CHAPTER II.

HARPER'S

NEW MONTHLY MAGAZINE.

No. XVII.--OCTOBER, 1851.--Vol. III.

NAPOLEON BONAPARTE.

BY JOHN S. C. ABBOTT.

III. FIRST CAMPAIGN IN ITALY.

The discomfiture of the insurgent sections at Paris, and the energy,

tact, and humanity which Napoleon displayed in the subsequent government

of the tumultuous city, caused his name to be as familiar as a household

word in all parts of the metropolis. His slight and slender figure, so

feminine and graceful in its proportions; his hand, so small and white

and soft that any lady might covet it; his features, so mild and

youthful in their expression, and all these combined in strange alliance

with energies as indomitable, and a will as imperious as were ever

enshrined in mortal form, invested the young general with a mysterious

and almost supernatural fascination.

Famine was rioting in the streets of Paris. All industry was at an end.

The poor, unemployed, were perishing. The rich were gathering the wrecks

of their estates, and flying from France. There was no law but such as

was proclaimed by the thunders of Napoleon's batteries. The National

Guard he immediately reorganized, and soon efficient order was

established. Napoleon was incessantly occupied in visiting all parts of

the city, and words of kindness and sympathy with suffering he combined

with the strong and inexorable arm of military rule. More than a hundred

families, says the Duchess of Abrantes, were saved from perishing by his

personal exertions. He himself climbed to the garrets of penury, and

penetrated the cellars of want and woe, and, with a moistened eye, gazed

upon the scenes of fearful wretchedness with which Paris was filled. He

caused wood and bread to be distributed to the poor, and totally

regardless of ease or self-indulgence, did every thing in his power to

alleviate suffering.

One day when alighting from his carriage to dine at Madame Permon's, he

was addressed by a woman who held a dead infant in her arms. Grief and

hunger had dried up the fountain of life in her bosom, and her unweaned

child had perished of starvation. Her husband was dead, and five

children were mourning for food at home. "If I can not obtain relief,"

said the famished mother, "I must take my remaining five children and

drown myself with them." Napoleon questioned her very minutely,

ascertained her place of residence, and giving her some money to meet

her immediate wants, entered the house and sat down with the guests at

the brilliant entertainment. He was, however, so deeply impressed with

the scene of wretchedness which he had just witnessed, that he could not

obliterate it from his mind, and all were struck with his absent manner

and the sadness of his countenance. Immediately after dinner he took

measures to ascertain the truth of the statements which the poor woman

had made to him, and finding all her assertions verified, he took the

family immediately under his protection. He obtained employment for the

girls in needlework among his friends, and the family ever expressed the

most profound gratitude for their preserver. It was by the unceasing

exhibition of such traits of character that Napoleon entwined around him

the hearts of the French people.

There was, at this time in Paris, a lady, who was rendered quite

prominent in society, by her social attractions, her personal

loveliness, and her elevated rank. She was a widow, twenty-eight years

of age. Her husband, the Viscount Beauharnais, had recently perished

upon the scaffold, an illustrious victim of revolutionary fury.

Josephine Tascher Beauharnais, who subsequently became the

world-renowned bride of Napoleon, was born on the island of Martinice in

the West Indies. When almost a child she was married to the Viscount

Beauharnais, who had visited the island on business and was captivated

by the loveliness of the fair young Creole. Upon entering Paris she was

immediately introduced to all the splendors of the court of

Maria-Antoinette. The revolutionary storm soon burst upon her dwelling

with merciless fury. She experienced the most afflictive reverses of

friendlessness, bereavement, imprisonment, and penury. The storm had,

however, passed over her, and she was left a widow, with two children,

Eugene and Hortense. From the wreck of her fortune she had saved an

ample competence, and was surrounded by influential and admiring

friends.

Napoleon, in obedience to the orders of the Convention, to prevent the

possibility of another outbreak of lawless violence, had proceeded to

the disarming of the populace of Paris. In the performance of this duty

the sword of M. Beauharnais was taken. A few days afterward Eugene, a

very intelligent and graceful child, twelve years of age, obtained

access to Napoleon, and with most engaging artlessness and depth of

emotion, implored that the sword of his father might be restored to him.

Napoleon had no heart to deny such a request. He sent for the sword, and

speaking with kind words of commendation, presented it with his own

hand to Eugene. The grateful boy burst into tears and, unable to

articulate a word, pressed the sword to his bosom, bowed in silence and

retired. Napoleon was much interested in this exhibition of filial love,

and his thoughts were immediately directed to the mother who had formed

the character of such a child. Josephine, whose whole soul was absorbed

in love for her children, was so grateful, for the kindness with which

the distinguished young general had treated her fatherless Eugene, that

she called, in her carriage, the next day, to express to him a mother's

thanks. She was dressed in deep mourning. Her peculiarly musical voice

was tremulous with emotion. The fervor and the delicacy of her maternal

love, and the perfect grace of manner and of language, with which she

discharged her mission, excited the admiration of Napoleon. He soon

called upon her. The acquaintance rapidly ripened into an unusually

strong and ardent affection.

[Illustration: NAPOLEON AND EUGENE.]

Josephine was two years older than Napoleon. But her form and features

had resisted the encroachments of time, and her cheerfulness and

vivacity invested her with all the charms of early youth. Barras, now

one of the five Directors, who had been established in power by the guns

of Napoleon, was a very ardent friend of Josephine. He warmly advocated

the contemplated connection, deeming it mutually advantageous. Napoleon

would greatly increase his influence by an alliance with one occupying

so high a position in society and surrounded by friends so influential.

And Barras clearly foresaw that the energetic young general possessed

genius which would insure distinction. Josephine thus speaks, in a

letter to a friend, of her feelings in view of the proposed marriage.

"I am urged to marry again. My friends counsel the measure, my aunt

almost lays her injunctions to the same effect, and my children entreat

my compliance. You have met General Bonaparte at my house. He it is who

would supply a father's place to the orphans of Alexander Beauharnais,

and a husband to his widow. I admire the general's courage, the extent

of his information, for on all subjects he talks equally well, and the

quickness of his judgment, which enables him to seize the thoughts of

others almost before they are expressed. But I confess that I shrink

from the despotism he seems desirous of exercising over all who approach

him. His searching glance has something singular and inexplicable, which

imposes even upon our Directors; judge if it may not intimidate a woman.

"Barras gives assurance that if I marry the general, he will secure his

appointment to the command of the army of Italy. Yesterday, Bonaparte

speaking of this favor, said to me, 'Think they then, that _I_ have need

of _their_ protection to arrive at power? Egregious mistake! They will

all be but too happy, one day, should I condescend to grant them mine.'

"What think you of this self-confidence? Is it not a proof of excess of

vanity? A general of brigade protect the heads of government! That truly

is an event highly probable! I know not how it is, but sometimes this

waywardness gains upon me to such a degree, that almost I believe

possible whatever this singular man may take into his head to attempt.

And with his imagination, who can calculate what he will not undertake."

Though the passion with which Josephine had inspired Napoleon, was

ardent and impetuous in the highest degree, it interfered not in the

least with his plans of towering ambition. During the day he was

vigorously employed in his professional duties and in persevering study.

But each evening found him at the mansion of Josephine, where he met,

and dazzled by his commanding genius and his brilliant conversational

powers, the most distinguished and the most influential men of the

metropolis. In these social entertainments, Josephine testified that

Napoleon possessed unlimited powers of fascination, whenever he saw fit

to employ them. His acquaintance and his influence was thus extended

among those who would be most available in the furtherance of his plans.

On the 6th of March, 1796, Napoleon and Josephine were married, Napoleon

being then twenty-five years of age. It was a union of very sincere

affection on both sides. It can not be doubted that next to ambition,

Josephine was to Napoleon the dearest object of his admiration and

homage. Marriage had then ceased to be regarded in infidel France as a

religious rite. It was a mere partnership which any persons could form

or dissolve at pleasure. The revolutionary tribunals had closed the

churches, banished the clergy, and dethroned God. The parties,

contemplating marriage, simply recorded their intention in the state

register of Paris, with two or three friends to sign the record as

witnesses. By this simple ceremony Napoleon was united to Josephine. But

neither of the parties approved of this mercantile aspect of a

transaction so sacred. They were both, in natural disposition serious,

thoughtful, and prone to look to the guidance of a power higher than

that of man. Surrounded by infidelity, and by that vice with which

public infidelity is invariably accompanied, they both instinctively

reverenced all that is grand and imposing in the revelations of

Christianity.

"Man, launched into life," said Napoleon, "asks himself, whence do I

come? What am I? Whither do I go? Mysterious questions which draw him

toward religion; our hearts crave the support and guidance of religious

faith. We believe in the existence of God because every thing around us

proclaims his being. The greatest minds have cherished this

conviction--Bossuet, Newton, Leibnitz. The heart craves faith as the

body food; and, without doubt, we believe most frequently without

exercising our reason. Faith wavers as soon as we begin to argue. But

even then our hearts say, 'Perhaps I shall again believe instinctively.

God grant it. For we feel that this belief in a protecting deity must be

a great happiness; an immense consolation in adversity, and a powerful

safeguard when tempted to immorality.

"The virtuous man never doubts of the existence of God, for if his

reason does not suffice to comprehend it, the instinct of his soul

adopts the belief. Every intimate feeling of the soul is in sympathy

with the sentiments of religion."

These are profound thoughts and it is strange that they should have

sprung up in the mind of one educated in the midst of the violence, and

the clangor, and the crime of battle, and accustomed to hear from the

lips of all around him, every religious sentiment ridiculed as the

superstition of the most weak and credulous.

When at St. Helena, Napoleon, one evening, called for the New Testament,

and read to his friends the address of Jesus to his disciples upon the

mountain. He expressed himself as having been ever struck with the

highest admiration in view of the purity, the sublimity, and the beauty

of the morality which it contained. Napoleon seldom spoke lightly even

of the corruptions of the church. But he always declared his most

exalted appreciation of the religion of Jesus Christ.

When Napoleon was crowned Emperor he was privately married again by

Cardinal Fesch, in accordance with the forms of the church which the

Emperor had re-established. "Josephine," said Napoleon, "was truly a

most lovely woman; refined, affable, and charming. She was the goddess

of the toilet. All the fashions originated with her. Every thing she put

on appeared elegant. She was so kind, so humane--she was the most

graceful lady and the best woman in France. I never saw her act

inelegantly during the whole time we lived together. She possessed a

perfect knowledge of the different shades of my character, and evinced

the most exquisite tact in turning this knowledge to the best account.

For example, she never solicited any favor for Eugene, or thanked me for

any that I conferred upon him. She never showed any additional

complaisance or assiduity when he was receiving from me the greatest

honors. Her grand aim was to assume that all this was _my_ affair--that

Eugene was _our_ son, not hers. Doubtless she entertained the idea that

I would adopt Eugene as my successor."

Again, he said, of Josephine, "we lived together like honest citizens in

our mutual relations, and always retired together till 1805, a period in

which political events obliged me to change my habits, and to add the

labors of the night to those of the day. This regularity is the best

guarantee for a good establishment. It ensures the respectability of the

wife, the dependence of the husband, and maintains intimacy of feelings

and good morals. If this is not the case, the smallest circumstances

make people forget each other. A son by Josephine would have rendered me

happy, and would have secured the reign of my dynasty. The French would

have loved him very much better than they could love the son of Maria

Louisa; and I never would have put my foot on that abyss covered with

flowers, which was my ruin. Let no one after this rely upon the wisdom

of human combinations. Let no one venture to pronounce, before its

close, upon the happiness or misery of life. My Josephine had the

instinct of the future when she became terrified at her own sterility.

She knew well that a marriage is only real when there is an offspring;

and in proportion as fortune smiled her anxiety increased. I was the

object of her deepest attachment. If I went into my carriage at midnight

for a long journey, there, to my surprise, I found her, seated before

me, and awaiting my arrival. If I attempted to dissuade her from

accompanying me, she had so many good and affectionate reasons to urge,

that it was almost always necessary to yield. In a word she always

proved to me a happy and affectionate wife, and I have preserved the

tenderest recollections of her.

"Political motives induced me to divorce Josephine, whom I most tenderly

loved. She, poor woman, fortunately for herself, died in time to prevent

her from witnessing the last of my misfortunes. After her forcible

separation from me, she avowed, in most feeling terms, her ardent desire

to share with me, my exile and extolled, with many tears, both myself

and my conduct to her. The English have represented me as a monster of

cruelty. Is this the result of the conduct of a merciless, unfeeling

tyrant? A man is known by his treatment of his wife, of his family, and

of those under him."

Just before his marriage, Napoleon received the appointment, to him most

gratifying, of Commander-in-chief of the army of Italy. His predecessor

had been displaced in consequence of excessive intemperance. Napoleon

was but twenty-five years of age when placed in this responsible post.

"You are rather young," said one of the Directors, "to assume

responsibilities so weighty, and to take the command over veteran

generals." "In one year," Napoleon replied, "I shall be either old or

dead." "We can place you in the command of men alone," said Carnot, "for

the troops are destitute of every thing, and we can furnish you with no

money to provide supplies." "Give me only men enough," Napoleon replied,

"and I ask for nothing more. I will be answerable for the result."

A few days after Napoleon's marriage, he left his bride in Paris, and

set out for Nice, the head-quarters of the army of Italy. He passed

through Marseilles, that he might pay a short visit to his mother, whose

love he ever cherished with the utmost tenderness, and on the 27th of

March arrived at the cold and cheerless camps, where the dejected troops

of France were enduring every hardship. They were surrounded by numerous

foes, who had driven them from the fertile plains of Italy into the

barren and dreary fastnesses of the Alps. The Austrian armies, quartered

in opulent cities, or encamped upon sunny and vine-clad hill-sides, were

living in the enjoyment of security and abundance, while the troops of

the distracted and impoverished republic were literally freezing and

starving. But here let us pause for a moment to consider the cause of

the war, and the motives which animated the contending armies.

France, in the exercise of a right which few in America will question,

had, in imitation of the United States, and incited by their example,

renounced the monarchical form of government, and established a

republic. For centuries uncounted, voluptuous kings and licentious

nobles had trampled the oppressed millions into the dust. But now these

millions had risen in their majesty, and driving the king from his

throne and the nobles from their wide domains, had taken their own

interests into their own hands. They were inexperienced and

unenlightened in the science of government, and they made many and

lamentable mistakes. They were terrified in view of the powerful

combination of all the monarchs and nobles of Europe to overwhelm them

with invading armies, and in their paroxysms of fear, when destruction

seemed to be coming like an avalanche upon them, they perpetrated many

deeds of atrocious cruelty. They simply claimed the right of

self-government, and when assailed, fell upon their assailants with

blind and merciless fury.

The kings of Europe contemplated this portentous change with

inexpressible alarm. In consternation they witnessed the uprising of the

masses in France, and saw one of their brother monarchs dragged from his

palace and beheaded upon the guillotine. The successful establishment of

the French Republic would very probably have driven every King in Europe

from his throne. England was agitated through all her countries. From

the mud cabins of Ireland, from the dark and miry mines, from the

thronged streets of the city, and the crowded workshops all over the

kingdom, there was a clamorous cry ascending for liberty and equality.

The spirit of democracy, radiating from its soul in Paris, was assailing

every throne in Europe. There was no alternative for these monarchs but

to crush this new power, or to perish before it. There can be no

monarchist whose sympathies will not beat high with the allied kings in

the fearful conflict which ensued. There can be no republican who will

not pray, "God speed the Eagles of France." Both parties believed that

they were fighting in self-defense. The kings were attacked by

_principles_ triumphant in France, which were undermining their thrones.

The French were attacked by bayonets and batteries--by combined armies

invading their territories, bombarding their cities, and endeavoring by

force of arms, to compel a proud nation of thirty millions of

inhabitants to reinstate, at foreign dictation, the rejected Bourbons

upon the throne. The allies called upon all the loyalists scattered over

France to grasp their arms, to rally beneath the banner of friends

coming to their rescue, and to imbrue their country in the blood of a

civil war. The French, in trumpet tones, summoned the _people_ of all

lands to hail the tri-colored flag, as the harbinger of their

deliverance from the servitude of ages. From every city in Europe which

Napoleon approached, with his conquering armies, the loyalists fled,

while the republicans welcomed him with an adulation amounting almost to

religious homage. And the troops of the allies were welcomed, in every

city of France which they entered, with tears of gratitude from the eyes

of those who longed for the restoration of the monarchy. It was a

conflict between the spirit of republicanism on the one side, and of

monarchical and ecclesiastical domination upon the other.

England, with her invincible fleet, was hovering around the coasts of

the republic, assailing every exposed point, landing troops upon the

French territory, and arming and inspiriting the loyalists to civil war.

Austria had marched an army of nearly two hundred thousand men upon the

banks of the Rhine, to attack France upon the north. She had called into

requisition all her Italian possessions, and in alliance with the

British navy, and the armies of the king of Sardinia, and the fanatic

legions of Naples and Sicily had gathered eighty thousand men upon the

Alpine frontier. This host was under the command of experienced

generals, and was abundantly provided with all the munitions of war.

These were the invading foes whom Napoleon was to encounter in fields of

blood. It was purely a war of self-defense on the part of the French

people. They were contending against the bullets and the bayonets of the

armies of monarchical Europe, assailing them at every point. The allied

kings felt that they also were engaged in a war of self-defense--that

they were struggling against _principles_ which threatened to undermine

their thrones. Strange as the declaration to some may appear, it is

extremely difficult for a candid and an impartial man severely to

censure either side. It is not strange, contemplating frail human nature

as it is, that the monarchs of Europe, born to a kingly inheritance,

should have made every exertion to retain their thrones, and to secure

their kingdoms from the invasion of republican principles. It is not

strange that republicanized France, having burst the chains of an

intolerable despotism, should have resolved to brave all the horrors of

the most desperate war rather than surrender the right of choosing its

own form of government. The United States were protected from a similar

onset, on the part of allied Europe, only by the wide barrier of the

ocean. And had the combined armies of monarchical Europe crossed that

barrier, and invaded our shores, to compel us to replace George III.

upon his American throne, we should have blest the Napoleon, emerging

from our midst, who, contending for the liberties of his country, had

driven them back into the sea.

When Napoleon arrived at Nice he found that he had but thirty thousand

men with whom to repel the eighty thousand of the allies. The government

was impoverished, and had no means to pay the troops. The soldiers were

dejected, emaciate, and ragged. The cavalry horses had died upon the

bleak and frozen summits of the mountains, and the army was almost

entirely destitute of artillery. The young commander-in-chief,

immediately upon his arrival, summoned his generals before him. Many of

them were veteran soldiers, and they were not a little chagrined in

seeing a youth, whom they regarded almost as a beardless boy, placed

over them in command. But in the very first hour in which he met them,

his superiority was recognized; and he gained a complete and an

unquestioned ascendency over all. Berthier, Massena, Augereau,

Serrurier, and Lannes were there, men who had already attained renown,

and who were capable of appreciating genius. "This is the leader," said

one, as he left this first council, "who will surely guide us to fame

and fortune."

The French were on the cold crests of the mountains. The allies were

encamped in the warm and fertile valleys which opened into the Italian

plains. The untiring energy of the youthful general, his imperial mind,

his unhesitating reliance upon his own mental resources, his perfect

acquaintance with the theatre of war, as the result of his previous

explorations, his gravity and reserve of manners, his spotless morality,

so extraordinary in the midst of all the dissipated scenes of the camp,

commanded the reverence of the dissolute and licentious, though brave

and talented generals who surrounded him. There was an indescribable

something in his manner which immediately inspired respect and awe, and

which kept all familiarity at a distance.

Decres had known Napoleon well in Paris, and had been on terms of

perfect intimacy with him. He was at Toulon when he heard of Napoleon's

appointment to the command of the army of Italy. "When I learned," said

he, "that the new general was about to pass through the city, I

immediately proposed to introduce my comrades to him, and to turn my

acquaintance to the best account. I hastened to meet him full of

eagerness and joy. The door of the apartment was thrown open, and I was

upon the point of rushing to him with my wonted familiarity. But his

attitude, his look, the tone of his voice suddenly deterred me. There

was nothing haughty or offensive in his appearance or manner, but the

impression he produced was sufficient to prevent me from ever again

attempting to encroach upon the distance which separated us."[1]

[1] Decres was afterward elevated by Napoleon to a dukedom, and

appointed Minister of the Marine. He was strongly attached to his

benefactor. At the time of Napoleon's downfall, he was sounded in a very

artful way as to his willingness to conspire against the Emperor.

Happening to visit a person of celebrity, the latter drew him aside to

the fire-place, and taking up a book, said, "I have just now been

reading something that struck me very forcibly. Montesquieu here

remarks, 'When the prince rises above the laws, when tyranny becomes

insupportable, the oppressed have no alternative but--'" "Enough,"

exclaimed Decres, putting his hand before the mouth of the reader, "I

will hear no more. Close the book." The other coolly laid down the

volume, as though nothing particular had occurred, and began to talk on

a totally different subject.

A similar ascendency, notwithstanding his feminine stature and the

extreme youthfulness of his appearance, he immediately gained over all

the soldiers and all the generals of the army. Every one who entered his

presence was awed by the indescribable influence of his imperial mind.

No one ventured to contend with him for the supremacy. He turned with

disgust from the licentiousness and dissipation which ever disgraces the

presence of an army, and with a sternness of morality which would have

done honor to any of the sages of antiquity, secured that respect which

virtue ever commands. There were many very beautiful and dissolute

females in Nice, opera singers and dancing girls, who, trafficking in

their charms, were living in great wealth and voluptuousness. They

exhausted all their arts of enticement to win the attention of the young

commander-in-chief. But their allurements were unavailing. Napoleon

proved a Samson whom no Delilah could seduce. And this was the more

extraordinary, since his natural temperament was glowing and impetuous

in the extreme, and he had no religious scruples to interfere with his

indulgences. "My extreme youth," said he, afterward, "when I took

command of the army of Italy, rendered it necessary that I should evince

great reserve of manners and the utmost severity of morals. This was

indispensable to enable me to sustain authority over men so greatly my

superiors in age and experience. I pursued a line of conduct in the

highest degree irreproachable and exemplary. In spotless morality I was

a Cato, and must have appeared such to all. I was a philosopher and a

sage. My supremacy could be retained only by proving myself a better man

than any other man in the army. Had I yielded to human weaknesses I

should have lost my power."

He was temperate in the extreme, seldom allowing himself to take even a

glass of wine, and never did he countenance by his presence any scene of

bacchanalian revelry. For gaming, in all its branches, he manifested

then, and through the whole of his life, the strongest disapproval. He

ever refused to repose confidence in any one who was addicted to that

vice. One day at St. Helena, he was conversing with Las Casas, when some

remark which was made led Napoleon to inquire, "Were you a gamester?"

"Alas, sire!" Las Casas replied, "I must confess that I was, but only

occasionally." "I am very glad," Napoleon rejoined, "that I knew nothing

of it at the time. You would have been ruined in my esteem. A gamester

was sure to forfeit my confidence. The moment I heard that a man was

addicted to that vice I placed no more confidence in him."

From what source did this young soldier imbibe these elevated

principles? Licentiousness, irreligion, gambling had been the trinity of

revolutionary France--the substitute which rampant infidelity had

adopted, for a benignant Father, a pleading Saviour, a sanctifying

Spirit. Napoleon was reared in the midst of these demoralizing

influences. And yet how unsullied does his character appear when

compared with that of his companions in the camp and on the throne!

Napoleon informs us that to his mother he was indebted for every pure

and noble sentiment which inspired his bosom.

Letitia, the mother of Napoleon, was a woman of extraordinary

endowments. She had herself hardly passed the period of childhood, being

but nineteen years of age, when she heard the first wailing cry of

Napoleon, her second born, and pressed the helpless babe, with

thanksgiving and prayer, to her maternal bosom. She was a young mother

to train and educate such a child for his unknown but exalted destiny.

She encircled, in protecting arms, the nursing babe, as it fondled a

mother's bosom with those little hands, which, in after years, grasped

sceptres, and uphove thrones, and hewed down armies with resistless

sword. She taught those infant lips to lisp "papa"--"mamma"--those lips

at whose subsequent command all Europe was moved, and whose burning,

glowing, martial words fell like trumpet-tones upon the world, hurling

nation upon nation in the shock of war. She taught those feeble feet to

make their first trembling essays upon the carpet, rewarding the

successful endeavor with a mother's kiss and a mother's caress--those

feet which afterward strode over the sands of the desert, and waded

through the blood-stained snow-drifts of Russia, and tottered, in the

infirmities of sickness and death, on the misty, barren, storm-swept

crags of St. Helena. She instilled into the bosom of her son those

elevated principles of honor and self-respect, which, when surrounded by

every temptation earth could present, preserved him from the degraded

doom of the inebriate, of the voluptuary, and of the gamester, and which

made the court of Napoleon, when the most brilliant court this world has

ever known, also the most illustrious for the purity of its morals and

the decorum of its observances. The sincere, unaffected piety of Letitia

rose so high above the corruptions of a corrupt and profligate church,

that her distinguished son, notwithstanding the all but universal

infidelity of the times, was compelled to respect a religion which had

embellished a beloved mother's life. He was thus induced, in his day of

power, to bring back a wayward nation of thirty millions from cheerless,

brutalizing, comfortless unbelief, to all the consoling, ennobling,

purifying influences of Christianity. When at the command of Napoleon

the church bells began again to toll the hour of prayer, on every

hill-side, and through every valley in France, and the dawn of the

Sabbath again guided rejoicing thousands in the crowded city and in the

silent country to the temples of religion--when the young, in their

nuptials, and the aged in their death were blessed by the solemnities of

gospel ministrations, it was a mother's influence which inspired a

dutiful son to make the magic change, which thus, in an hour,

transformed France from a pagan to nominally a Christian land. It was

the calm, gentle, persuasive voice of Letitia which was embodied in the

consular decree. Honor to Letitia, the mother of Napoleon!

The first interview between this almost beardless youth and the veteran

generals whom he was to command, must have presented a singular scene.

These scarred and war-worn chiefs, when they beheld the "stripling,"

were utterly amazed at the folly of the Directory in sending such a

youth to command an army in circumstances so desperate. Rampon undertook

to give the young commander some advice. Napoleon, who demanded

obedience not advice, impatiently brushed him away, exclaiming,

"Gentlemen! the art of war is in its infancy. The time has passed in

which enemies are mutually to appoint the place of combat, advance hat

in hand and say, '_Gentlemen, will you have the goodness to fire_.' We

must cut the enemy in pieces, precipitate ourselves like a torrent upon

their battalions, and grind them to powder. Experienced generals conduct

the troops opposed to us! So much the better, so much the better. It is

not their experience which will avail them against me. Mark my words;

they will soon burn their books on tactics and know not what to do. Yes,

gentlemen! the first onset of the Italian army will give birth to a new

epoch in military affairs. As for us, we must hurl ourselves on the foe

like a thunderbolt, and smite like it. Disconcerted by our tactics, and

not daring to put them into execution, they will fly before us as the

shades of night before the uprising sun."

The commanding and self-confident tone in which Napoleon uttered these

glowing sentences, silenced and confounded the generals. They felt that

they had indeed a master. "Well," said Augereau, as he left the council,

nodding very significantly to Massena, "we have a man here who will cut

out some work for government, I think." "It was necessary for me,"

Napoleon afterward remarked, "to be a little austere, to prevent my

generals from slapping me upon the shoulder."

[Illustration: NAPOLEON AND HIS GENERALS.]

The objects which Napoleon had in view in this campaign were, first, to

compel the King of Sardinia to abandon the alliance with Austria;

secondly, to assail the Austrians with such vigor as to compel the

Emperor to call to his aid the troops upon the Rhine, and thus weaken

the powerful hosts then marching against the Republic; and, thirdly, to

humble the Pope, who was exerting all his spiritual power to aid the

Bourbons in fighting their way back to the throne of France. The Pope

had offered an unpardonable insult to the Republic. The French

embassador sent to Rome, had been attacked in the streets, and chased

home. The mob broke into his house and cruelly assassinated him, unarmed

and unresisting. The murderers remained unpunished, and no atonement had

been made for the atrocious crime. But how, with thirty thousand troops,

unpaid, dejected, famished, and unprovided with the munitions of war,

was mortal man to accomplish such results in the face of a foe eighty

thousand strong, living in abundance, and flushed with victory!

Napoleon issued his first proclamation. It was read to every regiment in

the army, and rang, like trumpet-tones, upon the ears of the troops.

"Soldiers! you are hungry and naked; the government owes you much, and

can pay you nothing. Your patience, your courage, in the midst of these

rocks, are admirable, but they reflect no splendor upon your arms. I

come to lead you into the most fertile plains the sun beholds. Rich

provinces, opulent cities will soon be at your disposal. There you will

find abundant harvests, honor, and glory. Soldiers of Italy, will you

fail in courage?" It is not strange that such words, from their young

and fearless leader, should have inspired enthusiasm, and should have

caused the hearts of the desponding to leap high with hope and

confidence. The simple plan which Napoleon adopted, was to direct his

whole force against detached portions of the Austrian army, and thus by

gaining, at the point of attack, a superiority in numbers, to destroy

them by piecemeal. "War," said the young soldier, "is the science of

barbarians; and he who has the heaviest battalions will conquer."

The whole army was instantly on the move. The generals, appreciating the

wisdom and the fearlessness of their indomitable leader, imbibed his

spirit and emulated his zeal. Napoleon was on horseback night and day.

He seemed to take no time to eat or to sleep. He visited the soldiers,

sympathized with them in their sufferings, and revealed to them his

plans. It was early in the spring. Bleak glaciers and snow-covered

ridges of the Alps were between Napoleon and the Austrians. Behind this

curtain he assembled his forces. Enormous sacrifices were required to

enable the soldiers to move from point to point with that celerity which

was essential in operations so hazardous. He made no allowance for any

impediments or obstacles. At a given hour the different divisions of the

army, by various roads, were to be at a designated point. To accomplish

this, every sacrifice was to be made of comfort and of life. If

necessary to the attainment of this end stragglers were to be left

behind, baggage abandoned, artillery even to be left in the ruts, and

the troops were to be, without fail, at the designated place at the

appointed hour. Through storms of rain and snow, over mountain and moor,

by night and by day, hungry, sleepless, wet, and cold, the enthusiastic

host pressed on. It seems incredible that the young Napoleon, so

instantaneously as it were, should have been enabled to infuse his

almost supernatural energy into the whole army. He had neither mules

with which to attempt the passage of the Alps, nor money to purchase the

necessary supplies. He therefore decided to turn the mountains, by

following down the chain along the shores of the Mediterranean, to a

point where the lofty ridges sink almost to a plain.

The army of Beaulieu was divided into three corps. His centre, ten

thousand strong, was at the small village of Montenotte. The night of

the 11th of April was dark and tempestuous. Torrents of rain were

falling, and the miry roads were almost impassable. But through the long

hours of this stormy night, while the Austrians were reposing warmly in

their tents, Napoleon and his soldiers, drenched with rain, were toiling

through the muddy defiles of the mountains, wading the swollen streams,

and climbing the slippery cliffs. Just as the day began to dawn through

the broken clouds, the young general stood upon the heights in the rear

of Montenotte, and looked down upon the encamped host whom he was now

for the first time to encounter in decisive conflict. He had so

man[oe]uvred as completely to envelop his unsuspecting enemy. Allowing

his weary troops not an hour for repose, he fell upon the allied

Austrians and Sardinians like a whirlwind, attacking them, at the same

moment, in front, flank, and rear. The battle was long and bloody. The

details of these horrid scenes of carnage are sickening. The shout of

onset, the shriek of agony; the mutilated and the mangled forms of the

young and the noble, trampled beneath the iron hoofs of rushing

squadrons; the wounded crushed into the mire, with their bones ground to

powder as the wheels of ponderous artillery were dragged mercilessly

over them, and the wailing echo of widows and orphans in their distant

homes, render these battle-fields revolting to humanity. At length the

Austrians were broken and completely routed. They fled in dismay,

leaving three thousand dead and wounded upon the field, and their cannon

and colors in possession of the French. This was the first battle in

which Napoleon had the supreme command; the first victory in which the

honor redounded to himself. "My title of nobility," said he proudly to

the Emperor of Austria, "dates from the battle of Montenotte." The

Austrians fled in one direction to Dego, to meet reinforcements coming

to their aid and to protect Milan. The Sardinians retreated in another

direction to Millesimo, to cover their own capital of Turin. Thus the

two armies were separated as Napoleon desired. The indefatigable

general, allowing his exhausted and bleeding army but a few hours of

repose, and himself not one, resolved, while his troops were flushed

with victory, and the enemy were depressed by defeat and loss, to attack

both armies at once. The 13th and the 14th of April were passed in one

incessant conflict. The Austrians and Sardinians intrenching themselves

in strong fortresses and upon craggy hill-sides, and every hour

receiving reinforcements pressing on to their aid, cast showers of

stones and rolled heavy rocks upon their assailants, sweeping away whole

companies at a time. Napoleon was every where, sharing the toil,

incurring the danger, and inspiring his men with his own enthusiastic

ardor and courage. In both battles the French were entirely victorious.

At Dego, the Austrians were compelled to abandon their artillery and

baggage, and escape as they could over the mountains, leaving three

thousand prisoners in the hands of the conqueror. At Millesimo, fifteen

hundred Sardinians were compelled to surrender. Thus like a thunderbolt

Napoleon opened the campaign. In three days, three desperate battles had

been fought, and three decisive victories gained. Still Napoleon's

situation was perilous in the extreme. He was surrounded by forces

vastly superior to his own, crowding down upon him. The Austrians were

amazed at his audacity. They deemed it the paroxysm of a madman, who

throws himself single-handed into the midst of an armed host. His

destruction was sure, unless by almost supernatural rapidity of

marching, he could prevent the concentration of these forces and bring

superior numbers to attack and destroy the detached portions. A day of

inaction, an hour of hesitancy, might have been fatal. It was in the

battle at Dego that Napoleon was first particularly struck with the

gallantry of a young officer named Lannes. In nothing was the genius of

this extraordinary man more manifest, than in the almost intuitive

penetration with which he discovered character. Lannes became

subsequently Duke of Montebello and one of the marshals of the

Empire.[2]

[2] "The education of Lannes had been much neglected but his mind rose

to the level of his courage. He became a giant. He adored me as his

protector, his superior being, his providence. In the impetuosity of his

temper he sometimes allowed hasty expressions against me to escape his

lips, but he would probably have broken the head of any one who had

joined him in his remarks. When he died he had been in fifty-four

pitched battles and three hundred combats of different kinds."--Napoleon.

In the midst of these marches and counter-marches and these incessant

battles, there had been no opportunity to distribute regular rations

among the troops. The soldiers, destitute of every thing, began to

pillage. Napoleon, who was exceedingly anxious to win the good-will of

the people of Italy and to be welcomed by them as their deliverer from

proud oppressors, proceeded against the culprits with great severity,

and immediately re-established the most rigid discipline in the army.

He had now advanced to the summit of Mt. Zemolo. From that eminence the

troops looked down upon the lovely plains of Italy, opening, like a

diorama beneath them. The poetic sensibilities of Napoleon were deeply

moved by the majestic spectacle. Orchards and vineyards, and fertile

fields and peaceful villages lay spread out, a scene of perfect

enchantment, in the extended valley. Majestic rivers, reflecting the

rays of the sun like ribbons of silver, meandered through meadow and

forest; encircling the verdant hill-sides, and bathing the streets of

opulent cities. In the distance stupendous mountains, hoary with eternal

ice and snow, bounded and seemed to embrace in protecting arms this land

of promise. Napoleon, sitting upon his horse, gazed for some time in

silent and delighted admiration upon the scene. "Hannibal," he

exclaimed, "forced the Alps; but we have turned them."

[Illustration: NAPOLEON ON MOUNT ZEMOLO.]

There was, however, not a moment to be lost in rest or reverie. From

every direction the Austrians and Sardinians were hurrying to their

appointed rendezvous, to combine and destroy this audacious band, which

had so suddenly and fatally plunged into their midst. The French troops

rushed down the declivities of the mountains and, crossing the Tanaro,

rejoiced with trembling as they found themselves in the sunny plains of

Italy. Dispatching Augereau to pursue the Austrian army, now effectually

separated from their allies, Napoleon, with indefatigable perseverance,

pursued the Sardinians in their flight toward Turin. He came up with

them on the 18th at Ceva, where they had intrenched themselves, eight

thousand strong.

He immediately attacked them in their intrenchments, and during the

remainder of the day the sanguinary battle raged without any decisive

result. The flash and the roar of artillery and of musketry did not

cease, till the darkness rendered it impossible to distinguish friend

from foe. The French slept upon their arms, ready to resume the combat

in the earliest dawn of the morning. In the night the Sardinians fled,

and again took a strong position behind the deep and foaming torrent of

the Carsuglia. On the evening of the ensuing day, Napoleon again

overtook them. A single bridge crossed the rapid torrent. The Sardinians

were so strongly posted that it seemed impossible that they could be

dislodged. Large detachments were hastening to reinforce them. The

Austrians were accumulating in great strength in Napoleon's rear, and

notwithstanding all these brilliant victories the situation of the

French was perilous in the extreme. A council of war was held in the

night, and it was decided, regardless of the extreme exhaustion of the

troops, to make an assault upon the bridge as soon as the morning

should dawn. Before the first gray of the morning the French, in battle

array, were moving down upon the bridge, anticipating a desperate

struggle. But the Sardinians, in a panic, had again fled during the

night, and Napoleon, rejoicing at his good fortune, passed the bridge

unobstructed. The indefatigable victor pressed onward in the pursuit,

and before nightfall again overtook his fugitive foes, who had

intrenched themselves upon some almost inaccessible hills near Mondovi.

The French immediately advanced to the assault. The Sardinians fought

with desperation, but the genius of Napoleon triumphed, and again the

Sardinians fled, leaving two thousand men, eight cannon, and eleven

standards in the hands of the conqueror, and one thousand dead upon the

field. Napoleon pursued the fugitives to Cherasco, and took possession

of the place. He was now within twenty miles of Turin, the capital of

the kingdom of Sardinia. All was commotion in the metropolis. There were

thousands there, who had imbibed the revolutionary spirit, who were

ready to welcome Napoleon as their deliverer, and to implore him to aid

them in the establishment of a republic. The king and the nobles were in

perfect consternation. The English and Austrian ministers entreated the

king to adhere to the alliance, abandon his capital, and continue the

conflict. They assured him that the rash and youthful victor was rushing

into difficulties from which he could by no possibility extricate

himself. But he, trembling for his throne and his crown, believing it to

be impossible to resist so rapid a conqueror, and fearing that Napoleon,

irritated by a protracted conflict, would proclaim political liberty to

the people, and revolutionize the kingdom, determined to throw himself

into the arms of the French, and to appeal to the magnanimity of the

foe, whose rights he had so unpardonably assailed. By all human rules he

deserved the severest punishment. He had united with two powerful

nations, England and Austria, to chastise the French for preferring a

republic to a monarchy, and had sent an invading army to bombard the

cities of France and instigate the royalists to rise in civil war

against the established government of the country.

It was with lively satisfaction that Napoleon received the advances of

the Sardinian King, for he was fully aware of the peril in which he was

placed. The allied armies were still far more numerous than his own. He

had neither heavy battering cannon, nor siege equipage to reduce Turin,

and the other important fortresses of the kingdom. He was far from home,

could expect no immediate reinforcements from France, and his little

army was literally in destitution and in rags. The allies, on the

contrary, were in the enjoyment of abundance. They could every day

augment their strength; and their resources were apparently

inexhaustible. "The king of Sardinia," says Napoleon, "had still a great

number of fortresses left; and in spite of the victories which had been

gained, the slightest check, one caprice of fortune, would have undone

every thing." Napoleon, however, with the commissioners who had been

sent to treat with him, assumed a very confident and imperious tone. He

demanded, as a preliminary to any armistice, that the important

fortresses of Coni, Tortona, and Alexandria, "the keys of the Alps,"

should be surrendered to him. The commissioners hesitated to comply with

these requisitions, which would place Sardinia entirely at his mercy,

and proposed some modifications. "Your ideas are absurd," exclaimed

Napoleon, sternly; "it is for me to state conditions. Listen to the laws

which I impose upon you, in the name of the government of my country,

and obey, or to-morrow my batteries are erected, and Turin is in

flames." The commissioners were overawed, and a treaty was immediately

concluded, by which the King of Sardinia abandoned the alliance,

surrendered the three fortresses, with all their artillery and military

stores, to Napoleon, sent an embassador to Paris to conclude a

definitive peace, left the victors in possession of all the places they

had already taken, disbanded the militia, and dispersed the regular

troops, and allowed the French free use of the military roads, to carry

on the war with Austria. Napoleon then issued to his soldiers the

following soul-stirring proclamation:

"Soldiers! you have gained in fifteen days six victories, taken

one-and-twenty standards, fifty-five pieces of cannon, many strong

places, and have conquered the richest part of Piedmont. You have made

fifteen thousand prisoners, and killed or wounded ten thousand men.

Hitherto you have fought on sterile rocks, illustrious, indeed, by your

courage, but of no avail. Now you rival by your services the armies of

Holland and of the Rhine. You were utterly destitute; you have supplied

all your wants. You have gained battles without cannon; passed rivers

without bridges; made forced marches without shoes, bivouacked without

bread. The phalanxes of the Republic, the soldiers of liberty were alone

capable of such sacrifices. But, soldiers! you have accomplished nothing

while any thing remains to be done. Neither Turin nor Milan is in your

hands. I am told that there are some among you whose courage is failing,

who wish to return to the summits of the Alps and the Apennines. No! I

can not believe it. The conquerors of Montenotte, of Millesimo, of Dego,

of Mondovi burn to carry still further the glories of the French name.

But ere I lead you to conquest there is one condition you must promise

to fulfill: that is to protect the people whom you liberate and to

repress all acts of lawless violence. Without this you would not be the

deliverers, but the scourges of nations. Invested with the national

authority, strong in justice and law, I shall not hesitate to enforce

the requisitions of humanity and of honor. I will not suffer robbers to

sully your laurels. Pillagers shall be shot without mercy.

"People of Italy! The French army advances to break your chains. The

French people are the friends of all nations. In them you may confide.

Your property, your religion, your customs shall be respected. We will

only make war as generous foes. Our sole quarrel is with the tyrants who

enslave you."

A large majority of Napoleon's soldiers and officers severely condemned

any treaty of peace with a monarchical government, and were clamorous

for the dethronement of the king of Sardinia, and the establishment of a

Republic. The people thronged Napoleon with the entreaty that he would

lend them his countenance that they might revolutionize the kingdom.

They urged that, by the banishment of the king and the nobles, they

could establish a free government, which should be the natural and

efficient ally of Republican France. He had but to say the word and the

work was done. The temptation to utter that word must have been very

strong. It required no common political foresight to nerve Napoleon to

resist that temptation. But he had a great horror of anarchy. He had

seen enough of the working of Jacobin misrule in the blood-deluged

streets of Paris. He did not believe that the benighted peasants of

Italy possessed either the intelligence or the moral principle essential

to the support of a well-organized republic. Consequently,

notwithstanding the known wishes of the Directory, the demands of the

army, and the entreaties of the populace, with heroic firmness he

refused to allow the overthrow of the established government. He

diverted the attention of his soldiers from the subject, by plunging

them into still more arduous enterprises, and leading them to yet more

brilliant victories.

