formed upon

the roofs and around the chimneys; and below, the yards, the fences, the

woodpiles were all covered. Great banks of snow were formed too, behind

the house, in the whirling eddy produced by the wind in turning round

the corner. One of these banks rose gradually up against the windows on

that side. At ten o'clock the whole lower sash of each window was

covered; at half past ten the snow had risen half way up the upper sash,

and at eleven one window was entirely concealed, while only a little

corner of the other was left, and even that was fast disappearing. The

bucket in the well was filled, and the snow was banked up against the

sides of the curb, till at last the crest of the drift began to curl

over at the top, as if seeking to bury up the well entirely. The fences

were all hidden from view, and a cart which had been left standing in

the corner of the yard, was so entirely covered, that nothing remained

but a white and shapeless mound to mark the place where it lay buried.

At last Ellen opened her eyes again. She was at first frightened to find

that she had been asleep. She feared that some mischief might have

happened, while she had been insensible. The fire had burned entirely

down, and the room was almost dark. Ellen threw on a small stick of wood

to make a little blaze, and by the light of this blaze she looked at her

aunt. She was lying, she found, in the same posture as when Ellen went

to sleep. Ellen put her ear down to listen, and found that her aunt was

breathing--very gently, indeed--but still breathing.

Ellen looked at the clock; for there was a large clock standing in a

corner of the room. It was twelve.

"It is midnight," said Ellen; "I did not think it was so late."

Ellen next put some large sticks of wood upon the fire. The room, she

thought, was getting cold. The wood was dry and it blazed up very

cheerfully and illuminated the whole apartment with a very cheerful

light. Lutie saw the light shining through the curtain, and she supposed

that it was morning, and that Martha had built the fire. So she

stretched her paws and rubbed her face, and then after listening a

moment to the sound of the storm, she stepped over the side of the box

where her bed was made, walked to the window, leaped up upon the

window-sill, and mewed, according to her usual custom, expecting that

Martha would come to let her in.

Ellen went and opened the window for Lutie. Then she went back again to

the fire. She stood at the fire a minute or two, and then went to the

front window of the room, to look out; she wondered what could have

become of Martha. She listened at the window. The storm was roaring

dreadfully down the valley, but nothing could be seen. The panes of

glass were half covered with the snow, which was banked up upon the sash

on the outside. Ellen concluded that she would go to the door, where

she thought that perhaps she might see a little way down the road, and

if she could not see, at least she could listen. So she put a shawl over

her shoulders and went out into the porch. She shut the door leading

from the porch into the room, and then unlatched the porch-door which

opened to the outer air.

As she opened the door a great bank of snow which had been piled up on

the outside of it, fell in about her feet. Ellen stepped back a little,

and then, standing still, she looked out into the storm and listened.

She had not listened long before she thought she heard a distant cry. It

came from down the road. She listened again. There came a blustering

blast of wind which rocked the trees, whirled the snow in her face,

roared in the chimneys over her head, and for a moment drowned all other

sounds. When this had passed, Ellen listened again. She was sure that

she heard a distant cry.

"It is my father and mother!" she exclaimed; "they are out in the

storm!"

Ellen's aunt had taught her to be collected and composed in all sudden

and alarming emergencies, and always to take time to consider calmly

what to do, however urgent the case might be. She stood for a moment,

therefore, quietly where she was, and then determined to go and wake her

aunt, and tell her what she had heard, and ask her what she had better

do.

She tried to shut the door but she could not. The snow that had fallen

in prevented its closing. So she left it open and went through the porch

to the inner door, and so back into the room, taking care to shut the

inner door as soon as possible after she had passed through.

She went to the couch, and kneeling down before it, she put her hand

softly upon her aunt's cheek and said, speaking in a low and gentle

tone,

"Aunt!--Aunt Anne!"

There was no answer.

"Aunt Anne!" she repeated. "Wake up a moment;--I want to speak to you a

moment."

There was still no answer. Ellen looked at her aunt's pale and beautiful

face for a moment, in doubt whether to speak to her again; and then she

determined to give up the attempt to awaken her, and to decide herself

what to do.

After a little reflection she concluded that she would go, a little way

at least, and see if she could learn what the cries were that she heard.

She accordingly went to a closet in her aunt's bedroom, and took down a

cloak which was hanging there, and also a warm quilted hood. These she

put on. She then went into the back room and got a pair of snow-shoes

which hung against the wall there. She carried these snow-shoes into the

porch, and put them down upon the floor.[1]

[Footnote 1: Snow-shoes are of an oval form and large and flat. They are

made of basket-work or of leather straps braided together. They are worn

by being fastened to the soles of the feet, and prevent the feet from

sinking down into the snow.]

"Now," said she, "I will get the horn." The horn which she referred to

was made of tin. It was kept hanging upon a nail near the back-door, and

was used for calling Hugh to dinner, when he was far away from the

house. It was very hard to blow for one who was not accustomed to it,

but when it was blown skillfully it could be heard a great way.

Ellen took down the horn from its nail, and went back into the porch.

She fastened the snow shoes to her feet, and drawing the cloak around

her, she sallied out into the storm.

She could scarcely see where to go. The wind blew the snow in her face,

and every thing was so covered that all the usual landmarks were

concealed from view. The snow was very light, but the snow-shoes

prevented her from sinking into it. She walked on toward the road,

without however knowing exactly on what course she was going. In fact,

in coming out of the yard, she inclined so far to the left, in her

bewilderment, that instead of going out at the gateway, she passed over

a corner of the fence, without knowing it--fence and gateway being both

alike deeply buried in the snow.

[Illustration: THE SNOW SHOES.]

As soon as Ellen found that she was in the road, she stopped, and

turning her back to the wind, blew a long and loud blast with her horn.

She then immediately paused to listen, in order that she might hear if

there should be any reply. She heard a reply. It sounded like one or two

voices calling together. The voices were shrill. As soon as the response

ceased, Ellen blew her horn again.

There was a second response--louder than the preceding one. Ellen was

very much pleased to find that her signals were heard, and she

immediately began to walk on down the road, in the direction from which

the sounds had proceeded.

One makes but a slow and laborious progress when walking upon

snow-shoes. It is true that the shoes do not sink far into the snow, but

they sink a little, and they are so large and unwieldy that it is quite

difficult to walk upon them. Besides, the snow-shoes which Ellen wore

were too large for her. They were made for a man. Still Ellen advanced

without any serious difficulty, though she was obliged to stop now and

then to rest. Whenever she stopped she would blow her horn again, and

listen for the response. The response always came, and it became louder

and louder the farther she proceeded down the valley.

At length Ellen arrived at the place from which the cries that she had

heard proceeded. She found there a horse and sleigh almost buried in the

snow, with her mother and Rodolphus in the sleigh. It would be hard to

say which was most astonished, Ellen, to find her mother and Rodolphus

in such a situation, or Mrs. Linn, at finding Ellen coming to their

rescue.

"Why, mother!" exclaimed Ellen; "is this you?"

"Why, Ellen!" said her mother; "is it possible that this is you?"

"Why, mother!" said Ellen, more and more astonished; "did you undertake

to come up in all this storm alone, with only Rodolphus?"

"No," said her mother, "Hugh came with us. We have been four hours

getting so far as here, and when Hugh found that we could not get any

further, he left us and went away alone to get some help."

"And you are almost frozen to death, I suppose," said Ellen.

"No," said her mother, "we are not very cold; we are well wrapped up in

buffalo robes, and the bottom of the sleigh is filled with straw."

Rodolphus peeped out from beneath the mass of coverings with which he

was enveloped, unharmed, but yet pale with anxiety and terror, though

now overjoyed at seeing Ellen.

"But I don't see now what we are to do, to get home," said Ellen. "There

is only one pair of snow-shoes, and there are three of us to go."

"We must go one at a time, then," said Rodolphus.

"But when one has gone, how can we get the snow-shoes back?" asked

Ellen.

"I don't know, I am sure," said Mrs. Linn. "I don't know what we shall

do."

"Why did not father come with you?" asked Ellen, despondingly.

"He was gone away," said her mother. "We waited for him a long time, but

he did not come, and so Hugh said that he would leave his team in the

village for the night, and come with me. But he went away some time ago,

and I don't know what can have become of him."

While this consultation had been going on, the storm had continued to

rage around them in all its fury. The track behind the sleigh had been

wholly obliterated, the horse was half-buried, and the snow was fast

rising all around the sleigh and threatening before long to overwhelm

the party entirely. They were entirely at a loss to know what to do. So

they paused a moment in their perplexity, and during the pause, Ellen

thought that she heard another cry.

"Hark!" said she.

They all listened as well as the howling of the wind around them would

allow them to listen. It was certainly a distant shout that they heard.

"Yes," said Ellen.

"It must be Hugh," said her mother.

Ellen raised the horn to her lips, and blew a long and loud blast,

turning the horn as she did so, in the direction of the voice. They all

listened after the sound of the horn had ceased, and heard a reply.

"Yes," said Ellen, "it must be Hugh. I will go down to him on my

snow-shoes."

"No," said Rodolphus, "you must not go and leave us here alone."

"Yes," said Ellen, "I will go. I can give him the snow-shoes and then he

can go and get some help for us."

Rodolphus declared that Ellen should not go, and began to scream and cry

in order to compel his mother to prevent her, but his mother said

nothing, and Ellen went away. She said, as she went,

"I will blow the horn now and then, mother, and as long as you hear it,

you will know that I am safe."

Ellen went toiling on down the road, stopping every few minutes to blow

her horn, and to listen to the responses of the voice. She soon found

that she was rapidly drawing near to the place whence the sound

proceeded. She perceived that the voice was that of a man. She had no

doubt that it was Hugh, and that he had lost his way, and was calling

for help. She still felt great anxiety, however, for she did not see, if

it should prove to be Hugh, what he could do with only one pair of

snow-shoes for four, to extricate such a party from their perilous

condition. She thought of her aunt, too, lying sick and alone upon her

couch, and of the distress and anxiety which she supposed the helpless

patient would feel, if she should wake up and find that both Martha and

Ellen had gone away, and left her, sick as she was, in absolute

solitude.

She, however, pressed diligently forward, and at length found herself

drawing nearer and nearer to the voice. Presently she began to see a

dark mass lying helplessly in the snow just before her.

"Hugh," said she, "are you here?"

"I am here," replied the voice, "but it is not Hugh."

"Why, Antonio, is it you?" said Ellen. She had recognized Antonio's

voice. "How came you to be here?"

"How came _you_ to be here, is the question, I think?" rejoined Antonio.

"I have got snow-shoes." said Ellen. "I heard cries and I came out to

see. My mother and Rodolphus are up the road a little way, in a sleigh,

and the snow is covering them over very fast. I'll blow my horn for

them."

Here Ellen blew another long and loud blast with her horn, and

immediately afterward she heard the distant call of her mother and of

Rodolphus answering it together.

"All right," said Antonio, "they answer. Now the first thing to do is

to get up to them. Give me the snow-shoes, and I think I can carry you

right along."

"Oh, no," said Ellen, "I am too heavy."

"Let us try," said Antonio. So saying he climbed up out of the snow, as

well as he could, and put on the snow-shoes. They were very easily put

on. Antonio found that the snow-shoes bore him up completely, but Ellen

had sunk down into the drift when she was deprived of them. Antonio,

however, soon raised her again, and took her in his arms. Enveloped as

she was in her cloak, she made a rather large looking load, though she

was not very heavy. Still it was difficult to carry even a light load,

walking with such shoes, on such a yielding surface, and in such a

storm. Antonio was obliged to stop very often to rest and to take

breath. At such times, Ellen would blow her horn, and listen for the

answer. Thus they gradually got back safely to the sleigh.

As they had thus come up the hill, Antonio, in the intervals of his

conversation with Ellen, had determined on the course which he would

pursue. He knew that there was a snow-sled at Mr. Randon's house; that

is, a hand sled made light and with the shoes of the runners very broad

and flat. By means of this construction, the sled had, like the

snow-shoes, the property of not sinking much in the snow. Antonio

determined to go himself up to the house on the snow-shoes--leaving

Ellen with Rodolphus and her mother in the sleigh--and get this sled,

and he hoped, by means of it, to draw them all up safely one by one. The

poor horse, he thought, would have to be left in the drifts to die.

Antonio's plan succeeded completely. He put Ellen under the buffalo

robes in the sleigh and covered her entirely in, except that he allowed

one little opening on one side for the horn, which he advised her to

blow from time to time, as it might possibly help Hugh to find his way

back to them. He then left the party in the sleigh, and was soon lost

from view. He went toiling up the hill to the house. He walked into the

yard. He groped his way to the barns and sheds, but the doors were all

blocked up with snow, so that he could not get them open. He, however,

contrived to climb up upon a roof, and by that means to get into a barn

window. He left his snow-shoes on the scaffold, and then groped his way

down in the dark to the place where Ellen had told him that the

snow-sled was kept. Every thing was in such perfect order that he met

with no difficulty on the way. He found the sled, and carrying it back

to the barn window, he contrived to heave it out there, throwing the

snow-shoes out after it.

He followed himself, descending as he had ascended, by the roof of the

shed. As soon as he got into the road, he mounted upon his sled, and

guiding himself by the sound of the horn, which he heard from time to

time, and by the dark forms of the firs which grew upon the sides of the

road, he slid quite rapidly down to the sleigh. To his great relief and

joy he found that Hugh was there.

It proved that Hugh had lost his way, and he would, perhaps, have

perished had he not heard the sound of the horn. The horn attracted his

attention just as he was about giving up in despair. He supposed that

the sound came from some farmer's house, where the people were, for some

reason or other, blowing a horn. He succeeded at last in making his way

to the place from which the sound proceeded, and was greatly astonished

to find himself back at the sleigh.

Antonio took Hugh home first. Each took the snow-shoes by turns and drew

the other on the sled. When they reached the house, Antonio left Hugh

there, and returned himself, for the others. The second time he took

Rodolphus, the third time, Ellen. Their mother insisted on being left to

the last. By the time that the party were all safely conveyed to the

house, Hugh had got the barn-doors open, and had brought out a yoke of

oxen, with a lantern and shovels. He then took the snow-shoes from

Antonio, and putting them upon his own feet, he walked on, to mark the

way, while Antonio followed with the oxen. Antonio was, however, obliged

to go behind the oxen in driving them, so as to walk in the path which

they had broken. The snow was up to the sides of the oxen all the way,

and in some places they came to drifts so deep, that Antonio and Hugh

were obliged to shovel the snow away for a long time, before the oxen

could get through. At length, however, they reached the place where the

horse and sleigh had become foundered. The horse was nearly exhausted

with fatigue and cold. Hugh and Antonio trod down and shoveled away the

snow around him, and then unfastened the harness, so as to separate the

horse from the sleigh. They then turned back the shafts of the sleigh,

and fastened the oxen to them by a chain, turning the heads of the oxen

up the hill. Hugh got into the sleigh, to ride and drive the oxen.

Antonio walked behind, leading the horse. The road was now so broken,

that though the snow was very deep, and Antonio and the horse both sank

down very far into it, it was possible for them to get along. They

stopped two or three times to rest, and twice to shovel away the snow,

but, at last, they safely reached the house, and turning into the yard,

went directly to the barn.

"Now," said Hugh, "I can take care of every thing here. You had better

go into the house and see if all is right there."

So Antonio went into the house. Ellen came out to meet him at the

porch-door, weeping as if her heart would break. Antonio asked her what

was the matter. She said that her Aunt Anne was dead.

Antonio tried to comfort Ellen as well as he could, but it was very hard

to comfort her. In the course of the evening, however, she was sometimes

tolerably composed, and at one such time, when she was sitting upon the

settle, Antonio took a seat by her side, and talked with her a little

while, about her going down to her mother in the storm.

"I don't know," said he, "what _she_ will think of your having saved her

life by your courage and presence of mind; but you may depend, that I

shall not very soon forget your having saved _mine_."

II. DEATH.

Rodolphus was very much shocked and overpowered at witnessing the scene

of anxiety and sorrow, into which he found himself ushered, when he

arrived at the house. He sat down for a time on Hugh's bench, in the

corner, by the fire, until he was warm. His mother then came and

undressed him and put him to bed in a sort of attic chamber over the

great room.

Rodolphus was afraid to be left alone in the solitary chamber. The wind

howled mournfully among the trees of the neighboring forest, and the

snow clicked continually against the windows. Rodolphus was, however,

not afraid of the storm----nor was he afraid of robbers or of ghosts. In

fact, he did not know what he was afraid of. Still he was afraid.

Undutiful and disobedient boys are always afraid when they are left

alone.

In fact, Rodolphus would have refused to go to bed altogether, had it

not been that his spirit was awed and subdued by the presence of death,

and by the strange situation in which he so suddenly found himself

placed. Notwithstanding this, however, he was upon the point of making

some resistance when his mother first came to him, to take him away, but

just then Antonio came into the room, and perceiving that there was

about to be some difficulty, he stopped and looked at Rodolphus, as if

to see what he was going to do. Rodolphus immediately submitted, and

allowed himself to be led away. He was more afraid of Antonio, than he

was even of being left alone in his chamber.

The next morning when Rodolphus awoke he found that the storm was still

raging. He looked out the window, and perceived that the air was full of

driving snow, while upon the ground nothing was to be seen but vast and

shapeless masses of white. He rose, dressed himself, and came down

stairs. He found a great fire blazing in the fire-place, but every thing

was very still and solitary about the house. The body had been removed

to the bedroom, and was laid out there. The bedroom door was open. Hugh

and Antonio were out, trying to get into the barn. Ellen was walking

softly about the bedroom, putting away the things which had been used

during the sickness, but which were now needed no longer. Martha, who

had got home the evening before, while Ellen had been gone, and had

brought some of the neighbors with her, was busy preparing the

breakfast. Both she, however, and Ellen, and the others who were there,

moved about silently, and spoke, when they spoke at all, in a subdued

and gentle tone, as if they were afraid of disturbing the repose of the

dead.

When the breakfast was ready, Martha went to call Hugh and Antonio and

all the others, to come to the table. They all came except Ellen. She

remained in the bedroom to watch with the body of her aunt. Her heart

was full of trouble. As she sat by her aunt's bed-side, she thought

bitterly of her loss, and she looked forward with many anxious

forebodings to the future. She felt as if her happiness was gone

forever. She loved her father and mother, it was true; but her aunt had

seemed to be her best and truest friend; and now that her aunt was gone

from her forever, she felt alone and desolate.

After breakfast Antonio went away upon the snow-shoes to see if he could

obtain some assistance from the neighbors, in relation to the funeral.

The storm, he said, appeared to have abated. The clouds looked thin, and

at one time he could almost see the sun. In about two hours he returned,

bringing with him two or three men, all upon snow-shoes; for the snow

which had fallen was so deep that any other mode of traveling was

impossible.

The preparations for the funeral went on during the day. The third day

the coffin came. It was brought upon a snow-sled, which was drawn by two

men upon snow-shoes. The storm had not yet entirely abated. The wind was

high, and the air was growing intensely cold. This was to be expected.

It is usually much colder in such cases after the storm is over, than

while the snow continues to fall.

They dug the grave at some little distance from the house, under the

margin of a wood where there was a little shelter. In digging it they

had first to go down through the deep snow, and then with pick-axes and

iron bars to dig into the frozen ground. When the grave was ready they

put boards over it, to prevent its being filled up again with the snow.

The funeral took place just at sunset. Hugh had broken out a road to the

place by means of the oxen. The men placed the coffin on a sled; it had

been arranged that two of the neighbors were to draw it. They said at

first that none but men could go to the grave, but Ellen said that she

_must_ go.

"I can walk very well," said she, "I know, if you can let me have a pair

of the snow-shoes. I _must_ go. My aunt loved me and always took care of

me, and I must keep with her till the very last."

When the men found how desirous she was to go, they said that they could

take another sled and draw her. They said that if she would like to take

Rodolphus with her, they could draw him, too; but Rodolphus said, that

he did not wish to go.

When all was ready, the company assembled in the great room, and Antonio

read a prayer which Ellen found in a prayer-book that had belonged to

her Aunt Anne. It was a prayer suitable to a funeral occasion. When the

prayer had been read, the funeral procession moved mournfully from the

door.

The coffin went first, covered as it lay upon the sled with a black

cloak for a pall, and drawn by two men. The other sled followed, drawn

also by two men. Ellen was seated upon the second sled, wrapped in

buffalo robes. The road had been broken out, so as to be passable, but

the snow was very deep, and the men made their way with great

difficulty through it. They stopped once or twice on the way to rest.

[Illustration: THE FUNERAL.]

When they arrived at the grave, they found that the sun was shining

pleasantly upon the spot, and the trees sheltered it from the wind.

Still it seemed to Ellen, as she looked down into the deep pit from the

top of the snow which surrounded it, that it was a very cold grave. The

men let the coffin down, and then two of them remained to fill the earth

in again, while Hugh and Antonio drew Ellen home.

Distressed and unhappy as Ellen was at the death of her aunt, there was

another blow still to come upon her. She found when she reached the

house on her return from the funeral, that the whole family were in a

state of consternation and terror at the tidings which had arrived from

the village, that her father had perished in the storm. He had been

across the river when the storm came on. In attempting to return, his

horse had become exhausted in the snow, and he was forced to abandon him

and attempt to find his way home alone. He lost his way and wandered

about till his strength failed, and then, benumbed with the cold, and

wearied with the hopeless toil, he sank down into a drift, and fell

asleep. Of course, he never woke again. He was found when the storm was

over, by means of a small dark spot formed by a part of his shoulder,

which projected above the surface of the snow.

It was thus that Rodolphus lost his father.

III.--CONSEQUENCES OF BAD TRAINING.

One pleasant morning in the month of June, during the next summer after

the great storm, Rodolphus was drawing his sister Annie about the yard

in a little green cart which her sister Ellen kept for her. There was a

great elm-tree in the middle of the yard, with a path leading all around

it. Rodolphus was going round and round this tree. Annie was playing

that Rodolphus was her horse, and she had reins to drive him by. She

also had a little whip to whip him with when he did not go fast enough.

Presently Ellen came to the door. She had a small hammer in one hand,

and a box containing some small nails and tags of leather in the other.

She was going to train up a climbing rose, which had been planted by the

side of the door.

Ellen told Rodolphus that she thought it was time for him to get ready

to go to school.

"Oh, no," said Rodolphus, "it is not time yet;" so he went prancing and

galloping on around the great tree.

A moment afterward his mother came to the door.

"Rodolphus," said she, "it is time for you to go to school."

"Oh no, mother, not yet," said Rodolphus.

"Yes," said his mother, "it is quite time. Come in directly."

"Well, mother," said Rodolphus, "I will."

Mrs. Linn stopped a moment to look at Ellen's rose-tree, and to say "How

pretty it looks climbing up here by the door;" and then she went in.

Rodolphus continued to run round the yard. Presently he came prancing up

to the door, and stopped to see what Ellen was doing.

"Rodolphus," said Ellen, "you ought to obey mother. She said that you

must go to school."

"Oh, pretty soon," said Rodolphus. "She is not in any hurry."

"Yes, Rodolphus," said Annie, in a very positive manner. "You ought to

obey my mother. You must go to school."

So saying, Annie began to move as if she were going to get out of the

cart, but Rodolphus perceiving this, immediately began to draw the cart

along, and thus prevented her. She could not get out while the cart was

going.

Rodolphus continued to run about for some time longer. Annie begged of

him to stop and let her get out, but he would not. At length his mother

came to the door again, and renewed her commands. She said that unless

he stopped playing with the cart, and went to school immediately, she

should certainly punish him.

"Why, mother," said Rodolphus, "it is not late. Besides, I am going to

draw Annie to school in the cart, and so we shall go very quick."

"No," said his mother, "you must not take the cart to school. If you

do, it will come to some damage."

"Oh, no," said Rodolphus. "Go and get me Annie's books, and I will start

off directly."

His mother went into the house and brought out a spelling-book, and put

it down on the step of the door. She called out at the same time to

Rodolphus, who was at that time near the great tree, telling him that

there was the book, and that he must leave the cart, and take Annie and

the book, and go directly.

The reason why Mrs. Linn was so solicitous for the safety of the cart,

was because it was Ellen's cart, and she knew that Ellen prized it very

highly. The way that Ellen came to have such a cart was this:

One day she was walking alone near the back fence of the garden, at a

place where the fence was very high and close, when she heard the voices

of some children on the other side, in a little green lane, where

children often used to play. Ellen thought she heard Rodolphus's voice

among the others, and there appeared to be some difficulty, as in fact

there usually was, where Rodolphus's voice could be heard. So Ellen

climbed upon a sort of trellis, which had been made there against the

fence, in order that she might look over and see what was the matter.

She found that there were two girls there with a small cart, and that

Rodolphus had got into the cart, and was insisting that the girls should

draw him along. The girls looked troubled and distressed, and were not

trying to draw.

"Pull," said Rodolphus. "Pull away, hearty."

"No," said the girls----"we can't pull. It is too heavy----besides, you

will break down our cart."

"Rodolphus!" said Ellen.

Rodolphus turned his head, and saw his sister looking down upon him from

the top of the fence.

"Ellen," said he, "is that you?"

"Yes," said Ellen, "I would not trouble those poor girls. Let them have

their cart."

"Why, they could pull me just as well as not," said Rodolphus, "if they

would only try. Come, girls," he added, "give one good pull, and then I

will get out."

The girls hesitated a moment, being obviously afraid that the cart would

be broken. They looked up to Ellen, as if they hoped that in some way or

other she could help them, but Ellen knew not what to do. So they

concluded to submit to Rodolphus's terms. They made a desperate effort

to draw the cart along a few steps, but the result which they had feared

was realized. The cart went on, staggering, as it were, under its heavy

burden, for a short space, and then a crack was heard, and one side of

it sank suddenly down to the ground. The axletree had broken, close to

the wheel.

The children seemed greatly distressed at this accident. Rodolphus got

out of the cart, and looked at the fracture----appearing perplexed in

his turn, and not knowing what to say. The oldest girl took up the

wheel, and began to examine the fracture with a very sorrowful

countenance, while the youngest looked on, the picture of grief and

despair.

"Now, Mary," said the youngest child, in a very desponding tone, "I

don't believe we can sell our cart at all."

"Do you wish to sell it?" asked Ellen.

"Yes," said Mary. "Father said that we might sell it, if we could find

any body that would buy it; but now it is broken, I don't suppose that

any body will."

"How much do you ask for it?" said Ellen.

"A quarter of a dollar," said Mary.

"Well," replied Ellen, "perhaps _I_ will buy it. If you will bring it

round to our house this evening after tea, I will get Antonio to look at

it and see if it is worth a quarter of a dollar; or, rather, if it _was_

worth a quarter of a dollar before it was broken----for that will make

no difference; and if he says it was, perhaps I may buy it."

"Well," said Mary, "we will."

"Is Beechnut coming to our house this evening?" asked Rodolphus.

"Yes," said Ellen.

The girls seemed much relieved of their distress at hearing this. Mary

took up the broken wheel and put it into the cart, saying at the same

time,

"Come, Ally, let us carry it home."

Mary stooped down to take hold of one side of the cart, while her sister

took hold of the other, and so they lifted it up.

"Rodolphus," said Ellen, "I think you had better help them carry the

cart home."

"Yes," said Rodolphus, "I will."

So Rodolphus took the wheel out of the cart and gave it to Mary to

carry, and then lifting up the cart bodily, he put it upside down upon

his head, as if it were a cap, and then began to run after the girls

with it. They fled, filling the air with shouts of laughter, and thus

the three went off together, all in high glee.

The end of it was, that Ellen bought the cart, and Antonio made a new

axletree for it, and put it, in all respects, in complete repair. He

also painted it beautifully inside and out, making it look better than

when it was new. Ellen's motive in getting the cart was chiefly to

promote Annie's amusement, but still she valued it herself, very highly.

She used often to lend it to Rodolphus when he was playing with Annie in

the yard, and Rodolphus would draw his sister about in it. Ellen always

gave him many cautions not to go too fast, and was very careful never to

allow him to put any thing inside that would bruise or soil it. There

was a little seat inside for Annie to sit upon, with a box beneath it

where a small basket of provisions could be stored, in case of an

excursion. Beechnut had promised, too, to make Annie a whip, and Ellen

was going to make her a pair of reins, so that when Rodolphus was

drawing her she might play drive.

But to return to the story.

Rodolphus drew the cart up to the door, and taking up the book, he put

it upon Annie's lap and then began to move away again.

"Stop," said Annie; "stop, and let me get out."

"No," said Rodolphus, "I am going to draw you to school."

"No," said Annie, "my mother said that you must not take my cart to

school."

"Oh, she won't care," said Rodolphus, still going.

"But she said that you must _not_," persisted Annie.

"That was because she thought the cart would come to some damage," said

Rodolphus. "But it will not come to any damage. I shall bring it home

all safe at noon, and then she won't care."

By this time Rodolphus had got out into the road. Annie looked anxious

and distressed, but as Rodolphus walked rapidly on, she was entirely

helpless, and could do nothing but sit still, though she urged Rodolphus

to stop, again and again, until at last, finding that it did no good,

she gave up in despair, and resigned herself to her fate.

They proceeded in this way until they had got pretty near the village,

when, as they were going along the road, which at this place led near

the margin of the river, just below the bridge and mill, Rodolphus saw

two boys getting into a boat. He asked them where they were going; they

said that they were going a-fishing.

[Illustration: THE BOYS AND THE BOAT.]

"I mean to go too," said Rodolphus, looking toward Annie.

"No," said Annie, "you must not go, for then what shall I do with my

cart?"

"Oh, you can draw your cart along to school yourself, very well," said

Rodolphus, and so saying, he lifted Annie hastily and roughly out of the

cart, calling out at the same time to the boys to wait a minute for him.

He put the handle, which was at the end of the tongue of the cart, into

Annie's hand, and then ran down to the water; and thus, almost before

Annie had time to recover from her astonishment, she found herself left

alone in the road, while the boat, with Rodolphus and the other boys in

it, began slowly to recede from the shore.

Annie began to cry. Rodolphus called out to her in a rough voice to go

along to school. So she began to walk slowly along, drawing the cart

wearily after her.

On her way home from school that day, when she came to the place in the

road where Rodolphus had left her in the morning, she found him waiting

there for her. She was coming without the cart. Rodolphus asked her what

she had done with it. She said that she had left it at school. The

teacher had told her that it was too heavy for her to draw, and had put

it in a corner, to wait till Rodolphus came. Rodolphus then told Annie

to sit down upon a stone by the side of the road till he came back, and

then began to run toward the school-house. In a short time he came back

bringing the cart. He put Annie into it and went toward home.

Annie asked him where he had been all the day--but he did not answer. He

seemed discontented and uneasy, and preserved a moody silence all the

way home, except that once he turned and charged Annie not to tell his

mother or Ellen that he had not been at school that day. When he reached

home, he left the cart at the door, and stepping into the entry he began

to call out aloud,

"Mother! Mother!"

Ellen came to the door and said in a gentle voice,

"Mother can't come now, Rolfy; she is busy."

"But I want to see her a minute," said he. "Mother! Mother!"

A moment afterward his mother appeared at her bedroom window.

"What do you want, Rolfy?" said she.

Rodolphus said nothing, but stood still, pointing to the cart, with a

triumphant air.

"What?" said his mother.

"See!" said Rodolphus.

"What is it?" said she.

"The cart," said Rodolphus, "all safe."

"Well," said his mother, "what then?"

"Why, you said," replied Rodolphus, "that if I took it to school, it

would come to some damage."

"Well, it _might_ have come to some damage," said she, "you know. And

you ought not to have taken it."

So saying his mother went away from the window.

* * * * *

Rodolphus was, in fact, a source of continual trial and trouble to his

mother, though she did not know one half of his evil deeds. He concealed

them from her very easily, for she never made a careful inquiry into his

conduct when he was out of her sight. He played truant continually,

going off to play with idle boys. He fell into bad company, and formed

many evil habits. He was continually getting into mischief among the

neighbors. They complained of him sometimes, to his mother, but this did

no good. Generally, she would not believe any thing that they said

against him, and whenever any of his evil deeds were fully proved to

her, she made so many excuses for him, and looked upon his misconduct

with so indulgent a view, that she exercised no restraint upon him

whatever.

He wanted more money than his mother could furnish him with, and he

gradually fell into dishonest means of obtaining it. His sister Ellen

had some poultry, and once a-week she used to commission him to carry

the eggs into the village for sale. Ellen used to go out every morning

to get the eggs from her nests, but Rodolphus would often go out before

her, and take a part of the eggs and hide them. These he would consider

his own, and so when he carried her supply to market, he would secretly

add to them those he had thus purloined, so as to get more money for the

eggs than he returned to her. He used to get the apples, too, from the

neighbors' orchards, and once when he was in a store in a village, and

saw a little money upon the counter, which a girl had laid down there to

pay for some thread, and which the store-keeper had forgotten to put

away, Rodolphus, watching his opportunity, slipped it into his pocket

and went away with it. He felt very guilty after he had done this, for

several days; but still he kept the money.

Ellen was the only person who had any influence over Rodolphus, and she

had not a great deal. She was, however, herself a great help and a great

source of comfort to her mother. As soon as she came home, she began in

a very modest and unassuming manner, to introduce the system and order

which had prevailed in her aunt's household, into that of her mother.

She began with Annie's and Rodolphus' playthings, which, when she first

came home, were scattered all over the house in disorder and confusion.

She collected these playthings all together, repaired the books which

were damaged, mended the broken toys, and arranged them all neatly upon

a shelf which her mother allowed her to use for the purpose. Then she

gradually put the rooms in the house in order, one after another. She

drove up nails in convenient places, to hang implements and utensils

upon. She induced Rodolphus to put the yard and the grounds about the

house in order. Every useless thing that would burn, was put upon the

wood-pile, and all other rubbish cleared away. She planted the seeds of

climbing plants about the gateways, and near the windows of the house,

and in one corner she made a very pretty trellis, by tying poles

together with a kind of very flexible wire called binding wire. Antonio

showed her how to do it. In fact, by means of what Ellen did, the house

was in a very few months entirely transformed, and became one of the

neatest and pleasantest cottages in all the town; and she and her mother

and Annie would have lived together very happily in it, had it not been

for the anxiety and trouble which Rodolphus gave them.

One day Antonio, who often came to Mrs. Linn's to see if there was any

thing he could do for the family, and who had often talked with

Rodolphus about the evil of his ways, drove up to the gate in a wagon,

and proposed to Rodolphus to go and take a ride with him.

"Yes," said Rodolphus, "I will go."

"Go and ask your mother first," said Antonio.

"Oh, she will let me go, I know," said Rodolphus, coming at the same

time toward the wagon.

"Go and ask her," said Antonio.

So Rodolphus went and asked his mother, and she gave him leave. He then

ran back to the wagon, climbed up into it, and took his seat by the side

of Antonio.

In the course of this ride, Antonio had a long and plain conversation

with Rodolphus about his evil course of life, and the sorrows and

sufferings to which it would lead him, and in which it would involve his

mother and sister, if he went on as he had begun. He told him, however,

that if on the other hand he would make a change, if he would obey his

mother, and go regularly to school, and keep away from bad company, and

become industrious and honest, he would grow up to be a useful and

respectable man, and would make himself and all around him happy.

Rodolphus heard what Antonio said, patiently and attentively through to

the end, and then said,

"Yes, Beechnut, my sister Ellen told me that very same thing, and I have

tried to be a better boy, very hard indeed, but I can't."

However, notwithstanding this, Rodolphus promised Antonio that he would

try once more, and for several days after this conversation he was a

much better boy. He went to school regularly and was more willing to

help his mother and Ellen about the house. This lasted for about a week.

At the end of that time he was one evening working with Ellen in the

garden, about sunset, when he heard a sound near him by a wall. There

was an old stone wall on that side of the garden, with bushes which grew

upon the outside rising above it. Rodolphus looked up when he heard the

noise, and saw a boy's head just over the wall at an opening among the

bushes. The boy held his finger to his lips in token of silence and

secrecy, pointing very quickly to Ellen, whose face at that instant was

turned the other way, so that she did not see him; he then dropped down

behind the wall out of sight again.

Rodolphus knew that the boy wished to speak to him, and that he was

prevented from doing so because Ellen was there.

Accordingly a moment afterward, Rodolphus told Ellen that she had better

go in, and that he would finish the rest of the work and come in

presently with the tools. Ellen thanked Rodolphus for what she supposed

was his disinterested kindness, and went in.

As soon as Rodolphus was alone, the boy's head appeared above the wall

again.

"She's gone at last," said he. "I thought she never _would_ go." The boy

then seemed to rise higher, as if he were stepping up upon a stone

outside the wall. He held out his hand toward Rodolphus, saying, "See

there!"

Rodolphus looked, and saw that he had three half dollars in his hand.

"Where did you get that money?" said Rodolphus.

"Ah!" said the boy, winking, and looking very mysterious, "don't you

wish you knew! You'd like to find the nest that has such eggs as those

in it, wouldn't you? Well, I'll tell you all about it to-night. Come out

here after nine o'clock. I will be here to meet you. We have got plenty

of money and we're going to have a good time."

Soon after this Rodolphus carried his tools to the shed, and went in to

his supper. About eight o'clock it became dark, and at half-past eight,

Rodolphus said that he felt rather tired and he believed that he would

go to bed. Feeling guilty and self-condemned as he did, he appeared

absent-minded and dejected, and Ellen was anxious about him. She was

afraid that he was going to be sick. She lighted the lamp for him, and

went up with him to his room and did all that she could to make him

comfortable. At length she bade him good-night and went away.

The place where Rodolphus slept was in a little corner of an attic by a

great chimney. The place had been partitioned off, and there was a door

leading into it. This door had a hasp on the inside. There was also a

small window which opened out upon the roof of a shed. It was a pretty

long step from the window down to the roof of the shed, but yet

Rodolphus had often got down there, although his mother had repeatedly

forbidden him ever to do so.

[Illustration: THE EVASION.]

As soon as Ellen was gone, Rodolphus fastened the door and then waited a

little while till all was still. Then he opened the window very gently

and crept out. He put out his light the last thing before he got out of

the window, and crept down upon the roof of the shed. He stopped here to

listen. All was still. He walked softly, with his shoes in his hand,

down to the lower edge of the roof, and there he got down to the ground

by means of a fence which joined the shed at one corner there.

Rodolphus found the boys waiting for him beyond the garden wall. He went

away with them and spent the night in carousals and wickedness, under a

barn in a solitary place. About one o'clock he came back to the house.

He climbed up the fence and got upon the shed. He crept along the shed

softly, with his shoes in his hand as before, and got into his window.

When in, he shut down the window, undressed himself, and went to bed.

And this was the end of all Rodolphus's resolutions to reform.

IV. CRIME.

Rodolphus went on in the evil way which we described, for some time, and

at length he became so disorderly in his conduct and so troublesome, and

caused his mother so much anxiety and care, that she finally concluded

to follow the advice which all the neighbors had very frequently given

her, and bind the boy out to some master to learn a trade. As soon as

she had decided upon this course, she asked the assistance of Mr.

Randon, to find a good place. Mr. Randon made a great many inquiries but

he could not find any place that would do, in Franconia; all the persons

to whom he applied in the village declined taking Rodolphus, giving

various reasons for their refusals. Some did not want any new

apprentice, some had other boys in view that they were going to apply

to. Some said that Rodolphus was too old, others that he was too young.

Mr. Randon thought that the real reason probably was, in a great many of

these cases, that the men did not like Rodolphus's character. In fact,

one man to whom he made application, after listening attentively to Mr.

Randon, until he came to mention the name of the boy, said,

"What! Rodolphus Linn. Is it Rodolphus Linn?"

"Yes," said Mr. Randon.

"Hoh!" said the man. "I would not have Rodolphus Linn in my shop for a

hundred dollars a year."

At last, however, Mr. Randon found in another town, about twenty-five

miles from Franconia, a man who kept a livery stable, that said he

wanted a boy. This man's name was Kerber. Mr. Kerber said that if

Rodolphus was a stout and able-bodied boy, he would take him. Mr. Randon

said that Rodolphus was stout enough, but he frankly told Mr. Kerber

that the boy was rather rude and unmanageable. "I'll take care of that,"

said Mr. Kerber. "All I want is to have him _able_ to do his duty. If he

is only able to do it, you need not fear but that I'll find ways and

means of seeing that it is done."

Mr. Randon thought from this conversation, and from other indications,

that Mr. Kerber was a very harsh man, and he thought that Rodolphus

might be likely to have a hard time if apprenticed to him. He concluded,

therefore, that before making his report to Mrs. Linn, he would make

some further inquiry. He found at last another man in the same town with

Mr. Kerber, who was willing to take Rodolphus. This man was a carpenter.

The carpenter was a man of quiet and gentle spirit, and he bore a most

excellent character among his neighbors. At first, the carpenter was

unwilling to take Rodolphus when he heard what his character was, but

when Mr. Randon told him about the circumstances of the family, and

explained to him that it would be a deed of great benevolence to save

the boy from ruin, the carpenter said he would take him for three months

upon trial, and then if he found that he should probably succeed in

making him a good boy, he would take him regularly as his apprentice. So

Mr. Randon went back to report the result of his inquiries to

Rodolphus's mother.

Mrs. Linn was very anxious to have Rodolphus go to the carpenter's, but

Rodolphus himself insisted on going to Mr. Kerber's. The reason why he

wished to go there was, because Mr. Kerber kept a stable and horses. He

supposed that his chief business would be to tend the horses, and to

ride about. This would be much better, he thought, than to work hard all

day with planes, and saws, and chisels.

Ellen joined her mother in begging Rodolphus to go to the carpenter's,

but he could not be persuaded to consent, and so it was finally settled

that he should be bound apprentice to Mr. Kerber. Mrs. Linn, however,

made an express stipulation that while Rodolphus remained at Mr.

Kerber's he was never on any account to be whipped. If he neglected his

duty or behaved badly, Mr. Kerber was to find out some other way to

punish him beside whipping.

Mr. Kerber made no objection to this arrangement. He said to Mr. Randon,

when Mr. Randon proposed this condition to him, that he would make any

agreement of that kind that his mother desired. "I have learned," said

he, "that there are various contrivances for breaking refractory colts

besides silk snappers."

When a boy is bound apprentice to a master, a certain paper is executed

between the master on the one part, and the parent or guardian of the

boy on the other, which is called the Indentures. The indentures specify

the name and age of the boy, and state the time for which he is bound to

the master. During that time the boy is bound to work for the master,

and to obey his orders. The master is bound to provide food and clothing

for the boy, and to teach him the trade. He has a right to compel the

boy to attend industriously to his work, and to punish him for any

idleness, or disobedience, or insubordination that he may be guilty of.

In a word, the master acquires, for the time that the apprenticeship

continues, the same rights that the father, if the boy has a father,

possessed before.

According to this custom indentures of apprenticeship were regularly

drawn up, binding Rodolphus to Mr. Kerber till he was twenty-one years

of age. He was then nearly twelve. The indentures were signed, and

Rodolphus went to live with his new master.

He, however, soon began to have a pretty hard life of it. He found that

his business was not to ride the horses about, but to perform the most

disagreeable and servile work in the stable. He could not even ride the

horses to water, for there was a great trough in one corner of the

stable with a stream of water always running into it, and the horses

were all watered there. Rodolphus was employed in harnessing and

unharnessing the horses, and rubbing them down when they came in; and in

pitching down hay, and measuring out oats and corn for them. He had to

work also a great deal at the house, splitting wood and carrying it in,

and in bringing water for the washing. He was kept hard at work all the

time, except in the evening, when he was generally allowed to roam about

the streets wherever he pleased.

Rodolphus did not have much open difficulty with Mr. Kerber, for he

found out very soon that it was a very dangerous business to disobey

him. The first lesson that he had on that subject was as follows:

One afternoon when he had been at work at the house, and had had some

difficulty with Mrs. Kerber, he undertook to make her agree to some of

his demands by threatening, as he had been accustomed to do with his

mother, that if she did not let him do what he wished, he would go and

jump into the pond. This pond was a small mill pond which came up to the

foot of Mr. Kerber's garden, where the garden was bounded by a high

wall. Mrs. Kerber took no notice of this threat at the time, but when

her husband came home she told him about it at the supper table.

"Ah," said Mr. Kerber, when his wife had finished her statement; "he

threatened to drown himself, then? I am afraid he does not know exactly

what drowning is. I will enlighten him a little upon the subject after

supper."

Accordingly, after supper, Mr. Kerber commanded Rodolphus to follow

him. Mr. Kerber led the way down to the bottom of the garden, and there

he tied a rope round Rodolphus's waist, and threw him off into the

water, and kept him there until he was half strangled. He would pull him

up a moment to recover his breath, and then plunge him in again and

again, until the poor boy was half dead with exhaustion and terror.

Then, pulling him out upon the bank, he left him to come to himself, and

to return to the house at his leisure.

Rodolphus, after this, was very careful not to come into any open

collision with Mr. Kerber, or with his wife, but this kind of severity

did him, after all, no real good. When a boy has grown to such an age as

that of Rodolphus, in habits of self-indulgence, disobedience, and

insubordination, it is almost impossible to save him by any means

whatever----but heartless severity like this only makes him worse.

Rodolphus hated his master, and he determined to do as little for him as

he possibly could. Mr. Kerber, accordingly, was continually finding

fault with his apprentice for his idleness and his neglect of duty, and

he used often to punish him by putting him in what he called his

_prison_.

This prison was a stall in one corner of the stable, near a little room

which Mr. Kerber used for his office and counting-room. The stall had

been boarded up in front, some years before, and used to shut up a small

colt in. It was half full of boxes and barrels, and there was a heap of

straw in one corner of it. There was a door in front, with a great

wooden button outside. When Mr. Kerber got out of patience with

Rodolphus, he used to put him into this old colt-pen and button him in,

and sometimes keep him there without any thing to eat, till he was half

starved. At one time Mr. Kerber kept him there all night.

After the first half dozen times that Rodolphus was shut up there, he

did not suffer from hunger, for he made an arrangement with another

stable boy, older than himself, to supply him with food at such times.

The stable boy would get bread from the house by stealth, when Rodolphus

was in his prison, and bring it out to the stable in his pocket. Then,

watching his opportunity, when Mr. Kerber was not looking, he would

throw it over to Rodolphus. Rodolphus was thus saved from suffering much

through hunger, but yet he would always in such cases, when he was

finally let out, _pretend_ to be half starved, in order to prevent Mr.

Kerber's suspecting that he had been stealthily supplied with food.

The prison, as Mr. Kerber called it, was adjoining the stable office,

which was a very small room, partitioned off from the stable itself.

This office had two doors, one on each side of it. One door led out into

the stable, and was the one ordinarily used. The other led to a shed at

one side of the stable, where the wood was kept for the office fire,

which was made in a small stove that stood in one corner of the office.

There was a desk in another corner of the office, and in this desk Mr.

Kerber kept his papers and his money.

One day when Rodolphus was shut up in his prison, after having been

there several hours, he became very tired of having nothing to do, and

so, to amuse himself, he took his knife out from his pocket and began to

cut into the partition which separated the colt-pen from the office. The

partition was made of boards, and as Rodolphus's knife was pretty sharp,

he could cut into it quite easily. He heard voices in the office, and he

thought that if he should cut a small hole quite through the partition

he could hear what the men were saying, and see what they were doing. So

he cut away very diligently for half an hour, working very slowly and

carefully all the time, so as not to make a noise.

At last the light began to shine through. Then Rodolphus worked more

carefully than ever. He, however, soon had a small hole opened, and

putting his eye close to it, he could see a whip hanging up against the

opposite wall of the office. Rodolphus gradually enlarged his hole,

until he could see more. He made the hole very large on the side toward

his prison, and yet kept it very small toward the office, and by this

means he could change the position of his eye and so see almost all over

the office, without, however, having made the opening large enough to

attract attention on the inside.

Rodolphus saw Mr. Kerber and another man sitting by the desk. It was

summer, and there was no fire in the stove. There were a great many

whips hanging up on one side of the room, and a hammer, together with an

instrument called a nut-wrench, on a shelf over the desk. The door

leading out into the shed was fastened with a hasp. Rodolphus, as he

looked at it, thought that it would be easy for a thief, if he wished to

break into the office, to go into the shed and bore into the door of the

office just above the hasp, and then by putting in a slender iron rod,

the hasp might be lifted up out of the staple, and the door opened.

Rodolphus listened to the conversation between Mr. Kerber and his

visitor, but he could not understand it very well. It was all about

business. At last the man took a large leather purse out of his pocket,

and prepared to pay Mr. Kerber some money. Mr. Kerber unlocked his desk.

The man counted out the money upon a small table which was there. Mr.

Kerber counted it after him, and then took from his desk a small box,

made of iron, which he called his strong box. He unlocked the strong box

with a key that he took from his pocket, and put the money into it. He

then locked the strong box and put it back into the desk, and finally

shut down the lid of the desk, locked it, and put the key in his pocket.

Mr. Kerber kept Rodolphus confined in his prison much longer than usual

that day, so long, in fact, that Rodolphus became at last very impatient

and very angry. At length, however, Mr. Kerber let him out, and sent him

home to supper.

That evening about nine o'clock, as Rodolphus was talking with some of

the bad boys with whom he was accustomed to spend his evenings, and

telling them how he hated his tyrannical and cruel master, he said,

among other things, that he wished he knew some thief or robber. The

boys asked him why.

"Why, I would tell him," said Rodolphus, "how he might rob old Kerber,

and get as much money as he wanted."

Among the boys who were with Rodolphus at this time, was one named

Gilpin. Gilpin was a very bad boy indeed, and considerably older than

Rodolphus. He was about fourteen years old. When Gilpin heard Rodolphus

say this, he gave him a little jog with his elbow, as an intimation not

to say any thing more. Very soon Gilpin took Rodolphus away, and walked

on with him alone, along a wall which extended down toward the water

from the place where the boys had been playing. As soon as he had drawn

Rodolphus away from the other boys, he asked him what he meant by what

he had said about a good chance to get some money. So Rodolphus

explained to Gilpin how his master had shut him up in the stall, and how

he had cut a hole through the partition, and what he had seen in the

office. He also explained to him how the back door of the little office

was fastened by a hasp, which it would be easy to open by boring a hole

through the door, if the robber only had a bit and a bit-stock.

"Oh, we can get a bit and bit-stock, easily enough," said Gilpin.

"Well," said Rodolphus, "shall we do it?"

"Certainly," said Gilpin, "why not we as well as any body else. I want

money too much to leave any good chance for getting it to other people.

You and I will get it, and go shares."

"No," said Rodolphus, "I don't dare to. And, besides, if we should get

into the office, we could not open the desk. He keeps the desk locked."

"We can pry it open with a chisel," said Gilpin, "as easy as a man would

open on oyster."

"But then we can't open the strong box," said Rodolphus. "The strong box

is made of iron."

"We'll carry away the strong box and all," said Gilpin, "and get it open

at our leisure afterward."

Rodolphus was at first strongly disinclined to enter into this plot, and

it was in fact several days before he concluded to join in it. At

length, however, he consented, and immediately commenced aiding Gilpin

in making the necessary preparations. He found a bit and bit-stock in an

old shop belonging to Mr. Kerber, near his house, and also a chisel,

which Gilpin said would do for forcing open the desk. There was another

boy almost as old as Gilpin, who joined in the plan. He was a coarse and

rough boy, and was generally called Griff. His real name was

Christopher.

Gilpin and Griff gave Rodolphus a very large share of the work of making

the necessary preparations for the theft. Their plan was to make the

attempt on Saturday night They thought that by this means a whole day

would intervene before the discovery would be made that the money was

gone, since Mr. Kerber would not be likely to go to his office on

Sunday. They would thus, they thought, have ample time to take all the

necessary means for concealing their booty. Rodolphus was to go to bed

as usual, and then to get up about ten o'clock, and come out of his

window, over the roofs, as he used to do at home, and as he had very

often done since he came to Mr. Kerber's. The bit and bit-stock, and the

chisel were to be all ready in the shed, beforehand. Rodolphus was to

carry them there some time in the course of the afternoon. On descending

from the roofs, Rodolphus was to go to meet the other boys at a certain

corn-barn, which belonged to a house which had once been a farm-house in

the village.

A corn-barn is a small square building, standing upon high posts at the

four corners. These posts are usually about four or five feet high. The

building is raised in this manner above the ground, to prevent mice and

other animals from getting into it and eating the corn.

The corn-barn, however, at which the boys were to meet, was not now used

for the storage of grain, but as a sort of lumber-room for a tavern that

stood near by. It was behind the tavern, and almost out of sight of it,

at the end of a narrow lane. It was in a very secluded position. The

space beneath the building where the posts were, had been boarded up on

three sides, and there were various old boxes and barrels underneath it.

Rodolphus and the other bad boys of the village had often used this

place as a rendezvous, and had carried there the various things which

they had pilfered from time to time; and in summer nights they would

often meet there and stay half the night, spending the time in eating

and drinking, and in gambling with cards or coppers, and in other wicked

amusements. There was no floor but the ground, but the boys had carried

straw into the place, and spread it down where they were accustomed to

sit and lie, and this made the place very comfortable.

The boys were to meet at this place at ten o'clock. Griff was to bring a

dark lantern. This lantern was one which the boys had made themselves.

It was formed of a round block of wood for the base, with a hole or

socket in the middle of it, for the admission of the end of the candle.

Around this block there had been rolled a strip of pasteboard, so as to

make of it a sort of round box, with a wooden bottom and no top. The

pasteboard was kept in its place by a string, which was wound several

times around it. There was a long hole cut in the pasteboard on one

side, for the light to shine out of. There was another pasteboard roll

which went over the whole, and closed this opening when the boys wanted

the lantern to be perfectly dark.

The boys met at the place of rendezvous at the time appointed. They then

proceeded to the stable. They got into the shed, and there struck a

light, and lighted a short candle which one of the boys had in his

pocket. Rodolphus held this candle, while Gilpin, who was taller and

stronger than either of the other boys, bored the hole in the door, in

the place which Rodolphus indicated. When the hole was bored, the boys

inserted an iron rod into it, and running this rod under the hasp, they

pried the hasp up and unfastened the door. They opened the door, and

then, to their great joy, found themselves all safe in the office.

[Illustration: THUS]

They put the dark lantern down upon the table, and covered it with its

screen, and then listened, perfectly whist, a minute or two, to be sure

that nobody was coming.

"You go and watch at the shed-door," said Gilpin to Rodolphus, "while we

open the desk."

So Rodolphus went to the shed-door. He peeped out, and looked up and

down the village-street, but all was still.

Presently he heard a sort of splitting sound within the office, which he

knew was made by the forcing open of the lid of the desk. Very soon

afterward the boys came out, in a hurried manner----Griff had the

lantern and Gilpin the box.

"Have you got it?" said Rodolphus.

"Yes," said Griff.

"Let's see," said Rodolphus.

Griff held out the box to Rodolphus. It was very heavy and they could

hear the sound of the money within. All three of the boys seemed almost

wild with trepidation and excitement. Griff however immediately began to

hurry them away, pulling the box from them and saying, "Come, come,

boys, we must not stay fooling here."

"Wait a minute till I hide the tools again?" said Rodolphus, "and then

we'll run."

Rodolphus hid the tools behind the wood-pile, in the shed, where they

had been before, and then the boys sallied forth into the street. They

crept along stealthily in the shadows of the houses and in the most dark

and obscure places, until they came to the tavern, where they were to

turn down the lane to the corn-barn. As soon as they got safely to this

lane, they felt relieved, and they walked on in a more unconcerned

manner; and when at length they got fairly in under the corn-barn they

felt perfectly secure.

"There," said Griff, "was not that well done?"

"Yes," said Rodolphus, "and now all that we have got to do is to get the

box open."

"We can break it open with stones," said Griff.

"No," said Gilpin, "that will make too much noise. We will bury it under

this straw for a few days, and open it somehow or other by-and-by, when

they have given up looking for the box. You can get the real key of it

for us, Rodolphus, can't you?"

"How can I get it?" asked Rodolphus.

"Oh, you can contrive some way to get it from old Kerber, I've no doubt.

At any rate the best thing is to bury it now."

[Illustration: THE CORN-BARN.]

To this plan the boys all agreed. They pulled away the straw, which was

spread under the corn-barn, and dug a hole in the ground beneath,

working partly with sticks and partly with their fingers. When they had

got the hole deep enough, they put the box in and covered it up. Then

they spread the straw over the place as before.

During all this time the lantern had been standing upon a box pretty

near by, having been put there by the boys, in order that the light

might shine down upon the place where they had been digging. As soon as

their work was done, the boys went softly outside to see if the way was

clear for them to go home, leaving the lantern on the box; and while

they were standing at the corner of the barn outside, looking up the

lane, and whispering together, they saw suddenly a light beginning to

gleam up from within. They ran in and found that the lantern had fallen

down, and that the straw was all in a blaze. They immediately began to

tread upon the fire and try to put it out, but the instant that they did

so they were all thunderstruck by the appearance of a fourth person, who

came rushing in among them from the outside. They all screamed out with

terror and ran. Rodolphus separated from the rest and crouched down a

moment behind the stone wall, but immediately afterward, feeling that

there would be no safety for him here, he set off again and ran across

some back fields and gardens, in the direction toward Mr. Kerber's. He

looked back occasionally and found that the light was rapidly

increasing. Presently he began to hear cries of fire. He ran on till he

reached the house; he scrambled over the fences into the back yard,

climbed up upon a shed, crept along under the chimneys to the window of

his room, got in as fast as he could, undressed himself and went to bed,

and had just drawn the clothes up over him, when he heard a loud

knocking at the door, and Mrs. Kerber's voice outside, calling out to

him, that there was a cry of fire in the village, and that he must get

up quick as possible and help put it out.

(TO BE CONTINUED.)

NAPOLEON BONAPARTE.[2]

BY JOHN S. C. ABBOTT.

THE RETURN FROM EGYPT.

[Footnote 2: Entered, according to Act of Congress, in the year 1852, by

Harper and Brothers, in the Clerk's Office of the District Court of the

Southern District of New York.]

The Expedition to Egypt was one of the most magnificent enterprises

which human ambition ever conceived. The Return to France combines still

more, if possible, of the elements of the moral sublime. But for the

disastrous destruction of the French fleet the plans of Napoleon, in

reference to the East, would probably have been triumphantly successful.

At least it can not be doubted that a vast change would have been

effected throughout the Eastern world. Those plans were now hopeless.

The army was isolated, and cut off from all reinforcements and all

supplies. The best thing which Napoleon could do for his troops in Egypt

was to return to France, and exert his personal influence in sending

them succor. His return involved the continuance of the most honorable

devotion to those soldiers whom he necessarily left behind him. The

secrecy of his departure was essential to its success. Had the bold

attempt been suspected, it would certainly have been frustrated by the

increased vigilance of the English cruisers. The intrepidity of the

enterprise must elicit universal admiration.

Contemplate, for a moment, the moral aspects of this undertaking. A

nation of thirty millions of people, had been for ten years agitated by

the most terrible convulsions. There is no atrocity, which the tongue

can name, which had not desolated the doomed land. Every passion which

can degrade the heart of fallen man, had swept with simoom blast over

the cities and the villages of France. Conflagrations had laid the

palaces of the wealthy in ruins, and the green lawns where their

children had played, had been crimsoned with the blood of fathers and

sons, mothers and daughters. A gigantic system of robbery had seized

upon houses and lands and every species of property and had turned

thousands of the opulent out into destitution, beggary, and death.

Pollution had been legalized by the voice of God-defying lust, and

France, _la belle France_, had been converted into a disgusting

warehouse of infamy. Law, with suicidal hand, had destroyed itself, and

the decisions of the legislature swayed to and fro, in accordance with

the hideous clamors of the mob. The guillotine, with gutters ever

clotted with human gore, was the only argument which anarchy

condescended to use. Effectually it silenced every remonstrating tongue.

Constitution after constitution had risen, like mushrooms, in a night,

and like mushrooms had perished in a day. Civil war was raging with

bloodhound fury in France, Monarchists and Jacobins grappling each other

infuriate with despair. The allied kings of Europe, who by their

alliance had fanned these flames of rage and ruin, were gazing with

terror upon the portentous prodigy, and were surrounding France with

their navies and their armies.

The people had been enslaved for centuries by the king and the nobles.

Their oppression had been execrable, and it had become absolutely

unendurable. "We, the millions," they exclaimed in their rage, "will no

longer minister to your voluptuousness, and pride, and lust." "You

shall, you insolent dogs," exclaimed king and nobles, "we heed not your

barking." "You shall," reiterated the Pope, in the portentous

thunderings of the Vatican. "You shall," came echoed back from the

palaces of Vienna, from the dome of the Kremlin, from the seraglio of

the Turk, and, in tones deeper, stronger, more resolute, from

constitutional, liberty-loving, happy England. Then was France a

volcano, and its lava-streams deluged Europe. The people were desperate.

In the blind fury of their frenzied self-defense they lost all

consideration. The castles of the nobles were but the monuments of past

taxation and servitude. With yells of hatred the infuriated populace

razed them to the ground. The palaces of the kings, where, for uncounted

centuries, dissolute monarchs had reveled in enervating and

heaven-forbidden pleasures, were but national badges of the bondage of

the people. The indignant throng swept through them, like a Mississippi

inundation, leaving upon marble floors, and cartooned walls and

ceilings, the impress of their rage. At one bound France had passed from

despotism to anarchy. The kingly tyrant, with golden crown and iron

sceptre, surrounded by wealthy nobles and dissolute beauties, had

disappeared, and a many-headed monster, rapacious and blood-thirsty,

vulgar and revolting, had emerged from mines and workshops and the

cellars of vice and penury, like one of the spectres of fairy tales to

fill his place. France had passed from Monarchy, not to healthy

Republicanism, but to Jacobinism, to the reign of the mob. Napoleon

utterly abhorred the tyranny of the king. He also utterly abhorred the

despotism of vulgar, violent, sanguinary Jacobin misrule. The latter he

regarded with even far deeper repugnance than the former. "I frankly

confess," said Napoleon, again and again, "that if I must choose between

Bourbon oppression, and mob violence, I infinitely prefer the former."

Such had been the state of France, essentially, for nearly ten years.

The great mass of the people were exhausted with suffering, and longed

for repose. The land was filled with plots and counterplots. But there

was no one man of sufficient prominence to carry with him the nation.

The government was despised and disregarded. France was in a state of

chaotic ruin. Many voices here and there, began to inquire "Where is

Bonaparte, the conqueror of Italy, the conqueror of Egypt? He alone can

save us." His world-wide renown turned the eyes of the nation to him as

their only hope.

Under these circumstances Napoleon, then a young man but twenty-nine

years of age, and who, but three years before, had been unknown to fame

or to fortune, resolved to return to France, to overthrow the miserable

government, by which the country was disgraced, to subdue anarchy at

home and aggression from abroad, and to rescue thirty millions of people

from ruin. The enterprise was undeniably magnificent in its grandeur and

noble in its object. He had two foes to encounter, each formidable, the

royalists of combined Europe and the mob of Paris. The quiet and

undoubting self-confidence with which he entered upon this enterprise,

is one of the most remarkable events in the whole of his extraordinary

career. He took with him no armies to hew down opposition. He engaged in

no deep-laid and wide-spread conspiracy. Relying upon the energies of

his own mind, and upon the sympathies of the great mass of the people,

he went alone, with but one or two companions, to whom he revealed not

his thoughts, to gather into his hands the scattered reins of power.

Never did he encounter more fearful peril. The cruisers of England,

Russia, Turkey, of allied Europe in arms against France, thronged the

Mediterranean. How could he hope to escape them? The guillotine was red

with blood. Every one who had dared to oppose the mob had perished upon

it. How could Napoleon venture, single-handed, to beard this terrible

lion in his den?

It was ten o'clock at night, the 22d of August, 1799, when Napoleon

ascended the sides of the frigate Muiron, to sail for France. A few of

his faithful Guards, and eight companions, either officers in the army

or members of the scientific corps, accompanied him. There were five

hundred soldiers on board the ships. The stars shone brightly in the

Syrian sky, and under their soft light the blue waves of the

Mediterranean lay spread out most peacefully before them. The frigates

unfurled their sails. Napoleon, silent and lost in thought, for a long

time walked the quarter deck of the ship, gazing upon the low outline of

Egypt as, in the dim starlight, it faded away. His companions were

intoxicated with delight, in view of again returning to France. Napoleon

was neither elated nor depressed. Serene and silent he communed with

himself, and whenever we can catch a glimpse of those secret communings

we find them always bearing the impress of grandeur. Though Napoleon was

in the habit of visiting the soldiers at their camp fires, of sitting

down and conversing with them with the greatest freedom and familiarity,

the majesty of his character overawed his officers, and adoration and

reserve blended with their love. Though there was no haughtiness in his

demeanor, he habitually dwelt in a region of elevation above them all.

Their talk was of cards, of wine, of pretty women. Napoleon's thoughts

were of empire, of renown, of moulding the destinies of nations. They

regarded him not as a companion, but as a master, whose wishes they

loved to anticipate; for he would surely guide them to wealth, and fame,

and fortune. He contemplated them, not as equals and confiding friends,

but as efficient and valuable instruments for the accomplishment of his

purposes. Murat was to Napoleon a body of ten thousand horse-men, ever

ready for a resistless charge. Lannes was a phalanx of infantry,

bristling with bayonets, which neither artillery nor cavalry could

batter down or break. Augereau was an armed column of invincible troops,

black, dense, massy, impetuous, resistless, moving with gigantic tread

wherever the finger of the conqueror pointed. These were but the members

of Napoleon's body, the limbs obedient to the mighty soul which swayed

them. They were not the companions of his thoughts, they were only the

servants of his will. The number to be found with whom the soul of

Napoleon could dwell in sympathetic friendship was few--very few.

Napoleon had formed a very low estimate of human nature, and

consequently made great allowance for the infirmities incident to

humanity. Bourrienne reports him as saying, "Friendship is but a name. I

love no one; no, not even my brothers. Joseph perhaps a little. And if I

do love him, it is from habit, and because he is my elder. Duroc! Ah,

yes! I love him too. But why? His character pleases me. He is cold,

reserved, and resolute, and I really believe that he never shed a tear.

As to myself, I know well that I have not one true friend. As long as I

continue what I am, I may have as many pretended friends as I please. We

must leave sensibility to the women. It is their business. Men should be

firm in heart and in purpose, or they should have nothing to do with war

or government. I am not amiable. No; I am not amiable I never have been.

But I am just."

In another mood of mind, more tender, more subdued, he remarked, at St.

Helena, in reply to Las Casas, who with great severity was condemning

those who abandoned Napoleon in his hour of adversity: "You are not

acquainted with men. They are difficult to comprehend if one wishes to

be strictly just. Can they understand or explain even their own

characters? Almost all those who abandoned me would, had I continued to

be prosperous, never perhaps have dreamed of their own defection. There

are vices and virtues which depend upon circumstances. Our last trials

were beyond all human strength! Besides I was forsaken rather than

betrayed; there was more of weakness than of perfidy around me. _It was

the denial of St. Peter._ Tears and penitence are probably at hand, And

where will you find in the page of history any one possessing a greater

number of friends and partisans? Who was ever more popular and more

beloved? Who was ever more ardently and deeply regretted? Here, from

this very rock, on viewing the present disorders in France, who would

not be tempted to say that I still reign there? No; human nature might

have appeared in a more odious light."

Las Casas, who shared with Napoleon his weary years of imprisonment at

St. Helena, says of him: "He views the complicated circumstances of his

fall from so high a point that individuals escape his notice. He never

evinces the least symptom of virulence toward those of whom it might be

supposed he has the greatest reason to complain. His strongest mark of

reprobation, and I have had frequent occasions to notice it, is to

preserve silence with respect to them whenever they are mentioned in his

presence. But how often has he been heard to restrain the violent and

less reserved expressions of those about him?"

"And here I must observe," says Las Casas, "that since I have become

acquainted with the Emperor's character, I have never known him to

evince, for a single moment, the least feeling of anger or animosity

against those who had most deeply injured him. He speaks of them coolly

and without resentment, attributing their conduct, in some measure, to

the perplexing circumstances in which they were placed, and throwing the

rest to the account of human weakness."

Marmont, who surrendered Paris to the allies, was severely condemned by

Las Casas. Napoleon replied: "Vanity was his ruin. Posterity will justly

cast a shade upon his character, yet his heart will be more valued than

the memory of his career." "Your attachment for Berthier," said Las

Casas, "surprised us. He was full of pretensions and pride." "Berthier

was not without talent," Napoleon replied, "and I am far from wishing to

disavow his merit, or my partiality; but he was so undecided!" "He was

very harsh and overbearing," Las Casas rejoined. "And what, my dear Las

Casas," Napoleon replied, "is more overbearing than weakness which feels

itself protected by strength? Look at women, for example." This Berthier

had, with the utmost meanness, abandoned his benefactor, and took his

place in front of the carriage of Louis XVIII. as he rode triumphantly

into Paris. "The only revenge I wish on this poor Berthier," said

Napoleon at the time, "would be to see him in his costume of captain of

the body-guard of Louis."

Says Bourrienne, Napoleon's rejected secretary, "The character of

Napoleon was not a cruel one. He was neither rancorous nor vindictive.

None but those who are blinded by fury, could have given him the name of

Nero or Caligula. I think that I have stated his real faults with

sufficient sincerity to be believed upon my word. I can assert that

Bonaparte, apart from politics, was feeling, kind, and accessible to

pity. He was very fond of children, and a bad man has seldom that

disposition. In the habits of private life he had, and the expression is

not too strong, much benevolence and great indulgence for human

weakness. A contrary opinion is too firmly fixed in some minds for me to

hope to remove it. I shall, I fear, have opposers; but I address myself

to those who are in search of truth. I lived in the most unreserved

confidence with Napoleon until the age of thirty-four years, and I

advance nothing lightly." This is the admission of one who had been

ejected from office by Napoleon, and who had become a courtier of the

reinstated Bourbons. It is a candid admission of an enemy.

The ships weighed anchor in the darkness of the night, hoping before the

day should dawn to escape the English cruisers which were hovering about

Alexandria. Unfortunately, at midnight, the wind died away, and it

became almost perfectly calm. Fearful of being captured, some were

anxious to seek again the shore. "Be quiet," said Napoleon, "we shall

pass in safety."

Admiral Gantheaume wished to take the shortest route to France.

Napoleon, however, directed the admiral to sail along as near as

possible to the coast of Africa, and to continue that unfrequented

route, till the ships should pass the Island of Sardinia. "In the mean

while," said he, "should an English fleet present itself, we will run

ashore upon the sands, and march, with the handful of brave men and the

few pieces of artillery we have with us, to Oran or Tunis, and there

find means to re-embark." Thus Napoleon, in this hazardous enterprise,

braved every peril. The most imminent and the most to be dreaded of all,

was captivity in an English prison. For twenty days the wind was so

invariably adverse, that the ships did not advance three hundred miles.

Many were so discouraged and so apprehensive of capture that it was even

proposed to return to Alexandria. Napoleon was much in the habit of

peaceful submission to that which he could not remedy. During all these

trying weeks he appeared perfectly serene and contented. To the

murmuring of his companions he replied, "We shall arrive in France in

safety. I am determined to proceed at all hazards. Fortune will not

abandon us." "People frequently speak," says Bourrienne, who accompanied

Napoleon upon this voyage, "of the good fortune which attaches to an

individual, and even attends him through life. Without professing to

believe in this sort of predestination, yet, when I call to mind the

numerous dangers which Bonaparte escaped in so many enterprises, the

hazards he encountered, the chances he ran, I can conceive that others

may have this faith. But having for a length of time studied the 'man

of destiny,' I have remarked that what was called his fortune was, in

reality, his genius; that his success was the consequence of his

admirable foresight--of his calculations, rapid as lightning, and of the

conviction that boldness is often the truest wisdom. If, for example,

during our voyage from Egypt to France, he had not imperiously insisted

upon pursuing a course different from that usually taken, and which

usual course was recommended by the admiral, would he have escaped the

perils which beset his path? Probably not. And was all this the effect

of chance? Certainly not."

[Illustration: THE RETURN VOYAGE.]

During these days of suspense, Napoleon, apparently as serene in spirit

as the calm which often silvered the unrippled surface of the sea, held

all the energies of his mind in perfect control. A choice library he

invariably took with him wherever he went. He devoted the hours to

writing, study, finding recreation in solving the most difficult

problems in geometry, and in investigating chemistry and other

scientific subjects of practical utility. He devoted much time to

conversation with the distinguished scholars whom he had selected to

accompany him. His whole soul seemed engrossed in the pursuit of

literary and scientific attainments. He also carefully, and with most

intense interest, studied the Bible and the Koran, scrutinizing, with

the eye of a philosopher, the antagonistic systems of the Christian and

the Moslem. The stupidity of the Koran wearied him. The sublimity of the

Scriptures charmed him. He read again and again, with deep admiration,

Christ's sermon upon the mount, and called his companions, from their

card-tables, to read it to them, that they might also appreciate its

moral beauty and its eloquence. "You will, ere long, become devout

yourself," said one of his infidel companions. "I wish I might become

so," Napoleon replied. "What a solace Christianity must be to one who

has an undoubting conviction of its truth." But practical Christianity

he had only seen in the mummeries of the papal church. Remembering the

fasts, the vigils, the penances, the cloisters, the scourgings of a

corrupt Christianity, and contrasting them with the voluptuous paradise

and the sensual houries which inflamed the eager vision of the Moslem,

he once exclaimed, in phrase characteristic of his genius, "The religion

of Jesus is a threat, that of Mohammed a promise." The religion of Jesus

is not a threat. Though the wrath of God shall fall upon the children of

disobedience, our Saviour invites us, in gentle accents, to the green

pastures and the still waters of the Heavenly Canaan; to cities

resplendent with pearls and gold; to mansions of which God is the

architect; to the songs of seraphim, and the flight of cherubim,

exploring on tireless pinion, the wonders of infinity; to peace of

conscience, and rapture dwelling in the pure heart, and to blest

companionship loving and beloved; to majesty of person and loftiness of

intellect; to appear as children and as nobles in the audience-chamber

of God; to an immortality of bliss. No! the religion of Jesus is not a

threat, though it has too often been thus represented by its mistaken or

designing advocates.

One evening a group of officers were conversing together, upon the

quarter deck, respecting the existence of God. Many of them believed not

in his being. It was a calm, cloudless, brilliant night. The heavens,

the work of God's fingers, canopied them gloriously. The moon and the

stars, which God had ordained, beamed down upon them with serene lustre.

As they were flippantly giving utterance to the arguments of atheism,

Napoleon paced to and fro upon the deck, taking no part in the

conversation, and apparently absorbed in his own thoughts. Suddenly he

stopped before them and said, in those tones of dignity which ever

overawed, "Gentlemen, your arguments are very fine. But who made all

those worlds, beaming so gloriously above us? Can you tell me that?" No

one answered. Napoleon resumed his silent walk, and the officers

selected another topic for conversation.

[Illustration: NAPOLEON AND THE ATHEISTS.]

In these intense studies Napoleon first began to appreciate the beauty

and the sublimity of Christianity. Previously to this, his own strong

sense had taught him the principles of a noble toleration; and Jew,

Christian, and Moslem stood equally regarded before him. Now he began to

apprehend the surpassing excellence of Christianity. And though the

cares of the busiest life through which a mortal has ever passed soon

engrossed his energies, this appreciation and admiration of the gospel

of Christ, visibly increased with each succeeding year. He unflinchingly

braved the scoffs of infidel Europe, in re-establishing the Christian

religion in paganized France. He periled his popularity with the army,

and disregarded the opposition of his most influential friends, from his

deep conviction of the importance of religion to the welfare of the

state. With the inimitable force of his own glowing eloquence, he said

to Montholon, at St. Helena, "I know men, and I tell you that Jesus

Christ is not a man! The religion of Christ is a mystery, which subsists

by its own force, and proceeds from a mind which is not a human mind. We

find in it a marked individuality which originated a train of words and

maxims unknown before. Jesus borrowed nothing from our knowledge. He

exhibited himself the perfect example of his precepts. Jesus is not a

philosopher; for his proofs are his miracles, and from the first his

disciples adored him. In fact, learning and philosophy are of no use for

salvation; and Jesus came into the world to reveal the mysteries of

heaven and the laws of the spirit. Alexander, Cæsar, Charlemagne, and

myself have founded empires. But upon what did we rest the creations of

our genius? upon _force_. Jesus Christ alone founded his empire upon

love. And at this moment millions of men would die for him. I die before

my time, and my body will be given back to earth, to become food for

worms. Such is the fate of him who has been called the great Napoleon.

What an abyss between my deep misery and the eternal kingdom of Christ,

which is proclaimed, loved, and adored, and which is extending over the

whole earth! Call you this dying? Is it not living rather? The death of

Christ is the death of a God!"

At the time of the invasion of Egypt, Napoleon regarded all forms of

religion with equal respect. And though he considered Christianity

superior, in intellectuality and refinement, to all other modes of

worship, he did not consider any religion as of divine origin. At one

time, speaking of the course which he pursued in Egypt, he said, "Such

was the disposition of the army, that in order to induce them to listen

to the bare mention of religion, I was obliged to speak very lightly on

the subject; to place Jews beside Christians, and rabbis beside bishops.

But after all it would not have been so very extraordinary had

circumstances induced me to embrace Islamism. But I must have had good

reasons for my conversion. I must have been secure of advancing at least

as far as the Euphrates. Change of religion for private interest is

inexcusable. But it may be pardoned in consideration of immense

political results. Henry IV. said, _Paris is well worth a mass_. Will it

then be said that the dominion of the East, and perhaps the subjugation

of all Asia, were not worth a _turban and a pair of trowsers_? And in

truth the whole matter was reduced to this. The sheiks had studied how

to render it easy to us. They had smoothed down the great obstacles,

allowed us the use of wine, and dispensed with all corporeal

formalities. We should have lost only our small-clothes and hats."

Of the infidel Rousseau, Napoleon ever spoke in terms of severe

reprobation. "He was a bad man, a very bad man," said he, "he caused the

revolution." "I was not aware," another replied, "that you considered

the French Revolution such an unmixed evil." "Ah," Napoleon rejoined,

"you wish to say that without the revolution you would not have had me.

Nevertheless, without the revolution France would have been more happy."

When invited to visit the hermitage of Rousseau, to see his cap, table,

great chair, &c., he exclaimed, "Bah! I have no taste for such

fooleries. Show them to my brother Louis. He is worthy of them."

Probably the following remarks of Napoleon, made at St. Helena, will

give a very correct idea of his prevailing feelings upon the subject of

religion. "The sentiment of religion is so consolatory, that it must be

considered a gift from Heaven. What a resource would it not be for us

here, to possess it. What rewards have I not a right to expect, who have

run a career so extraordinary, so tempestuous, as mine has been, without

committing a single crime. And yet how many might I not have been guilty

of? I can appear before the tribunal of God, I can await his judgment,

without fear. He will not find my conscience stained with the thoughts

of murder and poisonings; with the infliction of violent and

premeditated deaths, events so common in the history of those whose

lives resemble mine. I have wished only for the power, the greatness,

the glory of France. All my faculties, all my efforts, all my movements,

were directed to the attainment of that object. These can not be crimes.

To me they appeared acts of virtue. What then would be my happiness, if

the bright prospect of futurity presented itself to crown the last

moments of my existence."

After a moment's pause, in which he seemed lost in thought, he resumed:

"But, how is it possible that conviction can find its way to our hearts,

when we hear the absurd language, and witness the iniquitous conduct of

the greater part of those whose business it is to preach to us. I am

surrounded by priests, who repeat incessantly that their reign is not of

this world; and yet they lay their hands upon every thing which they can

get. The Pope is the head of that religion which is from Heaven. What

did the present chief pontiff, who is undoubtedly a good and a holy man,

not offer, to be allowed to return to Rome. The surrender of the

government of the church, of the institution of bishops was not too much

for him to give, to become once more a secular prince.

"Nevertheless," he continued, after another thoughtful pause, "it can

not be doubted that, as emperor, the species of incredulity which I felt

was beneficial to the nations I had to govern. How could I have favored

equally sects so opposed to one another, if I had joined any one of

them? How could I have preserved the independence of my thoughts and of

my actions under the control of a confessor, who would have governed me

under the dread of hell!" Napoleon closed this conversation, by ordering

the New Testament to be brought. Commencing at the beginning, he read

aloud as far as the conclusion of our Saviour's address to his disciples

upon the mountain. He expressed himself struck with the highest

admiration, in contemplating its purity, its sublimity, and the

beautiful perfection of its moral code.

For forty days the ships were driven about by contrary winds, and on the

1st of October they made the island of Corsica, and took refuge in the

harbor of Ajaccio. The tidings that Napoleon had landed in his native

town swept over the island like a gale, and the whole population crowded

to the port to catch a sight of their illustrious countryman. "It

seemed," said Napoleon, "that half of the inhabitants had discovered

traces of kindred." But a few years had elapsed since the dwelling of

Madame Letitia was pillaged by the mob, and the whole Bonaparte family,

in penury and friendlessness, were hunted from their home, effecting

their escape in an open boat by night. Now, the name of Bonaparte filled

the island with acclamations. But Napoleon was alike indifferent to such

unjust censure, and to such unthinking applause. As the curse did not

depress, neither did the hosanna elate.

After the delay of a few days in obtaining supplies, the ships again

weighed anchor, on the 7th of October, and continued their perilous

voyage. The evening of the next day, as the sun was going down in

unusual splendor, there appeared in the west, painted in strong relief

against his golden rays, an English squadron. The admiral, who saw from

the enemy's signals that he was observed, urged an immediate return to

Corsica. Napoleon, convinced that capture would be the result of such a

man[oe]uvre, exclaimed, "To do so would be to take the road to England.

I am seeking that to France. Spread all sail. Let every one be at his

post. Steer to the northwest. Onward." The night was dark, the wind

fair. Rapidly the ships were approaching the coast of France, through

the midst of the hostile squadron, and exposed to the most imminent

danger of capture. Escape seemed impossible. It was a night of fearful

apprehension and terror to all on board, excepting Napoleon. He

determined, in case of extremity, to throw himself into a boat, and

trust for safety to darkness and the oars. With the most perfect

self-possession and composure of spirits, he ordered the long-boat to be

prepared, selected those whom he desired to accompany him, and carefully

collected such papers as he was anxious to preserve. Not an eye was

closed during the night. It was indeed a fearful question to be decided.

Are these weary wanderers, in a few hours, to be in the embrace of their

wives and their children, or will the next moment show them the black

hull of an English man-of-war, emerging from the gloom, to consign them

to lingering years of captivity in an English prison? In this terrible

hour no one could perceive that the composure of Napoleon was in the

slightest degree ruffled. The first dawn of the morning revealed to

their straining vision the hills of France stretching along but a few

leagues before them, and far away, in the northeast, the hostile

squadron, disappearing beneath the horizon of the sea. The French had

escaped. The wildest bursts of joy rose from the ships. But Napoleon

gazed calmly upon his beloved France, with pale cheek and marble brow,

too proud to manifest emotion. At eight o'clock in the morning the four

vessels dropped anchor in the little harbor of Frejus. It was the

morning of the 8th of October. Thus for fifty days Napoleon had been

tossed upon the waves of the Mediterranean, surrounded by the hostile

fleets of England, Russia, and Turkey, and yet had eluded their

vigilance.

This wonderful passage of Napoleon, gave rise to many caricatures, both

in England and France. One of these caricatures, which was conspicuous

in the London shop windows, possessed so much point and historic truth,

that Napoleon is said to have laughed most heartily on seeing it. Lord

Nelson, as is well known, with all his heroism, was not exempt from the

frailties of humanity. The British admiral was represented as guarding

Napoleon. Lady Hamilton makes her appearance, and his lordship becomes

so engrossed in caressing the fair enchantress, that Napoleon escapes

between his legs. This was hardly a caricature. It was almost historic

verity. While Napoleon was struggling against adverse storms off the

coast of Africa, Lord Nelson, adorned with the laurels of his

magnificent victory, in fond dalliance with his frail Delilah, was

basking in the courts of voluptuous and profligate kings. "No one," said

Napoleon, "can surrender himself to the dominion of love, without the

forfeiture of some palms of glory."

[Illustration: THE LANDING AT FREJUS.]

When the four vessels entered the harbor of Frejus, a signal at the

mast-head of the Muiron informed the authorities on shore that Napoleon

was on board. The whole town was instantly in commotion. Before the

anchors were dropped the harbor was filled with boats, and the ships

were surrounded with an enthusiastic multitude, climbing their sides,

thronging their decks, and rending the air with their acclamations. All

the laws of quarantine were disregarded. The people, weary of anarchy,

and trembling in view of the approaching Austrian invasion, were almost

delirious with delight in receiving thus, as it were from the clouds, a

deliverer, in whose potency they could implicitly trust. When warned

that the ships had recently sailed from Alexandria, and that there was

imminent danger that the plague might be communicated, they replied, "We

had rather have the plague than the Austrians." Breaking over all the

municipal regulations of health, the people took Napoleon, almost by

violence, hurried him over the side of the ship to the boats, and

conveyed him in triumph to the shore. The tidings had spread from

farm-house to farm-house with almost electric speed, and the whole

country population, men, women, and children, were crowding down to the

shore. Even the wounded soldiers in the hospital, left their cots and

crawled to the beach, to get a sight of the hero. The throng became so

great that it was with difficulty that Napoleon could land. The

gathering multitude, however, opened to the right and the left, and

Napoleon passed through them, greeted with the enthusiastic cries of

"Long live the conqueror of Italy, the conqueror of Egypt, the liberator

of France." The peaceful little harbor of Frejus was suddenly thrown

into a state of the most unheard of excitement. The bells rang their

merriest peels. The guns in the forts rolled forth their heaviest

thunders over the hills and over the waves; and the enthusiastic shouts

of the ever increasing multitudes, thronging Napoleon, filled the air.

The ships brought the first tidings of the wonderful victories of Mount

Tabor and of Aboukir. The French, humiliated by defeat, were exceedingly

elated by this restoration of the national honor. The intelligence of

Napoleon's arrival was immediately communicated, by telegraph, to Paris,

which was six hundred miles from Frejus.

When the tidings of Napoleon's landing at Frejus, arrived in Paris, on

the evening of the 9th of October, Josephine was at a large party at the

house of M. Gohier, President of the Directory. All the most

distinguished men of the metropolis were there. The intelligence

produced the most profound sensation. Some, rioting in the spoils of

office, turned pale with apprehension; knowing well the genius of

Napoleon, and his boundless popularity, they feared another revolution,

which should eject them from their seats of power. Others were elated

with hope; they felt that Providence had sent to France a deliverer, at

the very moment when a deliverer was needed. One of the deputies, who

had been deeply grieved at the disasters which were overwhelming the

Republic, actually died of joy, when he heard of Napoleon's return.

Josephine, intensely excited by the sudden and totally unexpected

announcement, immediately withdrew, hastened home, and at midnight,

without allowing an hour for repose, she entered her carriage, with

Louis Bonaparte and Hortense, who subsequently became the bride of

Louis, and set out to meet her husband. Napoleon almost at the same

hour, with his suite, left Frejus. During every step of his progress he

was greeted with the most extraordinary demonstrations of enthusiasm and

affection. Bonfires blazed from the hills, triumphal arches, hastily

constructed, spanned his path. Long lines of maidens spread a carpet of

flowers for his chariot wheels, and greeted him with smiles and choruses

of welcome. He arrived at Lyons in the evening. The whole city was

brilliant with illuminations. An immense concourse surrounded him with

almost delirious shouts of joy. The constituted authorities received him

as he descended from his carriage. The mayor had prepared a long and

eulogistic harangue for the occasion. Napoleon had no time to listen to

it. With a motion of his hand, imposing silence, he said, "Gentlemen, I

learned that France was in peril, I therefore did not hesitate to leave

my army in Egypt, that I might come to her rescue. I now go hence. In a

few days, if you think fit to wait upon me, I shall be at leisure to

hear you." Fresh horses were by this time attached to the carriages, and

the cavalcade, which like a meteor had burst upon them, like a meteor

disappeared. From Lyons, for some unexplained reason, Napoleon turned

from the regular route to Paris and took a less frequented road. When

Josephine arrived at Lyons, to her utter consternation she found that

Napoleon had left the city, several hours before her arrival, and that

they had passed each other by different roads. Her anguish was

inexpressible. For many months she had not received a line from her

idolized husband, all communication having been intercepted by the

English cruisers. She knew that many, jealous of her power, had

disseminated, far and wide, false reports respecting her conduct. She

knew that these, her enemies, would surround Napoleon immediately upon

his arrival, and take advantage of her absence to inflame his mind

against her. Lyons is 245 miles from Paris. Josephine had passed over

those weary leagues of hill and dale, pressing on without intermission,

by day and by night, alighting not for refreshment or repose. Faint,

exhausted, and her heart sinking within her with fearful apprehensions

of the hopeless alienation of her husband, she received the dreadful

tidings that she had missed him. There was no resource left her but to

retrace her steps with the utmost possible celerity. Napoleon would,

however, have been one or two days in Paris before Josephine could, by

any possibility, re-enter the city. Probably in all France, there was

not, at that time, a more unhappy woman than Josephine.

Secret wretchedness was also gnawing at the heart of Napoleon. Who has

yet fathomed the mystery of human love? Intensest love and intensest

hate can, at the same moment, intertwine their fibres in inextricable

blending. In nothing is the will so impotent as in guiding or checking

the impulses of this omnipotent passion. Napoleon loved Josephine with

that almost superhuman energy which characterized all the movements of

his impetuous spirit. The stream did not fret and ripple over a shallow

bed, but it was serene in its unfathomable depths. The world contained

but two objects for Napoleon, glory and Josephine; glory first, and

then, closely following, the more substantial idol.

Many of the Parisian ladies, proud of a more exalted lineage than

Josephine could boast, were exceedingly envious of the supremacy she had

attained in consequence of the renown of her husband. Her influence over

Napoleon was well known. Philosophers, statesmen, ambitious generals,

all crowded her saloons, paying her homage. A favorable word from

Josephine they knew would pave the way for them to fame and fortune.

Thus Josephine, from the saloons of Paris, with milder radiance,

reflected back the splendor of her husband. She, solicitous of securing

as many friends as possible, to aid him in future emergencies, was as

diligent in "winning hearts" at home, as Napoleon was in conquering

provinces abroad. The gracefulness of Josephine, her consummate delicacy

of moral appreciation, her exalted intellectual gifts, the melodious

tones of her winning voice, charmed courtiers, philosophers, and

statesmen alike. Her saloons were ever crowded. Her entertainments were

ever embellished by the presence of all who were illustrious in rank and

power in the metropolis. And in whatever circles she appeared the eyes

of the gentlemen first sought for her. Two resistless attractions drew

them. She was peculiarly fascinating in person and in character, and,

through her renowned husband, she could dispense the most precious

gifts. It is not difficult to imagine the envy which must thus have been

excited. Many a haughty duchess was provoked, almost beyond endurance,

that Josephine, the untitled daughter of a West Indian planter, should

thus engross the homage of Paris, while she, with her proud rank, her

wit, and her beauty, was comparatively a cipher. Moreau's wife, in

particular, resented the supremacy of Josephine as a personal affront.

She thought General Moreau entitled to as much consideration as General

Bonaparte. By the jealousy, rankling in her own bosom, she finally

succeeded in rousing her husband to conspire against Napoleon, and thus

the hero of Hohenlinden was ruined. Some of the brothers and sisters of

Napoleon were also jealous of the paramount influence of Josephine, and

would gladly wrest a portion of it from her hands. Under these

circumstances, in various ways, slanders had been warily insinuated into

the ears of Napoleon, respecting the conduct of his wife. Conspiring

enemies became more and more bold. Josephine was represented as having

forgotten her husband, as reveling exultant with female vanity, in

general flirtation; and, finally, as guilty of gross infidelity. Nearly

all the letters written by Napoleon and Josephine to each other, were

intercepted by the English cruisers. Though Napoleon did not credit

these charges in full, he cherished not a little of the pride, which led

the Roman monarch to exclaim, "Cæsar's wife must not be suspected."

Napoleon was in this troubled state of mind during the latter months of

his residence in Egypt. One day he was sitting alone in his tent, which

was pitched in the great Arabian desert. Several months had passed since

he had heard a word from Josephine. Years might elapse ere they would

meet again. Junot entered, having just received, through some channel of

jealousy and malignity, communications from Paris. Cautiously, but

fully, he unfolded the whole budget of Parisian gossip. Josephine had

found, as he represented, in the love of others an ample recompense for

the absence of her husband. She was surrounded by admirers with whom she

was engaged in an incessant round of intrigues and flirtations.

Regardless of honor she had surrended herself to the dominion of

passion. Napoleon was for a few moments in a state of terrible

agitation. With hasty strides, like a chafed lion, he paced his tent,

exclaiming, "Why do I love that woman so? Why can I not tear her image

from my heart? I will do so. I will have an immediate and an open

divorce--open and public divorce." He immediately wrote to Josephine, in

terms of the utmost severity, accusing her of "playing the coquette with

half the world." The letter escaped the British cruisers, and she

received it. It almost broke her faithful heart. Such were the

circumstances under which Napoleon and Josephine were to meet after an

absence of eighteen months. Josephine was exceedingly anxious to see

Napoleon before he should have an interview with her enemies. Hence the

depth of anguish with which she heard that her husband had passed her.

Two or three days must elapse ere she could possibly retrace the weary

miles over which she had already traveled.

In the mean time the carriage of Napoleon was rapidly approaching the

metropolis. By night his path was brilliant with bonfires and

illuminations. The ringing of bells, the thunders of artillery, and the

acclamations of the multitude, accompanied him every step of his way.

But no smile of triumph played upon his pale and pensive cheeks. He felt

that he was returning to a desolated home. Gloom reigned in his heart.

He entered Paris, and drove rapidly to his own dwelling. Behold,

Josephine was not there. Conscious guilt, he thought, had made her

afraid to meet him. It is in vain to attempt to penetrate the hidden

anguish of Napoleon's soul. That his proud spirit must have suffered

intensity of woe, no one can doubt. The bitter enemies of Josephine

immediately surrounded him, eagerly taking advantage of her absence, to

inflame, to a still higher degree, by adroit insinuations, his jealousy

and anger. Eugene had accompanied him in his return from Egypt, and his

affectionate heart ever glowed with love and admiration for his mother.

With anxiety, amounting to anguish, he watched at the window for her

arrival. Said one to Napoleon, maliciously endeavoring to prevent the

possibility of reconciliation, "Josephine will appear before you, with

all her fascinations. She will explain matters. You will forgive all,

and tranquillity will be restored." "Never!" exclaimed Napoleon, with

pallid cheek and trembling lip, striding nervously to and fro, through

the room, "never! I forgive! never!" Then stopping suddenly, and gazing

the interlocutor wildly in the face, he exclaimed, with passionate

gesticulation, "You know me. Were I not sure of my resolution, I would

tear out this heart, and cast it into the fire."

How strange is the life of the heart of man. From this interview,

Napoleon, two hours after his arrival in Paris, with his whole soul

agitated by the tumult of domestic woe, went to the palace of the

Luxembourg, to visit the Directory, to form his plans for the overthrow

of the government of France. Pale, pensive, joyless, his inflexible

purposes of ambition wavered not--his iron energies yielded not.

Josephine was an idol. He execrated her and he adored her. He loved her

most passionately. He hated her most virulently. He could clasp her one

moment to his bosom with burning kisses; the next moment he would spurn

her from him as the most loathsome wretch. But glory was a still more

cherished idol, at whose shrine he bowed with unwavering adoration. He

strove to forget his domestic wretchedness by prosecuting, with new

vigor, his schemes of grandeur. As he ascended the stairs of the

Luxembourg, some of the guard, who had been with him in Italy,

recognized his person, and he was instantly greeted, with enthusiastic

shouts, "Long live Bonaparte." The clamor rolled like a voice of thunder

through the spacious halls of the palace, and fell, like a death knell,

upon the ears of the Directors. The populace, upon the pavement, caught

the sound and reechoed it from street to street. The plays at the

theatres, and the songs at the Opera, were stopped, that it might be

announced, from the stage, that Bonaparte had arrived in Paris. Men,

women, and children simultaneously rose to their feet, and a wild burst

of enthusiastic joy swelled upon the night air. All Paris was in

commotion. The name of Bonaparte was upon every lip. The enthusiasm was

contagious. Illuminations began to blaze, here and there, without

concert, from the universal rejoicing, till the whole city was

resplendent with light. One bell rang forth its merry peal of greeting,

and then another, and another, till every steeple was vocal with its

clamorous welcome. One gun was heard, rolling its heavy thunders over

the city. It was the signal for an instantaneous, tumultuous roar, from

artillery and musketry, from all the battalions in the metropolis. The

tidings of the great victories of Aboukir and Mount Tabor, reached Paris

with Napoleon. Those Oriental names were shouted through the streets,

and blazed upon the eyes of the delighted people in letters of light.

Thus in an hour the whole of Paris was thrown into a delirium of joy,

and, without any previous arrangements, there was displayed the most

triumphant and gorgeous festival.

The government of France was at this time organized somewhat upon the

model of that of the United States. Instead of one President, they had

five, called Directors. Their Senate was called The House of Ancients;

their House of Representatives, The Council of Five Hundred. The five

Directors, as might have been expected, were ever quarreling among

themselves, each wishing for the lion's share of power. The Monarchist,

the Jacobin, and the moderate Republican could not harmoniously

co-operate in government. They only circumvented each other, while the

administration sank into disgrace and ruin. The Abbé Sieyes was

decidedly the most able man of the Executive. He was a proud patrician,

and his character may be estimated from the following anecdote, which

Napoleon has related respecting him:

"The abbé, before the revolution, was chaplain to one of the princesses.

One day, when he was performing mass before herself, her attendants, and

a large congregation, something occurred which rendered it necessary for

the princess to leave the room. The ladies in waiting and the nobility,

who attended church more out of complaisance to her than from any sense

of religion, followed her example. Sieyes was very busy reading his

prayers, and, for a few moments, he did not perceive their departure. At

last, raising his eyes from his book, behold the princess, the nobles,

and all the ton had disappeared. With an air of displeasure and contempt

he shut the book, and descended from the pulpit, exclaiming, 'I do not

read prayers for the rabble.' He immediately went out of the chapel,

leaving the service half-finished."

Napoleon arrived in Paris on the evening of the 17th of October, 1799.

Two days and two nights elapsed, ere Josephine was able to retrace the

weary leagues over which she had passed. It was the hour of midnight on

the 19th, when the rattle of her carriage-wheels was heard entering the

court-yard of their dwelling in the Rue Chanteraine. Eugene, anxiously

awaiting her arrival, was instantly at his mother's side, folding her in

his embrace. Napoleon also heard the arrival, but he remained sternly in

his chamber. He had ever been accustomed to greet Josephine at the door

of her carriage, even when she returned from an ordinary morning ride.

No matter what employments engrossed his mind, no matter what guests

were present, he would immediately leave every thing, and hasten to the

door to assist Josephine to alight and to accompany her into the house.

But now, after an absence of eighteen months, the faithful Josephine,

half-dead with exhaustion, was at the door, and Napoleon, with pallid

cheek and compressed lip, and jealousy rankling in his bosom, remained

sternly in his room, preparing to overwhelm her with his indignation.

Josephine was in a state of terrible agitation. Her limbs tottered and

her heart throbbed most violently. Assisted by Eugene, and accompanied

by Hortense, she tremblingly ascended the stairs to the little parlor

where she had so often received the caresses of her most affectionate

spouse. She opened the door. There stood Napoleon, as immovable as a

statue, leaning against the mantle, with his arms folded across his

breast. Sternly and silently, he cast a withering look upon Josephine,

and then exclaimed in tones, which, like a dagger pierced her heart,

"Madame! It is my wish that you retire immediately to Malmaison."

Josephine staggered and would have fallen, as if struck by a mortal

blow, had she not been caught in the arms of her son. Sobbing bitterly

with anguish, she was conveyed by Eugene to her own apartment. Napoleon

also was dreadfully agitated. The sight of Josephine had revived all his

passionate love. But he fully believed that Josephine had unpardonably

trifled with his affections, that she had courted the admiration of a

multitude of flatterers, and that she had degraded herself and her

husband by playing the coquette. The proud spirit of Napoleon could not

brook such a requital for his fervid love. With hasty strides he

traversed the room, striving to nourish his indignation. The sobs of

Josephine had deeply moved him. He yearned to fold her again in fond

love to his heart. But he proudly resolved that he would not relent.

Josephine, with that prompt obedience which ever characterized her,

prepared immediately to comply with his orders. It was midnight. For a

week she had lived in her carriage almost without food or sleep.

Malmaison was thirty miles from Paris. Napoleon did not suppose that she

would leave the house until morning. Much to his surprise, in a few

moments he heard Josephine, Eugene, and Hortense descending the stairs

to take the carriage. Napoleon, even in his anger, could not be thus

inhuman. "My heart," he said, "was never formed to witness tears without

emotion." He immediately descended to the court-yard, though his pride

would not yet allow him to speak to Josephine. He, however, addressing

Eugene, urged the party to return and obtain refreshment and repose.

Josephine, all submission, unhesitatingly yielded to his wishes, and

re-ascending the stairs, in the extremity of exhaustion and grief, threw

herself upon a couch, in her apartment. Napoleon, equally wretched,

returned to his cabinet. Two days of utter misery passed away, during

which no intercourse took place between the estranged parties, each of

whom loved the other with almost superhuman intensity.

Love in the heart will finally triumph over all obstructions. The

struggle was long, but gradually pride and passion yielded, and love

regained the ascendency. Napoleon so far surrendered on the third day,

as to enter the apartment of Josephine. She was seated at a

toilet-table, her face buried in her hands, and absorbed in the

profoundest woe. The letters, which she had received from Napoleon, and

which she had evidently been reading, were spread upon the table.

Hortense, the picture of grief and despair, was standing in the alcove

of a window. Napoleon had opened the door softly, and his entrance had

not been heard. With an irresolute step he advanced toward his wife, and

then said, kindly and sadly, "Josephine!" She started at the sound of

that well-known voice, and raising her swollen eyes, swimming in tears,

mournfully exclaimed, "Mon ami"--_my friend_. This was the term of

endearment with which she had invariably addressed her husband. It

recalled a thousand delightful reminiscences. Napoleon was vanquished.

He extended his hand. Josephine threw herself into his arms, pillowed

her aching head upon his bosom, and in the intensity of blended joy and

anguish, wept convulsively. A long explanation ensued. Napoleon became

satisfied that Josephine had been deeply wronged. The reconciliation was

cordial and entire, and was never again interrupted.

[Illustration: THE RECONCILIATION.]

Napoleon now, with a stronger heart, turned to the accomplishment of his

designs to rescue France from anarchy. He was fully conscious of his own

ability to govern the nation. He knew that it was the almost unanimous

wish of the people that he should grasp the reins of power. He was

confident of their cordial co-operation in any plans he might adopt.

Still, it was an enterprise of no small difficulty to thrust the five

Directors from their thrones, and to get the control of the Council of

Ancients and of The Five Hundred. Never was a difficult achievement more

adroitly and proudly accomplished.

For many days Napoleon almost entirely secluded himself from

observation, affecting a studious avoidance of the public gaze. He laid

aside his military dress, and assumed the peaceful costume of the

National Institute. Occasionally he wore a beautiful Turkish sabre,

suspended by a silk ribbon. This simple dress transported the

imagination of the beholder to Aboukir, Mount Tabor, and the Pyramids.

He studiously sought the society of literary men, and devoted to them

his attention. He invited distinguished men of the Institute to dine

with him, and avoiding political discussion, conversed only upon

literary and scientific subjects.

Moreau and Bernadotte were the two rival generals from whom Napoleon had

the most to fear. Two days after his arrival in Paris Napoleon said to

Bourrienne, "I believe that I shall have Bernadotte and Moreau against

me. But I do not fear Moreau. He is devoid of energy. He prefers

military to political power. We shall gain him by the promise of a

command. But Bernadotte has Moorish blood in his veins. He is bold and

enterprising. He does not like me, and I am certain that he will oppose

me. If he should become ambitious he will venture any thing. Besides,

this fellow is not to be seduced. He is disinterested and clever. But,

after all, we have just arrived. We shall see."

Napoleon formed no conspiracy. He confided to no one his designs. And

yet, in his own solitary mind, relying entirely upon his own capacious

resources, he studied the state of affairs and he matured his plans.

Sieyes was the only one whose talents and influence Napoleon feared. The

abbé also looked with apprehension upon his formidable rival. They stood

aloof and eyed each other. Meeting at a dinner party, each was too proud

to make advances. Yet each thought only of the other. Mutually

exasperated, they separated without having spoken. "Did you see that

insolent little fellow!" said Sieyes, "he would not even condescend to

notice a member of the government, who, if they had done right, would

have caused him to be shot." "What on earth," said Napoleon, "could have

induced them to put that priest in the Directory. He is sold to Prussia.

Unless you take care, he will deliver you up to that power." Napoleon

dined with Moreau, who afterward in hostility to Napoleon pointed the

guns of Russia against the columns of his countrymen. The dinner party

was at Cottier's, one of the Directors. The following interesting

conversation took place between the rival generals. When first

introduced, they looked at each other a moment without speaking,

Napoleon, conscious of his own superiority, and solicitous to gain the

powerful co-operation of Moreau, made the first advances, and, with

great courtesy, expressed the earnest desire he felt to make his

acquaintance. "You have returned victorious from Egypt," replied

Moreau, "and I from Italy after a great defeat. It was the month which

General Joubert passed in Paris, after his marriage, which caused our

disasters. This gave the allies time to reduce Mantua, and to bring up

the force which besieged it to take a part in the action. It is always

the greater number which defeats the less." "True," replied Napoleon,

"it is always the greater number which beats the less." "And yet," said

Gohier, "with small armies you have frequently defeated large ones."