Napoleon had no desire to see the reign of terror re-enacted in the

cities of Italy. He was in favor of reform, not of revolution. The kings

and the nobles had monopolized wealth and honor, and nearly all the most

precious privileges of life. The people were merely hewers of wood and

drawers of water. Napoleon wished to break down this monopoly and to

emancipate the masses from the servitude of ages. He would do this,

however, not by the sudden upheaving of thrones and the transfer of

power to unenlightened and inexperienced democracy, but by surrounding

the thrones with republican institutions, and conferring upon all people

a strong and well-organized government, with constitutional liberty.

Eloquently he says, "It would be a magnificent field for speculation to

estimate what would have been the destinies of France and of Europe, had

England satisfied herself with denouncing the murder of Louis XVI.,

which would have been for the interests of public morality, and listened

to the councils of a philanthropic policy, by accepting revolutionized

France as an ally. Scaffolds would not then have been erected over the

whole country, and kings would not have trembled on their thrones; but

their states would all have passed, more or less, through a

revolutionary process, and the whole of Europe, without a convulsion,

would have become constitutional and free."

The kingdom of Sardinia was composed of the provinces of Nice, Piedmont,

Savoy, and Montferrat. It contained three millions of inhabitants. The

king, by extraordinary efforts and by means of subsidies from England,

had raised an army of sixty thousand men, trained to service in long

continued wars. His numerous fortresses, well armed and amply

provisioned, situated at the defiles of all the mountains, placed his

frontier in a state which was regarded as impregnable. He was the

father-in-law of both of the brothers of Louis XVI.; which brothers

subsequently ascended the throne of France as Louis XVIII. and as

Charles X. He had welcomed them, in their flight from France to his

court in Turin; and had made his court a place of refuge for the

emigrant noblesse, where, in fancied security, they matured their plans

and accumulated their resources for the invasion of France, in

connection with the armies of the allies. And yet Napoleon, with thirty

thousand half-starved men, had, in one short fortnight, dispersed his

troops, driven the Austrians from the kingdom, penetrated to the very

heart of the state, and was threatening the bombardment of his capital.

The humiliated monarch, trembling for his crown, was compelled to sue

for peace at the feet of an unknown young man of twenty-five. His

chagrin was so great, in view of his own fallen fortunes and the

hopelessness of his sons-in-law ever attaining the throne of France,

that he died, a few days after signing the treaty of Cherasco, of a

broken heart.

Napoleon immediately dispatched Murat, his first aid-de-camp, to Paris,

with a copy of the armistice, and with twenty-one standards taken from

the enemy. The sensation which was produced in France by this rapid

succession of astonishing victories was intense and universal. The

spirit of antique eloquence which imbued the proclamations of the young

conqueror; the modest language of his dispatches to the Directory; the

entire absence of boasting respecting his own merits, and the glowing

commendation of the enthusiastic bravery of his soldiers and of his

generals, excited profound admiration. _Bonaparte_ was a foreign, an

Italian name. Few in France had ever heard it, and it was not easily

pronounced. Every one inquired, Who is this young general, whose talents

thus suddenly, with such meteoric splendor, have blazed upon Europe? His

name and his fame were upon every lip, and the eyes of all Europe were

concentred upon him. Three times in the course of fifteen days, the

Council of Ancients and The Five Hundred had decreed that the army of

Italy deserved well of their country, and had appointed festivals to

victory in their honor. In very imposing ceremony Murat presented the

captured standards to the Directory. Several foreign embassadors were

present on the occasion. The Republic, thus triumphant, was invested

with new dignity, and elevated, by the victories of the young general,

to a position of respect and consideration which it had never attained

before.

While these scenes were transpiring Napoleon did not forget the bride he

had left in Paris. Though for seven days and nights he had allowed

himself no quiet meal, no regular repose, and had not taken off either

his coat or his boots, he found time to send frequent and most

affectionate, though very short, notes to Josephine. Immediately after

the victory of Montenotte, while the thunders of the cannonade were

still ringing in his ears, he dispatched a courier to Josephine with the

following lines, written in such haste and under such circumstances as

to be scarcely legible.

"My beloved Friend,

"My first laurel is due to my country. My second shall be yours.

While pursuing the enemy I thought of France. When he was beaten I

thought of Josephine. Your son will send you a scarf surrendered to

him by Colonel Morback, whom he took prisoner with his own hand.

You see, Madame, that our Eugene is worthy of his father. Do not

deem me altogether undeserving of having succeeded to that brave

and unfortunate general, under whom I should have felt honored to

have learned to conquer. I embrace you. Bonaparte."

This delicacy of attention Napoleon ever manifested toward Josephine,

even after their unhappy divorce, and until the hour of her death.

Napoleon having, by an advantageous treaty with Sardinia, secured his

rear from assault, without a day's delay, commenced the pursuit of the

discomfited remains of the Austrian army. Under their

commander-in-chief, Beaulieu, they had retreated behind the Po, where

they strongly intrenched themselves, awaiting the reinforcements which

were hurrying to their aid.

Upon leaving the kingdom of Sardinia Napoleon first entered the states

of Parma. The Duke of Parma, who had united with his more powerful

neighbors, in the alliance against France, reigned over a population of

but about five hundred thousand, and could furnish to the allies but

three thousand troops. He was of course powerless, and sent envoys to

solicit the clemency of the conqueror. Napoleon granted him an armistice

upon his paying five hundred thousand dollars in silver, sixteen hundred

artillery horses, and a large supply of corn and provisions. And here

commenced one of those characteristic acts of the young general which

have been greatly admired by some, and most severely censured by others.

Napoleon, a lover and connoisseur of the arts, conscious of the addition

they contribute to the splendor of an empire, and of the effect which

they produce upon the imagination of men, demanded twenty of the

choicest pictures in the galleries of the duke, to be sent to the Museum

at Paris. To save one of these works of art, the celebrated picture of

St. Jerome, the duke offered two hundred thousand dollars. Napoleon

declined the money, stating to the army, "the sum which he offers us

will soon be spent; but the possession of such a master-piece, at Paris,

will adorn that capital for ages, and give birth to similar exertions of

genius." No one objects, according to the laws of war, to the extortion

of the money, the horses, the corn, and the beef, but it is represented

by some as an unpardonable act of spoliation and rapacity to have taken

the pictures. If conquest confers the right to the seizure of any

species of property, it is difficult to conceive why works of art, which

are subject to barter and sale, should claim exemption. Indeed, there

seems to be a peculiar propriety in taking luxuries rather than

necessaries. The extortion of money only inflicted a tax upon the

_people_ who were the friends of Napoleon and of his cause. The

selection of the paintings and the statuary deprived not the people of

their food, but caused that very class in the community to feel the

evils of war, who had originated the conflict. It was making requisition

upon the palace and not upon the cottage. But war, with its extortion,

robbery, cruelty, and blood, involves all our ideas of morality in

confusion. Whatever may be the decision of posterity respecting the

propriety of including works of genius among the trophies of war, the

occurrence surely exhibits Napoleon as a man of refined and elevated

tastes. An ignoble spirit, moved by avarice, would have grasped the

money. Napoleon, regardless of personal indulgence, sought only the

glory of France. There is at least grandeur in the motive which inspired

the act.

The Austrians were now reinforced to the amount of forty thousand men,

and had intrenched themselves upon the other side of the Po, having this

magnificent stream flowing between them and the French. It is one of the

most difficult operations in war to cross a river in the face of an

opposing army. It was difficult to conceive how Napoleon could effect

the enterprise. He, however, marched resolutely on toward Valenza,

making every demonstration of his intention to cross at that point, in

defiance of the foe, arrayed in vastly superior numbers to contest the

passage. The Austrians concentrated their strength to give him a warm

reception. Suddenly by night Napoleon turned down the river, and with

amazing celerity made a march of eighty miles in thirty-six hours,

seizing every boat upon the stream as he passed along. He had timed the

march of the several divisions of his army so precisely, that all of his

forces met at the appointed rendezvous within a few hours of each other.

Rapidly crossing the river in boats, he found himself and his army,

without the loss of a single man, in the plains of Lombardy.

This beautiful and productive country had been conquered by the

Austrians, and was governed by an archduke. It contained one million two

hundred thousand inhabitants, and was one of the most fertile and rich

provinces in the world. Its inhabitants were much dissatisfied with

their foreign masters, and the great majority, longing for political

regeneration, were ready to welcome the armies of France. As soon as

Beaulieu, who was busily at work upon his fortifications at Valenza,

heard that Napoleon had thus out-generaled him, and had crossed the

river, he immediately collected all his forces and moved forward to meet

him. The advanced divisions of the hostile armies soon met at Fombio.

The Austrians stationed themselves in the steeples and at the windows

and upon the roofs of the houses, and commenced a destructive fire upon

the French, crowding into the streets. They hoped to arrest their

progress until the commander-in-chief could arrive with the main body of

the army. The French, however, rushed impetuously on with their

bayonets, and the Austrians were driven before them, leaving two

thousand prisoners in the hands of Napoleon, and the ground covered with

their dead.

The French pursued closely upon the heels of the Austrians, from every

eminence plunging cannon balls into their retreating ranks, and

assailing them with the most destructive fire at every possible point of

attack. In the evening of the same day, the exhausted and bleeding

columns of the enemy arrived at Lodi, a small town upon the banks of the

Adda. Passing directly through the town they crossed the river, which

was about two hundred yards in width, by a narrow wooden bridge, about

thirty feet wide. They were there received by the main body of the army

of Beaulieu, which was strongly intrenched upon the opposite banks. The

whole French army rushed into the town, and sheltering themselves behind

the walls of the houses, from the incessant fire of the Austrian

batteries, awaited the commands of their youthful leader, whom they now

began to think invincible.

Napoleon's belief in _destiny_ was so strong that he was an entire

stranger to bodily fear. He immediately sallied from the town and

reconnoitred the banks of the river, amidst a perfect shower of balls

and grape-shot. The prospect before him would have been to most persons

perfectly appalling. The Austrians, sixteen thousand strong, with twelve

thousand infantry and four thousand cavalry, and thirty pieces of heavy

artillery were posted upon the opposite banks in battle array, with

their batteries so arranged as to command the whole length of the bridge

by a raking fire. Batteries stationed above and below also swept the

narrow passage by cross fires, while sharp-shooters, in bands of

thousands, were posted at every available point, to drive a perfect

storm of musket balls into the face of any who should approach the

structure. Beaulieu conceived his position so utterly impregnable that

he had not thought it necessary to destroy the bridge, as he easily

could have done. He desired nothing more earnestly than that the French

might attempt the passage, for he was confident that their discomfiture

would be both signal and awful. Napoleon immediately placed as many guns

as possible in opposition to the Austrian batteries, directing with his

own hands, in the midst of the hottest fire, some cannon in such a

manner as to prevent the Austrians from approaching to blow up the

arches. He then entered the town, assembled his general officers, and

informed them that he had resolved immediately to storm the bridge. The

bravest of them recoiled from the undertaking, and they unanimously

disapproved of the plan as impracticable. "It is impossible," said one,

"that any men can force their way across that narrow bridge, in the face

of such an annihilating storm of balls as must be encountered." "How!

impossible!" exclaimed Napoleon, "that word is not French." The

self-reliant mind of the young conqueror was seldom moved by the

opinions of others. Regardless of the disapproval of his generals, he

assembled six thousand picked troops, and addressing them in those

marked tones of martial eloquence most eminently at his command, so

effectually roused their pride and enthusiasm that they were clamorous

to be led to the assault. He unfolded to them fully the peril which

attended the enterprise, and animated them by reference to the

corresponding glory which would attend the achievement. He knew that

thousands must perish. But placing only a slight value upon his own

life, he regarded as little the lives of others, and deemed the object

to be gained worthy of the terrible price which was to be paid. There

probably was not another man in either of those armies who would have

ventured upon the responsibility of an enterprise apparently so

desperate.

Secretly dispatching a large body of cavalry to cross the river at a

very difficult ford, about three miles above the town, which by some

inconceivable oversight the Austrians had neglected to protect, he

ordered them to come down the river and make the most desperate charge

upon the rear of the enemy. At the same time he formed his troops in a

line, under the shelter of one of the streets nearest the point of

attack. It was the evening of the 10th of May. The sun was just sinking

behind the Tyrolean hills, enveloping in soft twilight the scene of

rural peace and beauty and of man's depravity. Not a breath of air

rippled the smooth surface of the water, or agitated the bursting

foliage of the early spring. The moment that Napoleon perceived, by the

commotion among the Austrians, that the cavalry had effected the passage

of the river, he ordered the trumpets to sound the charge. The line

wheeled instantly into a dense and solid column, crowding the street

with its impenetrable mass. Emerging from the shelter, upon the full

run, while rending the air with their enthusiastic shouts, they rushed

upon the bridge. They were met by a murderous discharge of every missile

of destruction, sweeping the structure like a whirlwind. The whole head

of the column was immediately cut down like grass before the scythe, and

the progress of those in the rear was encumbered by piles of the dead.

Still the column passed on, heedless of the terrific storm of iron and

of lead, until it had forced its way into the middle of the bridge. Here

it hesitated, wavered, and was on the point of retreating before

volcanic bursts of fire too terrible for mortal man to endure, when

Napoleon, seizing a standard, and followed by Lannes, Massena, and

Berthier, plunged through the clouds of smoke which now enveloped the

bridge in almost midnight darkness, placed himself at the head of the

troops, and shouted, "Follow your General!" The bleeding, mangled

column, animated by this example, rushed with their bayonets upon the

Austrian gunners. At the same moment the French cavalry came dashing

upon the batteries in the rear, and the bridge was carried. The French

army now poured across the narrow passage like a torrent, and debouched

upon the plain. Still the battle raged with unmitigated fury. The

Austrians hurled themselves upon the French with the energy of despair.

But the troops of Napoleon, intoxicated with their amazing achievement,

set all danger at defiance, and seemed just as regardless of bullets and

of shells, as if they had been snow-balls in the hands of children.

In the midst of the thunders of the terrific cannonade a particular

battery was producing dreadful havoc among the ranks of the French.

Repeated attempts had been made to storm it, but in vain. An officer

rode up to Napoleon in the midst of all the confusion and horror of the

battle, and represented to him the importance of making another effort

to silence the destructive battery. "Very well," said Napoleon, who was

fond of speaking, as well as acting the sublime, "let it be silenced

then." Turning to a body of dragoons near by, he exclaimed, "follow your

General." As gayly as if it were the pastime of a holiday, the dragoons

followed their leader in the impetuous charge, through showers of grape

shot dealing mutilation and death into their ranks. The Austrian gunners

were instantly sabred, and their guns turned upon the foe.

Lannes was the first to cross the bridge and Napoleon the second. Lannes

in utter recklessness and desperation, spurred his maddened horse into

the very midst of the Austrian ranks and grasped a banner. At that

moment his horse fell dead beneath him, and half a dozen swords

glittered above his head. With Herculean strength and agility he

extricated himself from his fallen steed, leaped upon the horse of an

Austrian officer, behind the rider, plunged his sword through the body

of the officer, and hurled him from his saddle; taking his seat he

fought his way back to his followers, having slain in the mêlée six of

the Austrians with his own hand. This deed of demoniac energy was

performed under the eye of Napoleon, and he promoted Lannes upon the

spot.

[Illustration: THE TERRIBLE PASSAGE OF THE BRIDGE OF LODI.]

The Austrians now retreated, leaving two thousand prisoners and twenty

pieces of cannon in the hands of the victors, and two thousand five

hundred men and four hundred horses dead upon the plain. The French

probably lost, in dead and wounded, about the same number, though

Napoleon, in his report of the battle, acknowledged the loss of but four

hundred. The Austrians claimed that the French won the victory at the

expense of four thousand men. It was, of course, the policy of the

conqueror to have it understood that his troops were the executors not

the victims of slaughter. "As false as a bulletin," has become a

proverb. The necessity of uttering falsehood and practicing deception in

all their varied forms, is one of the smallest of the innumerable

immoralities attendant upon war. From time immemorial it has been

declared that the weapons of deception and of courage are equally

allowable to the soldier; "_an virtus, an dolos, quis ab hoste

requirat_." If an enemy can be deceived by a false bulletin, there are

few generals so conscientious as to reject the stratagem. Napoleon

certainly never hesitated to avail himself of any artifice to send

dismay into the hearts of his foes. Truthfulness is not one of the

virtues which thrives in a camp.

"It was a strange sight," says a French veteran, who was present at

this battle, "to see Napoleon that day, on foot on the bridge, under an

_infernal_ fire, and mixed up with our tall grenadiers. He looked like a

little boy." "This beardless youth," said an Austrian general,

indignantly, "ought to have been beaten over and over again; for who

ever saw such tactics. The blockhead knows nothing of the rules of war.

To-day he is in our rear, to-morrow on our flank, and the next day again

in our front. Such gross violations of the established principles of war

are insufferable."

When Napoleon was in exile at St. Helena, some one read an account of

the battle of Lodi, in which it was stated that Napoleon displayed great

courage in being the first to cross the bridge, and that Lannes passed

it after him. "Before me! before me!" exclaimed Napoleon, earnestly.

"Lannes passed first and I only followed him. It is necessary to correct

that error upon the spot." The correction was made in the margin. This

victory produced a very extraordinary effect upon the whole French army,

and inspired the soldiers with unbounded confidence in their young

leader. Some of the veterans of the army, immediately after the battle,

met together and jocosely promoted their General, who had so

distinguished himself by his bravery, and who was so juvenile in his

appearance, to the rank of corporal. When Napoleon next appeared upon

the field, he was greeted with enthusiastic shouts by the whole army,

"Long live our little Corporal!" Ever after this he was the perfect idol

of the troops, and never lost, even in the dignity of Consul and

Emperor, this honorary and affectionate nickname. "Neither the quelling

of the sections," said Napoleon, "nor the victory of Montenotte induced

me to think myself a superior character. It was not till after the

_terrible passage of the bridge of Lodi_, that the idea shot across my

mind that I might become a decisive actor in the political arena. Then

arose, for the first time, the spark of great ambition."

Lombardy was now at the mercy of Napoleon, and the discomfited Austrians

fled into the Tyrol. The Archduke Ferdinand and his duchess, with tears

in their eyes, abandoned to the conqueror their beautiful capital of

Milan, and sought refuge with their retreating friends.

As the carriages of the ducal pair, and those of their retinue passed

sadly through the streets of the metropolis, the people looked on in

silence, uttering not a word of sympathy or of insult. But the moment

they had departed, republican zeal burst forth unrestrained. The

tricolored cockade seemed suddenly to have fallen, as by magic, upon the

hats and the caps of the multitude, and the great mass of the people

prepared to greet the French Republicans with every demonstration of

joy. A placard was put upon the palace--"This house to let; for the keys

apply to the French Commissioner."

On the fifteenth of May, just one month after the opening of the

campaign at Montenotte, Napoleon entered Milan in triumph. He was

welcomed by the great majority of the inhabitants as a deliverer. The

patriots, from all parts of Italy, crowded to the capital, sanguine in

the hope that Napoleon would secure their independence, and confer upon

them a Republican government, in friendly alliance with France. A

numerous militia was immediately organized, called the National Guard,

and dressed in three colors, green, red, and white, in honor of the

tri-colored flag. A triumphal arch was erected, in homage of the

conqueror. The whole population of the city marched out to bid him

welcome; flowers were scattered in his path; ladies thronged the windows

as he passed, and greeted him with smiles and fluttering handkerchiefs,

and with a shower of bouquets rained down at his feet. Amidst all the

pomp of martial music, and waving banners, the ringing of bells, the

thunders of saluting artillery, and the acclamations of an immense

concourse of spectators, Napoleon took possession of the palace from

whence the duke had fled. "If you desire liberty," said the victor to

the Milanese, "you must deserve it by assisting to emancipate Italy

forever from Austria." The wealthy and avaricious Duke of Modena, whose

states bordered upon those of Parma, dispatched envoys to sue for peace.

Napoleon granted him an armistice, upon the payment of two millions of

dollars, twenty of his choicest pictures, and an abundant supply of

horses and provisions. When in treaty with the Duke of Modena, the

Commissary of the French army came to Napoleon and said, "The brother of

the duke is here with eight hundred thousand dollars in gold, contained

in four chests. He comes, in the name of the duke, to beg you to accept

them. And I advise you to do so. The money belongs to you. Take it

without scruple. A proportionate diminution will be made in the duke's

contribution, and he will be very glad to have obtained a protector." "I

thank you," replied Napoleon, coolly. "I shall not, for that sum, place

myself in the power of the Duke of Modena." The whole contribution went

into the army-chest, Napoleon refusing to receive for himself a single

dollar.

Napoleon now issued another of those spirit-stirring proclamations,

which roused such enthusiasm among his own troops, and which so

powerfully electrified the ardent imagination of the Italians.

"Soldiers! you have descended like a torrent from the Apennines. You

have overwhelmed every thing which opposed your progress. Piedmont is

delivered from the tyranny of Austria; Milan is in your hands, and the

Republican standards wave over the whole of Lombardy. The Dukes of Parma

and Modena owe their existence to your generosity. The army which

menaced you with so much pride, can no longer find a barrier to protect

itself against your arms. The Po, the Ticino, the Adda have not been

able to stop you a single day. These boasted bulwarks of Italy have

proved as nugatory as the Alps. Such a career of success has carried joy

into the bosom of your country. Fêtes in honor of your victories have

been ordered in all the communes of the Republic. There your parents,

your wives, your sisters, your lovers rejoice in your achievements, and

boast with pride that you belong to them. Yes, soldiers! you have indeed

done much, but much remains still to be done. Shall posterity say that

we knew how to conquer, but knew not how to improve victory? Shall we

find a Capua in Lombardy? We have forced marches to make, enemies to

subdue, laurels to gather, injuries to revenge. Let those who have

whetted the daggers of civil war in France, who have assassinated our

ministers, who have burned our ships at Toulon--let those tremble. The

hour of vengeance has struck. But let not the _people_ be alarmed. We

are the friends of the people every where; particularly of the Brutuses,

the Scipios, and the great men whom we have taken for our models. To

re-establish the Capitol; to replace the statues of the heroes who

rendered it illustrious; to rouse the Romans, stupefied by centuries of

slavery--such will be the fruit of our victories. They will form an

epoch with posterity. To you will pertain the immortal glory of changing

the face of the finest portion of Europe. The French people, free and

respected by the whole world, will give to Europe a glorious peace. You

will then return to your homes, and your fellow-citizens will say,

pointing to you, _He belonged to the army of Italy_."

Such were the proclamations which Napoleon dashed off, with

inconceivable rapidity, in the midst of all the care, and peril, and

clangor of battle. Upon reading these glowing sentences over at St.

Helena, twenty years after they were written, he exclaimed, "And yet

they had the folly to say that I could not write." He has been

represented by some as illiterate, as unable to spell. On the contrary,

he was a ripe and an accomplished scholar. His intellectual powers and

his intellectual attainments were of the very highest order. His mind

had been trained by the severest discipline of intense and protracted

study. "Do you write orthographically?" said he one day to his

amanuensis at St. Helena. "A man occupied with public business can not

attend to orthography. His ideas must flow faster than his hand can

trace. He has only time to place his points. He must compress words into

letters, and phrases into words, and let the scribes make it out

afterward." Such was the velocity with which Napoleon wrote. His

handwriting was composed of the most unintelligible hieroglyphics. He

often could not decipher it himself.

Lombardy is the garden of Italy. The whole of the extensive valley, from

the Alps to the Apennines, is cultivated to the highest degree,

presenting in its vineyards, its orchards, its waving fields of grain,

its flocks and herds, one of the most rich and attractive features earth

can exhibit. Milan, its beautiful capital, abounding in wealth and

luxury, contained a population of one hundred and twenty thousand souls.

Here Napoleon allowed his weary troops, exhausted by their unparalleled

exertions, to repose for six days. Napoleon himself was received by the

inhabitants with the most unbounded enthusiasm and joy. He was regarded

as the liberator of Italy--the youthful hero, who had come with almost

supernatural powers, to re-introduce to the country the reign of Roman

greatness and virtue. His glowing words, his splendid achievements, his

high-toned morals so pure and spotless, the grace and beauty of his

feminine figure, his prompt decisions, his imperial will, and the

antique cast of his thoughts, uttered in terse and graphic language,

which passed, in reiterated quotation, from lip to lip, diffused an

universal enchantment. From all parts of Italy the young and the

enthusiastic flocked to the metropolis of Lombardy. The language of

Italy was Napoleon's mother tongue. His name and his origin were

Italian, and they regarded him as a countryman. They crowded his

footsteps, and greeted him with incessant acclamations. He was a Cato, a

Scipio, a Hannibal. The ladies, in particular, lavished upon him

adulations without any bounds.

But Napoleon was compelled to support his own army from the spoils of

the vanquished. He could not receive a dollar from the exhausted

treasury of the French Republic. "It is very difficult," said he, "to

rob a people of their substance, and at the same time to convince them

that you are their friend and benefactor." Still he succeeded in doing

both. With great reluctance he imposed upon the Milanese a contribution

of four millions of dollars, and selected twenty paintings from the

Ambrosian Gallery, to send to Paris as the trophies of his victory. It

was with extreme regret that he extorted the money, knowing that it must

check the enthusiasm with which the inhabitants were rallying around the

Republican standard. It was, however, indispensable for the furtherance

of his plans. It was his only refuge from defeat and from absolute

destruction. The Milanese patriots also felt that it was just that their

government should defray the expenses of a war which they had provoked;

that since Lombardy had allied itself with the powerful and wealthy

monarchies of Europe, to invade the infant Republic in its weakness and

its poverty, Napoleon was perfectly justifiable in feeding and clothing

his soldiers at the expense of the invaders whom he had repelled. The

money was paid, and the conqueror was still the idol of the people.

His soldiers were now luxuriating in the abundance of bread, and meat,

and wine. They were, however, still in rags, wearing the same war-worn

and tattered garments with which they had descended from the frozen

summits of the Alps. With the resources thus obtained, Napoleon clothed

all his troops abundantly, filled the chests of the army, established

hospitals and large magazines, proudly sent a million of dollars to the

Directory in Paris, as an absent father would send funds to his helpless

family; forwarded two hundred and fifty thousand dollars to Moreau, who,

with an impoverished army, upon the Rhine, was contending against

superior forces of the Austrians. He also established an energetic and

efficient municipal government in Milan, and made immediate

arrangements for the organization and thorough military discipline of

the militia in all parts of Lombardy. This was the work of five days,

and of five days succeeding a month of such toil of body and of mind as,

perhaps, no mortal ever endured before. Had it not been for a very

peculiar constitutional temperament, giving Napoleon the most

extraordinary control over his own mind, such Herculean labors could not

have been performed. "Different affairs are arranged in my head," said

he, "as in drawers. When I wish to interrupt one train of thought, I

close the drawer which contains that subject, and open to that which

contains another. They do not mix together, and do not fatigue me or

inconvenience me. I have never been kept awake by an involuntary

pre-occupation of the mind. If I wish repose, I shut up all the drawers

and I am asleep. I have always slept when I wanted rest, and almost at

will." After spending several successive days and nights without sleep,

in preparation for a decisive conflict, he has been known repeatedly to

fall asleep in the midst of the uproar and horror of the field of

battle, and when the balls of the enemy were sweeping the eminence upon

which he stood. "Nature has her rights," said he, "and will not be

defrauded with impunity. I feel more cool to receive the reports which

are brought to me, and to give fresh orders when awaking in this manner

from a transient slumber."

While in Milan, one morning, just as he had mounted his horse, a dragoon

presented himself before him, bearing dispatches of great importance.

Napoleon read them upon the saddle; and, giving a verbal answer, told

the courier to take it back with all possible dispatch. "I have no

horse," the man replied, "the one I rode, in consequence of forced

speed, fell dead at the gate of your palace." "Take mine then," rejoined

Napoleon, instantly alighting. The man hesitated to mount the

magnificent charger of the general-in-chief. "You think him too fine an

animal," said Napoleon, "and too splendidly caparisoned. Never mind,

comrade, there is nothing too magnificent for a French soldier."

Incidents like this, perpetually occurring, were narrated, with all

conceivable embellishments, around the camp-fires, and they conferred

upon the young general a degree of popularity almost amounting to

adoration.

[Illustration: NAPOLEON AND THE COURIER.]

The lofty intellectual character of Napoleon was also developed at the

same time, in the midst of all the cares, perplexities, and perils of

these most terrible conflicts, in a letter publicly addressed to Oriani,

the celebrated mathematician. "Hitherto," he writes, "the learned in

Italy have not enjoyed the consideration to which they were entitled.

They lived secluded in their libraries, too happy if they could escape

the persecution of kings and priests. It is so no longer. Religious

inquisition and despotic power are at an end. Thought is free in Italy.

I invite the literary and the scientific to consult together and propose

to me their ideas on the subject of giving new life and vigor to the

fine arts and sciences. All who desire to visit France will be received

with distinction by the government. The citizens of France have more

pride in enrolling among their citizens a skillful mathematician, a

painter of reputation, a distinguished man in any class of letters, than

in adding to their territories a large and wealthy city."

Napoleon having thus rapidly organized a government for Lombardy, and

having stationed troops in different places to establish tranquillity,

turned his attention again to the pursuit of the Austrians. But by this

time the Directory in Paris were thoroughly alarmed in view of the

astonishing influence and renown which Napoleon had attained. In one

short month he had filled Europe with his name. They determined to check

his career. Kellerman, a veteran general of great celebrity, they

consequently appointed his associate in command, to pursue the Austrians

with a part of the army, while Napoleon, with the other part, was to

march down upon the States of the Pope. This division would have insured

the destruction of the army. Napoleon promptly but respectfully tendered

his resignation, saying, "One bad general is better than two good ones.

War, like government, is mainly decided by tact." This decision brought

the Directory immediately to terms. The commander-in-chief of the Army

of Italy was now too powerful to be displaced, and the undivided command

was immediately restored to him.

In the letter he wrote to the Directory at this time, and which must

have been written with the rapidity of thought, he observes, with great

force of language and strength of argument. "It is in the highest degree

impolitic to divide into two the army of Italy; and not less adverse to

place at its head two different generals. The expedition to the Papal

States is a very inconsiderable matter, and should be made by divisions

in echelon, ready at any moment to wheel about and face the Austrians.

To perform it with success both armies must be under one general. I have

hitherto conducted the campaign without consulting any one. The result

would have been very different if I had been obliged to reconcile my

views with those of another. If you impose upon me embarrassments of

various kinds; if I must refer all my steps to the commissaries of

government; if they are authorized to change my movements, to send away

my troops, expect no further success. If you weaken your resources by

dividing your forces, if you disturb in Italy the unity of military

thought, I say it with grief, you will lose the finest opportunity that

ever occurred of giving laws to that fine peninsula. In the present

posture of the affairs of the Republic it is indispensable that you

possess a general who enjoys your confidence. If I do not do so I shall

not complain. Every one has his own method of carrying on war. Kellerman

has more experience, and may do it better than I. Together we should do

nothing but mischief. Your decision on this matter is of more importance

than the fifteen thousand men the Emperor of Austria has sent to

Beaulieu."

On the 22d of May Napoleon left Milan, in pursuit of the Austrians.

Beaulieu, in his retreat to the mountains of the Tyrol, had thrown

fifteen thousand men into the almost impregnable fortress of Mantua, to

arrest the progress of the conqueror. He knew that Napoleon could not

follow him leaving such a fortress in the possession of his enemies in

his rear. Austria was raising powerful reinforcements, and the defeated

general intended soon to return with overwhelming numbers, and crush his

foe. Napoleon had hardly advanced one day's march from Milan when a

formidable insurrection broke out. The priests, incited by the Pope, had

roused the peasants, who were very much under their influence, to rise

and exterminate the French. They appealed to all the motives of

fanaticism which the papal church has so effectually at its command, to

rouse their military ardor. They assured the ignorant peasants that

Austria was pouring down an overwhelming army upon the invader; that all

Italy was simultaneously rising in arms; that England, with her powerful

fleet, was landing troops innumerable upon the coasts of Sardinia; that

God, and all his angels, were looking down from the windows of Heaven to

admire the heroism of the faithful, in ridding the earth of the enemies

of the true religion, and that the destruction of Napoleon was sure. The

enthusiasm spread from hamlet to hamlet like a conflagration. The

friends of republicanism were, for the most part, in the cities. The

peasantry were generally strongly attached to the church, and looked up

with reverence to the nobles. The tocsin was sounded in every village.

In a day thirty thousand peasants, roused to frenzy, grasped their arms.

The danger was most imminent.

Napoleon felt that not an hour was to be lost. He took with him twelve

hundred men and six pieces of cannon, and instantly turned upon his

track. He soon came up with eight hundred of the insurgents, who were

intrenching themselves in the small village of Banasco. There was no

parleying. There was no hesitancy. The ear was closed to all the appeals

of mercy. The veteran troops, inured to their work, rushed with bayonet

and sabre upon the unwarlike Italians, and, in a few moments, hewed the

peasants to pieces. The women and children fled in every direction,

carrying the tidings of the dreadful massacre. The torch was applied to

the town, and the dense volumes of smoke ascending into the serene and

cloudless skies, from this altar of vengeance, proclaimed, far and wide

over the plains of Italy, how dreadful a thing it was to incur the wrath

of the conqueror.

Napoleon and his troops, their swords still dripping in blood, tarried

not, but moving on with the sweep of a whirlwind, came to the gates of

Pavia. This city had become the head-quarters of the insurgents. It

contained thirty thousand inhabitants. Napoleon had left there a

garrison of three hundred men. The insurgents, eight thousand strong,

had thrown themselves into the place, and, strengthened by all of the

monarchical party, prepared for a desperate resistance. Napoleon sent

the Archbishop of Milan, with a flag of truce, offering pardon to all

who would lay down their arms. "May the terrible example of Banasco,"

said he, "open your eyes. Its fate shall be that of every town which

persists in revolt." "While Pavia has walls," the insurgents bravely

replied, "we will not surrender." Napoleon rejoined in the instantaneous

thunders of his artillery. He swept the ramparts with grape shot, while

the soldiers, with their hatchets, hewed down the gates.

[Illustration: THE BURNING OF BANASCO.]

They rushed like an inundation into the city. The peasants fought with

desperation from the windows and roofs of the houses, hurling down upon

the French every missile of destruction. The sanguinary conflict soon

terminated in favor of the disciplined valor of the assailants. The

wretched peasants were pursued into the plain and cut down without

mercy. The magistrates of the city were shot; the city itself given up

to pillage. "The order," said Napoleon to the inhabitants, "to lay the

city in ashes, was just leaving my lips, when the garrison of the castle

arrived, and hastened, with cries of joy, to embrace their deliverers.

Their names were called over and none found missing. If the blood of a

single Frenchman had been shed, my determination was to erect a column

on the ruins of Pavia, bearing this inscription, '_Here stood the city

of Pavia!_'" He was extremely indignant with the garrison for allowing

themselves to be made prisoners. "Cowards," he exclaimed, "I intrusted

you with a post essential to the safety of an army; and you have

abandoned it to a mob of wretched peasants, without offering the least

resistance." He delivered the captain over to a council of war, and he

was shot.

This terrible example crushed the insurrection over the whole of

Lombardy. Such are the inevitable and essential horrors of war. Napoleon

had no love for cruelty. But he never hesitated to adopt any measures,

however decisive and sanguinary, which he deemed essential for the

accomplishment of his purposes. In such dreadful scenes he claimed to be

acting upon the same principle which influences the physician to cut,

with an unflinching hand, through nerves and tendons, for the humane

design of saving life.

If war is right this was right. This bloody vengeance was necessary for

the salvation of Napoleon's army. He was about to pursue the Austrians

far away into the mountains of the Tyrol, and it was necessary to his

success that, by a terrible example, he should teach those whom he left

behind, that they could not rise upon him with impunity. War is

necessarily a system of cruelty and of blood. Napoleon was an energetic

warrior. He recoiled not from any severities which he deemed

indispensable to the success of his horrible mission. "A man of refined

sensibilities," says the Duke of Wellington, "has no right to meddle

with the profession of a soldier." "Pavia," said Napoleon, "is the only

place I ever gave up to pillage. I promised that the soldiers should

have it, at their mercy, for twenty-four hours. But after three hours I

could bear such scenes of outrage no longer, and put an end to them.

Policy and morality are equally opposed to the system. Nothing is so

certain to disorganize and completely ruin an army."

It is wonderfully characteristic of this most extraordinary man, that in

the midst of these terrible scenes, and when encompassed by such perils

and pressed by such urgent haste, he could have found time and the

disposition to visit a literary institution. When the whole city of

Pavia was in consternation, he entered the celebrated university,

accompanied by his splendid military suite. With the utmost celerity he

moved from class to class, asking questions with such rapidity that the

professors could hardly find time or breath to answer him. "What class

is this?" he inquired, as he entered the first recitation room. "The

class of metaphysics," was the reply. Napoleon, who had but little

respect for the uncertain deductions of mental philosophy, exclaimed,

very emphatically, "Bah!" and took a pinch of snuff. Turning to one of

the pupils, he inquired, "What is the difference between sleep and

death?" The embarrassed pupil turned to the professor for assistance.

The professor plunged into a learned disquisition upon death. The

uncourteous examiner left him in the midst of his sentences, and

hastened to another room. "What class is this?" he said. "The

mathematical class," he was answered. It was his favorite science. His

eye sparkled with pleasure, and seizing a book from one of the pupils,

he hastily turned over the leaves and gave him a very difficult problem

to solve. He chanced to fall upon an excellent scholar, who did the work

very promptly and correctly. Napoleon glanced his eye over the work and

said, "You are wrong." The pupil insisted that he was right. Napoleon

took the slate and sat down to work the problem himself. In a moment he

saw his own error, and returning the slate to the pupil, with

ill-concealed chagrin, exclaimed, "Yes? yes! you are right." He then

proceeded to another room, when he met the celebrated Volta, "the Newton

of electricity." Napoleon was delighted to see the distinguished

philosopher, and ran and threw his arms around his neck, and begged him

immediately to draw out his class. The President of the University, in a

very eulogistic address to the young general, said, "Charles the Great

laid the foundations of this University. May Napoleon the Great give it

the completion of its glory."

Having quelled the insurrection, in flames and blood, the only way in

which, by any possibility it could have been quelled, Napoleon turned

proudly again, with his little band, to encounter the whole power of the

Austrian empire, now effectually aroused to crush him. The dominions of

Venice contained three millions of souls. Its fleet ruled the Adriatic,

and it could command an army of fifty thousand men. The Venetians though

unfriendly to France preferred neutrality. Beaulieu had fled through

their territories, leaving a garrison at Mantua. Napoleon pursued them.

To the remonstrances of the Venetians he replied: "Venice has either

afforded refuge to the Austrians, in which case it is the enemy of

France, or it was unable to prevent the Austrians from invading its

territory, and is consequently too weak to claim the right of

neutrality." The government deliberated in much perplexity, whether to

throw themselves as allies into the arms of France or of Austria. They

at last decided, if possible, to continue neutral. They sent to Napoleon

twelve hundred thousand dollars, as a bribe or a present to secure his

friendship. He decisively rejected it. To some friends who urged the

perfect propriety of his receiving the money, he replied:

"If my commissary should see me accept this money, who can tell to what

lengths he might go." The Venetian envoys retired from their mission

deeply impressed with the genius of Napoleon. They had expected to find

only a stern warrior. To their surprise they met a statesman, whose

profoundness of views, power of eloquence, extent of information, and

promptness of decision excited both their admiration and amazement. They

were venerable men, accustomed to consideration and power. Napoleon was

but twenty-five. Yet the veterans were entirely overawed by his

brilliant and commanding powers. "This extraordinary young man," they

wrote to the senate, "will one day exert great influence over his

country."

No man ever had more wealth at his disposal than Napoleon, or was more

scrupulous as to the appropriation of any of it to himself. For two

years he maintained the army in Italy, calling upon the government for

no supplies whatever. He sent more than two millions of dollars to Paris

to relieve the Directory from its embarrassments. Without the slightest

difficulty he might have accumulated millions of dollars for his own

private fortune. His friends urged him to do so, assuring him that the

Directory, jealous of his fame and power, would try to crush rather than

to reward him. But he turned a deaf ear to all such suggestions, and

returned to Paris, from this most brilliant campaign, comparatively a

poor man. He had clothed the armies of France, and replenished the

impoverished treasury of the Republic, and filled the Museum of Paris

with paintings and statuary. But all was for France. He reserved neither

money, nor painting, nor statue for himself. "Every one," said he

afterward, "has his relative ideas. I have a taste for founding not for

possessing. My riches consist in glory and celebrity. The Simplon and

the Louvre were in the eyes of the people and of foreigners more my

property than any private domains could possibly have been." This was

surely a lofty and a noble ambition.

Napoleon soon overtook the Austrians. He found a division of the army

strongly intrenched upon the banks of the Mincio, determined to arrest

his passage. Though the Austrians were some fifteen thousand strong, and

though they had partially demolished the bridge, the march of Napoleon

was retarded scarcely an hour. Napoleon was that day sick, suffering

from a violent headache. Having crossed the river and concerted all his

plans for the pursuit of the flying enemy, he went into an old castle,

by the river's side, to try the effect of a foot-bath. He had but a

small retinue with him, his troops being dispersed in pursuit of the

fugitives. He had but just placed his feet in the warm water when he

heard the loud clatter of horses' hoofs, as a squadron of Austrian

dragoons galloped into the court-yard. The sentinel at the door shouted,

"To arms! to arms! the Austrians!" Napoleon sprang from the bath,

hastily drew on one boot, and with the other in his hand, leaped from

the window, escaped through the back gate of the garden, mounted a horse

and galloped to Massena's division, who were cooking their dinner at a

little distance from the castle. The appearance of their

commander-in-chief among them in such a plight roused the soldiers from

their camp-kettles, and they rushed in pursuit of the Austrians, who, in

their turn, retreated. This personal risk induced Napoleon to establish

a body guard, to consist of five hundred veterans, of at least ten

years' service, who were ever to accompany him. This was the origin of

that Imperial Guard, which, in the subsequent wars of Napoleon, obtained

such a world-wide renown.

Napoleon soon encamped before the almost impregnable fortress of Mantua.

About twenty thousand men composed its garrison. As it was impossible to

surmount such formidable defenses by assault, Napoleon was compelled to

have recourse to the more tedious operations of a siege.

The Austrian government, dissatisfied with the generalship of Beaulieu,

withdrew him from the service and sent General Wurmser to assume the

command, with a reinforcement of sixty thousand men. Napoleon's army had

also been reinforced, so that he had about thirty thousand men with whom

to meet the eighty thousand which would compose the Austrian army when

united. It would require, however, at least a month before Wurmser could

arrive at the gates of Mantua. Napoleon resolved to improve the moments

of leisure in disarming his enemies in the south of Italy.

The kingdom of Naples, situated at the southern extremity of the

peninsula, is the most powerful state in Italy. A Bourbon prince,

dissolute and effeminate, sat upon the throne. Its fleet had been

actively allied with the English in the attack upon Toulon. Her troops

were now associated with the Austrians in the warfare against France.

The king, seeing the Austrians, and his own troops united with them,

driven from every part of Italy except the fortress of Mantua, was

exceedingly alarmed, and sent to Napoleon imploring peace. Napoleon, not

being able to march an army into his territory to impose contributions,

and yet being very anxious to detach from the alliance the army of sixty

thousand men which Naples could bring into the field, granted an

armistice upon terms so easy as to provoke the displeasure of the

Directory. But Napoleon was fully aware of the impending peril, and

decided wisely. The Pope, now abandoned by Naples, was in perfect

consternation. He had anathematized republican France. He had preached a

crusade against her, and had allowed her embassador to be assassinated

in the streets of Rome. He was conscious that he deserved chastisement,

and he had learned that the young conqueror, in his chastisings,

inflicted very heavy blows. Napoleon, taking with him but six thousand

men, entered the States of the Pope. The provinces subject to the Pope's

temporal power contained a population of two and a half millions, most

of whom were in a state of disgraceful barbarism. He had an inefficient

army of four or five thousand men. His temporal power was nothing. It

was his spiritual power alone which rendered the Pope formidable. The

Pontiff immediately sent an embassador to Bologna, to implore the

clemency of the conqueror. Napoleon referred the Pope to the Directory

in Paris for the terms of a permanent peace, granting him however an

armistice, in consideration of which he exacted the surrender of Ancona,

Bologna, and Ferrara to a French garrison, the payment of four millions

of dollars in silver and gold, and the contribution of one hundred

paintings or statues and five hundred ancient manuscripts for the Museum

in Paris. The Pope, trembling in anticipation of the overthrow of his

temporal power, was delighted to escape upon such easy terms. The most

enlightened of the inhabitants of these degenerate and wretchedly

governed states welcomed the French with the utmost enthusiasm. They

hated the Holy See implacably, and entreated Napoleon to grant them

independence. But it was not Napoleon's object to revolutionize the

states of Italy, and though he could not but express his sympathy in

these aspirations for political freedom, he was unwilling to take any

decisive measures for the overthrow of the established government. He

was contending simply for peace.

Tuscany had acknowledged the French Republic, and remained neutral in

this warfare. But England, regardless of the neutrality of this feeble

state, had made herself master of the port of Leghorn, protected by the

governor of that city, who was inimical to the French. The frigates of

England rode insultingly in the harbor, and treated the commerce of

France as that of an enemy. Napoleon crossed the Apennines, by forced

marches proceeded to Leghorn, and captured English goods to the amount

of nearly three millions of dollars, notwithstanding a great number of

English vessels escaped from the harbor but a few hours before the

entrance of the French. England was mistress of the sea, and she

respected no rights of private property upon her watery domain. Wherever

her fleets encountered a merchant ship of the enemy, it was taken as

fair plunder. Napoleon, who regarded the land as his domain, resolved

that he would retaliate by the capture of English property wherever his

army encountered it upon the Continent. It was robbery in both cases,

and in both cases equally unjustifiable. And yet such is, to a certain

degree, one of the criminal necessities of war. He seized the inimical

governor, and sent him in a post-chaise to the Grand Duke at Florence,

saying, "The governor of Leghorn has violated all the rights of

neutrality, by oppressing French commerce, and by affording an asylum to

the emigrants and to all the enemies of the Republic. Out of respect to

your authority I send the unfaithful servant to be punished at your

discretion." The neutral states were thus energetically taught that they

must respect their neutrality. He left a garrison at Leghorn, and then

proceeded to Florence, the capital of Tuscany, where the duke, brother

of the emperor of Austria, received him with the greatest cordiality,

and gave him a magnificent entertainment. He then returned to Mantua,

having been absent just twenty days, and in that time, with one

division of his army, having overawed all the states of southern Italy,

and secured their tranquillity during the tremendous struggles which he

had still to maintain against Austria. In these fearful and bloody

conflicts Napoleon was contending only to protect his country from those

invading armies, which were endeavoring to force upon France the

despotism of the Bourbons. He repeatedly made the declaration, that he

wished only for peace; and in every case, even when states, by the right

of conquest, were entirely in his power, he made peace, upon the most

lenient terms for them, simply upon condition that they should cease

their warfare against France. "Such a rapid succession of brilliant

victories," said Las Cases to Napoleon at St. Helena, "filling the world

with your fame, must have been a source of great delight to you." "By no

means," Napoleon replied. "They who think so know nothing of the peril

of our situation. The victory of to-day was instantly forgotten in

preparation for the battle which was to be fought on the morrow. The

aspect of danger was continually before me. I enjoyed not one moment of

repose."

We must now leave Napoleon and his army, until our next Number, encamped

before the walls of Mantua.

LIMA AND THE LIMANIANS.

When Pizarro had completed the conquest of Peru, one of his first cares

was to select a site for the capital of his new empire. The situation of

Cuzco, far withdrawn in the depths of the Cordilleras, which admirably

adapted it for the metropolis under the centralizing system of the

Incas, rendered it unsuited for the capital of a commercial people, who

were to be bound to another nation by the strict ties of colonial

dependency. All the requisites of a central position, a good harbor, a

fertile soil, and a delightful climate were found combined in the valley

of Lurigancho, through which, emptying into the Bay of Callao, flowed

the river Rimac, affording abundant facilities for irrigation, and

producing exuberant fertility. Here, on the 6th day of January, 1535,

the festival of the Epiphany, the conqueror of the Incas resolved to

establish his capital city. He gave to it the name of _La Ciudad de los

Reyes_--"The City of the Kings," in honor of the "wise men from the

east," whom Catholic tradition has invested with regal dignity, who on

that day, more than fifteen centuries before, had followed the star till

it "stood over where the young child was." Twelve days afterward, the

Spaniards having been gathered to the valley, the work was solemnly

inaugurated by Pizarro laying with his own hand the foundation of the

cathedral, which was dedicated to _Nuestra Señora de la Asuncion_--"Our

Lady of the Assumption." The work of building was pushed on with an

energy characteristic of Pizarro. From an hundred miles around the

Indians were collected, and forced to build the hated city. The stern

soldiers of the conquest laid aside their armor, and assumed the

character of laborious artisans. The foundations of the public edifices

were laid with a solidity capable of defying the attacks of time; and

almost sufficient to resist the shocks of the earthquake, which at

length taught the successors of the first builders that security was

only to be attained by the use of slighter materials, and a more humble

and fragile mode of erection.

In accordance with the old usage, which delighted to place a great city

at some distance from its seaport, the spot chosen by Pizarro for his

capital was about two leagues from the bay, whose waters were to be

whitened with the sails of its commerce. From this point the plain

descends westward to the sea-shore with a gentle slope. The city was

laid out in the form of a semicircle or triangle, of which the Rimac

formed the base. In order to secure as much shade as possible, the

direction of the streets, instead of coinciding with that of the points

of the compass, was made from northeast to southwest, so that both in

the morning and the afternoon the shade of the buildings should fall

upon the streets. Lying within twelve degrees of the equator, the

buildings could of course cast no shadow, at any season, from the

vertical noonday sun. These principal streets were crossed at right

angles by others, so that each group of houses formed a quadrangle, all

of nearly equal size. The general direction of the main streets nearly

coinciding with the slope of the plain and the course of the Rimac,

allowed the waters of the river to be conveyed through them in stone

conduits, furnishing irrigation to the gardens, abundant spaces for

which were left within the city.

The growth of Lima (for the name given by Pizarro to the city was early

laid aside in favor of its present appellation, derived, by a change of

letters to which the Limanians are still much addicted, from the name of

the river upon which it stands) was as rapid as that of a tropical

plant. In half a century from its foundation it is said to have

contained 100,000 inhabitants; a rate of increase then unexampled in the

history of colonization, and offering a striking contrast to the slow

and almost imperceptible growth of the cities planted a century later

upon the Atlantic shores of North America, though outdone by the marvels

wrought in our own days upon the Pacific coasts. Is their speedy rise to

be followed by a like speedy decline? As the mother country declined,

the prosperity of Lima in like manner waned, though it is impossible,

among the contradictory statements made, to arrive at any certain

conclusion as to the population at different periods. But the large

number of ruinous and uninhabited buildings shows a decrease of

population. It is asserted upon competent authority that during the

first thirty years of the present century not a single new building was

erected within the walls; and it is doubtful if within the succeeding

twenty years, as many buildings have been added to the city.

The distant view of Lima, as one approaches it from the sea is very

magnificent. Entering the harbor of Callao, upon the right lies the

bare and rugged island of San Lorenzo. In front are the noble but

dilapidated castles, and the white houses of Callao, presenting a gay

and somewhat grotesque appearance, with the flags of the foreign consuls

fluttering before their residences. In the rear stretches a broad plain,

sloping upward toward a crescent-shaped range of barren hills, which

inclose the fertile valley of the Lurigancho. At the foot of the

mountains, apparently, rise the countless spires and towers of Lima,

drawn up in relief against their dark sides. Still further in the

distance are seen the giant ranges of the Andes, whose snowy summits are

usually vailed by thick and sombre clouds. The harbor of Callao is

magnificent; and the landing, at a fine mole built of stone, and

surrounded by a substantial iron railing, is good. The town itself,

though displaying some commercial activity, is mean and insignificant.

Leaving Callao for Lima, we pass the little village of Buena Vista; then

half way to the city we come to a place called Magdalena, consisting of

a _pulperia_ or dram-shop, a convent, and a splendid church. Here in the

olden time the Spanish viceroys, at the expiration of their five years'

term of office, used to meet their successors, and deliver up their

authority to them. The convent has been suppressed, and the church is

deserted, but in front of it stands a ragged monk, with a tin dish in

his hand, soliciting alms from the passers-by.

When within about half a league from Lima, we enter upon the fine road

called the _Alameda del Callao_. It is beautifully shaded with poplars

and willows, with a handsome promenade upon each side, furnished at

regular distances with stone seats, and bordered with the _quintas_, or

country houses of the wealthy Limanians, embowered in luxuriant gardens,

and surrounded with fruit-trees. By this broad avenue, we enter, through

an arched gateway, into the city of Lima. This _Alameda_ was opened in

1800, on the 6th of January, the anniversary of the foundation of the

city. It was laid out by a man who filled the post of viceroy of Peru,

under the title of Marques de Osorno. The history of this man is

somewhat singular. About the middle of the last century, a petty Irish

shopkeeper, bearing the somewhat incongruous name of Don Ambrosio

O'Higgins, occupied a little shop, which is still shown under the area

of the cathedral. Times went hard with Don Ambrosio; he failed in his

petty traffic, abandoned the little shop by the cathedral, bade farewell

to his old friend and brother tradesman, La Reguera, and wandered to

Chili. It was a time of Indian hostilities, and all other occupations

failing, there was at least a demand for men to be shot. Don Ambrosio

entered the army, showed himself brave and capable, gained promotion,

distinguished himself, discovered the Indian city of Osorno, and was

honored with the title of the Marques of Osorno. In 1786, he returned to

Lima in the capacity of Viceroy, where, as archbishop, he found none

other than his old friend, La Reguera. Trade had prospered with him; he

had returned to Spain, studied, embraced the clerical profession, and

was sent back to Lima as archbishop five years before O'Higgins came as

viceroy.

The first impression which the traveler receives upon entering Lima, by

no means fulfills the anticipations he had been led to form from its

appearance at a distance. The entrance is by the periphery of the

semicircle, upon the side furthest from the Rimac. This quarter contains

only dilapidated squares and filthy houses. But as he advances toward

the _Plaza Mayor_, the appearance of the city becomes greatly improved.

The general aspect of the houses strikes an American as somewhat novel,

from the fact that a large proportion of them consist of but one story,

very few exceeding two. This mode of building is rendered necessary by

the frequency of earthquakes, which render buildings of a more imposing

architecture extremely insecure. The houses of two stories have usually

two doors in front, opening upon the street. One of these is the

_azaguan_, which constitutes the main entrance to the house; the other

leads to the _cochera_ or coach-house. The _azaguan_ opens into a

spacious _patio_ or court-yard. Directly opposite this entrance are two

large folding-doors, which open into the _sala_ or hall of the

dwelling-house, beyond which is the _cuadro_ or reception-room,

furnished as splendidly as the means of the occupant will allow.

Adjoining the cuadro are the various rooms appropriated to the use of

the family. The sala and cuadro are of the full height of the house, and

the flat roof of these two apartments forms a sort of terrace, called

the _azotea_, which is paved, surrounded with a railing, and covered

with an awning. The second story of the remainder of the building

contains rooms which open into a balcony projecting over the street.

This balcony is boarded up to the height of about three feet, the

remainder being composed of lattices or glazed windows, and forms the

favorite lounging place of the inhabitants, where they can watch the

passers-by in the streets. The peculiarity of the domestic architecture

of Lima, by which, with the exception of the balcony, the rooms open not

upon the street, but upon the court-yard, gives the city much the

appearance of an Oriental town. Where the houses are of but one story,

the almost entire absence of windows and openings gives the street a

mean and gloomy appearance, almost like continuous lines of dead walls.

But where the dwellings are of two stories, the long lines of balconies

and verandas gayly ornamented and trellised, projecting far over the

foot-pavements, present a gay and festive aspect. In some parts of the

city are houses of much greater height, and of a far more imposing

architecture. But they are to a great extent ruinous and dilapidated,

having been abandoned by their ancient occupants, for fear of being

overwhelmed in them by earthquakes. When tenanted at all, it is

principally by the poorer classes, who are willing to brave the

insecurity for the sake of the saving in the rents. The outer walls are

usually of _adobes_, or sun-dried brick, as far as the first floor. The

second story is usually composed of a wooden frame-work, upon both

sides of which canes are nailed, or fastened by leather thongs, and the

whole is then plastered over, and painted to imitate stone, the

deception being aided by the apparent massiveness of the construction.

The division walls are also made of canes plastered over. The roofs are

flat, composed of rafters, covered with mats or cane, with a layer of

clay spread above them, sufficient to exclude the rays of the sun and

the heavy dews. A single prolonged shower would be sufficient to

dissolve the whole city; but as it never rains there, these slight walls

and roofs are all that is required. Lima is justified in placing her

dependence in architecture upon a reed, rather than upon stone. The more

solid and massy the walls, the less protection do they afford against

the terrible earthquakes which are of periodical occurrence, and by

which more than once the city has been reduced to a heap of ruins; while

these light cane fabrics yield to the shock, and when it has passed

resume their places, with little apparent injury; and even if demolished

they do not occasion that fearful peril of life which results from the

overthrow of more stable fabrics.

There are few places the inhabitants of which present so great a

diversity of complexion and physiognomy as in Lima. There is every

gradation and intermixture of race, from the fair Creoles of unmixed

European descent, who pride themselves upon the purity of their Spanish

blood, to the jet black negro of Congo, whose unmitigated ebony hue

bears testimony equally unequivocal to his pure African lineage. Between

these two extremes is an almost innumerable variety of mixed races, each

having its own peculiar designation, indicating the precise proportion

of European, Indian, and negro blood in their veins, each marked with

its own peculiar physical, intellectual, and moral characteristics; and

each finding its chief boast in the nearness of its relation to the

white race, and looking down with contempt upon those a shade darker

than its own.

[Illustration: PERUVIAN CAVALIER.]

In 1836, when the population of the city was a little more than 54,000,

it was composed of about the following proportion of the different

races: white _Creoles_, all of European, and mostly of Spanish descent,

20,000; _Negroes_, 10,000; of whom a little less than one half were

slaves; Indians, 5000; mixed races, 19,000; these are of every shade of

complexion, from the _Mestizo_, the child of a white father and an

Indian mother, whom only a keen and practiced eye can distinguish from a

White, and to whom no higher compliment can be paid than to inquire

whether he is not a Spaniard, to the _Zambo_ who can only show claim to

a portion of white blood, on the ground that to all the vices of the

negro race, he adds others peculiar to the Whites.

The white Creoles are of slender figure, and of middling height, with

features strongly marked, fair complexion, and black hair. Like the

descendants of the Spanish race throughout all the Western World, they

have degenerated from the parent stock. The males have even in youth a

look of premature age; as though the powers of nature were exhausted,

and insufficient to develop a vigorous manhood. Indolence is their

predominant characteristic. They are utterly indisposed to any

continuous exertion, whether of body or of mind. If poverty compels them

to pursue an occupation for a livelihood, they select some petty

traffic, in which, if the gains are small, there is ample leisure to

gossip and smoke their perpetual cigars. Those who are able abandon

themselves to idleness, lounging about the streets or in the shops, at

the coffee-houses or the gaming-table. The education of the Creole of

Lima is very defective; the system of instruction pursued does little to

develop his powers, and his innate indolence presents an insuperable bar

to any efforts at self-cultivation. Riding is a universal custom, and

almost every person keeps one or more horses; these are trained by the

_chalanes_ or professional horse-breakers to perform feats of every

kind; one to which great value is attached, is to turn around upon the

hind legs rapidly, when in full gallop. Tschudi, a recent German

traveler, relates an instance which came under his own observation,

which shows the certainty and dexterity with which the feat is

performed. A friend of his rode full gallop up to the city wall, which

at the spot is about nine feet broad, leaped his horse upon it, and made

him describe a segment of a circle with his fore feet beyond the edge of

the wall, while standing balanced upon his hind feet. The feat was

performed a number of times in rapid succession.

The riding costume of a Peruvian cavalier is extremely picturesque and

convenient. Its most striking feature is the _poncho_. This is a large

fringed shawl with an opening in the centre, through which the head of

the wearer passes; it then hangs gracefully over the shoulder, and falls

nearly to the knee, leaving the hands and arms less embarrassed than any

other species of cloak. These ponchos frequently display great

brilliancy and variety; the color is often a snowy white, sometimes it

is richly and fancifully embroidered; but the prevailing taste is for

broad stripes of brilliant colors, such as orange, scarlet, blue, green,

rose color, or combinations of all hues intermingled and diversified in

every conceivable manner. The spurs used by the Peruvians are of

enormous magnitude; old custom ordains that they should contain a pound

and a half of silver; the rowels sometimes stand out four or five inches

from the heel, with spikes of one or two inches in length, or even more.

A broad-brimmed sombrero of fine Guayaquil grass is usually worn by

equestrians. The trappings of the horses are often of a very costly

description. Head-gear, bridle, and crupper are sometimes seen formed of

finely-wrought silver rings linked into each other. The stirrups are

massy blocks of wood of a triangular shape, quaintly carved, and

ornamented with silver. The saddle is frequently adorned with rich

embroidery in gold, and the holster inlaid with the same precious

metal.

A cigar is the almost unvarying accompaniment of a Peruvian of any

class. Basil Hall relates an odd expedient made use of to reconcile the

free-and-easy habit of smoking in public places, with the stately

requirements of Spanish etiquette of olden time, in the presence of the

representatives of royalty. In the days when Peru was a Spanish colony,

the vice-regal box at the theatre projected out somewhat into the pit,

in full view of the Commonalty of the City of the Kings. As soon as the

curtain fell between the acts of the piece, the viceroy was in the habit

of retiring from the front to the rear of the box. No sooner was his

back turned than, by a very convenient figure of thought, he was

considered to be constructively absent. Every man in the pit would then

draw forth his flint and steel (this was long before the days of

Lucifers and loco-focos), light his cigar, and "improve" the time by

puffing away at the fragrant weed. At the tinkling of the bell which

announced the rising of the curtain, the representative of royalty

returned to the front of the box, his constructive absence was ended,

and every smoker paused in mid-puff.

Nothing indicates the decadence of a race more unerringly and decisively

than the progressive change which comes over its tastes in its modes of

amusement. Indolence and brutality go together. Displays of skill and

courage cease to afford excitement to the jaded sensibilities; the

stronger stimulus of suffering must be supplied. Thus as the Roman race

declined, the shows of the arena grew more and more brutal. Cock-fights

and bull-fights are the favorite amusements of the Limanians. A fondness

for the latter is characteristic of the Spanish race every where; but in

Peru the chief attraction is not the dexterity and courage of the

performers, but the agony of the victims. Bull-fights in Spain may

almost be characterized as humane exhibitions compared with those of

Lima. At one witnessed by Hall in 1821, the _matador_, who should have

given the death-stroke to an animal of extraordinary strength and

courage, missed the mortal spot, and merely buried his sword in the body

of the bull; in an instant he was tossed, apparently dead, into the air,

by the maddened beast, who turned upon a horseman, whom he dismounted,

goring the horse so that his bowels hung upon the ground. All this threw

the spectators into an agony of delight; which was still further

enhanced when the sinews of the bull, having been cut from behind by a

crescent-shaped instrument fixed to a long pole, the poor beast dragged

himself around the arena upon his mutilated stumps. But their ecstasy

amounted to frenzy when a man mounted upon the back of the bull and

spurred him around the arena with strokes of a dagger, until he fell

exhausted by loss of blood.

Bull-fights are only an occasional luxury, but cock-fights are a daily

standing dish. The cock-pit (_coliseo de gallos_) is a very handsome

building; here cock-fights take place every day. The natural weapons of

the fowls are not sufficiently deadly to satisfy the Limanian

spectators; and in place of the spur of the right foot, which is cut

off, is put a sharp curved blade of steel or _gaff_. Whatever else may

be lacking, Lima can justly boast the finest amphitheatre in the world

for the purpose of cock-fighting.

In Lima, as throughout the whole of Spanish America, the females are,

both intellectually and physically, far superior to the males. All

visitors at Lima speak in terms of warm admiration of the Limeñas, as

the most charming and graceful women of South America. In figure they

are usually slender, and somewhat above the middle height, with fair

complexions, destitute of color, large, dark brilliant eyes, and

abundant black hair. The charming Spanish epithet _hechicera_, by which

they are designated, belongs to them in the full extent of its

significance, not only on account of their rare personal beauty, but

also by reason of the captivating grace of their deportment, and the

natural amiability of their dispositions.

The first thing which attracts one's regard in Lima, is the singular and

picturesque costume of the females. This costume, which resembles that

of the Moors, to whom it owes its origin, takes the name of the two

principal parts of which it is composed--it is called the _saya y

manto_. It is worn only in Lima, and there only in the day time, as a

walking-costume. The _saya_, as formerly worn, was a skirt or petticoat

made of an elastic black silk, plaited at the top and bottom in small

folds, and fitting so closely as to display the outlines of the figure,

and every motion of the limbs. It was made so narrow at the bottom that

the wearers were forced to take steps extremely short, which gave to

their gait a mincing character more striking than modest. This, which is

called the _saya ajustada_ is now rarely seen. As now worn it forms a

very graceful and elegant costume; the bottom plaits are taken out, so

as to cause the skirt to stand out from the figure, which is not

displayed. This is called the _saya desplegada_. It is always made of a

dark-colored material. The _manto_ is a thick vail of black silk,

joining the saya at the back of the waist. It is brought up over the

shoulders and head, and drawn over the face in such a manner as to

conceal the features entirely, with the exception of one eye, which is

visible through a small triangular space left open for the purpose. One

hand retains the folds of the manto in their places while the other

displays a richly embroidered handkerchief. Over the shoulders is thrown

a shawl, usually of embroidered China crape. The Limeñas, effectually

disguised in this national dress, to which they are enthusiastically

attached, go out every where unattended. Any one can address them, and

they violate no usage in accosting any one. The uniformity of the

costume, in materials, shape, and color, and the perfect concealment of

the features, makes identification impossible, so that the street

becomes a perpetual masquerade. The costume which owes its origin to

marital jealousy has in Lima become a most efficient aid to intrigue.

[Illustration: LIMEÑA AT HOME.]

The Limeña in the street, shrouded in the saya y manto, differs as

widely from the same Limeña at home, as the butterfly wrapped up in its

chrysalis does from the same insect with wings fully expanded. At home,

at the theatre, in the carriage, every where except when walking in the

streets, or in church, the Limeña appears dressed in the newest French

fashions. There is, however, one article of European costume which they

uniformly refuse to adopt, and that is the bonnet. With here and there

an exception, they obstinately reject any other head-dress than a light

vail and their own abundant tresses. An inordinate fondness for flowers

and perfumes is also a striking characteristic of a Limeña, whose

presence is almost invariably announced by a vase of flowers and a

flaçon of perfume, placed upon a table near which she reclines swinging

in a hammock during the sultry hours of the day, amusing herself, now

with examining a book of engravings, now with music, of which she is

passionately fond, perhaps with embroidery--and not unfrequently with a

cigar.

[Illustration: CHOLITAS OR INDIAN WOMEN OF PERU.]

If man or woman were only an animal being--and if she could always be

young and physically charming--this life of the Limeña might not seem so

undesirable. But with her a thing of beauty is not a joy forever. If her

reign is brilliant, it is brief. When her beauty fades she ceases to be

a coquette, and becomes a _beata_ or devotee. She renounces the vanities

of the world, attends mass several times a day, makes frequent

confessions, and takes up her abode during Lent in a house of penitence.

She selects a confessor to whom she unburdens her conscience, and sends

presents of sweetmeats and delicacies. At home she sinks into a cipher,

scarcely more regarded than a piece of worn-out furniture. If a

stranger, paying a visit to a young Limeña, respectfully rises to make a

place for an aged woman who enters the _cuadro_, nothing is more common

than for the daughter to say, with the utmost coolness, _No se incommoda

usted, es ma mamita_ "Don't incommode yourself, it's my mamma." Habit

becomes a second nature, and the Limeña accommodates herself to her lot

without a murmur. Such, with exceptions few and rare, is the lot of the

_hechiceras Limeñas_, so highly endowed by nature, and worthy of a

better fate.

Besides these Limeñas of European origin there is another class,

descendants of the ancient Peruvians, who, though not beautiful like

their fair neighbors, present some remarkable characteristics. Their

complexion approaches the color of copper, with a pale tinge of gold.

Their whole aspect has in it something bizarre, but at the same time not

altogether unattractive. In dress they are fond of strange combinations.

A balloon-like garment of white muslin or gaudy calico; a Guayaquil hat

with high crown and immense brim, decorated with huge bows of ribbon

on the "company side" of the head; their abundant hair carefully divided

and pouring down their backs in sable cascades; and, foremost and above

all, a well-fitting stocking and shoe upon a foot unimpeachably small,

form their favorite costume. These _cholitas_ are admirable horsewomen,

usually riding astride, cavalier fashion, and wearing the formidable

Peruvian spur.

[Illustration: COMING FROM MASS.]

The saya y manto is always worn when going to church. There the absence

of seats obliges each female to kneel upon the flags, unless she be

provided with a servant to carry a piece of carpet upon which to kneel.

To look upon them reclining immovably against the walls or the base of a

column, the eyelids drooping upon the pale cheek, or the look fixed upon

the tracery of the roof overhead (for in church the manto is not

rigorously closed) one might imagine the Limeñas to be statues of

meditation. Only the sign of the cross rapidly traced over the forehead

shows them to belong to the breathing world. In the sanctuary no sound

disturbs the harmony of the sacred offices. The incense, the pious

hymns, the soft breathing of the organ, and in some of the churches, the

notes of numerous birds of song caged among the crystal lustres of the

candelabra, are mingled with the solemn chant of the monks. Service

over, and what a change! Life seems to reanimate those marble limbs;

those fixed looks become lively and sparkling; and noise and bustle take

the place of the former silence. As the fair Limeña leaves the cathedral

the black musicians fill the air with the sound of their drums and

clarinets, the lottery-men cry their tickets upon one side of the

entrance, and upon the other a fat ecclesiastic vends the effigy of the

saint who chances to be in fashion. The Limeña, restored to her proper

character, draws the shrouding manto over her features; makes gay and

lively answers to the insipid compliments paid her by the young men

lounging under the portico; and buys with one hand a lottery ticket, and

with the other a relic or an image which she hopes will make her number

a lucky one.

The Indians in Lima number some 5000; they are active and industrious,

in moral qualities far surpassing the mixed races, and fully equaling

the whites, to whom, however, they are decidedly inferior in

intellectual powers. They look upon Europeans with the feelings always

entertained by a subjugated race toward their conquerors; a compound of

fear, dislike, and mistrust. In 1781, under the lead of some of the

descendants of the ancient Incas, an insurrection of the Indians took

place in Peru, which was marked by the utmost atrocities. They defeated

the whites in several engagements, burned a number of towns and

villages, and captured the city of Sorrato, in which the surrounding

inhabitants had taken refuge; of the prisoners who numbered 23,000, only

87 priests and monks were preserved alive. Their leaders were finally

betrayed into the power of the whites, and put to death. The Indians

then disbanded. The most rigorous measures of repression were thereupon

adopted. Their language, dress, music, and dances were strictly

forbidden, and every effort made to extinguish their national feelings.

When the war of Independence broke out, the Indians took part against

Spain, but with the secret design of reinstating the dynasty of their

ancestors, and raising to the throne one of the race of the Incas. In

many cases they directed their hostilities against the whites

indiscriminately, without distinction of parties. In one place they

vowed not to leave alive so much as a dog or a fowl who bore the hated

color, and even scraped the whitewash from the walls of their houses in

sign of utter detestation. Since the war of Independence they have made

great advances, especially in the military art, and have used every

means to secure as many fire-arms as possible. At as late a period as

1841, Tschudi, discovered by accident eighteen muskets hidden in the hut

of an Indian in Central Peru, and upon asking for what purpose they were

concealed was told that the time would come when they would be of use.

The same writer also mentions incidents showing that many of the Indians

are in possession of the secret of the existence of silver mines, far

richer than any which are now known; and that the secret is handed down

inviolably from father to son, until the time when their ancient dynasty

shall be restored. Years of oppression and wrong under Spanish rule,

only partially remedied since the Revolution, have wrought a great

change in the character of the Indians of Peru. A settled distrust and

melancholy have taken the place of the confiding and joyous disposition

of the race who welcomed their Spanish visitors. Their songs, their

dances, the whole tenor of their domestic life, wear a dark and sombre

shade. Even in dress their favorite color is dark blue, which is with

them the hue of mourning. These characteristics of the Indian race

throughout the country, appear, though more or less modified, in the

Indians in Lima.

The negroes in Lima number not far from 10,000 of whom less than half

are slaves. The charter of Independence provides that no person in Peru

shall be born a slave, but this provision has been modified by law, so

as to allow a term of servitude varying from 25 to 50 years. Slaves

brought from any other country, become free the moment they touch the

soil of Peru. Hence if a master take his slave into Chili, the slave may

claim his freedom on his return. Runaways, however, are liable to be

reclaimed. The treatment of slaves in Lima is very gentle. A tribunal is

erected having the special duty to protect the slaves from

ill-treatment. A slave may claim his liberty upon paying his value; and

in case he and his master are unable to agree upon the sum, it is fixed

by the court; or he may sell himself to any other master who will pay

the determined price, in spite of any opposition on the part of the

owner. As the introduction of negroes from Africa has been for many

years prohibited, the great majority of the slaves are born in Peru.

These, though intellectually and physically superior to those born in

Africa, are held of less value; their superior intelligence rendering

them less docile, and more discontented with their condition. The free

negroes of Lima are represented as a plague and a pest to society.

As a general rule the mixed races, which constitute about a third of the

population of Lima, inherit the vices without the virtues of the pure

races from which they sprung. Perhaps the sole exceptions to this are

the _Mestizos_, the offspring of a white father and an Indian mother.

They are of mild and gentle dispositions, but are also timid and

irresolute. There are few Mestizos in Lima; but in the interior they are

numerous. There they constitute the entire population of many villages,

and call themselves whites, keeping aloof from the Indians. The most

prominent characteristic of the Mulattos, the offspring of a white and a

negro, is their remarkable imitative talent, and their consequent

aptitude for mechanical pursuits; but they are extremely sensual and

animal in all their tastes and instincts. The _Zambos_, sprung from an

intermixture of the different castes of the colored race, and the

_Chinos_, the offspring of the colored and Indian races intermixed in

various degrees, are the most miserable and degraded of all the

half-castes in Lima. They commit the most inhuman barbarities with the

utmost indifference. Four-fifths of the prisoners in Lima are Zambos.

They are usually athletic and muscular, with sunken eyes, thick lips,

and noses much less depressed than that of the negro. The Chinos are

morally about on a level with the Zambos; but physically they are much

inferior. The mixed races of fairer complexion resemble the whites in

moral and intellectual qualities in about the same degree that they

approach them in color.

The general condition of morals in Lima, especially among the colored

races, may be inferred from the following statement given by Tschudi. In

ten months of the year 1841, the number of births was 1682, of which

860, more than one half, were born out of wedlock. The number of dead

children exposed during the same time was 495, almost one third of the

whole number of births. Of the illegitimate children nearly two thirds,

and of those exposed a still larger proportion, were Mulattos. Though

there can be no positive evidence of the fact, there is every reason to

conjecture that the greater number of the children exposed, were

murdered by their mothers. During the same period the number of deaths

in the city was 2244, exceeding the births by 562. It has been found

that for a long series of years the deaths have exceeded the births by

about 550 a year.

There is an old Spanish proverb which styles Lima the Paradise of women,

the Purgatory of men, and the Inferno of asses; but during the time of

the carnival all claims to be considered a Purgatory even, to say

nothing of Paradise, to man or woman, disappear. One of the favorite

amusements of the season is to besprinkle passers by, from the

balconies, with water, of which the purity is by no means above

suspicion. The colored population assume the license of rolling the

passers who do not choose to pay for exemption, in the street gutters,

which offer remarkable facilities for this pleasantry, as they are

ill-paved, and unswept, with a stream of water running through them.

These gutters are used by the lower classes of the Limanian señoras in a

manner peculiar to that city; they are accustomed to wash in them the

plates, glasses, and dishes from their dinner tables. Another favorite

amusement during the carnival is to suspend from the balconies a strong

bag filled with fragments of glass and pottery. This is attached to a

rope of such a length as to suffer it to fall within a few inches of the

heads of the passengers. This sack is drawn up into the balcony; and

when a person who has been selected as a victim passes underneath, it is

flung just over his head. The rope prevents it from falling upon him,

but the deafening crash which ensues within a few inches of his ears, is

nowise soothing to the nerves. This practice is regularly prohibited by

the police, but all attempts to suppress it have proved as unavailing as

the efforts to prevent the use of fire-crackers upon our own Fourth of

July.

There is a public lottery drawn every week in the Plaza Mayor, directly

opposite the Cathedral, where a temporary platform is erected for the

purpose. A ticket costs an eighth of a dollar, and the highest prize is

1000 dollars. As the hour for drawing approaches, the square begins to

fill with a motley crowd of men, women, and children; armed soldiers,

shovel-hatted priests, barefoot monks, bright-eyed tapadas (so a Limeña

with her manto drawn over her face is called), spurred cavaliers, and

ragged negroes. The numbers are placed in the wheels, and drawn out by

boys belonging to the foundling hospital. To every ticket is attached a

motto, which is usually an invocation to some favorite saint to accord

good luck to that ticket; and when the fortunate one is ascertained this

motto is read aloud for the edification of the bystanders. The lottery

belongs to a society called the "Beneficencia," by whom it is farmed

out, and the profits appropriated to the support of hospitals and

charitable institutions. It is the usual practice of the Limanians to

purchase tickets regularly; the negroes in particular, as elsewhere, are

particularly addicted to trying their luck. Instances are not uncommon

in which slaves have purchased their freedom with prizes drawn in the

lottery of the "Beneficencia." In a small chapel belonging to the church

of St. Dominic, were formerly exhibited relics of St. Rose, the

patroness of Lima. Among them was a pair of dice, with which it was

gravely said that, when the fair saint was exhausted by prayer and

penance, the Saviour would appear and revive her drooping spirits with a

friendly game. Of late years these uncanonical relics are not exhibited,

but Stevenson, the author of a standard work on South America, relates

that they were shown to him in 1805, when he kissed them with as much

devotion as he would have manifested to any other pair.

Every morning at a quarter to nine o'clock, when the Host is elevated in

the Cathedral, and in the evening at the hour of the Angelus, the great

bell of the Cathedral tolls three measured strokes, which are repeated

from all the many belfries of Lima. Every occupation is at once

suspended, every hat is reverentially raised; every lip moves, uttering

its whispered prayer. The evening prayer being ended, each one makes the

sign of the cross, and bids the person next him _buenas

noches_--"good-night." It is an act of courtesy to insist that one's

neighbor shall take the precedence in the salutation; and he, not to be

outdone in politeness, must waive the proffered honor. The courteous

contest--"You say it," and "No, sir, you say it," is sometimes not a

little amusing.

Lima is surrounded by a wall, now in a state of extreme dilapidation,

and altogether unavailable for any purposes of defense. It is built of

adobes, and dates originally from 1685, though much of that now existing

is of more recent construction. A fine stone bridge crosses the Rimac,

uniting the city with the suburb of San Lazaro. It consists of six

circular arches rising thirty-six feet from the surface of the water.

The piers are of brick, resting upon stone foundations of great

solidity, of which no better proof is needed than that they survived the

earthquakes of 1687 and 1746, by which almost every edifice in Lima was

shattered. The entrance to the bridge is through a broad arch crossing

the street, used for carriages, with smaller arches on each side for

foot-passengers. This archway is surmounted with turrets and spires, and

presents an imposing appearance. In the parapets are semi-circular

recesses provided with stone seats which furnish a favorite resort in

summer evenings. The view from the bridge is of great beauty. Westward

the eye follows the silvery course of the Rimac, its left bank lined

with convents, and splendid mansions of the more wealthy Limanians. The

view closes with the broad Pacific. In the opposite direction the view

is bounded by the range of hills, beyond the avenues of the Alameda del

Acho; while beyond and above all, when the shrouding vail of clouds is

lifted, so as to permit the sight, are beheld the snowy summits of the

distant Cordilleras. The bridge was built in 1640, at an expense of

400,000 dollars, from designs by Villegas, an Augustin monk.

The Cathedral is situated on the eastern side of the Plaza Mayor. The

foundation stone was laid by Pizarro himself on the 18th of January,

1534, twelve days after the choice of the site of the city. Ninety years

after, the edifice was completed, and was solemnly dedicated on the 19th

of October, 1625. It has a light, ornamented façade with large folding

doors in the centre, and smaller ones upon each side. From each of the

two corners rises an octagonal tower to the height of about two hundred

feet, exclusive of the base, which is forty feet. These towers were

thrown down by the great earthquake of 1746, by which almost the whole

city was laid in ruins. They were rebuilt in 1800. The interior is

singularly magnificent. The roof, which is beautifully paneled, rests

upon arches supported by a double row of square stone pillars. The grand

altar is adorned with seven Ionic columns, twelve feet in height, cased

with pure silver, an inch and a half thick, and is surmounted with a

massy crown of silver richly gilt. The tabernacle, seven feet high, is

of wrought gold, studded with precious stones. On high festival days

service is performed with a pomp and splendor not surpassed in any

temple in Christendom. Many of the churches are ornamented with a

profusion of silver even yet, though it is said that during the

revolution a ton and a half of silver was taken in a single year from

the ornaments of the churches, to supply the necessities of the state;

yet such was the abundance with which the precious metal had been

lavished, that this amount was hardly missed; a tale which would be

incredible if related of any city other than the one which at a certain

time paved with solid ingots of silver the streets through which a new

viceroy was to make his entrance.

In the convent of San Francisco, is a small chapel containing an image

of the Virgin, called _del milagro_, "of the miracle." It is related

that during the great earthquake of 1630, this image, which then stood

over the porch of the church looking toward the street, turned

completely round, so as to face the high altar, and raised her hands in

the attitude of supplication, and then implored mercy for the city, and

thus saved it from utter destruction. A monk who conducted a recent

traveler over the convent, related to him this miracle, and very naïvely

expressed his wonder that the Madonna did not repeat her gracious

interposition at the time of the earthquake of 1746, when it was no less

needed.

The Oratorio de San Felipe Neri, formerly the convent of San Pedro, was

the principal college of the Jesuits, who, at the time of their

expulsion, possessed immense wealth. In 1773 a secret order was

dispatched from the King of Spain, directing the viceroys to arrest all

the Jesuits in the South American provinces, in a single night, and ship

them to Spain. So secret was the order that the viceroy and those

officers whose assistance was to be employed, were supposed to be the

only ones who knew any thing of it. The viceregal council was summoned

at 10 o'clock on the appointed night, and the royal order read to them.

No one was allowed to leave the room, for fear that intelligence might

be communicated to the Jesuits. At midnight the officers were sent to

the convent to arrest the members of the order. The door was opened at

the first summons, and the officer was conducted to the great hall of

the convent, where all the brethren were assembled, each with a bag

containing a few requisites for the voyage. So in all the other convents

of the order. The same vessel which had conveyed the royal decree, had

brought instructions from the Superior of the Jesuits in Madrid, who had

gained intelligence of the secret, directed to the vicar-general at

Lima, commanding him to be in readiness when the arrest should be made.

The brethren were sent to Callao under a strong guard, and as soon as

possible were put on shipboard. But when the eager officials made search

for the immense wealth which was known to be in the treasury of the

order in San Pedro, the keys of which were laid out in readiness for

them in the apartment of the Superior, only a few thousand dollars were

discovered. The rest had vanished like a vision. And to this day it has

eluded the most vigilant search. An old negro, who was in the service of

the convent, testified that for several nights he and his

fellow-servants, with their eyes closely bandaged, were employed in

conveying bags of treasure to the convent vaults, attended by two of the

brethren of the order. He could give no clew to the place of

concealment, except that he thought there was a subterranean spring near

the spot.

The palace of the Inquisition stands upon what was formerly called the

_Plaza de la Inquisicion_, now the Square of Independence (_Plazuela de

la Independencia_). Upon this same square were also situated the

University and the Hospital of _La Caridad;_ whence it was sometimes

styled the Square of the three Cardinal Virtues: the Inquisition

typifying Faith; the University, Hope, and the Hospital, Charity. Few

traces remain to denote the fearful uses to which the edifice of the

Inquisition was devoted. It is now used in part as a storehouse for

provisions, and in part as a prison. In the palmy days of Spanish

dominion, Lima was the ecclesiastical metropolis of the whole Pacific

coast of South America, and the Inquisition exercised its functions with

a rigor hardly exceeded by that of Spain. When the Cortes abolished this

tribunal in Spain and its dependencies, the building was thrown open to

the populace, who speedily ransacked the apartments, and destroyed the

implements of the Holy Office. Among those present was Stevenson, author

of a standard work on South America, who has given a detailed account of

the transaction. The customary array of racks, pillories, scourges,

gags, thumbscrews, and other instruments of torture was found. The

crucifix in the principal hall having been accidentally thrown down, it

was discovered that the head was movable, and so arranged that a man

concealed behind the curtains could cause it to move in token of assent

or dissent. How many a trembling victim, overawed, confounded, and

bewildered at seeing the movement of the lifeless head of the Redeemer,

has confessed whatever the officials demanded, almost believing himself

guilty of crimes he never committed. One article found was somewhat

ludicrous. In one room was a large quantity of printed cotton

handkerchiefs upon the centre of which was a pictorial representation of

Religion, bearing a cross in one hand and a chalice in the other. The

manufacturer had introduced these pious devices in the hope of

facilitating the sale of his wares. But the Holy Office discovered gross

impiety in the act of blowing the nose or spitting upon the symbol of

the true faith; and to guard against temptation to such a profanation,

had seized upon the whole consignment.