"Even then," rejoined Napoleon, "it was always the inferior force which

was defeated by the superior. When with a small body of men I was in the

presence of a large one, collecting my little band, I fell like

lightning on one of the wings of the hostile army, and defeated it.

Profiting by the disorder which such an event never failed to occasion

in their whole line, I repeated the attack, with similar success, in

another quarter, still with my whole force. I thus beat it in detail.

The general victory which was the result, was still an example of the

truth of the principle that the greater force defeats the lesser."

Napoleon, by those fascinations of mind and manner, which enabled him to

win to him whom he would, soon gained an ascendency over Moreau. And

when, two days after, in token of his regard, he sent him a beautiful

poniard set with diamonds, worth two thousand dollars: the work was

accomplished, and Moreau was ready to do his bidding. Napoleon gave a

small and very select dinner party. Gohier was invited. The conversation

turned on the turquoise used by the Orientals to clasp their turbans.

Napoleon, rising from the table took from a private drawer, two very

beautiful brooches, richly set with those jewels. One he gave to Gohier,

the other to his tried friend Desaix. "It is a little toy," said he,

"which we republicans may give and receive without impropriety." The

Director, flattered by the delicacy of the compliment, and yet not

repelled by any thing assuming the grossness of a bribe, yielded his

heart's homage to Napoleon.

Republican France was surrounded by monarchies in arms against her.

Their hostility was so inveterate, and, from the very nature of the

case, so inevitable, that Napoleon thought that France should ever be

prepared for an attack, and that the military spirit should be carefully

fostered. Republican America, most happily, has no foe to fear, and all

her energies may be devoted to filling the land with peace and plenty.

But a republic in monarchical Europe must sleep by the side of its guns.

"Do you, really," said Napoleon, to Gohier, in this interview, "advocate

a general peace? You are wrong. The Republic should never make but

partial accommodations. It should always contrive to have some war on

hand to keep alive the military spirit." We can, perhaps, find a little

extenuation for this remark, in its apparent necessity, and in the

influences of the martial ardor in which Napoleon from his very infancy

had been enveloped. Even now, it is to be feared that the time is far

distant ere the nations of the earth can learn war no more.

Lefebvre was commandant of the guard of the two legislative bodies. His

co-operation was important. Napoleon sent a special invitation for an

interview. "Lefebvre," said he, "will you, one of the pillars of the

Republic, suffer it to perish in the hands of these _lawyers_? Join me

and assist to save it." Taking from his own aide the beautiful Turkish

scimitar which he wore, he passed the ribbon over Lefebvre's neck,

saying, "accept this sword, which I wore at the battle of the Pyramids.

I give it to you as a token of my esteem and confidence." "Yes," replied

Lefebvre, most highly gratified at this signal mark of confidence and

generosity, "let us throw the lawyers into the river."

Napoleon soon had an interview with Bernadotte. "He confessed," said

Napoleon to Bourrienne, "that he thought us all lost. He spoke of

external enemies, of _internal_ enemies, and, at that word he looked

steadily in my face. I also gave him a glance. But patience; the pear

will soon be ripe."

In this interview Napoleon inveighed against the violence and

lawlessness of the Jacobin club. "Your own brothers," Bernadotte

replied, "were the founders of that club. And yet you reproach me with

favoring its principles. It is to the instructions of some one, _I know

not who_, that we are to ascribe the agitation which now prevails."

"True, general," Napoleon replied, most vehemently, "and I would rather

live in the woods, than in a society which presents no security against

violence." This conversation only strengthened the alienation already

existing between them.

Bernadotte, though a brave and efficient officer, was a jealous

braggadocio. At the first interview between these two distinguished men,

when Napoleon was in command of the army of Italy, they contemplated

each other with mutual dislike. "I have seen a man," said Bernadotte,

"of twenty-six or seven years of age, who assumes the air of one of

fifty; and he presages any thing but good to the Republic." Napoleon

summarily dismissed Bernadotte by saying, "he has a French head and a

Roman heart."

There were three political parties now dividing France, the old royalist

party, in favor of the restoration of the Bourbons; the radical

democrats, or Jacobins, with Barras at its head, supported by the mob of

Paris; and the moderate republicans led by Sieyes. All these parties

struggling together, and fearing each other, in the midst of the general

anarchy which prevailed, immediately paid court to Napoleon, hoping to

secure the support of his all-powerful arm. Napoleon determined to

co-operate with the moderate republicans. The restoration of the

Bourbons was not only out of the question, but Napoleon had no more

power to secure that result, than had Washington to bring the United

States into peaceful submission to George III. "Had I joined the

Jacobins," said Napoleon, "I should have risked nothing. But after

conquering _with_ them, it would have been necessary almost

immediately, to conquer _against_ them. A club can not endure a

permanent chief. It wants one for every successive passion. Now to make

use of a party one day, in order to attack it the next, under whatever

pretext it is done, is still an act of treachery. It was inconsistent

with my principles."

Sieyes, the head of the moderate republicans, and Napoleon soon

understood each other, and each admitted the necessity of co-operation.

The government was in a state of chaos. "Our salvation now demands,"

said the wily diplomatist, "both a head and a sword." Napoleon had both.

In one fortnight from the time when he landed at Frejus, "the pear was

ripe." The plan was all matured for the great conflict. Napoleon, in

solitary grandeur, kept his own counsel. He had secured the cordial

co-operation, the unquestioning obedience of all his subordinates. Like

the general upon the field of battle, he was simply to give his orders,

and columns marched, and squadrons charged, and generals swept the field

in unquestioning obedience. Though he had determined to ride over and to

destroy the existing government, he wished to avail himself, so far as

possible, of the mysterious power of law, as a conqueror turns a

captured battery upon the foe from whom it had been wrested. Such a

plot, so simple, yet so bold and efficient, was never formed before. And

no one, but another Napoleon, will be able to execute another such

again. All Paris was in a state of intense excitement. Something great

was to be done. Napoleon was to do it. But nobody knew when, or what, or

how. All impatiently awaited orders. The majority of the Senate, or

Council of Ancients, conservative in its tendencies, and having once

seen, during the reign of terror, the horrors of Jacobin domination,

were ready, most obsequiously, to rally beneath the banner of so

resolute a leader as Napoleon. They were prepared, without question, to

pass any vote which he should propose. The House of Representatives or

Council of Five Hundred, more democratic in its constitution, contained

a large number of vulgar, ignorant, and passionate demagogues,

struggling to grasp the reins of power. Carnot, whose co-operation

Napoleon had entirely secured, was President of the Senate. Lucien

Bonaparte, the brother of Napoleon, was Speaker of the House. The two

bodies met in the palace of the Tuileries. The constitution conferred

upon the Council of Ancients, the right to decide upon the place of

meeting for both legislative assemblies.

All the officers of the garrison in Paris, and all the distinguished

military men in the metropolis, had solicited the honor of a

presentation to Napoleon. Without any public announcement, each one was

privately informed that Napoleon would see him on the morning of the 9th

of November. All the regiments in the city had also solicited the honor

of a review by the distinguished conqueror. They were also informed that

Napoleon would review them early on the morning of the 9th of November.

The Council of Ancients was called to convene at six o'clock on the

morning of the same day. The Council of Five Hundred were also to

convene at 11 o'clock of the same morning. This, the famous 18th of

Brumaire, was the destined day for the commencement of the great

struggle. These appointments were given in such a way as to attract no

public attention. The general-in-chief was thus silently arranging his

forces for the important conflict. To none did he reveal those

combinations, by which he anticipated a bloodless victory.

[Illustration: THE MORNING LEVEE.]

The morning of the 9th of November arrived. The sun rose with unwonted

splendor over the domes of the thronged city. A more brilliant day never

dawned. Through all the streets of the mammoth metropolis there was

heard, in the earliest twilight of the day, the music of martial bands,

the tramp of battalions, the clatter of iron hoofs, and the rumbling of

heavy artillery wheels over the pavements, as regiments of infantry,

artillery, and cavalry, in the proudest array, marched to the Boulevards

to receive the honor of a review from the conqueror of Italy and of

Egypt. The whole city was in commotion, guided by the unseen energies of

Napoleon in the retirement of his closet. At eight o'clock Napoleon's

house, in the Rue Chanteraine, was so thronged with illustrious military

men, in most brilliant uniform, that every room was filled and even the

street was crowded with the resplendent guests. At that moment the

Council of Ancients passed the decree, which Napoleon had prepared,

that the two legislative bodies should transfer their meetings to St.

Cloud, a few miles from Paris; and that Napoleon Bonaparte should be put

in command of all the military forces in the city, to secure the public

peace. The removal to St. Cloud was a merciful precaution against

bloodshed. It secured the legislatures from the ferocious interference

of a Parisian mob. The President of the Council was himself commissioned

to bear the decree to Napoleon. He elbowed his way through the brilliant

throng, crowding the door and the apartment of Napoleon's dwelling, and

presented to him the ordinance. Napoleon was ready to receive it. He

stepped upon the balcony, gathered his vast retinue of powerful guests

before him, and in a loud and firm voice, read to them the decree.

"Gentlemen," said he, "will you help me save the Republic?" One

simultaneous burst of enthusiasm rose from every lip, as drawing their

swords from their scabbards they waved them in the air and shouted, "We

swear it, we swear it." The victory was virtually won. Napoleon was now

at the head of the French nation. Nothing remained but to finish his

conquest. There was no retreat left open for his foes. There was hardly

the possibility of a rally. And now Napoleon summoned all his energies

to make his triumph most illustrious. Messengers were immediately sent

to read the decree to the troops already assembled, in the utmost

display of martial pomp, to greet the idol of the army, and who were in

a state of mind to welcome him most exultingly as their chief. A burst

of enthusiastic acclamation ascended from their ranks which almost rent

the skies. Napoleon immediately mounted his horse, and, surrounded by

the most magnificent staff, whom he had thus ingeniously assembled at

his house, and, accompanied by a body of fifteen hundred cavalry, whom

he had taken the precaution to rendezvous near his dwelling, proceeded

to the palace of the Tuileries. The gorgeous spectacle burst like a

vision upon astonished Paris. It was Napoleon's first public appearance.

Dressed in the utmost simplicity of a civilian's costume, he rode upon

his magnificent charger, the centre of all eyes. The gleaming banners,

waving in the breeze, and the gorgeous trappings of silver and gold,

with which his retinue was embellished, set off in stronger relief the

majestic simplicity of his own appearance. With the pomp and the

authority of an enthroned king, Napoleon entered the Council of the

Ancients. The Ancients themselves were dazzled by his sudden apparition

in such imposing and unexpected splendor and power. Ascending the bar,

attended by an imposing escort, he addressed the assembly and took his

oath of office. "You," said Napoleon, "are the wisdom of the nation. To

you it belongs to concert measures for the salvation of the Republic. I

come, surrounded by our generals, to offer you support. Faithfully will

I fulfill the task you have intrusted to me. Let us not look into the

past for precedents. Nothing in history resembles the eighteenth

century. Nothing in the eighteenth century resembles the present

moment."

An aid was immediately sent to the palace of the Luxembourg, to inform

the five Directors, there in session, of the decree. Two of the

Directors, Sieyes and Ducos, were pledged to Napoleon, and immediately

resigned their offices, and hastened to the Tuileries. Barras,

bewildered and indignant, sent his secretary with a remonstrance.

Napoleon, already assuming the authority of an emperor, and speaking as

if France were his patrimony, came down upon him with a torrent of

invective. "Where," he indignantly exclaimed, "is that beautiful France

which I left you so brilliant? I left you peace. I find war. I left you

victories. I find but defeats. I left you the millions of Italy. I find

taxation and beggary. Where are the hundred thousand men, my companions

in glory? They are dead. This state of things can not continue. It will

lead to despotism." Barras was terrified. He feared to have Napoleon's

eagle eye investigate his peculations. He resigned. Two Directors only

now were left, Gohier and Moulins. It took a majority of the five to

constitute a quorum. The two were powerless. In despair of successful

resistance and fearing vengeance they hastened to the Tuileries to find

Napoleon. They were introduced to him surrounded by Sieyes, Ducos, and a

brilliant staff. Napoleon received them cordially. "I am glad to see

you," said he. "I doubt not that you will both resign. Your patriotism

will not allow you to oppose a revolution which is both inevitable and

necessary." "I do not yet despair," said Gohier, vehemently, "aided by

my colleague Moulins, of saving the Republic." "With what will you save

it?" exclaimed Napoleon. "With the Constitution which is crumbling to

pieces?" Just at that moment a messenger came in and informed the

Directors that Santerre, the brewer, who, during the Reign of Terror,

had obtained a bloody celebrity as leader of the Jacobins, was rousing

the mob in the faubourgs to resistance. "General Moulins," said

Napoleon, firmly, "you are the friend of Santerre. Tell him that at the

very first movement he makes, I will cause him to be shot." Moulins,

exasperated yet appalled, made an apologetic reply. "The Republic is in

danger," said Napoleon. "We must save it. _It is my will._ Sieyes,

Ducos, and Barras have resigned. You are two individuals insulated and

powerless. I advise you not to resist." They still refused. Napoleon had

no time to spend in parleying. He immediately sent them both back into

the Luxembourg, separated them and placed them under arrest. Fouché,[3]

occupying the important post of Minister of Police, though not in

Napoleon's confidence, yet anxious to display his homage to the rising

luminary, called upon Napoleon and informed him that he had closed the

barriers, and had thus prevented all ingress or egress. "What means this

folly?" said Napoleon. "Let those orders be instantly countermanded. Do

we not march with the opinion of the nation, and by its strength alone?

Let no citizen be interrupted. Let every publicity be given to what is

done."

[Footnote 3: "Fouché," said Napoleon, "is a miscreant of all colors, a

priest, a terrorist, and one who took an active part in many bloody

scenes of the Revolution. He is a man who can worm all your secrets out

of you, with an air of calmness and unconcern. He is very rich; but his

riches have been badly acquired. He never was my confidant. Never did he

approach me without bending to the ground. But I never had any esteem

for him. I employed him merely as an instrument."]

The Council of Five Hundred, in great confusion and bewilderment,

assembled at eleven o'clock. Lucien immediately communicated the decree

transferring their session to St. Cloud. This cut off all debate. The

decree was perfectly legal. There could therefore be no legal pretext

for opposition. Napoleon, the idol of the army, had the whole military

power obedient to his nod. Therefore resistance of any kind was worse

than folly. The deed was adroitly done. At eleven o'clock the day's work

was accomplished. There was no longer a Directory. Napoleon was the

appointed chief of the troops, and they were filling the streets with

enthusiastic shouts of "Live Napoleon." The Council of Ancients were

entirely at his disposal. And a large party in the Council of Five

Hundred were also wholly subservient to his will. Napoleon, proud,

silent, reserved, fully conscious of his own intellectual supremacy, and

regarding the generals, the statesmen, and the multitude around him, as

a man contemplates children, ascended the grand staircase of the

Tuileries as if it were his hereditary home. Nearly all parties united

to sustain his triumph. Napoleon was a soldier. The guns of Paris

joyfully thundered forth the victory of one who seemed the peculiar

favorite of the God of war. Napoleon was a scholar, stimulating

intellect to its mightiest achievements. The scholars of Paris,

gratefully united to weave a chaplet for the brow of their honored

associate and patron. Napoleon was, for those days of profligacy and

unbridled lust, a model of purity of morals, and of irreproachable

integrity. The proffered bribe of millions could not tempt him. The

dancing daughters of Herodias, with all their blandishments, could not

lure him from his life of Herculean toil and from his majestic

patriotism. The wine which glitters in the cup, never vanquished him. At

the shrine of no vice was he found a worshiper. The purest and the best

in France, disgusted with that gilded corruption which had converted the

palaces of the Bourbons into harems of voluptuous sin, and still more

deeply loathing that vulgar and revolting vice, which had transformed

Paris into a house of infamy, enlisted all their sympathies in behalf of

the exemplary husband and the incorruptible patriot. Napoleon was one of

the most firm and unflinching friends of law and order. France was weary

of anarchy and was trembling under the apprehension that the gutters of

the guillotine were again to be clotted with blood. And mothers and

maidens prayed for God's blessing upon Napoleon, who appeared to them

as a messenger sent from Heaven for their protection.

During the afternoon and the night his room at the Tuileries was

thronged with the most illustrious statesmen, generals, and scholars of

Paris, hastening to pledge to him their support. Napoleon, perfectly

unembarrassed and never at a loss in any emergency, gave his orders for

the ensuing day. Lannes was intrusted with a body of troops to guard the

Tuileries. Murat, who, said Napoleon, "was superb at Aboukir," with a

numerous cavalry and a corps of grenadiers was stationed at St. Cloud, a

thunderbolt in Napoleon's right hand. Woe betide the mob into whose

ranks that thunderbolt may be hurled. Moreau, with five hundred men, was

stationed to guard the Luxembourg, where the two refractory Directors

were held under arrest. Serrurier was posted in a commanding position

with a strong reserve, prompt for any unexpected exigence. Even a body

of troops were sent to accompany Barras to his country seat, ostensibly

as an escort of honor, but in reality to guard against any change in

that venal and versatile mind. The most energetic measures were

immediately adopted to prevent any rallying point for the disaffected.

Bills were every where posted, exhorting the citizens to be quiet, and

assuring them that powerful efforts were making to save the Republic.

These minute precautions were characteristic of Napoleon. He believed in

destiny. Yet he left nothing for destiny to accomplish. He ever sought

to make provision for all conceivable contingencies. These measures were

completely successful. Though Paris was in a delirium of excitement,

there were no outbreaks of lawless violence. Neither Monarchist,

Republican, nor Jacobin knew what Napoleon intended to do. All were

conscious that he would do something. It was known that the Jacobin

party in the Council of Five Hundred on the ensuing day, would make a

desperate effort at resistance. Sieyes, perfectly acquainted with

revolutionary movements, urged Napoleon to arrest some forty of the

Jacobins most prominent in the Council. This would have secured an easy

victory on the morrow. Napoleon, however, rejected the advice, saying,

"I pledged my word this morning to protect the national representation.

I will not this evening violate my oath." Had the Assembly been convened

in Paris, all the mob of the faubourgs would have risen, like an

inundation, in their behalf, and torrents of blood must have been shed.

The sagacious transference of the meeting to St. Cloud, several miles

from Paris, saved those lives. The powerful military display, checked

any attempt at a march upon St. Cloud. What could the mob do, with

Murat, Lannes, and Serrurier, guided by the energies of Napoleon, ready

to hurl their solid columns upon them?

[Illustration: NAPOLEON ON HIS WAY TO ST. CLOUD.]

The delicacy of attention with which Napoleon treated Josephine, was one

of the most remarkable traits in his character. It is not strange that

he should have won from her a love almost more than human. During the

exciting scenes of this day, when no one could tell whether events were

guiding him to a crown or to the guillotine, Napoleon did not forget his

wife, who was awaiting the result, with deep solicitude, in her chamber

in the Rue Chanteraine. Nearly every hour he dispatched a messenger to

Josephine, with a hastily written line communicating to her the progress

of events. Late at night he returned to his home, apparently as fresh

and unexhausted as in the morning. He informed Josephine minutely of the

scenes of the day, and then threw himself upon a sofa, for an hour's

repose. Early the next morning he was on horseback, accompanied by a

regal retinue, directing his steps to St. Cloud. Three halls had been

prepared in the palace; one for the Ancients, one for the Five Hundred,

and one for Napoleon. He thus assumed the position which he knew it to

be the almost unanimous will of the nation that, he should fill. During

the night the Jacobins had arranged a very formidable resistance.

Napoleon was considered to be in imminent peril. He would be denounced

as a traitor. Sieyes and Ducos had each a post-chaise and six horses,

waiting at the gate of St. Cloud, prepared, in case of reverse, to

escape for life. There were many ambitious generals, ready to mount the

crest of any refluent wave to sweep Napoleon to destruction. Bernadotte

was the most to be feared. Orders were given to cut down the first

person who should attempt to harangue the troops. Napoleon, riding at

the head of this imposing military display, manifested no agitation. He

knew, however, perfectly well the capriciousness of the popular voice,

and that the multitude in the same hour could cry "Hosanna!" and

"Crucify!" The two Councils met. The tumult in the Five Hundred was

fearful. Cries of "Down with the dictator!" "Death to the tyrant!" "Live

the Constitution!" filled the hall, and drowned the voice of

deliberation. The friends of Napoleon were swept before the flood of

passion. It was proposed that every member should immediately take anew

the oath to support the Constitution. No one dared to peril his life by

the refusal. Even Lucien, the Speaker, was compelled to descend from his

chair and take the oath. The Ancients, overawed by the unexpected

violence of this opposition in the lower and more popular house, began

to be alarmed and to recede. The opposition took a bold and aggressive

stand, and proposed a decree of outlawry against Napoleon. The friends

of Napoleon, remembering past scenes of carnage, were timid and

yielding. Defeat seemed inevitable. Victory was apparently turned into

discomfiture and death. In this emergency Napoleon displayed the same

coolness, energy, and tact with which so often, on the field of battle,

in the most disastrous hour, he had rolled back the tide of defeat in

the resplendent waves of victory. His own mind was the corps de reserve

which he now marched into the conflict to arrest the rout of his

friends. Taking with him a few aids and a band of grenadiers, he

advanced to the door of the hall. On his way he met Bernadotte. "You are

marching to the guillotine," said his rival, sternly. "We shall see,"

Napoleon coolly replied. Leaving the soldiers, with their glittering

steel and nodding plumes, at the entrance of the room, he ascended the

tribune. The hush of perfect silence pervaded the agitated hall.

"Gentlemen," said he, "you are on a volcano. You deemed the Republic in

danger. You called me to your aid. I obeyed. And now I am assailed by a

thousand calumnies. They talk of Cæsar, of Cromwell, of military

despotism, as if any thing in antiquity resembled the present moment

Danger presses. Disaster thickens. We have no longer a government. The

Directors have resigned. The Five Hundred are in a tumult. Emissaries

are instigating Paris to revolt. Agitators would gladly bring back the

revolutionary tribunals. But fear not. Aided by my companions in arms I

will protect you. I desire nothing for myself, but to save the Republic.

And I solemnly swear to protect that _liberty and equality,_ for which

we have made such sacrifices." "And the _Constitution_!" some one cried

out. Napoleon had purposely omitted the _Constitution_ in his oath, for

he despised it, and was at that moment laboring for its overthrow. He

paused for a moment, and then, with increasing energy exclaimed, "The

Constitution! You have none. You violated it when the Executive

infringed the rights of the Legislature. You violated it when the

Legislature struck at the independence of the Executive. You violated it

when, with sacriligious hand, both the Legislature and the Executive

struck at the sovereignty of the people, by annulling their elections.

The Constitution! It is a mockery; invoked by all, regarded by none."

[Illustration: NAPOLEON IN THE COUNCIL OF FIVE HUNDRED.]

Rallied by the presence of Napoleon, and by these daring words, his

friends recovered their courage, and two-thirds of the Assembly rose in

expression of their confidence and support. At this moment intelligence

arrived that the Five Hundred were compelling Lucien to put to the vote

Napoleon's outlawry. Not an instant was to be lost. There is a

mysterious power in law. The passage of that vote would probably have

been fatal. Life and death were trembling in the balance. "I would then

have given two hundred millions," said Napoleon, "to have had Ney by my

side." Turning to the Ancients, he exclaimed, "if any orator, paid by

foreigners, shall talk of outlawing me, I will appeal for protection to

my brave companions in arms, whose plumes are nodding at the door.

Remember that I march accompanied by the God of fortune and by the God

of war."

He immediately left the Ancients, and, attended by his military band,

hastened to the Council of Five Hundred. On his way he met Augereau, who

was pale and trembling, deeming Napoleon lost. "You have got yourself

into a pretty fix," said he, with deep agitation. "Matters were worse at

Arcola," Napoleon coolly replied. "Keep quiet. All will be changed in

half an hour." Followed by his grenadiers, he immediately entered the

Hall of the Five Hundred. The soldiers remained near the door. Napoleon

traversed alone half of the room to reach the bar. It was an hour in

which nothing could save him but the resources of his own mind. Furious

shouts rose from all parts of the house. "What means this! down with the

tyrant! begone! begone!" "The winds," says Napoleon, "suddenly escaping

from the caverns of Æolus can give but a faint idea of that tempest." In

the midst of the horrible confusion he in vain endeavored to speak. The

members, in the wildest fray, crowded around him. The grenadiers

witnessing the peril of their chief rushed to his rescue. A dagger was

struck at his bosom. A soldier, with his arm, parried the blow. With

their bayonets they drove back the members, and encircling Napoleon,

bore him from the Hall. Napoleon had hardly descended the outer steps

ere some one informed him that his brother Lucien was surrounded by the

infuriated deputies, and that his life was in imminent jeopardy.

"Colonel Dumoulin," said he, "take a battalion of grenadiers and hasten

to my brother's deliverance." The soldiers rushed into the room, drove

back the crowd who, with violent menaces, were surrounding Lucien, and

saying, "It is by your brother's commands," escorted him in safety out

of the hall into the court-yard. Napoleon, now mounting his horse, with

Lucien by his side, rode along in front of his troops. "The Council of

Five Hundred," exclaimed Lucien, "is dissolved. It is I that tell you

so. Assassins have taken possession of the hall of meeting. I summon you

to march and clear it of them." "Soldiers!" said Napoleon, "can I rely

upon you?" "Long live Bonaparte," was the simultaneous response. Murat

took a battalion of grenadiers and marched to the entrance of the hall.

When Murat headed a column it was well known that there would be no

child's play. "Charge bayonets, forward!" he exclaimed, with

imperturbable coolness. The drums beat the charge. Steadily the

bristling line of steel advanced. The terrified representatives leaped

over the benches, rushed through the passage ways, and sprang out of the

windows, throwing upon the floor, in their precipitate flight, gowns,

scarfs, and hats. In two minutes the hall was cleared. As the

Representatives were flying in dismay across the garden, an officer

proposed that the soldiers should be ordered to fire upon them. Napoleon

decisively refused, saying, "It is my wish that not a single drop of

blood be spilt."

As Napoleon wished to avail himself as far as possible, of the forms of

law, he assembled the two legislative bodies in the evening. Those only

attended who were friendly to his cause. Unanimously they decreed that

Napoleon had deserved well of his country; they abolished the Directory.

The executive power they vested in Napoleon, Sieyes, and Ducos, with the

title of Consuls. Two committees of twenty-five members each, taken from

the two Councils, were appointed to co-operate with the Consuls in

forming a new Constitution. During the evening the rumor reached Paris

that Napoleon had failed in his enterprise. The consternation was great.

The mass of the people, of all ranks, dreading the renewal of

revolutionary horrors, and worn out with past convulsions, passionately

longed for repose. Their only hope was in Napoleon. At nine o'clock at

night intelligence of the change of government was officially announced,

by a proclamation which the victor had dictated with the rapidity and

the glowing eloquence which characterized all of his mental acts. It was

read by torchlight to assembled and deeply agitated groups, all over the

city. The welcome tidings were greeted with the liveliest demonstrations

of applause. At three o'clock in the morning Napoleon threw himself into

his carriage to return to Paris. Bourrienne accompanied him. Napoleon

appeared so absorbed in thought, that he uttered not one single word

during the ride.

At four o'clock in the morning he alighted from his carriage, at the

door of his dwelling in the Rue Chanteraine. Josephine, in the greatest

anxiety, was watching at the window for his approach. Napoleon had not

been able to send her one single line during the turmoil and the peril

of that eventful day. She sprang to meet him. Napoleon fondly encircled

her in his arms, briefly recapitulated the scenes of the day, and

assured her that since he had taken the oath of office, he had not

allowed himself to speak to a single individual, for he wished that the

beloved voice of his Josephine might be the first to congratulate him

upon his virtual accession to the Empire of France. The heart of

Josephine could appreciate a delicacy of love so refined and so

touching. Well might she say, "Napoleon is the most fascinating of men."

It was then after four o'clock in the morning. The dawn of the day was

to conduct Napoleon to a new scene of Herculean toil in organizing the

Republic. Throwing himself upon a couch, for a few moments of repose, he

exclaimed, gayly, "good-night, my Josephine! To-morrow, we sleep in the

palace of the Luxembourg."

Napoleon was then but twenty-nine years of age. And yet, under

circumstances of inconceivable difficulty, with unhesitating reliance

upon his own mental resources, he assumed the enormous care of creating

and administering a new government for thirty millions of people. Never

did he achieve a victory which displayed more consummate genius. On no

occasion of his life did his majestic intellectual power beam forth with

more brilliance. It is not to be expected that, for ages to come, the

world will be united in opinion respecting this transaction. Some

represent it as an outrage against law and liberty. Others consider it a

necessary act which put an end to corruption and anarchy. That the

course which Napoleon pursued was in accordance with the wishes of the

overwhelming majority of the French people no one can doubt. It is

questionable whether, even now, France is prepared for self-government.

There can be no question that then the republic had totally failed. Said

Napoleon, in reference to this revolution, "For my part, all my share of

the plot, was confined to assembling the crowd of my visitors at the

same hour in the morning, and marching at their head to seize upon

power. It was from the threshold of my door, and without my friends

having any previous knowledge of my intentions, that I led them to this

conquest. It was amidst the brilliant escort which they formed, their

lively joy and unanimous ardor, that I presented myself at the bar of

the Ancients to thank them for the dictatorship with which they invested

me. Metaphysicians have disputed and will long dispute, whether we did

not violate the laws, and whether we were not criminal. But these are

mere abstractions which should disappear before imperious necessity. One

might as well blame a sailor for waste and destruction, when he cuts

away a mast to save his ship. The fact is, had it not been for us the

country must have been lost. We saved it. The authors of that memorable

state transaction ought to answer their accusers proudly, like the

Roman, 'We protest that we have saved our country. Come with us and

render thanks to the Gods.'"

With the exception of the Jacobins all parties were strongly in favor of

this revolution. For ten years the people had been so accustomed to the

violation of the laws, that they had ceased to condemn such acts, and

judged of them only by their consequences. All over France the feeling

was nearly universal in favor of the new government. Says Alison, who

surely will not be accused of regarding Napoleon with a partial eye,

"Napoleon rivaled Cæsar in the clemency with which he used his victory.

No proscriptions or massacres, few arrests or imprisonments followed the

triumph of order over revolution. On the contrary, numerous acts of

mercy, as wise as they were magnanimous, illustrated the rise of the

consular throne. The elevation of Napoleon was not only unstained by

blood, but not even a single captive long lamented the ear of the

victor. A signal triumph of the principles of humanity over those of

cruelty, glorious alike to the actors and the age in which it occurred;

and a memorable proof how much more durable are the victories obtained

by moderation and wisdom, than those achieved by violence and stained by

blood."

PARADISE LOST.

My knapsack was on my shoulder.--So said Armand, a young artist, when a

little company of us were sitting together the other evening.--

My knapsack was on my shoulder, my ashen stick in hand; three leagues of

dusty road had whitened me like a miller. Whence I came, whither I was

going--what matters it? I was not twenty years of age. My starting

point, therefore, was home; my goal was Paradise--any earthly Paradise I

could find. The country was not particularly picturesque; and the

weather was very hot. Great undulations of harvest-laden fields rolled

irregularly on all sides. Here was a hamlet; there a solitary

farm-house; yonder a wood; on each eminence a windmill. Some peasants

that were in the fields sang; and the birds chirped at them as if in

mockery. One or two wagons, dragged by oxen and horses, slowly moved

along the tree-bordered road. I sat down on a heap of stones. A wagoner

gruffly asked me if I was tired, and offered me "a lift." I accepted;

and soon I was stretched where dung had been; jolted into an uneasy

half-slumber, not without its charm, with the bells of the lazy team

softly jingling in my ears, until I thought fifty silver voices were

calling me away to a home that must be bright, and a land that must be

beautiful.

I awoke in a mood sufficiently benign to receive an apology. The man had

forgotten me when he turned off the high road, and had taken me half a

league into the country. Where was the harm, honest wagoner? I am not

going any where; "I am only going to Paradise." There was no village of

that name in the neighborhood, he said; but he had no doubt I would be

pleased to see the grounds of the chateau. Of course, I had come on

purpose for that. I handed him his _pour-boire_. "Drink my health, good

man, and injure your own. Let us see these grounds.'" The man showed me

through a meadow near the farm (to which he belonged) and left me,

tossing the silver piece I had given him in his hard hand. I soon

observed that the place was worth seeing.

A hasty glance showed it to be a fragment of wild nature, occupied in

its original state, and barricaded against civilization. There were

woods, and solitary trees, and lakes, and streams of sufficient

dimensions for grandeur; and, when once the wall disappeared amidst the

heavy foliage, I could at first discern no traces whatever of the

presence of man. However, on closer examination, I discovered that

nature had been improved upon; that all objects which might ungraciously

intercept the view, or deform a landscape, had been removed. There were

no sham ruins nor artificial cascades; but the stranger's steps were

led, by some ingenious process of plantation, insensibly to the best

points of view. I felt, and was thankful, for the presence of the art

which so industriously endeavored to conceal itself; but being, at that

time, as most young men are, inclined to compare great things with

small--thinking to be epigrammatic and knowing--I exclaimed aloud: "The

toilet of this park has been admirably performed."

"A vulgar idea, vulgarly expressed," said a clear, firm voice above me.

I looked up, thinking that somebody was hidden in a tree; and, to my

surprise, saw a young woman, upon a fine large horse, holding a

riding-whip playfully over my head. She had approached across the turf

unheard; and had heard my exclamation, which, I assure you, was meant

for no ears but my own.

"Madam," replied I, when I had recovered from my confusion, "I think you

misunderstand me. There is no vulgarity in comparing a prospect in which

every superfluity is thus tastefully pruned away, to a woman who,

instead of loading herself with ornaments, uses the arts of the toilet

to display all her beauties to the best advantage."

"The explanation will not do," she replied. "It wants frankness. Your

phrase simply meant that you were ashamed of the admiration this view

had at first excited; and that you thought it necessary to exert the

manly privilege of contempt. If I had not seen you yonder using your

sketch-book, I should take you for a traveling hair-dresser."

The tone and manner of my new acquaintance puzzled me exceedingly; and I

was at first rather irritated by the hostile attitude she assumed on

such slight grounds. It was evident she wished to provoke an

intellectual contest; for, at the moment, I did not understand that her

real desire was to suppress the formalities of an introduction. I

returned to the charge; she replied. A broadside of repartee was fired

off on either side; but insensibly we met upon common ground;

affectation was discarded; and, as we streamed irregularly along the

swardy avenues, or stopped at the entrance of a long vista--she gently

walking her docile genet; I with my hand upon its mane--we made more

advances toward familiarity and friendship in an hour than would have

been possible under any other circumstances in a season.

Let me describe my impressions as I received them. Otherwise, how will

the narrative illustrate the theory? I am endeavoring to show, by

example, what an immense structure of happiness may be built upon a very

flimsy ground; that the material sequence of this life's events need

have no correspondence with the sequence of our sentiments; that--But I

must not anticipate.

The lady, dressed in a green riding-habit, was remarkably handsome, as

this miniature will show.

And Armand drew a small case from his breast.

"It is made from memory; but I will answer for its exactitude."

"We all know the face well enough, my friend," quoth Prevost; "it

re-appears in nearly all your pictures, like Raphael's Fornarina. Last

year you made it do duty for Medea; this year, modified to suit the

occasion, it will appear in the Salon as Charlotte Corday. Why have you

so carefully avoided that type in your Juliet and your Heloise? One

would imagine that, instead of being associated with pleasant

recollections, it suggested nothing but strife, violence, and despair."

"Were that the case, you know," quoth Armand, with feigned

sprightliness, "my theory falls to the ground; and, in telling you my

story, I am only impertinently taking advantage of your good-nature to

make a confession, and thus ease a somewhat troubled mind. Listen to the

end; it is not far off."

We reached a grotto on the borders of a little lake, where, to my

surprise, an elegant breakfast was laid out. There were two seats placed

ready; and Fifine, the maid, was there to serve. We partook of the meal

together, talking of every thing except of ourselves; but thinking of

nothing else. Once or twice a reflection on the oddity of this reception

flitted across my mind; but I thought that I had fallen in with some

eccentric mistress of the castle--such as one reads of in middle-age

romances--who was proud to give hospitality to a wandering artist. The

lady called me Hector, and I called her Andromache; and, under the

influence of some generous wine that came in with the dessert, I went so

far as to declare that my love for her was unbounded, and that she must

be my bride. I was thrown into ecstasies of delight by the frank reply,

that it only depended upon me to fix the day! What follies I committed I

scarcely recollect; but I know that Fifine scolded me; and said that,

for a well-educated young man, I was dreadfully forward.

What a delightful half-hour was that which succeeded! The entrance of

the grotto was wreathed with vines. The ripples of the lake broke upon a

little beach of sand that seemed of gold dust; the path by which we had

come along ran at the foot of a precipice for about thirty yards, and

then climbed a steep bank; the expanse of water--possibly it was merely

a large pool, but these things magnify in memory--nestled at the feet of

some lofty wooded slopes, which, with the pure blue sky, it reflected.

We sat, side by side, hand in hand; but Fifine, whose notions of

propriety were extremely rigid, expostulated vehemently. I whispered

that she ought to be sent away; and Andromache was, perhaps, of my

opinion; but she did not venture to agree with me aloud. Thus the hour

passed in silent happiness; for our hearts soon became too full for

words; and I solemnly declare, that, to spend such another day, I would

discount ten years of my existence.

As evening drew near, and I began to dream of the delights of a twilight

stroll along the margin of the lake, Fifine pitilessly suggested an

adjournment to the chateau. The word grated harshly on my ear. I had

almost pictured to myself the lady as a dryad, or a nymph living ever

amidst trees and grottoes. But prosy Fifine carried her point; and, in

half an hour, we were in the saloon of a most comfortable modern

dwelling, furnished with Parisian elegance. Several very commonplace

looking servants stared at me as I entered. My romantic ideas at once

received a shock. Five minutes afterward a post-chaise rolled up to the

door, and a stout old gentleman, accompanied by a tall, handsome young

man, issued therefrom.

Why should I give you the ludicrous details of the explanation?

Andromache was betrothed to Monsieur Hector Chose; but she had never

seen him. Her father, a wealthy naturalist, had gone that day to meet

the bridegroom at a neighboring town. The young lady (who was of a

romantic disposition) had descried me in the park, and had fancied this

was a pre-arranged surprise. She had got up the breakfast in the grotto;

and had made my acquaintance as I have related. I answered to the name

of Hector; she naturally retorted Andromache. This was the whole

explanation of the mistake. I was overwhelmed with shame, when the

father and the real Hector, with vociferous laughter, undeceived me; and

the young lady herself went away in tears of vexation. For a moment, I

hoped that I had produced an ineffaceable impression; but I was soon

undeceived. In my mortification I insulted Hector. A hostile meeting was

the result. I received a severe wound, and lay a long time helpless in a

neighboring hamlet. Still my love was not cured. Even when I heard that

the marriage had been celebrated, I persisted in looking upon the bride

as my Andromache; but when Madame Duclique, her cousin, came to see me,

she destroyed all my illusions. Andromache, she said, though with much

affectation of romance, was a very matter-of-fact personage, and

remembered our love-passage only as a ridiculous mistake. She had

married Hector, not only without repugnance but with delight. He brought

her every thing she desired--a handsome person, a fine fortune, an

exalted position; and she was the first to joke on the subject of "that

poor counterfeit Hector."

This interview cured me at once. I discovered that I was strong enough

to leave the Paradise I had lost. Madame Duclique, an amiable and

beautiful person, gave me a seat in her carriage, and drove me to the

town of Arques. I feel grateful to my Andromache for having impressed

upon my mind an enduring form of beauty.

"Let us drink her health!"

THE VATTEVILLE RUBY.

The clock of the church of Besançon had struck nine, when a woman about

fifty years of age, wrapped in a cotton shawl and carrying a small

basket on her arm, knocked at the door of a house in the Rue St.

Vincent, which, however, at the period we refer to, bore the name of Rue

de la Liberté. The door opened. "It is you, Dame Margaret," said the

porter, with a very cross look. "It is high time for you. All my lodgers

have come home long since; you are always the last, and--"

"That is not my fault, I assure you, my dear M. Thiebaut," said the old

woman in a deprecatory tone. "My day's work is only just finished, and

when work is to be done--"

"That's all very fine," he muttered. "It might do well enough if I could

even reckon on a Christmas-box at the end of the year; but as it is, I

may count myself well off, if I do but get paid for taking up their

letters."

The old woman did not hear the last words, for with quick and firm step

she had been making her way up the six flights of stairs, steep enough

to make her head reel had she been ascending them for the first time.

"Nine o'clock!--nine o'clock! How uneasy she must be!" and as she spoke,

she opened with her latch-key the door of a wretched garret, in which

dimly burned a rushlight, whose flickering flame scarcely seemed to

render visible the scanty furniture the room contained.

"Is that you, my good Margaret," said a feeble and broken voice from the

farther end of the little apartment.

"Yes, my dear lady; yes, it is I; and very sorry I am to have made you

uneasy. But Madame Lebriton, my worthy employer, is so active herself,

that she always finds the work-woman's day too short--though it is good

twelve hours--and just as I was going to fold up my work, she brought me

a job in a great hurry. I could not refuse her; but this time, I must

own, I got well paid for being obliging, for after I had done, she said

in her most good-natured way: 'Here, you shall take home with you some

of this nice pie, and this bottle of good wine, and have a comfortable

supper with your sister.' So she always calls you, madame," added

Margaret, while complacently glancing at the basket, the contents of

which she now laid out upon the table. "As I believe it is safest for

you, I do not undeceive her, though it is easily known she can not have

looked very close at us, or she might have seen that I could only be the

servant of so noble-looking a lady--"

The feeble voice interrupted her: "My servant--you my servant! when,

instead of rewarding your services, I allow you to toil for my support,

and to lavish upon me the most tender, the moat devoted affection! My

poor Margaret! you who have undertaken for me at your age, and with your

infirmities, daily and arduous toil, are you not indeed a sister of whom

I may well be proud? Your nobility has a higher origin than mine.

Reduced by political changes, which have left me homeless and penniless,

I owe every thing to you; and so tenderly do you minister to me, that

even in this garret I could still almost fancy myself the noble Abbess

of Vatteville!"

As she spoke, the aged lady raised herself in her old arm-chair, and

throwing back a black vail, disclosed features still beautiful, and a

forehead still free from every wrinkle, and eyes now sparkling with

something of their former brilliancy. She extended her hand to Margaret,

who affectionately kissed it; and then, apprehensive that further

excitement could not but be injurious to her mistress, the faithful

creature endeavored to divert her thoughts into another channel, by

inviting her to partake of the little feast provided by the kindness of

her employer. Margaret being in the habit of taking her meals in the

house where she worked, the noble Lady Marie Anne Adelaide de Vatteville

was thus usually left alone and unattended, to eat the scanty fare

prescribed by the extreme narrowness of her resources; so that she now

felt quite cheered by the novel comfort, not merely of the better-spread

table, but of the company of her faithful servant; and it was in an

almost mirthful tone she said, when the repast was ended; "Margaret, I

have a secret to confide to you. I will not--I ought not to keep it any

longer to myself."

"A secret, my dear mistress! a secret from me!" exclaimed the faithful

creature in a slightly reproachful tone.

"Yes, dear Margaret, a secret from you; but to be so no longer. No more

henceforth of the toils you have undergone for me; they must be given

up: I can not do without you. At my age, to be left alone is

intolerable. When you are not near me, I get so lonely, and sometimes

feel quite afraid, I can not tell of what, but I suppose it is natural

to the old to fear; and often--will you believe it?--I catch myself

weeping like a very child. Ah! when age comes on us, we lose all

strength, all fortitude. But you will not leave me any more? Promise me,

dear Margaret."

"But in that case what is to become of us?" said Margaret.

"This is the very thing I have to tell. And now listen to me. Take this

key, and in the right-hand drawer of the press you will find the green

casket, where, among my letters and family papers, you will see a small

case, which bring to me."

Margaret, not a little surprised, did as she was desired. The abbess

gazed on the case for some moments in silence, and Margaret thought she

saw a tear glisten in her eye as she pressed the box to her lips, and

kissed it tenderly and reverentially.

"I have sworn," said she, "never to part with it; yet what can I do? It

must be so: it is the will of God." And with a trembling hand, as if

about to commit sacrilege, she opened the case, and drew from it a ruby

of great brilliancy and beauty. "You see this jewel?" she said.

"Margaret, it is the glory of my ancient house; it is the last gem in my

coronet, and more precious in my eyes than any thing in the world. My

grand-uncle, the noblest of men, the Archbishop of Besançon, brought it

from the East; and when, in guerdon for some family service, Louis XIV.

founded the Abbey of Vatteville, and made my grand-aunt the first abbess

of the order, he himself adorned her cross with it. You now know the

value of the jewel to me; and though I can not tell its marketable

value, still, notwithstanding the pressure of the times, I can not but

think it must bring sufficient to secure us, for some time at least,

from want. Were I to consider myself alone, I would starve sooner than

touch the sacred deposit; but to allow you, Margaret, to suffer, and to

suffer for me--to take advantage any longer of your disinterested

affection and devoted fidelity--would be base selfishness. God has at

last taught me that I was but sacrificing you to my pride, and I must

hasten to make atonement. I will endeavor to raise money on this jewel.

You know old M. Simon? Notwithstanding his mean appearance and humble

mode of living, I am persuaded he is a rich man; and though parsimonious

in the extreme, he is good-natured and obliging whenever he can be so

without any risk of loss to himself."

The next day, in pursuance of her project, the abbess, accompanied by

Margaret, repaired to the house of M. Simon. "I know, sir," she said,

"from your kindness to some friends of mine, that you feel an interest

in the class to which I belong, and that you are incapable of betraying

a confidence reposed in you. I am the Abbess of Vatteville. Driven forth

from the plundered and ruined abbey, I am living in the town under an

assumed name. I have been stripped of every thing; and but for the

self-sacrificing attachment of a faithful servant, I must have died of

want. However, I have still one resource, and only one. I know not if I

am right in availing myself of it, but at my age the power to struggle

fails. Besides, I do not suffer alone; and this consideration decides

me. Will you, then, have the goodness to give me a loan on this jewel?"

"I believe, madam, you have mistaken me for a pawnbroker. I am not in

the habit of advancing money in this way. I am myself very poor, and

money is now every where scarce. I should be very glad to be able to

oblige you, but just at present it is quite out of the question."

For a moment the poor abbess felt all hope extinct; but with a last

effort to move his compassion, she said: "Oh, sir, remember that secrecy

is of such importance to me, I dare not apply to any one else. The

privacy, the obscurity in which I live, alone has prevented me from

paying with my blood the penalty attached to a noble name and lineage."

"But how am I to ascertain the value of the jewel? I am no jeweler; and

I fear, in my ignorance, to wrong either you or myself."

"I implore you, sir, not to refuse me. I have no alternative but to

starve; for I am too old to work, and beg I can not. Keep the jewel as a

pledge, and give me some relief."

Old Simon, though covetous, was not devoid of feeling. He was touched by

the tears of the venerable lady; and besides, the more he looked at the

jewel, the more persuaded he became of its being really valuable. After

a few moments' consideration, he said: "All the money I am worth at this

moment is 1500 francs; and though I have my suspicions that I am making

a foolish bargain, I had rather run any risk than leave you in such

distress. The next time I have business in Paris, I can ascertain the

value of the jewel, and if I have given you too little, I will make it

up to you." And with a glad and grateful heart the abbess took home the

1500 francs, thankful at having obtained the means of subsistence for at

least a year.

Some months later, old Simon went up to Paris, and hastening to one of

the principal jewelers, showed the ruby, and begged to know its value.

The jeweler took the stone carelessly; but after a few moments'

examination of it, he cast a rapid glance at the thread-bare coat and

mean appearance of the possessor, and then abruptly exclaimed: "This

jewel does not belong to you, and you must not leave the house till you

account for its being in your possession. Close the doors," he said to

his foreman, "and send for the police." In vain did Simon protest his

innocence; in vain did he offer every proof of it. The lapidary would

listen to nothing; but at every look he gave the gem, he darted at him a

fresh glance of angry contempt. "You must be a fool as well as a knave,"

he said. "Do you know, scoundrel, that this is the Vatteville--the

prince of rubies?--the most splendid, the rarest of gems? It might be

deemed a mere creation of imagination, were it not enrolled and

accurately described in the archives of our art. See here, in the _Guide

des Lapidaires_, a print of it. Mark its antique fashioning, and that

dark spot!--yes, it is indeed the precious ruby so long thought lost.

Rest assured, fellow, you shall not quit the house until you satisfy me

how you have contrived to get possession of it."

"I should at once have told you, but from unwillingness to endanger the

life of a poor woman who has confided in me. I got the jewel from the

Abbess de Vatteville herself, and it is her last and only resource." And

now M. Simon proved, by unquestionable documents, that notwithstanding

his more than humble appearance, he was a man of wealth and

respectability, and received the apologies which were tendered, together

with assurances that Madame Vatteville's secret was safe with one who,

he begged to say, "knew how to respect misfortune, whenever and however

presented to his notice."

"But what is the jewel worth?" asked M. Simon.

"Millions, sir! and neither I nor any one else in the trade here could

purchase it, unless as a joint concern, and in case of a coronation or a

marriage in one of the royal houses of Europe, for such an occasion

alone could make it not a risk to buy it. But, meanwhile, I will, if you

wish, mention it to some of the trade."

"I am in no hurry," said Simon, almost bewildered by the possession of

such a treasure. "I may as well wait for some such occasion, and, in the

mean time, can make any necessary advances to the abbess. Perhaps I may

call on you again."

The first day of the year 1795 had just dawned, and there was a thick

and chilling fog. The abbess and her faithful servant felt this day more

than usually depressed, for fifteen months had now elapsed since the

1500 francs had been received for the ruby, and there now remained

provision only for a few days longer. "I have got no answer from M.

Simon," said the abbess; and in giving utterance to her own thought, she

was replying to what was at that moment passing through Margaret's

mind. "I fear he has not been able to get more for the ruby than he

thinks fair interest for the money he advanced to me."

"It is most likely," said Margaret; and both relapsed into their former

desponding silence.

"What a dreary New-Year's Day!" resumed Madame de Vatteville, in a

melancholy tone.

"Oh, why can I not help you, dear mistress?" exclaimed Margaret,

suddenly starting from her reverie. "Cheerfully would I lay down my life

for you!"

"And why can I not return in any way your devoted attachment, my poor

Margaret?"

At this instant, two loud and hurried knocks at the door startled them

both from their seats: and it was with a trembling hand Margaret opened

it to admit the old porter, and a servant with a letter in his hand.

"Thank you, thank you, M. Thiebaut: this letter is for my mistress." But

the inquisitive old man either did not or would not understand

Margaret's hint to him to retire, and Madame de Vatteville was obliged

to tell him to leave the room.

"Not a penny to bless herself with, though she has come to a better

apartment!" muttered he, enraged at the disappointment to his

curiosity--"and yet as proud as an aristocrat!"

The abbess approached the casement, broke the seal with trembling hand,

and read as follows:

"I have at length been able to treat with a merchant for the article

in question, and have, after much difficulty, obtained a sum of

25,000 francs--far beyond any thing I could have hoped. But the sum

is to be paid in installments, at long intervals. It may therefore

be more convenient for you, under your peculiar circumstances, to

accept the offer I now make of a pension of 1500 francs, to revert

after your decease to the servant whom you mentioned as so devotedly

attached to you. If you are willing to accept this offer, the bearer

will hand you the necessary documents, by which you are to make over

to me all further claim upon the property placed in my hands; and on

your affixing your signature, he will pay you the first year in

advance.

SIMON."

"What a worthy, excellent man!" joyfully exclaimed the abbess; for, in

the noble integrity of her heart, she had no suspicion that he could

take advantage of her circumstances.

However Simon settled the matter with his conscience, the abbess,

trained in the school of adversity to be content with being preserved

from absolute want, passed the remainder of her life quietly and happily

with her good Margaret, both every day invoking blessings on the head of

him whom they regarded as a generous benefactor. Madame de Vatteville

lived to the age of one hundred, and her faithful Margaret survived only

a few months the mistress to whom she had given such affecting proofs of

attachment.

But Simon's detestable fraud proved of no use to him. After keeping his

treasure for several years, he thought the emperor's coronation

presented a favorable opportunity of disposing of it. Unfortunately for

him, his grasping avarice one morning suggested a thought which his

ignorance prevented his rejecting: "Since this ruby--old-fashioned and

stained as it is--can be worth so much, what would be its value if freed

from all defect, and in modern setting?" And he soon found a lapidary,

who, for a sum of 3000 francs, modernized it, and effaced the spot, and

with it the impress, the stamp of its antiquity--all that gave it value,

beauty, worth! This wanting, no jeweler could recognize it: it was no

longer worth a thousand crowns.