On the north side of the Plaza Mayor stands an unsightly edifice, now

occupied by courts of justice and various government offices. This was

formerly the palace of the Viceroys of Peru. The principal apartment

bore the name of the Hall of the Viceroys. Here were arranged forty-four

panels, each destined to receive the full-length portrait of a viceroy,

as he entered upon his government, commencing with Pizarro. The last of

these panels had been filled by the portrait of Pezuela, who held the

office at the time when the insurrection broke out which severed Peru

from the Spanish dominion. There was no room in the hall for the

portrait of another viceroy. A similar coincidence is recorded in

Venetian history. The effigy of the Doge who was in office at the time

when the revolution took place which overthrew the Venetian oligarchy,

filled the last of the niches which had been constructed to receive the

effigies of the successive magistrates.

This is not the palace erected by Pizarro for himself. That stood on the

opposite side of the square, and some remains of it are still shown in

an obscure lane called the Mat-sellers' Alley. Here, on Sunday, the 26th

of June, 1546, eleven and a half years from the time when the foundation

of the City of the Kings was laid, its founder was assassinated. Pizarro

had been warned that a plot was formed to assassinate him on his way to

mass; but he took no further precaution against it than to absent

himself from divine service that day. The conspirators then resolved to

murder him in his own house. As they were crossing the Plaza one of them

turned a little aside to avoid a pool of water. "What! afraid of wetting

your feet, when you are to wade up to your knees in blood!" exclaimed

the veteran Juan de Rada, the leader of the band. The dainty conspirator

was ordered to return to his quarters as not worthy of a share in the

enterprise. Pizarro was sitting with his friends after dinner, when the

assassins rushed into the palace, through the open gate. The guests made

their escape through the corridors, by climbing down into the gardens.

Among them was Velasquez the Judge, who had boasted that Pizarro could

receive no harm from traitors, while he "held in his hands the rod of

justice." As Velasquez climbed down in making his escape, he needed both

hands to aid his descent, and held his official wand in his mouth; thus

verifying his boast, to the letter, if not in spirit. For a moment the

assailants were held at bay by the attendants, but these were speedily

dispatched. Pizarro, who had vainly attempted to assume his defensive

armor, wrapping a cloak about his arm, sprang against the assassins,

sword in hand, with the cry, "What ho, traitors! have ye come to kill

me in mine own house?" Though more than three score years of age, he

defended himself with desperate vigor, and had slain two of the

assailants, when Rada, seizing one of his own comrades, flung him

against Pizarro, who instantly ran him through the body. But while his

weapon was thus entangled, Pizarro received a stab in the throat, and

fell, and the swords of several of his enemies were at once sheathed in

his body. He traced a cross with his finger in the blood upon the floor,

and was in the act of bending down his head to kiss the symbol of his

faith, when, with the name of "Jesu" upon his lips, he received a stroke

which put an end to his life.

No place upon the globe enjoys a climate more equable than that of Lima.

Not only are there no sudden and violent alternations of temperature,

but the variations of the seasons are hardly known. Extremes of heat and

cold are never experienced. The temperature at noon, in the shade in an

open room, never rises above 80, and never falls below 60 degrees. The

rays of a vertical sun are intercepted by a thin canopy of mist, called

_garuas_, which for a considerable portion of the year hang over the

city, resembling in appearance the canopy of smoke above a large town.

The winds blow almost constantly from points between the southwest and

the southeast. When they come from the former quarter they are cooled by

passing over the immense expanse of the Pacific; when from the latter

they have swept the vast forests toward Brazil and the frozen ranges of

the Cordilleras. A northerly wind alone, which is of unfrequent

occurrence, produces an oppressive sensation of heat. During the year,

there are about 45 days when the sun is entirely unclouded, about 190 in

which it is visible during no part of the day, and the remainder are

usually cloudy in the morning, and clear in the afternoon. A shower of

rain is a thing altogether unknown, but during February and March, a few

large straggling drops occasionally fall about five o'clock in the

afternoon. The _garuas_ overhang the city almost without intermission

from April to October. During June, July, and August there will not

probably be a single unclouded day, and not more than three days in each

month in which the sun can be seen at all. The gray canopy begins to

lift in October, and gradually becomes thinner and thinner till April,

when it again begins to gather. But this equable climate, apparently so

desirable, is found to be productive of great physical lassitude, and to

be unfavorable to health. It has been already noticed that the number of

deaths constantly and greatly exceeds that of births. Among adults the

most fatal disease is dysentery; then comes fever, usually intermittent;

then consumption, inflammation of the lungs, and dropsy, the latter

usually the result of intermittent fever.

Another fearful compensation for the mildness of the elements above the

surface of the earth, is found in the frequency of subterranean

disturbances. On an average, there are 45 shocks of earthquakes in the

course of a year. These usually occur in the months from October to

January, and again in May and June. But at intervals of from 40 to 60

years, the valley of the Rimac experiences an earthquake of far more

desolating force, and by which Lima has several times been reduced to a

heap of rubbish. The most destructive of these, since the European

conquest were those of 1586, 1630, 1687, 1713, 1746, 1806--two in each

completed century; so that the experience of the past gives us every

reason to anticipate that many years will not elapse before Lima will

once more become a mass of ruins.

The most destructive of this regular series of great earthquakes was

that of October 26, 1746. A little more than an hour before midnight,

the earth began to tremble, and in three minutes from the time of the

first shock, the city lay in ruins. Of more than 3000 houses, only 21

escaped entire. The towers of the Cathedral were overthrown. The bridge

across the Rimac was almost the only public work which escaped, and of

that one arch, upon which stood an equestrian statue of Philip V., was

destroyed. But if Lima was sorely shattered, Callao was annihilated. The

sea receded suddenly from the shore, and as suddenly rolled back with

irresistible force, overwhelming the devoted city, with all its

inhabitants, 5000 in number. Of these, it is popularly related, that

only one escaped. A Spanish corvette which lay at anchor, was lifted

sheer over the walls of the fortress, and deposited a full mile inshore,

at a spot still designated by a cross erected to commemorate the fact.

All the other vessels in the harbor were sunk. The modern town of Callao

stands at the distance of two miles from the site of the old town, of

which not a vestige remains. It is popularly affirmed that in a clear

day the ruins of the old town may still be seen beneath the waves; but

travelers, whose imagination is not keener than their vision, have

vainly strained their sight to discover a trace of the lost city.

No familiarity with earthquakes is sufficient to do away with their

terrors. The Limanian who has known them from childhood, no sooner feels

the first shock, than he rushes from his apartment, with the cry of

"_misericordia_" upon his trembling lips, no less than the foreigner who

has never before witnessed these convulsive throes of nature. The moment

a shock is felt the Cathedral bell begins to toll, all the belfries in

Lima take up the sound, and summon the affrighted population to their

devotions. A change has been wrought even in the form of church service,

by the ever-present apprehension of these convulsions: the word "famine"

being omitted and "earthquake" inserted among the evils from which

deliverance is implored. The very architecture of Lima--its houses of a

singly story--its plastered upper walls, its cane roofs, its towers and

steeples of stuccoed wicker work--is a perpetual prayer against an evil

which no human foresight can avoid, and no mortal power avert, and in

respect to which the utmost that man can do, is in some degree to

mitigate its consequences.

ALLY SOMERS.--A TALE OF THE COAST-GUARD.

When I joined the _Scorpion_ sloop of war, then (1810) on the West India

station, there were a father and son among the crew whose names, as

borne on the ship's books, were John Somers and John _Alice_ Somers. The

oddity in this country of giving a boy a female baptismal name had been

no doubt jestingly remarked upon by those who were aware of it, but with

the sailors the lad passed as _Ally_ Somers. The father was approaching

fifty, the son could not have been more than seventeen years of age. The

elder Somers, who had attained to the rating of a boatswain, was a

stern, hard, silent man, with a look as cold and clear as polished

steel, and a cast-iron mouth, indicative of inflexible, indomitable

firmness of will and resolution. The son, on the contrary, though

somewhat resembling his father in outline of feature, had a mild,

attractive, almost feminine aspect, and a slight graceful frame. I was

not long in discovering that, obdurate and self-engrossed as the man

appeared, the boy was really the idol-image in which his affections and

his hopes were centred. His eye constantly followed the motions of the

lad, and it appeared to be his unceasing aim and study to lighten the

duties he had to perform, and to shield him from the rough usage to

which youngsters in his position were generally subjected by the motley

crews of those days. One day a strong instance in proof of this

master-feeling occurred. Ally Somers some time previously, when on shore

with a party dispatched to obtain a supply of water, had, during the

temporary absence of the officer in command, been rather severely

rope's-ended by one of the seamen for some trifling misconduct, and a

few slight marks were left on the lad's back. The rage of the father,

when informed of the circumstance, was extreme, and it was with

difficulty that he was restrained from inflicting instant chastisement

on the offender. An opportunity for partially wreaking his hoarded

vengeance occurred about six weeks afterward, and it was eagerly

embraced. The sailor who had ill-used young Somers was sentenced to

receive two dozen lashes for drunkenness and insubordination. He was

ordered to strip, placed at the gratings, and the punishment began.

Somers the boatswain, iron or sour-tempered as he might be, was by no

means harsh or cruel in his office, and his assistants, upon whom the

revolting office of flogging usually devolved, influenced by him, were

about the gentlest-handed boatswain's-mates I ever saw practice. On this

occasion he was in another and a very different mood. Two blows only had

been struck, when Somers, with an angry rebuke to the mate for not doing

his duty, snatched the cat from his hand, and himself lashed the culprit

with a ferocity so terribly effective, that Captain Boyle, a merciful

and just officer, instantly remitted half the number of lashes, and the

man was rescued from the unsparing hands of the vindictive boatswain.

Other instances of the intensity of affection glowing within the stern

man's breast for his comparatively weak and delicate boy manifested

themselves. Once in action, when the lad, during a tumultuous and

murderous struggle in beating off a determined attempt to carry the

sloop by boarding, chanced to stumble on the slippery deck, he was

overtaken before he could recover himself, and involved in the fierce

assault which at the forecastle was momently successful. I was myself

hotly engaged in another part of the fight; but attention being suddenly

called to the forepart of the ship by the enemy's triumphant shouts, I

glanced round just in time to see the boatswain leap, with the yell and

bound of a tiger, into the _mêlée_, and strike right and left with such

tremendous ferocity and power as instantly to check the advancing rush.

Our men promptly rallied, and the deck was in a few minutes cleared of

every living foe that had recently profaned it. Ally Somers, who had

received a rather severe flesh wound, and fainted from loss of blood,

was instantly caught up by his father, and carried with headlong

impatience below. When the surgeon, after a brief look at the hurt,

said, "There is no harm done, Somers," the high-strung nerves of the

boatswain gave way, and he fell back upon a locker, temporarily

prostrate and insensible from sudden revulsion of feeling. Several times

I was an unintentional auditor of scraps of conversation between the two

while the lad was on the sick-list, from which I gathered that Ally was

the sole issue of a marriage which had left bitter memories in the mind

of the father; but whether arising from the early death of his wife, or

other causes, I did not ascertain. Somers was, it appeared a native of

the west of England, and it was quite evident had received a much better

education than usually falls to individuals of his class.

At the close of the war Somers and his son were, with thousands of

others, turned adrift from the royal service. Some months after my

appointment to the command of the revenue-cutter, I chanced to meet the

father in the village of Talton, about four miles out of Southampton, on

the New Forest Road. He had, I found re-entered the navy, but chancing

to receive a hurt by the falling of a heavy block on his right knee, had

been invalided with a small pension, upon which he was now living at

about a hundred yards from the spot where we had accidentally met. Ally,

he informed me, was the skipper of a small craft, trading between

Guernsey and Southampton. There was little change in the appearance of

the man except that the crippled condition of his leg appeared to have

had an effect the reverse of softening upon his stem and rugged aspect

and temper. When paid off he was, I knew, entitled to a considerable sum

in prize-money, the greater part of which he told me he had recently

received.

About two months after this meeting with the father I fell in with the

son. I was strolling at about eleven in the forenoon along the front of

the Southampton custom-house, when my eye fell upon a young man in a

seaman's dress, busily engaged with three others in loading a cart with

bundles of laths which had been landed shortly before from a small

vessel alongside the quay. It was Ally Somers sure enough; and so much

improved in looks since I last saw him, that but for a certain air of

fragility--inherited probably from his mother--he might have been

pronounced a handsome fine young fellow. The laths, upward of two

hundred bundles, which he was so busily assisting to cart, he had

brought from Guernsey, and were a very common importation from that

island: Guernsey possessing the right of sending its own produce customs

free to England, a slight duty, only tantamount to what the foreign

timber of which the laths were made would have been liable to, was

levied upon them, and this was ascertained by the proper officer simply

measuring the length and girth of the bundles. This had been done, and

the laths marked as "passed." It struck me that the manner of Ally

Somers was greatly flurried and excited, and when he saw me approaching,

evidently with an intention to accost him, this agitation perceptibly

increased. He turned deadly pale, and absolutely trembled with

ill-concealed apprehension. He was somewhat re-assured by my frank

salutation; and after a few common-place inquiries I walked away,

evidently to his great relief, and he with his sailors continued their

eager work of loading the cart. I could not help suspecting that

something was wrong, though I could not make up my mind to verify the

surmise his perturbed and hurried manner excited. Once in a skirmish on

shore his father, the boatswain, had saved my life by sending a timely

bullet through the head of a huge negro who held me for the moment at

his mercy. Besides I might be wrong after all, and I had no right to

presume that the officer who had passed the laths had not made a

sufficient examination of them. The flurry of the young man might arise

from physical weakness and the severe labor he was performing in such

hot weather. These reasons, or more truly these excuses for doing

nothing, were passing through my brain, when I observed the hasty

approach of the collector of customs himself toward the cart, followed

by several of his subordinates. Young Somers saw him as quickly as I

did, and the young man's first impulse, it was quite plain, was flight.

A thought, no doubt, of the hopelessness of such an attempt arrested his

steps, and he stood quaking with terror by the side of the cart, his

right hand grasping for support at one of the wheel-spokes.

"One of you lend me a knife," said the collector, addressing the

officers of customs.

A knife was quickly opened and handed to him: he severed the strong

cords which bound one of the bundles of laths together, and they flew

asunder, disclosing a long tin tube of considerable diameter, closely

rammed with tobacco! All the other bundles contained a similar deposit;

and so large was the quantity of the heavily-taxed weed thus

unexpectedly made lawful prize of, that a profit, I was assured, of not

less than £500 or £600 would have been made by the audacious smuggler

had he succeeded in his bold and ingenious attempt. The ends of the

bundles had been filled up with short pieces of lath, so that, except by

the process now adopted, it was impossible to detect that the cargo was

not _bonâ fide_ what it had been declared to be. The penalties to which

Somers had rendered himself liable were immense, the vessel also was

forfeited, and the unfortunate young man's liberty at the mercy of the

crown. He looked the very picture of despair, and I felt assured that

ruin, utter and complete, had fallen upon him.

He was led off in custody, and had gone some dozen paces when he stopped

shortly, appeared to make some request to the officers by whom he was

escorted, and then turning round, intimated by a supplicatory gesture

that he wished to speak to me. I drew near, and at my request the

officers fell back out of hearing. He was so utterly prostrated by the

calamity by which he had been so suddenly overtaken, that he could not

for several moments speak intelligibly. I felt a good deal concerned for

so mere a boy, and one too so entirely unfitted by temperament and nerve

to carry through such desperate enterprises, or bear up against their

failure.

"This is a bad business," I said; "but the venture has not, I trust,

been made with your own or your father's money?

"Every penny of it," he replied, in a dry, fainting voice, "was our own.

Father lent me all his prize-money, and we are both miserable beggars."

"What in the name of madness could induce you to venture your all upon a

single throw in so hazardous a game?"

"I will tell you," he went on hurriedly to say in the same feeble and

trembling tone; "I am not fitted for a sea-life--not strong, not hardy

enough. I longed for a quiet, peaceful home ashore. A hope of one

offered itself. I made the acquaintance of Richard Sylvester, a miller

near Ealing. He is a good man, but griping as far as money is concerned.

I formed an attachment for his eldest daughter Maria; and he consented

to our union, and to taking me as a partner in his business, if I could

pay down five hundred pounds. I was too eager to wait long; besides I

thought that perhaps--but it boots not to speak of that now; I set more

than life upon this cast; I have lost, and am now bankrupt of resource

or hope! Will you break this news to my father, and see--" His remaining

firmness gave way as the thought he would have uttered struggled to his

lips, and the meek hearted young man burst into tears, and wept

piteously like a girl. A number of persons were collecting round us, and

I gently urged him to walk on to the custom-house. A few minutes

afterward I left him there, with a promise to comply with his request

without delay.

I found John Somers at home, and had scarcely uttered twenty words when

he jumped at once at the true conclusion.

"Out with it, sir!" exclaimed the steel-nerved man. "But you need not; I

see it all. Ally has failed--the tobacco has been seized--and he is in

prison."

Spite of himself his breath came thick and short, and he presently added

with a fierce burst, while a glance of fire leaped from his eyes; "He

has been betrayed, and I think I know by whom."

"Your suspicion that he has been informed against is very likely

correct, but you will, I think, have some difficulty in ascertaining by

whom. The custom-house authorities are careful not to allow the names of

their informants to leak through their office-doors."

"I would find him were he hidden in the centre of the earth!" rejoined

the ex-boatswain with another vengeful outcry which startled one like an

explosion. "But," added the strong and fierce-willed man after a few

moments' silence, "it's useless prating of the matter like a wench. We

must part company at once. I thank you, sir, and will tell Ally you have

called." I mentioned the other request made by his son. "That is a

rotten plank to hold by," he said. "Ally's chance is over there, and it

would be mere waste of time to call on the old man; his resolution is

hard and unyielding as his own millstones. Maria Sylvester is gone with

the five hundred pounds her father bargained for; and the girl's tears,

if she shed any, will soon be dry. I warned Ally of the peril of

steering his course in life by the deceptive light of woman's capricious

smiles and vanities; but he, poor, flexile, gentle-minded boy, heeded me

not. I may not longer delay: he will be anxious to see me. Good-day,

sir."

The consequence which I chiefly feared came to pass, even more speedily

than I had apprehended. It being impossible to liquidate the penalties

incurred, Ally Somers was imprisoned as a crown debtor; and at that

period, whatever may be the case now, revenue penalties could not be got

rid of by insolvent-court schedules. The prospect of an indefinite term

of imprisonment, with other causes of grief and depression, broke down

the always fragile health of the prisoner, and he died, ere yet his

youth was well begun, after about six months' confinement only.

The tidings were brought me by the old man himself. I was seated in the

cabin of the _Rose_ cutter when it was announced that John Somers was

alongside in a boat, and wished to see me. I directed that he should be

allowed to come aboard, and presently the old man, with despair visible

in every line of his countenance, in every glance of his restless,

flaming eyes, entered the cabin.

"I am come to tell you, sir, that Ally is dead."

"I was somewhat prepared for this bad news, Mr. Somers," I answered.

"It's hard upon you, but it should be bravely borne with."

He laughed strangely. "To be sure, to be sure," he said, "that is wise

counsel--very wise; but that which I want now more than wise counsel is

ten pounds--ten pounds, which I shall never be able to repay."

"Ten pounds!"

"Yes: you may remember that I once saved your life. If that piece of

service was worth the sum I have mentioned, you can now discharge the

obligation. I have parted with every thing, and Ally's last prayer was

to be buried beside his----Beside a grave, an early and untimely one,

like his own, many miles away."

"I understand; it is a natural and pious wish, and you shall have the

money."

"Thank you. The funeral over, I have but one more thing to do in life,

and that is to assist you in securing Cocquerel while running one of his

most valuable cargoes."

"Cocquerel, the Guernseyman you mean?"

"Ay, so he calls himself; but I fancy he at one time hailed from another

port. He is the man who sold Ally's secret to the revenue-officers!"

"Are you sure?"

"As death! He was Ally's only confidant, and Ally's father is now in

Cocquerel's confidence. It is but natural," added Somers, and a bitter,

deadly sneer curled his ashy lips--"it is but natural, you know, that I

should be eager to assist in pillaging a government which caged my son,

and held him under its iron bars till life had fled. Cocquerel

understands this, and trusts me fully; but that which he does _not_

understand, know, or suspect," continued the fierce old man, sinking his

voice to a whisper, and leaning forward with his face close to mine, "is

that John Somers has found out _who_ it was that sold his boy's life!

Did he know that, and know _me_ too, there would be sounder sleepers

than he in these dark nights."

"What do you mean?"

"Nothing more, of course," he replied in a more checked and guarded

tone, "than to retort the trick he played Ally something after his own

fashion."

"That is a fair revenge enough, and I'll not balk you. Now, then, for

your plan."

Various details were discussed, and it was settled that on that day-week

Somers was again to communicate with me. He then took leave.

At the appointed time Somers returned, and appeared to be in high but

flighty spirits. Every thing was, he said, arranged, and success all but

certain. His scheme was then canvassed and finally agreed upon, and he

again left the vessel.

The arrangement for the surprise and capture of Cocquerel was

this:--That notorious smuggler intended running a large cargo on the

coast of Dorsetshire, on the north of Portland, at a place where the

cliffs are high, precipitous, and abrupt, and at that time very

inefficiently watched by the shore-force. Near the spot selected is or

was a kind of cavern worn by the action of the sea in the chalky

stratum, which at neap-tides was partially dry, and at the time of our

enterprise would effectually conceal a boat from the observation of any

one who did not actually peer in directly at its mouth. Cocquerel was to

leave Guernsey the next day in a large boat, with two lug-sails, but

chiefly depending for speed upon its sweeps. It was calculated that he

would reach his destination about midnight. Somers had undertaken the

duty of shore-signalman, and if danger were apprehended, was to warn the

smugglers that hawks were abroad by burning a blue-light. The manner of

running the cargo was to be this:--Somers was provided with a windlass

and sufficient length of rope, with a kind of rope-cradle at the end of

it, in which a man could sit, or a couple of kegs be slung, to reach the

boat. The windlass he was to secure firmly at the edge of the cliff, and

two or three of the men having been drawn up, other windlasses were to

be fixed, by means of which it was calculated that in about half an hour

the entire cargo would be safely carried off by the carts which Somers

had undertaken to have ready on the spot. The signal for our appearance

on the scene of action, the positive old man persisted, should be that

agreed upon for the warning of the smugglers--the sudden ignition of a

blue-light. This did not seem the cleverest possible mode of procedure;

but as the cavern in which we were to conceal ourselves was but a few

yards northward of the spot marked out for the landing, and Somers

promised he would only give the signal when the smugglers were in full

work, I had little fear that, if other accidents did not capsize our

scheme, they would be able to escape us.

The next afternoon the largest boat belonging to the _Rose_ was fully

manned; and leaving the cutter quietly at anchor in the Southampton

river just above Calshot, we pulled with the tide--for there was but a

light air, and that favorable for the smugglers, not for us--to our

hiding-place, which we reached about eight o'clock in the evening.

The hours crept very slowly and dismally away, amid the darkness and

hoarse echoes and moanings of the cavern, into which the sea and wind,

which were gradually rising, dashed and howled with much and increasing

violence. Occasional peeps at my watch, by the light of a lantern

carefully shaded seaward, warned us that ten, eleven, twelve, one

o'clock had passed, without bringing the friends we so anxiously

expected, and fears of ultimate disappointment were chilling us far more

than the cold night-breeze, when a man in the bow of the boat said in a

whisper that he could hear the dash of oars.

We all instantly listened with eager attention; but it was not till we

had brought the boat to the entrance of the opening that the man's

assertion was verified. There it was clear enough: and the near

approach of a large boat, with the regular jerk of the oars or sweeps,

was distinctly audible. The loud, clear hail of their shore-signalman,

answered by the "All right" of the smugglers, left no doubt that the

expected prey was within our grasp; and I had a mind to pounce upon them

at once, but was withheld by a promise which I had been obliged several

times to repeat, that I would not under any circumstances do so till the

signal-flame sent its light over the waters.

As soon as the noise and bustle of laying in the sweeps, lowering the

sails, and unstepping the masts, had subsided, we heard Somers hail the

boat, and insist that the captain should come up before any of the

others, as there was a difficulty about the carts which he alone could

settle. The reply was a growl of assent, and we could hear by the click

of the check to the cog-wheel of the windlass that Somers was paying out

the rope. Presently Cocquerel was heard to get into the cradle I have

spoken of, to which a line was fastened in order to steady his ascent

from below. The order was given to turn away, and the renewed click,

click, announced that he was ascending the face of the cliff. I could

hardly comprehend this man[oe]uvre, which seemed to indicate the escape

of the man we were the most anxious to secure, and the order to shove

off was just on my lips when a powerful blue-light flamed suddenly

forth, accompanied by a fierce but indistinct shout, or roar rather,

from Somers. The men replied by a loud cheer, and we shot smartly out;

but having, to avoid a line of reef, to row in a straight direction for

about a cable's length, the smugglers, panic-stricken and bewildered as

they were, had time to get way upon their lugger, and were plying their

sweeps with desperate energy before the revenue-boat was fairly turned

in direct pursuit. The frantic effort to escape was vain, and so was the

still more frantic effort at resistance offered when we ran alongside.

We did not hurt them much; one or two were knocked down by the sailors'

brass-butted pistols; and after being secured, they had leisure to vent

their rage in polyglot curses, part French, part English, and part

Guernsey _patois_, and I to look round and see what had become of

Cocquerel.

The blue-light still shed a livid radiance all around, and to my

inexpressible horror and dismay, I saw that the unfortunate man was

suspended in the rope cradle, within about a fathom's length of the brow

of the cliff, upon which Somers was standing and gazing at his victim

with looks of demoniac rage and triumph. The deadly trap contrived by

the inexorable old man was instantly apparent, and to Cocquerel's

frenzied screams for help I replied by shouting to him to cut himself

loose at once, as his only chance, for the barrel of a pistol gleamed

distinctly in the hands of Somers.

"Lieutenant Warneford," cried the exulting maniac--he was nothing

less--"I have caught this Cocquerel nicely for you--got him swinging

here in the prettiest cradle he was ever rocked in in his life--Ha! ha!

ha!

"Cut loose at once!" I again shouted; and the men, as terribly impressed

as myself, with the horror of the wretched smuggler's position, swept

the boat rapidly toward the spot. "Somers, if you shoot that man you

shall die on the gallows."

"Cut himself loose, do you say, lieutenant?" screamed Somers, heedless

of my last observation. "He can't! He has no knife--ha! ha! ha! And if

he had, this pistol would be swifter than that; but I'll cut him loose

presently, never fear. Look here, Jacques Cocquerel," he continued

laying himself flat down on the cliff, and stretching his right arm over

it till the mouth of his pistol was within a yard of Cocquerel's head,

"this contains payment in full for your kindness to Ally Somers--a debt

which I could in no other manner completely repay."

At this moment the blue-light suddenly expired, and we were involved in

what by contrast was total darkness. We could still, however, hear the

frantic laughter and exulting gibes of the merciless old man in answer

to Cocquerel's shrieking appeals for mercy; and after a while, when the

figures of the two men had become partially visible, we could

distinguish the words, "One, two, three," followed by the report of a

pistol, and a half minute afterward a dark body shot down the white face

of the cliff, and disappeared beneath the waters!

The body of Cocquerel never reappeared, and the only tidings I ever

heard of Somers were contained in the following paragraph which I read

some years afterward in the "Hampshire Telegraph," a journal at that

time published at Portsmouth:

"The body of an aged, wretched man was found frozen to death in the

church-yard on Wednesday morning last, near two adjoining graves, one of

which, that of Alice Maynard, recalls the painful circumstances

connected with the sad story of the death of that ill-fated, and, as we

believe, entirely innocent person. At the inquest holden on Friday, it

was ascertained beyond a doubt that the deceased is John Maynard, who,

after his wife's untimely death, assumed the name of Somers, and was, we

believe, the person who shot a French smuggler, with whom he had

quareled, at the back of the Isle of Wight, under somewhat peculiar

circumstances, about seven years ago. He was buried in the grave that

contains the body of his son, John Alice Maynard, which was interred

there shortly before the commission of the homicide just alluded to.

There has never been to our knowledge any regular investigation of that

affair, but we believe that then, as before, Maynard's pistol was

pointed by a frantic and causeless jealousy." [_Plymouth Paper._]

There are several mistakes sufficiently obvious to the reader in this

paragraph, but of the main fact that John Somers, _alias_ Maynard,

perished as described in the Devonshire journal, there can be no

reasonable doubt.

MISERS.

BY F. SOMNER MERRYWEATHER.

Some years ago there lived in Marseilles an old man of the name of

Guyot; he was known to every inhabitant, and every urchin in the streets

could point him out as a niggard in his dealings, and a wretch of the

utmost penury in his habits of life. From his boyhood, this old man had

lived in the city of Marseilles; and, although the people treated him

with scorn and disgust, nothing could induce him to leave it. When he

walked the streets he was followed by a crowd of boys, who, hating him

as a grasping miser, hooted him vociferously, insulted him with the

coarsest epithets, and sometimes annoyed him by casting stones and filth

at his person. There was no one to speak a kind word in his favor, no

one to bestow an act of friendship, or a nod of recognition upon Guyot.

He was regarded by all as an avaricious, griping old miser, whose whole

life was devoted to the hoarding up of gold. At last this object of

universal scorn died, and it was found that, by his parsimony, he had

amassed an ample fortune. What was the surprise of his executors, on

opening his will, to find these remarkable words: "Having observed, from

my infancy, that the poor of Marseilles are ill-supplied with water,

which can only be procured at a great price, I have cheerfully labored

the whole of my life to procure for them this great blessing, and I

direct that the whole of my property shall be expended in building an

aqueduct for their use!"

When it was proposed to build Bethlehem Hospital, many benevolent

individuals volunteered to solicit contributions by calling upon the

inhabitants of London. Two of these gentlemen went to a small house in

an impoverished neighborhood; for the pence of the poor were solicited

as well as the pounds of the rich. The door was open, and, as they drew

nigh, they overheard an old man scolding his female servant for having

thrown away a match, only one end of which had been used. Although so

trivial a matter, the master appeared to be much enraged, and the

collectors remained some time outside the door, before the old man had

finished his angry lecture. When the tones of his voice were somewhat

subdued, they entered, and, presenting themselves to this strict

observer of frugality and saving, explained the object of their

application; but they did not anticipate much success. The miser,

however, for such he was reputed in the neighborhood, no sooner

understood their object, than he opened a closet, and bringing forth a

well-filled bag, counted therefrom four hundred guineas, which he

presented to the astonished applicants. They expressed their surprise

and thankfulness, and could not refrain from telling the old gentleman

that they had overheard his quarrel with his domestic, and how little

they expected, in consequence, to have met with such munificence from

him. "Gentlemen," replied the old man, "your surprise is occasioned by

my care of a thing of such little consequence: but I keep my house, and

save my money in my own way; my parsimony enables me to bestow more

liberally on charity. With regard to benevolent donations, you may

always expect most from prudent people who keep their own accounts, and

who pay attention to trifles."

Audley was a celebrated miser of the time of the Stuarts; he amassed his

wealth during the reign of the first Charles, and flourished amazingly

under the protectorate of Cromwell. Audley was originally a clerk, with

only six shillings a week salary, and yet out of this scanty sum he

managed to save more than half. His dinner seldom cost him any thing,

for he generally made some excuse to dine with his master's clients;

and, as to his other meals, a crust of bread or a dry biscuit was

regarded as fare sufficient after an ample dinner. In one circumstance

he was somewhat different from other misers: he was clean, if not neat,

in his outward appearance. But he was thus scrupulous in his apparel

from principle; for Audley often asserted, that, to be thrifty, it was

necessary to pay some respect to such matters. He was remarkably

industrious, even when a young man. At an age when others were seeking

pleasure, he was busy in lending out, and increasing his early savings.

He was always ready to work when the usual hours of business were over,

and would willingly sit up the whole night to obtain some trifling

remuneration. He was never above soliciting trifles, and touching his

hat to his master's clients. So rigid was he in his economy, and so

usurious in his dealings, that in four years, during which time,

however, he had never received more than a salary of six or eight

shillings a week, he managed to save and amass five hundred pounds. The

salary of the remaining years of his apprenticeship he sold for sixty

pounds, and after a while, having made up six hundred pounds in all, he

lent the whole to a nobleman for an annuity of ninety-six pounds for

nineteen years, which annuity was secured upon property producing eight

hundred a year. The nobleman soon died, and his heir neglected to pay

the annuity. Audley had execution upon the property, and by legal

trickery, in which he was well versed, he managed to obtain, in the way

of fines and forfeitures, about four thousand pounds' profit upon his

original six hundred. His master being one of the clerks of the Compter,

Audley had many opportunities of practicing his disreputable cunning,

and of obtaining vast sums by deluding insolvent debtors, and in

deceiving their creditors. He would buy bad debts for a mere trifle, and

afterward compound with the poor insolvent. One instance of his avarice

and villainy is so curious, that we can not refrain from giving the

anecdote to our readers. A tradesman, named Miller, unfortunately got

into arrears with his merchant, whose name was White. Many fruitless

applications were made for the debt, and at last Miller was sued by the

merchant for the sum of two hundred pounds. He was unable to meet the

demand, and was declared insolvent. Audley goes to White, and offers him

forty pounds for the debt, which the merchant gladly accepts. He then

goes to Miller, and undertakes to obtain his quittance of the debt for

fifty pounds, upon condition that he entered into a bond to pay for the

accommodation. The drowning man catches at a straw, and the insolvent,

with many protestations of thanks, eagerly signs a contract which,

without consideration, he regarded as one so light, and so easy in its

terms, as to satisfy him that the promptings of benevolence and

friendship could only actuate his voluntary benefactor. The contract

was, that he should pay to Audley some time within twenty years from

that time, one penny progressively doubled, on the first day of twenty

consecutive months; and, in case he failed to fulfill these easy terms,

he was to pay a fine of five hundred pounds. Thus acquitted of his debt

of two hundred pounds, Miller arranged with the rest of his creditors,

and again commenced business. Fortune turned, and he participated

liberally in her smiles. Every month added largely to his trade, and at

last he became firmly established. Two or three years after signing the

almost forgotten contract, Miller was accosted one fine morning in

October by old Audley, who politely demanded the first installment of

the agreement. With a smile, and many renewed expressions of

thankfulness, the hopeful tradesman paid his penny. On the first of the

succeeding month, Audley again called, and demanded twopence, and was as

politely satisfied as before. On the first of December, he received a

groat; the first of February, one shilling and fourpence. Still Miller

did not see through the artifice, but paid him with a gracious smile;

perhaps, however, there was something cynical in the look of Audley as

he left the shop this time, for the poor tradesman's suspicions were

aroused, and he put his pen to paper, as he ought to have done years

before, to ascertain the amount of his subsequent payments. Reader, what

think you would have been the amount of the payment due on the first of

the twentieth month? What sum, think ye, the little penny had become? No

less than two thousand one hundred and eighty pounds! And what was the

aggregate sum of all these twenty monthly payments? Why, the enormous

sum of four thousand three hundred and sixty-six pounds, eleven

shillings, and threepence? It sounds incredible; but, if you think it a

fable, do as Miller did, and reckon for yourselves. Of course Miller

refused the payment of his bond, and forfeited five hundred pounds by

the benevolence and charity of the miser.

Vandille is one of the most remarkable characters, as a miser, that is

to be found among the eccentric biographies of France. His riches were

immense, and his avarice and parsimony extreme. He hired a miserable

garret in one of the most obscure parts of Paris, and paid a poor woman

a sou a day to wait upon him. Excepting once a week, his diet was never

varied; bread and milk for breakfast; the same for dinner, and the same

for supper, all the week round. On a Sunday he ventured to indulge in a

glass of sour wine, and he strove to satisfy the compunctions of

conscience by bestowing, in charity, a farthing every Sabbath. This

munificence, which incurred an expenditure of one shilling and a penny

per annum, he carefully noted down; and just before his death he found,

with some degree of regret, that during his life he had disbursed no

less than forty-three shillings and fourpence. Forty-three shillings and

fourpence! prodigious generosity for the richest man in France! Vandille

had been a magistrate at Boulogne, and while in that office he partly

maintained himself, free of cost, by constituting himself milk-taster

general at the market. He would munch his scrap of bread, and wash it

down with these gratuitous draughts. By such parsimonious artifices, and

a most penurious course of life, he succeeded in amassing an enormous

fortune, and was in a position to lend vast sums of money to the French

government. When he had occasion to journey from Boulogne to Paris, he

avoided the expence of coach-fare by proceeding on foot; and, lest he

should be robbed, he never carried more than threepence in his pocket,

although he had a distance of a hundred and thirty miles before him. If

he found this sum insufficient, he would profess poverty, and beg from

the passengers on the road a trifle to help him on. In the year 1735,

Vandille, the miser, was worth nearly eight hundred thousand pounds! He

used to boast that this vast accumulation sprang from a single shilling.

The winter of the year 1734 had been very cold and bitter, and the miser

felt inclined to purchase a little extra fuel in the summer time, to

provide, to some extent, against the like severity in the ensuing

winter. He heard a man pass the street with wood to sell; he haggled for

an unconscionable time about the price, and at last completed his

bargain, at the lowest possible rate. Avarice had made the miser

dishonest, and he stole from the poor woodman several logs. In his

eagerness to carry them away, and hide his ill-gotten store, he

overheated his blood, and produced a fever. For the first time in his

life, he sent for a surgeon. "I wish to be bled," said he; "what is your

charge?" "Half a livre," was the reply. The demand was deemed

extortionate, and the surgeon was dismissed. He then sent for an

apothecary, but he was also considered too high; and he at last sent for

a poor barber, who agreed to open the vein for threepence a time. "But,

friend," said the cautious miser, "how often will it be requisite to

bleed me?" "Three times," replied the barber. "Three times! and pray,

what quantity of blood do you intend to take from me at each operation?"

"About eight ounces each time," was the answer. "Let me see," said the

possessor of three-quarters of a million, "that will be ninepence; too

much; too much! I have determined to go a cheaper way to work; take the

whole twenty-four ounces at once, and that will save me sixpence." The

barber remonstrated, but the miser was firm; he was certain, he said,

that the barber was only desirous to extort an extra sixpence, and he

would not submit to such scandalous imposition. His vein was opened,

and four-and-twenty ounces of blood were taken from him. In a few days,

Vandille the miser was no more. The savings of his life, the wages of

his vice and avarice, he left to the King of France.

A similar anecdote is related of Sir William Smyth, of Bedfordshire. He

was immensely rich, but most parsimonious and miserly in his habits. At

seventy years of age he was entirely deprived of his sight, unable to

gloat over his hoarded heaps of gold; this was a terrible affliction. He

was persuaded by Taylor, the celebrated oculist, to be couched; who was,

by agreement, to have sixty guineas if he restored his patient to any

degree of sight. Taylor succeeded in his operation, and Sir William was

enabled to read and write, without the aid of spectacles, during the

rest of his life. But no sooner was his sight restored, than the baronet

began to regret that his agreement had been for so large a sum; he felt

no joy as others would have felt, but grieved and sighed over the loss

of his sixty guineas! His thoughts were now how to cheat the oculist; he

pretended that he had only a glimmering, and could see nothing

distinctly; for which reason, the bandage on his eyes was continued a

month longer than the usual time. Taylor was deceived by these

misrepresentations, and agreed to compound the bargain, and accepted

twenty guineas, instead of sixty. Yet Sir William was an old bachelor,

and had no one to care or provide for. At the time Taylor attended him,

he had a large estate, an immense sum of money in the stocks, and six

thousand pounds in the house.

Many years ago, there lived in a large, cheerless, and dilapidated old

house in St. Petersburg, a wretched miser. He confined himself to one

room, and left the rest of the rambling edifice to moulder into ruin; he

cared for no comfort, and deprived himself even of those things which

the poorest regard as the necessaries of life; he seldom lit a fire to

repel the dampness, which hung on the walls of his solitary chamber, and

a few worthless objects of furniture was all that the room contained.

Yet to this singular being the Empress Catherine the Second owed a

million of rubles. His cellar, it was said, contained casks full of

gold, and packages of silver were stowed away in the dismal corners of

his ruinous mansion. He was one of the richest men in Russia. He relied

for the safety of his hoards upon the exertions of a huge mastiff, which

he had trained to bark and howl throughout the night, to strike terror

into the hearts of thieves. The miser outlived the dog; but he disliked

to part with any portion of his treasure in the purchase of another cur,

and he resolved to save his money by officiating as his own watch-dog.

Every morning, and every evening, would that insane old man wander about

his dismal habitation, barking and howling in imitation of his recent

sentinel.

A miser of the name of Foscue, who had amassed enormous wealth, by the

most sordid parsimony, and the most discreditable extortion, was

requested by the government to advance a sum of money, as a loan. The

miser, to whom a fair interest was not inducement sufficiently strong to

enable him to part with his treasured gold, declared his incapacity to

meet this demand; he pleaded severe losses, and the utmost poverty.

Fearing, however, that some of his neighbors, among whom he was very

unpopular, would report his immense wealth to the government, he applied

his ingenuity to discover some effectual way of hiding his gold, should

they attempt to institute a search to ascertain the truth or falsehood

of his plea. With great care and secrecy, he dug a deep cave in his

cellar; to this receptacle for his treasure he descended by a ladder,

and to the trap-door he attached a spring lock, so that, on shutting, it

would fasten of itself. By-and-by the miser disappeared; inquiries were

made; the house was searched; woods were explored, and the ponds were

dragged; but no Foscue could they find; and gossips began to conclude

that the miser had fled, with his gold, to some part where, by living

incognito, he could be free from the hands of the government. Some time

passed on; the house in which he had lived was sold, and workmen were

busily employed in its repair. In the progress of their work they met

with the door of the secret cave, with the key in the lock outside. They

threw back the door, and descended with a light. The first object upon

which the lamp was reflected was the ghostly body of Foscue the miser,

and scattered around him were heavy bags of gold, and ponderous chests

of untold treasure; a candlestick lay beside him on the floor. This

worshiper of Mammon had gone into his cave, to pay his devoirs to his

golden god, and became a sacrifice to his devotion!

THE CRICKET.

"Far from all resort of mirth,

Save the cricket on the hearth."--_Milton._

As it is very possible that many of our readers, who have listened with

delight to the pleasant chirp of the cricket, may be ignorant of its

habits and history, we purpose in the present article giving some

account of them.

The cricket belongs to the same family as the grasshopper and the

locust, and all three are distinguished by having four wings, with the

first pair leathery throughout, overlapping at the edges only, and

concealing the second pair, which are folded lengthwise.

There are three descriptions of cricket common in Great Britain--the

house-cricket, the field-cricket, and the mole-cricket; of these the two

first are very similar, but that the former is of a somewhat yellow

shade, and the latter rather brown. Their heads are very large in

proportion to their bodies, and are round. They are furnished with two

large eyes and three small ones, of a light yellow color, placed rather

high in their heads. The female has a hard, long spine at the extremity

of her body, thick at the end, and composed of two sheaths, which

contain two laminæ; this implement is made use of by the cricket to

enable her to sink and deposit her eggs in the ground. Their hinder

feet are much longer than the others, and serve them to leap. Unlike

mice, crickets are oftenest to be found in new houses, as they like the

damp, soft mortar, which saves them much trouble, when they feel

inclined to burrow and mine between the joints of the bricks or stones,

and to open communications from one room to another. They are very fond

of warmth, and their favorite place of resort is by the kitchen fire. In

the warm, long days of summer, however, they often venture out, and

appear to enjoy the heat of the mid-day sun, as may be supposed from the

heated atmosphere they inhabit. Crickets are a thirsty race, and,

indeed, are so anxious to satisfy their inclination, that they are

constantly found drowned in pans of water, milk, &c. They will even

destroy damp clothes for the sake of their moisture, and woe be to the

wet woolen stockings or aprons hung to dry within their reach. But the

cricket is hungry as well as thirsty, and will eat voraciously any

crumbs of bread, scummings of pots, &c., which happen to fall in their

way.

Crickets are, in general, very inactive insects, and seldom use their

wings, except when they are about to migrate from one habitation to

another. The time they generally select for an excursion of this kind is

the dusk of a summer evening, when they fly out of the windows, and over

the neighboring roofs, no one knows whither; and this habit will account

for the sudden manner in which they often disappear from an old haunt,

as well as for their equally mysterious appearance in a new one--why

they left and why they came being equally unaccountable. When flying,

they move in wavelike curves, like woodpeckers, opening and shutting

their wings at every stroke; they are, therefore, always either rising

or falling.

They often increase to such a degree as to become a perfect nuisance in

a house, and then they have to be destroyed, either by gunpowder being

discharged into their haunts, or else by drowning, like wasps. Crickets

are not fond of light; and on a candle being brought into a room where

they are running about, they will just give two or three shrill chirps,

as if to warn their companions of impending danger, and then quickly

retreat to their lurking-holes for safety. Many strange ideas are

entertained concerning these insects. Some imagine that they bring good

luck to any house where they take up their abode, and will not on any

account allow them to be killed. It is imagined, too, that they can

prognosticate events, such as the death of a near relative, or the

return of an absent lover. In Spain, crickets are held in such

estimation, that they are kept in cages like birds.

The field-cricket is such a shy and timid insect, that it is exceedingly

difficult to make its acquaintance, as it cautiously rejects all

advances, and prudently retires backward into its burrow, where it

remains until it fancies that all danger is over. In France, children

amuse themselves by hunting the field-cricket. This they do by putting

into its hole an ant, secured by a long hair; and, as they slowly draw

it out again, it is always followed by the hapless cricket, which

ventures out to know the reason of this unwarrantable intrusion into its

domicile. But Pliny tells us of a more easy way of capturing them. He

says, that, if we thrust a long slender piece of stick into its burrow,

the insect would immediately get on it for the purpose of discovering

the cause of the disturbance. From this fact arose the old proverb,

"_stultior grillo_," or "more foolish than a cricket," applied to any

one who upon light grounds provokes his enemy, and falls into the snare

laid to entrap him.

It is strange that although the field-cricket is furnished with a

curious apparatus of wings, and provided with long legs behind, and

brawny thighs for leaping, like grasshoppers, yet they never make use of

them when we would imagine they were most wanted, but suffer themselves

to be captured without making any struggle for liberty, crawling along

in a dull, shiftless manner. They satisfy their hunger with such herbs

as happen to grow near their burrows, and rarely stir from home. They

generally sit at the entrance of their caverns, and chirp away night and

day, from the middle of May to the middle of July. And who does not love

their pleasant song, shrill though it be? But harsh sounds are not

necessarily disagreeable. Much depends on the association of ideas; and

the summer song of the field-cricket recalls to us our childhood's days,

long since, it may be, gone by, and fills our mind with happy thoughts

of our wanderings in quest of them, when all nature appeared bright, and

gay, and joyous. In very hot weather, the field-cricket is most

vigorous, and then the hills echo their notes, while the evening breeze

carries them to a great distance, making their melody heard in the

stilly hours of night.

About the 10th of March, the crickets appear at the mouth of their

cells, which they then open for the approaching summer. At that time

they are all in the pupa state, and have only the rudiments of wings,

which lie under a skin or coat, which must be cast off before the insect

arrives at maturity. This circumstance makes naturalists believe that

they seldom live a second year. They cast their skins in April, and

great quantities of them may be seen at the mouth of their cells. Their

eggs are long and narrow, of a yellowish color, and covered with a very

tough skin. The male field-cricket has a golden stripe across the

shoulders of its shining coat. The female is of a brighter color, and,

besides this, may be distinguished by the long, sword-shaped instrument

for laying her eggs beforementioned.

They always live singly, male or female, as the case may be; and when

the males meet they fight fiercely. Once, when Mr. White of Selborne

placed some in a stone wall, where he was anxious to have them settle,

although they appeared distressed at being removed to a new habitation,

yet the first that got possession of the chinks, seized any that

intruded on them, with their powerful jaws, furnished with a row of

serrated fangs, formed something like the shears of a lobster's claw.

If field-crickets are confined in a paper cage, placed in the sun, and

supplied with plants well moistened with water, they will thrive as well

as in their more natural resorts, and become so merry and noisy as to be

troublesome to any one sitting in the same room. Should the plants

become dry, they will soon die.

The mole-cricket, so called from the similarity of its habits to those

of the mole, is an ugly, but very curious-looking insect. Unlike the

house and field-cricket, its head is very small, and of an oblong form.

But the chief peculiarity of the insect is its two forefeet or

legs--screws, as they are sometimes not very inappropriately called.

They are very large and flat, ending outwardly in four large serrated

claws, and inwardly with only two. The four claws point somewhat

obliquely outward, that being the direction in which the insect digs,

throwing out the earth on each side of its course. How wonderfully does

He, who "preserves both man and beast," provide for the wants of each

insect! The breast of the field-cricket is formed of a thick, hard,

horny substance, which is further strengthened within by a double

framework of strong gristle, in front of the extremities of which the

shoulder-blades of the arm are firmly pointed--a structure evidently

intended to prevent the breast from being injured by the powerful

muscular motion of the arms in digging.

While the house and field-cricket rejoice in dry and sunny banks, or

revel in the glowing heat of a kitchen-hearth, the mole-cricket haunts

damp meadows and marshy grounds by the river banks, where they perform

all their most curious functions. They burrow and work under ground,

like the mole, but raise a ridge as they proceed, instead of throwing up

hillocks. They are very fond of taking up their abode in gardens

situated near canals, but they are always unwelcome visitors, as they

disturb the walks in making their subterranean passages, and besides

this, they devour whole beds of cabbage, legumes, and other vegetables,

and sometimes even commit great ravages among flowers.

The nest the female mole-cricket constructs for her eggs is exceedingly

curious, and well repays the trouble of hunting for them. They are about

the size of an egg, neatly smoothed and rounded inside. The way leading

to them is through a variety of caverns and winding passages. Within the

inner chamber, or nursery, are deposited about a hundred eggs, of a

dirty yellow color, enveloped in a tough skin. Sometimes, however, they

are of a lightish green, and translucent and gelatinous. They are not

placed deep under ground, but near the surface, so as to be within the

genial influence of the sun. The mound of fresh-moved earth, within

which they are carefully deposited, looks very like that raised by ants.

Like the eggs and young of most other insects those of the mole-cricket

are exposed to depredation, especially from the black beetle, which

burrows in similar localities. The anxious and provident mother,

therefore, does not think her progeny secure, until she has defended

her nest in the manner of a regularly fortified town, with ramparts,

intrenchments, and covert-ways. "In some part of these defenses she

posts herself as an advanced guard; and, should a beetle venture to

intrude within her fortifications, she pounces on him, and, giving no

quarter, kills him without mercy." When disturbed out of their nests,

the mole-crickets appear dull and helpless; and during the day time they

seldom use their wings, but, as night advances, they become very

sprightly, and often wander on long excursions. When the weather is very

fine, about the middle or end of April, as the evening draws on, they

amuse themselves by making a low, dull, jarring noise, which is not very

unlike the chattering of the fern-owl or goat-sucker, and which they

continue without intermission for a long time.

Anatomists tell us, that _all_ crickets, when carefully examined, are

found to possess three stomachs; a small one; behind that, a large one,

wrinkled and furrowed inside; and lower down, a third. They, therefore,

think it not improbable that they chew the cud, or ruminate, like the

cow and many other quadrupeds. They are not, however, satisfied entirely

to subsist on vegetable diet, but prey upon underground insects, and

sometimes even _undermine_ plants to get at them.

Before taking leave of the cricket family, it may not be amiss to

mention that, in various parts of England, they are called

fern-crickets, churr-worms, and wee-churrs--all very appropriate names.

THE RIGHT ONE.--A LESSON FOR LOVERS.

"Do you know, with any certainty, in what language Adam declared his

love to Eve?" inquired I, one day, from a philologist of my

acquaintance. I put my question with so much earnestness, that he

answered, quite seriously, "Yes, to be sure, he made his declaration of

love in precisely the same language as that in which she accepted him."

A profound answer! The only pity is, that I was not much wiser for it.

But it is altogether a pity--a very great pity--that we know so little

about the love-makings before the Flood. If any body could meet with a

love-story of that date, it would have more freshness and novelty in it

than can be found in any of our modern novels. And really that

love-making in the morning of time, in the groves of Paradise, it must

have been quite out of the common way!

Ah, there breathes still in this world--several thousand years old

though it be--a gentle gale of the spring-time of Paradise, through the

life of every man, at the moment when he says, "I love! I am beloved!"

Yes. It thrills through every happy son of Adam at the moment when he

finds his Eve. But Adam himself was, in one respect, better off than any

of his sons; for as there was only one Eve, he could make no mistake;

neither could she, on her side, have either choice or repentance. But

we--our name is Legion, and it is not easy for us to discover who, in

the swarm of the children of Adam, is the right partner for us. If every

one would seriously confess his experience in this respect, it would no

doubt be both instructive and amusing. And as I know no other way in

which I can instruct or amuse the world, I will now sincerely confess

what mistakes I made when I searched for my Eve, whom I first adored in

the person of Rose Ervan.

I want words to describe her. She had fascinated me when I was but a

cadet; she bewitched me before I had left the fourth class. And, of a

truth, there never did exist a young lady more dangerous to a youth of

lively imagination. Her coquetry was so natural, so mixed with goodness

and childish grace, that it was impossible to regard it as any thing

more than the most angelic innocence. At the Military Academy, I saw in

my books her name and nothing besides. If I drew plans of fortifications

and fortresses, Rose stood in the middle of my circles and quadrants,

and the only line that I perceived clearly was the road that led to her

home: the verdurous Greendale.

Greendale was a cheerful place, where there were always guests and

parties. And when the young people wished to have an excursion on the

water, or any other entertainment, I it was who always planned every

thing, and proposed it to the old baroness, the mother, for whom all the

children entertained a very considerable and wholesome respect. On these

occasions she used to say, "My dear sir, if you are with the children, I

will permit it; for I trust to you, and I know that you will take care

of them."

"Yes, to be sure," I replied, though the truth was, I could not take

care of myself; and never took notice of any body, or of any thing,

excepting Rose.

Many a one was fascinated just as I was fascinated; but I persuaded

myself that I was the only lucky fellow who had her preference. Once I

was terribly jealous. A certain Mr. T. (a professor of languages, I

believe) came to Greendale, played, sung, and chattered French; and

immediately Rose forgot me, to chat, and play, and sing with Mr. T.,

making herself altogether as charming to him as she had hitherto been to

me. I was desperate; went away over meadows and fields; saw neither

hedges nor gates, stumbled into ditches and brooks, and reached home

furious as a blunderbuss. But, behold! Mr. T. was gone, and Rose was

again charming to me, and I was instantly as much under her fascination

as ever, fully convinced that it was all my fault, and that I was a

Turk, a monster--nay, quite an Othello of jealousy.

After I had sighed and burned a considerable time, I made up my mind to

proceed to the declaration of my love. It is true I was still very

young, not three-and-twenty; but I thought myself quite old enough,

being a lieutenant, the son of a father who always spoke of "my wife" as

the greatest happiness of his life; besides which I had derived from my

home the most beautiful impressions of domestic life. Hence I always

represented to myself the highest good in the world under the image of

"my wife."

Having duly considered the various forms of love proposals, I went one

fine day to Greendale, carrying with me, and near to my heart, a

moss-rose in a garden-pot. The roads were execrable, and I was well-nigh

shaken to pieces; but the smile of my beautiful Rose would, I was well

assured, reward me for all my trouble. In imagination I heard myself

constantly asseverating "I love you!" and heard her as constantly

replying, "I love you!" As regarded our domestic establishment, I had

not as yet thought as much about it as one of our favorite bards, who,

before he married, provided himself with a cask of flour, a coffee-pot,

and a frying-pan. I thought only of "a cottage and a heart." I saw

around my cottage multitudes of roses, and within it, my Rose and

myself. As for every thing else, all would be provided for by my

excellent father.

As soon as I arrived at Greendale, I found there two other gentlemen

quite as much in love, and quite as much enchanted by the fascinating

young lady, as I was. I pitied the unfortunate youths, because they had

infatuated themselves with the hope of a happiness which no one, I

believed, should aspire to but myself. We were all old acquaintances;

and, as it is not our habit to put our light under a bushel, I was

determined to give my rivals a little hint of my advantageous prospects.

I raised, therefore, somewhat the vail which had concealed my modest

confidence. But then came curious revelations! My rivals, animated by my

example, lifted likewise the vail from their respective prospects; and,

behold, we all three stood in precisely the same position. We all

sighed; we all hoped; we all had _souvenirs_ that we kissed in secret;

and they all were, as it were, serpents, and bit their own tails.

At these unexpected revelations we all exclaimed, "Ah!" and left

Greendale together, each going his own way. My father was a little

surprised to see me return so soon.

"My dear Constantine," said he, "I thought you intended to stay at

Greendale a much longer time?"

"Yes," I replied with a pensive air, taking at the same moment, a large

mouthful of bread-and-butter; "yes; but I altered my mind when I got

there."

With this the conversation ended, and the charm was broken, once and

forever. But with it was also broken one link out of the rosy time of my

life. I began to regard all roses whether real or typified, with angry

and suspicious looks, and to speak of the "illusions of life," and of

"giving them up," &c., &c. I made a solemn vow with myself that the next

object of my affections, the next choice I would make for "my wife,"

should, in all respects, be the very reverse of the fascinating but

traitorous Rose. I had been deceived, as I imagined, by the poetry of

life; now I would keep to the sober prose.

Ah! in what a noble form did my new ideal present herself to my eyes,

as one evening I entered the hospitable saloon of Mrs. A., the wife of

the celebrated judge. Abla, her daughter, stood ready to officiate at

the tea table; her features, her figure, her manners were dignified and

full of propriety. She looked like personified Truth, in

contra-distinction to the fantastical bewitching Rose. I instantly fell

in love with this beautiful image of Minerva, and thought of "my wife."

Abla, however, seemed only to think of the tea, and looked neither to

the left nor the right. When tea was poured into all the cups she slowly

turned her splendid head, and I heard, at the same moment, a bass-voice

exclaim, "Sundholm!"

Ah, Heavens! was that her voice? Was it not rather that of the Angel of

Judgment, who, in the middle of Mrs. A.'s evening party, summoned the

sinner Sundholm to hear his final doom? I could have believed any thing

rather than that such a voice could issue from the beautiful lips of

Abla. But, when I beheld Sundholm advance to the tea-table and receive

the tea-cups on his tray, I saw that the resounding bassoon-voice

belonged to no other than the sweet lady whom I had just adored, and

whom I had, in my heart, already called "my wife."

It required some little time before I could reconcile my mind on this

point. "Sundholm!" sounded awfully through my ears for many a long hour.

I began to reason on the subject. If, said I, Nature has bestowed a

bass-voice on this beautiful young lady, is it not noble and excellent

of her not to try to conceal or embellish it? Does it not prove her love

of truth; her strength of character, and her greatness of soul? How easy

it would have been for her to cry "Sundholm!" in falsetto; but she would

not be false, even in this! Not willing to assume a disguise, even for

the sake of winning admiration, she summons Sundholm in the voice which

God has given her. Is there not something grand in all this? One who

thus calls out "Sundholm," will not deceive an honest fellow with hollow

words or pretended feeling, but will play an open game with him, and let

him understand the truth at once.

I was introduced to the handsome Abla. There was no denying that the

voice was not fine; but, when you were accustomed to it, it ceased to be

so very disagreeable; besides which, her words were so simple and

candid, and her face so beautiful, that by-and-by I was completely

dazzled. My ears crept, as it were, into my eyes, and gazing, day after

day, on Abla's faultless profile, I was conveyed at once into the realms

of love, and, ravished by my sense of sight, asked Abla if she would be

"my wife." She answered "Yes," with a force of utterance that nearly

frightened me. We were betrothed, and the nearer I gazed on her fine

profile the more I was satisfied. This, however, did not last very long.

The period of betrothal is a very singular one; a period of halfness and

incompleteness; nevertheless it is a sensible institution--when it does

not continue too long. It is the prelude to a union that nothing but

death _ought_ to dissolve; and, if it should appear impossible to

execute harmoniously the duet which has now commenced, there is yet time

to break it off calmly.

The first discord that disturbed the duet between "my wife elect" and

myself, was--not her deep voice, but, alas! precisely that very thing

which, at first, had reconciled me to it; viz., her love of truth, or

rather, I should say, her unmerciful way of uttering it.

That we all are sinners in thought, word, and deed, is a matter of fact,

and nobody was more willing to admit it than myself; but to be reminded

of it every moment by one's best friend is by no means agreeable; nor

does it do any good, especially when the plain-speaking friend never

fancies himself, or herself, capable of sinning, or being faulty in the

slightest degree. And the worst of it was, that apparently Abla had no

faults. Ah! if she had had but one; or, better still, if she would but

have admitted the possibility of it, then I should have been ready to

throw myself at her feet! But she was in temper and in character as

unimpeachable, as regular, as perfect, as she was in figure; she was so

correct and proper, that, sinner as I was, it drove me into a rage. I

felt that Abla's righteousness, and especially her mode of educating me,

would, in time, make me a prodigious sinner; more particularly, as she

would never yield to my wishes. It dawned upon me, before long, that her

self-righteousness and want of charity to others was, indeed, one of the

greatest conceivable faults. One fine day, therefore, I told her my

mind, in good earnest terms, and the following duet occurred between us:

_She._ I can not be otherwise than I am. If you do not like me, you can

let it alone.

_I._ If you will not be amiable toward me, I must cease to love you.

_She._ That is of no consequence. I can go my own way by myself.

_I._ So can I.

_She._ Good-by, then, sir.

_I._ Good-by, Miss A.

"Thank Heaven, it was not too late!" thought I to myself, as, after my

dismissal, I hastened to my little farm in the country. Although this

abrupt termination of my second love affair caused but little pain to my

heart, I felt considerable mortification, and a secret hostility sprung

up in my soul toward the whole female sex. It happened, however, very

luckily for me, that while I remained in this state of mind I met with

one of my neighbors who was precisely in the same condition. He had been

for some time divorced from a wife with whom he had lived very

unhappily, and he drove about in his sulky, upon which he had had a

motto inscribed in golden letters:

"It is better to be alone than to be ill-accompanied."

The sentiment struck me as very excellent; and my neighbor and I often

met, and agreed admirably in our abuse of the ladies. In the mean time,

I occupied myself with books and agriculture.

I have a great esteem for books, and I bow myself to the dust before

learning, but, I know not how it is, further than that I can not go;

esteem and veneration I feel, but assuredly my affections never grew in

that soil. My love for agriculture took me forth into Nature, and Nature

is lovely. But Adam was uneasy in Paradise, and did not wake to life and

happiness until Eve came; and I, who did not possess a paradise, found

myself very lonely and melancholy at "Stenbacke." Trees, after all, are

wooden and dull things, when we crave for human sympathies; and echo,

the voice of the rocks, is the most wearisome voice I know. No! heart to

heart, eye to eye, that is the life; and to live together, a happy and

healthy rural life, to work for the happiness of those who depend upon

us--to regulate the home, to live, to think, to love, to rejoice

together. Ah! "my wife" still stood vividly before my imagination.

My experience in the realms of love had, however, made me suspicious. I

feared that I could never be happy, according to my ideas of happiness,

which my neighbor-friend characterized as "reposing in the shade of a

pair of slippers." I was in low spirits; and accordingly, one day, after

having finished the last of six dozen of cigars, and quarreled with my

neighbor, who bored me with his everlasting and doleful tirades against

the ladies, I set off in my own sulky to amuse myself by a drive.

I drove a considerable distance to the house of an old friend, who had

been a fellow-student with me at the Military College at Carlberg, and

who had often invited me to visit him. He was now married, and was, in

fact, the father of eight children. A large family, I thought, at first;

but not one too many, said I to myself, after a single day spent in this

family, which had given me the impression of a heaven upon earth.

The mistress of the house, the wife and mother, was the silent soul of

all. "It is she--it is she, who is my happiness!" said the fortunate

husband; but she said, "It is he! it is he!"

"My dear friend," said I to him one day, "how have you managed to be so

happy in your marriage?"

"Oh," replied he, smiling, "I have a secret to tell you."

"A secret! for goodness sake, what is it?"

"From my youth upward," he replied, "I have prayed God to give me a good

wife."

"Yes," thought I to myself, "that is it! Here am I unmarried, because I

have never discovered this secret, without God's especial direction I

may not venture to choose 'my wife.'"

A younger sister of my friend's wife lived in the family. No one would

have been attracted to her for her external charms, but a short time

brought you completely under the spell of her kindness, the intellectual

expression of her countenance, and the cheerful friendliness of her

manners. All the household loved her; she was kind and amiable to all.

To myself, however, it seemed that there was an exception: I thought her

somewhat cold and distant. I was almost sorry when I perceived that I

was grieved by this; a short time convinced me that I had really fallen

in love with this young lady.

There was, however, a great difference between this and my former love

affairs. Formerly, I had permitted external charms to lead and blind me:

now, on the contrary, I was attracted to the soul, and its beauty alone

had captivated my heart. But why then was so excellent a soul so cold

toward me?

My friend said that it was because Maria had heard me represented as a

fickle young fellow; one who amused himself with broken affiances.

Righteous Heaven! was that indeed one of my faults? _I_ fickle! _I_, who

felt myself created as a model of fidelity. It was impossible for me to

bear patiently so cruel an injustice. No! as truly as my name was

Constantine, must Maria do me justice.

From that time, as she retired from me, so began I to walk after her. I

was determined to convince her that I was not the fickle, inconstant

being that I had been described. It was not, however, very easy to

succeed in this, but at length I did succeed. After having put me to a

trial, from which I came with flying colors, she accepted my proposals,

and agreed to try me still further in--a union for life.

During the period of our betrothal, she said several times, quite

rapturously, "I am so glad to see that you also have faults; I feel now

less humiliated, less unhappy from my own."

This pleased me very much, and all the more as I perceived that Maria,

while she showed me my faults with kindness, did not at all fondle her

own.

Our wedding-day was fixed; and I ordered a carriage for two persons.

Company was invited, and Maria and I were married. Nothing can be more

commonplace than all this, excepting, perhaps, it be, that my wife and I

agreed to understand the ceremony in an earnest and real sense, and to

live accordingly. The result has been, that now, after having been

married five-and-twenty years (we celebrate our _silver nuptials_

to-morrow), we love each other better, and are happier together than we

were in the first hour of our union. We have, therefore, come to the

conclusion, that unhappiness in marriage does not proceed from the

indissolubility of marriage, as some say, but because the

wedding-service is not realized in the marriage.

Do not speak to me of the felicity of the honey-moon. It is but the

cooing of doves! No! we must walk together along thorny paths, penetrate

together the most hidden recesses of life, live together in pleasure and

pain, in joy and in sorrow; must forgive and be forgiven; and afterward

love better and love more. And as time goes on, something marvelous

occurs; we become lovely to each other, although wrinkles furrow the

cheek and forehead; and we become more youthful, though we add year to

year. Then no longer have worldly troubles, misfortunes, and failings

any power to dim the sun of our happiness, for it radiates from the eye

and the heart of our friend; and when our earthly existence draws to

its close, we feel indeed that our life and our love are eternal. And

this supernatural feeling is quite natural after all, for the deeper and

the more inwardly we penetrate into life, the more it opens in its depth

of eternal beauty. Many happy husbands and wives will testify to this.

But, observe, husband or wife! To qualify as such a witness, you must

have been at some little pains to find--"the right one." Don't take the

wrong one, inconsiderately.

LORD BROUGHAM AS A JUDGE.

Lord Brougham, as a judge, gave much greater satisfaction than was

generally expected. It was thought that his constitutional precipitancy,

joined to a deficiency of Chancery knowledge, would have incapacitated

him for the important office. In this, however, people were mistaken. He

was not so hot and hasty on the bench as he had been at the bar and in

the senate--though his constitutional infirmities in this respect did

occasionally show themselves even on the seat of justice. He carefully

applied himself to the merits of every case which came before him, and

soon showed with what rapidity he could acquire the quantity of Chancery

knowledge requisite to enable him to discharge the duties of his office

as judge, in at least a respectable manner.

Perhaps no Lord Chancellor ever presided in Chancery who applied himself

more assiduously and unremittingly to the discharge of the duties which

devolved upon him, than did Lord Brougham. The amount of physical, not

to speak of mental labor, he underwent during the greater part of his

chancellorship was truly astonishing. For many consecutive months did he

sit from ten till four o'clock in that court, hearing and disposing of

the cases before it; and, on returning home from the House of Lords,

after having sat four hours on the woolsack, he immediately applied all

the energies of his mind to the then pending cases before the court. The

best proof of this is to be found in the fact, that, though possessing,

in a degree seldom equaled, and certainly never surpassed, the power of

extemporaneous speaking, he wrote, on particular occasions, his

judgments, and then read them in the court. I might also advert, in

proof of Lord Brougham's extraordinary application to the duties of his

office, to the fact of his having, in two or three years, got rid of the

immense accumulation of arrear cases which were in the Court of Chancery

when he was first intrusted with the great seal. It is not, however,

necessary to allude particularly to this fact, as it is already so well

known.

Lord Brougham's irritable temper often led him, when Lord Chancellor,

into squabbles with the counsel at the bar. The furious attack he made

on Sir Edward Sugden must be fresh in the memory of every body. No

person can justify that attack. It was as unwarrantable in principle as

it was unseemly in a court of law, and especially as coming from the

highest legal authority in the country. It is but due, however, to Lord

Brougham to say, that he often regretted these unbecoming outbreaks of

temper, and that he did so in this particular case. It consists with my

own private knowledge that he afterward, on pretext of speaking on

matters of public business, called Sir Edward one day into his private

room, and made a most ample apology for the attack he had made on him.

Sir Edward was generous enough to accept the apology, thus privately

given, though the offense was a public one.

I may here, however, mention that, during the interval between the

attack and this apology, Lord Brougham, on several occasions, aggravated

the outrage by further annoyances of Sir Edward while practicing before

him. I do not say that such annoyances were intentional--possibly they

may have been accidental--but, whichever way the fact lay, it is not to

be wondered at if Sir Edward, in the peculiar circumstances in which he

was placed, was predisposed to regard them as intentional. On one

occasion, while the learned gentleman was pleading before his lordship

in a very important cause, and just in the middle of what he conceived

to be the most essential part of his speech, Lord Brougham suddenly

threw back his head on his chair, and, closing both eyes, remained in

that position for some time, as if he had been asleep. Sir Edward Sugden

abruptly paused, waiting, no doubt, till his lordship should resume an

attitude which would be more encouraging for him to proceed with his

speech. On this, Lord Brougham suddenly started up from his reclining

position, and, resuming that in which he usually sat when on the bench,

apostrophized Sir Edward after the manner so peculiar to himself--"Go

on, Sir Edward; proceed, Sir Edward; what's the cause of the stoppage?"

"My lord," answered the latter, "I thought your lordship was not

attending to my argument."

"You have no right to think any such thing, Sir Edward; it's highly

improper in you to do so; go on, if you please."

Sir Edward resumed his speech, but had not addressed the court above two

or three minutes, when Lord Brougham, addressing the officer, said, in

his usual hasty manner, "Bring me some sheets of _letter_-paper

directly."

Of the folio size always used in court, his lordship had an abundant

supply before him.

"Yes, my lord," said the obedient officer, withdrawing for a moment to

execute his lordship's commands. He returned in a few seconds, and

placed some half-dozen sheets on the desk. His lordship immediately

snatched up a pen, and commenced writing, as if he had been inditing a

letter to some private friend. Sir Edward again paused in his address to

the court, and leaned with his elbows on the bench before him, as if

willing to wait patiently until his lordship should finish his

epistolary business.

"Sir Edward!" exclaimed the Lord Chancellor, in angry and ironical

accents, after the learned gentleman had been silent for a few

moments--"Sir Edward! pray, what's the matter now?"

"I thought, my lord, that your lordship was temporarily engaged with

some matter of your own."

"Really, Sir Edward, this is beyond endurance."

"I beg your lordship's pardon; but I thought your lordship was writing

some private letter."

"Nothing of the kind, Sir Edward," said his lordship, tartly; "nothing

of the kind. I was taking a note of some points in your speech. See,

would you like to look at it?" said he, sarcastically, at the same time

holding out the sheet of paper toward Sir Edward.

"Oh, not at all, your lordship; I do not doubt your lordship's word. I

must have been under a mistake."

Sir Edward again resumed; and Lord Brougham, throwing his head back on

his chair, looked up toward the ceiling.

Lord Brougham had a great horror of hearing the interminable speeches

which some of the junior counsel were in the habit of making, after he

conceived every thing had been said which could be said on the real

merits of the case before the court by the gentlemen who preceded them.

His hints to them to be brief on such occasions were sometimes extremely

happy. I recollect that, after listening with the greatest attention to

the speeches of two counsel on one side, from ten in the morning till

half-past two, a third rose to address the court on the same side. His

lordship was quite unprepared for this additional infliction, and

exclaimed, "What, Mr. A----, are _you_ really going to speak on the same

side?"

"Yes, my lord; I mean to trespass on your lordship's attention for a

short time."

"Then," said his lordship, looking the orator significantly in the

face--"then, Mr. A----, you had better cut your speech as short as

possible, otherwise you must not be surprised if you see me dozing; for

really this is more than human nature can endure."

The youthful barrister took the hint; he kept closely to the point at

issue--a thing very rarely done by barristers--and condensed his

argument into a reasonable compass.

THE HOUSEHOLD OF SIR THO^S. MORE.[3]

[3] Continued from the September Number.

LIBELLUS A MARGARETA MORE, QUINDECIM ANNOS NATA, CHELSEIÆ INCEPTVS

"Nulla dies sine linea."

April, 1534.

A heavier charge than either of y^e above hath been got up, concerning

the wicked woman of Kent, with whom they accuse him of having tampered,

that, in her pretended revelations and rhapsodies, she might utter words

against the king's divorce. His name hath, indeed, been put in the bill

of attainder; but, out of favor, he hath been granted a private

hearing, his judges being, the new archbishop, the new chancellor, his

grace of Norfolk, and Master Cromwell.

He tells us that they stuck not to y^e matter in hand, but began

cunningly enow to sound him on y^e king's matters; and finding they

could not shake him, did proceed to threats, which, he told 'em, might

well enow scare children, but not him, and as to his having provoked his

grace the king to sett forth in his book aught to dishonour and fetter a

good Christian, his grace himself well knew the book was never shewn him

save for verbal criticism when y^e subject matter was completed _by the

makers of y^e same_, and that he had warned his grace not to express soe

much submission to the pope. Whereupon they with great displeasure

dismissed him, and he took boat for Chelsea with mine husband in such

gay spiritts, that Will, not having been privy to what had passed,

concluded his name to have beene struck out of y^e bill of attainder,

and congratulated him thereupon soe soone as they came aland, saying, "I

guess, father, all is well, seeing you thus merry."

"It is indeed, son Roper," returns father steadilie, repeating

thereupon, once or twice, this phrase, "All is well."

Will, somehow mistrusting him, puts the matter to him agayn.

"You are then, father, put out of the bill?"

"Out of the bill, good fellow?" repeats father, stopping short in his

walk, and regarding him with a smile that Will sayth was like to break

his heart.... "Wouldst thou know, dear son, why I am so joyful? In good

faith, I have given the devil a foul fall, for I have with those lords

gone so far, as that without great shame I can ne'er go back. The first

step, Will, is the worst, and that's taken."

And so, to the house, with never another word, Will being smote at the

heart.

But, this forenoon, deare Will comes running in to me, with joy all

bright, and tells me he hath just heard from Cromwell that father's name

is in sooth struck out. Thereupon, we go together to him with the news.

He taketh it thankfully, yet composedly, saying, as he lays his hand on

my shoulder, "In faith, Meg, quod differtur non aufertur." Seeing me

somewhat stricken and overborne, he sayth, "Come, let's leave good Will

awhile to the company of his own select and profitable thoughts, and

take a turn together by the water side."

Then closing his book, which I marked was Plato's Phædon, he steps

forthe with me into the garden, leaning on my shoulder, and pretty

heavilie too. After a turn or two in silence, he lightens his pressure,

and in a bland, peaceifying tone commences Horace his tenth ode, book

second, and goes through the first fourteen or fifteen lines in a kind

of lulling monotone; then takes another turn or two, ever looking at the

Thames, and in a stronger voice begins his favorite

"Justum, ac tenacem propositi virum

Non civium ardor," etc.

on to

"Impavidum ferient ruinæ;"

--and lets go his hold on me to extend his hand in fine, free action.

Then, drawing me to him agayn, presentlie murmurs, "I reckon that the

sufferings of this present time are not worthy to be compared with y^e

glory which shall be revealed in us.... Oh no, not worthy to be

compared. I have lived; I have laboured; I have loved. I have lived in

them I loved; laboured for them I loved; loved them for whom I laboured;

my labour has not been in vayn. To love and to labour is the sum of

living, and yet how manie think they live who neither labour nor love.

Again, how manie labour and love, and yet are not loved; but I have

beene loved, and my labour has not been in vayn. Now, the daye is far

spent, and the night forecloseth, and the time draweth nigh when man

resteth from his labours, even from his labours of love; but still he

shall love and he shall live where the Spiritt sayth he shall rest from

his labours, and where his works do follow him, for he entereth into

rest through and to Him who is Life, and Light, and Love."

Then looking stedfastlie at the Thames, "How quietlie," sayth he, "it

flows on! This river, Meg, hath its origin from seven petty springs

somewhither amongst y^e Gloucestershire hills, where they bubble forthe

unnoted save by the herd and hind. Belike, they murmur over the pebbles

prettily enough; but a great river, mark you, never murmurs. It murmured

and babbled too, 'tis like, whilst only a brook, and brawled away as it

widened and deepened and chafed agaynst obstacles, and here and there

got a fall, and splashed and made much ado, but ever kept running on

towards its end, still deepening and widening; and now towards the close

of its course look you how swift and quiet it is, running mostly between

flats, and with the dear blue heaven reflected in its face." ...

* * * * *

'Twas o' Wednesdaye was a week, we were quietly taking our dinner, when,

after a loud and violent knocking at y^e outer door, in cometh a

poursuivant, and summoneth father to appear next daye before y^e

commissioners, to take y^e newly coined oath of supremacy. Mother utters

a hasty cry, Bess turns white as death, but I, urged by I know not what

suddain impulse to con the new comer's visage narrowly, did with

eagerness exclaim, "Here's some jest of father's; 'tis only Dick

Halliwell!"

Whereupon, father burst out a laughing, hugged mother, called Bess a

silly puss, and gave Halliwell a grout for 's payns. Now, while some

were laughing, and others taking father prettie sharplie to task for soe

rough a crank, I fell a muzing, what c^d be y^e drift of this, and could

only surmize it mighte be to harden us beforehand, as 'twere, to what

was sure to come at last. And the preapprehension of this so belaboured

my alreadie o'erburthened spiritts, as that I was fayn to betake myself

to y^e nurserie, and lose alle thought and reflection in my little

Bill's prettie ways. And, this not answering, was forct to have recourse

to prayer; then, leaving my closett, was able to return to y^e

nurserie, and forget myselfe awhile in the mirth of the infants.

Hearing voyces beneathe y^e lattice, I lookt forthe, and behelde his

Grace of Norfolk (of late a strange guest) walking beneath y^e window in

earnest converse with father, and, as they turned about, I hearde him

say, "By the mass, master More, 'tis perilous striving with princes. I

could wish you, as a friend, to incline to the king's pleasure; for,

indignatio principis mors est."

"Is that all?" says father; "why then there will be onlie this

difference between your grace and me, that I shall die to-daye, and you

to-morrow;"--which was the sum of what I caught.

Next morning, we were breaking our fast with peacefullness of heart, on

y^e principle that sufficient for the daye is the evill thereof, and

there had beene a wordy war between our two factions of the Neri and

Bianchi, Bess having defalked from y^e mancheteers on y^e ground that

black bread sweetened the breath and settled the teeth, to the no small

triumph of the cob-loaf party; while Daisy, persevering at her crusts,

sayd "No, I can cleave to the rye bread as steddilie as anie among you,

but 'tis vayn of father to maintain that it is as toothsome as a

manchet, or that I eat it to whiten my teeth, for thereby he robs

self-deniall of its grace."

Father, strange to say, seemed taken at vantage, and was pausing for a

retort, when Hobson coming in and whispering somewhat in his ear, he

rose suddainlie and went forthe of the hall with him, putting his head

back agayn to say, "Rest ye alle awhile where ye be," which we did,

uneasilie enow. Anon he returns, brushing his beaver, and says calmlie,

"Now, let's forthe to church," and clips mother's arme beneathe his owne

and leads the way. We follow as soon as we can, and I, listing to him

more than to y^e priest, did think I never hearde him make response more

composedlie, nor sing more lustilie, by the which I founde myself in

stouter heart. After prayers, he is shriven, after which he saunters

back with us to the house, then brisklie turning on his heel, cries to

my husband, "Now, Will, let's toward, lad," and claps the wicket after

him, leaving us at t'other side without so much as casting back a

parting look. Though he evermore had been advised to let us companie him

to the boat, and there kiss him once and agayn or ever he went, I know

not that I s^d have thoughte much of this, had not Daisy, looking after

him keenly, exclaymed somewhat shortlie as she turned in doors, "I wish

I had not uttered that quip about the cob-loaf."

Lord, how heavilie sped y^e day! The house, too big now for its master's

diminished retinue, had yet never hitherto seemed lonesome; but now a

somewhat of dreary and dreadfull, inexpressible in words, invisible to

the eye, but apprehended by the inner sense, filled the blank space alle

about. For the first time, everie one seemed idle; not only disinclined

for businesse, but as though there were something unseemlie in

addressing one's self to it. There was nothing to cry about, nothing to

talk over, and yet we alle stoode agaze at each other in groups, like

the cattle under y^e trees when a storm is at hand. Mercy was the first

to start off. I held her back and said, "What is to do?" She whispered,

"Pray." I let her arm drop, but Bess at that instant comes up with

cheeks as colourless as parchment. She sayth, "'Tis made out now. A

poursuivant _de facto_ fetched him forthe this morning." We gave one

deep, universal sigh; Mercy broke away, and I after her, to seek the

same remedie, but alack, in vayn....

* * * * *

How large a debt we owe you, wise and holie men of old! How ye counsel

us to patience, incite us to self-mastery, cheer us on to high emprize,

temper in us the heat of youth, school our inexperience, calm the

o'erwrought mind, allay the anguish of disappointment, cheat suspense,

and master despair.... How much better and happier ye would make us, if

we would but list your teaching!

Bess hath fallen sick; no marvell. Everie one goeth heavilie. All joy is

darkened; the mirthe of the house is gone.

Will tells me, that as they pushed off from y^e stairs, father took him

about the neck and whispered, "I thank our Lord, the field is won!"

Sure, Regulus ne'er went forthe with higher self-devotion.

Having declared his inabilitie to take y^e oath as it stoode, they bade

him, Will tells me, take a turn in the garden while they administered it

to sundrie others, thus affording him leisure for reconsideration. But

they might as well have bidden the neap-tide turn before its hour. When

called in agayn, he was as firm as ever, so was given in ward to y^e

Abbot of Westminster till the king's grace was informed of the matter.

And now, the fool's wise saying of vindictive Herodias came true, for

'twas the king's mind to have mercy on his old servant, and tender him a

qualifyed oath; but queen Anne, by her importunate clamours, did

overrule his proper will, and at four days end, y^e full oath being

agayn tendered and rejected, father was committed to y^e Tower. Oh,

wicked woman, how could you?... Sure, you never loved a father....

* * * * *

In answer to our incessant applications throughout this last month past,

mother hath at length obtayned access to dear father. She returned, her

eyes nigh swollen to closing with weeping ... we crowded round about,

burning for her report, but 'twas some time ere she coulde fetch breath

or heart to give it us. At length Daisy, kissing her hand once and

agayn, draws forthe a disjoynted tale, somewhat after this fashion.

"Come, give over weeping, dearest mother; 'twill do neither him, you,

nor us anie goode.... What was your first speech of him?"

"Oh, my first speech, sweetheart, was, 'What, my goodness, Mr. More! I

marvell how that you, who were always counted a wise man, s^d now soe

play the fool as to lie here in this close, filthy prison, shut up with

mice and rats, when you mighte be abroade and at your liberty, with y^e

favour of king and council, and return to your righte fayr house, your

books and gallery, and your wife, children, and household, if soe be you

onlie woulde but do what the bishops and best learned of the realm have,

without scruple, done alreadie.'"

"And what sayd he, mother, to that?" ...

"Why, then, sweetheart, he chucks me under the chin and sayeth, 'I

prithee, good mistress Alice, to tell me one thing.' ... Soe then I say,

'What thing?' Soe then he sayeth, 'Is not this house, sweetheart, as

nigh heaven as mine own?' Soe then I jerk my head away and say

'Tilly-valley! tilley-valley.'"

Sayth Bess, "Sure, mother, that was cold comfort.... And what next?"

"Why, then I said, 'Bone Deus, man! Bone Deus! will this gear never be

left? Soe then he sayth, 'Well then, Mrs. Alice, if it be soe, 'tis

mighty well, but, for my part, I see no greate reason why I shoulde much

joy in my gay house, or in aniething belonging thereunto, when, if I

shoulde be but seven years buried underground, and then arise and come

thither agayn, I shoulde not fail to find some therein that woulde bid

me get out of doors, and tell me 'twas none o' mine. What cause have I

then, to care so greatlie for a house that woulde soe soone forget its

master?'" ...

"And then, mother? and then?"