It was thus that the most splendid ruby in Europe lost its value and its

fame; and its name is now only to be found in _The Lapidaries' Guide_,

as that which had once been the most costly of gems. It seemed as if it

could not survive the last of the illustrious house to which it owed its

introduction into Europe, and its name.

IMPRESSIONS OF ENGLAND IN 1851.

FROM THE LETTERS AND MEMORANDA OF FREDRIKA BREMER.

THE CHOLERA IN LONDON.

It is two years since I first found myself in England. When I was in

England in the autumn of 1849, the cholera was there. A dense,

oppressive atmosphere rested over its cities, as of a cloud pregnant

with lightning. Hearses rolled through the streets. The towns were empty

of people; for all who had the means of doing so had fled into the

country; they who had not were compelled to remain. I saw shadowy

figures, clad in black, stealing along the streets, more like ghosts

than creatures of flesh and blood. Never before had I seen human

wretchedness in such a form as I beheld it in Hull and in London.

Wretchedness enough may be found, God knows, even in Stockholm, and it

shows itself openly enough there in street and market. But it is there

most frequently an undisguised, an unabashed wretchedness. It is not

ashamed to beg, to show its rags or its drunken countenance. It is a

child of crime; and that is perhaps the most extreme wretchedness. But

it is less painful to behold, because it seems to be suffering only its

own deserts. One is more easily satisfied to turn one's head aside, and

pass on. One thinks, "I can not help that!"

In England, however, misery had another appearance; it was not so much

that of degradation as of want, pallid want. It was meagre and retiring;

it ventured not to look up, or it looked up with a glance of hopeless

beseeching--so spirit-broken! It tried to look respectable. Those men

with coats and hats brushed till the nap was gone; those pale women in

scanty, washed-out, but yet decent clothes--it was a sight which one

could hardly bear. In a solitary walk of ten minutes in the streets of

Hull, I saw ten times more want than I had seen in a ten months'

residence in Denmark.

The sun shone joyously as I traveled through the manufacturing

districts; saw their groups of towns and suburbs; saw their smoking

pillars and pyramids towering up every where in the wide landscape--saw

glowing gorges of fire open themselves in the earth, as if it were

burning--a splendid and wonderfully picturesque spectacle, reminding one

of fire-worshipers, of ancient and modern times, and of their altars.

But I heard the mournful cry of the children from the factories; the cry

which the public voice has made audible to the world; the cry of the

children, of the little ones who had been compelled, by the lust of gain

of their parents and the manufacturers, to sacrifice life, and joy, and

health in the workshops of machinery; the children who lie down in those

beds which never are cold, the children who are driven and beaten till

they sink insensibly into death or fatuity--that living death; I heard

the wailing cry of the children, which Elizabeth Barrett interpreted in

her affecting poem; and the wealthy manufacturing districts, with their

towns, their fire-columns, their pyramids, seemed to me like an enormous

temple of Moloch, in which the mammon-worshipers of England offered up

even children to the burning arms of their god--children, the hope of

the earth, and its most delicious and most beautiful joy!

I arrived in London. They told me there was nobody in London. It was not

the season in which the higher classes were in London. Besides which,

the cholera was there; and all well-to-do people, who were able, had

fled from the infected city. And that, indeed, might be the reason why

there seemed to me to be so many out of health--why that pale

countenance of want was so visible. Certain it is, that it became to me

as a Medusa's head, which stood between me and every thing beautiful and

great in that great capital, the rich life and physiognomy of which

would otherwise have enchanted me. But as it was, the palaces, and the

statues, and the noble parks, Hampstead and Piccadilly, and Belgravia

and Westminster, and the Tower, and even the Thames itself, with all its

everchanging life, were no more than the decorations of a great tragedy.

And when, in St. Paul's, I heard the great roar of the voice of

London--that roar which, as it is said, never is silent, but merely

slumbers for an hour between three and four o'clock in the morning--when

I heard that voice in that empty church, where there was no divine

worship, and looked up into its beautiful cupola, which was filled by no

song of praise, but only by that resounding, roaring voice, a dark

chaotic roar, then seemed I to perceive the sound of the rivers of fate

rolling onward through time over falling kingdoms and people, and

bearing them onward down into an immeasurable grave!--It was but for a

moment, but it was a horrible dream!

One sight I beheld in London which made me look up with rejoicing, which

made me think "that old Ygdrasil is still budding." This was the

so-called metropolitan buildings; a structure of many homes in one great

mass of building, erected by a society of enlightened men for the use of

the poorer working class, to provide respectable families of that class

with excellent dwellings at a reasonable rate, where they might possess

that which is of the most indispensable importance to the rich, as well

as to the poor, if they are to enjoy health both of body and

soul--light, air, and water, pure as God created them for the use of

mankind. The sight of these homes, and of the families that inhabited

them, as well as of the newly-erected extensive public baths and

wash-houses for the same class, together with the assurance that these

institutions already, in the second year of their establishment,

returned more than full interest to their projectors, produced the

happiest impression which I at this time received of England. These were

to me as the seed of the future, which gave the promise of verdant

shoots in the old tree.

Nevertheless, when I left the shores of England, and saw thick autumnal

fog enveloping them, it was with a sorrowful feeling for the OLD world;

and with an inquiring glance of longing and hope, I turned myself to the

NEW.

Two years passed on--a sun-bright, glowing dream, full of the vigor of

life!--it was again autumn, and I was again in England. Autumn met me

there with cold, and rain, and tempest, with the most horrible weather

that can be imagined, and such as I had never seen on the other side of

the globe. But in social life, every where throughout the mental

atmosphere, a different spirit prevailed. There, I perceived with

astonishment and joy, there it was that of spring.

Free-trade had borne fruit, and under its banners manufacture and trade

had shot forth into new life; the price of all kinds of grain had

fallen, bread had become cheap. This tree of liberty, planted by Cobden

and Peel, had, with a strong and vigorous vitality, penetrated, as it

were, the life of the English people, and I heard on every hand the

soughing of its leaves in the free wind. The Crystal Palace was its

full-blown, magnificent blossom--and like swarms of rejoicing bees flew

the human throng upon the wings of steam, backward and forward, to the

great world's blossom; there all the nations met together, there all

manufactures, there all industry, and every kind of product unfolded

their flowers for the observation and the joy of all ... a Cactus

grandiflora, such as the world had never till then seen.

I perceived more clearly every day of my stay in England, that this

period is one of a general awakening to a new, fresh life. In the

manufacturing districts, in Liverpool, Manchester, Birmingham, every

where I heard the same conversation among all classes; prosperity was

universal and still advancing. That pale countenance of want, which had

on my first visit appeared to me so appalling, I now no longer saw as

formerly; and even where it was seen stealing along, like a gloomy

shadow near to the tables of abundance, it appeared to me no longer as a

cloud filled with the breath of cholera, darkening the face of heaven,

but rather as one of those clouds over which the wind and sun have

power, and which are swallowed up, which vanish in space, in the bright

ether....

THE RAGGED SCHOOLS.

In Liverpool I visited the so-called Ragged Schools--the schools where

are collected from the streets vagabond, neglected, and begging

children, who are here taught to read and so on--who here receive the

first rudiments of instruction, even in singing. These schools are, some

of them evening, others day schools, and in some of them, "the

Industrial Ragged Schools," children are kept there altogether; receive

food and clothing, and are taught trades. When the schools of this class

were first established in Liverpool, the number of children who

otherwise had no chance of receiving instruction, amounted to about

twenty thousand. Right-minded, thinking men saw that in these children

were growing up in the streets, those "dangerous classes," of which so

much has been said of late times; these men met together, obtained means

to cover the most necessary outlay of expense, and then, according to

the eloquent words of Lord Ashley, that "it is in childhood that evil

habits are formed and take root; it is childhood which must be guarded

from temptation to crime;" they opened these ragged schools with the

design of receiving the most friendless, the most wretched of society's

young generation--properly, "the children of rags, born in beggary, and

for beggary."

I visited the Industrial Ragged School for boys, intended for the lowest

grade of these little children, without parents, or abandoned by them to

the influences of crime. There I saw the first class sitting in their

rags, upon benches in a cold room, arranging, with their little

frost-bitten fingers, bristles for the brush-maker. The faces of the

boys were clean; many of them I remarked were handsome, and almost

universally they had beautiful and bright eyes. Those little fingers

moved with extraordinary rapidity; the boys were evidently wishful to do

their best; they knew that they by that means should obtain better

clothing, and would be removed to the upper room, and more amusing

employment. I observed these "dangerous classes"--just gathered up from

the lanes, and the kennels, on their way to destruction; and was

astonished when I thought that their countenances might have borne the

stamp of crime. Bright glances of childhood, for that were you never

designed by the Creator! "Suffer little children to come unto me." These

words, from the lips of heaven, are forever sounding to earth.

In the upper room a great number of boys were busy pasting paper-bags

for various trades, confectioners, etc., who make use of such in the

rapid sale of their wares; here, also, other boys were employed in

printing upon the bags the names and residences of the various tradesmen

who had ordered them. The work progressed rapidly, and seemed very

amusing to the children. The establishment for their residence, and

their beds, were poor; but all was neat and clean, the air was fresh,

and the children were cheerful. The institution was, however, but yet

in its infancy, and its means were small.

Half-a-dozen women, in wretched clothes, sate in the entrance-room with

their boys, for whom they hoped to gain admittance into the school, and

were now, therefore, waiting till the directors of the establishment

made their appearance.

THE POORER CLASSES.

A few days later I visited some different classes of poor

people--namely, the wicked and the idle; they who had fallen into want

through their own improvidence, but who had now raised themselves again;

and the estimable, who had honorably combated with unavoidable poverty.

In one certain quarter of Liverpool it is that the first class is

especially met with. Of this class of poor, in their wretched

rooms, with their low, brutalized expression, I will not speak;

companion-pieces to this misery may be met with every where. Most of

those whom I saw were Irish. It was a Sunday noon, after divine service.

The ale-houses were already open in this part of the town, and young

girls and men might be seen talking together before them, or sitting

upon the steps.

Of the second class I call to mind, with especial pleasure, one little

household. It was a mother and her son. Her means of support, a mangle,

stood in the little room in which she had lived since she had raised

herself up again. It was dinner-time. A table, neatly covered for two

persons, stood in the room, and upon the iron stand before the fire was

placed a dish of mashed potatoes, nicely browned, ready to be set on the

table. The mother was waiting for her son, and the dinner was waiting

for him. He was the organ-blower in the church during divine service,

and he returned while I was still there. He was well dressed, but was a

little, weakly man, and squinted; the mother's eyes, however, regarded

him with love. This son was her only one, and her all. And he, to whom

mother Nature had acted as a step-mother, had a noble mother's heart to

warm himself with, which prepared for him an excellent home, a

well-covered table, and a comfortable bed. That poor little home was not

without its wealth.

As belonging to the third and highest class, I must mention two

families, both of them shoe-makers, and both of them inhabiting cellars.

The one family consisted of old, the other of young people. The old

shoemaker had to maintain his wife, who was lame and sick, from a fall

in the street, and a daughter. The young one had a young wife, and five

little children to provide for; but work was scanty and the mouths many.

At this house, also, it was dinner-time, and I saw upon the table

nothing but potatoes. The children were clean, and had remarkably

agreeable faces; but--they were pale; so was also the father of the

family. The young and pretty, but very pale mother said, "Since I have

come into this room I have never been well, and this I know--I shall not

live long?" Her eyes filled with tears; and it was plain enough to see

that this really delicate constitution could not long sustain the

effects of the cold damp room, into which no sunbeam entered. These two

families, of the same trade, and alike poor, had become friends in need.

When one of the fathers of the family wanted work, and was informed by

the Home-missionary who visited them that the other had it, the

intelligence seemed a consolation to him. Gladdening sight of human

sympathy, which keeps the head erect and the heart sound under the

depressing struggle against competition! But little gladdening to me

would have been the sight of these families in their cellar-homes, had I

not at the same time been aware of the increase of those "Model

Lodging-houses," which may be met with in many parts of England, and

which will remove these inhabitants of cellars, they who sit in

darkness, into the blessing of the light of life--which will provide

worthy dwellings for worthy people.

BEE-HIVES.

In my imagination Manchester was like a colossal woman sitting at her

spinning-wheel, with her enormous manufactories; her subject towns,

suburbs, villages, factories, lying for many miles round, spinning,

spinning, spinning clothes for all the people on the face of the earth.

And there, as she sate, the queen of the spindle, with her masses of

ugly houses and factories, enveloped in dense rain-clouds, as if in

cobwebs, the effect she made upon me was gloomy and depressing. Yet even

here, also, I was to breathe a more refreshing atmosphere of life; even

here was I also to see light. Free trade had brought hither her

emancipating spirit. It was a time of remarkable activity and

prosperity. The workpeople were fully employed; wages were good, and

food was cheap. Even here also had ragged-schools been established,

together with many institutions for improving the condition of the poor

working-classes. In one of these ragged-schools the boys had a perfectly

organized band of music, in which they played and blew, so that it was a

pleasure--and sometimes a disadvantage to hear them. The lamenting "cry

of the children" was no longer heard from the factories. Government had

put an end to the cruelties and oppressions formerly practiced on these

little ones by the unscrupulous lust of gain. No child under ten years

old can now be employed in the factories, and even such, when employed,

must of necessity be allowed part of the day for school. Every large

factory has now generally its own school, with a paid master for the

children. The boys whom I saw in the great rooms of the factories, and

with whom I conversed, looked both healthy and cheerful.

Two ideas were impressed upon my mind at this place: how dangerous it

is, even amid a high degree of social culture, to give one class of men

unrestrained power over another; and how easily a free people, with a

powerful public spirit and accustomed to self-government, can raise

themselves out of humiliating circumstances. This spirit has done much

already in England, but it has yet more to do.

Upon one of those large gloomy factories in Manchester, I read,

inscribed in iron letters, "THE GREAT BEEHIVE;" and in truth a good name

for these enormous hives of human industrial toil, in which people have

sometimes forgotten, and still forget, that man is any thing more than a

working bee, which lives to fill its cell in the hive and die. I visited

several of these huge beehives. In one of them which employed twelve

hundred work-people, I saw, in a large room, above three hundred women

sitting in rows winding cotton on reels. The room was clean, and so also

were all the women. It did not appear to be hard work; but the

steadfastly-fixed attention with which these women pursued their labor

seemed to me distressingly wearisome. They did not allow themselves to

look up, still less to turn their heads or to talk. Their life seemed to

depend upon the cotton thread.

In another of these great beehives, a long low room, in which were six

hundred power-looms, represented an extraordinary appearance. What a

snatching to and fro, what a jingling, what an incessant stir, and what

a moist atmosphere there was between floor and ceiling, as if the limbs

of some absurd, unheard-of beast, with a thousand arms, had been

galvanized! Around us, from three to four hundred operatives, women and

men, stood among the rapid machinery, watching and tending. The twelve

o'clock bell rung, and now the whole throng of work-people would go

forth to their various mid-day quarters; the greatest number to their

respective dwellings in the neighborhood of the factory. I placed

myself, together with my conductor, in the court outside the door of the

room, which was on lower ground, in order that I might have a better

view of the work-people as they came out.

Just as one sees bees coming out of a hive into the air, two, three, or

four at a time--pause, as it were, a moment from the effects of open air

and light, and then with a low hum, dart forth into space, each one his

own way; so was it in this case. Thus came they forth, men and women,

youths and girls. The greater number were well dressed, looked healthy,

and full of spirit. In many, however, might be seen the expression of a

rude life; they bore the traces of depravity about them.

THE ROYAL FAMILY.

The Queen and her husband stand before the people as the personation of

every domestic and public virtue! The Queen is an excellent wife and

mother; she attends to the education of her children, and fulfills her

duties as sovereign, alike conscientiously. She is an early riser; is

punctual and regular in great as well as in small things. She pays ready

money for all that she purchases, and never is in debt to any one. Her

court is remarkable for its good and beautiful morals. On their estate,

she and Prince Albert carry every thing out in the best manner,

establish schools and institutions for the good of the poor; these

institutions and arrangements of theirs serve as examples to every one.

Their uprightness, kindness, generosity, and the tact which they under

all circumstances display, win the heart of the nation. They show a

warm sympathy for the great interests of the people, and by this very

sympathy are they promoted. Of this, the successful carrying out of free

trade, and the Exhibition in the Crystal Palace, projected in the first

instance by Prince Albert, and powerfully seconded by the Queen, furnish

brilliant examples. The sympathies of the Queen are those of the heart

as well as of the head. When that noble statesman, the great promoter of

free-trade, Sir Robert Peel, died, the Queen shut herself in for several

days, and wept for him as if she had lost a father. And whenever a warm

sympathy is called forth, either in public or in private affairs it is

warmly and fully participated by Queen Victoria and Prince Albert. That

which the English people require from their rulers, is not merely formal

government, but a living interest in their affairs.

BIRMINGHAM AND THE CHARTISTS.

From Manchester I traveled to Birmingham. I saw again the land of the

fire-worshipers, their smoking altars, in tall columns and pyramids,

towering above the green fields; saw again the burning gulfs yawning in

the earth, and--saw them now with unmixed pleasure. I heard no longer,

amid their boiling roar, the lamenting cry of the children; I heard and

saw them now only as the organs of the public prosperity, and rejoiced

over them as proofs of man's power over fire and water, over all the

powers of nature; the victory of the gods over the giants!

The sun burst forth from between rain-clouds as I arrived in Birmingham,

England's--nay, the world's--workshop of steel-pens, nails, steel, tin,

and brass wares of all kinds.

If Manchester is a colossal woman at her spinning-wheel, then is

Birmingham a colossal smith.

In Birmingham I visited a steel-pen manufactory, and followed from room

to room the whole process of those small metal tongues which go abroad

over all the world and do so much--evil, and so much good; so much that

is great, so much that is small; so much that is important, so much that

is trivial. I saw four hundred young girls sitting in large, light

rooms, each with her little pen-stamp, employed in a dexterous and easy

work, especially fitted for women. All were well dressed, seemed healthy

and cheerful, many were pretty; upon the whole, it was a spectacle of

prosperity which surpassed even that of the mill-girls in the celebrated

factories of Lowell in North America.

Birmingham was at this time in a most flourishing condition, and had

more orders for goods than it could supply, nor were there any male

paupers to be found in the town; there was full employment for all.

In Birmingham I saw a large school of design. Not less than two hundred

young female artists studied here in a magnificent hall or rotunda,

abundantly supplied with models of all kinds, and during certain hours

in the week exclusively opened to these female votaries of art. A

clever, respectable old woman, the porter of the school-house, spoke of

many of these with especial pleasure, as if she prided herself on them

in some degree.

I saw in Birmingham a beautiful park, with hot-houses, in which were

tropical plants, open to the public; saw also a large concert-room,

where twice in the week "glees" were sung, and to which the public were

admitted at a low price: all republican institutions, and which seem to

prosper more in a monarchical realm than in republics themselves.

From Birmingham I had determined to go for a few days to

Stratford-on-Avon, before I went to London in order to secure a view of

the Great Exhibition, the last week of which was at hand. I was,

therefore, obliged to leave the manufacturing districts earlier than I

wished; but before quitting them on paper, I must say a few words on

their population, on their artisans, etc.

These belong almost entirely to the class of what are called Chartists;

that is, advocates of universal suffrage. They are this, through good

and through evil; and the resistance which their just desire to be more

fully represented in the legislative body, has met with from that body,

has brought them more and more into collision with the power of the

state, more and more to base their demands in opposition, even to the

higher principles of justice: for they overlook the duty of rendering

themselves worthy of the franchise by sound education. But the fault

here, in the first place, was not theirs. Growing up amid machinery and

the hum of labor, without schools, without religious or moral worth;

hardened by hard labor, in continual fight with the difficulties of

life, they have moulded themselves into a spirit little in harmony with

life's higher educational influences, the blessings of which they had

never experienced. Atheism, radicalism, republicanism, socialism of all

kinds will and must nourish here in concealment among the strong and

daily augmenting masses of a population, restrained only by the fear of

the still more mighty powers which may be turned against them, and by

labor for their daily needs, so long as those powers are sufficing. And

perhaps the American slave-states are right when they say, in reference

to this condition of things, "England lies at our feet--England can not

do without our cotton. If the manufacturers of England must come to a

stand, then has she a popular convulsion at her door." Perhaps it may be

so; for these hosts of manufacturing workmen, neglected in the beginning

by society, neglected by church and state, look upon them merely as

exacting and despotic powers; and in strict opposition to them, they

have banded together, and established schools for their own children,

where only the elements of practical science are admitted, and from

which religious and moral instruction are strictly excluded. In truth, a

volcanic foundation for society, and which now, for some time past, has

powerfully arrested the attention of the most thinking men of England.

But into the midst of this menacing chaos light has already begun to

penetrate with an organizing power; and over the dark profound hovers a

spirit which can and will divide the darkness from the light, and

prepare a new creation.

I sought the manufacturing towns from a sense of duty, and the commands

of conscience. I was anxious to see this side of human life. But this

done, I thought I might do something for my own pleasure. I was in

England chiefly for this purpose. I must follow the impulse of my heart;

I must make a pilgrimage to the grave of Shakspeare. For the older I

have become, the more that I have lived and learned, the more valuable

have two good artists become to me--the more have I had to

thank--Beethoven and Shakspeare.

From Birmingham I traveled, on the morning of the fourth of October, by

the railway to Leamington, and thence, alone in a little carriage, to

Stratford-on-Avon.

TRUE COURAGE.--A TALE OF TATTERSHALL CASTLE.

In the summer vacation of 183-, a party of gay young collegians visited

Tattershall Castle, in Lincolnshire. This remarkably noble ruin consists

of a single lofty keep, rising to the height of two hundred feet, the

interior being open from summit to basement. Mighty oaken beams once,

however, spanned the massive walls, supporting floors which formed

stories of varying height. Many of these beams have fallen to the

basement, completely rotten, through shameful exposure to the weather

ever since the roof crumbled away; others still pertinaciously hang,

more or less broken and decayed, but, in a majority of instances, seem

as if a strong gust of eddying wind would send them down crashing, to

mingle their fragments with those already mouldering below.

The party were in high spirits. They had drunk old wines, and their

young blood flowed hotly in their veins; they had laughed, joked, and

talked themselves into wild excitement. About half way up to the castle

turrets there is a sort of open landing, which goes along one wall of

the structure; and on to this landing the party stepped from the grand

spiral staircase they had hitherto been ascending, and there paused a

moment to look about them. The scene was striking. A few beams sprung

across just below their feet; a few thick-moted rays of sun pierced

through the adjoining loop-holes; a few fleecy cloudlets flitted athwart

the blue ether high overhead. Startled by the noisy visitors, a number

of dusky jackdaws flew out of their holes up and down the walls, and,

after chattering their decided disapprobation of being disturbed, made

half-a-dozen whirling circuits of the interior, rising rapidly upward,

until they disappeared.

Immediately afterward, a great white owl projected its visage from a

hole close above where one of the beams joined the opposite wall, and,

frightedly peering with its great dazzled eyes, the harmless creature

bewilderedly popped from its hole on to the beam, and having made a few

feeble flutterings with its wings, remained quite stationary, crouched

in a ball-like figure, close to the wall.

"Oh, Deschamp," exclaimed one of the party to a friend at his side, who

was plucking the long gray moss of a peculiar species, which literally

clothes the castle walls inside and out, "look yonder at Minerva's

bird."

"Ha! ha!" chorused the company--"a veritable owl!"

Thereupon one and all began picking up bits of brick and mortar from

where they stood, and threw them at the bird with various degrees of

skill. One or two bits even struck it, but so far from being roused

thereby, the owl merely gave one boding, long-drawn, sepulchral screech,

and, contracting its ghastly outline into still smaller compass, fairly

buried its broad visage between the meeting bony tips of its wings.

"What a stupid creature! hoo! horoo!" shouted they, thinking by that

means to induce it to fly. But the outcry only terrified the bird to

such a degree, that it stuck its claws convulsively into the decayed

timber, and stirred not at all.

"It's the way o' them creeturs," here said the guide, who was showing

the party over the castle; "they're about the stupidest things in

creation, I'm a thinking!"

"Humph!" muttered Lord Swindon, a handsome, athletic young man of

twenty, "with such an example before our eyes, we can not but admit your

opinion to be highly philosophic and indisputable. But I say, old

fellow," added he, tapping the guide familiarly on the shoulder with the

light riding switch he carried in his hand, "is _that_ beam a rotten

one?"

"_I_ shouldn't be over-for'ard to trust myself on it, sir," replied the

man--a fat dumpy personage.

"_You_ wouldn't! No. I should rather think not," responded Lord Swindon,

a smile of supreme disdain sweeping across his features, as he surveyed

the "old fellow" from head to foot. "But, tell me, did you ever know

_any body_ walk upon it, eh?"

"Oh, dear, yes. Only last summer, a young Oxonian ran from end to end of

it, as I seed with my own eyes."

"Did he?"

"True," put in Deschamp. "I remember now, it was young Manners of

Brazennose; and didn't he brag about it!"

"Him!" exclaimed Lord Swindon, with a toss of the head; "that fellow,

poor milksop? Not," continued he, hastily, "that it is any thing of a

feat. Pooh!"

"Not a feat!" murmured his companions; and, with one accord, they

stretched forth their necks, and, gazing down the dim abyss, shuddered

at what they beheld. Well they might. The beam in question rose at a

height of about one hundred feet, and naught beneath it was there but a

gloomy chasm, only broken in one or two places by crumbling beams, and

not one even of these was by many feet near it. "Oh, Swindon, how can

you say so?"

"I can say it, and I do," snappishly replied the fiery young man, his

brain heated with wine; "and, at any rate, what that fellow Manners has

done, I can do. So look out!"

Thus speaking, he recklessly stepped on the beam, and, despite the

remonstrances of his companions, was in the act of proceeding along it,

when his arm was firmly grasped, and a low, deep-toned voice exclaimed,

"My lord, do you court a horrible death? Do not thus risk your life for

naught."

The individual who thus unhesitatingly interfered was evidently unknown

to all present, being a casual visitor to the castle, who had just

joined the group. With an imprecation, the madcap youngster jerked his

arm away, and sprang forward along the beam. Its surface was rough,

rounded, and uneven; and as he ran along, swerving from side to side,

every instant in danger of being precipitated downward, with the awful

certainty of being dashed to pieces, his friends could hardly restrain

themselves from shrieking with terror, though such a course would

probably have had the immediate effect of discomposing the equilibrium

of their rash companion, and so inducing the catastrophe they fully

anticipated, without the power of prevention. Had the adventurer's

presence of mind one moment failed--had his self-possession and

confidence wavered or forsaken him--had his brain sickened, or his eyes

turned dim for a single second--had he made the least false step--had

his footing slipped on the slimy surface of the beam--had he tripped

against any of the knots projecting from the rotten wood which had

mouldered away around them--at once would he have been hurled into dread

eternity.

But an unseen hand sustained him, and safely he reached the extremity of

the beam, ruthlessly wrenched the trembling owl from its perch, waved it

aloft in triumph, and then, with a proud ejaculation, began to retrace

his steps, with it shrieking and fluttering in his hands. When he

reached the centre of the frail beam, which creaked and bent terribly

with his comparatively small weight, he paused, drew himself up to his

full height--air above, air beneath, air all around, naught but air--and

deliberately tore the head of the owl by main force from its body.

Having perpetrated this cruel deed, he tossed the bloody head among the

breathless spectators, and sharply dashed the writhing body into the

void beneath his feet. He coolly watched its descent, until it lay a

shapeless mass on the stones below; then, with slow, bravadoing mien, he

walked back to his terrified party, and boastingly demanded of them

whether they thought "Manners could beat that?"

"My lord," solemnly said the stranger, "you have not performed the act

either of a brave or a sane man, and you have committed a despicable

deed on one of God's helpless creatures. You ought to thank Him, my

lord, from the depth of your soul, that he saved you from the penalty

you incurred."

"What do you say?" fiercely demanded Lord Swindon. "Do you dare to

insinuate cowardice against me?" and with flashing brow, he assumed a

threatening attitude.

"I know not, my lord, whether you are brave or not, but what I have

witnessed was certainly not an exercise of true courage," was the

passionless reply.

"And yet I'll wager a cool thousand that you daren't do it."

"True, I dare not: for I am incapable of offering a deadly insult to my

Maker."

"Fine words!" Then, carried away by the excitement of the moment, he

added, with an insolent look and gesture, "You are a lying coward."

"Listen, my lord," answered the person thus addressed, and this time his

tone was even calmer than before. "One year ago, you were walking at the

midnight hour on the pier at the sea-port of Hull, and but one other

person was upon it, and he was a stranger to you. You trod too near the

edge of the pier, and fell into the sea. The tempest was howling, and

the tide was high and running strongly; and, ere you could utter more

than one smothered cry, it had swept you many yards away, and you were

sinking rapidly. Except God, none but that stranger heard your cry of

agony; and, soon as it reached his ear, he looked forth upon the waters,

and, catching a glimpse of your struggling form, he instantly plunged

in, and, after much diving, eventually grasped you at a great depth.

Long did he support your helpless body, and stoutly did he buffet the

stifling waves, and loudly did he call for aid. At length help came; and

at the last moment, he and you were saved just in time for life to be

preserved in both. Is not this true, my lord?"

"It is," emphatically responded the young nobleman; "but what have you

to do with it? I don't know you--though it is not at all wonderful,"

added he, with a sneer, "that you should happen to know about the

matter, for the newspapers blazoned it quite sufficiently."

"My lord, one question more. Did you ever learn who that stranger was

who, under God, saved your life?"

"No; when I recovered a little, he left me at the hotel, where he was

unknown, and I have never seen him since."

"Then, my lord," was the startling rejoinder, "look well at me, for I am

that stranger."

"You?"

"Yes--I whom you have branded as a liar and a coward. Little thought I

that the life I saved at the imminent risk of my own would be madly,

wickedly jeopardized for no price whatever, as I have seen it this hour.

Mine, my lord, was true courage; yours was false. Henceforth know the

difference between them. Farewell."

So saying, the stranger bowed, and before another word could be uttered,

had left the astounded party.

INTRODUCTION OF THE POTATO INTO FRANCE.

In that rational estimate of true greatness which men are daily becoming

more inclined to form, names will yet rank high as those of the

benefactors of mankind, which history has too long suffered to give

place to those of heroes (so called), who might be better designated as

the destroyers of national prosperity, the scourges of their country.

Among the names of such benefactors, that of Antoine-Augustin Parmentier

well deserves to be handed down to the gratitude of posterity. He was

born in the little town of Montdidier, in 1737, of poor but respectable

parents; and, having lost his father before he was three years old, he

was brought up altogether by his mother, a woman of considerable

intelligence, and in refinement of character far beyond her station; and

to her he owed much of that religious feeling and steadiness of

principle which stamped such value in after-life upon the ardent

disposition and spirit of enterprise which were natural to him. The good

curé of the place, who had long known and esteemed his parents, had an

opportunity of observing the uncommon intelligence of the boy, and

undertook to teach him the rudiments of Latin. At sixteen, the young

Augustin, anxious to be no longer a burden to his mother, placed himself

with an apothecary of his native town; but the following year he

repaired to Paris, invited thither by a relative, to study under him the

profession he had chosen.

It was not long before prospects of advancement opened to the young

medical student. The war of Hanover broke out, and, in 1757, Parmentier,

attached to the medical staff, though in a very subordinate post, joined

the army. It was not long before he had opportunity to prove his skill

and zealous devotion to his duties. A dreadful epidemic appeared among

the French soldiery, and tested to the utmost his unwearied activity and

unceasing attention to his duties. His services were acknowledged by his

being promoted to the rank of assistant-apothecary. His dauntless

exposure of himself on the field of battle caused him to be five times

taken prisoner--a misfortune to which he afterward often made mirthful

allusion; extolling the dexterity with which the Prussian hussars had

more than once stripped him, and declaring that they were the best

valets de chambre he had ever met.

It was while prisoner of war on one of these occasions that Parmentier

first conceived the idea which was destined to give him a claim upon the

gratitude of his country. The prisoners were kept in very close

confinement, and fed altogether on potatoes; but Parmentier, instead of

joining his companions in misfortune in their indignant abuse of a food

altogether new to them, was calmly and sensibly engaged in reflecting on

the utility of the vegetable, and in inquiring into its nature, and the

mode of cultivating it. We shall see how he kept the resolution he then

formed of not letting it escape his memory, should he ever be permitted

to revisit his native country.

Peace being declared, he was released, and came back to Paris in 1763,

where he attended the Abbe Mollet's course of natural philosophy, the

chemical course of the Brothers Douille, and the botanical lectures of

the celebrated Bernard de Jussieu. At this time, however, his poverty

was so great, that he had to endure the severest privations, to enable

him to pay the necessary fees, and to purchase such books as he

required, without interfering with the pecuniary aid which he felt it

alike his duty and his privilege to afford his mother. In 1766, he

became a candidate for a situation as medical attendant at the Hotel des

Invalides, and was almost unanimously elected. In this position, he gave

the utmost satisfaction; and not only did the skill he displayed obtain

for him professional reputation, but his playful, yet never satirical

wit, and the charm of his gentle and affectionate disposition, made him

a universal favorite. He was the object of respectful attachment to the

disabled veterans, and also to the good Sisters of Charity who attended

the hospital. In 1769, he received, as the reward of his labors, the

appointment of apothecary-in-chief, which permanently fixed him in the

Hotel des Invalides. With a little more leisure, and comparative freedom

from pecuniary care, came back the recollection of his former plans with

regard to the potato. This now well-known and almost universally-used

tubercle had been introduced into Europe from Peru early in the

sixteenth century, and had at once been cultivated in Italy and Germany.

Brought from Flanders into France, its culture was promoted in the

southern provinces by the encouragement given by the great Turgot; but

the dogged pertinacity with which ignorance so often resists the

introduction of any thing new, had in every other part of the kingdom

interfered with its propagation. Indeed, the popular prejudice against

it was so high as to lead to the belief that it had a baleful effect on

any soil in which it was planted, and produced in those who used it as

food leprosy and other loathsome diseases. Such were the absurd and

groundless prejudices which Parmentier had to encounter, but he prepared

himself to carry on the contest with the boldness and perseverance of

one who knew that, however difficult it may be to struggle with old

opinions and long-established customs, yet nothing is impossible to the

spirit of enterprise, guided by sound judgment, and animated by genuine

philanthropy. Parmentier was not unmindful that to attain his object he

would, in the first instance, need high patronage; and this patronage he

sought and found in no less a personage than Louis XVI. himself. At his

earnest solicitation, the monarch placed at his disposal, as a field for

his experiment, fifty acres of the Plaine des Sablons. For the first

time, this sterile soil was tilled by Parmentier, and the plant he so

ardently desired to naturalize committed to it. In due time the

long-wished-for blossoms appeared. Almost wondering at his success,

Parmentier eagerly gathered a bouquet of the flowers, more precious to

him than the rarest exotic in the royal gardens, and hastened to

Versailles, to present them to the king. Louis accepted the offering

most graciously, and, notwithstanding the satirical smiles of some of

his courtiers, wore them in his button-hole.

From that hour the triumph of the potato was secured. The nobles and

fine ladies, who had hitherto laughed at what they called "the poor

man's monomania," now took their tone from the monarch, and flocked

round the modest philanthropist with their congratulations. Guards

placed round the field excited the curiosity of the people; but as this

was a precaution rather against the pressure of the crowd than against

its cupidity, they were withdrawn at night, and soon it was announced to

Parmentier that his potatoes had been stolen. His delight at this

intelligence was extreme, and he bountifully rewarded the bearer of the

news; for he saw in this theft a proof of his complete success. "There

can scarcely be any remaining prejudice against my poor potatoes," he

said, "else they would not be stolen." A short time after he gave a

dinner, every dish of which consisted of the potato disguised in some

variety of form, and even the liquids used at table were extracted from

it. Among other celebrated persons, Franklin and Lavoisier were present.

And thus, to the persevering efforts of one individual was France

indebted for a vegetable which soon took its place in the first rank of

its agricultural treasures. By naturalizing the potato in that country,

Parmentier diffused plenty among thousands, once the hapless victims of

privation and misery during the seasons of scarcity hitherto frequently

recurring to desolate its provinces.

From 1783 to 1791, Parmentier occupied himself in the publication of

several works of great merit upon domestic economy and agriculture. But

now came on the evil days of the Revolution. From prudence, natural

inclination, and engrossment in other pursuits, Parmentier took no part

in the political storm then raging. His moderation was regarded as a

protest against the principles then in the ascendant. The man who had

just rendered the most signal service to the people became an object of

persecution to those calling themselves the friends of the people. "Talk

not to me of this Parmentier," said an infuriate club orator; "he would

give us nothing to eat but potatoes. I ask you, was it not he that

invented them?" His name was put into the list of the suspected, and he

was deprived not only of the small pension allowed him by Louis XVI.,

but also of his situation at the Hotel des Invalides. However, when the

coalition of all Europe forced France to avail herself to the utmost of

her every resource, it was found expedient to reorganize the medical

department of the military hospitals, and to improve the diet of the

soldiery; and Parmentier being fixed on for this difficult task, his

success amply justified the choice. His reputation for skill and talent

increasing with every test to which he was put, he was successively

placed on the sanitary commission for the department of the Seine, and

on the general committee of civil hospitals. Diplomas were sent to him

by all the learned societies, and he was enrolled a member of the

National Institute.

Parmentier lived throughout the period of the Empire, honored and

esteemed by all classes; but, in 1813, grief for the loss of a beloved

sister added to his deep dejection at the reverses of the French arms,

seriously affected his health. His patriotism could not but deeply feel

the evils threatening his country from foreign invasion. He became

dangerously ill, and on the 13th of December the cause of social

progress lost by his death one of its most zealous and enlightened

promoters. In a discourse pronounced on the occasion before the

Pharmaceutic Association, Cadet de Gassicour dwelt principally on the

two great benefits conferred by Parmentier--the use of the potato, and

the introduction of the Sirop de Raisin, thus providing, according to

the benevolent boast of the philanthropist himself, "the poor man's

bread, and the poor man's sugar." During his lifetime, a proposal had

been made by the Minister François de Neufchateau that the potato should

be called _Parmentière_. It is to be regretted that a proposal which

would have secured a memorial as inexpensive as it was appropriate, was

rejected; one which would have indissolubly linked in the minds of every

Frenchman the name of the benefactor with the benefit.

THE ARTIST'S SACRIFICE.

On a cold evening in January--one of those dark and gloomy evenings

which fill one with sadness--there sat watching by the bed of a sick

man, in a little room on the fifth floor, a woman of about forty, and

two pretty children--a boy of twelve and a little girl of eight. The

exquisite neatness of the room almost concealed its wretchedness: every

thing announced order and economy, but at the same time great poverty. A

painted wooden bedstead, covered with coarse but clean calico sheets,

blue calico curtains, four chairs, a straw arm-chair, a high desk of

dark wood, with a few books and boxes placed on shelves, composed the

entire furniture of the room. And yet the man who lay on that wretched

bed, whose pallid cheek, and harsh, incessant cough, foretold the

approach of death, was one of the brightest ornaments of our literature.

His historical works had won for him a European celebrity, his writings

having been translated into all the modern languages; yet he had always

remained poor, because his devotion to science had prevented him from

devoting a sufficient portion of his time to productive labor.

An unfinished piece of costly embroidery thrown on a little stand near

the bed, another piece of a less costly kind, but yet too luxurious to

be intended for the use of this poor family, showed that his wife and

daughter--this gentle child, whose large dark eyes were so full of

sadness--endeavored by the work of their hands to make up for the

unproductiveness of his efforts. The sick man slept, and the mother,

taking away the lamp and the pieces of embroidery, went with her

children into the adjoining room, which served both as ante-chamber and

dining-room: she seated herself at the table, and took up her work with

a sad and abstracted air; then observing her little daughter doing the

same thing cheerfully, and her son industriously coloring some prints

destined for a book of fashions, she embraced them; and raising her

tearful eyes toward heaven, she seemed to be thanking the Almighty, and,

in the midst of her affliction, to be filled with gratitude to Him who

had blessed her with such children.

Soon after, a gentle ring was heard at the door, and M. Raymond, a young

doctor, with a frank, pleasing countenance, entered and inquired for the

invalid.

"Just the same, doctor," said Madame G----.

The young man went into the next room, and gazed for some moments

attentively on the sleeper, while the poor wife fixed her eyes on the

doctor's countenance, and seemed there to read her fate.

"Is there no hope, doctor?" she asked, in a choking voice, as she

conducted him to the other room. The doctor was silent, and the

afflicted mother embraced her children and wept. After a pause, she

said: "There is one idea which haunts me continually: I should wish so

much to have my husband's likeness. Do you know of any generous and

clever artist, doctor? Oh, how much this would add to the many

obligations you have already laid me under!"

"Unfortunately, I am not acquainted with a single artist," replied the

young doctor.

"I must then renounce this desire," said Madame G----, sighing.

The next morning Henry--so the little boy was called--having assisted

his mother and his sister Marie in their household labors, dressed

himself carefully, and, as it was a holiday, asked leave to go out.

"Go, my child," said his mother; "go and breathe a little fresh air:

your continual work is injurious to you."

The boy kissed his father's wasted hand, embraced his mother and sister,

and went out, at once sad and pleased. When he reached the street

he hesitated for a moment, then directed his steps toward the

drawing-school where he attended every day: he entered, and rung at the

door of the apartment belonging to the professor who directed this

academy. A servant opened the door, and conducted him into an

elegantly-furnished breakfast-room; for the professor was one of the

richest and most distinguished painters of the day. He was breakfasting

alone with his wife when Henry entered.

"There, my dear," he said to her, as he perceived Henry; "there is the

cleverest pupil in the academy. This little fellow really promises to do

me great credit one day. Well, my little friend, what do you wish to say

to me?"

"Sir, my father is very ill--the doctor fears that he may die: poor

mamma, who is very fond of papa, wishes to have his portrait. Would you,

sir, be kind enough to take it? O do not, pray sir, do not refuse me!"

said Henry, whose tearful eyes were fixed imploringly on the artist.

"Impossible, Henry--impossible!" replied the painter. "I am paid three

thousand francs for every portrait I paint, and I have five or six at

present to finish."

"But, my dear," interposed his wife, "it seems to me that this portrait

would take you but little time: think of the poor mother, whose husband

will so soon be lost to her forever."

"It grieves me to refuse you, my dear; but you know that my

battle-piece, which is destined for Versailles, must be sent to the

Louvre in a fortnight, for I can not miss the Exposition this year. But

stay, my little friend, I will give you the address of several of my

pupils: tell them I sent you, and you will certainly find some one of

them who will do what you wish. Good-morning, Henry!"

"Good-by, my little friend," added the lady. "I hope you may be

successful." The boy took his leave with a bursting heart.

Henry wandered through the gardens of the Luxembourg, debating with

himself if he should apply to the young artists whose addresses he held

in his hand. Fearing that his new efforts might be equally unsuccessful,

he was trying to nerve himself to encounter fresh refusals, when he was

accosted by a boy of his own age, his fellow-student at the

drawing-school. Jules proposed that they should walk together; then

observing Henry's sadness, he asked him the cause. Henry told him of his

mother's desire; their master's refusal to take the portrait; and of his

own dislike to apply to those young artists, who were strangers to him.

"Come with me," cried Jules, when his friend had ceased speaking. "My

sister is also an artist: she has always taken care of me, for our

father and mother died when we were both very young. She is so kind and

so fond of me, that I am very sure she will not refuse."

The two boys traversed the Avenue de l'Observatoire, the merry, joyous

face of the one contrasting with the sadness and anxiety of the other.

When they got to the end of the avenue they entered the Rue de l'Ouest,

and went into a quiet-looking house, up to the fourth story of which

Jules mounted with rapid steps, dragging poor Henry with him. He tapped

gayly at a little door, which a young servant opened: he passed through

the ante-chamber, and the two boys found themselves in the presence of

Emily d'Orbe, the sister of Jules.

She appeared to be about twenty-five: she was not tall, and her face was

rather pleasing than handsome; yet her whole appearance indicated

cultivation and amiability. Her dress was simple, but exquisitely neat;

her gown of brown stuff fitted well to her graceful figure; her linen

cuffs and collar were of a snowy whiteness; her hair was parted in

front, and fastened up behind _à l'antique_: but she wore no ribbon, no

ornament--nothing but what was necessary. The furniture of the room,

which served at the same time as a sitting-room and studio, was equally

simple: a little divan, some chairs, and two arm-chairs covered with

gray cloth, a round table, a black marble time-piece of the simplest

form; two engravings, the "Spasimo di Sicilia" and the "Three Maries,"

alone ornamented the walls; green blinds were placed over the windows,

not for ornament, but to moderate the light, according to the desire of

the artist; finally, three easels, on which rested some unfinished

portraits, and a large painting representing Anna Boleyn embracing her

daughter before going to execution.

When he entered, little Jules went first to embrace his sister; she

tenderly returned his caresses, then said to him in a gentle voice, as

she returned to her easel: "Now, my dear child, let me go on with my

painting;" not, however, without addressing a friendly "Good-morning" to

Henry, who, she thought, had come to play with Jules.

Henry had been looking at the unfinished pictures with a sort of terror,

because they appeared to him as obstacles between him and his request.

He dared not speak, fearing to hear again the terrible word

"impossible!" and he was going away, when Jules took him by the hand and

drew him toward Emily. "Sister," he said, "I have brought my friend

Henry to see you; he wishes to ask you something; do speak to him."

"Jules," she replied, "let me paint; you know I have very little time.

You are playing the spoiled child: you abuse my indulgence."

"Indeed, Emily, I am not jesting; you must really speak to Henry. If you

knew how unhappy he is!"

Mademoiselle d'Orbe, raising her eyes to the boy, was struck with his

pale and anxious face, and said to him in a kind voice, as she continued

her painting: "Forgive my rudeness, my little friend; this picture is to

be sent to the Exposition, and I have not a moment to lose, because,

both for my brother's sake and my own, I wish it to do me credit. But

speak, my child; speak without fear, and be assured that I will not

refuse you any thing that is in the power of a poor artist."

Henry, regaining a little courage, told her what he desired: then Jules,

having related his friend's visit to their master, Henry added; "But I

see very well, mademoiselle, that you can not do this portrait either,

and I am sorry to have disturbed you."

In the mean time little Jules had been kissing his sister, and caressing

her soft hair, entreating her not to refuse his little friend's request.

Mademoiselle d'Orbe was painting Anna Boleyn: she stopped her work; a

struggle seemed to arise in the depth of her heart, while she looked

affectionately on the children. She, however, soon laid aside her

pallet, and casting one glance of regret on her picture: "I will take

your father's portrait," she said to Henry---"that man of sorrow and of

genius. Your mother's wish shall be fulfilled."

She had scarcely uttered these words when a lady entered the room. She

was young, pretty, and richly dressed. Having announced her name, she

asked Mademoiselle d'Orbe to take her portrait, on the express condition

that it should be finished in time to be placed in the Exposition.

"It is impossible for me to have this honor, madame," replied the

artist: "I have a picture to finish, and I have just promised to do a

portrait to which I must give all my spare time."

"You would have been well paid for my portrait, and my name in the

catalogue would have made yours known," added the young countess.

Mademoiselle d'Orbe only replied by a bow; and the lady had scarcely

withdrawn, when, taking her bonnet and shawl, the young artist embraced

her brother, took Henry by the hand, and said to him: "Bring me to your

mother, my child."

Henry flew rather than walked; Mademoiselle d'Orbe could with difficulty

keep up with him. Both ascended to the fifth story in the house in the

Rue Descartes, where this poor family lived. When they reached the door,

Henry tapped softly at it. Madame G---- opened it.

"Mamma," said the boy, trembling with emotion, "this lady is an artist:

she is come to take papa's portrait." The poor woman, who had not hoped

for such an unexpected happiness, wept as she pressed to her lips the

hands of Mademoiselle d'Orbe, and could not find words to express her

gratitude.

The portrait was commenced at once; and the young artist worked with

zeal and devotion, for her admiration of the gifted and unfortunate man

was intense. She resolved to make the piece valuable as a work of art,

for posterity might one day demand the portrait of this gifted man, and

her duty as a painter was to represent him in his noblest aspect.

Long sittings fatigued the invalid; so it was resolved to take two each

day, and the young artist came regularly twice every day. As by degrees

the strength of the sick man declined, the portrait advanced. At length,

at the end of twelve days, it was finished: this was about a week before

the death of M. G----.

At the same time that she was painting this portrait, Mademoiselle

d'Orbe worked with ardor on her large painting, always hoping to have it

ready in time. This hope did not fail her, until some days before the

1st of February. There was but a week longer to work: and this year she

must abandon the idea of sending to the Exposition.

Some artists who had seen her picture had encouraged her very much; she

could count, in their opinion, on brilliant success. This she desired

with all her heart: first, from that noble thirst of glory which God has

implanted in the souls of artists; and, secondly, from the influence it

would have on the prospects of her little Jules, whom she loved with a

mother's tenderness, and whom she wished to be able to endow with all

the treasures of education. This disappointment, these long hours of

toil, rendered so vain at the very moment when she looked forward to

receive her reward, so depressed the young artist, that she became

dangerously ill.

Mademoiselle d'Orbe had very few friends, as she was an orphan, and

lived in great retirement; she found herself, therefore, completely left

to the care of her young attendant. When Jules met Henry at the

drawing-school he told him of his sister's illness: Henry informed his

mother, and Madame G---- immediately hastened to Mademoiselle d'Orbe,

whom she found in the delirium of a fever from which she had been

suffering for some days. The servant said that her mistress had refused

to send for a doctor, pretending that her illness did not signify.

Madame G----, terrified at the state of her young friend, went out and

soon returned with Dr. Raymond.

The invalid was delirious: she unceasingly repeated the

words--"portrait," "Anna Boleyn," "Exposition," "fortune," "disappointed

hopes;" which plainly indicated the cause of her illness, and brought

tears into the eyes of Madame G----.

"Alas!" she said, "it is on my account she suffers: I am the cause of

her not finishing her picture. Doctor, I am very unfortunate."

"All may be repaired," replied the doctor; "if you will promise to nurse

the invalid, I will answer for her recovery."

In fact, Madame G---- ever left the sick-bed of Mademoiselle d'Orbe. The

doctor visited her twice in the day, and their united care soon restored

the health of the interesting artist.

Mademoiselle was scarcely convalescent when she went to the Exposition

of paintings at the Louvre, of which she had heard nothing--the doctor

and Madame G---- having, as she thought, avoided touching on a subject

which might pain her. She passed alone through the galleries, crowded

with distinguished artists and elegantly-dressed ladies, saying to

herself that perhaps her picture would have been as good as many which

attracted the admiration of the crowd. She was thus walking sadly on,

looking at the spot where she had hoped to have seen her Anna Boleyn,

when she found herself stopped by a group of artists. They were

unanimous in their praises "This is the best portrait in the

Exposition," said one. "A celebrated engraver is about to buy from the

artist the right to engrave this portrait for the new edition of the

author's works," said another. "We are very fortunate in having so

faithful a likeness of so distinguished a writer as M. G----."

At this name Mademoiselle d'Orbe raised her eyes, and recognized her own

work! Pale, trembling with emotion, the young artist was obliged to lean

on the rail for support; then opening the catalogue, she read her name

as if in a dream, and remained for some time to enjoy the pleasure of

hearing the praises of her genius.

When the Exposition closed she hastened to Madame G----, and heard that

it was Dr. Raymond who had conceived the happy idea of sending the

portrait to the Louvre. "My only merit is the separating myself for a

time from a picture which is my greatest consolation," added Madame

G----.

From this day the young artist became the friend of the poor widow,

whose prospects soon brightened. Through the influence of some of the

friends of her lost husband, she obtained a pension from government--a

merited but tardy reward! The two ladies lived near each other, and

spent their evenings together. Henry and Jules played and studied

together. Marie read aloud, while her mother and Mademoiselle d'Orbe

worked. Dr. Raymond sometimes shared in this pleasant intercourse. He

had loved the young artist from the day he had seen her renounce so much

to do a generous action; but, an orphan like herself, and with no

fortune but his profession, he feared to be rejected if he offered her

his hand. It was therefore Madame G---- who charged herself with

pleading his suit with the young artist.

Mademoiselle d'Orbe felt a lively gratitude toward the young doctor for

the care and solicitude he had shown during her illness, and for sending

her portrait to the Exposition. Thanks to him, she had become known;

commissions arrived in numbers, a brilliant future opened before her and

Jules. Madame G---- had, then, a favorable answer to give to her young

friend, who soon became the husband of the interesting artist whose

generous sacrifice had been the foundation of her happiness.

THE STOLEN BANK NOTES.

The newspapers of 1810 contain a few brief paragraphs--cold, bare, and

partial as a tombstone, relative to a singular, and, to my thinking,

instructive passage in the domestic annals of Great Britain, with which

I happened to be very intimately acquainted. The impression it produced

on me at the time was vivid and profound, and a couple of lines in a

Liverpool journal the other day, curtly announcing the death of a Madame

L'Estrange, recalled each incident as freshly to memory as if graven

there but yesterday; and moreover induced me to pen the following

narrative, in which, now that I can do so without the risk of giving

pain or offense to any one, I have given the whole affair, divested of

coloring, disguise, or concealment.

My father, who had influence with the late Lord Bexley, then Mr.

Vansittart, procured me, three weeks after I came of age, a junior

clerkship in one of the best paid of our government offices. In the same

department were two young men, my seniors by about six or seven years

only, of the names of Martin Travers and Edward Capel. Their salaries

were the same--three hundred pounds a year--and both had an equal chance

of promotion to the vacancy likely soon to occur, either by the death or

superannuation of Mr. Rowdell, an aged and ailing chief-clerk. I had

known them slightly before I entered the office, inasmuch as our

families visited in the same society, and we were very soon especially

intimate with each other. They were, I found, fast friends, though

differing greatly in character and temperament. I liked Martin Travers

much the best of the two. He was a handsome, well-grown, frank-spoken,

generous young man; and never have I known a person so full of buoyant

life as he--of a temper so constantly gay and cheerful. Capel was of a

graver, more saturnine disposition, with lines about the mouth

indicative of iron inflexibility of nerve and will; yet withal a hearty

fellow enough, and living, it was suspected, _quite_ up to his income,

if not to something considerably over. I had not been more than about

three months in the office, when a marked change was perceptible in

both. Gradually they had become cold, distant, and at last utterly

estranged from each other; and it was suggested by several among us,

that jealousy as to who should succeed to Rowdell's snug salary of six

hundred a year, might have produced the evidently bad feeling between

them. This might, I thought, have generated the lowering cloud hourly

darkening and thickening upon Capel's brow, but could scarcely account

for the change in Martin Travers. He whose contagious gayety used to

render dullness and ill-humor impossible in his presence, was now

fitful, moody, irascible; his daily tasks were no longer gone through

with the old cheerful alacrity; and finally--for he was morbidly

impatient of being questioned--I jumped to the conclusion--partly from

some half-words dropped, and partly from knowing where they both

occasionally visited--that the subtle influence which from the days of

Helen downward--and I suppose upward--has pleased and plagued mankind,

was at the bottom of the matter. I was quite right, and proof was not

long waited for. I was walking early one evening along Piccadilly with

Travers--who appeared, by-the-by, to wish me further, though he was too

polite to say so--when we came suddenly upon Capel. I caught his arm,

and insisted that he should take a turn with us as he used to do. I

thought that possibly a quiet word or two on the beauty and excellence

of kindly brotherhood among men, might lead to a better feeling between

them. I was deucedly mistaken. My efforts in that line--awkwardly enough

made, I dare say--proved utterly abortive. Capel indeed turned back,

rather than, as I supposed, fussily persist in going on; but both he and

Travers strode on as stiffly as grenadiers on parade--their cheeks

flushed, their eyes alight with angry emotion, and altogether sullen and

savage as bears. What seemed odd too, when Travers turned sharply round

within a short distance of Hyde Park Corner, with a scarcely-disguised

intention of shaking us off, Capel whirled round as quickly, as if quite

as resolutely determined not to be shaken off; while I, considerably

alarmed by the result of the pacific overture I had ventured upon, did,

of course, the same. We stalked on in silence, till just as we reached

Hoby's, and a Mr. Hervey, with his daughter Constance, turned suddenly

out of St. James's-street. I was fiery hot to the tips of my ears in an

instant. Travers and Capel stopped abruptly, stared fiercely at each

other, and barely recovered presence of mind in sufficient time to lift

their hats in acknowledgment of Mr. Hervey's brief greeting, and the

lady's slight bow, as, after half-pausing, they passed on. It was all

clear enough now. My two gentlemen had come to Piccadilly in the hope of

meeting with Constance Hervey, and accompanying her home; frustrated in

this, they had determined not to lose sight of each other; nor did they

for three mortal hours, during which, anxiety lest their rancorous

ill-humor should break out into open quarrel, kept me banging about from

post to pillar with them--a sullen companionship, so utterly wearisome

that I had several times half a mind to propose that they should fight

it out at once, or toss up which should jump for the other's benefit

into the Thames. At length ten o'clock struck, and it appearing to be

mutually concluded that a visit to Kensington was no longer possible, a

sour expression of relief escaped them, and our very agreeable party

separated.

A very dangerous person in such a crisis was, I knew, this Constance

Hervey, though by no means a catch in a pecuniary sense for

well-connected young men with present salaries of three hundred a year,

and twice as much in near expectancy. Her father, who had once held his

head pretty high in the commercial world, had not long since become

bankrupt, and they were now living upon an annuity of little more, I

understood, than a hundred pounds, so secured to Mr. Hervey that his

creditors could not touch it. This consideration, however, is one that

weighs very little with men in the condition of mind of Capel and

Travers, and I felt that once enthralled by Constance Hervey's singular

beauty, escape, or resignation to disappointment was very difficult and

hard to bear. She was no favorite of mine, just then, by the way. I had

first seen her about three years previously--and even then, while yet

the light, the simplicity, the candor, of young girlhood lingered over,

and softened the rising graces of the woman, I read in the full depths

of her dark eyes an exultant consciousness of beauty, and the secret

instinct of its power. Let me, however, in fairness state that I had

myself--moon-calf that I must have been--made sundry booby, blushing

advances to the youthful beauty, and the half-amused, half-derisive

merriment with which they were received, gave a twist, no doubt, to my

opinion of the merits of a person so provokingly blind to mine. Be this,

however, as it may, there could be no question that Constance Hervey was

now a very charming woman, and I was grieved only, not surprised, at the

bitter rivalry that had sprung up between Travers and Capel--a rivalry

which each successive day but fed and strengthened!

Capel appeared to be fast losing all control over his temper and mode of

life. He drank freely--that was quite clear; gambled, it was said, and

rumors of debt, protested bills, ready money raised at exorbitant

interest on the faith of his succeeding to Rowdell's post, flew thick as

hail about the office. Should he obtain the coveted six hundred a year,

Constance Hervey would, I doubted not--first favorite as Travers now

seemed to be--condescend to be Mrs. Capel. This, not very complimentary

opinion, I had been mentally repeating some dozen times with more than

ordinary bitterness as I sat alone one evening after dinner in our

little dining-room in Golden-square, when the decision came. The

governor being out, I had perhaps taken a few extra glasses of wine, and

nothing, in my experience, so lights up and inflames tender or

exasperating reminiscences as fine old port.

"Rat-tat-tat-tat." It was unmistakably Travers's knock, and

boisterously hilarious, too, as in the old time, before any Constance

Herveys had emerged from pinafores and tuckers to distract and torment

mankind, and more especially well-to-do government clerks. The startled

maid-servant hastened to the door, and I had barely gained my feet and

stretched myself, when in bounced Travers--radiant--a-blaze with

triumph.

"Hollo, Travers! Why, where the deuce do you spring from, eh?"

"From Heaven! Paradise!--the presence of an angel at all events!"

"There, there, that will do; I quite understand."

"No, you don't Ned. Nobody but myself _can_ understand, imagine, guess,

dream of the extent the vastness of the change that has come over my

life. Firstly, then--but this is nothing--Rowdell is at length

superannuated, and I am to have his place."

He paused a moment; and I, with certainly a more than half-envious

sneer, said--"And upon the strength of that piece of luck, you have

proposed to Constance Hervey, and been accepted--of course."

"_Jubilate_--yes! Feel how my pulse throbs! It is four hours since, and

still my brain lightens and my eyes dazzle with the tumultuous joy. Do

not light the candles; I shall grow calmer in the twilight."

"Confound his raptures," was my internal ejaculation. "Why the mischief

couldn't he take them somewhere else?" I, however, said nothing, and he

presently resumed the grateful theme. "You will be at the wedding, of

course. And by-the-by, now I think of it, haven't I heard Constance say

she especially remembers you for something--I forget exactly what--but

something pleasant and amusing--very!"

My face kindled to flame, and I savagely whirled the easy chair in which

I sat two or three yards back from the fire-light before speaking. "I am

extremely obliged to the lady, and so I dare say is poor Capel, who, it

seems, has been so carelessly thrown over."

"Carelessly thrown over!" rejoined Travers, sharply. "That is a very

improper expression. If he has, as I fear, indulged in illusions, he has

been only self-deceived. Still, his double disappointment grieves me. It

seems to cast--though there is no valid reason that it should do so--a

shadow on my conscience."

We were both silent for some time. I was in no mood for talking, and he

sat gazing dreamily at the fire. I knew very well whose face he saw

there. I have seen it myself in the same place a hundred times.

"There is another drawback, Ned," he at length resumed. "Our marriage

must be deferred six months at the least. I have but about two hundred

pounds in ready money, and the lease and furniture of the house we shall

require, would cost at least double that."

"Any respectable establishment would credit you for the furniture upon

the strength of your greatly-increased salary."

"So I urged; but Constance has such a perfect horror of debt--arising

no doubt from her father's misfortunes--that she positively insists we

must wait till every thing required in our new establishment can be paid

for when purchased. I could, I think, raise the money upon my own

acceptance, but should Constance hear that I had done so, she would, I

fear, withdraw her promise."

"Stuff and nonsense! Six hundred a year can not be picked up every day."

"You do not know Constance Hervey. But come; I must have patience!

Six--nine months are not a lifetime. Good-by. I knew you would be

rejoiced to hear of my good fortune."

"Oh, of course--particularly delighted, in fact! Good-evening." I have

slept better than I did that night.

It was Sunday evening when Travers called on me, and Capel did not make

his appearance at the office till the Friday following, his excuse being

urgent private business. Harassing business, if that were so, it must

have been, for a sharp fever could scarcely have produced a greater

change for the worse in his personal appearance. He was mentally changed

as greatly. He very heartily congratulated Travers on his promotion, and

took, moreover, the first opportunity of privately assuring him that his

(Capel's) transient fancy for Miss Hervey had entirely passed away, and

he cordially complimented his former rival on having succeeded in that

quarter also. This was all remarkably queer, _I_ thought; but Travers,

from whose mind a great load seemed taken, willingly believed him, and

they were better friends than ever; Capel, the more thoroughly, it

seemed, to mark his acquiescent indifference, accompanying Travers once

or twice to the Herveys'. So did I; though I would have given something

the first time to have been any where else; for if a certain kneeling

down, garden-arbor scene did not play about the lady's coral lips, and

gleam for a moment from the corners of her bewildering eyes, my pulse

was as steady and temperate just then, as it is now, after the frosts of

more than sixty winters have chilled its beatings. She was, however,

very kind and courteous, a shade _too_ considerately gentle and

patronizing, perhaps, and I became a rather frequent visitor. An ancient

aunt, and very worthy soul, lived with them, with whom I now and then

took a turn at backgammon, while the affianced couple amused themselves

with chess--such chess! Travers was, I knew, a superior player, but on

these occasions he hardly appeared to know a queen from a rook, or a

bishop from a pawn. They were thus absurdly engaged one evening, when I

made a discovery which, if it did not much surprise, greatly pained and

somewhat alarmed me. Aunt Jane had left the room on some household

intent, and I, partly concealed in the recess where I sat, by the

window-curtain, silently contemplated the queer chess-playing, the

entranced delight of the lover, and the calm, smiling graciousness of

the lady. I have felt in a more enviable frame of mind--more composed,

more comfortable than I did just then, but, good lord! what was my

innocent little pit-pat compared with the storm of hate, and fury, and

despair, which found terrific expression in the countenance that, as

attracted by a slight noise, I hastily looked up, met my view! It was

Capel's. He had entered the room, the door being ajar, unobserved, and

was gazing, as he supposed, unmarked, at the chess-players. I was so

startled that I, mechanically, as it were, sprang to my feet, and as I

did so, Capel's features, by a strong effort of will, resumed their

ordinary expression, save for the deathly pallor that remained, and a

nervous quivering of the upper lip which could not be instantly

mastered. I was more than satisfied as to the true nature of

smooth-seeming Mr. Capel's sentiments toward the contracted couple, but

as _they_ had observed nothing, I thought it wisest to hold my peace. I

could not, however, help smiling at the confiding simplicity with which

Travers, as we all three walked homeward together, sought counsel of

Capel as to the readiest means of raising--unknown to Miss Hervey--the

funds necessary to be obtained before Prudence, as interpreted by that

lady, would permit his marriage. Slight help, thought I, for such a

purpose, will be afforded by the owner of the amiable countenance I saw

just now.

It was just a week after this that thunder fell upon our office by the

discovery that sixteen hundred pounds in Bank of England notes, sent in

by different parties, late on the previous day, had disappeared,

together with a memorandum-book containing the numbers and dates. Great,

it may be imagined, was the consternation among us all, and a rigorous

investigation, which, however, led to nothing, was immediately

instituted. Capel, who showed extraordinary zeal in the matter, went,

accompanied by one of the chief clerks, to the parties from whom the

notes had been received, for fresh lists, in order that payment might be

stopped. On their return, it was given out that no accurate, reliable

list could be obtained. This, it was afterward found, was a _ruse_

adopted in order to induce the thief or thieves to more readily attempt

getting the notes into circulation.

This occurred in the beginning of September, and about the middle of

October, Travers suddenly informed me that he was to be married on the

following Monday--this was Tuesday. The lease of a house at Hammersmith

had, he said, been agreed for, the furniture ordered, and every thing

was to be completed and paid for by the end of the present week. "And

the money--the extra two hundred and odd pounds required--how has that

been obtained?" "Of my uncle Woolridge, a marriage-_gift_, though

he won't, I believe, be present at the wedding," returned the

bridegroom-elect, with a joyous chuckle. I was quite sure from his

manner, as well as from my knowledge of his uncle's penurious character,

that this was a deception. Constance Hervey's scruples, I had always

thought, now that it was certain his next quarter's salary would

be one hundred and fifty pounds were somewhat over strained and

unreasonable--still I was vexed that he had stooped to deceive her by

such a subterfuge. It was, however, no especial affair of mine, and I

reluctantly accepted his invitation to dine at the Herveys' with him on

the last day of his bachelorhood, that is, on the following Sunday.

Capel was invited, but he refused. I also, declined, and resolutely, to

attend the wedding. That would, I felt, be _un peu trop fort_ just then.

A very pleasant party assembled at Mr. Hervey's on the afternoon of that

terrible Sunday, and we were cheerfully chatting over the dessert, when

the servant-girl announced that four gentlemen were at the door who said

they _must_ see Mr. Travers instantly.

"_Must_ see me!" exclaimed Travers. "Very peremptory, upon my word. With

your leave, sir--and yours, Constance, I will see these very determined

gentlemen here. Bid them walk in, Susan."

Before Susan could do so, the door opened, and in walked the strangers

_without_ invitation. One of them, a square, thick-set, bullet-headed

man it instantly struck me I had been in company with before. Oh! to be

sure! he was the officer who conducted the investigation in the matter

of the stolen notes. What on earth could _he_ want there--or with

Travers?

"You paid, Mr. Travers," said he, bluntly, "something over four hundred

pounds to these two gentlemen, yesterday."

"Yes, certainly I did; no doubt about it."

"Will you tell us, then, if you please, where you obtained the notes in

which you made those payments?"

"Obtained them--where I obtained them?" said Travers, who did not, I

think, immediately recognize the officer. "To be sure. Four of

them--four fifties--I have had by me for some time; and--and--"

"The two one-hundred pound notes--how about them?" quietly suggested the

man, seeing Travers hesitate.

Travers, more confused than alarmed, perhaps, but white as the paper on

which I am writing, glanced hurriedly round--we had all impulsively

risen to our feet--till his eye rested upon Constance Hervey's

eagerly-attentive countenance. "I received them," he stammered,

repeating, I was sure, a falsehood, "from my uncle, Mr. Woolridge, of

Tottenham."

"Then, of course, you will have no objection to accompany us to your

uncle, Mr. Woolridge, of Tottenham?"

"Certainly not; but not now. To-morrow--you see I am engaged now."

"I am sorry to say, Mr. Travers, that you _must_ go with us. Those two

notes were among those stolen from the office to which you belong."

There was a half-stifled scream--a broken sob, and, but for me,

Constance Hervey would have fallen senseless on the floor. Travers was

in the merciless grasp of the officers, who needlessly hurried him off,

spite of his frantic entreaties for a brief delay. The confusion and

terror of such a scene may be imagined, not described. Although at first

somewhat staggered, five minutes had not passed before I felt thoroughly

satisfied that Travers was the victim of some diabolical plot; and I

pretty well guessed of whose concoction. An untruth he had no doubt been

guilty of, through fear of displeasing his betrothed--but guilty of

stealing money--of plundering the office!--bah!--the bare supposition

was an absurdity.

As soon as Miss Hervey was sufficiently recovered to listen, I

endeavored to reason with her in this sense, but she could not

sufficiently command her attention. "My brain is dizzy and confused as

yet," she said; "do you follow, and ascertain, as far as possible, _all_

the truth--the worst truth. I shall be calmer when you return."

"I did so, and in less than two hours I was again at Kensington. Travers

was locked up, after confessing that his statement of having received

the hundred-pound notes of his uncle Woolridge, was untrue. He would

probably be examined at Bow-street the next day--his wedding-day, as he

had fondly dreamed!"

I found Constance Hervey--unlike her father and aunt, who were moaning

and lamenting about the place like distracted creatures--perfectly calm

and self-possessed, though pale as Parian marble. I told her all--all I

had heard and seen, and all that I suspected. Her eyes kindled to

intensest lustre as I spoke. "I have no doubt," she said, "that your

suspicions point the right way, but proof, confronted as we shall be by

that wretched falsehood, will, I fear, be difficult. But I will not

despair; the truth will, I trust, ultimately prevail. And remember,

Thornton," she added, "that we count entirely upon you." She gave me her

hand on saying this; I clutched it with ridiculous enthusiasm, and

blurted out--as if I had been a warlike knight instead of a peaceable

clerk--"You may, Miss Hervey, to the death!" In fact, at that particular

moment, although by no means naturally pugnacious, and, moreover, of a

somewhat delicate constitution, I think I should have proved an ugly

customer had there been any body in the way to fight with. This,

however, not being the case, I consulted with Mr. Hervey as to what

legal assistance ought to be secured, and it was finally determined that

I should request Mr. Elkins, a solicitor residing in Lothbury, to take

Travers's instructions, and that Mr. Alley, the barrister, should be

retained to attend at Bow-street. This matter settled, I took my leave.

I had a very unsatisfactory account to render on the morrow evening to

the anxious family at Kensington. Travers's appearance at Bow-street had

been deferred, at the request of his solicitor, to Wednesday, in order

that the individual from whom the prisoner _now_ declared he had

received the stolen notes might be communicated with. The explanation

given by Travers to the solicitor was briefly this: About seven months

previously he had amassed a considerable sum in guineas--then bearing a

high premium, although it was an offense at law to dispose of them for

more in silver or notes than their nominal value. Somebody--Mr. Capel,

he was pretty sure, but would not be positive--mentioned to him the name

of one Louis Brocard, of No. 18 Brewer-street, as a man who would be

likely to give him a good price for his gold. Travers accordingly saw

Brocard, who, after considerable haggling, paid him two hundred pounds

in Bank of England notes--four fifties--for one hundred and sixty-two

guineas. That lately he, Travers, had often mentioned to Capel, that he

wished to raise, as secretly as possible, on his own personal security,

a sum of at least two hundred pounds, and that Capel--this he was sure

of, as not more than a month had since elapsed--Capel had advised him to

apply to Louis Brocard for assistance. He had done so, and Brocard had

given him the two one-hundred pound notes in exchange for a note of

hand, at six months' date, for two hundred and twenty pounds. I had

obtained temporary leave of absence from the office, and at the

solicitor's request I accompanied him to Brewer-street. Brocard--a

strong-featured, swarthy _emigré_ from the south of France, Languedoc, I

believe, who had been in this country since '92, and spoke English

fluently--was at home, and I could not help thinking, from his manner,

expecting and prepared for some such visit. There was a young woman with

him, his niece, he said, Marie Deschamps, of the same cast of features

as himself, but much handsomer, and with dark fiery eyes, that upon the

least excitement seemed to burn like lightning. Brocard confirmed

Travers's statement without hesitation as to the purchase of the gold

and the discount of the bill. "In what money did you pay the two hundred

pounds for which you received the acceptance?" asked the solicitor.

"I will tell you," replied Brocard, coolly. "Marie, give me the

pocket-book from the desk--the red one. September 26th," he continued,

after adjusting his spectacles, "Martin Travers, four fifty Bank of

England notes," and he read off the dates and numbers, of which I

possess no memoranda.

"Why, those are the notes," exclaimed Mr. Elkins, very much startled,

and glancing at a list in his hand, "which you paid Mr. Travers for the

gold, and which you and others I could name, knew he had not since

parted with!"

A slight flush crossed the Frenchman's brow, and the niece's eyes

gleamed with fierce expression at these words. The emotion thus

displayed was but momentary.

"You are misinformed," said Brocard. "Here is a memorandum made at the

time (March 3d) of the notes paid for the gold. You can read it

yourself. The largest in amount, you will see, was a twenty."

"Do you mean to persist in asserting," said Mr. Elkins, after several

moments of dead silence, "that you did not pay Mr. Travers for his bill

of exchange in two one-hundred pound notes?"

"Persist!" exclaimed the Frenchman. "I don't understand your 'persist!'

I have told you the plain truth. Persist--_parbleu_!"

I was dumfoundered. "Pray, Monsieur Brocard," said the solicitor,

suddenly; "Do you know Mr. Capel?"

The swarthy flush was plainer now, and not so transitory.

"Capel--Capel," he muttered, averting his face toward his niece. "Do we

know Capel, Marie?"

"No doubt your niece does, Mr. Brocard," said the solicitor, with a

sharp sneer, "or that eloquent face of hers belies her."

In truth, Marie Deschamps's features were a-flame with confused and

angry consciousness; and her brilliant eyes sparkled with quick ire, as

she retorted, "And if I do, what then?"

"Nothing, _perhaps_, young lady; but my question was addressed to your

uncle."

"I have nothing more to say," rejoined Brocard. "I know nothing of the

hundred pound notes; very little of Mr. Capel, whom now, however, I

remember. And pray, sir," he added, with a cold, malignant smile, "did I

not hear this morning, that Martin Travers informed the officers that it

was a relation, an uncle, I believe, from whom he received the said

notes--stolen notes, it seems? He will endeavor to inculpate some one

else by-and-by, I dare say."

There was no parrying this thrust, and we came away, much disturbed and

discouraged. I remained late that evening at Kensington, talking the

unfortunate matter over; but hope, alas! of a safe deliverance for poor

Travers appeared impossible, should Brocard persist in his statement.

The prisoner's lodgings had been minutely searched, but no trace of the

still missing fourteen hundred pounds had been discovered there.

Constance Hervey appeared to be greatly struck with my account of Marie

Deschamps's appearance and demeanor, and made me repeat each

circumstance over and over again. I could not comprehend how this could

so much interest her at such a time.

Brocard repeated his statement, on oath, at Bow-street, and Mr. Alley's

cross-examination failed to shake his testimony. The first declaration

made by Travers necessarily deprived his after protestations, vehement

as they were, of all respect; but I could not help feeling surprise that

the barrister's suggestion that it was absurd to suppose that a man in

possession of the very large sum that had been stolen, would have

_borrowed_ two hundred pounds at an exorbitant interest, was treated

with contempt. All that, it was hinted, was a mere colorable contrivance

to be used in case of detection. The prisoner feared to put too many of

the notes in circulation at once, and the acceptance would have been

paid for in the stolen moneys, and so on. Finally, Travers was committed

for trial, and bail was refused.

As the star of the unfortunate Travers sank in disastrous eclipse, that

of Capel shone more brilliantly. There was no doubt that he would

succeed, on his rival's conviction, to the vacated post; and some eight

or nine weeks after Travers had been committed, circumstances occurred

which induced me to believe that he would be equally successful in

another respect. I must also say that Capel evinced from the first much

sorrow for his old friend's lamentable fall; he treated the notion of

his being guiltless with disdain, and taking me one day aside, he said

he should endeavor to get Brocard out of the country before the day of

trial either by fair means or by tipping him the Alien Act. "In fact,"

he added, with some confusion of manner, "I have faithfully promised

Miss Hervey, that for _her_ sake, though she can have no more doubt of

his guilt than I have, that no effort shall be spared to prevent his

_legal_ conviction; albeit, life, without character will be, I should

think, no great boon to him."

"For _her_ sake! You, Edward Capel, have faithfully promised Miss Hervey

to attempt this for _her_ sake!" I exclaimed, as soon as I could speak

for sheer astonishment.

"Ay, truly: does that surprise you, Thornton?" he added, with a

half-bitter, half-Malvolio smile.

"Supremely; and if it be as your manner intimates, why then, Frailty,

thy name in very truth is--"

"Woman!" broke in Capel, taking the word out of my mouth. "No doubt of

it, from the days of Eve till ours. But come, let us return to

business."

I had been for some time grievously perplexed by the behavior of

Constance Hervey. Whenever I had called at Kensington, I found, that

though at times she appeared to be on the point of breaking through a

self-imposed restraint, all mention of Travers, as far as possible, was

avoided, and that some new object engrossed the mind of Constance, to

the exclusion of every other. What a light did this revelation of

Capel's throw on her conduct and its motives! And it was such a woman as

that, was it, that I had enshrined in the inmost recesses of my heart,

and worshiped as almost a divinity! Great God!

These thoughts were trembling on my lips, when a brief note was brought

me: "Miss Hervey's compliments to Mr. Edward Thornton, and she will be

obliged if, late as it is, he will hasten to Kensington immediately." I

had never seen a line of hers before in my life, and it was wonderful

how all my anger, suspicion, scorn, vanished--exhaled, before those

little fly-stroke characters; so much so that--but no, I won't expose

myself. A hack soon conveyed me to Kensington; Mr. Hervey, Constance,

and good Aunt Jane were all there in the parlor, evidently in

expectation of my arrival. Miss Hervey proceeded to business at once.

"You have not seen Marie Deschamps lately, I believe?"

"Not I! The last time I saw her was in Bow-street, whither she

accompanied her scoundrel of an uncle."

"Well, you must see her again to-morrow. She is deeply attached to Mr.

Capel, and expects that he will marry her as soon as Martin Travers is

convicted; and he, Capel, has secured the vacant place."

"Ha!"

"Mr. Capel," continued Miss Hervey, and a glint of sparkling sunlight

shot from her charming eyes, "has been foolish enough to prefer another

person--at least so I am instructed by papa, with whom the gentleman

left this note, not yet opened, addressed to me, some three hours since.

I can imagine its contents, but let us see."

I can not depict in words the scorn, contempt, pride--triumph, too--that

swept over that beautiful countenance. "Very impassioned and eloquent,

upon my word," she said; "I only wonder such burning words did not fire

the paper. Now, Mr. Thornton, you must see this forsaken damsel, Marie

Deschamps, and acquaint her with Mr. Capel's inconstancy. She will

require proof--it shall be afforded her. In answer to this missive, I

shall appoint Mr. Capel to see me here to-morrow evening at seven

o'clock. Do you bring her by half-past six, and place yourselves in yon

little ante-room, where every thing done here, and every word spoken,

can be distinctly seen and heard. This well managed, I am greatly

deceived in those southern eyes of hers if the iniquitous plot, of which

there can be no doubt she holds the clew, will not receive an

unlooked-for solution."

"Charming! glorious! beautiful!" I was breaking into _éclats_ of

enthusiastic admiration, but Miss Hervey, who was too earnest and

excited to listen patiently to rhapsodies, cut me short with, "My dear

sir, it's getting very late, and there is, you know, much to be done

to-morrow." It's not pleasant to be let down so suddenly when you are so

particularly stilty, but as I was by this time pretty well used to it, I

submitted with the best possible grace, and, after receiving some other

explanations and directions, took leave.

I obtained an interview without difficulty, on the following morning,

with Marie Deschamps, just before office hours, and in her uncle's

absence. She was curious to know the object of my visit; but her manner,

though free and gay, was carefully guarded and unrelenting, till I

gradually and cautiously introduced the subject of Capel's infidelity.

It was marvelous how, as each sentence fell upon her ear, her figure

stiffened into statue-like rigidity, and her eyes kindled with fiery

passion. "If this be so," she said, when I ceased speaking, "he is

playing with his life! Is she the lady I passed a fortnight since, when

with him in the Park?" "Describe the lady, and I will tell you." She did

so; it was the exact portrait of Miss Hervey, and so I told her. "I had

a misgiving at the time," she said; "if it prove true--but I will

believe, after what has passed, only my own eyes and ears."

This was all we desired; a satisfactory arrangement was agreed upon, and

I left her, not without hugging self-gratulation that _I_ was not the

recreant sweetheart about to be caught _in flagrante delicto_ by such a

damsel.

I watched Capel that day with keen attention. He was much excited it was

evident, and withal ill at ease: there was a nervous apprehensiveness in

his manner and aspect I had never before noticed, over which, however,

from time to time quick flashes of exultation glimmered, sparkled, and

then vanished. Is it, thought I, the shadow of a sinister catastrophe

that already projects over and awes, appalls him? It might be.

Marie Deschamps and I were ensconced punctually at the hour named, in

the little slip of a closet communicating with the Herveys' up-stairs

sitting-room. Nobody appeared there till about five minutes to seven,

when Constance, charmingly attired, and looking divinely--though much

agitated, I could see through all her assumed firmness--entered, and

seated herself upon a small couch, directly in front of the tiny window

through which we cautiously peered. "No wonder," I mentally exclaimed,

"that Capel has been beguiled of all sense or discretion!"

In reply to Marie Deschamps' look of jealous yet admiring surprise, I

whispered, pointing to the neat but poor furniture, "Capel expects, you

know, soon to have six hundred a year." "Ah," she rejoined, in the same

tone, "and in this country gold is God!" "And all the Saints in yours, I

believe; but hark! there is a knock at the door; it is he, no doubt."

Comparatively dark as the closet was, I could see the red, swarthy color

come and go on the young woman's cheeks and forehead; and I fancied I

could hear the violent and hurried beating of her heart. Presently Mr.

Capel entered the apartment; his features were flushed as with fever,

and his whole manner exhibited uncontrollable agitation. His first words

were unintelligible, albeit their purport might be guessed. Miss Hervey,

though much disturbed also, managed to say, after a few moment's awkward

silence, and with a half-ironical yet fascinating smile, taking up as

she spoke a letter which lay upon the table, "Upon my word, Mr. Capel,

this abrupt proposal of yours appears to me, under the circumstances, to

be singularly ill-timed and premature, besides--"

The lady's discomposure had, it struck me, dissipated a half-formed

suspicion in Capel's mind that some trap or mystification was preparing

for him, and, throwing himself at the feet of Constance, he gave way to

a torrent of fervent, headlong protestation, which there could be no

question was the utterance of genuine passion. Marie Deschamps felt

this, and but that I forcibly held her back, she would have burst into

the room at once: as it was she pressed her arms across her bosom with

her utmost force, as if to compress, keep down, the wild rage by which

she was, I saw, shaken and convulsed. Miss Hervey appeared affected by

Capel's vehemence, and she insisted that he should rise and seat

himself. He did so, and after a minute or so of silence, Constance again

resolutely addressed herself to the task she had determined to perform.

"But the lady, Mr. Capel, whom we saw you conversing with not long since

in the Park; one Marie--Marie, something?"

"The name of such a person as Marie Deschamps should not sully Miss

Hervey's lips, even in jest, ha!--"

No wonder he stopped abruptly, and turned round with quick alarm. Till

that moment I had with difficulty succeeded in holding the said Marie,

but no sooner was her name thus contemptuously pronounced, than she

plucked a small, glittering instrument from her bodice--the half of a

pair of scissors, it seemed to me, but pointed and sharp as a

dagger--and drove it into my arm with such hearty good-will, that I

loosed her in a twinkling. In she burst upon the utterly astounded Capel

with a cry of rage and vengeance, and struck furiously at him right and

left, at the same time hurling in his face the epithets of "liar!"

"traitor!" "robber!" "villain!" and so on, as thick as hail, and with

maniacal fury. I had instantly followed, and at the same moment Mr.

Hervey, and the officer who arrested Travers, came in by another door. I

and Mr. Hervey placed ourselves before Constance, who was terribly

scared, for this stabbing business was more than we had looked or

bargained for. The officer seized Marie Deschamps' arm, and with some

difficulty wrenched the dangerous weapon she wielded with such deadly

ferocity from her grasp. It was, as I supposed, a sharpened

scissors-blade, and keen, as a large scar on my arm still testifies, as

a poinard. Capel, paralyzed, bewildered by so unexpected and furious an

attack, and bleeding in several places, though not seriously hurt,

staggered back to the wall, against which he supported himself, as he

gazed with haggard fear and astonishment at the menacing scene before

him.

"And so you would marry that lady, thief and villain that you are!"

continued the relentless young fury; "she shall know, then, what you

are; that it was you contrived the stealing of the bank notes, which--"

"Marie!" shrieked Capel, "dear Marie! for your own sake, stop! I will do

any thing--"

"Dog! traitor!" she broke in, with even yet wilder passion than before,

if it were possible; "it is too late. I know you now, and spit at both

you and your promises? It was you, I say, who brought my uncle the

one-hundred pound notes by which your _friend_, Martin Travers, has been

entrapped!"

"'Tis false! the passionate, mad, jealous fool lies!" shouted Capel,

with frantic terror.

"Lie, do I? Then there is _not_ a thousand pounds worth of the stolen

notes concealed at this moment beneath the floor of your sitting-room,

till an opportunity can be found of sending them abroad! That, unmatched

villain that you are, is false, too, perhaps?"

She paused from sheer exhaustion, and for a brief space no one spoke, so

suddenly had the blow fallen. Presently the officer said, "The game is

up, you see, at last, Mr. Capel; you will go with me;" and he stepped

toward the unhappy culprit. Capel, thoroughly desperate, turned, sprang

with surprising agility over a dining-table, threw up a window-sash, and

leapt into the street. The height was not so much, but his feet caught

in some iron railing, and he fell head foremost on the pavement,

fracturing his skull frightfully. Before an hour had passed, he was

dead.

Brocard contrived to escape, but the evidence of Marie Deschamps and the

finding of the stolen notes, in accordance with her statement, fully

established the innocence of Travers, and he was restored to freedom and

his former position in the world. He and Constance Hervey, to whom he

owed so much, were married three months after his liberation, and I

officiated, by particular desire, as bride's father.

I had lost sight of Marie Deschamps for some twelve or thirteen years,

when I accidentally met her in Liverpool. She was a widow, having

married and buried a M. L'Estrange, a well-to-do person there, who left

her in decent circumstances. We spoke together of the events I have

briefly but faithfully narrated, and she expressed much contrition for

the share she had taken in the conspiracy against Travers. I fancied,

too--it was perhaps an unjust fancy--that, knowing I had lately been

promoted to four hundred a year, she wished to dazzle me with those

still bright eyes of hers--a bootless effort, by whomsoever attempted.

The talismanic image daguerreotyped upon my heart in the bright sunlight

of young manhood, could have no rival there, and is even now as fresh

and radiant as when first impressed, albeit the strong years have done

their work, yet very gently, upon the original. It could scarcely be

otherwise, living visibly, as she still does, in youthful grace and

beauty in the person of the gay gipsy I am, please God, soon to "give

away," at St. Pancras Church, as I did her grandmamma, more than forty

years ago, at Kensington. Constance, _this_ Constance is, as she well

knows, to be my heiress. Travers, her grandfather, is now a

silver-haired, yet hale, jocund, old man; and so tenderly, I repeat, has

Time dealt with his wife--the Constance Hervey of this narrative--that I

can sometimes hardly believe her to be more than about three or four and

forty years of age. This is, however, perhaps only an illusion of the

long and, whatever fools or skeptics may think, or say, elevating dream

that has pursued me through youth and middle age, even unto confirmed

old bachelorhood. Madame L'Estrange, as before stated, died a short time

since at Liverpool; her death, by influenza, the paper noticed, was

sudden and unexpected.

WONDERFUL TOYS.

Very wonderful things are told by various writers of the power of

inventive genius in expending itself upon trifles. Philip Camuz

describes an extraordinary automaton group that was got up, regardless,

of course, of expense, for the entertainment of Louis the Fourteenth.

It consisted of a coach and horses--what a modern coachman would

designate "a first-rate turn-out." Its road was a table; and, at

starting, the coachman smacked his whip, the horses began to prance;

then, subsiding into a long trot, they continued until the whole

equipage arrived opposite to where the King sat. They then stopped, a

footman dismounted from the foot-board, opened the door, and handed out

a lady; who, courtesying gracefully, offered a petition to his Majesty,

and re-entered the carriage. The footman jumped up behind--all

right--the whip smacked once more; the horses pranced, and the long trot

was resumed.

Some of the stories extant, respecting musical automata, are no less

extraordinary. D'Alembert gives an account, in the "_Encyclopédie

Methodique_," of a gigantic mechanical Flute-player. It stood on a

pedestal, in which some of the "works" were contained; and, not only

blew into the flute, but, with its lips, increased or diminished the

tones it forced out of the instrument, performing the legato and

staccato passages to perfection. The fingering was also quite accurate.

This marvelous Flautist was exhibited in Paris in 1738, and was made by

Jacques de Vaucanson, the prince of automaton contrivers.

Vaucanson labored under many disadvantages in constructing this

marvelous figure; among others, that of a skeptic uncle; who, for some

years, laughed him out of his project. At length, fortune favored the

mechanist with a severe illness; and he took advantage of it to contrive

the automaton he had so long dreamt of. This was at Grenoble; and, as

Vaucanson designed each portion of the figure, he sent it to be made by

a separate workman; that no one should find out the principle of his

invention. As the pieces came home, he put them together; and, when the

whole was completed, he crawled out of bed, by the help of a servant who

had been his go-between with the various operative mechanics, and locked

his chamber door. Trembling with anxiety, he wound up the works. At the

first sound emitted from the flute, the servant fell on his knees, and

began to worship his master as somebody more than mortal. They both

embraced each other, and wept with joy to the tune which the figure was

merrily playing.

None of Vaucanson's imitators have been able to accomplish the

organization by which his figure modified the tones, by the action of

the lips; although several flute-playing puppets have since been made.

About forty years ago there was an exhibition in London, of two

mechanical figures, of the size of life, which performed duets.

Incredulous visitors were in the habit of placing their fingers on the

holes of the flutes, in order to convince themselves that the puppets

really supplied the wind, which caused the flutes to discourse such

excellent music.

A full orchestra of clock-work musicians is quite possible. Maelzel, the

inventor of the Metronome, opened an exhibition in Vienna, in 1809, in

which an automaton Trumpeter as large as life, performed with

surprising accuracy and power. The audience first saw, on entering the

room, a tent. Presently the curtains opened, and Maelzel appeared

leading forward the trumpeter, attired in full regimentals of an

Austrian dragoon. He then pressed the left epaulet of the figure, and it

began to sound, not only all the cavalry flails then in use for

directing the evolutions of the Austrian cavalry, but to play a march,

and an allegro by Weigl, which was accompanied by a full band of living

musicians. The figure then retired; and, in a few minutes, reappeared in

the dress of a trumpeter of the French guard. The inventor wound it up

on the left hip; another touch on the left shoulder, and forth came from

the trumpet, in succession, all the French cavalry-calls, the French

cavalry march, a march by Dussek, and one of Pleyel's allegros; again

accompanied by the orchestra. In the _Journal des Modes_, whence this

account is derived, it is declared that the tones produced by Maelzel's

automaton were even fuller and richer than those got out of a trumpet by

human lungs and lips; because a man's breath imparts to the inside of

the instrument a moisture which deteriorates the quality of the tone.

Vaucanson has, however, never been outdone; after his Flautist, he

produced a figure which accompanied a flageolet played with one hand,

with a tambourine struck with the other. But his most wonderful

achievements were in imitating animals. His duck became a wonder of the

world. He simulated nature in the minutest point. Every bone, every

fibre, every organ, were so accurately constructed and fitted, that the

mechanism waddled about in search of grain; and, when it found some,

picked it up with its bill and swallowed it. "This grain" (we quote from

the _Biographie Universelle_) "produced in the stomach a species of

trituration, which caused it to pass into the intestines, and to perform

all the functions of digestion." The wonderful duck was not to be

distinguished from any live duck. It muddled the water with its beak,

drank, and quacked to the life. From men and ducks Vaucanson descended

to insects. When Marmontel brought out his tragedy of "Cleopatra,"

Vaucanson obliged the author with a mechanical Aspic, in order that the

heroine might be stung with the closest imitation of nature. At the

proper moment the insect darted forth from the side-scenes, and settled

upon the actress, hissing all the while. A wit, on being asked his

opinion of the play, answered pithily, "_I_ agree with the Aspic."

One never contemplates these wonders without regretting that so much

mechanical genius should have been mis-expended upon objects by which

mankind are no gainers beyond a little fleeting gratification. Vaucanson

did not, however, wholly waste himself upon ingenious trifling. He was

appointed by Cardinal Fleury, Inspector of Silk Manufactories, into

which he introduced, during a visit to Lyons, some labor-saving

improvements. In return for this, the workmen stoned him out of the

town; but he conveyed his opinion of their folly by constructing and

setting to work a machine which produced a very respectable flower

pattern in silk damask by the aid of an Ass. Had his genius confined

itself wholly to the useful arts, it is not to be doubted that Vaucanson

would have advanced the productive powers of machinery, and,

consequently, the prosperity of mankind, at least half a century. In

point of abstract ingenuity, his useless contrivances equal, if they do

not exceed in inventive power and mechanical skill, the important

achievements of Arkwright and Watt. Vaucanson's inventions died with

him; those of the great English engineers will live to increase the

happiness and comfort of mankind forever.

Single mechanical figures, including the automaton Chess-player (which

was scarcely a fair deception, and is too well known to need more than a

passing allusion), although surprising for their special performances,

were hardly more attractive than the groups of automata which have been

from time to time exhibited. One of the Memoirs of the French Academy of

Sciences describes, in 1729, a set of mechanical puppets, which were at

that time performing a pantomime in five acts. In 1746, Bienfait, the

show-man, brought out "The Bombardment of the City of Antwerp," which

was performed in the most soldier-like manner, by automata; all the

artillery being served and discharged with that regularity which is

always attributed to clock-work. A year or two later, the same artist

produced "The Grand Assault of Bergem-op-Zoom," with unequivocal

success. He called his company _Comédiens praticiens_.

The latest notable effort of mechanical puppet manufacture is exhibited

at Boulogne at the present time. It is that of a jeweler, who has

devoted eight years of his life to the perfection of a clock-work

conjuror; which he has made a thorough master of the thimble-rig.

Dressed in an Eastern costume, this necromancer stands behind a table,

covered, as the tables of professors of legerdemain usually are, with

little boxes and cabinets, from which he takes the objects he employs

during the exhibition. He produces his goblets, and shows the balls

under them; which vanish and reappear in the most approved style: now

two or three are conjured into a spot, a moment before vacant;

presently, these disappear again, and are perpetually divided and

re-united.

At every exclamation of the spectators, the little conjuror turns his

eyes from side to side, as if looking round the house; smiles, casts his

eyes modestly down, bows, and resumes his sleight-of-hand. He not only

takes up the goblets from a stand, and places them over the balls, but

leaves them there for a minute, and holds his hands up, to show the

audience that he conceals nothing in his palm or sleeve. He then seizes

the goblets again and goes on. This trick over, he puts his cups away,

and shuts his cabinet. He then knocks on his table, and up starts an

egg, to which he points, to secure attention; he touches the egg (which

opens lengthwise) and a little bird starts into life; sings a

roundelay, claps its enameled wings--which are of real hummingbirds'

feathers, beyond any metallic art in lustre--and then falls back into

its egg. The little conjuror nods, smiles, rolls his eyes right and

left, bows as before, and the egg disappears into the table; he bows

again, and then sits down to intimate that the performance is over. The

height of this little gentleman is about three inches; his table and

every thing else being in due proportion. He stands on a high square

pedestal, apparently of marble. It is, however, of tin, painted white,

and within it are all the wheels and works containing the heart of the

mystery.

This jeweler sold to a dealer, who re-sold to a Persian Prince, not long

since, a Marionnette flute-player; but whose fingering in the most

elaborate pieces, although as accurate as if Drouet or Nicholson had

been the performers, had no influence over the tune; which was played by

a concealed musical box. It was therefore, much inferior to those

mechanical flautists we have already described. The jeweler has never

ceased to regret having sold this toy. He could have borne to have

parted with it if it had remained in Europe, but that it should have

been conveyed, as he says, "to the other world," has been too cruel a

blow. "_Tout le monde_," he exclaims, "_sera enchanté de mon ouvrage;

mais, on ne parlera pas de moi, là-bas_"--all the world will be

enchanted with my work, but no one will speak of me yonder--by which

distant region, he probably means Ispahan.

He is now perfecting a beautiful bird, which flies from spray to spray,

and sings when it alights, somewhat similarly to the little Swiss bird

which warbled so sweetly at the Great Exhibition.

MY TRAVELING COMPANION.

My picture was a failure. Partial friends had guaranteed its success;

but the Hanging Committee and the press are not composed of one's

partial friends. The Hanging Committee thrust me into the darkest corner

of the octagon-room, and the press ignored my existence--excepting in

one instance, when my critic dismissed me in a quarter of a line as a

"presumptuous dauber." I was stunned with the blow, for I had counted so

securely on the £200 at which my grand historical painting was

dog-cheap--not to speak of the deathless fame which it was to create for

me--that I felt like a mere wreck when my hopes were flung to the

ground, and the untasted cup dashed from my lips. I took to my bed, and

was seriously ill. The doctor bled me till I fainted, and then said,

that he had saved me from a brain-fever. That might be, but he very

nearly threw me into a consumption, only that I had a deep chest and a

good digestion. Pneumonic expansion and active chyle saved me from an

early tomb, yet I was too unhappy to be grateful.

But why did my picture fail? Surely it possessed all the elements of

success! It was grandly historical in subject, original in treatment,

pure in coloring; what, then, was wanting? This old warrior's head, of

true Saxon type, had all the majesty of Michael Angelo; that young

figure, all the radiant grace of Correggio; no Rembrandt showed more

severe dignity than yon burnt umber monk in the corner; and Titian never

excelled the loveliness of this cobalt virgin in the foreground. Why did

it not succeed? The subject, too--the "Finding of the Body of Harold by

Torch-light"---was sacred to all English hearts; and being conceived in

an entirely new and original manner, it was redeemed from the charge of

triteness and wearisomeness. The composition was pyramidal, the apex

being a torch home aloft for the "high light," and the base showing some

very novel effects of herbage and armor. But it failed. All my skill,

all my hope, my ceaseless endeavor, my burning visions, all--all had

failed; and I was only a poor, half-starved painter, in Great

Howland-street, whose landlady was daily abating in her respect, and the

butcher daily abating in his punctuality; whose garments were getting

threadbare, and his dinners hypothetical, and whose day-dreams of fame

and fortune had faded into the dull-gray of penury and disappointment. I

was broken-hearted, ill, hungry; so I accepted an invitation from a

friend, a rich manufacturer in Birmingham, to go down to his house for

the Christmas holidays. He had a pleasant place in the midst of some

iron-works, the blazing chimneys of which, he assured me, would afford

me some exquisite studies of "light" effects.

By mistake, I went by the Express train, and so was thrown into the

society of a lady whose position would have rendered any acquaintance

with her impossible, excepting under such chance-conditions as the

present; and whose history, as I learned it afterward, led me to reflect

much on the difference between the reality and the seeming of life.

She moved my envy. Yes--base, mean, low, unartistic, degrading as is

this passion, I felt it rise up like a snake in my breast when I saw

that feeble woman. She was splendidly dressed--wrapped in furs of the

most costly kind, trailing behind; her velvets and lace worth a

countess's dowry. She was attended by obsequious menials; surrounded by

luxuries; her compartment of the carriage was a perfect palace in all

the accessories which it was possible to collect in so small a space;

and it seemed as though "Cleopatra's cup" would have been no

impracticable draught for her. She gave me more fully the impression of

luxury, than any person I had ever met with before; and I thought I had

reason when I envied her.

She was lifted into the carriage carefully; carefully swathed in her

splendid furs and lustrous velvets; and placed gently, like a wounded

bird, in her warm nest of down. But she moved languidly, and fretfully

thrust aside her servants' busy hands, indifferent to her comforts, and

annoyed by her very blessings. I looked into her face: it was a strange

face, which had once been beautiful; but ill-health, and care, and

grief, had marked it now with deep lines, and colored it with unnatural

tints. Tears had washed out the roses from her cheeks, and set large

purple rings about her eyes; the mouth was hard and pinched, but the

eyelids swollen; while the crossed wrinkles on her brow told the same

tale of grief grown petulant, and of pain grown soured, as the thin lip,

quivering and querulous, and the nervous hand, never still and never

strong.

The train-bell rang, the whistle sounded, the lady's servitors stood

bareheaded and courtesying to the ground, and the rapid rush of the iron

giant bore off the high-born dame and the starveling painter in strange

companionship. Unquiet and unresting--now shifting her place--now

letting down the glass for the cold air to blow full upon her withered

face, then drawing it up, and chafing her hands and feet by the

warm-water apparatus concealed in her _chauffe-pied_, while shivering as

if in an ague-fit--sighing deeply--lost in thought--wildly looking out

and around for distraction--she soon made me ask myself whether my envy

of her was as true as deep sympathy and pity would have been.

"But her wealth--her wealth!" I thought. "True she may suffer, but how

gloriously she is solaced! She may weep, but the angels of social life

wipe off her tears with perfumed linen, gold embroidered; she may

grieve, but her grief makes her joys so much the more blissful. Ah! she

is to be envied after all!--envied, while I, a very beggar, might well

scorn my place now!"

Something of this might have been in my face, as I offered my sick

companion some small attention--I forget what--gathering up one of her

luxurious trifles, or arranging her cushions. She seemed almost to read

my thoughts as her eyes rested on my melancholy face; and saying

abruptly: "I fear you are unhappy, young man?" she settled herself in

her place like a person prepared to listen to a pleasant tale.

"I am unfortunate, madam," I answered.

"Unfortunate?" she said impatiently. "What! with youth and health, can

you call yourself unfortunate? When the whole world lies untried before

you, and you still live in the golden atmosphere of hope, can you pamper

yourself with sentimental sorrows? Fie upon you!--fie upon you! What are

your sorrows compared with mine?"

"I am ignorant of yours, madam," I said, respectfully; "but I know my

own; and, knowing them, I can speak of their weight and bitterness. By

your very position, you can not undergo the same kind of distress as

that overwhelming me at this moment: you may have evils in your path of

life, but they can not equal mine."

"Can any thing equal the evils of ruined health and a desolated hearth?"

she cried, still in the same impatient manner. "Can the worst griefs of

wayward youth equal the bitterness of that cup which you drink at such a

time of life as forbids all hope of after-assuagement? Can the first

disappointment of a strong heart rank with the terrible desolation of a

wrecked old age? You think because you see about me the evidences of

wealth, that I must be happy. Young man, I tell you truly, I would

gladly give up every farthing of my princely fortune, and be reduced to

the extreme of want, to bring back from the grave the dear ones lying

there, or pour into my veins one drop of the bounding blood of health

and energy which used to make life a long play-hour of delight. Once, no

child in the fields, no bird in the sky, was more blessed than I; and

what am I now?--a sickly, lonely old woman, whose nerves are shattered

and whose heart is broken, without hope or happiness on the earth! Even

death has passed me by in forgetfulness and scorn!"

Her voice betrayed the truth of her emotion. Still, with an accent of

bitterness and complaint, rather than of simple sorrow, it was the voice

of one fighting against her fate, more than of one suffering acutely and

in despair: it was petulant rather than melancholy; angry rather than

grieving; showing that her trials had hardened, not softened her heart.

"Listen to me," she then said, laying her hand en my arm, "and perhaps

my history may reconcile you to the childish depression, from what cause

soever it may be, under which you are laboring. You are young and

strong, and can bear any amount of pain as yet: wait until you reach my

age, and then you will know the true meaning of the word despair! I am

rich, as you may see," she continued, pointing to her surroundings: "in

truth, so rich that I take no account either of my income or my

expenditure. I have never known life under any other form; I have never

known what it was to be denied the gratification of one desire which

wealth could purchase, or obliged to calculate the cost of a single

undertaking. I can scarcely realize the idea of poverty. I see that all

people do not live in the same style as myself; but I can not understand

that it is from inability: it always seems to me to be from their own

disinclination. I tell you, I can not fully realize the idea of poverty;

and you think this must make me happy, perhaps?" she added, sharply,

looking full in my face.