"Soe then, sweetheart, he sayth, 'Come, tell me, Mrs. Alice, how long do

you think we might reckon on living to enjoy it?' Soe I say, 'Some

twenty years, forsooth.' 'In faith,' says he, 'had you said some

thousand years, it had beene somewhat; and yet he were a very bad

merchant that woulde put himselfe in danger to lose eternity for a

thousand years ... how much the rather if we are not sure to enjoy it

one day to an end?' Soe then he puts me off with questions, How is Will?

and Daisy? and Rupert? and this one? and t'other one? and the peacocks?

and rabbits? and have we elected a new king of the cob-loaf yet? and has

Tom found his hoop? and is y^e hasp of the buttery-hatch mended yet? and

how goes the court? and what was the text o' Sunday? and have I

practised the viol? and how are we off for money? and why can't he see

Meg? Then he asks for this book and t'other book, but I've forgot their

names, and he sayth he's kept mighty short of meat, though 'tis little

he eats, but his man John a Wood is gay an' hungry, and 'tis worth a

world to see him at a salt herring. Then he gives me counsell of this

and that, and puts his arm about me and says, 'Come, let us pray;' but

while he kept praying for one and t'other, I kept a-counting of his gray

hairs; he'd none a month agone. And we're scarce off our knees, when I'm

fetched away; and I say, 'When will you change your note, and act like a

wise man?' and he sayth, 'When? when!' looking very profound; 'why, ...

when gorse is out of blossom and kissing out of fashion.' Soe puts me

forthe by the shoulders with a laugh, calling after me, 'Remember me

over and over agayn to them alle, and let me se Meg.'"

... I feel as if a string were tied tight about my heart. Methinketh

'twill burst if we goe on long soe.

* * * * *

He hath writ us a few lines with a coal, ending with "Sursum corda, dear

children! up with your hearts." The bearer was dear Bonvisi.

* * * * *

The Lord begins to cut us short. We are now on very meagre commons, dear

mother being obliged to pay fifteen shillings a-week for the board, poor

as it is, of father and his servant. She hath parted with her velvet

gown, embroidered overthwart, to my lady Sand's woman. Her mantle edged

with coney went long ago.

But we lose not heart; I think mine is becoming annealed in the furnace,

and will not now break. I have writ somewhat after this fashion to

him.... "What do you think, most dear father, doth comfort us at

Chelsea, during this your absence? Surelie, the remembrance of your

manner of life among us, your holy conversation, your wholesome

counsells, your examples of virtue, of which there is hope that they do

not onlie persevere with you, but that, by God's grace, they are much

increast."

I weary to see him.... Yes, we shall meet in heaven, but how long first,

oh Lord? how long?

* * * * *

Now that I've come back, let me seek to think, to remember.... Sure, my

head will clear by-and-by? Strange, that feeling shoulde have the

masterdom of thought and memory, in matters it is most concerned to

retayn.

... I minded to put y^e haircloth and cord under my farthingale, and one

or two of y^e smaller books in my pouch, as alsoe some sweets and

suckets such as he was used to love. Will and Bonvisi were awaiting for

me, and deare Bess, putting forthe her head from her chamber door, cries

piteously, "Tell him, dear Meg, tell him ... 'twas never soe sad to me

to be sick ... and that I hope ... I pray ... the time may come ..."

then falls back swooning into Dancey's arms, whom I leave crying

heartilie over her, and hasten below to receive the confused medley of

messages sent by every other member of y^e house. For mine owne part, I

was in such a tremulous succussion as to be scarce fitt to stand or goe,

but time and the tide will noe man bide, and, once having taken boat,

the cool river air allayed my fevered spiritts; onlie I coulde not for

awhile get ridd of y^e impression of poor Dancey crying over Bess in her

deliquium.

I think none o' the three opened our lips before we reached Lambeth,

save, in y^e Reach, Will cried to y^e steersman, "Look you run us not

aground," in a sharper voyce than I e'er heard from him. After passing

y^e Archbishop's palace, whereon I gazed full ruefullie, good Bonvisi

beganne to mention some rhymes he had founde writ with a diamond on one

of his window-panes at Crosby House, and would know were they father's?

and was't y^e chamber father had used to sleep in? I tolde him it was,

but knew nought of y^e distich, though 'twas like enow to be his. And

thence he went on to this and that, how that father's cheerfulle, funny

humour never forsook him, nor his brave heart quelled, instancing his

fearlesse passage through the Traitor's Gate, asking his neighbours

whether _his_ gait was that of a traditor; and, on being sued by the

porter for his upper garment, giving him his _cap_, which he sayd was

uppermost. And other such quips and passages, which I scarce noted nor

smiled at, soe sorry was I of cheer.

At length we stayed rowing: Will lifted me out, kissed me, heartened me

up, and, indeede, I was in better heart then, having been quietlie in

prayer a good while. After some few forms, we were led through sundrie

turns and passages, and, or ever I was aware, I found myselfe quit of my

companions, and in father's arms.

We both cried a little at first; I wonder I wept noe more, but strength

was given me in that hour. As soone as I coulde, I lookt him in the

face, and he lookt at me, and I was beginning to note his hollow cheeks,

when he sayd, "Why, Meg, you are getting freckled:" soe that made us

bothe laugh. He sayd, "You shoulde get some freckle-water of the lady

that sent me here; depend on it, she hath washes and tinctures in

plenty; and after all, Meg, she'll come to the same end at last, and be

as the lady all bone and skin, whose ghastlie legend used to scare thee

soe when thou wert a child. Don't tell that story to thy children;

'twill hamper 'em with unsavory images of death. Tell them of heavenlie

hosts a-waiting to carry off good men's souls in fire-bright chariots,

with horses of the sun, to a land where they shall never more be

surbated and weary, but walk on cool, springy turf and among myrtle

trees, and eat fruits that shall heal while they delight them, and drink

the coldest of cold water, fresh from y^e river of life, and have space

to stretch themselves, and bathe, and leap, and run, and, whichever way

they look, meet Christ's eyes smiling on them. Lord, Meg, who would

live, that could die? One mighte as lief be an angel shut up in a

nutshell as bide here. Fancy how gladsome the sweet spirit would be to

have the shell cracked! no matter by whom; the king, or king's

mistress.... Let her dainty foot but set him free, he'd say, 'For this

release, much thanks.' ... And how goes the court, Meg?"

"In faith, father, never better.... There is nothing else there, I hear,

but dancing and disporting."

"Never better, child, sayst thou? Alas, Meg, it pitieth me to consider

what misery, poor soul, she will shortlie come to. These dances of hers

will prove such dances that she will spurn our heads off like footballs;

but 'twill not be long ere her head will dance the like dance. Mark you,

Meg, a man that restraineth not his passions hath always something cruel

in his nature, and if there be a woman toward, she is sure to suffer

heaviest for it, first or last.... Seek scripture precedent for't ...

you'll find it as I say. Stony as death, cruel as the grave. Those

Pharisees that were, to a man, convicted of sin, yet haled a sinning

woman before the Lord, and woulde fain have seen the dogs lick up her

blood. When they lick up mine, deare Meg, let not your heart be

troubled, even though they shoulde hale thee to London Bridge to see my

head stuck on a pole. Think, most dear'st, I shall then have more reason

to weep for thee than thou for me. But there's noe weeping in heaven,

and bear in mind, Meg, distinctlie, that if they send me thither, 'twill

be for obeying the law of God rather than of men. And after alle, we

live not in the bloody, barbarous old times of crucifyings and flayings,

and immersings in cauldrons of boiling oil. One stroke, and the affair's

done. A clumsy chirurgeon would be longer extracting a tooth. We have

oft agreed that the little birds struck down by the kite and hawk suffer

less than if they were reserved to a naturall death. There is one

sensible difference, indeed, between us. In our cases, preparation is

a-wanting."

Hereon, I minded me to slip off y^e haircloth and rope, and give the

same to him, along with the books and suckets, all which he hid away

privatelie, making merry at the last.

"'Twoulde tell well before the council," quoth he, "that on searching

the prison-cell of Sir Thomas More, there was founde, flagitiouslie and

mysteriouslie laid up ... a piece of barley-sugar!"

Then we talked over sundry home-matters; and anon, having now both of us

attayned unto an equable and chastened serenitie of mind, which needed

not any false shows of mirth to hide y^e naturall complexion of, he

sayth, "I believe, Meg, they that have put me here ween they have done

me a high displeasure; but I assure thee on my faith, mine own good

daughter, that if it had not beene for my wife, and you, my dear good

children, I would faine have beene closed up, long ere this, in as

straight a room, and straighter too."

Thereon, he shewed me how illegal was his imprisonment, there being noe

statute to authorize the imposition of y^e oath, and he delivered

himself, with some displeasure, agaynst the king's ill counsellors.

"And surelie, Meg," quoth he, "'tis pitie that anie Christian prince

shoulde, by a flexible council readie to follow his affections, and by a

weak clergy lacking grace to stand constantly to the truth as they

learned it, be with flattery so constantly abused. The lotus fruit

fabled by the ancients, which made them that ate it lose alle relish for

the daylie bread of their own homes, was flattery, Meg, as I take it,

and nothing else. And what less was the song of the Syrens, agaynst

which Ulysses made the sailors stop their ears, and which he, with all

his wisdom, coulde not listen to without struggling to be unbound from

the mast? Even praise, Meg, which, moderately given, may animate and

cheer forward the noblest minds, yet too lavishly bestowed, will

decrease and palsy their strength, e'en as an overdose of the most

generous and sprightlie medicine may prove mortiferous. But flattery is

noe medicine, but a rank poison, which hath slayn kings, yea, and mighty

kings; and they who love it, the Lord knoweth afar off; knoweth

distantlie, has no care to know intimatelie, for they are none of his."

Thus we went on, from one theme to another, till methinketh a heavenlie

light seemed to shine alle about us like as when the angel entered the

prison of Peter. I hung upon everie word and thought that issued from

his lips, and drank them in as thirsty land sucks up the tender rain....

Had the angel of death at that hour come to fetch both of us away, I

woulde not have sayd him nay, I was soe passivelie, so intenselie happy.

At length, as time wore on, and I knew I shoulde soone be fetcht forthe,

I coulde not but wish I had the clew to some secret passage or

subterreneal, of which there were doubtless plenty in the thick walls,

whereby we might steal off together. Father made answer, "Wishes never

filled a sack. I make it my businesse, Meg, to wish as little as I can,

except that I were better and wiser. You fancy these four walls

lonesome; how oft, dost thou suppose, I here receive Plato and Socrates,

and this and that holy saint and martyr? My jailors can noe more keep

them out than they can exclude the sunbeams. Thou knowest, Jesus stood

among his disciples when the doors were shut. I am not more lonely than

St. Anthony in his cave, and I have a divine light e'en here, whereby to

con the lesson 'God is love.' The futility of our enemies' efforts to

make us miserable was never more stronglie proven to me than when I was

a mere boy in Cardinal Morton's service. Having unwittinglie angered one

of his chaplains, a choleric and even malignant-spirited man, he did, of

his owne authoritie, shut me up for some hours in a certayn damp vault,

which, to a lad afeard of ghosts and devilish apparitions, would have

been fearsome enow. Howbeit, I there cast myself on the ground with my

back sett agaynst the wall, and mine arm behind my head, this fashion

... and did then and there, by reason of a young heart, quiet

conscience, and quick phansy, conjure up such a lively picture of the

queen o' the fairies' court, and alle the sayings and doings therein,

that never was I more sorry than when my gaoler let me goe free, and

bade me rise up and be doing. In place, therefore, my daughter, of

thinking of me in thy night watches as beating my wings agaynst my cage

bars, trust that God comes to look in upon me without knocking or

bell-ringing. Often in spiritt I am with you alle; in the chapel, in the

hall, in the garden; now in the hayfield, with my head on thy lap, now

on the river, with Will and Rupert at the oar. You see me not about your

path, you won't see my disembodied spiritt beside you hereafter, but it

may be close upon you once and agayn for alle that: maybe, at times when

you have prayed with most passion, or suffered with most patience, or

performed my hests with most exactness, or remembered my care of you

with most affection. And now, good speed, good Meg, I hear the key turn

in the door.... This kiss for thy mother, this for Bess, this for Cecil,

... this and this for my whole school. Keep dry eyes and a hopeful

heart; and reflect that nought but unpardoned sin should make us weep

forever."

BOOKWORMS.

"Like caterpillar, eating his way in silence!"

The natural history of the bookworm has escaped the observation of

Cuvier. Yet the bookworm shares his habitat in common with the student,

and no doubt has often rubbed shoulder with the naturalist. The haunts

of the bookworm are the national libraries, the old booksellers' shops

about Holborn and Great Queen-street, Long-acre, and the bookstalls

generally. One will be sure to meet with him--a weary, worn, and faded

personage--in the reading-room of the Museum. The goodly morocco-bound

tome in folio is the bookworm's _bonne bouche_. Its scented binding and

odorous pages form the choicest of his meals. The atmosphere of the

national reading-room is close and redolent of strange smells; the

bookworm, however, enjoys it with the readier zest. Worm-like, he is a

reproducer, and capable of spinning words by the myriad, which he

deposits upon the surfaces of foolscap.

The bookworm's natural disposition is gentle; but his temper is

irritable. His nature is indolent. He loves to doze over a Harleian

manuscript, or a dusty Elzevir or black letter. It is legendary that his

mission upon earth is occult--_videlicet_, to discover those lost

treasures the Sibylline Leaves, supposed to be embedded and fossilized

somewhere in the forest of leaves monastic. The hiding-place of the

Sibyl's precious autograph, albeit, remains, like the philosopher's

stone, a secret yet.

It is not intended in this paper to be satirical upon bibliographical

pursuits. On this point our motto is the text recorded by the learned

and indefatigable Mr. Lowdes, in his "Manual." "Mankind are disposed to

remember the _abuse_ rather than the _utility_ of pursuits in which few

are deeply interested. And in the ridicule which the enthusiastic zeal

of bibliomaniacs has cast on bibliography, they lose sight of the fact

that all accurate knowledge is in a greater or less degree absolutely

dependent thereon."

But the eccentricities and peculiarities of bookworms are left to us to

notice, without our incurring the displeasure of any liberal-minded

student or book-collector. Our task at present is merely to throw

together some information personally relating to bookworms, hitherto

hidden within the mouldering pages of cumbrous volumes, offering little

inducement for the perusal of the ordinary reader. Nevertheless we are

not unmindful what a field of scholastic romance we have traveled

through, at the cost of a somewhat dusty journey.

Who were the original bookworms? From what point shall our

bibliographical notices date?--beyond or in advance of the monasticism?

The old clerks or copyists of the convents were the primitive bookworms

indubitably. Their occupation has been elevated by writers to a position

of moral philosophy. Dr. Dibdin, in his "Bibliomania," says, "Copying

excited insensibly a love of quiet, domestic order, and seriousness. I

am willing to admit every degree of merit to the manual dexterity of the

cloistered student. I admire his snow-white vellum missals, emblazoned

with gold, and sparkling with carmine and ultra-marine blue. By the help

of the microscopic glass I peruse his diminutive penmanship, executed

with the most astonishing neatness and regularity; his ink so glossy

black! Now and then, for a guinea or two, I purchase a specimen of such

marvelous legerdemain, but the book to me is a sealed book! Surely the

same exquisite and unrivaled beauty would have been exhibited in copying

an ode of Horace or a dictum of Quinctilian." With reference to this

allusion to the missal, it may be here worth while mentioning that the

most splendidly executed book of devotion known is the MS. volume, the

Bedford missal. It passed from the library of Harley, Earl of Oxford,

through various fortunes, until it finally found a resting-place in the

library of the Duchess of Portland. This antiquity is valued at 500

guineas.

As early as the sixth century, commenced the custom in some monasteries

of copying ancient books and composing new ones. In the fifteenth

century, the custom of keeping up monkish libraries had ceased, at least

in England.

The illustrious progenitors of bookworms were such personages as the

venerable Bede, Alfred the Great, and Theodore, Archbishop of

Canterbury. Friar Roger Bacon was also an intense bookworm. The noble

book-spirit by which the lives of the Oxford Athenians are recorded and

preserved, is now probably forgotten by the world. The student, however

reveres the name of old Anthony à Wood. The remembrance of his

researches amidst paper and parchment documents, stored up in chests and

desks, and upon which the moth was "feeding sweetly," is perpetuated in

bibliography. We follow in imagination his cautious step, and head

bowing from premature decay, and solemn air, and sombre visage, with

cane under the arm, pacing from library to library, through Gothic

quadrangles, or sauntering along the Isis on his way to some neighboring

village, where, may be, with some congenial Radcliffe, he would recreate

with pipe and pot. While the Bodleian and Ashmolean collections remain,

so long will the memory of his laudable exertions continue unimpaired.

Anthony à Wood was in person of a large, robust make, tall and thin, and

had a sedate and thoughtful look, almost bordering upon a melancholy

cast. Beneath a strange garb and coarse exterior, lay all that acuteness

of observation and retentiveness of memory, as well as inflexible

integrity, which marked his intellectual character. After he had by

continual drudging worn out his body, he left this world contentedly,

A.D. 1695.

In the early part of the seventeenth century, lived that very curious

collector of ancient popular little pieces, as well as lover of sacred,

secret soul soliloquies, that "melancholy Jaques," yclept Robert Burton.

He gave a multitude of books to the Bodleian Library. This original,

amusing, and _now popular_ author was an arrant book-hunter--a "devourer

of authors." Old Burton's constant companion was, we read, the eccentric

"Harry" Hastings, a bibliomaniac, yet also an ardent sportsman. Just

alighted from the toils of the chase, Harry Hastings, then in his

eightieth year, would partake of a substantial dinner, tipple his

tankard of ale dry, take his customary nap, wake up, rub his eyes, and

behold the "Anatomy of Melancholy" seated before the fire, his visage

buried in an opened folio! A rare old boy must have been this Hastings.

He is described as low of stature, but strong and active, of a ruddy

complexion, with flaxen hair. His clothes were always of Lincoln green.

His house was of the old fashion, in the midst of a large park well

stocked with game. He kept his hounds, and his great hall was commonly

strewed with marrow bones. He lived to be an hundred, and never lost his

eyesight nor used spectacles.

Richard Ashmole, the founder of the Ashmolean Museum, was an intimate of

the astrologer Lilly, and one of the queerest of bookworms. His life was

grotesquely checkered by family jars. He had a termagant wife, who, it

appears, was continually "taking the law of him in return for neglect,

cruelty," &c. Whether Ashmole was proof or not proof against this

peculiar kind of henpecking, we can not report; but it is certain that

his bodily health failed him in the course of his wife's persecution; he

sought to tinker up his constitution with quack medicines, of which he

became the victim.

The Bodleian and Ashmolean collections are emulated by the Harleian.

Harley, Earl of Oxford's attachment to books, and the large sums he

expended in forming the collection of MSS., have rendered the name

celebrated. The Harleian collection of MSS. was purchased by government

for the National Library; the purchase-money amounted to £10,000. Harley

lived in the middle of the seventeenth century.

A remarkable individual of the order of bookworm, was the musical

bibliomaniac, Thomas Britton. This curious character lived in the

Augustan age of Queen Anne. He came to London from a northern county,

and, after serving an humble apprenticeship, embarked in business as a

kind of costermonger; he was in the habit of actually crying his coals

about the street. His attire was a Guernsey frock; he carried a black

sack on his shoulders, and a coal measure in his hands. In this style he

was painted by Woollaston. Britton lived in Aylesbury-street,

Clerkenwell, where he fitted up a concert-room, the progenitor of the

great philharmonic and ancient nobility concerts of the present day. Sir

Robert l'Estrange was one of Britton's first patrons, and by his

reputation and example induced the fashionable world of those days to

patronize Britton's concerts, at which Handel, Phil Hart, Banister,

Dubourg the violinist, and others, performed to the genteelest of

audiences. The concert-room was literally but one floor over a

coal-shed; and the visitors had to climb up to it by a ladder fixed

outside of the house, and to sit under a low roof, against which they

could not avoid knocking their heads soundingly. Britton was no

composer, only a musician and book-collector. He collected works on the

occult art chiefly, and on music; his library sold for a large sum of

money in those times. He was quite a notoriety on account of the humble

trade he so openly followed, and the refined tastes he was known to

cultivate. One day passing nigh the house of Woollaston the painter, in

Warwick-lane, Britton, being in his work-a-day attire, gave out lustily

his well-known cry of "Small-coal." Woollaston's attention was

attracted, and he recognized in the voice that of his musical

acquaintance Britton, whom he had never seen in the pursuit of his

ordinary trade. The artist at once beckoned Britton in, and there and

then took his portrait as he sat, a veritable itinerant coal-dealer. The

portrait is most characteristic, and is now to be seen in the collection

of paintings of the British Museum. But we must notice the small-coal

man under his bibliopolic phase. A bibliomania raged among Queen Anne's

nobility. The Earls of Oxford, Pembroke, Sunderland, and Winchelsea, and

the Duke of Devonshire, were among the smitten. These personages, on

Saturdays, during the winter season, used to resort to the city, and,

there separating, take several routes to the booksellers' shops in

different parts of the town, to search out old volumes and MSS. Some

time before noon, they would assemble at the shop of Christopher

Bateman, a bookseller, at the corner of Ave Maria-lane, in

Paternoster-row (query, Little Britain?), where they were frequently met

by other persons engaged in the same pursuits, and a conversation

commenced on the subject of their inquiries. As nearly as possible to

the hour of twelve by St. Paul's clock, Britton (uniquely, the "Literary

Dustman" of his age), who by that time had finished his round, clad in

his blue frock, and pitching his sack of small coal on the bulk of Mr.

Bateman's shop window, used to go in and join them. After about an

hour's chat, the noblemen adjourned to the Mourning Bush Tavern at

Aldersgate (probably the site of the present Albion Tavern), where they

dined, and spent the remainder of the day. Poor Britton was indeed a

singular character, and died a death as singular as his life. He was, we

are told, of an excessively nervous temperament, which rendered him the

object occasionally of villainous practical jokes. Unfortunately he

incurred the enmity of Honeyman, the ventriloquist. On a certain day,

when Britton gave one of his nobility concerts in Aylesbury-street,

Honeyman attended. An opportunity occurring, a voice was heard at a

distance, which announced that Thomas Britton's hour was near and that

he had but a short time to remain in this world. Poor Britton was not

proof against the art of the malicious mimic. He felt the

ventriloquist's words as though they were a sacred augur; so deep an

impression did the incident make upon him, that he died, almost as

predicted, in a brief period, aged fifty-eight, 1714.

Browne Willis was another original of whom we are enabled to furnish a

few whimsical anecdotes. But we would reserve this respectful remark,

that the doctor was, notwithstanding oddities in externals and manners,

nevertheless a learned antiquary, and a good man. So were they all, all

learned antiquaries, and excellent men. His tastes led him chiefly to

the study of ecclesiastical relics. He visited every cathedral in

England and Wales. To these journeys he himself gave the name of

pilgrimages. Browne Willis lived in the latter part of the seventeenth

century. He was grandson of Dr. Thomas Willis, a celebrated physician,

and the first to reduce the theory of phrenology to order and system.

His person and dress are described by one who knew him well; they were

"so singular that, though a gentleman of £1000 per annum, he was often

taken for a beggar. An old leathern girdle or belt always surrounded the

two or three coats he wore, and over them an old blue cloak. He wrote

the worst hand of any man in England, such as he could with difficulty

read himself. His boots, which he almost always appeared in, were not

the least singular part of his dress. I suppose it would not be falsity

to say they were forty years old, patched and vamped up at various

times. They were all in wrinkles, and did not come up above half-way of

his legs. He was often called, in the neighborhood of Buckingham, 'Old

Wrinkle Boots.' The chariot of Mr. Willis was so singular, that from it

he was called himself, the 'Old Chariot.' It was his wedding chariot,

and had his arms on brass plates about it, not unlike a coffin, and

painted black." This rare antiquary was satirized by Dr. Darrell, in

some humorous and highly descriptive verses, of which the subjoined

couplets are a specimen:

"High on a hill his mansion stood

But gloomy dark within.

Here mangled books, as bones and blood,

Lie in a giant's den:

"Crude, undigested, half-devoured,

On groaning shelves they're thrown;

Such manuscripts no eye could read,

Nor hand write, but his own."

His wife having written a serious book, Browne Willis wrote on his own

copy of the work, "All the connection in this book is owing to the

book-binder." He delighted to joke upon Mrs. Willis's book and her

authorship.

INCIDENTS OF DUELING.

Dueling has fallen into desuetude, and very properly. Times have changed

marvelously. Fifty years ago, gentlemen by descent, by property, or by

profession, were only _esquired;_ now, if you _mistered_ an attorney's

clerk, the letter would be sent repudiated to the dead office. To him

only who was entitled to bear arms, an appeal to arms was allowed; and

had a man in trade, though worth a plum, in those days presumed to send

a message to a gentleman not in trade, nor worth a penny, the odds would

be considerable that the bearer of the cartel would have been

horsewhipped on the spot. Even liberty to share in certain amusements

was considered great condescension on the part of the aristocracy to men

who had founded their own fortunes, and accidental meetings at the

cover-side were never supposed to warrant aught beyond a field

acquaintance. A brutal, but striking anecdote which marked this then

prevailing feeling of exclusiveness, is told of the too-celebrated

George Robert Fitzgerald. One hunting day, when drawing a fox cover, he

observed a well-mounted and smartly-dressed young man join the company;

and on inquiring his name from the whipper, was informed that the

stranger was a neighboring apothecary.

"An apothecary!" exclaimed the master of hounds. "By Heaven! men's

impudence every day becomes more audacious! Why, it would not surprise

me after this, that an attorney should join our meeting next. Come, it

is time that this dealer in drugs should be taught that fox-hunting is a

trade practiced only by gentlemen;" and riding up to the unoffending

dabbler in Galenicals, he savagely flogged him off the field.

That dueling has been employed too frequently for bad purposes, by brave

men--and for bloody ones, by blackguards, has never been denied. The

page of history, in the fatal meeting between Buckingham and Shrewsbury,

strikingly exemplifies the former assertion. For the seduction of his

wife--Buckingham, by the way, had seduced his _own_--the injured earl

demanded, and obtained satisfaction. In accordance with the barbarous

custom of the times, the seconds--two on either side--engaged; on the

duke's side, Jenkins was left dead; on the earl's, Sir John Talbot was

severely wounded. Buckingham, however, received no hurt beyond a

scratch, and ran his antagonist through the body, thus adding murder to

seduction. The fair frail one was worthy of the ducal ruffian she had

attached herself to. Disguised as a page, from a neighboring coppice she

watched the combat, and slept with the murderer of her husband the same

night, although the shirt he wore bore bloody evidence of the foul

assassination he had just committed. It is reported that the last hours

of the adulteress were miserable, and the felon blow that relieved the

world of such an unscrupulous villain as the duke, in our poor thinking,

was nothing beyond simple retribution.

Another, and an opposite case, both in its results and causes, occurred

many years ago, when the writer of these pages was in Paris. The worst

and most dangerous companion upon earth is a gamester. "Nemo repente

fuit turpissimus;" which, according to Irish translation, meaneth, that

a man must be articled for five years to an attorney. As regards play,

we hold a different opinion, and believe that the course of

demoralization may be more rapidly effected by the _alea damnosa_ than

by law. To the proof:--even at the distance of a quarter of a century,

we must hold the name sacred; but there are old guardsmen who will

remember "Little Joe." A stouter soldier never headed a company. He was

kind, well-tempered, too generous probably, and every body liked him. In

money matters he was careless; had an early itch for play, and a sojourn

with the Army of Occupation confirmed a disease already rooted. In a

word, he abandoned a profession he could no longer continue in, and

became a regular gambler.

Joe was a first-rate shot, and also constitutionally pugnacious. He felt

his own degradation keenly, when to remedy it was too late; and a temper

naturally excitable, had now become most dangerous. Is there one

gamester out of twenty who, in a very few years, does not

go--circumstances only considered--to ruin? Joe formed no exception. He

lost _caste_, and fell, and fell, "deeper and deeper still," until he

reached that last degrading _status_ in society--a _chevalier

d'industrie_.

While engaged in his base vocation, a young citizen fell into the hands

of the gang with whom Joe, now a member of the body, regularly

confederated. The victim was a Londoner, and one, as it was represented,

who would stand plucking; and that very extensively. He had crossed the

Channel, like the thousand and one fools who flock annually to the

French capital to view Parisian lions, and, as a countryman, Little Joe

kindly undertook to play Mentor to this Cockney Telemachus. It was not a

difficult task for one who knew the world so well as Captain K---- to

worm himself into the confidence of a raw youth, and he easily

succeeded. In every point but one the intended victim was as pliant as

could be wished--but on that one he was most obstinate. He had a horror

of play. He would drink, racket about, dissipate, but name a game of

chance, and he started like a frightened steed. The period allotted by

"the governor at home," as he, in London parlance, termed his father,

had almost expired; and as plump a pigeon as ever a gambler dropped

upon, was about to return to the country-house he had quitted to see the

world, without losing a single feather. To the villainous confederation

that thought was maddening; and, as a last resource, a decoy duck was

tried--and one of the loveliest and most artful of the class, was

accidentally introduced by the gallant captain to Monsieur Callico, as

he derisively called the citizen.

To describe the progress of this gambling conspiracy would be a waste of

time. It was managed with consummate ability. The devoted youth became

desperately enamored of this friend, of the captain; he "told his love,"

and then came proof positive, that Greek and Roman friendship are not

comparable to the tremendous sacrifice of personal feeling, which you

may expect from a _café_ acquaintance. Damon returned in time to

substitute his own neck, and stay the execution of a gentleman called

Pythias, while

"Cato the sententious

Lent his fair lady to his friend Hortensius."

Now Captain K----, on learning the state of the young Londoner's

affections, although himself a secret worshiper at the shrine of the

same divinity, resigned his own pretensions, and actually undertook to

plead with the fair enslaver for his friend. Great was the intimacy, of

course, that succeeded; and at the apartments of Madame La C----,

morning, noon, and night, the young Englishman might have been found.

Play was cautiously introduced--nothing was staked excepting a mere

_bagatelle_--beyond the hazard of a trifle, it was evident that any

experiment would be dangerous. The day for the citizen's departure was

fixed, and it was pretty certain the bird would escape the net of the

fowler. Could he have been but led to play he would have been cheated

scientifically. That was not to be done, and nothing could succeed but

bold and downright felony.

Madame's birthday returned, as it did some twenty times a year; and she

gave a _petit souper_. K---- sent in the wine, and the citizen provided

the viands. A merrier evening could not be spent. Two or three ladies,

and as many gentlemen of high honor, favored La C---- with their

company. There was play, limited to a few francs, and on the

Englishman's part to gloves and garters. Supper was served--all was

hilarious--the wine circulated freely, and all the Londoner remembered

in the morning when he awoke with a burning head was, that he had become

unaccountably drunk, and got home he knew not how.

He strove to get up, but his temples throbbed almost to bursting. An

excess in wine had never affected him so before: could this arise from

simple drunkenness? The sensation was altogether new. The truth was he

had not been drunk, but drugged!

While rolling his aching head from side to side upon the pillow his

_lacquey de place_ announced his dear friend, the captain; and next

minute "Little Joe" was standing at his bedside.

"Good heaven!" exclaimed the citizen; "how awfully drunk I must have

been last night! My very brain's on fire."

"Drunk!" returned his companion; "you were not drunk but mad--what devil

possessed you to play? D--n it, you always swore you hated it, and every

score of _naps_ you lost you would, though I warned you, lay it on

thicker."

"Naps! play!" exclaimed the sick man with a stare; "why, what do you

mean? I am but in sorry mood for jesting. I do remember playing for and

losing some gloves and garters to the ladies."

"And let me tell you, I am in still less joking humor than yourself,"

returned the captain, in high dudgeon; "through your cursed obstinacy, I

played against my better judgment--and was cleaned by Count F---- out of

eighteen thousand francs. How shall I come to book? In the devil's name

how can I face my creditor this evening at Madame's réunion? The three

hundred naps I won from you will go but a short way to meet my losses. I

think I shall go mad."

"And I fancy that I am mad already," groaned the sufferer from the bed;

"do end this folly, K----."

"Did I not know you, I should fancy you intended me offense," replied

the captain, rather angrily; "what, have you such a conveniency of

memory as to forget that you lost three hundred naps to me, eight

hundred to the count, and five-and-forty to Madame La C----?"

Before the unhappy youth could find words to respond, the valet

announced another visitor, and Count F---- was shown in.

"Monsieur le Comte," pursued the gallant captain, "are you, too, in a

jesting mood? My young friend here can not be persuaded that we had a

little play last night. Excuse me paying but half my loss till evening;

and, in the mean time, accept these _billets de banque_," and "Little

Joe" handed the chevalier a roll of bank notes; "you will find there ten

thousand francs."

"Gentlemen," cried the astonished citizen, "I pray you end this farce. I

know I am indebted to madame heavily in gloves and ribbons."

"Why, fiends and furies!" exclaimed the captain, "do you pretend, sir,

to assert, that you did not lose three hundred naps to me?"

"Or that this acknowledgment for eight hundred was not given?"

The youth, astounded as he was, took the paper. It purported to be an

I.O.U., but the forgery was clumsy.

"That is not my writing--nor do I owe either of you a _sou_."

The scene that followed may be imagined. Instant payment, or a legal

security for the alleged debts was demanded--or the alternative--a

meeting in the Bois de Boulogne within two hours. Half bewildered, the

young dupe assented to give the latter--and at the time appointed he

alighted, without friend or weapon, at the place named for the duel, by

these infamous men.

Several other persons were on the ground, all strangers to the

unfortunate young man. Another attempt was made to induce him to admit

the debt of honor, and it was proposed that a reconciliation should take

place between him and his former friend, the captain. To do them

justice, the gentlemen unknown were ardent in their endeavors to

accommodate the matter, and persuade the citizen to pay the money, and

they were perfectly sincere in mediation on the occasion, for they were

all members of the same dishonest clique. But nothing could shake the

youth's determination to repudiate the infamous demand. Captain K----,

irritated to madness at his total failure, demanded that the duel should

instantly proceed--and the gang, as furious from the unexpected

disappointment, determined to murder one who could not be persuaded to

submit to bare-faced spoliation.

Never were two combatants more unequally opposed, than the young

merchant and the desperate gambler--the one, probably, had never

discharged a pistol in his life--the other, and within six months, had

killed his man on the very spot the doomed youth was standing.

Other and fouler circumstances went to render the result of the

impending duel almost a certainty. K---- fought with his own

pistols--with the firing signal he was particularly familiar--his back

was to the sun, and an open sky behind him. The scoundrel second, who

had volunteered his services, placed the young Englishman in a position

where the trunk of a large beech formed a leading line of fire, and the

stream of sunshine through the vista in the trees, was almost blinding.

To the intentional murderer and the intended victim, the loaded weapons

were delivered--a preparatory word was spoken, the signal fell. K----

coolly raised his pistol, while, by a snap-shot, the flurried Englishman

anticipated his executioner by a second. On that momentary advantage

life or death depended. The bully, shot directly through the heart, fell

on the sward, a dead man. While the bullet destined for the breast of

his antagonist, cut the grass harmlessly at the foot of the fortunate

survivor. Never was a thoughtless youth more providentially delivered by

accident from certain murder--nor a scoundrel sent to his account so

justly and unexpectedly as Captain K----.

In riding an hour after the affair had terminated in the forest, I met

the body of the dead gambler on a stretcher, _en route_ to the _Morgue_.

The decline of dueling, from the period it was made ancillary to

swindling, or to the settlement of disputes between vulgar scoundrels,

who could not lay the slightest claims to the title or privileges of

gentlemen, has been rapid and progressive, and its gross abuse did more

to remedy its own mischief, than moral appeals and legal enactments.

What but disgust can be created against a system when prostituted to the

purposes of sheer murder? When two drunken blackguards stagger from the

billiard-room to the field, and, by the scoundrels who attend them, are

permitted to carry a dispute, emanating in a question of scoring or not

scoring a point or two, to an extent that the most flagitious injury

would not warrant?

A more recent case which occurred in the neighborhood, and must be still

fresh in general recollection, may be adduced to prove how sadly the law

of honor is brought to the lowliest estimation. I allude to the case of

M----, killed by E----. A quarrel takes place in that sink of infamy, a

saloon--and the parties adjourn to Wimbledon to commit murder. One fire

is not enough, and, though a bullet passes through the hat of M----, the

seconds provide them with fresh weapons, and the wretched blackguard is,

on the next fire, shot dead. The ruffian who commits the murder, sees

the expiring wretch heaving his last sigh--and remarks to a casual

spectator, "I have done for the ----," using an epithet too disgusting to

be named. He, and the well-selected seconds, hurry off, without even

taking a parting glance at the prostrate victim. The surgeon, with his

friends, lugs the dead body into a cab. An inquest is held--"willful

murder" is returned, and thus ends, what the papers termed "an affair of

honor." And who were the blackguard actors in this cold-blooded tragedy?

E---- was son of a Taunton publican, and M---- a broken linen-draper.

Their companions were men of similar _caste_--for, unless gentility is

attached to brick-making, Y---- had no other claim.

The first duel I ever witnessed was one which, at the expiration of

forty years, is too vividly engrafted upon memory to be forgotten. I was

then a satcheled schoolboy; and before six o'clock on a beautiful summer

morning, was wending my way, slowly, of course, to the abiding place of

the country pedagogue at whose feet I was being indoctrinated. A

gentleman was sitting on a log of timber, and in him I recognized

Lieutenant V---- of the--th, a frequent visitor and guest at my father's

house. He spoke to me, and I sate down upon the beam, and a bullet he

had been rolling carelessly on the log of timber, was interchanged

between him and me for five minutes. He started suddenly on perceiving

three gentlemen advance from an opposite direction, put the ball in his

waistcoat pocket, and bade me hastily "good-morning." I watched him--saw

him join the strangers, and the whole party turned into a rope-yard. I

rose from the beam--shouldered my satchel, and as I passed the place

where the gentlemen had disappeared, I looked through the open gate.

Although not more than three or four minutes had elapsed, the

preliminary preparations for a duel had been completed, and my late

companion on the log of timber confronted his antagonist at the

customary distance of a dozen paces. At the moment I peeped in, the

seconds delivered a pistol to each combatant--stepped two or three yards

back--and the words "Ready, fire!" were rapidly pronounced. The reports

were so simultaneous that it seemed as if one shot only had been

discharged; and as, for a second or two afterward, both gentlemen

remained standing, I fancied all was right; but I was fatally

mistaken--the discharged weapon dropped from V----'s hand, and he

tottered and fell forward. The seconds raised him to a sitting posture,

and a little man hitherto concealed behind the hedge, came forward

hastily. He laid his finger on V----'s pulse, and then looked at the

pupil of the eye, and in a low voice muttered, "All is over!" For many a

month afterward that brief sentence sounded in my ear, and the falling

man was present in imagination. But before manhood came, an intimacy

with some amiable young Galway gentlemen at the Dublin University, and a

short probation in a Southern militia regiment wrought a happy change.

The organ of hearing, as Byron says, became

"More Irish and less nice"

and a twelvemonth's sojourn in that land of promise, which lieth between

the Shannon and Atlantic, completed the cure.

Like many an unnecessary appeal to arms, this fatal affair, in which a

young and gallant officer lost his life, originated in a trifling

misunderstanding.

In the same barrack, and at a very short time after this fatal meeting

(spring of 1807) one of the most lamentable affairs, which in the annals

of dueling is recorded, unfortunately took place. I allude to the fatal

encounter between Boyd and Campbell. The sad story is simply told.

The 21st were quartered in the town of Newry, and the half-yearly

inspection of the regiment had been made by General Kerr--when, as is

customary, the general and staff were entertained by the Fusileers. The

dinner was soon over--the staff retired--the officers went to the

play--and none remained in the mess-room, excepting Major Campbell and

Captain Boyd, the assistant-surgeon, and a lieutenant. Campbell, in

right of brevet rank, had commanded the regiment in the absence of the

colonel--and an argument took place between him and Captain Boyd,

whether a word of command that day used was correctly given. The latter

was a person of disagreeable manner--the former a man whose temper was

highly excitable--and each personally disliked the other, and were

tenacious equally of their own opinions. Campbell repudiated the charge

of incorrectness and Boyd as warmly maintained it. At last a crisis

came, "Heated with wine, and exasperated by what he conceived a

professional insult, Campbell left the table, hastened to his

apartments, loaded his pistols, returned, sent for Captain Boyd, brought

him to an inner mess-room, closed the door, and without the presence of

a friend or witness, demanded instant satisfaction. Shots were promptly

interchanged, and by the first fire Boyd fell, mortally wounded."

Thank God! for human nature--Buckinghams and T----s are not common.

Before five minutes passed the tornado of wild passion was over, and

rushing to the room where the dying man was laid, "a sorry sight!" in

Macbeth's words, surrounded by his frantic wife and infant family, the

homicide knelt at his bed-side, implored forgiveness, and wrung from him

a qualified admission that "all was fair." No attempt was made to arrest

him, and that night Campbell left the town and remained at Chelsea with

his lady and family for several months, under an assumed name. When the

summer assizes were approaching, he determined to surrender and stand

his trial; and although his legal advisers warned him that the step was

most perilous, he would not be dissuaded, and unhappily persevered.

He was, on the 13th of August, 1808, arraigned for "willful murder,"

pleaded "not guilty" in the usual form--the fact of the homicide was

admitted--and a number of officers, high in rank, attended, and gave the

prisoner the highest character for humanity. I did not hear the

evidence, and when I came into the court-house the jury for some time

had been considering their verdict. The trial had been tedious; twilight

had fallen, and the hall of justice, dull at best, was rendered gloomier

still from the partial glare of a few candles placed upon the bench,

where Judge Fletcher was presiding. A breathless anxiety pervaded the

assembly, and the ominous silence that reigned throughout the court was

unbroken by a single whisper. I felt an unusual dread--a sinking of the

heart--a difficulty of respiration, and as I looked round the melancholy

crowd, my eye rested on the judge. Fletcher was a thin, billious-looking

being, and his cold and marble features had caught an unearthly

expression from the shading produced by the accidental disposition of

the candles. I shuddered as I gazed upon him, for the fate of a fellow

creature was hanging upon the first words that would issue from the lips

of that stern and inflexible old man. From the judge my eyes turned to

the criminal, and what a subject the contrast offered to the artist's

pencil! In the front of the bar, habited in deep mourning, his arms

folded and crossed upon his breast, the homicide was awaiting the word

that should seal his destiny. His noble and commanding figure thrown

into an attitude of calm determination, was graceful and dignified; and

while on every countenance besides a sickening anxiety was visible,

neither the quivering of an eyelash, nor a motion of the lip, betrayed

on the prisoner's face the appearance of discomposure or alarm. Just

then a slight noise was heard--a door was slowly and softly opened--one

by one the jury returned to their box--the customary question was asked

by the clerk of the crown--and--"Guilty" was faintly answered,

accompanied with a recommendation to mercy. An agonizing pause

succeeded--the court was as silent as the grave--the prisoner bowed

respectfully to the jury, then planting his foot firmly on the floor, he

drew himself up to his full height and calmly listened to his doom.

Slowly Judge Fletcher assumed the fatal cap, and all unmoved, he

pronounced, and Campbell listened to, his sentence.