"I should be happy, madam, if I were rich," I replied. "Suffering now

from the strain of poverty, it is no marvel if I place an undue value on

plenty."

"Yet see what it does for me!" continued my companion. "Does it give me

back my husband, my brave boys, my beautiful girl? Does it give rest to

this weary heart, or relief to this aching head? Does it soothe my mind

or heal my body? No! It but oppresses me, like a heavy robe thrown round

weakened limbs: it is even an additional misfortune, for if I were poor,

I should be obliged to think of other things besides myself and my woes;

and the very mental exertion necessary to sustain my position would

lighten my miseries. I have seen my daughter wasting year by year and

day by day, under the warm sky of the south--under the warm care of

love! Neither climate nor affection could save her: every effort was

made--the best advice procured--the latest panacea adopted; but to no

effect. Her life was prolonged, certainly; but this simply means, that

she was three years in dying, instead of three months. She was a

gloriously lovely creature, like a fair young saint for beauty and

purity--quite an ideal thing, with her golden hair and large blue eyes!

She was my only girl--my youngest, my darling, my best treasure! My

first real sorrow--now fifteen years ago--was when I saw her laid, on

her twenty-first birthday, in the English burial-ground at Madeira. It

is on the grave-stone, that she died of consumption: would that it had

been added--and her mother of grief! From the day of her death, my

happiness left me!"

Here the poor lady paused, and buried her face in her hands. The first

sorrow was evidently also the keenest; and I felt my own eyelids moist

as I watched this outpouring of the mother's anguish. After all, here

was grief beyond the power of wealth to assuage: here was sorrow deeper

than any mere worldly disappointment.

"I had two sons," she went on to say, after a short time--"only two.

They were fine young men, gifted and handsome. In fact, all my children

were allowed to be very models of beauty. One entered the army, the

other the navy. The eldest went with his regiment to the Cape, where he

married a woman of low family--an infamous creature of no blood; though

she was decently conducted for a low-born thing as she was. She was

well-spoken of by those who knew her; but what _could_ she be with a

butcher for a grandfather! However, my poor infatuated son loved her to

the last. She was very pretty, I have heard--young, and timid; but being

of such fearfully low origin, of course she could not be recognized by

my husband or myself! We forbade my son all intercourse with us, unless

he would separate himself from her; but the poor boy was perfectly mad,

and he preferred this low-born wife to his father and mother. They had a

little baby, who was sent over to me when the wife died--for, thank God!

she did die in a few years' time. My son was restored to our love, and

he received our forgiveness; but we never saw him again. He took a fever

of the country, and was a corpse in a few hours. My second boy was in

the navy--a fine, high-spirited fellow, who seemed to set all the

accidents of life at defiance. I could not believe in any harm coming to

_him_. He was so strong, so healthy, so beautiful, so bright: he might

have been immortal, for all the elements of decay that showed themselves

in him. Yet this glorious young hero was drowned--wrecked off a

coral-reef, and flung like a weed on the waters. He lost his own life in

trying to save that of a common sailor--a piece of pure gold bartered

for the foulest clay! Two years after this, my husband died of typhus

fever, and I had a nervous attack, from which I have never recovered.

And now, what do you say to this history of mine? For fifteen years, I

have never been free from sorrow. No sooner did one grow so familiar to

me, that I ceased to tremble at its hideousness, than another, still

more terrible, came to overwhelm me in fresh misery. For fifteen years,

my heart has never known an hour's peace; and to the end of my life, I

shall be a desolate, miserable, broken-hearted woman. Can you

understand, now, the valuelessness of my riches, and how desolate my

splendid house must seem to me? They have been given me for no useful

purpose here or hereafter; they encumber me, and do no good to others.

Who is to have them when I die? Hospitals and schools? I hate the

medical profession, and I am against the education of the poor. I think

it the great evil of the day, and I would not leave a penny of mine to

such a radical wrong. What is to become of my wealth--?"

"Your grandson," I interrupted, hastily: "the child of the officer."

The old woman's face gradually softened. "Ah! he is a lovely boy," she

said; "but I don't love him--no, I don't," she repeated, vehemently. "If

I set my heart on him, he will die or turn out ill: take to the low ways

of his wretched mother, or die some horrible death. I steel my heart

against him, and shut him out from my calculations of the future. He is

a sweet boy: interesting, affectionate, lovely; but I will not allow

myself to love him, and I don't allow him to love me! But you ought to

see him. His hair is like my own daughter's--long, glossy, golden hair;

and his eyes are large and blue, and the lashes curl on his cheek like

heavy fringes. He is too pale and too thin: he looks sadly delicate; but

his wretched mother was a delicate little creature, and he has doubtless

inherited a world of disease and poor blood from her. I wish he was here

though, for you to see; but I keep him at school, for when he is much

with me, I feel myself beginning to be interested in him; and I do not

wish to love him--I do not wish to remember him at all! With that

delicate frame and nervous temperament, he _must_ die; and why should I

prepare fresh sorrow for myself, by taking him into my heart, only to

have him plucked out again by death?"

All this was said with the most passionate vehemence of manner, as if

she were defending herself against some unjust charge. I said something

in the way of remonstrance. Gently and respectfully, but firmly, I spoke

of the necessity for each soul to spiritualize its aspirations, and to

raise itself from the trammels of earth; and in speaking thus to her, I

felt my own burden lighten off my heart, and I acknowledged that I had

been both foolish and sinful in allowing my first disappointment to

shadow all the sunlight of my existence. I am not naturally of a

desponding disposition, and nothing but a blow as severe as the

non-success of my "Finding the Body of Harold by Torch-light" could have

affected me to the extent of mental prostration, as that under which I

was now laboring. But this was very hard to bear! My companion listened

to me with a kind of blank surprise, evidently unaccustomed to the

honesty of truth; but she bore my remarks patiently, and when I had

ended, she even thanked me for my advice.

"And now, tell me the cause of your melancholy face?" she asked, as we

were nearing Birmingham. "Your story can not be very long, and I shall

have just enough time to hear it."

I smiled at her authoritative tone, and said quietly: "I am an artist,

madam, and I had counted much on the success of my first historical

painting. It has failed, and I am both penniless and infamous. I

am the 'presumptuous dauber' of the critics--despised by my

creditors--emphatically a failure throughout."

"Pshaw!" cried the lady, impatiently; "and what is that for a grief! a

day's disappointment which a day's labor can repair! To me, your

troubles seem of no more worth than a child's tears when he has broken

his newest toy! Here is Birmingham, and I must bid you farewell. Perhaps

you will open the door for me? Good-morning: you have made my journey

pleasant, and relieved my ennui. I shall be happy to see you in town,

and to help you forward in your career."

And with these words, said in a strange, indifferent, matter-of-fact

tone, as of one accustomed to all the polite offers of good society,

which mean nothing tangible, she was lifted from the carriage by a train

of servants, and borne off the platform.

I looked at the card which she placed in my hand, and read the address

of "Mrs. Arden, Belgrave-square."

I found my friend waiting for me; and in a few moments was seated before

a blazing fire in a magnificent drawing-room, surrounded with every

comfort that hospitality could offer, or luxury invent.

"Here, at least, is happiness," I thought, as I saw the family assemble

in the drawing-room before dinner. "Here are beauty, youth, wealth,

position--all that makes life valuable. What concealed skeleton can

there be in this house to frighten away one grace of existence?

None--none! They must be happy; and, oh! what a contrast to that poor

lady I met with to-day; and what a painful contrast to myself!"

And all my former melancholy returned like a heavy cloud upon my brow;

and I felt that I stood like some sad ghost in a fairy-land of beauty,

so utterly out of place was my gloom in the midst of all this gayety and

splendor.

One daughter attracted my attention more than the rest. She was the

eldest, a beautiful girl of about twenty-three, or she might have been

even a few years older. Her face was quite of the Spanish style--dark,

expressive, and tender; and her manners were the softest and most

bewitching I had ever seen. She was peculiarly attractive to an artist,

from the exceeding beauty of feature, as well as from the depth of

expression which distinguished her. I secretly sketched her portrait on

my thumb-nail, and in my own mind I determined to make her the model for

my next grand attempt at historical composition--"the Return of

Columbus." She was to be the Spanish queen; and I thought of myself as

Ferdinand; for I was not unlike a Spaniard in appearance, and I was

almost as brown.

I remained with my friend a fortnight, studying the midnight effects of

the iron-foundries, and cultivating the acquaintance of Julia. In these

two congenial occupations, the time passed like lightning, and I woke as

from a pleasant dream, to the knowledge of the fact, that my visit was

expected to be brought to a close. I had been asked, I remembered, for a

week, and I had doubled my furlough. I hinted at breakfast, that I was

afraid I must leave my kind friends to-morrow, and a general regret was

expressed, but no one asked me to stay longer; so the die was unhappily

cast.

Julia was melancholy. I could not but observe it; and I confess that the

observation caused me more pleasure than pain. Could it be sorrow at my

departure? We had been daily, almost hourly, companions for fourteen

days, and the surmise was not unreasonable. She had always shown me

particular kindness, and she could not but have seen my marked

preference for her. My heart beat wildly as I gazed on her pale cheek

and drooping eyelid; for though she had been always still and gentle, I

had never seen--certainly I had never noticed--such evident traces of

sorrow, as I saw in her face to-day. Oh, if it were for me, how I would

bless each pang which pained that beautiful heart!--how I would cherish

the tears that fell, as if they had been priceless diamonds from the

mine!--how I would joy in her grief and live in her despair! It might be

that out of evil would come good, and from the deep desolation of my

unsold "Body" might arise the heavenly blessedness of such love as this!

I was intoxicated with my hopes; and was on the point of making a public

idiot of myself, but happily some slight remnant of common sense was

left me. However, impatient to learn my fate, I drew Julia aside; and,

placing myself at her feet, while she was enthroned on a luxurious

ottoman, I pretended that I must conclude the series of lectures on art,

and the best methods of coloring, on which I had been employed with her

ever since my visit.

"You seem unhappy to-day, Miss Reay," I said, abruptly, with my voice

trembling like a girl's.

She raised her large eyes languidly. "Unhappy? no, I am never unhappy,"

she said, quietly.

Her voice never sounded so silvery sweet, so pure and harmonious. It

fell like music on the air.

"I have, then, been too much blinded by excess of beauty to have been

able to see correctly," I answered. "To me you have appeared always

calm, but never sad; but to-day there is a palpable weight of sorrow on

you, which a child might read. It is in your voice, and on your eyelids,

and round your lips; it is on you like the moss on the young

rose--beautifying while vailing the dazzling glory within."

"Ah! you speak far too poetically for me," said Julia, smiling. "If you

will come down to my level for a little while, and will talk to me

rationally, I will tell you my history. I will tell it you as a lesson

for yourself, which I think will do you good."

The cold chill that went to my soul! Her history! It was no diary of

facts that I wanted to hear, but only a register of feelings--a register

of feelings in which I should find myself the only point whereto the

index was set. History! what events deserving that name could have

troubled the smooth waters of her life?

I was silent, for I was disturbed; but Julia did not notice either my

embarrassment or my silence, and began, in her low, soft voice, to open

one of the saddest chapters of life which I had ever heard.

"You do not know that I am going into a convent?" she said; then,

without waiting for an answer, she continued: "This is the last month of

my worldly life. In four weeks, I shall have put on the white robe of

the novitiate, and in due course I trust to be dead forever to this

earthly life."

A heavy, thick, choking sensation in my throat, and a burning pain

within my eyeballs, warned me to keep silence. My voice would have

betrayed me.

"When I was seventeen," continued Julia, "I was engaged to my cousin. We

had been brought up together from childhood, and we loved each other

perfectly. You must not think, because I speak so calmly now, that I

have not suffered in the past. It is only by the grace of resignation

and of religion, that I have been brought to my present condition of

spiritual peace. I am now five-and-twenty--next week I shall be

six-and-twenty: that is just nine years since I was first engaged to

Laurence. He was not rich enough, and indeed he was far too young, to

marry, for he was only a year older than myself; and if he had had the

largest possible amount of income, we could certainly not have married

for three years. My father never cordially approved of the engagement,

though he did not oppose it. Laurence was taken partner into a large

concern here, and a heavy weight of business was immediately laid on

him. Youthful as he was, he was made the sole and almost irresponsible

agent in a house which counted its capital by millions, and through

which gold flowed like water. For some time, he went on well--to a

marvel, well. He was punctual, vigilant, careful; but the responsibility

was too much for the poor boy: the praises he received, the flattery and

obsequiousness which, for the first time, were lavished on the

friendless youth, the wealth at his command, all turned his head. For a

long time, we heard vague rumors of irregular conduct; but as he was

always the same good, affectionate, respectful, happy Laurence, when

with us, even my father, who is so strict, and somewhat suspicious,

turned a deaf ear to them. I was the earliest to notice a slight change,

first in his face, and then in his manners. At last, the rumors ceased

to be vague, and became definite. Business neglected; fatal habits

visible, even in the early day; the frightful use of horrible words,

which once he would have trembled to use; the nights passed at the

gaming-table, and the days spent in the society of the worst men on the

turf--all these accusations were brought to my father by credible

witnesses; and, alas! they were too true to be refuted. My

father--heaven and the holy saints bless his gray head!--kept them from

me as long as he could. He forgave him again and again, and used every

means that love and reason could employ to bring him back into the way

of right; but he could do nothing against the force of such fatal habits

as those to which my poor Laurence had now become wedded. With every

good intention, and with much strong love for me burning sadly amid the

wreck of his virtues, he yet would not refrain: the evil one had

overcome him; he was his prey here and hereafter. Oh, no--not

hereafter!" she added, raising her hands and eyes to heaven, "if prayer,

if fasting, patient vigil, incessant striving, may procure him

pardon--not forever his prey! Our engagement was broken off; and this

step, necessary as it was, completed his ruin. He died...." Here a

strong shudder shook her from head to foot and I half rose, in alarm.

The next instant she was calm.

"Now, you know my history," continued she. "It is a tragedy of real

life, which you will do well, young painter, to compare with your own!"

With a kindly pressure of the hand, and a gentle smile--oh! so sweet, so

pure and heavenly!--Julia Reay left me; while I sat perfectly awed--that

is the only word I can use--with the revelation which she had made both

of her history and of her own grand soul.

"Come with me to my study," said Mr. Reay, entering the room; "I have a

world to talk to you about. You go to-morrow, you say. I am sorry for

it; but I must therefore settle my business with you in good time

to-day."

I followed him mechanically, for I was undergoing a mental castigation

which rather disturbed me. Indeed, like a young fool--as eager in

self-reproach as in self-glorification--I was so occupied in inwardly

calling myself hard names, that even when my host gave me a commission

for my new picture, "The Return of Columbus," at two hundred and fifty

pounds, together with an order to paint himself, Mrs. Reay, and

half-a-dozen of their children, I confess it with shame, that I received

the news like a leaden block, and felt neither surprise nor joy--not

though these few words chased me from the gates of the Fleet, whither I

was fast hastening, and secured me both position and daily bread. The

words of that beautiful girl were still ringing in my ears, mixed up

with the bitterest self-accusations; and these together shut out all

other sound, however pleasant. But that was always my way.

I went back to London, humbled and yet strengthened, having learned more

of human nature and the value of events, in one short fortnight, than I

had ever dreamed of before. The first lessons of youth generally come in

hard shape. I had sense enough to feel that I had learned mine gently,

and that I had cause to be thankful for the mildness of the teaching.

From a boy, I became a man, judging more accurately of humanity than a

year's ordinary experience would have enabled me to do. And the moral

which I drew was this: that under our most terrible afflictions, we may

always gain some spiritual good, if we suffer them to be softening and

purifying, rather than hardening influences over us. And also, that

while we are suffering the most acutely, we may be sure that others are

suffering still more acutely; and if we would but sympathize with them

more than with ourselves--live out of our own selves, and in the wide

world around us--we would soon be healed while striving to heal others.

Of this I am convinced: the secret of life, and of all its good, is in

love; and while we preserve this, we can never fail of comfort. The

sweet waters will always gush out over the sandiest desert of our lives

while we can love; but without it--nay, not the merest weed of comfort

or of virtue would grow under the feet of angels. In this was the

distinction between Mrs. Arden and Julia Reay. The one had hardened her

heart under her trials, and shut it up in itself; the other had opened

hers to the purest love of man and love of God; and the result was to be

seen in the despair of the one, and in the holy peace of the other.

Full of these thoughts, I sought out my poor lady, determined to do her

real benefit if I could. She received me very kindly, for I had taken

care to provide myself with a sufficient introduction, so as to set all

doubts of my social position at rest: and I knew how far this would go

with her. We soon became fast friends. She seemed to rest on me much for

sympathy and comfort, and soon grew to regard me with a sort of motherly

fondness that of itself brightened her life. I paid her all the

attention which a devoted son might pay--humored her whims, soothed her

pains; but insensibly I led her mind out from itself---first in kindness

to me, and then in love to her grandson.

I asked for him just before the midsummer holidays, and with great

difficulty obtained an invitation for him to spend them with her. She

resisted my entreaties stoutly, but at last was obliged to yield; not to

me, nor to my powers of persuasion, but to the holy truth of which I was

then the advocate. The child came, and I was there also to receive him,

and to enforce by my presence--which I saw, without vanity, had great

influence--a fitting reception. He was a pensive, clever, interesting

little fellow; sensitive and affectionate, timid, gifted with wonderful

powers, and of great beauty. There was a shy look in his eyes, which

made me sure that he inherited much of his loveliness from his mother;

and when we were great friends, he showed me a small portrait of "Poor

mamma;" and I saw at once the most striking likeness between the two. No

human heart could withstand that boy, certainly not my poor friend's.

She yielded, fighting desperately against me and him, and all the powers

of love, which were subduing her, but yielding while she fought; and in

a short time the child had taken his proper place in her affections,

which he kept to the end of her life. And she, that desolate mother,

even she, with her seared soul and petrified heart, was brought to the

knowledge of peace by the glorious power of love.

Prosperous, famous, happy, blessed in home and hearth, this has become

my fundamental creed of life, the basis on which all good, whether of

art or of morality, is rested: of art especially; for only by a tender,

reverent spirit can the true meaning of his vocation be made known to

the artist. All the rest is mere imitation of form, not insight into

essence. And while I feel that I can live out of myself, and love

others--the whole world of man--more than myself, I know that I possess

the secret of happiness; ay, though my powers were suddenly blasted as

by lightning, my wife and children laid in the cold grave, and my happy

home desolated forever. For I would go out into the thronged streets,

and gather up the sorrows of others, to relieve them; and I would go out

under the quiet sky, and look up to the Father's throne; and I would

pluck peace, as green herbs from active benevolence and contemplative

adoration. Yes; love can save from the sterility of selfishness,

and from the death of despair; but love alone. No other talisman

has the power; pride, self-sustainment, coldness, pleasure,

nothing--nothing--but that divine word of Life which is life's soul!

THE LITTLE SISTERS.

Almsgiving takes the place of the work-house system, in the economy of a

large part of Europe. The giving of alms to the helpless is, moreover,

in Catholic countries, a religious office. The voluntary surrender of

gifts, each according to his ability, as a means of grace, is more

prominently insisted upon than among Protestants; consequently

systematic taxation for the poor is not resorted to. Nor is there so

great a necessity for it as in England; for few nations have so many

paupers to provide for as the English are accustomed to regard as a

natural element in society; and thus it happens, that when, about ten

years ago, there was in France no asylum but the hospital, for aged and

ailing poor, the want of institutions for the infirm but healthy was not

so severe as to attract the public eye.

But there was at that time a poor servant-woman, a native of the village

of La Croix, in Brittany--Jeanne Sugon was her name--who was moved by

the gentleness of her heart, and the fervor of her religion, to pity a

certain infirm and destitute neighbor, to take her to her side as a

companion, and to devote herself to her support. Other infirm people

earned, by their helplessness, a claim on her attention. She went about

begging, when she could not work, that she might preserve life as long

as Nature would grant it to her infirm charges. Her example spread a

desire for the performance of similar good offices. Two pious women, her

neighbors, united with Jeanne in her pious office. These women

cherished, as they were able, aged and infirm paupers; nursed them in a

little house, and begged for them in the vicinity. The three women, who

had so devoted themselves, attracted notice, and were presently received

into the order of Sisters of Charity, in which they took for themselves

the name of "Little Sisters of the Poor"--PETITES S[OE]RS DES PAUVRES.

The first house of the Little Sisters of the Poor was opened at St.

Servan, in Brittany. A healthy flower scatters seed around. We saw that

forcibly illustrated, in the progress, from an origin equally humble, of

the Rauhe Haus, near Hamburgh: we see it now again, in the efforts of

the Little Sisters, which flourished and fructified with prompt

usefulness. On the tenth anniversary of the establishment at St. Servan,

ten similar houses had been founded in ten different French towns.

The _Petites S[oe]urs_ live with their charges in the most frugal way,

upon the scraps and waste meat which they can collect from the

surrounding houses. The voluntary contributions by which they support

their institution, are truly the crumbs falling from the rich man's

table. The nurse fares no better than the objects of her care. She lives

upon equal terms with Lazarus, and acts toward him in the spirit of a

younger sister.

The establishment at Dinan, over which Jeanne Sugon herself presides,

being under repair, and not quite fit for the reception of visitors, we

will go over the Sisters' house at Paris, which is conducted on exactly

the same plan.

We are ushered into a small parlor, scantily furnished, with some

Scripture prints upon the walls. A Sister enters to us with such a

bright look of cheerfulness as faces wear when hearts beneath them feel

that they are beating to some purpose in the world. She accedes gladly

to our desire, and at once leads us into another room of larger size, in

which twenty or thirty old women are at this moment finishing their

dinner; it being Friday, rice stands on the table in the place of meat.

The Sister moves and speaks with the gentleness of a mother among

creatures who are in, or are near to the state of second childhood. You

see an old dame fumbling eagerly over her snuff-box lid. The poor

creatures are not denied luxuries; for, whatever they can earn by their

spinning is their own money, and they buy with it any indulgences they

please; among which nothing is so highly prized or eagerly coveted as a

pinch of snuff.

In the dormitories on the first floor, some lie bed-ridden. Gentler

still, if possible, is now the Sister's voice. The rooms throughout the

house are airy, with large windows, and those inhabited by the Sisters

are distinguished from the rest by no mark of indulgence or superiority.

We descend now into the old men's department; and enter a warm room,

with a stove in the centre. One old fellow has his feet upon a little

foot-warmer, and thinly pipes out, that he is very comfortable now, for

he is always warm. The chills of age, and the chills of the cold

pavement remain together in his memory; but he is very comfortable

now--very comfortable. An other decrepit man, with white hair and bowed

back--who may have been proud, in his youth, of a rich voice for

love-song, talks of music to the Sister; and, on being asked to sing,

blazes out with joyous gestures, and strikes up a song of Béranger's in

a cracked, shaggy voice, which sometimes--like a river given to flow

under ground--is lost entirely, and then bubbles up again, quite thick

with mud.

We go into a little oratory, where all pray together nightly before they

retire to rest. Thence we descend into a garden for the men; and pass

thence by a door into the women's court. The chapel-bell invites us to

witness the assembly of the Sisters for the repetition of their psalms

and litanies. From the chapel we return into the court, and enter a

large room, where the women are all busy with their spinning-wheels. One

old soul immediately totters to the Sister (not the same Sister with

whom we set out), and insists on welcoming her daughter with a kiss. We

are informed that it is a delusion of her age to recognize in this

Sister really her own child, who is certainly far away, and may possibly

be dead. The Sister embraces her affectionately, and does nothing to

disturb the pleasant thought.

And now we go into the kitchen. Preparation for coffee is in progress.

The dregs of coffee that have been collected from the houses of the

affluent in the neighborhood, are stewed for a long time with great

care. The Sisters say they produce a very tolerable result; and, at any

rate, every inmate is thus enabled to have a cup of coffee every

morning, to which love is able to administer the finest Mocha flavor. A

Sister enters from her rounds out of doors with two cans full of broken

victuals. She is a healthy, and, I think, a handsome woman. Her daily

work is to go out with the cans directly after she has had her morning

coffee, and to collect food for the ninety old people that are in the

house. As fast as she fills her cans, she brings them to the kitchen,

and goes out again; continuing in this work daily till four o'clock.

You do not like this begging? What are the advertisements on behalf of

our own hospitals? what are the collectors? what are the dinners, the

speeches, the charity sermons? A few weak women, strong in heart,

without advertisement, or dinners, or charity sermons; without urgent

appeals to a sympathizing public; who have no occasion to exercitate

charity, by enticing it to balls and to theatrical benefits; patiently

collect waste food from house to house, and feed the poor with it,

humbly and tenderly.

The cans are now to be emptied; the contents being divided into four

compartments, according to their nature--broken meat, vegetables, slices

of pudding, fish, &c. Each is afterward submitted to the best cookery

that can be contrived. The choicest things are set aside--these, said a

Sister, with a look of satisfaction, will be for our poor dear sick.

The number of Sisters altogether in this house engaged in attendance on

the ninety infirm paupers, is fourteen. They divide the duties of the

house among themselves. Two serve in the kitchen, two in the laundry;

one begs, one devotes herself to constant personal attendance on the

wants of the old men, and so on with the others, each having her special

department. The whole sentiment of the household is that of a very large

and very amiable family. To feel that they console the last days of the

infirm and aged poor, is all the Little Sisters get for their hard work.

HOW GUNPOWDER IS MADE.--VISIT TO HOUNSLOW MILLS.

Hounslow Gunpowder Mills are not so much like a special "town," as so

many other large manufactories appear, but rather have the appearance of

an infant colony--a very infant one, inasmuch as it has very few

inhabitants. We never met a single man in all our rambles through the

plantations, nor heard the sound of a human voice. It is like a strange

new settlement, where there is ample space, plenty of wood and water,

but with scarcely any colonists, and only here and there a log-hut or a

dark shed among the trees.

These works are distributed over some hundred and fifty acres of land,

without reckoning the surface of the Colne, which, sometimes broad,

sometimes narrow, sometimes in a line, and sometimes coiling, and

escaping by a curve out of sight, intersects the whole place. It is, in

fact, a great straggling plantation of firs, over swells and declivities

of land, with a branch or neck of a river meeting you unexpectedly at

almost every turn. The more we have seen of this dismal settlement "in

the bush," the more do we revert to our first impression on entering it.

The place is like the strange and squalid plantation of some necromancer

in Spenser's "Fairy Queen." Many trees are black and shattered, as if by

lightning; others distorted, writhing, and partially stripped of their

bark; and all of them have a sort of conscious look that this is a very

precarious spot for the regular progress of vegetation. You wander up

narrow winding paths, and you descend narrow winding paths; you see the

broad arm of a river, with little swampy osier islands upon it, and then

you enter another plantation, and come upon a narrow winding neck of

river, leading up to a great black slanting structure, which you are

told is a "blast-wall;" and behind this is the green embankment of a

fortification, and further back you come upon one of the black,

ominous-looking powder "houses." You advance along other tortuous paths,

you cross small bridges, and again you enter a plantation, more or less

sombre, and presently emerge upon an open space, where you see a

semicircular road of red gravel, with cart-ruts deeply trenched in it;

and then another narrower road down to a branch of the river, where

there is another little bridge; and beyond this, on the other side, you

see a huge water-wheel revolving between two black barn-like houses.

You ascend a slope, by a path of mud and slush, and arriving at another

larger open space, you find yourself in front of a sheet of water, and

in the distance you observe one enormous wheel--the diabolical queen of

all the rest--standing, black and immovable, like an antediluvian

skeleton, against the dull, gray sky, with a torrent of water running in

a long narrow gully from beneath its lower spokes, as if disgorged

before its death. This open space is surrounded by trees, above which,

high over all, there rises a huge chimney, or rather tower; and again,

over all this there float clouds of black smoke, derived from charred

wood, if we may judge of the effect upon our noses and eyes.

At distances from each other, varying from thirty or forty to a hundred

and fifty yards, over this settlement are distributed, by systematic

arrangement of the intervals, and the obstructive character of the

intervening ground and plantations, no less than ninety-seven different

buildings. By these means, not only is the danger divided, but the loss,

by an explosion, reduced to the one "house" in which the accident

occurs. Such, at least, is the intention, though certainly not always

affording the desired protection. The houses are also, for the most

part, constructed of light materials, where the nature of the operation

will admit of it; sometimes extremely strong below, but very light

above, like a man in armor with a straw hat; so that if a "puff" comes,

there will be a free way upward, and they hope to get rid of the fury

with no greater loss than a light roof. In some cases the roofs are of

concrete, and bomb-proof; in others, the roofs are floated with water in

shallow tanks. There are five steam-engines employed, one being a

locomotive; and the extraordinary number of twenty-six water-mills, as

motive powers for machinery--obviously much safer than any other that

could be obtained from the most guarded and covered-in engines requiring

furnaces.

In this silent region, amidst whose ninety-seven work-places no human

voice ever breaks upon the ear, and where, indeed, no human form is seen

except in the isolated house in which his allotted task is performed,

there are secreted upward of two hundred and fifty work-people. They are

a peculiar race; not, of course, by nature, in most cases, but by the

habit of years. The circumstances of momentary destruction in which they

live, added to the most stringent and necessary regulations, have

subdued their minds and feelings to the conditions of their hire. There

is seldom any need to enforce these regulations. Some terrific explosion

here, or in works of a similar kind elsewhere, leaves a fixed mark in

their memories, and acts as a constant warning. Here no shadow of a

practical joke, or caper of animal spirits ever transpires; no

witticisms, no oaths, no chaffing, or slang. A laugh is never heard; a

smile seldom seen. Even the work is carried on by the men with as few

words as possible, and these uttered in a low tone. Not that any body

fancies that mere sound will awaken the spirit of combustion, or cause

an explosion to take place, but that their feelings are always kept

subdued. If one man wishes to communicate any thing to another, or to

ask for any thing from somebody at a short distance, he must go there;

he is never permitted to shout or call out. There is a particular reason

for this last regulation. Amidst all this silence, whenever a shout

_does_ occur, every body knows that some imminent danger is expected the

next moment, and all rush away headlong from the direction of the shout.

As to running toward it to offer any assistance, as common in all other

cases, it is thoroughly understood that none can be afforded. An

accident here is immediate and beyond remedy. If the shouting be

continued for some time (for a man might be drowning in the river), that

might cause one or two of the boldest to return; but this would be a

very rare occurrence. It is by no means to be inferred that the men are

selfish and insensible to the perils of each other; on the contrary,

they have the greatest consideration for each other, as well as for

their employers, and think of the danger to the lives of others, and of

the property at stake at all times, and more especially in all the more

dangerous "houses." The proprietors of the various gunpowder mills all

display the same consideration for each other, and whenever any

improvement tending to lessen danger is discovered by one, it is

immediately communicated to all the others. The wages of the men are

good, and the hours very short; no artificial lights are ever used in

the works. They all wash themselves--black, white, yellow, and

bronze--and leave the mills at half-past three in the afternoon, winter

and summer.

After several unsuccessful attempts to effect an entrance into one of

the mysterious manufactories--attributable solely to the dangers of

utter destruction that momentarily hover over all works of this kind,

and not in the least from any want of courtesy in the proprietors--we

eventually obtained permission to inspect these mills owned by the

Messrs. Curtis, which are among the largest works of the kind in Europe.

It was a very wet day, but that circumstance was rather favorable than

otherwise, as our obliging companion, Mr. Ashbee, the manager of the

works, considerately informed us. After visiting successively the mills

where the charcoal, saltpetre, and brimstone, are separately prepared,

we plash our way over the wet path to the "incorporation mill"--a

sufficiently dangerous place. Having exchanged our boots for India

rubber over-shoes, we enter and find the machinery--consisting of two

ponderous, upright millstones, rolling round like wagon-wheels, in a

small circle. In the bed beneath these huge rolling stones lies, not

one, but the _three_ terrible ingredients of powdered charcoal,

saltpetre, and sulphur, which are thus incorporated. The bed upon which

the stones roll is of iron; from it the stones would inevitably strike

sparks--and "there an end of all"--if they came in contact in any part.

But between the stones and the iron bed lies the incorporating

powder--forty pounds of it giving a bed of intermediate powder, of two

or three inches deep; so that the explosive material is absolutely the

only protection. So long as the powder lies in this bed with no part of

the iron left bare, all is considered to be safe. To keep it within the

bed, therefore--while the rolling twist of the stones is continually

displacing it, and rubbing it outward and inward--several mechanical

contrivances are adopted, which act like guides, and scoops, and

scrapers; and thus restore, with regularity, the powder to its proper

place, beneath the stones. A water-wheel keeps this mill in action. No

workmen remain here; but the time required for the incorporating process

being known, the bed of powder is laid down, the mill set in motion, and

then shut up and left to itself--as it ought to be, in case of any

little oversight or "hitch" on the part of the guides, scoops, or

scrapers. The machinery of these mills, as may be readily credited, is

always kept in the finest order. "And yet," says Mr. Ashbee, in a

whisper; "and yet, five of them--just such mills as these--_went off_ at

Faversham, the other day, one after the other. Nobody knew how." This

seasonable piece of information naturally increases the peculiar

interest we feel in the objects we are now examining, as they proceed

with their work.

The next house we visit, Mr. Ashbee assures us, is a very interesting

process. To be sure, it is one of the most dangerous; and what makes

this worse, is the fact that the process is of that kind which requires

the constant presence of the men. They can not set the machinery to

work, and leave it for a given time; they must always remain on the

spot. It is the "Corning House" sometimes called "Graining," as it is

the process which reduces the cakes and hard knobs, into which the

gunpowder has been forced by hydraulic pressure, into grains--a very

nice, and, it would appear, a sufficiently alarming operation.

Ascending by a rising pathway, we pass over a mound covered with a

plantation of firs, and descending to a path by the river side, we

arrive at a structure of black timber, some five-and-twenty feet high,

set up in the shape of an acute angle. This is a "blast-wall," intended

to offer some resistance to a rush of air in case of an explosion near

at hand. There is also a similar blast-wall on the opposite side of the

river. Passing this structure, we arrive at a green embankment thrown up

as in fortified places, and behind and beneath this stands the "Corning

House."

It is a low-roofed, black edifice, like the rest, although, if possible,

with a still more dismal appearance. We know not what causes the

impression, but we could fancy it some place of torture, devoted to the

service of the darkest pagan superstitions, or those of the Holy

Inquisition. A little black vestibule, or out-house, stands on the side

nearest us. The whole structure is planted on the river's edge, to which

the platform in front extends. We enter the little vestibule, and here

we go through the ceremony of the over-shoes. We are then permitted to

advance upon the sacred platform, and we then approach the entrance. If

we have received a strange and unaccountable impression of a place of

torture, from the external appearance and surrounding circumstances,

this is considerably borne out by the interior. The first thing that

seems to justify this is a dry, strangulated, shrieking cry which

continues at intervals. We discover that it is the cry of a wooden screw

in torment, which in some sort reconciles us. But the sound lingers, and

the impression too. The flooring is all covered with leather and hides,

all perfectly black with the dust of gunpowder, and on this occasion all

perfectly dry. We do not much like that: the wet sliding about was more

amusing; perhaps, also, a trifle safer.

The first object that seizes upon our attention is a black square

frame-work, apparently suspended from the ceiling. Its ugly

perpendicular beams, and equally uncouth horizontal limbs would be just

the thing to hang the dead bodies of tortured victims in. We can not

help following up our first impression. The men here, who stand in

silence looking intently at us, all wear black masks. On the left there

is reared a structure of black wood reaching to within two or three feet

of the roof. It is built up in several stages, descending like broad

steps. Each of these broad steps contains a sieve made of closely woven

wire, which becomes finer as the steps get lower and lower. In this

machine we noticed iron axles for the wheels, but our attention was

directed to the rollers, which were of zinc. Thus the friction does not

induce sparks, the action being also guarded against external blows. At

present the machine is not in motion; and the men at work here observe

their usual silence and depressing gravity. We conjecture that the

machine, when put in motion, shakes and sifts the gunpowder in a slow

and most cautious manner, corresponding to the seriousness of the human

workers, and with an almost equal sense of the consequences of iron

mistaking for once the nature of copper and brass. "Put _on_ the house!"

says Mr. Ashbee, in the calm voice always used here, and nodding at the

same time to the head corning-man. A rumbling sound is heard--the wheels

begin to turn--the black sieves bestir themselves, moving from side to

side; the wheels turn faster--the sieves shake and shuffle faster. We

trust there is no mistake. They all get faster still. We do not wish

them to put themselves to any inconvenience on our account. The full

speed is laid on! The wheels whirl and buzz--iron teeth play into brass

teeth--copper winks at iron--the black sieves shake their infernal sides

into fury--the whole machine seems bent upon its own destruction--the

destruction of us all! Now--one small spark--and in an instant the whole

of this house, with all in it, would be instantly swept away! Nobody

seems to think of this. And see!--how the gunpowder rashes from side to

side of the sieves, and pours down from one stage to the other. We feel

sure that all this must be much faster than usual. We do not wish it.

Why should pride prevent our requesting that this horror should cease?

We hear, also, an extraordinary noise behind us. Turning hastily round,

we see the previously immovable black frame-work for the dead whirling

round and round in the air with frightful rapidity, while two men with

wooden shovels are shoveling up showers of gunpowder, as if to smother

and suffocate its madness. Nothing but shame--nothing but shame and an

anguish of self-command, prevents our instantly darting out of the

house--across the platform--and headlong into the river.

What a house--what a workshop! It is quiet again. We have not sprung

into the river. But had we been alone here, under such circumstances for

the first time, we should have had no subsequent respect for our own

instincts and promptitude of action if we had done any thing else. As it

was, the thing is a sensation for life. We find that the whirling

frame-work also contains sieves--that the invisible moving power is by a

water-wheel under the flooring, which acts by a crank. But we are very

much obliged already--we have had enough of "corning."

We take our departure over the platform--have our over-shoes taken

off--and finding that there is something more to see, we rally and

recover our breath, and are again on the path by the water's edge. A man

is coming down the river with a small covered barge, carrying powder

from one house to another. We remark that boating must be one of the

safest positions, not only as unconducive to explosion, but even in case

of its occurring elsewhere. Mr. Ashbee coincides in this opinion,

although, he adds, that some time ago, a man coming down the river in a

boat--just as that one is now doing--had his right arm blown off. We see

that, in truth, _no_ position is safe. One may be "blown off" any where,

at any moment. Thus pleasantly conversing as we walk, we arrive at the

"Glazing-House."

The process of glazing consists in mixing black-lead with gunpowder in

large grains, and glazing, or giving it a fine glossy texture. For this

purpose four barrels containing the grains are ranged on an axle. They

are made to revolve during four hours, to render them smooth; black-lead

is then added, and they revolve four hours more. There is iron in this

machinery; but it works upon brass or copper wheels, so that friction

generates heat, but not fire. The process continues from eight to

twenty-four hours, according to the fineness of polish required; and the

revolution of the barrels sometimes causes the heat of the gunpowder

within to rise to one hundred and twenty degrees--even to charring the

wood of the interior of the barrels by the heat and friction. We inquire

what degree of heat they may be in at the present moment? It is rather

high, we learn; and the head-glazer politely informs us that we may put

our hand and arm into the barrels and feel the heat. He opens it at the

top for the purpose. We take his word for it. However, as he inserts one

hand and arm by way of example, we feel in some sort called upon, for

the honor of "Household Words," to do the same. It is extremely hot,

and a most agreeable sensation. The faces of the men here, being all

black from the powder, and shining with the addition of the black lead,

have the appearance of grim masks of demons in a pantomime, or rather of

real demons in a mine. Their eyes look out upon us with a strange

intelligence. They know the figure they present. So do we. This, added

to their subdued voice, and whispering, and mute gesticulation, and

noiseless moving and creeping about, renders the scene quite unique; and

a little of it goes a great way.

Our time being now short--our hours, in fact, being "numbered"--we move

quickly on to the next house, some hundred yards distant. It is the

"Stoving-house." We approach the door. Mr. Ashbee is so good as to say

there is no need for us to enter, as the process may be seen from the

door-way. We are permitted to stand upon the little platform outside, in

our boots, dispensing with the over-shoes. This house is heated by

pipes. The powder is spread upon numerous wooden trays, and slid into

shelves on stands, or racks. The heat is raised to one hundred and

twenty-five degrees. We salute the head stove-man, and depart. But

turning round to give a "longing, lingering look behind," we see a large

mop protruded from the door-way. Its round head seems to inspect the

place where we stood in our boots on the platform. It evidently

discovers a few grains of gravel or grit, and descends upon them

immediately, to expurgate the evil communication which may corrupt the

good manners of the house. A great watering-pot is next advanced, and

then a stern head--not unlike an old medallion we have seen of

Diogenes--looks round the door-post after us.

The furnace, with its tall chimney, by means of which the stove-pipes of

the house we have just visited, are heated, is at a considerable

distance, the pipes being carried under-ground to the house.

We next go to look at the "Packing-house," where the powder is placed in

barrels, bags, tin cases, paper cases, canisters, &c. On entering this

place, a man runs swiftly before each of us, laying down a mat for each

foot to step upon as we advance, thus leaving rows of mats in our wake,

over which we are required to pass on returning. We considered it a mark

of great attention--a kind of Oriental compliment.

The last of our visits is to a "Charge-House." There are several of

these, where the powder is kept in store. We approach it by a path

through a plantation. It lies deep among the trees--a most lonely,

dismal sarcophagus. It is roofed with water--that is, the roof is

composed of water-tanks, which are filled by the rain; and in dry

weather they are filled by means of a pump arranged for that purpose.

The platform at the entrance is of water--that is to say, it is a broad

wooden trough two inches deep, full of water, through which we are

required to walk. We do so, and with far more satisfaction than some

things we have done here to-day. We enter the house alone; the others

waiting outside. All silent and dusky as an Egyptian tomb. The tubs of

powder, dimly seen in the uncertain light, are ranged along the walls,

like mummies--all giving the impression of a secret life within. But a

secret life, how different! "Ah! there's the rub." We retire with a

mental obeisance, and a respectful air--the influence remaining with us,

so that we bow slightly on rejoining our friends outside, who bow in

return, looking from us to the open door-way of the "house!"

With thoughtful brows, and not in any very high state of hilarity, after

the duties of the day--not to speak of being wet through to the skin,

for the second time--we move through the fir groves on our way back. We

notice a strange appearance in many trees, some of which are curiously

distorted, others with their heads cut off; and, in some places, there

are large and upright gaps in a plantation. Mr. Ashbee, after

deliberating inwardly a little while, informs us that a very dreadful

accident happened here last year. "Was there an explosion?" we inquire.

He says there was. "And a serious one?"--"Yes."--"Any lives

lost?"--"Yes."--"Two or three?"--"More than that."--"Five or six?" He

says more than that. He gradually drops into the narrative, with a

subdued tone of voice. There was an explosion last year. Six different

houses blew up. It began with a "Separating House,"--a place for sizing,

or sorting, the different grains through sieves. Then the explosion went

to a "Granulating-House," one hundred yards off. How it was carried such

distances, except by a general combustion of the air, he can not

imagine. Thence, it went to a "Press House," where the powder lies in

hard cakes. Thence, it went in two ways--on one side to a "Composition

Mixing-House," and, on the other, to a "Glazing-House;" and thence to

another "Granulating-House." Each of these buildings were fully one

hundred yards from another; each was intercepted by plantations of fir

and forest trees as a protection; and the whole took place within forty

seconds. There was no tracing how it had occurred.

This, then, accounts for the different gaps--some of them extending

fifty or sixty yards--in the plantations and groves? Mr. Ashbee nods a

grave assent. He adds, that one large tree was torn up by the roots, and

its trunk was found deposited at such a distance, that they never could

really ascertain where it came from. It was just found lying there. An

iron water-wheel, of thirty feet in circumference, belonging to one of

the mills, was blown to a distance of fifty yards through the air,

cutting through the heads of all the trees in its way, and finally

lodging between the upper boughs of a large tree, where it stuck fast,

like a boy's kite. The poor fellows who were killed--(our informant here

drops his voice to a whisper, and speaks in short detached fragments;

there is nobody near us, but he feels as a man should feel in speaking

of such things)--the poor fellows who were killed were horribly

mutilated--more than mutilated, some of them--their different members

distributed hither and thither, could not be buried with their proper

owners, to any certainty. One man escaped out of a house, before it blew

up, in time to run at least forty yards. He was seen running, when

suddenly he fell. But when he was picked up, he was found to be quite

dead. The concussion of the air had killed him. One man coming down the

river in a boat was mutilated. Some men who were missing, were never

found--blown all to nothing. The place where some of the "houses" had

stood, did not retain so much as a piece of timber, or a brick. All had

been swept away, leaving nothing but the torn-up ground, a little

rubbish, and a black hash of bits of stick, to show the place where they

had been erected.

We turn our eyes once more toward the immense gaps in the fir groves,

gaps which here and there amount to wide intervals, in which all the

trees are reduced to about half their height, having been cut away near

the middle. Some trees, near at hand, we observe to have been flayed of

their bark all down one side; others have strips of bark hanging dry and

black. Several trees are strangely distorted, and the entire trunk of

one large fir has been literally twisted like a corkscrew, from top to

bottom, requiring an amount of force scarcely to be estimated by any

known means of mechanical power. Amid all this quietness, how dreadful a

visitation! It is visible on all sides, and fills the scene with a

solemn, melancholy weight.

But we will linger here no longer. We take a parting glance around, at

the plantations of firs, some of them prematurely old, and shaking their

heads, while the air wafts by, as though conscious of their defeated

youth, and all its once-bright hopes. The dead leaves lie thick beneath,

in various sombre colors of decay, and through the thin bare woods we

see the gray light fading into the advancing evening. Here, where the

voice of man is never heard, we pause, to listen to the sound of

rustling boughs, and the sullen rush and murmur of water-wheels and

mill-streams; and, over all, the song of a thrush, even while uttering

blithe notes, gives a touching sadness to this isolated scene of human

labors--labors, the end of which, is a destruction of numbers of our

species, which may, or may not, be necessary to the progress of

civilization, and the liberty of mankind.

AN INSANE PHILOSOPHER.

A visitor to the Hanwell Insane Asylum, in England, will have his

attention directed to one of the inmates who is at once the "pet," the

peer, the philosopher, and the poet of that vast community. No one can

long enjoy the privilege of his company without perceiving that he has

received a first-rate classical education. His mind is remarkably

clear-visioned, acute, severe, logical, and accomplished. His manners

usually display the refinement, polish, and urbanity of a well-bred

gentleman, though at times, it is said, they are tinged with a degree of

aristocratic pride, austerity, and hauteur, especially when brought

into contact with the ignorant and vulgar. In conversation, though

impeded by a slight hesitation of utterance, he displays clearness and

breadth of intelligence in all his views, and pours forth freely from

the treasures of a well-stored memory abundance of information,

anecdote, and fact. His physiognomy and physical structure are well

adapted to enshrine a mind of such a calibre. In stature he is tall,

rather slender, but firmly knit. The muscular development of the frame

denotes considerable strength--a quality which he claims to possess in a

pre-eminent degree. He boasts, probably with considerable truth, of

having no equal, in this respect, in the asylum. His head, beautifully

formed, after a fine intellectual type, is partially bald--the few

surviving locks of hair that fringe its sides being nearly gray. The

keen, twinkling, gray eye; the prominent classic brow; the

boldly-chiseled aquiline nose; the thin cheeks, "sicklied o'er with the

pale cast of thought;" the sharp features, together with the small,

firmly-compressed mouth, plainly bespeak him a man of reflection, and

strong purpose. In age, he appears to have weathered about fifty stormy

winters. The term of his residence in this rendezvous of afflicted

strangers is somewhere about six years. His _real_ name, his early

history, his human kindred, his former social status--in fact, all the

antecedents of his life, previous to his admission to the asylum--are

utterly unknown. On all these matters he preserves the silence of a

sphinx. No remarks, so far as we know, have ever escaped his lips,

calculated to afford any certain clew for the elucidation of the mystery

that enshrouds him. Surmise and conjecture have of course been busy with

their guesses as to his probable extraction; and the organ of wonder has

been sorely taxed in an effort to account for the marvelous fact, that a

gentleman of such apparent distinction, it may be of noble birth and

fortune, should have been lost to his friends for a space of six years,

and no earnest inquiries been made to discover his fate. That he is of

aristocratic descent, appears to be the general impression among the

officers and inmates of the asylum--an impression justified by his

elegant manners, his superior attainments, his extensive acquaintance

with noble families, and many significant allusions found in his painted

chamber, upon the walls of which he has faithfully daguerreotyped the

images, the feelings, the recollections, and the cherished sentiments of

his inner man. The _fictitious_ name by which he is known at present is

that of Mr. Chiswick--a name commemorative of the _scene_ of that sad

event which has overshadowed the afternoon, and which threatens to

darken the evening, of his earthly existence. But the reader will be

anxious to learn under what strange conjunction of circumstances this

mysterious being--without father or mother, brothers or sisters,

kinsfolk or acquaintances, and without even a local habitation or a

name--obtained an introduction to this strange home. We will at once

state such facts as we have been able to collect.

On one Sabbath-day, about six years ago, a congregation had gathered

together, as was their wont, for the celebration of divine worship, in

the small country church of Turnham Green, near Chiswick. The

officiating clergyman and the worshiping assembly had jointly gone

through the liturgical services without the occurrence of any unusual

event. As soon as the robed minister had ascended the sacred desk, and

commenced his discourse, however, the eyes of a portion of the audience

were attracted toward a gentleman occupying a somewhat conspicuous

position in the church, whose strange and restless movements, wild and

excited air, and occasional audible exclamations, indicated the presence

of either a fanatic or a lunatic. These symptoms continued to increase,

until, at length, as if irritated beyond endurance by some sentiment

that fell from the lips of the preacher, he gave way to a perfect

paroxysm of frenzy, under the influence of which he seized his hat, and

flung it at the head of the minister. Of course, the service was

suspended until the offender was expelled. It was soon discovered that

the unhappy author of this untoward disturbance was suffering under a

violent fit of mania. When borne from the church, no person could

recognize or identify him. He was a total stranger to all residing in

the neighborhood, so that no clew could be obtained that would enable

them to restore him to the custody and surveillance of his friends.

Under these circumstances, he was taken to the adjoining work-house at

Isleworth, where he was detained for some weeks under medical care,

during which period the most diligent inquiries were instituted with the

view of unraveling the mystery of the stranger's kinship. But without

avail. No one claimed him; and even when pressed himself to impart some

information on the subject, he either could not or would not divulge the

secret. Finding, at length, that all efforts to identify the great

Incognito were ineffectual, he was removed to Hanwell, the asylum of the

county to which he had thus suddenly become chargeable, and where he has

ever since remained.

Mr. Chiswick is treated by the magistrates and officers with great

kindness and consideration. His employments are such as befit a

gentleman. No menial or laborious tasks are imposed upon him. He is

allowed, to a great extent, to consult his predilections, and these are

invariably of a tasteful and elegant description. His time is divided

chiefly between reading and painting, in which occupations he is

devotedly industrious. He is an early riser, and intersperses his more

sedentary pursuits with seasons of vigorous exercise. To this practice,

in conjunction with strictly temperate habits, he attributes his

excellent health and remarkable prowess. To a stranger, no signs of

mental aberration are discernible. His aspect is so calm and collected,

and his ideas are so lucidly expressed, that, if met with in any other

place besides an asylum, no one would suspect that he had ever been

smitten with a calamity so terrible. He would simply be regarded as

eccentric. So satisfied is he of his own perfect saneness, and of his

ability to secure self-maintenance by the productions of his own genius,

that confinement begins to be felt by him as intolerably irksome and

oppressive. The invisible fetters gall his sensitive soul, and render

him impatient of restraint. On our last visit but one, he declared that

he had abandoned all thoughts of doing any thing more to his painted

room; he aspired to higher things than that. He was striving to

cultivate his artistic talents, so that by their exercise he might

henceforth minister to his own necessities. Who his connections, and

what his antecedents were should never be known--they were things that

concerned no one; his aim was to qualify himself, by self-reliant labor,

to wrestle once more with the world, and to wring from it the pittance

of a humble subsistence. As soon as he felt himself competent to hazard

this step, he intended to demand his immediate release; "and, should it

then be refused," said he, with the solemn and impressive emphasis of a

man thoroughly in earnest, "they will, on the next day, find me a

_corpse_." To the superintendent in the tailoring department, he

likewise remarked, a short time since, when giving instructions for a

new garment: "This is the last favor I shall ever ask of you. I intend

shortly to quit the asylum; for if they do not discharge me of their own

accord, in answer to my request, _I will discharge myself_."