While the short address which sealed the prisoner's fate was being

delivered, the silence of the court was only broken by smothered sobs;

but when the sounds ceased, and, "Lord have mercy on your soul!" issued

from the ashy lips of the stern old man, a groan of horror burst from

the auditory, and the Highland soldiers, who thronged the court,

ejaculated a wild "Amen," while their flashing eyes betrayed how

powerfully the fate of their unhappy countryman had affected them. He

was removed from the bar--a doomed man--but no harsh restrictions were

imposed upon him, nor was he conducted to the gloomy apartment to which

condemned criminals after sentence were then consigned. From the moment

the unfortunate duelist had entered the prison gates, his mild and

gentlemanly demeanor had won the commiseration of all within; and the

governor, confident in the honor of his prisoner, subjected him to no

restraint. He occupied the apartments of the keeper, went over the

building as he pleased--received his friends--held unrestricted

communication with all that sought him--and, in fact, was a captive but

in name.

No man impersonated the grandeur of Byron's beautiful couplet so happily

as Campbell: when the hour of trial came,

"He died as sinful man should die

Without parade--without display,"

while, during the painful interval when the seat of mercy was appealed

to, and when, as it was generally considered, mercy would have been

extended, the most unmoved of all, as post after post brought not the

welcome tidings, was Campbell.

One anecdote is too characteristic to be omitted.

The commiseration of all classes was painfully increased by the length

of time that elapsed between the trial and death of Major Campbell. In

prison, he received from his friends the most constant and delicate

attention; and one lady, the wife of Captain ----, seldom left him. She

read to him, prepared his meals, cheered his spirits when he drooped,

and performed those gentle offices of kindness, so peculiarly the

province of a woman. When intelligence arrived that mercy could not be

extended, and the law must take its course, she boldly planned an escape

from prison; but Campbell, when she mentioned it, recoiled from a

proposition that must compromise his honor with the keeper. "What," he

exclaimed, when assured that otherwise his case was hopeless, "shall I

break my faith with him who trusted it? I know my fate, and am prepared

to meet it manfully; but never will I deceive the person who confided in

my honor."

Two evenings before he suffered, Mrs. ---- was earnestly urging him to

escape. The clock struck twelve, and Campbell hinted that it was time

she should retire. As usual, he accompanied her to the gate; and on

entering the keeper's room, they found him fast asleep. Campbell placed

his finger on his lip.

"Poor fellow," he said in a whisper, to his fair companion, "would it

not be a pity to disturb him?" then taking the keys softly from the

table, he unlocked the outer wicket.

"Campbell," said the lady, "this is the crisis of your fate; this is the

moment for your deliverance! Horses are in readiness, and--"

The convict put his hand upon her mouth. "Hush," he replied, as he

gently forced her out. "Would you have me violate my word of honor?"

Bidding her "good night," he locked the wicket carefully, replaced the

keys, and retired to his chamber without awakening the sleeping jailer!

His last hour was passed in prayer, and at noon he was summoned to pass

the grand ordeal which concludes the history of the hero and the

herdsman.

The drop, as it was called, was, in the Irish jails, attached to the

upper story of the building, a large iron-studded door, which hung

against the wall, and was only raised to a parallel position with the

door from which the criminal made his last exit, when that concluding

ceremony of the law was to be performed. Attended by the jail

chaplain--one who, in the last bitter trial, clave to the condemned

soldier closer than a brother--he steadily mounted the stairs, and

entered the execution room. The preliminaries of death were undergone

composedly; he bade a long farewell to those around, and stepped firmly

on the board. Twenty-thousand lookers-on filled the green in front of

the prison; and, strange accident! the Highland regiment with whom,

shoulder to shoulder, he had charged "the Invincibles" in Egypt, formed

a semicircle round the prison. In the north of Ireland, all is

decorously conducted. When he appeared, a deep and solemn silence awed

the multitude; and until he addressed the Highlanders in Gaelic, a

whisper might have been heard in the crowd. To the simple request of

"Pray for me!" a low deep groan responded, and every bonnet was removed.

He dropped a cambric handkerchief--down came the iron-bound door--it

sounded over the heads of the silent concourse like a thunder-clap; and,

in one minute, as brave a heart as ever beat upon a battle-field, had

ceased to throb.

Peace to the ashes of the brave! If a soldier's life, a Christian's end,

can atone for the sad consequences of unreining an ungovernable temper,

both can be honestly pleaded in extenuating poor Campbell's crime.

MAURICE TIERNAY, THE SOLDIER OF FORTUNE.[4]

[4] Continued from the September Number.

CHAPTER XL.

"THE CHATEAU OF ETTENHEIM."

I now come to an incident in my life, of which however briefly I may

speak, has left the deepest impression on my memory. I have told the

reader how I left Kuffstein fully satisfied that the Count de Marsanne

was Laura's lover, and that in keeping my promise to see and speak with

him, I was about to furnish an instance of self-denial and fidelity that

nothing in ancient or modern days could compete with.

The letter was addressed, "the Count Louis de Marsanne, Chateau

d'Ettenheim, à Bade," and thither I accordingly repaired, traveling over

the Arlberg to Bregenz, and across the Lake of Constance to Freyburg. My

passport contained a very few words in cipher, which always sufficed to

afford me free transit and every attention from the authorities. I had

left the southern Tyrol in the outburst of a glorious spring, but as I

journeyed northward I found the rivers frozen, the roads encumbered with

snow, and the fields untilled and dreary-looking. Like all countries

which derive their charms from the elements of rural beauty, foliage,

and verdure, Germany offers a sad-colored picture to the traveler in

winter or wintry weather.

It was thus then that the Grand Duchy, so celebrated for its picturesque

beauty, struck me as a scene of dreary and desolate wildness, an

impression which continued to increase with every mile I traveled from

the high road. A long unbroken flat, intersected here and there by

stunted willows, traversed by a narrow earth road, lay between the Rhine

and the Taunus Mountains, in the midst of which stood the village of

"Ettenheim." Outside the village, about half a mile off, and on the

border of a vast pine forest, stood the Chateau.

It was originally a hunting-seat of the dukes of Baden, but, from

neglect and disuse, gradually fell into ruin, from which it was

reclaimed, imperfectly enough, a year before, and now exhibited some

remnants of its former taste, along with the evidences of a far less

decorative spirit; the lower rooms being arranged as a stable, while the

stair and entrance to the first story opened from a roomy coach-house.

Here some four or five conveyances of rude construction were gathered

together, splashed and unwashed as if from recent use; and at a small

stove in a corner was seated a peasant in a blue frock smoking, as he

affected to clean a bridle which he held before him.

Without rising from his seat he saluted me, with true German phlegm, and

gave me the "Guten Tag," with all the grave unconcern of a "Badener." I

asked if the Count de Marsanne lived there. He said yes, but the "Graf"

was out hunting. When would he be back? By nightfall.

Could I remain there till his return? was my next question, and he

stared at me, as I put it, with same surprise. "Warum nicht," "Why not,"

was at last his sententious answer, as he made way for me beside the

stove. I saw at once that my appearance had evidently not entitled me to

any peculiar degree of deference or respect, and that the man regarded

me as his equal. It was true I had come some miles on foot, and with a

knapsack on my shoulder, so that the peasant was fully warranted in his

reception of me. I accordingly seated myself at his side, and, lighting

my pipe from his, proceeded to derive all the profit I could from

drawing him into conversation. I might have spared myself the trouble.

Whether the source lay in stupidity or sharpness, he evaded me on every

point. Not a single particle of information could I obtain about the

count, his habits, or his history. He would not even tell me how long he

had resided there, nor whence he had come. He liked hunting, and so did

the other "Herren." There was the whole I could scan, and to the simple

fact that there were others with him, did I find myself limited.

Curious to see something of the count's "interior," I hinted to my

companion that I had come on purpose to visit his master, and suggested

the propriety of my awaiting his arrival in a more suitable place; but

he turned a deaf ear to the hint, and dryly remarked that the "Graf

would not be long a-coming now." This prediction was, however, not to

be verified; the dreary hours of the dull day stole heavily on, and

although I tried to beguile the time by lounging about the place, the

cold ungenial weather drove me back to the stove, or to the dark

precincts of the stable, tenanted by three coarse ponies of the mountain

breed.

One of these was the Graf's favorite, the peasant told me, and indeed

here he showed some disposition to become communicative, narrating

various gifts and qualities of the unseemly looking animal, which, in

his eyes, was a paragon of horse flesh. "He could travel from here to

Kehl and back in a day, and has often done it," was one meed of praise

that he bestowed; a fact which impressed me more as regarded the rider

than the beast, and set my curiosity at work to think why any man should

undertake a journey of nigh seventy miles between two such places and

with such speed. The problem served to occupy me till dark, and I know

not how long after. A stormy night of rain and wind set in, and the

peasant, having bedded and foraged his cattle, lighted a rickety old

lantern and began to prepare for bed; for such I at last saw was the

meaning of a long crib, like a coffin, half-filled with straw and sheep

skins. A coarse loaf of black bread, some black forest cheese, and a

flask of Kleinthaler, a most candid imitation of vinegar, made their

appearance from a cupboard, and I did not disdain to partake of these

delicacies.

My host showed no disposition to become more communicative over his

wine, and, indeed, the liquor might have excused any degree of reserve;

and no sooner was our meal over than, drawing a great woolen cap half

over his face, he rolled himself up in his sheep-skins, and betook

himself to sleep, if not with a good conscience, at least with a sturdy

volition that served just as well.

Occasionally snatching a short slumber, or walking to and fro in the

roomy chamber, I passed several hours, when the splashing sound of

horses' feet, advancing up the miry road, attracted me. Several times

before that I had been deceived by noises which turned out to be the

effects of storm, but now, as I listened, I thought I could hear voices.

I opened the door, but all was dark outside; it was the inky hour before

daybreak, when all is wrapped in deepest gloom. The rain, too, was

sweeping along the ground in torrents. The sounds came nearer every

instant, and, at last, a deep voice shouted out, "Jacob." Before I could

awaken the sleeping peasant, to whom I judged this summons was

addressed, a horseman dashed up to the door and rode in; another as

quickly followed him, and closed the door.

"Parbleu, D'Egville," said the first who entered, "we have got a rare

peppering!"

"Even so," said the other, as he shook his hat, and threw off a cloak

perfectly soaked with rain; "à la guerre comme, à la guerre."

This was said in French, when, turning toward me, the former said in

German, "Be active, Master Jacob; these nags have had a smart ride of

it." Then, suddenly, as the light flashed full on my features, he

started back, and said, "How is this--who are you?"

A very brief explanation answered this somewhat uncourteous question,

and, at the same time, I placed the marquise's letter in his hand,

saying, "The Count de Marsanne, I presume?"

He took it hastily, and drew nigh to the lantern to peruse it. I had now

full time to observe him, and saw that he was a tall and well-built man,

of about seven or eight-and-twenty. His features were remarkably

handsome, and, although slightly flushed by his late exertion, were as

calm and composed as might be; a short black mustache gave his upper lip

a slight character of scorn, but the brow, open, frank, and

good-tempered in its expression, redeemed this amply. He had not read

many lines when, turning about, he apologized in the most courteous

terms for the manner of my reception. He had been on a shooting

excursion for a few days back, and taken all his people with him, save

the peasant who looked after the cattle. Then, introducing me to his

friend, whom he called Count d'Egville, he led the way up-stairs.

It would be difficult to imagine a greater contrast to the dark and

dreary coach-house than the comfortable suite of apartments which we now

traversed on our way to a large, well-furnished room, where a table was

laid for supper, and a huge wood fire blazed brightly on the hearth. A

valet, of most respectful manner, received the count's orders to prepare

a room for me, after which my host and his friend retired to change

their clothes.

Although D'Egville was many years older, and of a graver, sterner

fashion than the other, I could detect a degree of deference and respect

in his manner toward him, which De Marsanne accepted like one

well-accustomed to receive it. It was a time, however, when, in the

wreck of fortune, so many men lived in a position of mere dependence

that I thought nothing of this, nor had I even the time, as Count de

Marsanne entered. From my own preconceived notions as to his being

Laura's lover, I was quite prepared to answer a hundred impatient

inquiries about the marquise and her niece, and as we were now alone, I

judged that he would deem the time a favorable one to talk of them. What

was my surprise, however, when he turned the conversation exclusively to

the topic of my own journey, the route I had traveled. He knew the

country perfectly, and spoke of the various towns and their inhabitants

with acuteness and tact.

His royalist leanings did not, like those of the marquise, debar him

from feeling a strong interest respecting the success of the republican

troops, with whose leaders he was thoroughly acquainted, knowing all

their peculiar excellences and defaults as though he had lived in

intimacy with them. Of Bonaparte's genius he was the most enraptured

admirer, and would not hear of any comparison between him and the other

great captains of the day. D'Egville at last made his appearance, and we

sat down to an excellent supper, enlivened by the conversation of our

host, who, whatever the theme, talked well and pleasingly.

I was in a mood to look for flaws in his character, my jealousy was

still urging me to seek for whatever I could find fault with, and yet

all my critical shrewdness could only detect a slight degree of pride in

his manner, not displaying itself by any presumption, but by a certain

urbanity that smacked of condescension; but even this, at last, went

off, and before I wished him good-night, I felt that I had never met any

one so gifted with agreeable qualities, nor possessed of such

captivating manners, as himself. Even his royalism had its fascinations,

for it was eminently national, and showed, at every moment, that he was

far more of a Frenchman than a monarchist. We parted without one word of

allusion to the marquise or to Laura! Had this singular fact any

influence upon the favorable impression I had conceived of him, or was I

unconsciously grateful for the relief thus given to all my jealous

tormentings? Certain is it that I felt infinitely happier than I ever

fancied I should be under his roof, and, as I lay down in my bed,

thanked my stars that he was not my rival!

When I awoke the next morning I was some minutes before I could remember

where I was, and as I still lay, gradually recalling myself to memory,

the valet entered to announce the count.

"I have come to say adieu for a few hours," said he; "a very pressing

appointment requires me to be at Pfortzheim to-day, and I have to ask

that you will excuse my absence. I know that I may take this liberty

without any appearance of rudeness, for the marquise has told me all

about you. Pray, then, try and amuse yourself till evening, and we shall

meet at supper."

I was not sorry that D'Egville was to accompany him, and, turning on my

side, dozed off to sleep away some of the gloomy hours of a winter's

day.

In this manner several days were passed, the count absenting himself

each morning, and returning at nightfall, sometimes accompanied by

D'Egville, sometimes alone. It was evident enough, from the appearance

of his horses at his return, as well as from his own jaded looks, that

he had ridden hard and far; but except a chance allusion to the state of

the roads or the weather, it was a topic to which he never referred,

nor, of course, did I ever advert. Meanwhile our intimacy grew closer

and franker. The theme of politics, a forbidden subject between men so

separated, was constantly discussed between us, and I could not help

feeling flattered at the deference with which he listened to opinions

from one so much his junior, and so inferior in knowledge as myself.

Nothing could be more moderate than his views of government, only

provided that it was administered by the rightful sovereign. The claim

of a king to his throne he declared to be the foundation of all the

rights of property, and which, if once shaken or disputed, would

inevitably lead to the wildest theories of democratic equality. "I

don't want to convert you," would he say, laughingly, "the son of an old

_Garde du Corps_, the born gentleman, has but to live to learn. It may

come a little later or a little earlier, but you'll end as a good

monarchist."

One evening he was unusually late in returning, and when he came was

accompanied by seven or eight companions, some younger, some older than

himself, but all men whose air and bearing bespoke their rank in life,

while their names recalled the thoughts of old French chivalry. I

remember among them was a Coigny, a Grammont, and Rouchefoucauld--the

last as lively a specimen of Parisian wit and brilliancy as ever

fluttered along the sunny Boulevards.

De Marsanne, while endeavoring to enjoy himself and entertain his

guests, was, to my thinking, more serious than usual, and seemed

impatient at D'Egville's absence, for whose coming we now waited supper.

"I should not wonder if he was lost in the deep mud of those

cross-roads," said Coigny.

"Or perhaps he has fallen into the Republic," said Rouchefoucauld, "it's

the only thing dirtier that I know of."

"Monsieur forgets that I wear its cloth," said I in a low whisper to

him; and low as it was De Marsanne overheard it.

"Yes, Charles," cried he, "you must apologize, and on the spot, for the

rudeness."

Rouchefoucauld reddened and hesitated.

"I insist, sir," cried De Marsanne, with a tone of superiority I had

never seen him assume before.

"Perhaps," said he, with a half-sneer, "Monsieur de Tiernay might refuse

to accept my excuses?"

"In that case, sir," interposed De Marsanne, "the quarrel will become

mine, for he is _my_ guest, and lives here under the safeguard of _my_

honor."

Rouchefoucauld bowed submissively and with the air of a man severely but

justly rebuked; and then advancing to me, said, "I beg to tender you my

apology, monsieur, for an expression which should never have been

uttered by _me_ in _your_ presence."

"Quite sufficient, sir," said I, bowing, and anxious to conclude a scene

which for the first time had disturbed the harmony of our meetings.

Slight as was the incident, its effects were yet visible in the

disconcerted looks of the party, and I could see that more than one

glance was directed toward me with an expression of coldness and

distrust.

"Here comes D'Egville at last," said one, throwing open the window to

listen; the night was starlit, but dark, and the air calm and

motionless. "I certainly heard a horse's tread on the causeway."

"I hear distinctly the sound of several," cried Coigny; "and, if I

mistake not much, so does M. de Tiernay." This sudden allusion turned

every eye toward me, as I stood still, suffering from the confusion of

the late scene.

"Yes; I hear the tramp of horses, and cavalry, too, I should say, by

their measured tread."

"There was a trumpet call!" cried Coigny; "what does that mean?"

"It is the signal to take open order," said I, answering as if the

question were addressed to myself. "It is a picket taking a

'reconnaissance.'"

"How do you know that, sir?" said Grammont, sternly.

"Ay! how does he know that?" cried several, passionately, as they closed

around me.

"You must ask in another tone, messieurs," said I calmly, "if you expect

to be answered."

"They mean to say how do you happen to know the German trumpet-calls,

Tiernay," said De Marsanne, mildly, as he laid his hand on my arm.

"It's a French signal," said I; "I ought to know it well."

Before my words were well uttered the door was thrown open, and

D'Egville burst into the room, pale as death, his clothes all

mud-stained and disordered. Making his way through the others, he

whispered a few words in De Marsanne's ear.

"Impossible!" cried the other; "we are here in the territory of the

margrave?"

"It is as I say," replied D'Egville; "there's not a second to lose--it

may be too late even now--by heavens it is!--they've drawn a cordon

round the chateau."

"What's to be done, gentlemen?" said De Marsanne, seating himself

calmly, and crossing his arms on his breast.

"What do _you_ say, sir?" cried Grammont, advancing to me with an air of

insolent menace, "_you_, at least, ought to know the way out of this

difficulty."

"Or, by Heaven, his own road shall be one of the shortest, considering

the length of the journey," muttered another, and I could hear the sharp

click of a pistol cock as he spoke the words.

"This is unworthy of _you_, gentlemen, and of _me_," said De Marsanne,

haughtily; and he gazed around him with a look that seemed to abash

them, "nor is it a time to hold such disputation. There is another and a

very difficult call to answer. Are we agreed"--before he could finish

the sentence the door was burst open, and several dragoons in French

uniforms entered, and ranged themselves across the entrance, while a

colonel, with, his sabre drawn, advanced in front of them.

"This is brigandage," cried De Marsanne, passionately, as he drew his

sword, and seemed meditating a spring through them; but he was

immediately surrounded by his friends and disarmed. Indeed nothing could

be more hopeless than resistance; more than double our number were

already in the room, while the hoarse murmur of voices without, and the

tramp of heavy feet, announced a strong party.

At a signal from their officer, the dragoons unslung their carbines, and

held them at the cock when the colonel called out, "Which of you,

messieurs, is the Duc d'Enghien?"

"If you come to arrest him," replied De Marsanne, "you ought to have his

description in your warrant."

"Is the descendant of a Condé ashamed to own his name?" asked the

colonel, with a sneer. "But we'll make short work of it, sirs; I arrest

you all. My orders are peremptory, messieurs. If you resist, or attempt

to escape--" and he made a significant sign with his hand to finish. The

"Duc"--for I need no longer call him "De Marsanne"--never spoke a word,

but with folded arms calmly walked forward, followed by his little

household. As we descended the stairs, we found ourselves in the midst

of about thirty dismounted dragoons, all on the alert, and prepared for

any resistance. The remainder of the squadron were on horseback without.

With a file of soldiers on either hand we marched for about a quarter of

a mile across the fields to a small mill, where a general officer and

his staff seemed awaiting our arrival. Here, too, a picket of

gens-d'armes was stationed; a character of force significant enough of

the meaning of the enterprise. We were hurriedly marched into the court

of the mill, the owner of which stood between two soldiers, trembling

from head to foot with terror.

"Which is the Duc D'Enghien?" asked the colonel of the miller.

"That is he with the scarlet vest," and the prince nodded an assent.

"Your age, monsieur?" asked the colonel of the prince.

"Thirty-two--that is, I should have been so much in August, were it not

for this visit," said he, smiling.

The colonel wrote on rapidly for a few minutes, and then showed the

paper to the general, who briefly said, "Yes, yes; this does not concern

you nor me."

"I wish to ask, sir," said the prince, addressing the general, "do you

make this arrest with the consent of the authorities of this country, or

do you do so in defiance of them?"

"You must reserve questions like that for the court who will judge you,

Monsieur de Condé," said the officer, roughly. "If you wish for any

articles of dress from your quarters, you had better think of them. My

orders are to convey you to Strassburg. Is there any thing so singular

in the fact, sir, that you should look so much astonished?"

"There is, indeed," said the prince, sorrowfully. "I shall be the first

of my house who ever crossed that frontier a prisoner."

"But not the first who carried arms against his country," rejoined the

other, a taunt the duke only replied to by a look of infinite scorn and

contempt. With a speed that told plainly the character of the

expedition, we were now placed, two together, on country cars, and

driven at a rapid pace toward Strassburg. Relays of cattle awaited us on

the road, and we never halted but for a few minutes during the entire

journey. My companion on this dreary day was the Baron de St. Jacques,

the aid-de-camp to the duke; but he never spoke once--indeed he scarcely

lifted his head during the whole road.

Heaven knows it was a melancholy journey; and neither the country nor

the season were such as to lift the mind from sorrow; and yet, strange

enough, the miles glided over rapidly, and to this hour I can not

remember by what magic the way seemed so short. The thought that for

several days back I had been living in closest intimacy with a

distinguished prince of the Bourbon family, that we had spent hours

together discussing themes and questions which were those of his own

house; canvassing the chances and weighing the claims of which he was

himself the asserter--was a most exciting feeling. How I recalled now

all the modest deference of his manner--his patient endurance of my

crude opinions--his generous admissions regarding his adversaries--and,

above all, his ardent devotion to France, whatever the hand that swayed

her destinies; and then the chivalrous boldness of his character,

blended with an almost girlish tenderness--how princely were such

traits?

From these thoughts I wandered on to others about his arrest and

capture, from which, however, I could not believe any serious issue was

to come. Bonaparte is too noble minded not to feel the value of such a

life as this. Men like the prince can be more heavily fettered by

generous treatment than by all the chains that ever bound a felon. But

what will be done with him?--what with his followers?--and lastly, not

at all the pleasantest consideration, what is to come of Maurice

Tiernay, who, to say the least, has been found in very suspicious

company, and without a shadow of an explanation to account for it? This

last thought just occurred to me as we crossed over the long bridge of

boats, and entered Strassburg.

CHAPTER XLI.

AN "ORDINARY" ACQUAINTANCE.

The Duc D'Enghien and his aid-de-camp were forwarded with the utmost

speed to Paris; the remainder of us were imprisoned at Strassburg. What

became of my companions I know not; but I was sent on, along with a

number of others, about a month later, to Nancy, to be tried by a

military commission. I may mention it here, as a singular fact

illustrating the secrecy of the period, that it was not till long after

this time I learned the terrible fate of the poor Prince de Condé. Had I

known it, it is more than probable that I should have utterly despaired

of my own safety. The dreadful story of Vincennes--the mock trial, and

the midnight execution--are all too well known to my readers; nor is it

necessary I should refer to an event, on which I myself can throw no new

light. That the sentence was determined on before his arrest--and that

the grave was dug while the victim was still sleeping the last slumber

before "the sleep that knows not waking"--the evidences are strong and

undeniable. But an anecdote which circulated at the time, and which, so

far as I know, has never appeared in print, would seem to show that

there was complicity, at least, in the crime, and that the secret was

not confined to the First Consul's breast.

On that fatal night of the 20th March, Talleyrand was seated at a

card-table at Caulaincourt's house at Paris. The party was about to rise

from play, when suddenly the "pendule" on the chimney-piece struck two.

It was in one of those accidental pauses in the conversation when any

sound is heard with unusual distinctness. Talleyrand started, as he

heard it, and then turning to Caulaincourt, whispered, "Yes; 'tis all

over now?" words which, accidentally overheard, without significance,

were yet to convey a terrible meaning when the dreadful secret of that

night was disclosed.

If the whole of Europe was convulsed by the enormity of this crime--the

foulest that stains the name of Bonaparte--the Parisians soon forgot it,

in the deeper interest of the great event that was now approaching--the

assumption of the imperial title by Napoleon.

The excitement on this theme was so great and absorbing, that nothing

else was spoken or thought of. Private sorrows and afflictions were

disregarded and despised, and to obtrude one's hardships on the notice

of others seemed, at this juncture, a most ineffable selfishness. That

I, a prisoner, friendless and unknown as I was, found none to sympathize

with me or take interest in my fate, is, therefore, nothing

extraordinary. In fact, I appeared to have been entirely forgotten; and

though still in durance, nothing was said either of the charge to be

preferred against me, nor the time when I should be brought to trial.

Giacourt, an old lieutenant of the marines, and at that time

deputy-governor of the Temple, was kind and good-natured toward me,

occasionally telling of the events which were happening without, and

giving me the hope that some general amnesty would, in all likelihood,

liberate all those whose crimes were not beyond the reach of mercy. The

little cell I occupied--and to Giacourt's kindness I owed the sole

possession of it--looked out upon the tall battlements of the outer

walls, which excluded all view beyond, and thus drove me within myself

for occupation and employment. In this emergency I set about to write

some notices of my life--some brief memoirs of those changeful fortunes

which had accompanied me from boyhood. Many of those incidents which I

relate now, and many of those traits of mind or temper that I recall,

were then for the first time noted down, and thus graven on my memory.

My early boyhood, my first experiences as a soldier, the campaign of the

"Schwarzwald," Ireland, and Genoa, all were mentioned, and, writing as I

did, solely for myself and my own eyes, I set down many criticisms on

the generals, and their plans of campaign, which, if intended for the

inspection of others, would have been the greatest presumption and

impertinence, and in this way Moreau, Hoche, Massena, and even

Bonaparte, came in for a most candid and impartial criticism.

How Germany might have been conquered; how Ireland ought to have been

invaded; in what way Italy should have been treated, and lastly, the

grand political error of the seizure of Duc D'Enghein, were subjects

that I discussed and determined with consummate boldness and

self-satisfaction. I am almost overwhelmed with shame, even now, as I

think of that absurd chronicle, with its rash judgments, its crude

opinions and its pretentious decisions.

So fascinated had I become with my task, that I rose early to resume it

each morning, and used to fall asleep, cogitating on the themes for the

next day, and revolving within myself all the passages of interest I

should commemorate. A man must have known imprisonment to feel all the

value that can be attached to any object, no matter how mean or

insignificant, that can employ the thoughts, amuse the fancy, or engage

the affections. The narrow cell expands under such magic, the barred

casement is a free portal to the glorious sun and the free air; the

captive himself is but the student bending over his allotted task. To

this happy frame of mind had I come, without a thought or a wish beyond

the narrow walls at either side of me, when a sad disaster befell me. On

awaking one morning, as usual, to resume my labor, my manuscript was

gone! the table and writing materials, all had disappeared, and, to

increase my discomfiture, the turnkey informed me that Lieutenant

Giacourt had been removed from his post, and sent off to some inferior

station in the provinces.

I will not advert to the dreary time which followed this misfortune, a

time in which the hours passed on unmeasured and almost unfelt. Without

speculation, without a wish, I passed my days in a stupid indolence akin

to torpor. Had the prison doors been open, I doubt if I should have had

the energy to make my escape. Life itself ceased to have any value for

me, but somehow I did not desire death. I was in this miserable mood

when the turnkey awoke me one day as I was dozing on my bed. "Get up and

prepare yourself to receive a visitor," said he. "There's an officer of

the staff without, come to see you;" and, as he spoke, a young,

slightly-formed man entered, in the uniform of a captain, who, making a

sign for the turnkey to withdraw, took his seat at my bedside.

"Don't get up, monsieur; you look ill and weak, so, pray, let me not

disturb you," said he, in a voice of kindly meaning.

"I am not ill," said I, with an effort, but my hollow utterance and my

sunken cheeks contradicted my words, "but I have been sleeping; I

usually doze at this hour."

"The best thing a man can do in prison, I suppose," said he, smiling

good-naturedly.

"No, not the best," said I, catching up his words too literally. "I used

to write the whole day long, till they carried away my paper and my

pens."

"It is just of that very thing I have come to speak, sir," resumed he.

"You intended that memoir for publication!"

"No; never."

"Then for private perusal among a circle of friends."

"Just as little. I scarcely know three people in the world who would

acknowledge that title."

"You had an object, however, in composing it?"

"Yes; to occupy thought; to save me from--from--" I hesitated, for I was

ashamed of the confession that nearly burst from me, and, after a pause,

I said, "from being such as I now am?"

"You wrote it for yourself alone, then?"

"Yes."

"Unprompted; without any suggestions from another?"

"Is it here?" said I, looking around my cell, "Is it here that I should

be likely to find a fellow-laborer?"

"No; but I mean to ask, were the sentiments your own, without any

external influence, or any persuasions from others?"

"Quite my own."

"And the narrative is true?"

"Strictly so, I believe."

"Even to your meeting with the Duc D'Enghien. It was purely accidental?"

"That is, I never knew him to be the duke till the moment of his

arrest?"

"Just so; you thought he was merely a royalist noble. Then, why did you

not address a memoir to that effect to the minister?"

"I thought it would be useless; when they made so little of a Condé,

what right had I to suppose they would think much about me?"

"If _he_ could have proved his innocence"--he stopped, and then in an

altered voice said--"but as to this memoir, you assume considerable airs

of military knowledge in it, and many of the opinions smack of heads

older than yours."

"They are, I repeat, my own altogether; as to their presumption, I have

already told you they were intended solely for my own eye."

"So that you are not a royalist?"

"No."

"Never were one?"

"Never."

"In what way would you employ yourself, if set at liberty to-day."

I stared, and felt confused; for however easy I found it to refer to the

past, and reason on it, any speculation as to the future was a

considerable difficulty.

"You hesitate; you have not yet made up your mind, apparently?"

"It is not that; I am trying to think of liberty, trying to fancy myself

free--but I can not!" said I, with a weary sigh; "the air of this cell

has sapped my courage and my energy--a little more will finish the

ruin!"

"And yet you are not much above four or five-and-twenty years of age?"

"Not yet twenty!" said I.

"Come, come, Tiernay--this is too early to be sick of life!" said he,

and the kind tone touched me so that I burst into tears. They were

bitter tears, too; for while my heart was relieved by this gush of

feeling, I was ashamed at my own weakness. "Come, I say," continued he,

"this memoir of yours might have done you much mischief--happily it has

not done so. Give me the permission to throw it in the fire, and,

instead of it, address a respectful petition to the head of the state,

setting forth your services, and stating the casualty by which you were

implicated in royalism. I will take care that it meets his eye, and, if

possible, will support its prayer; above all, ask for reinstatement in

your grade, and a return to the service. It may be, perhaps, that you

can mention some superior officer who would vouch for your future

conduct."

"Except Colonel Mahon."

"Not the Colonel Mahon who commanded the 13th Cuirassiers?"

"The same!"

"That name would little serve you," said he, coldly, "he has been placed

'en retraite' some time back; and if your character can call no other

witness than him, your case is not too favorable." He saw that the

speech had disconcerted me, and soon added, "Never mind--keep to the

memoir; state your case, and your apology, and leave the rest to

fortune. When can you let me have it?"

"By to-morrow--to-night, if necessary."

"To-morrow will do well, and so good-by. I will order them to supply you

with writing materials;" and slapping me good-naturedly on the shoulder,

he cried, "Courage, my lad," and departed.

Before I lay down to sleep that night, I completed my "memoir," the

great difficulty of which I found to consist in that dry brevity which I

knew Bonaparte would require. In this, however, I believe I succeeded at

last, making the entire document not to occupy one sheet of paper. The

officer had left his card of address, which I found was inscribed

Monsieur Bourrienne, Rue Lafitte, a name that subsequently was to be

well known to the world.

I directed my manuscript to his care, and lay down with a lighter heart

than I had known for many a day. I will not weary my reader with the

tormenting vacillations of hope and fear which followed. Day after day

went over, and no answer came to me. I addressed two notes respectful,

but urgent, begging for some information as to my demand--none came. A

month passed thus, when, one morning, the governor of the Temple entered

my room with an open letter in his hand.

"This is an order for your liberation, Monsieur de Tiernay," said he;

"you are free."

"Am I reinstated in my grade?" asked I, eagerly.

He shook his head, and said nothing.

"Is there no mention of my restoration to the service?"

"None, sir."

"Then, what is to become of me--to what end am I liberated?" cried I,

passionately.

"Paris is a great city, there is a wide world beyond it, and a man so

young as you are must have few resources, or he will carve out a good

career for himself."

"Say, rather, he must have few resentments, sir," cried I, bitterly, "or

he will easily hit upon a bad one;" and with this, I packed up the few

articles I possessed, and prepared to depart.

I remember it well; it was between two and three o'clock of the

afternoon, on a bright day in spring, that I stood on the Quai Voltaire,

a very small packet of clothes in a bundle in one hand, and a cane in

the other, something short of three louis in my purse, and as much

depression in my heart as ever settled down in that of a youth not full

nineteen. Liberty is a glorious thing, and mine had been periled often

enough, to give me a hearty appreciation of its blessing; but at that

moment, as I stood friendless and companionless in a great thoroughfare

of a great city, I almost wished myself back again within the dreary

walls of the Temple, for somehow it felt like home! It is true one must

have had a lonely lot in life before he could surround the cell of a

prison with such attributes as these! Perhaps I have more of the

cat-like affection for a particular spot than most men; but I do find

that I attach myself to the walls with a tenacity that strengthens as I

grow older, and like my brother parasite, the ivy, my grasp becomes more

rigid the longer I cling.

If I know of few merely sensual gratifications higher than a lounge

through Paris, at the flood-tide of its population, watching the varied

hues and complexions of its strange inhabitants, displaying, as they do

in feature, air, and gesture, so much more of character and purpose than

other people, so also do I feel that there is something indescribably

miserable in being alone, unknown, and unnoticed in that vast throng,

destitute of means for the present, and devoid of hope for the future.

Some were bent on business, some on pleasure; some were evidently bent

on killing time till the hour of more agreeable occupation should

arrive; some were loitering along, gazing at the prints in shop-windows,

or half-listlessly stopping to read at book-stalls. There was not only

every condition of mankind, from wealth to mendicancy, but every frame

of mind from enjoyment to utter "ennui," and yet I thought I could not

hit upon any one individual who looked as forlorn and cast away as

myself; however, there were many who passed me that day who would gladly

have changed fortune with me, but it would have been difficult to

persuade me of the fact, in the mood I then was.

At the time I speak of, there was a species of cheap ordinary held in

the open air on the quay, where people of the humblest condition used to

dine; I need scarcely describe the fare; the reader may conceive what it

was, which, wine included, cost only four sous; a rude table without a

cloth; some wooden platters, and an iron rail to which the knives and

forks were chained, formed the "equipage," the cookery bearing a due

relation to the elegance of these "accessories." As for the company, if

not polite, it was certainly picturesque; consisting of laborers of the

lowest class, the sweepers of crossings, hackney-cab men out of employ,

that poorest of the poor who try to earn a livelihood by dragging the

Seine for lost articles, and finally, the motley race of idlers who

vacillate between beggary and ballad singing, with now and then a dash

at highway robbery for a "distraction;" a class, be it said without

paradox, which in Paris includes a considerable number of tolerably

honest folk.

The moment was the eventful one, in which France was about once more to

become a monarchy, and as may be inferred from the character of the

people, it was a time of high excitement and enthusiasm. The nation,

even in its humblest citizen, seemed to feel some of the reflected glory

that glanced from the great achievements of Bonaparte, and his elevation

was little other than a grand manifestation of national self-esteem.

That he knew how to profit by this sentiment, and incorporate his own

with the country's glory, so that they seemed to be inseparable, is not

among the lowest nor the least of the efforts of his genius.

The paroxysm of national vanity, for it was indeed no less, imparted a

peculiar character to the period. A vainglorious, boastful spirit was

abroad; men met each other with high sounding gratulations about French

greatness and splendor, the sway we wielded over the rest of Europe, and

the influence with which we impressed our views over the entire globe.

Since the fall of the monarchy there had been half-a-dozen national

fevers! There was the great Fraternal and Equality one; there was the

era of classical associations, with all their train of trumpery

affectation in dress and manner.

Then came the conquering spirit, with the flattering spectacle of great

armies; and now, as if to complete the cycle, there grew up that

exaggerated conception of "France and her Mission," an unlucky phrase

that has since done plenty of mischief, which seemed to carry the nation

into the seventh heaven of overweening self-love.

If I advert to this here, it is but passingly, neither stopping to

examine its causes nor seeking to inquire the consequences that ensued

from it, but, as it were, chronicling the fact as it impressed me as I

stood that day on the Quai Voltaire, perhaps the only unimpassioned

lounger along its crowded thoroughfare.

Not even the ordinary "à quatre sous" claimed exemption from this

sentiment. It might be supposed that meagre diet and sour wine were but

sorry provocatives to national enthusiasm, but even they could minister

to the epidemic ardor, and the humble dishes of that frugal board

masqueraded under titles that served to feed popular vanity. Of this I

was made suddenly aware as I stood looking over the parapet into the

river, and heard the rude voices of the laborers as they called for

cutlets "à la Caire," potatoes "en Mamelouques," or roast beef "à la

Montenotte," while every goblet of their wine was tossed off to some

proud sentiment of national supremacy.

Amused by the scene, so novel in all its bearings, I took my place at

the table, not sorry for the excuse to myself for partaking so humble a

repast.

"Sacre bleu," cried a rough-looking fellow with a red night-cap set on

one side of the head, "make room there, we have the 'aristocrates'

coming down among us."

"Monsieur is heartily welcome," said another, making room for me; "we

are only flattered by such proofs of confidence and esteem."

"Ay, parbleu," cried a third. "The Empire is coming, and we shall be

well-bred and well-mannered. I intend to give up the river, and take to

some more gentlemanlike trade than drudging for dead men."

"And I, I'll never sharpen any thing under a rapier or a dress-sword for

the court," said a knife-grinder; "we have been living like 'cannaille'

hitherto--nothing better."

"À l'empire, à l'empire," shouted half-a-dozen voices in concert, and

the glasses were drained to the toast with a loud cheer.

Directly opposite to me sat a thin, pale, mild-looking man, of about

fifty, in a kind of stuff robe, like the dress of a village curate. His

appearance, though palpably poor, was venerable and imposing--not the

less so, perhaps, from its contrast with the faces and gestures at

either side of him. Once or twice, while these ebullitions of enthusiasm

burst forth, his eyes met mine, and I read, or fancied that I read, a

look of kindred appreciation in their mild and gentle glance. The

expression was less reproachful than compassionate, as though in pity

for the ignorance rather than in reprobation for the folly. Now,

strangely enough, this was precisely the very sentiment of my own heart

at that moment. I remembered a somewhat similar enthusiasm for

republican liberty, by men just as unfitted to enjoy it; and I thought

to myself the Empire, like the Convention, or the Directory, is a mere

fabulous conception to these poor fellows, who, whatever may be the

regime, will still be hewers of wood and drawers of water, to the end of

all time.

As I was pondering over this, I felt something touch my arm, and on

turning perceived that my opposite neighbor had now seated himself at my

side, and, in a low, soft voice, was bidding me "Good-day." After one or

two commonplace remarks upon the weather and the scene, he seemed to

feel that some apology for his presence in such a place was needful, for

he said:

"You are here, monsieur, from a feeling of curiosity, that, I see well

enough; but I come for a very different reason. I am the pastor of a

mountain village of the Ardêche, and have come to Paris in search of a

young girl, the daughter of one of my flock, who, it is feared, has been

carried off by some evil influence from her home and her friends, to

seek fortune and fame in this rich capital; for she is singularly

beautiful and gifted too, sings divinely, and improvises poetry with a

genius that seems inspiration."

There was a degree of enthusiasm, blended with simplicity, in the poor

curé's admiration for his "lost sheep" that touched me deeply. He had

been now three weeks in vain pursuit, and was at last about to return

homeward, discomfited and unsuccessful. "Lisette" was the very soul of

the little hamlet, and he knew not how life was to be carried on there

without her. The old loved her as a daughter; the young were rivals for

her regard.

"And to me," said the père, "whom, in all the solitude of my lonely lot,

literature, and especially poetry, consoles many an hour of sadness or

melancholy--to me, she was like a good angel, her presence diffusing

light as she crossed my humble threshold, and elevating my thoughts

above the little crosses and accidents of daily life."

So interested had I become in this tale, that I listened while he told

every circumstance of the little locality; and walking along at his

side, I wandered out of the city, still hearing of "La Marche," as the

village was called, till I knew the ford where the blacksmith lived, and

the miller with the cross wife, and the lame schoolmaster, and Pierre

the postmaster, who read out the _Moniteur_ each evening under the elms,

even to Jacques Fulgeron the "tapageur," who had served at Jemappes,

and, with his wounded hand and his waxed mustache, was the terror of all

peaceable folk.

"You should come and see us, my dear monsieur," said he to me, as I

showed some more than common interest in the narrative. "You, who seem

to study character, would find something better worth the notice than

these hardened natures of city life. Come, and spend a week or two with

me, and if you do not like our people and their ways, I am but a sorry

physiognomist."

It is needless to say that I was much flattered by this kind proof of

confidence and good-will; and, finally, it was agreed upon between us

that I should aid him in his search for three days, after which, if

still unsuccessful, we should set out together for La Marche. It was

easy to see that the poor curé was pleased at my partnership in the

task, for there were several public places of resort--theatres,

"spectacles," and the like--to which he scrupled to resort, and these he

now willingly conceded to my inspection, having previously given me so

accurate a description of La Lisette, that I fancied I should recognize

her among a thousand. If her long black eyelashes did not betray her,

her beautiful teeth were sure to do so; or, if I heard her voice, there

could be no doubt then; and, lastly, her foot would as infallibly

identify her as did Cinderella's.

For want of better, it was agreed upon that we should make the

Restaurant à Quatre Sous our rendezvous each day, to exchange our

confidences and report progress. It will scarcely be believed how even

this much of a pursuit diverted my mind from its own dark dreamings, and

how eagerly my thoughts pursued the new track that was opened to them.