On the occasion of our second visit to the asylum, we were received by

Mr. Chiswick with great courtesy, and were favored with a long

conversation on a variety of topics. Besides the exercise of his brush

and pencil, his genius manifests itself in other ways, some of them

being rather amusing and eccentric. Among these, is that of making

stockings, and other articles of apparel in a very original manner. His

mind, as we have remarked, is well replenished with anecdotes and

illustrations suitable to whatever topic may happen to be on hand. On

the present occasion, upon offering us a glass of wine, we declined his

hospitality, on the true plea that we had fasted since eight o'clock in

the morning, and it was then nearly five in the afternoon. Upon this, he

produced a piece of sweet bread, saying, "Take that first, and then the

wine will not hurt you. You remember the anecdote of the bride? Soon

after her marriage, her mother inquired,'How does your husband treat

you, my dear?' Oh, he loves me very much, for he gives me two glasses of

white wine every morning before I am up.' 'My dear child,' said the

mother, with an air of alarm, 'he means to kill you. However, do not

refuse the wine, but take a piece of cake to bed with you at night, and

when he is gone for the wine in the morning, do you eat the cake, then

the wine will not hurt you,' The bride obeyed the mother's advice, and

lived to a good old age."

Having sat down by the fire in the ward with a number of the patients,

Mr. Chiswick took out his pocket-book to show us a letter which he had

received from some kind but unknown friend, who had visited the asylum,

and also that he might present to us a piece of poetry, which had just

been printed at the asylum press. In looking for these, he accidentally

dropped a greater part of the contents of his pocket-book on the floor;

and when one of the lunatics hastened to scramble for some of the

papers, Mr. Chiswick, quick as thought, pulled off the officious

patient's hat, and sent it flying to the other end of the ward, bidding

its owner to run after it. We offered to assist in picking up the

scattered papers, but he would not allow us to touch them. "You act," we

remarked, "on the principle of not allowing others to do for you any

thing that you can do yourself." "Exactly so," said he, "and I will tell

you a good anecdote about that. There was once a bishop of Gibraltar,

who hired a valet; but for some time this valet had nothing to do: the

bishop cleaned his own boots, and performed many other menial tasks,

which the servant supposed that he had been engaged to do. At length he

said--'Your lordship, I should be glad to be informed what it is

expected that I should do. You clean your own boots, brush your own

clothes, and do a multitude of other things that I supposed would fall

to my lot.' 'Well,' said the bishop, 'I have been accustomed to do this,

and I can do it very well; therefore, why should you do it? I act upon

the principle of never allowing others to do what I can do myself.

Therefore, do you go and study, and I will go on as usual. I have

already had opportunities to get knowledge, and you have not; and I

think that will be to do to you as I should wish you to do to me.'"

BLEAK HOUSE.

BY CHARLES DICKENS.

CHAPTER I.--IN CHANCERY.

London. Michaelmas Term lately over, and the Lord Chancellor sitting in

Lincoln's Inn Hall. Implacable November weather. As much mud in the

streets, as if the water had but newly retired from the face of the

earth, and it would not be wonderful to meet a Megalosaurus, forty feet

long or so, waddling like an elephantine lizard up Holborn hill. Smoke

lowering down from chimney-pots, making a soft black drizzle, with

flakes of soot in it as big as full-grown snow-flakes--gone into

mourning, one might imagine, for the death of the sun. Dogs,

undistinguishable in mire. Horses scarcely better; splashed to their

very blinkers. Foot passengers, jostling one another's umbrellas, in a

general infection of ill-temper, and losing their foot-hold at

street-corners, where tens of thousands of other foot passengers have

been slipping and sliding since the day broke (if the day ever broke),

adding new deposits to the crust upon crust of mud, sticking at those

points tenaciously to the pavement, and accumulating at compound

interest.

Fog everywhere. Fog up the river, where it flows among green aits and

meadows; fog down the river, where it rolls defiled among the tiers of

shipping, and the waterside pollutions of a great (and dirty) city. Fog

on the Essex marshes, fog on the Kentish heights. Fog creeping into the

cabooses of collier-brigs; fog lying out on the yards, and hovering in

the rigging of great ships; fog drooping on the gunwales of barges and

small boats. Fog in the eyes and throats of ancient Greenwich

pensioners, wheezing by the firesides of their wards; fog in the stem

and bowl of the afternoon pipe of the wrathful skipper, down in his

close cabin; fog cruelly pinching the toes and fingers of his shivering

little 'prentice boy on deck. Chance people on the bridges peeping over

the parapets into a nether sky of fog, with fog all round them, as if

they were up in a balloon, and hanging in the misty clouds.

Gas looming through the fog in divers places in the streets, much as the

sun may, from the spongy fields, be seen to loom by husbandman and

plow-boy. Most of the shops lighted two hours before their time--as the

gas seems to know, for it has a haggard and unwilling look.

The raw afternoon is rawest, and the dense fog is densest, and the muddy

streets are muddiest, near that leaden-headed old obstruction,

appropriate ornament for the threshold of a leaden-headed old

corporation: Temple Bar. And hard by Temple Bar, in Lincoln's Inn Hall,

at the very heart of the fog, sits the Lord High Chancellor in his High

Court of Chancery.

Never can there come fog too thick, never can there come mud and mire

too deep, to assort with the groping and floundering condition which

this High Court of Chancery, most pestilent of hoary sinners, holds,

this day, in the sight of heaven and earth.

On such an afternoon, if ever, the Lord High Chancellor ought to be

sitting here--as here he is--with a foggy glory round his head, softly

fenced in with crimson cloth and curtains, addressed by a large advocate

with great whiskers, a little voice, and an interminable brief, and

outwardly directing his contemplation to the lantern in the roof, where

he can see nothing but fog. On such an afternoon, some score of members

of the High Court of Chancery bar ought to be--as here they are--mistily

engaged in one of the ten thousand stages of an endless cause, tripping

one another up on slippery precedents, groping knee-deep in

technicalities, running their goat-hair and horse-hair warded heads

against walls of words, and making a pretense of equity with serious

faces, as players might. On such an afternoon, the various solicitors in

the cause, some two or three of whom have inherited it from their

fathers, who made a fortune by it, ought to be--as are they not?--ranged

in a line, in a long matted well (but you might look in vain for Truth

at the bottom of it), between the registrar's red table and the silk

gowns, with bills, cross-bills, answers, rejoinders, injunctions,

affidavits, issues, references to masters, masters' reports, mountains

of costly nonsense, piled before them. Well may the court be dim, with

wasting candles here and there; well may the fog hang heavy in it, as if

it would never get out; well may the stained glass windows lose their

color, and admit no light of day into the place; well may the

uninitiated from the streets, who peep in through the glass panes in

the door, be deterred from entrance by its owlish aspect, and by the

drawl languidly echoing to the roof from the padded dais where the Lord

High Chancellor looks into the lantern that has no light in it, and

where the attendant wigs are all stuck in a fog-bank! This is the Court

of Chancery; which has its decaying houses and its blighted lands in

every shire; which has its worn-out lunatic in every mad-house, and its

dead in every church-yard; which has its ruined suitor, with his

slipshod heels and threadbare dress, borrowing and begging through the

round of every man's acquaintance; which gives to moneyed might the

means abundantly of wearying out the right; which so exhausts finances,

patience, courage, hope; so overthrows the brain and breaks the heart;

that there is not an honorable man among its practitioners who would not

give--who does not often give--the warning, "Suffer any wrong that can

be done you, rather than come here!"

Who happen to be in the Lord Chancellor's court this murky afternoon

besides the Lord Chancellor, the counsel in the cause, two or three

counsel who are never in any cause, and the well of solicitors before

mentioned? There is the registrar below the Judge, in wig and gown; and

there are two or three maces, or petty-bags, or privy-purses, or

whatever they may be, in legal court suits. These are all yawning; for

no crumb of amusement ever falls from JARNDYCE AND JARNDYCE (the cause

in hand) which was squeezed dry years upon years ago. The short-hand

writers, the reporters of the court, and the reporters of the

newspapers, invariably decamp with the rest of the regulars when

Jarndyce and Jarndyce comes on. Their places are a blank. Standing on a

seat at the side of the hall, the better to peer into the curtained

sanctuary, is a little mad old woman in a squeezed bonnet, who is always

in court, from its sitting to its rising, and always expecting some

incomprehensible judgment to be given in her favor. Some say she really

is, or was, a party to a suit; but no one knows for certain, because no

one cares. She carries some small litter in a reticule which she calls

her documents; principally consisting of paper matches and dry lavender.

A sallow prisoner has come up, in custody, for the half-dozenth time, to

make a personal application "to purge himself of his contempt;" which,

being a solitary surviving executor who has fallen into a state of

conglomeration about accounts of which it is not pretended that he had

ever any knowledge, he is not at all likely ever to do. In the meantime,

his prospects in life are ended. Another ruined suitor, who periodically

appears from Shropshire, and breaks out into efforts to address the

Chancellor at the close of the day's business, and who can by no means

be made to understand that the Chancellor is legally ignorant of his

existence after making it desolate for a quarter of a century, plants

himself in a good place and keeps an eye on the Judge, ready to call out

"My lord!" in a voice of sonorous complaint, on the instant of his

rising. A few lawyers' clerks and others who know this suitor by sight,

linger, on the chance of his furnishing some fun, and enlivening the

dismal weather a little.

Jarndyce and Jarndyce drones on. This scare-crow of a suit has, in

course of time, become so complicated, that no man alive knows what it

means. The parties to it understand it least; but it has been observed

that no two Chancery lawyers can talk about it for five minutes, without

coming to a total disagreement as to all the premises. Innumerable

children have been born into the cause; innumerable young people have

married into it; innumerable old people have died out of it. Scores of

persons have deliriously found themselves made parties in Jarndyce and

Jarndyce, without knowing how or why; whole families have inherited

legendary hatreds with the suit. The little plaintiff or defendant, who

was promised a new rocking-horse when Jarndyce and Jarndyce should be

settled, has grown up, possessed himself of a real horse, and trotted

away into the other world. Fair wards of court have faded into mothers

and grandmothers; a long procession of Chancellors has come in and gone

out; the legion of bills in the suit have been transformed into mere

bills of mortality; there are not three Jarndyces left upon the earth

perhaps, since old Tom Jarndyce in despair blew his brains out at a

coffee-house in Chancery-lane; but Jarndyce and Jarndyce still drags its

dreary length before the Court, perennially hopeless.

Jarndyce and Jarndyce has passed into a joke. That is the only good that

has ever come of it. It has been death to many, but it is a joke in the

profession. Every master in Chancery has had a reference out of it.

Every Chancellor was "in it," for somebody or other, when he was counsel

at the bar. Good things have been said about it by blue-nosed,

bulbous-shoed old benchers, in select port-wine committee after dinner

in hall. Articled clerks have been in the habit of fleshing their

legal wit upon it. The last Lord Chancellor handled it neatly, when,

correcting Mr. Blowers the eminent silk gown who said that such a thing

might happen when the sky rained potatoes, he observed, "or when we get

through Jarndyce and Jarndyce, Mr. Blowers;"--a pleasantry that

particularly tickled the maces, bags, and purses.

How many people out of the suit, Jarndyce and Jarndyce has stretched

forth its unwholesome hand to spoil and corrupt, would be a very wide

question. From the master, upon whose impaling files reams of dusty

warrants in Jarndyce and Jarndyce have grimly writhed into many shapes;

down to the copying clerk in the Six Clerks' Office, who has copied his

tens of thousands of Chancery-folio-pages under that eternal heading; no

man's nature has been made the better by it. In trickery, evasion,

procrastination, spoliation, botheration, under false pretenses of all

sorts, there are influences that can never come to good. The very

solicitors' boys who have kept the wretched suitors at bay, by

protesting time out of mind that Mr. Chizzle, Mizzle, or otherwise, was

particularly engaged and had appointments until dinner, may have got an

extra moral twist and shuffle into themselves out of Jarndyce and

Jarndyce. The receiver in the cause has acquired a goodly sum of money

by it, but has acquired too a distrust of his own mother, and a contempt

for his own kind. Chizzle, Mizzle, and otherwise, have lapsed into a

habit of vaguely promising themselves that they will look into that

outstanding little matter, and see what can be done for Drizzle--who was

not well used--when Jarndyce and Jarndyce shall be got out of the

office. Shirking and sharking, in all their many varieties, have been

sown broadcast by the ill-fated cause; and even those who have

contemplated its history from the outermost circle of such evil, have

been insensibly tempted into a loose way of letting bad things alone to

take their own bad course, and a loose belief that if the world go

wrong, it was, in some off-hand manner, never meant to go right.

Thus, in the midst of the mud and at the heart of the fog, sits the Lord

High Chancellor in his High Court of Chancery.

"Mr. Tangle," says the Lord High Chancellor, latterly something restless

under the eloquence of that learned gentleman.

"Mlud," says Mr. Tangle. Mr. Tangle knows more of Jarndyce and Jarndyce

than any body. He is famous for it--supposed never to have read any

thing else since he left school.

"Have you nearly concluded your argument?"

"Mlud, no--variety of points--feel it my duty tsubmit--ludship," is the

reply that slides out of Mr. Tangle.

"Several members of the bar are still to be heard, I believe?" says the

Chancellor, with a slight smile.

Eighteen of Mr. Tangle's learned friends, each armed with a little

summary of eighteen hundred sheets, bob up like eighteen hammers in a

piano-forte, make eighteen bows, and drop into their eighteen places of

obscurity.

"We will proceed with the hearing on Wednesday fortnight," says the

Chancellor. For, the question at issue is only a question of costs, a

mere bud on the forest tree of the parent suit, and really will come to

a settlement one of these days.

The Chancellor rises; the bar rises; the prisoner is brought forward in

a hurry; the man from Shropshire cries, "My lord!" Maces, bags, and

purses, indignantly proclaim silence, and frown at the man from

Shropshire.

"In reference," proceeds the Chancellor, "still on Jarndyce and Jarndyce,

to the young girl----."

"Begludship's pardon--boy," says Mr. Tangle, prematurely.

"In reference," proceeds the Chancellor, with extra distinctness, "to

the young girl and boy, the two young people."

(Mr. Tangle crushed.)

"Whom I directed to be in attendance to-day, and who are now in my

private room, I will see them and satisfy myself as to the expediency of

making the order for their residing with their uncle."

Mr. Tangle on his legs again.

"Begludship's pardon--dead."

"With their," Chancellor looking through his double eye-glass at the

papers on his desk, "grandfather."

"Begludship's pardon--victim of rash action--brains."

Suddenly a very little counsel, with a terrific bass voice, arises,

fully inflated, in the back settlements of the fog, and says, "Will your

lordship allow me? I appear for him. He is a cousin, several times

removed. I am not at the moment prepared to inform the Court in what

exact remove he is a cousin; but he _is_ a cousin."

Leaving this address (delivered like a sepulchral message) ringing in

the rafters of the roof, the very little counsel drops, and the fog

knows him no more. Every body looks for him. Nobody can see him.

"I will speak with both the young people," says the Chancellor anew,

"and satisfy myself on the subject of their residing with their cousin.

I will mention the matter to-morrow morning when I take my seat."

The Chancellor is about to bow to the bar, when the prisoner is

presented. Nothing can possibly come of the prisoner's conglomeration,

but his being sent back to prison; which is soon done. The man from

Shropshire ventures another remonstrative "My lord!" but the Chancellor,

being aware of him, has dexterously vanished. Every body else quickly

vanishes too. A battery of blue bags is loaded with heavy charges of

papers and carried off by clerks; the little mad old woman marches off

with her documents; the empty court is locked up. If all the injustice

it has committed, and all the misery it has caused, could only be locked

up with it, and the whole burnt away in a great funeral pyre--why, so

much the better for other parties than the parties in Jarndyce and

Jarndyce!

CHAPTER II.--IN FASHION.

It is but a glimpse of the world of fashion that we want on this same

miry afternoon. It is not so unlike the Court of Chancery, but that we

may pass from the one scene to the other, as the crow flies. Both the

world of fashion and the Court of Chancery are things of precedent and

usage; over-sleeping Rip Van Winkles, who have played at strange games

through a deal of thundery weather; sleeping beauties, whom the Knight

will wake one day, when all the stopped spits in the kitchen shall begin

to turn prodigiously.

It is not a large world. Relatively even to this world of ours, which

has its limits too (as your Highness shall find when you have made the

tour of it, and are come to the brink of the void beyond), it is a very

little speck. There is much good in it; there are many good and true

people in it; it has its appointed place. But the evil of it is, that it

is a world wrapped up in too much jeweler's cotton and fine wool, and

can not hear the rushing of the larger worlds, and can not see them as

they circle round the sun. It is a deadened world, and its growth is

sometimes unhealthy for want of air.

My Lady Dedlock has returned to her house in town for a few days

previous to her departure for Paris, where her ladyship intends to stay

some weeks; after which her movements are uncertain. The fashionable

intelligence says so, for the comfort of the Parisians, and it knows all

fashionable things. To know things otherwise, were to be unfashionable.

My Lady Dedlock has been down at what she calls, in familiar

conversation, her "place" in Lincolnshire. The waters are out in

Lincolnshire. An arch of the bridge in the park has been sapped and

sopped away. The adjacent low-lying ground, for half a mile in breadth,

is a stagnant river, with melancholy trees for islands in it, and a

surface punctured all over, all day long, with falling rain. My Lady

Dedlock's "place" has been extremely dreary. The weather, for many a day

and night, has been so wet that the trees seem wet through, and the soft

loppings and prunings of the woodman's ax can make no crash or crackle

as they fall. The deer, looking soaked, leave quagmires, where they

pass. The shot of a rifle loses its sharpness in the moist air, and its

smoke moves in a tardy little cloud toward the green rise,

coppice-topped, that makes a back-ground for the falling rain. The view

from my Lady Dedlock's own windows is alternately a lead-colored view,

and a view in Indian ink. The vases on the stone terrace in the

foreground catch the rain all day; and the heavy drops fall, drip, drip,

drip, upon the broad flagged pavement, called, from old time, the

Ghost's Walk, all night. On Sundays, the little church in the park is

mouldy; the oaken pulpit breaks out into a cold sweat; and there is a

general smell and taste as of the ancient Dedlocks in their graves. My

Lady Dedlock (who is child-less), looking out in the early twilight from

her boudoir at a keeper's lodge, and seeing the light of a fire upon the

latticed panes, and smoke rising from the chimney, and a child, chased

by a woman, running out into the rain to meet the shining figure of a

wrapped-up man coming through the gate, has been put quite out of

temper. My Lady Dedlock says she has been "bored to death."

Therefore my Lady Dedlock has come away from the place in Lincolnshire,

and has left it to the rain, and the crows, and the rabbits, and the

deer, and the partridges, and pheasants. The pictures of the Dedlocks

past and gone seemed to vanish into the damp walls in mere lowness of

spirits, as the housekeeper has passed along the old rooms, shutting up

the shutters. And when they will next come forth again, the fashionable

intelligence--which, like the fiend, is omniscient of the past and

present, but not the future--can not yet undertake to say.

Sir Leicester Dedlock is only a baronet, but there is no mightier

baronet than he. His family is as old as the hills, and infinitely more

respectable. He has a general opinion that the world might get on

without hills, but would be done up without Dedlocks. He would on the

whole admit Nature to be a good idea (a little low, perhaps, when not

inclosed with a park-fence), but an idea dependent for its execution on

your great county families. He is a gentleman of strict conscience,

disdainful of all littleness and meanness, and ready, on the shortest

notice, to die any death you may please to mention rather than give

occasion for the least impeachment of his integrity. He is an honorable,

obstinate, truthful, high-spirited, intensely prejudiced, perfectly

unreasonable man.

Sir Leicester is twenty years, full measure, older than my Lady. He will

never see sixty-five again, nor perhaps sixty-six, nor yet sixty-seven.

He has a twist of the gout now and then, and walks a little stiffly. He

is of a worthy presence, with his light gray hair and whiskers, his fine

shirt-frill, his pure white waistcoat, and his blue coat with bright

buttons always buttoned. He is ceremonious, stately, most polite on

every occasion to my Lady, and holds her personal attractions in the

highest estimation. His gallantry to my Lady, which has never changed

since he courted her, is the one little touch of romantic fancy in him.

Indeed, he married her for love. A whisper still goes about, that she

had not even family; howbeit, Sir Leicester had so much family that

perhaps he had enough, and could dispense with any more. But she had

beauty, pride, ambition, insolent resolve, and sense enough to portion

out a legion of fine ladies. Wealth and station, added to these, soon

floated her upward; and for years, now, my Lady Dedlock has been at the

centre of the fashionable intelligence, and at the top of the

fashionable tree.

How Alexander wept, when he had no more worlds to conquer, every body

knows--or has some reason to know by this time, the matter having been

rather frequently mentioned. My Lady Dedlock, having conquered _her_

world, fell, not into the melting but rather into the freezing mood. An

exhausted composure, a worn-out placidity, an equanimity of fatigue, not

to be ruffled by interest or satisfaction, are the trophies of her

victory. She is perfectly well bred. If she could be translated to

Heaven to-morrow, she might be expected to ascend without any rapture.

She has beauty still, and, if it be not in its heyday, it is not yet in

its autumn. She has a fine face--originally of a character that would be

rather called very pretty than handsome, but improved into classicality

by the acquired expression of her fashionable state. Her figure is

elegant, and has the effect of being tall. Not that she is so, but that

"the most is made," as the Honorable Bob Staples has frequently asserted

upon oath, "of all her points." The same authority observes, that she is

perfectly got up and remarks, in commendation of her hair especially,

that she is the best-groomed woman in the whole stud.

With all her perfections on her head, my Lady Dedlock has come up from

her place in Lincolnshire (hotly pursued by the fashionable

intelligence), to pass a few days at her house in town previous to her

departure for Paris, where her ladyship intends to stay some weeks,

after which her movements are uncertain. And at her house in town, upon

this muddy, murky afternoon, presents himself an old-fashioned old

gentleman, attorney-at-law, and eke solicitor of the High Court of

Chancery, who has the honor of acting as legal adviser of the Dedlocks,

and has as many cast-iron boxes in his office with that name outside, as

if the present baronet were the coin of the conjuror's trick, and were

constantly being juggled through the whole set. Across the hall, and up

the stairs, and along the passages, and through the rooms, which are

very brilliant in the season and very dismal out of it--Fairy-land to

visit, but a desert to live in--the old gentleman is conducted, by a

Mercury in powder, to my Lady's presence.

The old gentleman is rusty to look at, but is reputed to have made good

thrift out of aristocratic marriage settlements and aristocratic wills,

and to be very rich. He is surrounded by a mysterious halo of family

confidences; of which he is known to be the silent depository. There are

noble Mausoleums rooted for centuries in retired glades of parks, among

the growing timber and the fern, which perhaps hold fewer noble secrets

than walk abroad among men, shut up in the breast of Mr. Tulkinghorn. He

is of what is called the old school--a phrase generally meaning any

school that seems never to have been young--and wears knee breeches tied

with ribbons, and gaiters or stockings. One peculiarity of his black

clothes, and of his black stockings, be they silk or worsted, is, that

they never shine. Mute, close, irresponsive to any glancing light, his

dress is like himself. He never converses, when not professionally

consulted. He is found sometimes, speechless but quite at home, at

corners of dinner-tables in great country houses, and near doors of

drawing-rooms, concerning which the fashionable intelligence is

eloquent: where every body knows him, and where half the Peerage stops

to say "How do you do, Mr. Tulkinghorn?" He receives these salutations

with gravity, and buries them along with the rest of his knowledge.

Sir Leicester Dedlock is with my Lady, and is happy to see Mr.

Tulkinghorn. There is an air of prescription about him which is always

agreeable to Sir Leicester; he receives it as a kind of tribute. He

likes Mr. Tulkinghorn's dress; there is a kind of tribute in that too.

It is eminently respectable, and likewise, in a general way,

retainer-like. It expresses, as it were, the steward of the legal

mysteries, the butler of the legal cellar of the Dedlocks.

Has Mr. Tulkinghorn any idea of this himself? It may be so, or it may

not; but there is this remarkable circumstance to be noted in every

thing associated with my Lady Dedlock as one of a class--as one of the

leaders and representatives of her little world. She supposes herself to

be an inscrutable Being, quite out of the reach and ken of ordinary

mortals--seeing herself in her glass, where indeed she looks so. Yet,

every dim little star revolving about her, from her maid to the manager

of the Italian Opera, knows her weaknesses, prejudices, follies,

haughtinesses, and caprices; and lives upon as accurate a calculation

and as nice a measure of her moral nature, as her dress-maker takes of

her physical proportions. Is a new dress, a new custom, a new singer, a

new dancer, a new form of jewelry, a new dwarf or giant, a new chapel, a

new any thing, to be set up? There are deferential people, in a dozen

callings, whom my Lady Dedlock suspects of nothing but prostration

before her, who can tell you how to manage her as if she were a baby;

who do nothing but nurse her all their lives; who, humbly affecting to

follow with profound subservience, lead her and her whole troop after

them; who, in hooking one, hook all and bear them off, as Lemuel

Gulliver bore away the stately fleet of the majestic Lilliput. "If you

want to address our people, sir," say Blaze and Sparkle the

jewelers--meaning by our people, Lady Dedlock and the rest--"you must

remember that you are not dealing with the general public; you must hit

our people in their weakest place, and their weakest place is such a

place." "To make this article go down, gentlemen," say Sheen and Gloss

the mercers, to their friends the manufacturers, "you must come to us,

because we know where to have the fashionable people, and we can make it

fashionable." "If you want to get this print upon the tables of my high

connection, sir," says Mr. Sladdery the librarian, "or if you want to

get this dwarf or giant into the houses of my high connection, sir, or

if you want to secure to this entertainment the patronage of my high

connection, sir, you must leave it, if you please, to me; for I have

been accustomed to study the leaders of my high connection, sir; and I

may tell you, without vanity, that I can turn them round my finger"--in

which Mr. Sladdery, who is an honest man, does not exaggerate at all.

"Therefore, while Mr. Tulkinghorn may not know what was passing in the

Dedlock mind at present, it is very possible that he may.

"My Lady's cause has been again before the Chancellor, has it, Mr.

Tulkinghorn?" says Sir Leicester, giving him his hand.

"Yes. It has been on again to-day," Mr. Tulkinghorn replies; making one

of his quiet bows to my Lady, who is on a sofa near the fire, shading

her face with a hand-screen.

"It would be useless to ask," says my Lady, with the dreariness of the

place in Lincolnshire still upon her, "whether any thing his been done."

"Nothing that _you_ would call any thing has been done to-day," replies

Mr. Tulkinghorn.

"Nor ever will be," says my Lady.

Sir Leicester has no objection to an interminable Chancery suit. It is a

slow, expensive, British, constitutional kind of thing. To be sure, he

has not a vital interest in the suit in question, her part in which was

the only property my Lady brought him; and he has a shadowy impression

that for his name--the name of Dedlock--to be in a cause, and not in the

title of that cause, is a most ridiculous accident. But he regards the

Court of Chancery, even if it should involve an occasional delay of

justice and a trifling amount of confusion, as a something, devised in

conjunction with a variety of other somethings, by the perfection of

human wisdom, for the eternal settlement (humanly speaking) of every

thing. And he is, upon the whole, of a fixed opinion, that to give the

sanction of his countenance to any complaints respecting it, would be to

encourage some person of the lower orders to rise up somewhere--like Wat

Tyler.

"As a few fresh affidavits have been put upon the file," says Mr.

Tulkinghorn, "and as they are short, and as I proceed upon the

troublesome principle of begging leave to possess my clients with any

new proceedings in a cause;" cautious man, Mr. Tulkinghorn, taking no

more responsibility than necessary; "and further, as I see you are going

to Paris, I have brought them in my pocket."

(Sir Leicester was going to Paris too, by-the-by, but the delight of the

fashionable intelligence was in his Lady.)

Mr. Tulkinghorn takes out his papers, asks permission to place them on a

golden talisman of a table at my Lady's elbow, puts on his spectacles,

and begins to read by the light of a shaded lamp.

"'In Chancery. Between John Jarndyce--'"

My Lady interrupts him, requesting him to miss as many of the formal

horrors as he can.

Mr. Tulkinghorn glances over his spectacles, and begins again lower

down. My Lady carelessly and scornfully abstracts her attention. Sir

Leicester in a great chair looks at the fire, and appears to have a

stately liking for the legal repetitions and prolixities, as ranging

among the national bulwarks. It happens that the fire is hot, where my

Lady sits; and that the hand-screen is more beautiful than useful, being

priceless, but small. My Lady, changing her position, sees the papers on

the table--looks at them nearer--looks at them nearer still--asks

impulsively:

"Who copied that?"

Mr. Tulkinghorn stops short, surprised at my Lady's animation and her

unusual tone.

"Is it what you people call law hand?" she asks, looking full at him in

her careless way again, and toying with her screen.

"Not quite. Probably"--Mr. Tulkinghorn examines it as he speaks--"the

legal character it has, was acquired after the original hand was formed.

Why do you ask?"

"Any thing to vary this detestable monotony. O, go on, do!"

Mr. Tulkinghorn reads again. The heat is greater; my Lady screens her

face. Sir Leicester dozes, starts up suddenly, and cries, "Eh? what do

you say?"

"I say I am afraid," says Mr. Tulkinghorn, who has risen hastily, "that

Lady Dedlock is ill."

"Faint," my Lady murmurs, with white lips, "only that; but it is like

the faintness of death. Don't speak to me. Ring, and take me to my

room!"

Mr. Tulkinghorn retires into another chamber; bells ring, feet shuffle

and patter, silence ensues. Mercury at last begs Mr. Tulkinghorn to

return.

"Better now," quoth Sir Leicester, motioning the lawyer to sit down and

read to him alone. "I have been quite alarmed. I never knew my lady

swoon before. But the weather is extremely trying--and she really has

been bored to death down at our place in Lincolnshire."

CHAPTER III.--A PROGRESS.

I have a great deal of difficulty in beginning to write my portion of

these pages, for I know I am not clever. I always knew that. I can

remember, when I was a very little girl indeed, I used to say to my

doll, when we were alone together, "Now, Dolly, I am not clever, you

know very well, and you must be patient with me, like a dear!" And so

she used to sit propped up in a great arm-chair, with her beautiful

complexion and rosy lips, staring at me--or not so much at me, I think,

as at nothing--while I busily stitched away, and told her every one of

my secrets.

My dear old doll! I was such a shy little thing that I seldom dared to

open my lips, and never dared to open my heart, to any body else. It

almost makes me cry to think what a relief it used to be to me, when I

came home from school of a day, to run up stairs to my room, and say, "O

you dear faithful Dolly, I knew you would be expecting me!" and then to

sit down on the floor, leaning on the elbow of her great chair, and tell

her all I had noticed since we parted. I had always rather a noticing

way--not a quick way, O no!--a silent way of noticing what passed before

me, and thinking I should like to understand it better. I have not by

any means a quick understanding. When I love a person very tenderly

indeed, it seems to brighten. But even that may be my vanity.

I was brought up, from my earliest remembrance--like some of the

princesses in the fairy stories, only I was not charming--by my

godmother. At least I only knew her as such. She was a good, good woman!

She went to church three times every Sunday, and to morning prayers on

Wednesdays and Fridays, and to lectures whenever there were lectures;

and never missed. She was handsome; and if she had ever smiled, would

have been (I used to think) like an angel--but she never smiled. She was

always grave, and strict. She was so very good herself, I thought, that

the badness of other people made her frown all her life. I felt so

different from her, even making every allowance for the differences

between a child and a woman; I felt so poor, so trifling, and so far

off; that I never could be unrestrained with her--no, could never even

love her as I wished. It made me very sorry to consider how good she

was, and how unworthy of her I was; and I used ardently to hope that I

might have a better heart; and I talked it over very often with the

dear old doll; but I never loved my godmother as I ought to have loved

her, and as I felt I must have loved her if I had been a better girl.

This made me, I dare say, more timid and retiring than I naturally was,

and cast me upon Dolly as the only friend with whom I felt at ease. But

something happened when I was still quite a little thing, that helped it

very much.

I had never heard my mamma spoken of. I had never heard of my papa

either, but I felt more interested about my mamma. I had never worn a

black frock, that I could recollect. I had never been shown my mamma's

grave. I had never been told where it was. Yet I had never been taught

to pray for any relation but my godmother. I had more than once

approached this subject of my thoughts with Mrs. Rachael, our only

servant, who took my light away when I was in bed (another very good

woman, but austere to me), and she had only said, "Esther, good-night!"

and gone away and left me.

Although there were seven girls at the neighboring school where I was a

day boarder, and although they called me little Esther Summerson, I knew

none of them at home. All of them were older than I, to be sure (I was

the youngest there by a good deal), but there seemed to be some other

separation between us besides that, and besides their being far more

clever than I was, and knowing much more than I did. One of them, in the

first week of my going to the school (I remember it very well), invited

me home to a little party, to my great joy. But my godmother wrote a

stiff letter declining for me, and I never went. I never went out at

all.

It was my birthday. There were holidays at school on other

birthdays--none on mine. There were rejoicings at home on other

birthdays, as I knew from what I heard the girls relate to one

another--there were none on mine. My birthday was the most melancholy

day at home, in the whole year.

I have mentioned, that, unless my vanity should deceive me (as I know it

may, for I may be very vain, without suspecting it--though indeed I

don't), my comprehension is quickened when my affection is. My

disposition is very affectionate; and perhaps I might still feel such a

wound, if such a wound could be received more than once, with the

quickness of that birthday.

Dinner was over, and my godmother and I were sitting at the table before

the fire. The clock ticked, the fire clicked; not another sound had been

heard in the room, or in the house, for I don't know how long. I

happened to look timidly up from my stitching, across the table, at my

godmother, and I saw in her face, looking gloomily at me, "It would have

been far better, little Esther, had you had had no birthday; that you

had never been born!"

I broke out sobbing and crying, and I said, "O, dear godmother, tell me,

pray do tell me, did mamma die on my birthday?"

"No," she returned. "Ask me no more, child!"

"O, do pray tell me something of her. Do now, at last, dear godmother,

if you please! What did I do to her? How did I lose her? Why am I so

different from other children, and why is it my fault, dear godmother?

No, no, no, don't go away. O, speak to me!"

I was in a kind of fright beyond my grief; and I had caught hold of her

dress, and was kneeling to her. She had been saying all the while, "Let

me go!" But now she stood still.

Her darkened face had such power over me, that it stopped me in the

midst of my vehemence, I put up my trembling little hand to clasp hers,

or to beg her pardon with what earnestness I might, but withdrew it as

she looked at me, and laid it on my fluttering heart. She raised me, sat

in her chair, and standing me before her, said, slowly, in a cold, low

voice--I see her knitted brow, and pointed finger:

"Your mother, Esther, is your disgrace, and you were hers. The time will

come--and soon enough--when you will understand this better, and will

feel it too, as no one save a woman can. I have forgiven her;" but her

face did not relent; "the wrong she did to me, and I say no more of it,

though it was greater than you will ever know--than any one will ever

know, but I, the sufferer. For yourself, unfortunate girl, orphaned and

degraded from the first of these evil anniversaries, pray daily that the

sins of others be not visited upon your head, according to what is

written. Forget your mother, and leave all other people to forget her

who will do her unhappy child that greatest kindness. Now, go!"

She checked me, however, as I was about to depart from her--so frozen as

I was!--and added this:

"Submission, self-denial, diligent work, are the preparations for a life

begun with such a shadow on it. You are different from other children,

Esther, because you were not born, like them, in common sinfulness and

wrath. You are set apart."

I went up to my room, and crept to bed, and laid my doll's cheek against

mine wet with tears; and holding that solitary friend upon my bosom,

cried myself to sleep. Imperfect as my understanding of my sorrow was, I

knew that I had brought no joy, at anytime, to anybody's heart, and that

I was to no one upon earth what Dolly was to me.

Dear, dear, to think how much time we passed alone together afterward,

and how often I repeated to the doll the story of my birthday, and

confided to her that I would try, as hard as ever I could, to repair the

fault I had been born with (of which I confusedly felt guilty and yet

innocent), and would strive as I grew up to be industrious, contented,

and kind-hearted, and to do some good to some one, and win some love to

myself if I could. I hope it is not self-indulgent to shed these tears

as I think of it. I am very thankful, I am very cheerful, but I can not

quite help their coming to my eyes.

There! I have wiped them away now, and can go on again properly.

I felt the distance between my godmother and myself so much more after

the birthday, and felt so sensible of filling a place in her house which

ought to have been empty, that I found her more difficult of approach,

though I was fervently grateful to her in my heart, than ever. I felt in

the same way toward my school companions; I felt in the same way toward

Mrs. Rachael, who was a widow; and O toward her daughter, of whom she

was proud, who came to see her once a fortnight! I was very retired and

quiet, and tried to be very diligent.

One sunny afternoon, when I had come home from school with my books and

portfolio, watching my long shadow at my side, and as I was gliding up

stairs to my room as usual, my godmother looked out of the parlor door,

and called me back. Sitting with her, I found--which was very unusual

indeed--a stranger. A portly, important-looking gentleman, dressed all

in black, with a white cravat, large gold watch seals, a pair of gold

eye-glasses, and a large seal-ring upon his little finger.

"This," said my godmother in an under tone, "is the child." Then she

said, in her naturally stern way of speaking, "This is Esther, sir."

The gentleman put up his eye-glasses to look at me, and said, "Come

here, my dear!" He shook hands with me, and asked me to take off my

bonnet--looking at me all the while. When I had complied, he said, "Ah!"

and afterward "Yes!" And then, taking off his eye-glasses and folding

them in a red case, and leaning back in his arm-chair, turning the case

about in his two hands he gave my godmother a nod. Upon that, my

godmother said, "You may go up-stairs, Esther!" and I made him my

courtesy and left him.

It must have been two years afterward, and I was almost fourteen, when

one dreadful night my godmother and I sat at the fireside. I was reading

aloud, and she was listening. I had come down at nine o'clock, as I

always did, to read the Bible to her; and was reading, from St. John,

how our Saviour stooped down, writing with his finger in the dust, when

they brought the sinful woman to him.

"So when they continued asking him, he lifted up himself and said unto

them, He that is without sin among you, let him first cast a stone at

her!'"

I was stopped by my godmother's rising, putting her hand to her head,

and crying out, in an awful voice, from quite another part of the book:

"'Watch ye therefore! lest coming suddenly he find you sleeping. And

what I say unto you, I say unto all, Watch!'"

In an instant, while she stood before me repeating these words, she fell

down on the floor. I had no need to cry out; her voice had sounded

through the house, and been heard in the street.

She was laid upon her bed. For more than a week she lay there, little

altered outwardly; with her old handsome, resolute frown that I so well

knew, carved upon her face. Many and many a time, in the day and in the

night, with my head upon the pillow by her that my whispers might be

plainer to her, I kissed her, thanked her, prayed for her, asked her for

her blessing and forgiveness, entreated her to give me the least sign

that she knew or heard me. No, no, no. Her face was immovable. To the

very last, and even afterward, her frown remained unsoftened.

On the day after my poor good godmother was buried, the gentleman in

black with the white neckcloth re-appeared. I was sent for by Mrs.

Rachael, and found him in the same place, as if he had never gone away.

"My name is Kenge," he said; "you may remember it, my child; Kenge and

Carboy, Lincoln's Inn."

I replied, that I remembered to have seen him once before.

"Pray be seated--here, near me. Don't distress yourself; it's of no use.

Mrs. Rachael, I needn't inform you, who were acquainted with the late

Miss Barbary's affairs, that her means die with her; and that this young

lady, now her aunt is dead--"

"My aunt, sir!"

"It really is of no use carrying on a deception when no object is to be

gained by it," said Mr. Kenge, smoothly. "Aunt in fact, though not in

law. Don't distress yourself! Don't weep! Don't tremble! Mrs. Rachael,

our young friend has no doubt heard of--the--a--Jarndyce and Jarndyce."

"Never," said Mrs. Rachel.

"Is it possible," pursued Mr. Kenge, putting up his eye-glasses, "that

our young friend--I _beg_ you won't distress yourself!--never heard of

Jarndyce and Jarndyce?"

I shook my head, wondering even what it was.

"Not of Jarndyce and Jarndyce?" said Mr. Kenge, looking over his glasses

at me, and softly turning the case about and about, as if he were

petting something. "Not of one of the greatest Chancery suits known? Not

of Jarndyce and Jarndyce--the--a--in itself a monument of Chancery

practice? In which (I would say) every difficulty, every contingency,

every masterly fiction, every form of procedure known in that court, is

represented over and over again? It is a cause that could not exist, out

of this free and great country. I should say that the aggregate of costs

in Jarndyce and Jarndyce, Mrs. Rachael;" I was afraid he addressed

himself to her, because I appeared inattentive; "amounts at the present

hour to from SIX-TY to SEVEN-TY THOUSAND POUNDS!" said Mr. Kenge,

leaning back in his chair.

I felt very ignorant, but what could I do? I was so entirely

unacquainted with the subject, that I understood nothing about it even

then.

"And she really never heard of the cause!" said Mr. Kenge. "Surprising!"

"Miss Barbary, sir," returned Mrs. Rachael, "who is now among the

Seraphim--"

("I hope so, I am sure," said Mr. Kenge, politely.)

"--Wished Esther only to know what would be serviceable to her. And she

knows, from any teaching she has had here, nothing more."

"Well!" said Mr. Kenge. "Upon the whole, very proper. Now to the point,"

addressing me. "Miss Barbary, your sole relation (in fact, that is; for

I am bound to observe that in law you had none), being deceased, and it

naturally not being to be expected that Mrs. Rachael--"

"O dear no!" said Mrs. Rachael, quickly.

"Quite so," assented Mr. Kenge; "that Mrs. Rachael should charge

herself with your maintenance and support (I beg you won't distress

yourself), you are in a position to receive the renewal of an offer

which I was instructed to make to Miss Barbary some two years ago, and

which, though rejected then, was understood to be renewable under the

lamentable circumstances that have since occurred. Now, if I avow that I

represent, in Jarndyce and Jarndyce, and otherwise, a highly humane, but

at the same time singular man, shall I compromise myself by any stretch

of my professional caution?" said Mr. Kenge, leaning back in his chair

again, and looking calmly at us both.

He appeared to enjoy beyond every thing, the sound of his own voice. I

couldn't wonder at that, for it was mellow and full, and gave great

importance to every word he uttered. He listened to himself with obvious

satisfaction, and sometimes gently beat time to his own music with his

head, or rounded a sentence with his hand. I was very much impressed by

him--even then, before I knew that he formed himself on the model of a

great lord who was his client, and that he was generally called

Conversation Kenge.

"Mr. Jarndyce," he pursued, "being aware of the--I would say,

desolate--position of our young friend, offers to place her at a

first-rate establishment; where her education shall be completed, where

her comfort shall be secured, where her reasonable wants shall be

anticipated, where she shall be eminently qualified to discharge her

duty in that station of life unto which it has pleased--shall I say

Providence?--to call her."

My heart was filled so full, both by what he said, and by his affecting

manner of saying it, that I was not able to speak, though I tried.

"Mr. Jarndyce," he went on, "makes no condition, beyond expressing his

expectation, that our young friend will not at any time remove herself

from the establishment in question without his knowledge and

concurrence. That she will faithfully apply herself to the acquisition

of those accomplishments, upon the exercise of which she will be

ultimately dependent. That she will tread in the paths of virtue, and

honor, and--the--a--so forth."

I was still less able to speak than before.

"Now, what does our young friend say?" proceeded Mr. Kenge. "Take time,

take time! I pause for her reply. But take time!"

What the destitute subject of such an offer tried to say, I need not

repeat. What she did say, I could more easily tell, if it were worth the

telling. What she felt, and will feel to her dying hour, I could never

relate.

This interview took place at Windsor, where I had passed (as far as I

knew) my whole life. On that day week, amply provided with all

necessaries, I left it, inside the stage-coach, for Reading.

Mrs. Rachael was too good to feel any emotion at parting, but I was not

so good, and wept bitterly. I thought that I ought to have known her

better after so many years, and ought to have made myself enough of a

favorite with her to make her sorry then. When she gave me one cold,

parting kiss upon my forehead, like a thaw-drop from the stone porch--it

was a very frosty day--I felt so miserable and self-reproachful that I

clung to her and told her it was my fault, I knew, that she could say

good-by so easily!

"No, Esther!" she returned. "It is your misfortune!"

The coach was at the little lawn gate--we had not come out until we

heard the wheels--and thus I left her, with a sorrowful heart. She went

in before my boxes were lifted to the coach-roof, and shut the door. As

long as I could see the house, I looked back at it from the window,

through my tears. My godmother had left Mrs. Rachael all the little

property she possessed; and there was to be a sale; and an old

hearth-rug with roses on it, which always seemed to me the first thing

in the world I had ever seen, was hanging outside in the frost and snow.

A day or two before, I had wrapped the dear old doll in her own shawl,

and quietly laid her--I am half-ashamed to tell it--in the garden-earth,

under the tree that shaded my own window. I had no companion left but my

bird, and him I carried with me in his cage.

When the house was out of sight, I sat, with my bird-cage in the straw

at my feet, forward on the low seat to look out of the high window;

watching the frosty trees that were like beautiful pieces of spar; and

the fields all smooth and white with last night's snow; and the sun so

red but yielding so little heat; and the ice, dark like metal, where the

skaters and sliders had brushed the snow away. There was a gentleman in

the coach who sat on the opposite seat, and looked very large in a

quantity of wrappings; but he sat gazing out of the other window, and

took no notice of me.

I thought of my dead godmother; of the night when I read to her; of her

frowning so fixedly and sternly in her bed; of the strange place I was

going to; of the people I should find there, and what they would be

like, and what they would say to me; when a voice in the coach gave me a

terrible start.

It said, "What the de-vil are you crying for?"

I was so frightened that I lost my voice, and could only answer in a

whisper. "Me, sir?" For of course I knew it must have been the

gentleman in the quantity of wrappings, though he was still looking out

of his window.

"Yes, you," he said, turning round.

"I didn't know I was crying, sir," I faltered.

"But you are!" said the gentleman. "Look here!" He came quite opposite

to me from the other corner of the coach, brushed one of his large furry

cuffs across my eyes (but without hurting me), and showed me that it was

wet.

"There! Now, you know you are," he said. "Don't you?"

"Yes, sir," I said.

"And what are you crying for?" said the gentleman. "Don't you want to go

there?"

"Where, sir?"

"Where? Why, wherever you are going," said the gentleman.

"I am very glad to go there, sir," I answered.

"Well, then! Look glad!" said the gentleman.

I thought he was very strange, or at least that what I could see of him

was very strange, for he was wrapped up to the chin, and his face was

almost hidden in a fur cap, with broad fur straps at the side of his

head, fastened under his chin; but I was composed again, and not afraid

of him. So I told him that I thought I must have been crying, because of

my godmother's death, and because of Mrs. Rachael's not being sorry to

part with me.

"Con-found Mrs. Rachael!" said the gentleman. "Let her fly away in a

high wind on a broomstick!"

I began to be really afraid of him now, and looked at him with the

greatest astonishment. But I thought that he had pleasant eyes, although

he kept on muttering to himself in an angry manner, and calling Mrs.

Rachael names.

After a little while, he opened his outer wrapper, which appeared to me

large enough to wrap up the whole coach, and put his arm down into a

deep pocket in the side.

"Now, look here!" he said. "In this paper," which was nicely folded, "is

a piece of the best plum-cake that can be got for money--sugar on the

outside an inch thick, like fat on muttonchops. Here's a little pie (a

gem this is, both for size and quality), made in France. And what do you

suppose it's made of? Livers of fat geese. There's a pie! Now let's see

you eat 'em."

"Thank you, sir," I replied; "thank you very much, indeed, but I hope

you won't be offended; they are too rich for me."

"Floored again!" said the gentleman, which I didn't at all understand;

and threw them both out of window.

He did not speak to me any more, until he got out of the coach a little

way short of Reading, when he advised me to be a good girl, and to be

studious; and shook hands with me. I must say I was relieved by his

departure. We left him at a milestone. I often walked past it afterward,

and never, for a long time, without thinking of him, and half-expecting

to meet him. But I never did; and so, as time went on, he passed out of

my mind.

When the coach stopped, a very neat lady looked up at the window, and

said,

"Miss Donny."

"No, ma'am, Esther Summerson."

"That is quite right," said the lady, "Miss Donny."

I now understood that she introduced herself by that name, and begged

Miss Donny's pardon for my mistake, and pointed out my boxes at her

request. Under the direction of a very neat maid, they were put outside

a very small green carriage; and then Miss Donny, the maid, and I, got

inside, and were driven away.

"Every thing is ready for you, Esther," said Miss Donny; "and the scheme

of your pursuits has been arranged in exact accordance with the wishes

of your guardian, Mr. Jarndyce."

"Of ----, did you say, ma'am?"

"Of your guardian, Mr. Jarndyce," said Miss Donny.

I was so bewildered that Miss Donny thought the cold had been too severe

for me, and lent me her smelling-bottle.

"Do you know my--guardian, Mr. Jarndyce, ma'am?" I asked, after a good

deal of hesitation.

"Not personally, Esther," said Miss Donny; "merely through his

solicitors, Messrs. Kenge and Carboy, of London. A very superior

gentleman, Mr. Kenge. Truly eloquent, indeed. Some of his periods quite

majestic!"

I felt this to be very true, but was too confused to attend to it. Our

speedy arrival at our destination, before I had time to recover myself,

increased my confusion; and I never shall forget the uncertain and

unreal air of every thing at Greenleaf (Miss Donny's house), that

afternoon!

But I soon became used to it. I was so adapted to the routine of

Greenleaf before long, that I seemed to have been there a great while;

and almost to have dreamed, rather than to have really lived, my old

life at my godmother's. Nothing could be more precise, exact, and

orderly, than Greenleaf. There was a time for every thing all round the

dial of the clock, and every thing was done at its appointed moment.

We were twelve boarders, and there were two Miss Donnys, twins. It was

understood that I would have to depend, by-and-by, on my qualifications

as a governess; and I was not only instructed in every thing that was

taught at Greenleaf, but was very soon engaged in helping to instruct

others. Although I was treated in every other respect like the rest of

the school, this single difference was made in my case from the first.

As I began to know more, I taught more, and so in course of time I had

plenty to do, which I was very fond of doing, because it made the dear

girls fond of me. At last, whenever a new pupil came, who was a little

downcast and unhappy, she was so sure--indeed I don't know why--to make

a friend of me, that all new-comers were confided to my care. They said

I was so gentle; but I am sure _they_ were! I often thought of the

resolution I had made on my birth-day, to try to be industrious,

contented, and true-hearted, and to do some good to some one, and win

some love if I could; and indeed, indeed, I felt almost ashamed to have

done so little, and have won so much.

I passed at Greenleaf six happy, quiet years. I never saw in any face

there, thank Heaven, on my birthday, that it would have been better if I

had never been born. When the day came round, it brought me so many

tokens of affectionate remembrance, that my room was beautiful with them

from New-Year's Day to Christmas.

In those six years I had never been away, except on visits at holiday

time in the neighborhood. After the first six months or so, I had taken

Miss Donny's advice in reference to the propriety of writing to Mr.

Kenge, to say that I was happy and grateful; and, with her approval, I

had written such a letter. I had received a formal answer acknowledging

its receipt, and saying, "We note the contents thereof, which shall be

duly communicated to our client." After that, I sometimes heard Miss

Donny and her sister mention how regularly my accounts were paid; and

about twice a year I ventured to write a similar letter. I always

received by return of post exactly the same answer, in the same round

hand; with the signature of Kenge and Carboy in another writing, which I

supposed to be Mr. Kenge's.

It seems so curious to me to be obliged to write all this about

myself!--as if this narrative were the narrative of _my_ life! But my

little body will soon fall into the background now.

Six quiet years (I find I am saying it for the second time) I had passed

at Greenleaf, seeing in those around me, as it might be in a

looking-glass, every stage of my own growth and change there, when, one

November morning, I received this letter. I omit the date.

_Old Square, Lincoln's Inn._

_Madam,_

_Jarndyce and Jarndyce._

_Our clt Mr. Jarndyce being abt to rece into his house, under an

Order of the Ct of Chy, a Ward of the Ct in this cause, for whom he

wishes to secure an elgble compn, directs us to inform you that he

will be glad of your serces in the afsd capacity._

_We have arrngd for your being forded, carriage free, pr eight

o'clock coach from Reading, on Monday morning next, to White Horse

Cellar, Piccadilly, London, where one of our clks will be in waiting

to convey you to our offe as above._

_We are, Madam,_

_Your obed^t Serv^ts,_

_Kenge and Carboy._

_Miss Esther Summerson._

O, never, never, never shall I forget the emotion this letter caused in

the house! It was so tender in them to care so much for me; it was so

gracious in that Father who had not forgotten me, to have made my orphan

way so smooth and easy, and to have inclined so many youthful natures

toward me; that I could hardly bear it. Not that I would have had them

less sorry--I am afraid not; but the pleasure of it, and the pain of it,

and the pride and joy of it, and the humble regret of it, were so

blended, that my heart seemed almost breaking while it was full of

rapture.

The letter gave me only five days' notice of my removal. When every

minute added to the proofs of love and kindness that were given me in

those five days; and when at last the morning came, and when they took

me through all the rooms, that I might see them for the last time; and

when some cried "Esther, dear, say good-by to me here, at my bedside,

where you first spoke so kindly to me!" and when others asked me only to

write their names, "With Esther's love;" and when they all surrounded mo

with their parting presents, and clung to me weeping, and cried, "What

shall we do when dear Esther's gone!" and when I tried to tell them how

forbearing, and how good they had all been to me, and how I blessed, and

thanked them every one; what a heart I had!

And when the two Miss Donnys grieved as much to part with me, as the

least among them; and when the maids said, "Bless you, miss, wherever

you go!" and when the ugly lame old gardener, who I thought had hardly

noticed me in all those years, came panting after the coach to give me a

little nosegay of geraniums, and told me I had been the light of his

eyes--indeed the old man said so!--what a heart I had then!

And could I help it, if with all this, and the coming to the little

school, and the unexpected sight of the poor children outside waving

their hats and bonnets to me, and of a gray-headed gentleman and lady,

whose daughter I had helped to teach, and at whose house I had visited

(who were said to be the proudest people in all that country), caring

for nothing but calling out "Good-by, Esther. May you be very happy!"

could I help it if I was quite bowed down in the coach by myself, and

said, "O, I am so thankful, I am so thankful!" many times over!

But of course I soon considered that I must not take tears where I was

going, after all that had been done for me. Therefore, of course, I made

myself sob less, and persuaded myself to be quiet, by saying very often,

"Esther! now, you really must! This _will not_ do!" I cheered myself up

pretty well at last, though I am afraid I was longer about it than I

ought to have been; and when I had cooled my eyes with lavender water,

it was time to watch for London.

I was quite persuaded that we were there, when we were ten miles off;

and when we really were there, that we should never get there. However,

when we began to jolt upon a stone pavement, and particularly when every

other conveyance seemed to be running into us and we seemed to be

running into every other conveyance, I began to believe that we really

were approaching the end of our journey. Very soon afterward we stopped.

A young gentleman who had inked himself by accident, addressed me from

the pavement, and said, "I am from Kenge and Carboy's, miss, of

Lincoln's Inn."

"If you please, sir," said I.

He was very obliging; and as he handed me into a fly, after

superintending the removal of my boxes, I asked him whether there was a

great fire any where? For the streets were so full of dense brown smoke

that scarcely any thing was to be seen.

"O dear no, miss," he said. "This is a London particular."

I had never heard of such a thing.

"A fog, miss," said the young gentleman.

"O indeed!" said I.

We drove slowly through the dirtiest and darkest streets that ever were

seen in the world (I thought), and in such a distracting state of

confusion that I wondered how the people kept their senses, until we

passed into sudden quietude under an old gateway, and drove on through a

silent square, until we came to an odd nook in a corner, where there was

an entrance up a steep broad flight of stairs, like an entrance to a

church. And there really was a church-yard outside under some cloisters,

for I saw the grave-stones from the staircase window.

This was Kenge and Carboy's. The young gentleman showed me through an

outer office into Mr. Kenge's room--there was no one in it--and politely

put an arm-chair for me by the fire. He then called my attention to a

little looking-glass, hanging from a nail on one side, of the

chimney-piece.

"In case you should wish to look at yourself, miss, after the journey,

as you're going before the Chancellor. Not that it's necessary, I am

sure," said the young gentleman, civilly.

"Going before the Chancellor?" I said, startled for a moment.

"Only a matter of form, miss," returned the young gentleman. "Mr. Kenge

is in court now. He left his compliments, and would you partake of some

refreshment;" there were biscuits and a decanter of wine on a small

table; "and look over the paper;" which the young gentleman gave me as

he spoke. He then stirred the fire, and left me.

Every thing was so strange--the stranger for its being night in the

day-time, and the candles burning with a white flame, and looking raw

and cold--that I read the words in the newspaper without knowing what

they meant, and found myself reading the same words repeatedly. As it

was of no use going on in that way, I put the paper down, took a peep at

my bonnet in the glass to see if it was neat, and looked at the room

which was not half lighted, and at the shabby dusty tables, and

at the piles of writings, and at a bookcase full of the most

inexpressive-looking books that ever had any thing to say for

themselves. Then I went on, thinking, thinking, thinking; and the fire

went on, burning, burning, burning; and the candles went on flickering

and guttering, and there were no snuffers--until the young gentleman

by-and-by brought a very dirty pair; for two hours.

At last Mr. Kenge came. _He_ was not altered; but he was surprised to

see how altered I was, and appeared quite pleased. "As you are going to

be the companion of the young lady who is now in the Chancellor's

private room, Miss Summerson," he said, "we thought it well that you

should be in attendance also. You will not be discomposed by the Lord

Chancellor, I dare say?"

"No, sir," I said, "I don't think I shall." Really not seeing, on

consideration, why I should be.

So Mr. Kenge gave me his arm, and we went round the corner, under a

colonnade, and in at a side door. And so we came, along a passage, into

a comfortable sort of room, where a young lady and a young gentleman

were standing near a great, loud-roaring fire. A screen was interposed

between them and it, and they were leaning on the screen, talking.

They both looked up when I came in, and I saw in the young lady, with

the fire shining upon her, such a beautiful girl! With such rich golden

hair, such soft blue eyes, and such a bright, innocent, trusting face!

"Miss Ada," said Mr. Kenge, "this is Miss Summerson."

She came to meet me with a smile of welcome, and her hand extended, but

seemed to change her mind in a moment, and kissed me. In short, she had

such a natural, captivating, winning manner, that in a few minutes we

were sitting in the window-seat, with the light of the fire upon us,

talking together, as free and happy as could be.

What a load off my mind! It was so delightful to know that she could

confide in me, and like me! It was so good of her, and so encouraging to

me!

The young gentleman was her distant cousin, she told me, and his name

Richard Carstone. He was a handsome youth, with an ingenuous face, and a

most engaging laugh; and after she had called him up to where we sat, he

stood by us, in the light of the fire too, talking gayly, like a

light-hearted boy. He was very young; not more than nineteen then, if

quite so much, but nearly two years older than she was. They were both

orphans, and (what was very unexpected and curious to me) had never met

before that day. Our all three coming together for the first time, in

such an unusual place, was a thing to talk about; and we talked about

it; and the fire, which had left off roaring, winked its red eyes at

us--as Richard said--like a drowsy old Chancery lion.

We conversed in a low tone, because a full-dressed gentleman in a bag

wig frequently came in and out, and when he did so, we could hear a

drawling sound in the distance, which he said was one of the counsel in

our case addressing the Lord Chancellor. He told Mr. Kenge that the

Chancellor would be up in five minutes; and presently we heard a bustle,

and a tread of feet, and Mr. Kenge said that the Court had risen, and

his lordship was in the next room.

The gentleman in the bag wig opened the door almost directly, and

requested Mr. Kenge to come in. Upon that, we all went into the next

room; Mr. Kenge first, with my darling--it is so natural to me now, that

I can't help writing it; and there, plainly dressed in black, and

sitting in an arm-chair at a table near the fire, was his lordship,

whose robe, trimmed with beautiful gold lace, was thrown upon another

chair. He gave us a searching look as we entered, but his manner was

both courtly and kind.

The gentleman in the bag wig laid bundles of papers on his lordship's

table, and his lordship silently selected one, and turned over the

leaves.

"Miss Clare," then said the Lord Chancellor. "Miss Ada Clare?"

Mr. Kenge presented her, and his lordship begged her to sit down near

him. That he admired her, and was interested by her, even _I_ could see

in a moment. It touched me, that the home of such a beautiful young

creature should be represented by that dry official place. The Lord High

Chancellor, at his best, appeared so poor a substitute for the love and

pride of parents.

"The Jarndyce in question," said the Lord Chancellor, still turning over

leaves, "is Jarndyce of Bleak House."

"Jarndyce of Bleak House, my lord," said Mr. Kenge.

"A dreary name," said the Lord Chancellor.

"But not a dreary place at present, my lord," said Mr. Kenge.

"And Bleak House," said his lordship, "is in--"

"Hertfordshire, my lord."

"Mr. Jarndyce of Bleak House is not married?" said his lordship.

"He is not, my lord," said Mr. Kenge.

A pause.

"Young Mr. Richard Carstone is present?" said the Lord Chancellor,

glancing toward him.

Richard bowed and stepped forward.

"Hum!" said the Lord Chancellor, turning over more leaves.

"Mr. Jarndyce of Bleak House, my lord," Mr. Kenge observed, in a low

voice, "if I may venture to remind your lordship, provides a suitable

companion for--"

"For Mr. Richard Carstone?" I thought (but I am not quite sure) I heard

his lordship say, in an equally low voice, and with a smile.

"For Miss Ada Clare. This is the young lady. Miss Summerson."

His lordship gave me an indulgent look, and acknowledged my courtesy

very graciously.

"Miss Summerson is not related to any party in the cause, I think?"

"No, my lord."

Mr. Kenge leant over before it was quite said, and whispered. His

lordship, with his eyes upon his papers, listened, nodded twice or

thrice, turned over more leaves, and did not look toward me again, until

we were going away.

Mr. Kenge now retired, and Richard with him, to where I was, near the

door, leaving my pet (it is so natural to me that again I can't help

it!) sitting near the Lord Chancellor; with whom his lordship spoke a

little apart; asking her, as she told me afterward, whether she had well

reflected on the proposed arrangement, and if she thought she would be

happy under the roof of Mr. Jarndyce of Bleak House, and why she thought

so? Presently he rose courteously, and released her, and then he spoke

for a minute or two with Richard Carstone; not seated, but standing, and

altogether with more ease and less ceremony--as if he still knew, though

he _was_ Lord Chancellor, how to go straight to the candor of a boy.

"Very well!" said his lordship aloud. "I shall make the order. Mr.

Jarndyce of Bleak House has chosen, so far as I may judge," and this was

when he looked at me, "a very good companion for the young lady, and the

arrangement altogether seems the best of which the circumstances admit."

He dismissed us pleasantly, and we all went out, very much obliged to

him for being so affable and polite; by which he had certainly lost no

dignity, but seemed to us to have gained some.

When we got under the colonnade, Mr. Kenge remembered that he must go

back for a moment to ask a question; and left us in the fog, with the

Lord Chancellor's carriage and servants waiting for him to come out.

"Well!" said Richard Carstone, "_that's_ over! And where do we go next,

Miss Summerson?"

"Don't you know?" I said.

"Not in the least," said he.

"And don't _you_ know, my love?" I asked Ada.

"No!" said she. "Don't you?"

"Not at all!" said I.

We looked at one another, half-laughing at our being like the children

in the wood, when a curious little old woman in a squeezed bonnet, and

carrying a reticule, came courtesying and smiling up to us, with an air

of great ceremony.

"O!" said she. "The wards in Jarndyce! Ve-ry happy, I am sure, to have

the honor! It is a good omen for youth, and hope, and beauty, when they

find themselves in this place, and don't know what's to come of it."

"Mad!" whispered Richard, not thinking she could hear him.

"Right! Mad, young gentleman," she returned so quickly that he was quite

abashed. "I was a ward myself. I was not mad at that time," courtesying

low, and smiling between every little sentence. "I had youth, and hope.

I believe, beauty. It matters very little now. Neither of the three

served, or saved me. I have the honor to attend court regularly. With my

documents. I expect a judgment. Shortly. On the Day of Judgment. I have

discovered that the sixth seal mentioned in the Revelations is the

Great Seal. It has been open a long time! Pray accept my blessing."

[Illustration: THE LITTLE OLD LADY.]

As Ada was a little frightened, I said, to humor the poor old lady, that

we were much obliged to her.

"Ye-es!" she said, mincingly. "I imagine so. And here is Conversation

Kenge. With _his_ documents. How does your honorable worship do?"

"Quite well, quite well! Now don't be troublesome, that's a good soul!"

said Mr. Kenge, leading the way back.

"By no means," said the poor old lady, keeping up with Ada and me. "Any

thing but troublesome. I shall confer estates on both--which is not

being troublesome, I trust? I expect a judgment. Shortly. On the Day of

Judgment. This is a good omen for you. Accept my blessing!"

She stopped at the bottom of the steep, broad flight of stairs; but we

looked back as we went up, and she was still there, saying, still with a

courtesy and a smile between every little sentence, "Youth. And hope.

And beauty. And Chancery. And Conversation Kenge! Ha! Pray accept my

blessing!"

CHAPTER IV.--TELESCOPIC PHILANTHROPY.

We were to pass the night, Mr. Kenge told us when we arrived in his

room, at Mrs. Jellyby's; and then he turned to me, and said he took it

for granted I knew who Mrs. Jellyby was?

"I really don't, sir," I returned. "Perhaps Mr. Carstone--or Miss

Clare--"

But no, they knew nothing whatever about Mrs. Jellyby.

"In-deed! Mrs. Jellyby," said Mr. Kenge, standing with his back to the

fire, and casting his eyes over the dusty hearth-rug as if it were Mrs.

Jellyby's biography, "is a lady of very remarkable strength of

character, who devotes herself entirely to the public. She has devoted

herself to an extensive variety of public subjects, at various times,

and is at present (until something else attracts her) devoted to the

subject of Africa, with a view to the general cultivation of the coffee

berry--_and_ the natives--and the happy settlement, on the banks of the

African rivers, of our superabundant home population. Mr. Jarndyce, who

is desirous to aid in any work that is considered likely to be a good

work, and who is much sought after by philanthropists, has I believe, a

very high opinion of Mrs. Jellyby."

Mr. Kenge, adjusting his cravat, then looked at us.

"And Mr. Jellyby, sir?" suggested Richard.

"Ah! Mr. Jellyby," said Mr. Kenge, "is--a--I don't know that I can

describe him to you better than by saying that he is the husband of Mrs.

Jellyby."

"A nonentity, sir?" said Richard, with a droll look.

"I don't say that," returned Mr. Kenge, gravely. "I can't say that,

indeed, for I know nothing whatever _of_ Mr. Jellyby. I never, to my

knowledge, had the pleasure of seeing Mr. Jellyby. He may be a very

superior man; but he is, so to speak, merged--merged--in the more

shining qualities of his wife." Mr. Kenge proceeded to tell us that as

the road to Bleak House would have been very long, dark, and tedious, on

such an evening, and as we had been traveling already, Mr. Jarndyce had

himself proposed this arrangement. A carriage would be at Mrs. Jellyby's

to convey us out of town, early in the forenoon of to-morrow.

He then rang a little bell, and the young gentleman came in. Addressing

him by the name of Guppy, Mr. Kenge inquired whether Miss Summerson's

boxes and the rest of the baggage had been "sent round." Mr. Guppy said

yes, they had been sent round, and a coach was waiting to take us round

too, as soon as we pleased.

"Then it only remains," said Mr. Kenge, shaking hands with us, "for me

to express my lively satisfaction in (good-day, Miss Clare!) the

arrangement this day concluded, and my (_good_-by to you, Miss

Summerson!) lively hope that it will conduce to the happiness, the (glad

to have had the honor of making your acquaintance, Mr. Carstone!)

welfare, the advantage in all points of view, of all concerned! Guppy,

see the party safely there."

"Where _is_ 'there,' Mr. Guppy?" said Richard, as he went down stairs.

"No distance," said Mr. Guppy; "round in Thavies' Inn, you know."

"I can't say I know where it is, for I come from Winchester, and am

strange in London."

"Only round the corner," said Mr. Guppy. "We just twist up

Chancery-lane, and out along Holborn, and there we are in four minutes'

time, as near as a toucher. This is about a London particular _now_,

ain't it, miss?" He seemed quite delighted with it on my account.

"The fog is very dense indeed!" said I.

"Not that it affects you, though, I am sure," said Mr. Guppy, putting up

the steps. "On the contrary, it seems to do you good, miss, judging from

your appearance."

I knew he meant well in paying me this compliment, so I laughed at

myself for blushing at it, when he had shut the door and got upon the

box; and we all three laughed, and chatted about our inexperience, and

the strangeness of London, until we turned up under an archway, to our

destination: a narrow street of high houses, like an oblong cistern to

hold the fog. There was a confused little crowd of people, principally

children, gathered about the house at which we stopped, which had a

tarnished brass plate on the door, with the inscription, JELLYBY.

"Don't be frightened!" said Mr. Guppy, look-in at the coach-window. "One

of the young Jellybys been and got his head through the area railings!"

"O poor child," said I, "let me out, if you please!"

"Pray be careful of yourself, miss. The young Jellybys are always up to

something," said Mr. Guppy.

I made my way to the poor child, who was one of the dirtiest little

unfortunates I ever saw, and found him very hot and frightened, and

crying loudly, fixed by the neck between two iron railings, while a

milk-man and a beadle, with the kindest intentions possible, were

endeavoring to drag him back by the legs, under a general impression

that his skull was compressible by those means. As I found (after

pacifying him), that he was a little boy, with a naturally large head, I

thought that, perhaps, where his head could go, his body could follow,

and mentioned that the best mode of extrication might be to push him

forward. This was so favorably received by the milk-man and beadle, that

he would immediately have been pushed into the area, if I had not held

his pinafore, while Richard and Mr. Guppy ran down through the kitchen,

to catch him when he should be released. At last he was happily got down

without any accident, and then he began to beat Mr. Guppy with a

hoop-stick in quite a frantic manner.

Nobody had appeared belonging to the house, except a person in pattens,

who had been poking at the child from below with a broom; I don't know

with what object, and I don't think she did. I therefore supposed that

Mrs. Jellyby was not at home; and was quite surprised when the person

appeared in the passage without the pattens, and going up to the back

room on the first floor, before Ada and me, announced us as, "Them two

young ladies, Missis Jellyby!" We passed several more children on the

way up, whom it was difficult to avoid treading on in the dark; and as

we came into Mrs. Jellyby's presence, one of the poor little things fell

down stairs--down a whole flight (as it sounded to me), with a great

noise.

Mrs. Jellyby, whose face reflected none of the uneasiness which we could

not help showing in our own faces, as the dear child's head recorded its

passage with a bump on every stair--Richard afterward said he counted

seven, besides one for the landing--received us with perfect equanimity.

She was a pretty, very diminutive, plump woman, of from forty to fifty,

with handsome eyes, though they had a curious habit of seeming to look a

long way off. As if--I am quoting Richard again--they could see nothing

nearer than Africa!

"I am very glad indeed," said Mrs. Jellyby, in an agreeable voice, "to

have the pleasure of receiving you. I have a great respect for Mr.

Jarndyce; and no one in whom he is interested can be an object of

indifference to me."

We expressed our acknowledgments, and sat down behind the door, where

there was a lame invalid of a sofa. Mrs. Jellyby had very good hair, but

was too much occupied with her African duties to brush it. The shawl in

which she had been loosely muffled, dropped on to her chair when she

advanced to us; and as she turned to resume her seat, we could not help

noticing that her dress didn't nearly meet up the back, and the open

space was railed across with a lattice-work of stay-lace, like a

summer-house.

The room, which was strewn with papers and nearly filled by a great

writing-table covered with similar litter, was, I must say, not only

very untidy, but very dirty. We were obliged to take notice of that with

our sense of sight, even while, with our sense of hearing, we followed

the poor child who had tumbled down stairs: I think into the back

kitchen, where somebody seemed to stifle him.

But what principally struck us was a jaded, and unhealthy-looking,

though by no means plain girl, at the writing-table, who sat biting the

feather of her pen, and staring at us. I suppose nobody ever was in such

a state of ink. And, from her tumbled hair to her pretty feet, which

were disfigured with frayed and broken slippers trodden down at heel,

she really seemed to have no article of dress upon her, from a pin

upward, that was in its proper condition or its right place.

"You find me, my dears," said Mrs. Jellyby, snuffing the two great

office candles in tin candle-sticks, which made the room taste strongly

of hot tallow (the fire had gone out, and there was nothing in the grate

but ashes, a bundle of wood, and a poker), "you find me, my dears, as

usual, very busy; but that you will excuse. The African project at

present employs my whole time. It involves me in correspondence with

public bodies, and with private individuals anxious for the welfare of

their species all over the country. I am happy to say it is advancing.

We hope by this time next year to have from a hundred and fifty to two

hundred healthy families cultivating coffee and educating the natives of

Borrioboola-Gha, on the left bank of the Niger."

As Ada said nothing, but looked at me, I said it must be very

gratifying.

"It is gratifying," said Mrs. Jellyby. "It involves the devotion of all

my energies, such as they are; but that is nothing, so that it succeeds;

and I am more confident of success every day. Do you know, Miss

Summerson, I almost wonder that _you_ never turned your thoughts to

Africa?"

This application of the subject was really so unexpected to me, that I

was quite at a loss how to receive it. I hinted that the climate--

"The finest climate in the world!" said Mrs. Jellyby.

"Indeed, ma'am?"

"Certainly. With precaution," said Mrs. Jellyby. "You may go into

Holborn, without precaution, and be run over. You may go into Holborn

with precaution, and never be run over. Just so with Africa."

I said, "No doubt."--I meant as to Holborn.

"If you would like," said Mrs. Jellyby, putting a number of papers

toward us, "to look over some remarks on that head, and on the general

subject (which have been extensively circulated), while I finish a

letter, I am now dictating--to my eldest daughter, who is my

amanuensis--"

The girl at the table left off biting her pen, and made a return to our

recognition, which was half bashful and half sulky.

"--I shall then have finished for the present," proceeded Mrs. Jellyby,

with a sweet smile; "though my work is never done. Where are you,

Caddy?"

"Presents her compliments to Mr. Swallow, and begs--'" said Caddy.

"'--And begs,'" said Mrs. Jellyby, dictating, "to inform him, in

reference to his letter of inquiry on the African project.'--No, Peepy!

Not on any account!"

Peepy (so self-named) was the unfortunate child who had fallen down

stairs, who now interrupted the correspondence by presenting himself,

with a strip of plaster on his forehead, to exhibit his wounded knees,

in which Ada and I did not know which to pity most--the bruises or the

dirt. Mrs. Jellyby merely added, with the serene composure with which

she said every thing, "Go along, you naughty Peepy!" and fixed her fine

eyes on Africa again.

However, as she at once proceeded with her dictation, and as I

interrupted nothing by doing so, I ventured quietly to stop poor Peepy

as he was going out, and to take him up to nurse. He looked very much

astonished at it, and at Ada's kissing him; but soon fell fast asleep in

my arms, sobbing at longer and longer intervals, until he was quiet. I

was so occupied with Peepy that I lost the letter in detail, though I

derived such a general impression from it of the momentous importance of

Africa, and the utter insignificance of all other places and things,

that I felt quite ashamed to have thought so little about it.

"Six o'clock!" said Mrs. Jellyby. "And our dinner hour is nominally (for

we dine at all hours) five! Caddy, show Miss Clare and Miss Summerson

their rooms. You will like to make some change, perhaps? You will excuse

me, I know, being so much occupied. O, that very bad child! Pray put him

down, Miss Summerson!"

I begged permission to retain him, truly saying that he was not at all

troublesome; and carried him up-stairs and laid him on my bed. Ada and I

had two upper rooms, with a door of communication between. They were

excessively bare and disorderly, and the curtain to my window was

fastened up with a fork.

"You would like some hot water, wouldn't you?" said Mrs. Jellyby,

looking round for a jug with a handle to it, but looking in vain.

"If it is not being troublesome," said we.

"O, it's not the trouble," returned Miss Jellyby; "the question is, if

there _is_ any."

The evening was so very cold, and the rooms had such a marshy smell,

that I must confess it was a little miserable; and Ada was half crying.

We soon laughed, however, and were busily unpacking, when Miss Jellyby

came back to say, that she was sorry there was no hot water; but they

couldn't find the kettle, and the boiler was out of order.

We begged her not to mention it, and made all the haste we could to get

down to the fire again. But all the little children had come up to the

landing outside, to look at the phenomenon of Peepy lying on my bed; and

our attention was distracted by the constant apparition of noses and

fingers, in situations of danger between the hinges of the doors. It was

impossible to shut the door of either room; for my lock, with no knob to

it, looked as if it wanted to be wound up; and though the handle of

Ada's went round and round with the greatest smoothness, it was attended

with no effect whatever on the door. Therefore I proposed to the

children that they should come in and be very good at my table, and I

would tell them the story of little Red Riding Hood while I dressed;

which they did, and were as quiet as mice, including Peepy, who awoke

opportunely before the appearance of the wolf.

When we went down stairs we found a mug, with "A Present from Tunbridge

Wells" on it, lighted up in the staircase window with a floating wick;

and a young woman, with a swelled face bound up in a flannel bandage,

blowing the fire of the drawing-room (now connected by an open door with

Mrs. Jellyby's room), and choking dreadfully. It smoked to that degree

in short, that we all sat coughing and crying with the windows open for

half an hour; during which Mrs. Jellyby, with the same sweetness of

temper, directed letters about Africa. Her being so employed was, I must

say, a great relief to me; for Richard told us that he had washed his

hands in a pie-dish, and that they had found the kettle on his

dressing-table; and he made Ada laugh so, that they made me laugh in the

most ridiculous manner.

Soon after seven o'clock we went down to dinner; carefully, by Mrs.

Jellyby's advice; for the stair-carpets, besides being very deficient in

stair-wires, were so torn as to be absolute traps. We had a fine

cod-fish, a piece of roast beef, a dish of cutlets, and a pudding; an

excellent dinner, if it had had any cooking to speak of, but it was

almost raw. The young woman with the flannel bandage waited, and dropped

every thing on the table wherever it happened to go, and never moved it

again until she put it on the stairs. The person I had seen in pattens

(who I suppose to have been the cook), frequently came and skirmished

with her at the door, and there appeared to be ill-will between them.

All through dinner; which was long, in consequence of such accidents as

the dish of potatoes being mislaid in the coal-skuttle, and the handle

of the cork-screw coming off, and striking the young woman in the chin;

Mrs. Jellyby preserved the evenness of her disposition. She told us a

great deal that was interesting about Borrioboola-Gha and the natives;

and received so many letters that Richard, who sat by her, saw four

envelopes in the gravy at once. Some of the letters were proceedings of

ladies' committees, or resolutions of ladies' meetings, which she read

to us; others were applications from people excited in various ways

about the cultivation of coffee, and natives; others required answers,

and these she sent her eldest daughter from the table three or four

times to write. She was full of business, and undoubtedly was, as she

had told us, devoted to the cause.

I was a little curious to know who a mild, bald gentleman in spectacles

was, who dropped into a vacant chair (there was no top or bottom in

particular) after the fish was taken away, and seemed passively to

submit himself to Borrioboola-Gha, but not to be actively interested in

that settlement. As he never spoke a word, he might have been a native,

but for his complexion. It was not until we left the table, and he

remained alone with Richard, that the possibility of his being Mr.

Jellyby ever entered my head. But he was Mr. Jellyby; and a loquacious

young man, called Mr. Quale, with large shining knobs for temples, and

his hair all brushed to the back of his head, who came in the evening,

and told Ada he was a philanthropist, also informed her that he called

the matrimonial alliance of Mrs. Jellyby with Mr. Jellyby the union of

mind and matter.

This young man, besides having a great deal to say for himself about

Africa, and a project of his for teaching the coffee colonists to teach

the natives to turn piano-forte legs and establish an export trade,

delighted in drawing Mrs. Jellyby out by saying, "I believe now, Mrs.

Jellyby, you have received as many as from one hundred and fifty to two

hundred letters respecting Africa in a single day, have you not?" or,

"If my memory does not deceive me, Mrs. Jellyby, you once mentioned that

you had sent off five thousand circulars from one post-office at one

time?"--always repeating Mrs. Jellyby's answer to us, like an

interpreter. During the whole evening, Mr. Jeilyby sat in a corner with

his head against the wall, as if he were subject to low spirits. It

seemed that he had several times opened his mouth when alone with

Richard, after dinner, as if he had something on his mind; but had

always shut it again, to Richard's extreme confusion, without saying any

thing.

Mrs. Jellyby, sitting in quite a nest of waste paper, drank coffee all

the evening, and dictated at intervals to her eldest daughter. She also

held a discussion with Mr. Quale; of which the subject seemed to be--if

I understood it--the Brotherhood of Humanity; and gave utterance to some

beautiful sentiments. I was not so attentive an auditor as I might have

wished to be, however, for Peepy and the other children came flocking

about Ada and me in a corner of the drawing-room to ask for another

story: so we sat down among them, and told them, in whispers, Puss in

Boots and I don't know what else, until Mrs. Jellyby, accidentally

remembering them, sent them to bed. As Peepy cried for me to take him to

bed, I carried him up-stairs; where the young woman with the flannel

bandage charged into the midst of the little family like a dragoon, and

overturned them into cribs.

After that, I occupied myself in making our room a little tidy, and in

coaxing a very cross fire that had been lighted, to burn; which, at

last, it did, quite brightly. On my return down stairs, I felt that Mrs.

Jellyby looked down upon me rather, for being so frivolous; and I was

sorry for it; though, at the same time, I knew that I had no higher

pretensions.

It was nearly midnight before we could find an opportunity of going to

bed; and even then we left Mrs. Jellyby among her papers drinking

coffee, and Miss Jellyby biting the feather of her pen.

"What a strange house!" said Ada, when we got up-stairs. "How curious of

my cousin Jarndyce to send us here!"

"My love," said I, "it quite confuses me. I want to understand it, and I

can't understand it at all."

"What?" asked Ada, with her pretty smile.

"All this, my dear," said I. "It _must_ be very good of Mrs. Jellyby to

take such pains about a scheme for the benefit of Natives--and

yet--Peepy and the housekeeping!"

Ada laughed: and put her arm about my neck, as I stood looking at the

fire; and told me I was a quiet, dear, good creature, and had won her

heart. "You are so thoughtful, Esther," she said, "and yet so cheerful!

and you do so much, so unpretendingly! You would make a home out of even

this house."

My simple darling! She was quite unconscious that she only praised

herself, and that it was in the goodness of her own heart that she made

so much of me!

"May I ask you a question?" said I, when we had sat before the fire a

little while.

"Five hundred," said Ada.

"Your cousin, Mr. Jarndyce. I owe so much to him: Would you mind

describing him to me?"

Shaking back her golden hair, Ada turned her eyes upon me with such

laughing wonder, that I was full of wonder, too--partly at her beauty,

partly at her surprise.

"Esther!" she cried.

"My dear!"

"You want a description of my cousin, Jarndyce?"

"My dear, I never saw him."

"And _I_ never saw him!" returned Ada.

Well, to be sure!

No, she had never seen him. Young as she was when her mamma died, she

remembered how the tears would come into her eyes when she spoke of him,

and of the noble generosity of his character, which she had said was to

be trusted above all earthly things; and Ada trusted it. Her cousin,

Jarndyce, had written to her a few months ago--"a plain, honest letter,"

Ada said--proposing the arrangement we were now to enter on, and telling

her that, "in time, it might heal some of the wounds made by the

miserable Chancery suit." She had replied, gratefully accepting his

proposal. Richard had received a similar letter, and had made a similar

response. He _had_ seen Mr. Jarndyce once, but only once, five years

ago, at Winchester school. He had told Ada, when they were leaning on

the screen before the fire where I found them, that he recollected him

as "a bluff, rosy fellow." This was the utmost description Ada could

give me.

It set me thinking so, that when Ada was asleep, I still remained before

the fire, wondering and wondering about Bleak House, and wondering and

wondering that yesterday morning should seem so long ago. I don't know

where my thoughts had wandered, when they were recalled by a tap at the

door.

I opened it softly, and found Miss Jellyby shivering there, with a

broken candle in a broken candlestick in one hand, and an egg-cup in the

other.

"Good-night!" she said, very sulkily.

"Good-night!" said I.

"May I come in?" she shortly and unexpectedly asked me, in the same

sulky way.

"Certainly," said I. "Don't wake Miss Clare."

She would not sit down, but stood by the fire, dipping her inky middle

finger in the egg-cup, which contained vinegar, and smearing it over the

ink stains on her face; frowning, the whole time, and looking very

gloomy.

"I wish Africa was dead!" she said, on a sudden.

I was going to remonstrate.

"I do!" she said. "Don't talk to me, Miss Summerson. I hate it and

detest it. It's a beast!"

I told her she was tired, and I was sorry. I put my hand upon her head,

and touched her forehead, and said it was hot now, but would be cool

to-morrow. She still stood, pouting and frowning at me; but presently

put down her egg-cup, and turned softly toward the bed where Ada lay.

"She is very pretty!" she said, with the same knitted brow, and in the

same uncivil manner.

I assented with a smile.

"An orphan. Ain't she?"

"Yes."

"But knows a quantity, I suppose? Can dance, and play music, and sing?

She can talk French, I suppose, and do geography, and globes, and

needlework, and every thing?"

"No doubt," said I.

"_I_ can't," she returned. "I can't do any thing hardly, except write.

I'm always writing for Ma. I wonder you two were not ashamed of

yourselves to come in this afternoon, and see me able to do nothing

else. It was like your ill-nature. Yet you think yourselves very fine,

I dare say!"

[Illustration: MISS JELLYBY.]

I could see that the poor girl was near crying, and I resumed my chair

without speaking, and looked at her (I hope), as mildly as I felt toward

her.

"It's disgraceful," she said. "You know it is. The whole house is

disgraceful. The children are disgraceful. _I_'m disgraceful. Pa's

miserable, and no wonder! Priscilla drinks--she's always drinking. It's

a great shame, and a great story, of you, if you say you didn't smell

her to-day. It was as bad as a public-house, waiting at dinner, you know

it was!"

"My dear, I don't know it," said I.

"You do," she said, very shortly. "You sha'n't say you don't. You do!"

"O, my dear!" said I, "if you won't let me speak--"

"You're speaking now. You know you are. Don't tell stories, Miss

Summerson."

"My dear," said I, "as long as you won't hear me out--"

"I don't want to hear you out."

"O yes, I think you do," said I, "because that would be so very

unreasonable. I did not know what you tell me, because the servant did

not come near me at dinner; but I don't doubt what you tell me, and I am

sorry to hear it."

"You needn't make a merit of that," said she.

"No, my dear," said I. "That would be very foolish."

She was still standing by the bed, and now stooped down (but still with

the same discontented face) and kissed Ada. That done, she came softly

back, and stood by the side of my chair. Her bosom was heaving in a

distressful manner that I greatly pitied; but I thought it better not to

speak.

"I wish I was dead!" she broke out. "I wish we were all dead. It would

be a great deal better for us."

"In a moment afterward, she knelt on the ground at my side, hid her face

in my dress, passionately begged my pardon, and wept. I comforted her,

and would have raised her, but she cried, No, no; she wanted to stay

there!

"You used to teach girls," she said. "If you could only have taught me,

I could have learned from you! I am so very miserable, and I like you so

very much!"

I could not persuade her to sit by me, or to do any thing but move a

ragged stool to where she was kneeling, and take that, and still hold my

dress in the same manner. By degrees, the poor tired girl fell asleep;

and then I contrived to raise her head so that it should rest on my lap,

and to cover us both with shawls. The fire went out, and all night long

she slumbered thus before the ashy grate. At first I was painfully

awake, and vainly tried to lose myself, with, my eyes closed, among the

scenes of the day. At length, by slow degrees, they became indistinct

and mingled. I began to lose the identity of the sleeper resting on me.

Now, it was Ada; now, one of my old Reading friends from whom I could

not believe I had so recently parted. Now, it was the little mad woman

worn out with courtesying and smiling; now, some one in authority at

Bleak House. Lastly, it was no one, and I was no one.

The purblind day was feebly struggling with the fog, when I opened my

eyes to encounter those of a dirty-faced little spectre fixed upon me.

Peepy had scaled his crib, and crept down in his bedgown and cap, and

was so cold that his teeth were chattering as if he had cut them all.

HUNTING AN ALLIGATOR.

In the course of the year 1831, the proprietor of Halahala at Manilla,

in the Island of Luconia, informed me that he frequently lost horses and

cows on a remote part of his plantation, and that the natives assured

him they were taken by an enormous alligator who frequented one of the

streams which run into the lake. Their descriptions were so highly

wrought, that they were attributed to the fondness for exaggeration to

which the inhabitants of that country are peculiarly addicted, and very

little credit was given to their repeated relations. All doubts as to

the existence of the animal were at last dispelled by the destruction of

an Indian, who attempted to ford the river on horseback, although

entreated to desist by his companions, who crossed at a shallow place

higher up. He reached the centre of the stream and was laughing at the

others for their prudence, when the alligator came upon him. His teeth

encountered the saddle, which he tore from the horse, while the rider

tumbled on the other side into the water and made for the shore. The

horse, too terrified to move, stood trembling where the attack was made.

The alligator, disregarding him, pursued the man, who safely reached the

bank which he could easily have ascended, but, rendered foolhardy by his

escape, he placed himself behind a tree which had fallen partly into the

water, and drawing his heavy knife leaned over the tree, and on the

approach of his enemy struck him on the nose. The animal repeated his

assaults and the Indian his blows, until the former exasperated at the

resistance, rushed on the man and seizing him by the middle of the body,

which was at once inclosed and crushed in his capacious jaws, swam into

the lake. His friends hastened to the rescue, but the alligator slowly

left the shore, while the poor wretch, writhing and shrieking in his

agony, with his knife uplifted in his clasped hands, seemed, as the

others expressed it, held out as a man would carry a torch. His

sufferings were not long continued, for the monster sank to the bottom,

and soon after reappearing alone on the surface, and calmly basking in

the sun, gave to the horror-stricken spectators the fullest confirmation

of the death and burial of their comrade.

A short time after this event I made a visit to Halahala, and expressing

a strong desire to capture or destroy the alligator, my host readily

offered his assistance. The animal had been seen a few days before, with

his head and one of his fore-feet resting on the bank, and his eyes

following the motions of some cows which were grazing near. Our informer

likened his appearance to that of a cat watching a mouse, and in the

attitude to spring upon his prey when it should come within his reach. I

may here mention as a curious fact, that the domestic buffalo, which is

almost continually in the water, and in the heat of day remains for

hours with only his nose above the surface, is never molested by the

alligator. All other animals become his victims when they incautiously

approach him, and their knowledge of the danger most usually prompts

them to resort to shallow places to quench their thirst.

Having heard that the alligator had killed a horse, we proceeded to the

place, about five miles from the house; it was a tranquil spot and one

of singular beauty even in that land. The stream, which a few hundred

feet from the lake narrowed to a brook, with its green bank fringed with

the graceful bamboo, and the alternate glory of glade and forest

spreading far and wide, seemed fitted for other purposes than the

familiar haunt of the huge creature that had appropriated it to himself.

A few cane huts were situated at a short distance from the river, and we

procured from them what men they contained, who were ready to assist in

freeing themselves from their dangerous neighbor. The terror which he

had inspired, especially since the death of their companion, had

hitherto prevented them from making an effort to get rid of him, but

they gladly availed themselves of our preparations, and, with the usual

dependence of their character were willing to do whatever example should

dictate to them. Having reason to believe that the alligator was in the

river, we commenced operations by sinking nets upright across its mouth,

three deep, at intervals of several feet. The nets which were of great

strength, and intended for the capture of the buffalo, were fastened to

trees on the banks, making a complete fence to the communication with

the lake.

My companion and myself placed ourselves with our guns on either side of

the stream, while the Indians with long bamboos felt for the animal. For

some time he refused to be disturbed, and we began to fear that he was

not within our limits, when a spiral motion of the water under the spot

where I was standing, led me to direct the natives to it, and the

creature slowly moved on the bottom toward the nets, which he no sooner

touched than he quietly turned back and proceeded up the stream. This

movement was several times repeated, till, having no rest in the

inclosure, he attempted to climb up the bank. On receiving a ball in the

body, he uttered a growl like that of an angry dog, and plunging into

the water crossed to the other side, where he was received with a

similar salutation, discharged directly into his mouth. Finding himself

attacked on every side, he renewed his attempts to ascend the banks; but

whatever part of him appeared was bored with bullets, and finding that

he was hunted, he forgot his own formidable means of attack, and sought

only safety from the troubles which surrounded him. A low spot which

separated the river from the lake, a little above the nets, was

unguarded, and we feared that he would succeed in escaping over it. It

was here necessary to stand firmly against him, and in several attempts

which he made to cross it, we turned him back with spears, bamboos, or

whatever came first to hand. He once seemed determined to force his way,

and foaming with rage, rushed with open jaws and gnashing his teeth with

a sound too ominous to be despised, appeared to have his full energies

aroused, when his career was stopped by a large bamboo thrust violently

into his mouth, which he ground to pieces, and the fingers of the holder

were so paralyzed that for some minutes he was incapable of resuming his

gun. The natives had now become so excited as to forget all prudence,

and the women and children of the little hamlet had come down to the

shore to share in the general enthusiasm. They crowded to the opening,

and were so unmindful of their danger that it was necessary to drive

them back with some violence. Had the monster known his own strength and

dared to have used it, he would have gone over that spot with a force

which no human power could have withstood, and would have crushed or

carried with him into the lake about the whole population of the place.

It is not strange that personal safety was forgotten in the excitement

of the scene. The tremendous brute, galled with wounds and repeated

defeat, tore his way through the foaming water, glancing from side to

side, in the vain attempt to avoid his foes; then rapidly plowing up the

stream he grounded on the shallows, and turned back frantic and

bewildered at his circumscribed position. At length, maddened with

suffering and desperate from continued persecution, he rushed furiously

to the mouth of the stream, burst through two of the nets, and I threw

down my gun in despair, for it looked as though his way at last was

clear to the wide lake; but the third net stopped him, and his teeth and

legs had got entangled in all. This gave us a chance of closer warfare

with lances, such as are used against the wild buffalo. We had sent for

this weapon at the commencement of the attack, and found it much more

effectual than guns. Entering the canoe, we plunged lance after lance

into the alligator, as he was struggling under the water, till a wood

seemed growing from him, which moved violently above while his body was

concealed below. His endeavors to extricate himself lashed the waters

into foam mingled with blood, and there seemed no end to his vitality or

decrease to his resistance till a lance struck him directly through the

middle of the back, which an Indian, with a heavy piece of wood,

hammered into him as he could catch an opportunity. My companion on the

other side now tried to haul him to the shore, by the nets to which he

had fastened himself, but had not sufficient assistance with him. As I

had more force with me, we managed, by the aid of the women and

children, to drag his head and part of his body on to the little beach,

and giving him the _coup de grace_, left him to gasp out the remnant of

his life.

This monster was nearly thirty feet in length and thirteen feet in

circumference, and the head alone weighed three hundred pounds. On

opening him there were found, with other parts of the horse, three legs

entire, torn off at the haunch and shoulder, besides a large quantity of

stones, some of them of several pounds' weight.

THE MOOR'S REVENGE.[4]

A PARAPHRASE FROM THE POLISH OF MICKIEWICZ

BY EPES SARGENT.

Before Grenada's fated walls,

Encamped in proud array,

And flushed with many a victory,

The Spanish army lay.

Of all Grenada's fortresses

But one defies their might:

On Alphuara's minarets

The crescent still is bright.

Almanzor! King Almanzor!

All vainly you resist:

Your little band is fading fast

Away like morning mist.

A direr foe than ever yet

They met on battle-plain

Assaults life's inmost citadel,

And heaps the ground with slain.

One onset more of Spanish ranks--

(And soon it will be made!)

And Alphuara's towers must reel,

And in the dust be laid.

"And shall the haughty infidel

Pollute this sacred land?"

Almanzor said, as mournfully

He marked his dwindling band.

"Upon our glorious crescent

Shall the Spaniard set his heel?

And is there not one lingering hope?

Can Heaven no aid reveal?

Ay, by our holy Prophet,

_One_ ally still remains!

And I will bind him close to me,--

For better death than chains!"

The victors at the banquet sat,

And music lent its cheer,

When suddenly a sentry's voice

Announced a stranger near.

From Alphuara had he come.

With fierce, unwonted speed,

And much would it import to Spain

The news he bore to heed.

"Admit him!" cry the revelers;

And in the pilgrim strode,

And throwing off his mantle loose,

A Moorish habit showed!

"Almanzor! King Almanzor!"

They cried with one acclaim:

"Almanzor!" said the Moslem chief--

"Almanzor is my name.

"To serve your prophet and your king,

Oh, Spaniards! I am here;

Believe, reject me, if you will--

This breast has outlived fear!

No longer in his creed or cause

Almanzor can confide;

For all the Powers above, 'tis clear,

Are fighting on your side!"

"Now, welcome, welcome, gallant Moor!"

The Spanish chieftain said;

"Grenada's last intrenchment now

We speedily shall tread.

Approach, embrace; our waning feast

Your coming shall renew;

And in this cup of foaming wine

We'll drink to yours and you."

Right eagerly, to grasp the hands

Outstretched on every side,

Almanzor rushed, and greeted each,

As bridegroom might his bride;

He glued his fevered lips to theirs--

He kissed them on the cheek,

And breathed on each as if his heart

Would all its passion wreak.

But suddenly his limbs relax,

A flush comes o'er his face,

He reels, as with a pressure faint,

He gives a last embrace;

And livid, purple, grows his skin,

And wild his eyeballs roll,

And some great torture seems to heave

The life-roots of his soul.

"Look, Giaours! miscreants in race.

And infidels in creed!

Look on this pale, distorted face,

And tell me what ye read!

These limbs convulsed, these fiery pangs,

These eyeballs hot and blear--

Ha! know ye not what they portend?

The plague--the plague is here!

And it has sealed you for its own!

Ay! every Judas kiss

I gave shall bring to you anon

An agony like this!

All art is vain; your poisoned blood

All leechcraft will defy;

Like me ye shall in anguish writhe--

Like me in torture die!"

Once more he stepped, their chief to reach

And blast him with his breath;

But sank, as if revenge itself

Were striving hard with death.

And through the group a horrid thrill

His words and aspect woke,

When, with a proud, undaunted mien,

Their chief Alphonzo spoke:

"And deem'st thou, treacherous renegade,

Whatever may befall,

These warriors true, these hearts of proof,

Death ever can appall?

Ay, writhe and toss, no taint of fear

The sight to them can bring;

Their souls are shrived, and Death himself

For them has lost his sting!

"Then let him come as gory War,

With life-wounds deep and red,

Or let him strike as fell Disease

With racking pains instead--

Still in these spirits he shall find

A power that shall defy

All woe and pain that can but make

The mortal body die.

So, brethren, leave this carrion here--

Nay, choke not with thy gall!--

And through our camp a note of cheer

Let every bugle call!

We'll tear yon crescent from its tower

Ere stars are out to-night:

And let Death come--we'll heed him not!--

So forward! to the fight!"

A groan of rage upon his lips,

Almanzor hid his head

Beneath his mantle's ample fold,

And soon was with the dead.

But, roused by those intrepid words,

To death-defying zeal,

The chieftains armed as if they longed

To hear the clash of steel.

The trumpets sounded merrily,

While, dazzlingly arrayed,

On Alphuara's walls they rushed,

And low the crescent laid!

And of the gallant, gallant hearts,

Who thus grim Death defied,

'Mid pestilence and carnage, none

Of plague or battle died!

[Footnote 4: From THE STANDARD SPEAKER; containing exercises in prose

and poetry, for declamation in schools, academies, lyceums, and

colleges. Newly translated or compiled from the most celebrated orators,

ancient and modern. By EPES SARGENT. In press by Thomas, Cowperthwait &

Co., Philadelphia.]

A TASTE OF FRENCH DUNGEONS.

AN INCIDENT IN THE LIFE OF MRS. RADCLIFFE.

Toward the middle of the year 1795, a short time after the deplorable

affair of Quiberon, an English lady was taken prisoner just as she was

entering France by the Swiss frontier. Her knowledge of French was

limited to a few mispronounced words. An interpreter was soon found, and

upon his interrogating her as to her motives for attempting so perilous

an enterprise without passport, she replied that she had exposed

herself to all these dangers for the purpose of visiting the château

where the barbarous Sieur de Fayel had made Gabrielle de Vergy eat the

heart of her lover. Such a declaration appeared so ridiculous to those

who heard it that they were compelled to doubt either the sanity or the

veracity of the strange being who ventured upon it. They chose to do the

latter, and forwarded the stranger to Paris, with a strong escort, as an

English spy. Upon her arrival there, she was safely deposited in the

Conciergerie.

Public feeling just then ran very high against the English. The

countrywoman of Pitt was loaded with ill-usage; and her terrors,

expressed in a singular jargon of English mingled with broken French,

served but to augment the coarse amusement of her jailers. After

exhausting every species of derision and insult upon their prisoner,

they ended by throwing her into the dampest and most inconvenient

dungeon they could find. The door of this den was not more than four

feet high; and the light that dimly revealed the dripping walls and

earthen floor, came through a horizontal opening four inches in height

by fifteen in width. The sole movables of the place consisted of a rope

pallet and a screen.

The bed served for both couch and chair; the screen was intended as a

partial barrier between the inhabitant of the dungeon and the curious

gaze of the jailers stationed in the adjoining apartment, who could

scrutinize at will, through a narrow opening between the cells, the

slightest movements of their prisoner.

The stranger recoiled with disgust, and asked whether they had not a

less terrible place in which to confine a woman.

"You are very bad to please, madame," replied her brutal jailer,

mimicking her defective French. "You are in the palace of Madame Capet."

And shutting behind him the massive door, barricaded with plates of iron

and secured by three or four rusty bolts, he left her, to repeat his

joke to his companion, and enjoy with them the consternation of Madame

_Rosbif_.

Meanwhile the prisoner fell upon her knees, and gazed around her with a

species of pious emotion.

"What right have I," she cried, "to complain of being cast into this

dungeon, once inhabited by the Queen of France--the beautiful, the noble

Marie Antoinette? I sought food for my imagination; I undertook a

journey to France to visit the most celebrated sojourns of the most

celebrated individuals. Fortune has come to my aid. Here is what is

better than the château of the Sieur de Fayel, and the terrible history

of the bleeding heart. Never did a grander inspiration overflow my

spirits. I will to work."

She drew from her pocket a small roll of paper, that had escaped the

scrutiny of the jailers; and, passing her hand across her forehead,

approached the horizontal opening, in order to make the most of the

little remainder of daylight; then, taking out a pencil, she rapidly

covered ten or twelve pages with microscopic characters in close lines.

The increasing darkness at length compelled her to pause, and she was

refolding the MS. to replace it in her pocket, when a rude hand snatched

it from her grasp.

"Ah! ah! Madame Rosbif," cried the jailer, triumphantly, "so you believe

yourself at liberty to scribble away here, hatching plots against the

Republic, and holding intelligence with the enemies of the nation. _Nous

verrons cela!_ These papers shall be remitted this very day to Monsieur

Tallien, and we will know all about this new attack upon liberty.

_Entendez-vouz?_ miserable agent of Pitt and Cobourg."

The same evening Tallien received the stranger's manuscript. Being

unacquainted with the English language, he rang for his secretary; but

the latter was nowhere at hand, so the puzzled minister took the papers

and proceeded to his wife's apartments.

Madame Tallien was just completing her toilet for a fancy ball. Leaning

forward in a graceful attitude, she was in the act of twining round her

slender ankle the fastenings of a purple buskin. Her Grecian tunic,

simply clasped upon the shoulder with diamonds, and her hair, knotted

like that of the Polyhymnia of the Louvre, harmonized admirably with the

classical contour of her features. Monsieur Tallien, as he gazed upon

her, half forgot his errand.

The lady uttered a little cry of surprise.

"Upon what grave errand has monsieur deigned to favor me with a visit at

this unaccustomed hour?"

"I have here some papers," replied the minister, "that have been seized

upon the person of a female spy, and are said to contain proofs of a

dangerous conspiracy. They are written in English; my secretary is

absent; and I must ask you to do me the favor to translate them to me."

Madame Tallien took the MS., and looked it over.

"Shall I read aloud?" said she, in an amused tone of voice.

Her husband assented.

"The wind howls mournfully through the foliage, and the descending rain

falls in torrents. The terrors of my prison become every instant more

fearful. Phantoms arise on every side, and wave their snowy

winding-sheets. Misfortune, with her cold and pitiless hand, weighs

heavily on my youthful brow.'

"Thus spoke the lovely prisoner, as she groped with her trembling hands

over the humid walls of the dungeon."

"Here is a singular conspiracy, truly," said Madame Tallien, as she

finished reading the above. "Let me see the envelope; 'Chapter XII. The

Dungeon of the Château.' And the authoress's name. 'Anne Radcliffe.'

_Vite, citoyen._ Set this woman at liberty, and bring her to me. Your

spy is no other than the great English romance-writer, the celebrated

authoress of the 'Mysteries of Udolpho!"

Tallien now recalled the romantic intention of the stranger's hazardous

journey, as confessed by herself; perceived the mistake of his agents,

and laughed heartily. Going quickly out, he issued orders for the

immediate liberation of the prisoner, and desired the messenger to bring

her straight to the presence of Madame Tallien.

Meanwhile, the beautiful Frenchwoman, forgetting her toilet and the

ball, paced the apartment with almost childish delight and impatience.