It was the utter listlessness, the nothingness of my life, that was

weighing me down; and already I saw an escape from this in the pursuit

of a good object. I could wager that the pastor of La Marche never

thought so intensely, so uninterruptedly, of Lisette as did I for the

four-and-twenty hours that followed! It was not only that I had created

her image to suit my fancy, but I had invented a whole narrative of her

life and adventures since her arrival in Paris.

My firm conviction being that it was lost time to seek for her in

obscure and out-of-the-way quarters of the city, I thought it best to

pursue the search in the thronged and fashionable resorts of the gay

world, the assemblies and theatres. Strong in this conviction, I changed

one of my three gold pieces, to purchase a ticket for the opera. The

reader may smile at the sacrifice; but when he who thinks four sous

enough for a dinner, pays twelve francs for the liberty to be crushed in

the crowded parterre of a play-house, he is indeed buying pleasure at a

costly price. It was something more than a fifth of all I possessed in

the world, but, after all, my chief regret arose from thinking that it

left me so few remaining "throws of the dice" for "Fortune."

I have often reflected since that day by what a mere accident I was

present, and yet the spectacle was one that I have never forgotten. It

was the last time the First Consul appeared in public, before his

assumption of the imperial title; and at no period through all his great

career was the enthusiasm more impassioned regarding him. He sat in the

box adjoining the stage--Cambaceres and Lebrun, with a crowd of others,

standing, and not sitting, around and behind his chair. When he

appeared, the whole theatre rose to greet him, and three several times

was he obliged to rise and acknowledge the salutations. And with what a

stately condescension did he make these slight acknowledgments!--what

haughtiness was there in the glance he threw around him. I have often

heard it said, and I have seen it also written, that previous to his

assumption of the crown, Bonaparte's manner exhibited the mean arts and

subtle devices of a candidate on the hustings, dispensing all the

flatteries and scattering all the promises that such occasions are so

prolific of. I can not, of course, pretend to contradict this statement

positively; but I can record the impression which that scene made upon

me as decidedly the opposite of this assumption. I have repeatedly seen

him since that event, but never do I remember his calm, cold features

more impassively stern, more proudly collected, than on that night.

Every allusion of the piece that could apply to him was eagerly caught

up. Not a phrase nor a chance word that could compliment, was passed

over in silence; and if greatness and glory were accorded, as if by an

instinctive reverence, the vast assemblage turned toward him, to lay

their homage at his feet. I watched him narrowly, and could see that he

received them all as his rightful tribute, the earnest of the debt the

nation owed him. Among the incidents of that night, I remember one which

actually for the moment convulsed the house with its enthusiasm. One of

the officers of his suite had somehow ambled against Bonaparte's hat,

which, on entering, he had thrown carelessly beside his chair. Stooping

down and lifting it up, he perceived to whom it belonged, and then

remarking the mark of a bullet on the edge, he showed it significantly

to a general near him. Slight and trivial as was the incident, it was

instantly caught up by the _parterre_. A low murmur ran quickly around,

and then a sudden cheer burst forth, for some one remembered it was the

anniversary of Marengo! And now the excitement became madness, and

reiterated shouts proclaimed that the glory of that day was among the

proudest memories of France. For once, and once only, did any trait of

feeling show itself on that impassive face. I thought I could mark even

a faint tinge of color in that sallow cheek, as in recognition he bowed

a dignified salute to the waving and agitated assembly.

I saw that proud face, at moments when human ambition might have seemed

to have reached its limit, and yet never with a haughtier look than on

that night I speak of. His foot was already on the first step of the

throne, and his spirit seemed to swell with the conscious force of

coming greatness.

And Lisette, all this time? Alas, I had totally forgotten her! As the

enthusiasm around me began to subside, I had time to recover myself, and

look about me. There was much beauty and splendor to admire. Madame

Junot was there, and Mademoiselle de Bessieres, with a crowd of others

less known, but scarcely less lovely. Not one, however, could I see that

corresponded with my mind-drawn portrait of the peasant-beauty; and I

scanned each face closely and critically. There was female loveliness of

every type, from the dark-eyed beauty of Spanish race, to the almost

divine regularity of a Raffaelite picture. There was the brilliant

aspect of fashion, too; but nowhere could I see what I sought for!

nowhere detect that image which imagination had stamped as that of the

beauty of "La Marche." If disappointed in my great object, I left the

theatre with my mind full of all I had witnessed. The dreadful event of

Ettenheim had terribly shaken Bonaparte, in my esteem; yet how resist

the contagious devotion of a whole nation--how remain cold in the midst

of the burning zeal of all France? These thoughts brought me to the

consideration of myself. Was I, or was I not, any longer a soldier of

his army? or was I disqualified for joining in that burst of national

enthusiasm which proclaimed that all France was ready to march under his

banner? To-morrow I'll wait upon the Minister of War, thought I, or I'll

seek out the commanding officer of some regiment that I know, or, at

least, a comrade; and so I went on, endeavoring to frame a plan for my

guidance, as I strolled along the streets, which were now almost

deserted. The shops were all closed; of the hotels, such as were yet

open, were far too costly for means like mine; and so, as the night was

calm and balmy with the fresh air of spring, I resolved to pass it out

of doors. I loitered then along the Champs Elysees; and, at length,

stretching myself on the grass beneath the trees, lay down to sleep. "An

odd bedroom enough," thought I, "for one who has passed the evening at

the opera, and who has feasted his ears at the expense of his stomach."

I remembered, too, another night, when the sky had been my canopy in

Paris, when I slept beneath the shadow of the guillotine and the Place

de Grève. "Well," thought I, "times are at least changed for the better,

since that day; and my own fortunes are certainly not lower."

This comforting reflection closed my waking memories, and I slept

soundly till morning.

CHAPTER XLII.

THE "COUNT DE MAUREPAS," ALIAS ----

There is a wide gulf between him who opens his waking eyes in a splendid

chamber, and with half-drowsy thoughts speculates on the pleasures of

the coming day, and him, who, rising from the dew-moistened earth,

stretches his aching limbs for a second or so, and then hurries away to

make his toilet at the nearest fountain.

I have known both conditions, and yet, without being thought

paradoxical, I would wish to say that there are some sensations

attendant on the latter and the humbler lot which I would not exchange

for all the voluptuous ease of the former. Let there be but youth and

there is something of heroism, something adventurous in the notion of

thus alone and unaided breasting the wide ocean of life, and, like a

hardy swimmer, daring to stem the roughest breakers without one to

succor him, that is worth all the security that even wealth can impart,

all the conscious ease that luxury and affluence can supply. In a world

and an age like ours, thought I, there must surely be some course for

one young, active, and daring as I am. Even if France reject me there

are countries beyond the seas where energy and determination will open a

path. "Courage, Maurice," said I, as I dashed the sparkling water over

my head, "the past has not been all inglorious, and the future may prove

even better."

A roll and a glass of iced water furnished my breakfast, after which I

set forth in good earnest on my search. There was a sort of

self-flattery in the thought that one so destitute as I was could devote

his thoughts and energies to the service of another, that pleased me

greatly. It was so "unselfish"--at least I thought so. Alas, and alas!

how egotistical are we when we fancy ourselves least so. That day I

visited St. Roche and Notre Dame at early mass, and by noon reached the

Louvre, the gallery of which occupied me till the hour of meeting the

curé drew nigh.

Punctual to his appointment, I found him waiting for me at the corner of

the quay, and although disappointed at the failure of all his efforts,

he talked away with all the energy of one who would not suffer himself

to be cast down by adverse fortune. "I feel," said he, "a kind of

instinctive conviction that we shall find her yet. There is something

tells me that all our pains shall not go unrewarded. Have you never

experienced a sensation of this kind--a species of inward prompting to

pursue a road, to penetrate into a pass, or to explore a way, without

exactly knowing why or wherefore?"

This question, vague enough as it seemed, led me to talk about myself

and my own position; a theme which, however much I might have shrunk

from introducing, when once opened, I spoke of in all the freedom of old

friendship.

Nothing could be more delicate than the priest's manner during all this

time; nor even when his curiosity was highest did he permit himself to

ask a question or an explanation of any difficulty that occurred; and

while he followed my recital with a degree of interest that was most

flattering, he never ventured on a word or dropped a remark that might

seem to urge me to greater frankness. "Do you know," said he, at last,

"why your story has taken such an uncommon hold upon my attention. It is

not from its adventurous character, nor from the stirring and strange

scenes you have passed through. It is because your old pastor and guide,

the Père Delamoy, was my own dearest friend, my school companion and

playfellow from infancy. We were both students at Louvain together; both

called to the priesthood on the same day. Think, then, of my intense

delight at hearing his dear name once more; ay, and permit me to say it,

hearing from the lips of another the very precepts and maxims that I can

recognize as his own. "Ah, yes! _mon cher_ Maurice," cried he, grasping

my hand in a burst of enthusiasm, "disguise it how you may, cover it up

under the uniform of a 'Bleu,' bury it beneath the shako of the soldier

of the Republic, but the head and the heart will turn to the ancient

altars of the Church and the Monarchy. It is not alone that your good

blood suggests this, but all your experience of life goes to prove it.

Think of poor Michel, self-devoted, generous, and noble-hearted; think

of that dear cottage at Kuffstein, where, even in poverty, the dignity

of birth and blood threw a grace and an elegance over daily life; think

of Ettenheim and the glorious prince--the last Condé--and who now sleeps

in his narrow bed in the fosse of Vincennes!"

"How do you mean?" said I, eagerly, for up to this time I knew nothing

of his fate.

"Come along with me and you shall know it all," said he; and, rising, he

took my arm, and we sauntered along out of the crowded street, till we

reached the Boulevards. He then narrated to me every incident of the

midnight trial, the sentence, and the execution. From the death-warrant

that came down ready-filled from Paris, to the grave dug while the

victim was yet sleeping, he forgot nothing; and I own that my very blood

ran cold at the terrible atrocity of that dark murder. It was already

growing dusk when he had finished, and we parted hurriedly, as he was

obliged to be at a distant quarter of Paris by eight o'clock, again

agreeing to meet, as before, on the Quai Voltaire.

From that moment till we met the following day the Duc D'Enghien was

never out of my thoughts, and I was impatient for the priest's presence

that I might tell him every little incident of our daily life at

Ettenheim, the topics we used to discuss, and the opinions he expressed

on various subjects. The eagerness of the curé to listen stimulated me

to talk on, and I not only narrated all that I was myself a witness of,

but various other circumstances which were told to me by the prince

himself; in particular an incident he mentioned to me one day of being

visited by a stranger who came, introduced by a letter from a very

valued friend; his business being to propose to the duke a scheme for

the assassination of Bonaparte. At first the prince suspected the whole

as a plot against himself, but on further questioning he discovered that

the man's intentions were really such as he professed them, and offered

his services in the conviction that no price could be deemed too high to

reward him. It is needless to say that the offer was rejected with

indignation, and the prince dismissed the fellow with the threat of

delivering him up to the government of the French Consul. The pastor

heard this anecdote with deep attention, and, for the first time,

diverging from his line of cautious reserve, he asked me various

questions as to when the occurrence had taken place, and where? If the

Prince had communicated the circumstance to any other than myself, and

whether he had made it the subject of any correspondence. I knew little

more than I had already told him: that the offer was made while residing

at Ettenheim, and during the preceding year, were facts, however, that I

could remember.

"You are surprised, perhaps," said he, "at the interest I feel in all

this, but, strangely enough, there is here in Paris at this moment one

of the great 'Seigneurs' of the Ardèche; he has come up to the capital

for medical advice, and he was a great, perhaps the greatest friend of

the poor duke. What if you were to come and pay him a visit with me,

there is not probably one favor the whole world could bestow he would

value so highly. You must often have heard his name from the prince; has

he not frequently spoken of the Count de Maurepas?" I could not remember

having ever heard the name. "It is historical, however," said the curé,

"and even in our own days has not derogated from its ancient chivalry.

Have you not heard how a noble of the court rode postillion to the

king's carriage on the celebrated escape from Varennes? Well, even for

curiosity's sake, he is worth a visit, for this is the very Count Henry

de Maurepas, now on the verge of the grave!"

If the good curé had known me all my life he could not more successfully

have baited a trap for my curiosity. To see and know remarkable people,

men who had done something out of the ordinary route of every-day life,

had been a passion with me from boyhood. Hero-worship was indeed a great

feature in my character, and has more or less influenced all my career,

nor was I insensible to the pleasure of doing a kind action. It was

rare, indeed, that one so humbly placed could ever confer a favor, and I

grasped with eagerness the occasion to do so. We agreed, then, on the

next afternoon, toward nightfall, to meet at the quay, and proceed

together to the count's residence. I have often reflected, since that

day, that Lisette's name was scarcely ever mentioned by either of us

during this interview; and yet, at the time, so preoccupied were my

thoughts, I never noticed the omission. The Chateau of Ettenheim, and

its tragic story, filled my mind to the exclusion of all else.

I pass over the long and dreary hours that intervened, and come at once

to the time, a little after sunset, when we met at our accustomed

rendezvous.

The curé had provided a "fiacre" for the occasion, as the count's

residence was about two leagues from the city, on the way to Belleville.

As we trotted along, he gave me a most interesting account of the old

noble, whose life had been one continued act of devotion to the

monarchy.

"It will be difficult," said he, "for you to connect the poor, worn-out,

shattered wreck before you, with all that was daring in deed and

chivalrous in sentiment; but the 'Maurepas' were well upheld in all

their glorious renown, by him who is now to be the last of the race! You

will see him reduced by suffering and sickness, scarcely able to speak,

but be assured that you will have his gratitude for this act of true

benevolence." Thus chatting we rattled along over the paved highway, and

at length entered upon a deep clay road which conducted us to a spacious

park, with a long straight avenue of trees, at the end of which stood

what, even in the uncertain light, appeared a spacious chateau. The door

lay open, and as we descended a servant in plain clothes received us,

and, after a whispered word or two from the curé ushered us along

through a suite of rooms into a large chamber furnished like a study.

There were book shelves well filled, and a writing table covered with

papers and letters, and the whole floor was littered with newspapers and

journals.

A lamp, shaded by a deep gauze cover, threw a half light over every

thing, nor was it until we had been nearly a couple of minutes in the

room that we became aware of the presence of the count, who lay upon a

sofa covered up in a fur pelisse, although the season was far advanced

in spring.

His gentle "good evening, messieurs," was the first warning we had of

his presence, and the curé, advancing respectfully, presented me as his

young friend, Monsieur de Tiernay.

"It is not the first time that I hear that name," said the sick man,

with a voice of singular sweetness. "It is chronicled in the annals of

our monarchy. Ay, sir, I knew that faithful servant of his king, who

followed his master to the scaffold."

"My father," cried I, eagerly.

"I knew him well," continued he. "I may say, without vaunting, that I

had it in my power to befriend him, too. He made an imprudent marriage;

he was unfortunate in the society his second wife's family threw him

among. They were not his equals in birth, and far beneath him in

sentiment and principle. Well, well," sighed he, "this is not a theme

for me to speak of, nor for you to hear; tell me of yourself. The curé

says that you have had more than your share of worldly vicissitudes.

There, sit down, and let me hear your story from your own lips."

He pointed to a seat at his side, and I obeyed him at once, for,

somehow, there was an air of command even in the gentlest tones of his

voice, and I felt that his age and his sufferings were not the only

claims he possessed to influence those around him.

With all the brevity in my power, my story lasted for above an hour,

during which time the count only interrupted me once or twice by asking

to which Colonel Mahon I referred, as there were two of the name? and

again, by inquiring in what circumstances the _emigré_ families were

living as to means, and whether they appeared to derive any of their

resources from France? These were points I could give no information

upon, and I plainly perceived that the count had no patience for a

conjecture, and that, where positive knowledge failed, he instantly

passed on to something else. When I came to speak of Ettenheim his

attention became fixed, not suffering the minutest circumstance to

escape him, and even asking for the exact description of the locality,

and its distance from the towns in the neighborhood.

The daily journeys of the prince, too, interested him much, and once or

twice he made me repeat what the peasant had said of the horse being

able to travel from Strassburg without a halt. I vow it puzzled me why

he should dwell on these points in preference to others of far more

interest, but I set them down to the caprices of illness, and thought no

more of them. His daily life, his conversation, the opinions he

expressed about France, the questions he used to ask, were all matters

he inquired into, till, finally, we came to the anecdote of the

meditated assassination of Bonaparte. This he made me tell him twice

over, each time asking me eagerly whether, by an effort of memory, I

could not recall the name of the man who had offered his services for

the deed? This I could not; indeed I knew not if I had ever heard it.

"But the prince rejected the proposal?" said he, peering at me beneath

the dark shadow of his heavy brow; "he would not hear of it?"

"Of course not," cried I; "he even threatened to denounce the man to the

government."

"And do you think that he would have gone thus far, sir?" asked he,

slowly.

"I am certain of it. The horror and disgust he expressed when reciting

the story were a guarantee for what he would have done."

"But yet Bonaparte has been a dreadful enemy to his race," said the

count.

"It is not a Condé can right himself by a murder," said I as calmly.

"How I like that burst of generous royalism, young man!" said he,

grasping my hand and shaking it warmly. "That steadfast faith in the

honor of a Bourbon is the very heart and soul of loyalty!"

Now, although I was not, so far as I knew of, any thing of a

Royalist--the cause had neither my sympathy nor my wishes--I did not

choose to disturb the equanimity of a poor sick man by a needless

disclaimer, nor induce a discussion which must be both unprofitable and

painful.

"How did the fellow propose the act? had he any accomplices? or was he

alone?"

"I believe quite alone."

"Of course suborned by England? Of that there can be no doubt."

"The prince never said so."

"Well, but, it is clear enough, the man must have had means; he traveled

by a very circuitous route; he had come from Hamburg, probably?"

"I never heard."

"He must have done so. The ports of Holland, as those of France, would

have been too dangerous for him. Italy is out of the question."

I owned that I had not speculated so deeply on the matter.

"It was strange," said he, after a pause, "that the duke never mentioned

who had introduced the man to him."

"He merely called him a valued friend."

"In other words, the Count D'Artois," said the count; "did it not strike

you so?"

I had to confess it had not occurred to me to think so.

"But reflect a little," said he. "Is there any other living who could

have dared to make such a proposal but the count? Who, but the head of

his house, could have presumed on such a step? No inferior could have

had the audacity! It must have come from one so highly placed, that

crime paled itself down to a mere measure of expediency, under the

loftiness of the sanction. What think you?"

"I can not, I will not think so", was my answer. "The very indignation of

the prince's rejection refutes the supposition."

"What a glorious gift is unsuspectfulness," said he, feelingly. "I am a

rich man, and you, I believe, are not so; and yet, I'd give all my

wealth, ay, ten times told, not for your vigor of health, not for the

lightness of your heart, nor the elasticity of your spirits, but for

that one small quality, defect though it be, that makes you trustful and

credulous."

I believe I would just as soon that the old gentleman had thought fit to

compliment me upon any other quality. Of all my acquisitions, there was

not one I was so vain of as my knowledge of life and character. I had

seen, as I thought, so much of life! I had peeped at all ranks and

conditions of men, and it was rather hard to find an old country

gentleman, a "Seigneur de Village," calling me credulous and

unsuspecting!

I was much more pleased when he told the curé that a supper was ready

for us in the adjoining room, at which he begged we would excuse his

absence; and truly a most admirable little meal it was, and served with

great elegance.

"The count expects you to stop here; there is a chamber prepared for

you," said the curé, as we took our seats at table. "He has evidently

taken a fancy to you. I thought, indeed I was quite certain, he would.

Who can tell what good fortune this chance meeting may lead to, Monsieur

Maurice! A votre sante, mon cher!" cried he, as he clinked his champagne

glass against mine, and I at last began to think that destiny was about

to smile on me.

"You should see his Chateau in the Ardêche; this is nothing to it! There

is a forest, too, of native oak, and a 'Chasse' such as royalty never

owned!"

Mine were delightful dreams that night; but I was sorely disappointed on

waking to find that Laura was not riding at my side through a

forest-alley, while a crowd of "Piqueurs" and huntsmen galloped to and

fro, making the air vibrate with their joyous bugles. Still, I opened my

eyes in a richly-furnished chamber, and a Jaques handed me my coffee on

a silver stand, and in a cup of costliest Sèvres.

(TO BE CONTINUED.)

RECOLLECTIONS OF COLTON, THE AUTHOR OF "LACON."

Colton was remarkable for the extent and profundity of his talents, the

various mutations of fortune, self-entailed, which he underwent, and for

his inordinate addiction to a vice of all others the most degrading and

destructive to intellectual strength--who was yet great in intellect and

purpose amidst all the strange vicissitudes of which he was the

self-constituted victim, and beneath the pressure of moral and physical

degradation which he would never have undergone but for the influence of

one fatal and overwhelming passion. One of the very first objects of my

boyish reverence and veneration was, as might be expected with a child

religiously educated, the parson of the parish in the market town where

I was brought up. Parson C----, who, I believe, held the benefice of St.

Peter's in my native place, was a man whom, having once known, it was

not very easy to forget. I could have been hardly six years of age when

I first saw him without his canonical garb, on which occasion he was

playing a trout on the end of his line under one of the weirs in the

river Exe. At that time the town was pretty well stocked with French

prisoners. The jails were crammed with the miserable soldiery of

Napoleon's generals, captured in the Peninsular war, then raging, and

numbers of French officers on parole were installed with the

housekeepers of the place in the capacity of lodgers. With these our

all-accomplished divine was almost the only man in the place who could

hold converse. A part of my father's house was occupied by a couple of

Gallic strangers, to whom the parson's visits were many and frequent. As

they dined at the common table, their society, together with that of the

reverend gentleman, was shared by the whole family, and we thus became

more intimate with him than we otherwise should. It is said that

familiarity breeds contempt. Certain it is that my father's veneration

for the character of his and our spiritual guide and instructor suffered

considerable declension from his closer acquaintance. Still, what he

lost in reverence he perhaps gained in another way. His kind, agreeable,

and social manners won the admiration and good-will of the whole family,

and though he had a good many enemies in the town, we could not be of

the number. He was a man of eccentric manners and fine genius, and,

though then but young, had given proofs of talent of no mean order. He

had published a rather bulky poem on the subject of Hypocrisy, a subject

with which his detractors were not slow to observe he ought to be very

well acquainted. But he was not really a hypocrite in the true sense of

the word, if indeed, as may be questioned, he deserved the imputation at

all. He was rather the subject of ever-varying impulses, under the

instigation of which, were they good or bad, he would instinctively

proceed to act without consideration and without restraint. He would be

eloquent as Demosthenes in the pulpit in praise of the Christian

virtues, and would work himself into a passion of tears on behalf of

some benevolent or charitable purpose, the claims of which he would

enforce with the most irresistible appeals to the conscience; and the

next day he would gallop after the fox with a pack of hounds, fish,

shoot, or fight a main, in company with sporting blacklegs, bruisers,

dicers, _et hoc genus omne_. But he never made any personal pretensions

to religious sentiment that I am aware of, except on one occasion,

which, as it tends greatly to illustrate the true character of the man,

I shall relate.

Among the companions of his sporting pursuits was a country squire of

the neighborhood, a dissolute and drunken specimen of a class of men of

which, fortunately for humanity, the present generation knows but

little. He had ruined his fortune and nearly beggared his family by

extravagance and intemperance, when, after a long course of

uninterrupted and abused health and vigor, he was laid by the heels upon

a sick bed, from which the doctors had no hopes of ever releasing him.

In this dilemma he sent for Parson C----, who appeared forthwith in the

chamber of the sick man, and was beginning to mutter over the service

for the visitation of the sick, when the latter, belching forth a volley

of oaths and curses, swore that he did not send for him for any such

purpose; that what he wanted was an acknowledgment from the parson's own

lips of the fact which all parsons' lives declared--that their religion,

and all religion was a lie. This was an admission which C---- declined

to make. A horrible scene ensued, of impotent rage and blasphemy on one

part, and shame and confusion on the other. It ended in the death of the

frantic and despairing drunkard, in the very presence of his ghostly

adviser, whom he cursed with his last breath. This deplorable climax to

such a scene of horror, it may be readily imagined, had a powerful

effect upon the impulsive and excitable nature of poor C----. He left

the chamber of such a death an altered man, and, proceeding homeward,

shut himself up in his closet. On the following Sunday morning he took

occasion to preach impressively, from the most solemn text he could

select, upon the uncertainty of life. In the course of his sermon, he

called upon all present to prepare for the doom which none could

escape--which, inexorable to all, might be immediate to any, and

therefore demanded instant and energetic preparation. He wound up his

discourse with the extraordinary declaration that he, for one, had made

up his mind upon the subject; that he had seen the error of his ways,

and determined to abandon them; and that he was resolved thenceforth,

with God's help, to devote the rest of his remaining life to his own

preparation, and theirs, for the dreaded hour. He then called upon his

auditors to bear witness to the resolution he had expressed, and to aid

him in carrying it out. There was something like a commotion even in the

church when this announcement was concluded; and the sensation and

excitement it occasioned in the town, for some time after, only subsided

as the parson's resolution waned in strength, and its effects became

less and less observable. For some months he held fast to his purpose

with the most laudable tenacity. It was in the spring of the year that

he made his public declaration; and though the old friends of his

follies laughed at it, and laid heavy wagers against his perseverance,

he held on his way steadily--He began a course of pastoral

visitation--sought out and relieved the poor and afflicted--parted with

his fishing-tackle, and commenced an enthusiastic canvass for a

dispensary for the poor. Of his old friends among the "ungodly," and his

old enemies among the pious, few knew what to make of it. The Parson

C---- of old time was no more; but, in his place, a new man with the

same face was every where active in the cause of charity and Christian

benevolence. Those who knew him best doubted most of his stability and

among these, I remember my father's expressing his conviction that the

reformation was "too hot to hold." So it turned out in the end. Three,

four, five months of exemplary conduct, and then came the first symptom

of declension, in the shape of the parson's gray horse harnessed to a

dog-cart, with his gun and brace of pointers, in charge of a groom, the

whole "turn-out" ready for starting, and waiting at the entrance of the

church-yard on Sunday evening, the last night of August, to carry the

parson, so soon as service was over, to a celebrated shooting-ground,

five-and-twenty miles off, that he might be on the spot, ready by dawn

for the irresistible 1st of September. Those who prophesied from this

demonstration a return to old habits had speedy occasion to pride

themselves upon their augury.

The Sampford Ghost soon after came upon the stage, with his mysterious

knockings and poundings; and defied all objurgations and exorcisms, save

and except those of Parson C----, at the sound of whose classical Greek,

or gibberish, as it might happen, he absconded to the bottom of the Red

Sea, as in duty bound. Here was food for wonder and gaping superstition,

to which the reverend divine condescended to pander, by the publication

of a pamphlet supporting the supernatural view of the subject, which,

being on a marvelous topic, sold marvelously well, and brought grist to

the clerical mill.

Of the subsequent career of this eccentric genius, from the time I

ceased to reside in Devonshire to that when I encountered him in Paris I

have no personal knowledge. I only know that he afterward obtained a

benefice in the neighborhood of London; that in the year 1820 he

published a work which has run through many editions, is in high repute

with a certain class of readers, and is said by competent judges to

manifest a profound practical acquaintance with the philosophy of the

mind, and to contain more original views in relation to that science

than any other work of equal dimensions.

I have already hinted that my vocation as a teacher of English

introduced me to a new order of French humanity. Among the various

pupils who sought my cheap assistance in the promotion of their studies

was one Maubert, a young fellow of four or five and twenty, who was

contemplating a removal to London in the exercise of his profession,

which was neither more nor less than that of a gambler. He had a

relative in one of the hells at St. James's, who had offered him a

lucrative engagement so soon as he was sufficiently master of English to

be enabled to undertake it. I was astonished to find a person of such

mild, meek, and almost effeminate manners engaged in such a pursuit, and

still more to hear that he had been brought up to it from boyhood, and

was but following in the steps of his father, who was employed in the

same establishment in a situation of great trust and responsibility.

In the course of our bilingual conversations, I made no scruple of

expressing my perfect horror of gambling, at which he appeared to be

heartily amused, and attributed the feeling I manifested not so much to

moral principle as to constitutional peculiarity. It soon became

apparent to me that he had not himself the slightest idea of disgrace or

discredit as attachable to the profession of a gambler, so long as it

was carried on upon principles of honesty and fair-play. "What is

gambling," said he, "after all, but a species of exchange, skill for

skill, or chance for chance? It is true, there is no solid merchandise

in question; but, since you are determined to consider it in a moral

point of view, what, let me ask, does the merchant or the shopkeeper

care for the goods that pass through his hands? Is not his sole object

to profit by the transfer? Does he not speculate to gain? and is not all

speculation, morally considered, gambling? Now, all the professed

gamester does is to get rid of the lumbering medium of

trading-speculations--to clear the game, which all men are willing to

play, of the cumbrous machinery that clogs its movements when played

upon commercial principles, and to bring it to a crisis and a close at

once. You talk of the misery and ruin entailed upon families by

gambling; but depend upon it the same men who ruin themselves and

families by play would do precisely the same thing were there no such

thing as play. For one Frenchman ruined by hazard, ten Englishmen are

ruined by commerce. In fact, as a people, you gamble much more than we

do, though in a different way; and when you choose to gamble _as_ we do,

you do it to much greater extent, and with a recklessness to which our

habits in that respect afford no parallel. There is an Englishman now in

Paris who has repeatedly won and lost ten thousand francs at a sitting,

and whom you may see, if you choose to come with me, any evening you

like."

"What is his name?" I demanded.

"C----. He is a priest, too, I have heard, and of course, when at home,

a preacher of morality."

"Well," said I, "with your permission, I shall be glad to have a look at

him."

"Very well; you shall dine with me to-morrow at the Salon Français. Meet

me there at six, and then, after dinner, I will accompany you."

"Agreed."

And so it came to pass that, about nine o'clock on the following

evening--for we had dined at most gentlemanly leisure, and followed up

the dinner with a complete debauch of sugared water--I entered, for the

first time, one of the saloons devoted to gambling on the first floor of

the Palais Royal. There was not so great and gorgeous display of taste

and expenditure as I had expected to see; though every thing was

substantial and elegant, nothing was pretentious or superb. Tables

arranged with a view to convenience rather than order or regularity, and

covered with the means and materials of gaming, were surrounded, on

three sides, by persons already engaged at the sport. We passed through

several rooms thus furnished, and more or less tumultuously filled.

Hazard appeared to be the most favorite game; as I noticed during my

stay that the tables where that was played were first in full

occupation, and throughout the evening were more crowded than others.

Maubert led me to a room, which must have been the fifth or sixth we

entered, and, pointing to a table at the further end, upon the centre of

which rose a brazen dragon, with a pair of emerald eyes, a yawning,

cavernous jaw, and a ridgy tail, whose voluminous folds coiled round a

column of polished steel--told me that there I should find my man in the

course of the evening, though I should have to wait for him, as he had

not yet arrived. He informed me that I could act as I chose, without

being questioned; and then took his leave, as his services were wanted

in his own department. I amused myself for nearly a couple of hours in

contemplating, _en philosophe_, the scene before me. I had heard and

read much of gamblers and gambling, and here they were in multitudes to

test the truth or falsity of my impressions. I noticed particularly

that, while the younger players acted throughout as though gaming were a

frolic, and welcomed both their gains and losses with a joke or a laugh,

the older hands maintained a perfect silence, and accepted the decrees

of fortune without betraying the least emotion. The table near which I

stood was appropriated to the following purpose: A ball, or rather solid

polygon, of near a hundred sides, each side colored blue, red, or black,

was dropped into the mouth of the dragon; and while it was rolling

audibly through the long folds of its tail, the players placed what sums

they chose upon red, blue, or black-colored spaces on the table.

Whatever color the ball, upon emerging from the tail and finally

resting, showed uppermost, was the winning color; the rest lost. The

first operation of the manager, after each throw, was to rake into the

bank in front of him the several amounts placed on the losing colors,

after which he paid the winners, doubling the stake for black, trebling

it for red, and multiplying it by five for the blue. Most of the young

players began upon the black; but whether they won or lost, and the

chance was equal for either fate, they invariably migrated to the other

colors; or, in other words, doubled or quintupled their stakes as their

passions became heated by play. The old ones, on the contrary, kept

mostly to one color; and, in pursuance of some cunningly-concocted plan,

frequently consulted pricked or penciled cards, upon which they had

perhaps made previous calculations, or chronicled the course of play as

it went on. The physiognomy of these old stagers certainly afforded a

rich variety of exceedingly ugly faces. Disappointment, however, was not

the prevailing expression; and, from what I observed of the general

manifestation of their hardened visages, I was led to the conclusion

that your calculating gambler, who has his passions under control, is

_not_, in the long-run, a loser, but the contrary; and that the support

of the bank, and the whole establishment, is derived from the swarming

flights of raw, inexperienced, and uncalculating pigeons which every day

brings to be plucked. One old fellow walked off with a bag of five-franc

pieces, which could not have been worth less than twenty pounds English,

accumulated in little more than half an hour; and others pocketed

various smaller sums, and then withdrew. An English gentleman lost

several five-pound notes in succession on the blue, and, continuing the

stake, recovered them all with a profit. An Irishman who had been

playing for silver on the black, attempted to do the same; but his heart

failed him, or else his pocket, after the loss of his second note, and

with a guttural oath, he retired in a rage. To win at gaming, it would

seem from such examples, requires but a large amount of courage and

capital; and it must be from this fact alone that, where the game,

whatever it be, is fairly played, the bank which has the courage to

challenge all the world, and unlimited capital to support the challenge,

is so largely the gainer. The natural advantage of the bank may,

however, be met by calculation and cautious adherence to system in

playing; and instances are not wanting where the bank, though well

stocked, has been broken, and the whole funds carried off, through the

success of a deep-laid scheme.

While I was indulging in these speculations, in which I have no desire

that the reader should place implicit faith, the personage whom my

curiosity had led me hither to meet, entered the room, and made toward

the place where I stood. The long interval that had elapsed since I last

saw him had effected such an alteration in his appearance that it is

probable, that, had I not been expecting him, he would have passed

unrecognized. As it was, the first glance assured me of his identity.

From added years, or from long-enduring sedentary habits, he had

acquired a slight stoop, and the old sprightly elasticity of step had

given place to the sober foot-fall of mature age; but the face, though

of a somewhat darker hue, and now lined with faint furrows, bore the

same contour and much of the same expression as of yore. There was the

same classic and intellectual profile, and the same commonplace and

rather sordid indications in the full face, which had formerly given

rise to the saying among his flock, that "The parson had two faces, one

for Sundays and one for working days." He took his seat at the left-hand

of the money-raker, and, presenting a paper, probably a check or foreign

note, received a pile of gold and silver, which he spread before him. I

had intended to watch his game, and perhaps, if occasion offered, to

speak to him; but the sight of the very man from whose lips my infant

ears had caught the first accents of public worship, preparing to take

part in the debasing orgies of the pandemonium in which I stood, so

revolted my feelings--and his action, as he bent over his pocket-book in

search of something he wanted, brought so forcibly to my recollection

his old gestures in the pulpit--that I resolved to spare myself the

witnessing of his degradation, and accordingly walked away, and out of

the accursed den, to the side of the fountain in the quadrangle, in the

cool spray of which I sat for an hour, _not_ enjoying my reflections

upon the past.

I learnt from Maubert subsequently, that, though C---- played the

boldest game, he was far from being a welcome guest at some of the

tables he chose to patronize. He won, occasionally, large sums; and, if

he lost them again, as from his known difficulties at certain seasons it

is pretty sure he did, he did not lose them at the public tables, but at

some of the private gaming-houses of the nobility which he was known to

frequent. That he was occasionally reduced to unpleasant straits I have

reason to think; because, long after the encounter above related, I met

him at a place whither I had resorted for a cheap dinner, and where we

dined together on a deal table from soup and _bouilli_, for a sum not to

be mentioned in connection with the repast of a gentleman. On this

occasion, I somewhat alarmed him by inquiring, in a broad Devonshire

accent, if he could inform me of the address of M. V----, naming one of

the French prisoners with whom the parson had been especially intimate

in the time of the war. He stared at me fixedly for a minute, and then,

with a voice like one apostrophizing a spirit, said, "You are ----, the

son of Thomas ----. I know you from your likeness to your father. Do not

know me here. Let me have your address; I should like to talk to you. M.

V---- is dead--dead! And your father, is he yet living?"

I was going to reply to his queries, but, snatching the card I

presented, he bade me hastily adieu, and disappeared.

It was rumored about that he won a large sum of money previous to the

breaking out of the Revolution, and that, having accomplished his

object, he withdrew from the gaming-table. But he had played the game of

life too fast, and, in desperately acquiring the means of expenditure,

had lost those of enjoyment. In the published work, to which allusion

has been made, is the following sentence: "The gamester, if he die a

martyr to his profession, is doubly ruined. He adds his soul to every

other loss, and, by the act of suicide, renounces earth to forfeit

heaven." It is wretched to think that the writer put an end to his own

existence, after a life devoted to the very vice he so powerfully

deprecated. He blew out his brains at Fontainbleau, in 1832--it was

said, to escape the pain of a surgical operation from which no danger

could be apprehended.

NEVER DESPAIR.

The opal-hued and many-perfumed Morn

From Gloom is born;

From out the sullen depth of ebon Night

The stars shed light;

Gems in the rayless caverns of the earth

Have their slow birth;

From wondrous alchemy of winter-hours

Come summer-flowers;

The bitter waters of the restless main

Give gentle rain;

The fading bloom and dry seed bring once more

The year's fresh store;

Just sequences of clashing Tones afford

The full accord;

Through weary ages, full of strife and ruth,

Thought reaches Truth;

Through efforts, long in vain, prophetic Need

Begets the Deed:

Nerve then thy soul with direst need to cope;

Life's brightest Hope

Lies latent in Fate's deadliest lair--

Never despair!

INCIDENT DURING THE MUTINY OF 1797.

The nineteenth century may now be said to have attained middle age, and

in the brilliant noonday of its intellect and science the important

events that marked the close of its predecessor are becoming dim and

indistinct, like the vanishing images of a dissolving view. Progress has

been so rapid since the peace that a wider chasm intervenes between 1799

and 1851 than any dividing the preceding centuries: much more than half

a century appears to separate us from the eighteenth. But a stirring and

troublous period lies before this interval. Life, doubtless, was more

rife with interest and excitement to those whose youth belonged to it

than it is in this calmer age. One feels that the "old people" of to-day

have more of a "history in their lives" than our age will have; and even

while we acknowledge with devout gratitude the blessing of peace, it is

pleasant to listen to stories of "the War-time." One evening, while

sitting with a relative of our own, gazing on the waters of the Channel,

which were trembling and quivering beneath the rosy sunset, we expressed

some such sentiments, and after agreeing in our opinion that life in

those days was more animated by hope and fear than at present, he added,

smiling, "For instance, in '97 I narrowly escaped hanging!"

We were much surprised at such a declaration from one who, at the time

he spoke, was a brave and distinguished admiral, and eagerly asked the

"how and why" of the adventure; and he told us. We regret that we can

not recall the exact words of the animated relation, but we will try to

give the substance as nearly as possible.

In 1797 mutiny broke out among the seamen at Spithead--an inexcusable

crime in the opinion of naval men, but which he who related the story

palliated in some degree, by candidly acknowledging that in those days

the poor fellows who were guilty of it had great and just cause for

complaint. They were not only ill-paid, but their food was of very bad

quality; many captains in the navy were harsh and tyrannical--as, in

consequence of the perversity of human nature, will always be the case;

and the men whose blood was freely poured out in the defense of their

native land were, to say the least, neglected and uncared-for by their

rulers. Oh happy consequence of peace and advancing knowledge! these men

are now well-fed, have the means of instruction afforded them, and homes

provided for them when, returning from "the dangers of the sea," they

are discharged and sent on shore. The poor mutineers at Spithead dreamed

not of such advantages as these.

Admiral R---- was a junior lieutenant on board the _Saturn_ when the

mutiny broke out; but promotion was very rapid then, and though bearing

that rank he was still only a youth in his teens. Probably the mutineers

had discovered, and in a measure appreciated the kindliness of his

nature, for, exempting him from the thralldom of his companions, whom

they had confined in the ward-room, they fixed on him to bear their

propositions and their threats to the port-admiral--swearing at the same

time, that if he did not bring them back a favorable answer they would

hang him on the yard-arm! He was obliged to obey their will, of course,

secretly resolving, however, not to give them the opportunity of

fulfilling their kind intentions by returning to the ship; but the young

officer calculated too much upon being his own master. He was put on

shore at the Point, and proceeded at once to the admiral's house in the

High-street. The naval chief gave him a good-natured and cordial

reception, and listened patiently to the message he delivered from the

mutineers, which was to the effect that they must have an immediate

advance of wages, good biscuit, pork, &c., or that they would carry

their ship over to the French.

"Go on board again, sir," was his reply, "and tell these gentlemen that

none of their demands can be listened to till they return to their duty:

inform them also that the moment they attempt to weigh anchor hot shot

will be fired on them from the Isle of Dogs, and their vessel and

themselves sent to the bottom."

The lieutenant bowed and left the office. Outside he paused. He was

going, in obedience to his superior, to certain death. It was a fearful

trial of courage and professional discipline. A mother whom he idolized

lived at no great distance: he would at least bid her a last farewell!

But the admiral, aware of the sacrifice he exacted, so much greater than

that of periling life by mounting "the deadly breach," had followed the

poor boy, and lightly tapping his shoulder, told him he would walk with

him to the beach. Thus, even the last look at home, for which he longed,

was denied him. A waterman's wherry conveyed him to the ship. It was

May--a bright, glorious May, such as England used to enjoy "once upon a

time;" and very sad were the feelings with which the young officer

looked back upon the retreating town, and round on the glad, sunny

waters and blue-tinted Isle of Wight, deeming that he beheld them for

the last time. Occasionally, also, he told us, his eyes would revert, in

spite of his endeavors to forget it, to the fatal yard-arm, distinct

with all its tracery of cordage against the clear blue sky. He gained

the ship, was received on board, and conducted to the forecastle, where

the chief mutineers had assembled. Here he delivered his message. They

were greatly enraged, and commanded him not to repeat the admiral's

threat of sinking the ship to the crew. He replied simply that it was

his duty to obey the orders of his superior officer. Their looks and

words threatened him at first with instant and summary vengeance; but

after a short consultation they agreed to try him by a court-martial,

and proceeding aft, ordered him to be brought before them. It was a

fearful scene; the men were terribly excited, frightfully ignorant, and

believed that their cause required a victim.

The courage of the youth bore him through the trial, however, bravely.

He ventured boldly to reproach them with their guilt in confounding the

innocent with those whom they looked upon as their enemies; taunted them

with the cowardly injustice of the deed they contemplated; and

persisted, in opposition to the ringleaders' commands, in repeating the

admiral's message to the crew. He was heard by the officers in the

ward-room, and their loud cheers when he spoke probably gave him fresh

courage. The ringleaders becoming alarmed at the effect his words and

bearing might have on the British instincts of the ship's company,

condemned him to be hung in two hours' time, and ordered him to prepare

for death meantime in his cabin. There a new and singular scene awaited

him: one of the seamen had taken possession of it, opened his lockers,

and finding some brandy, had been drinking till he was perfectly

intoxicated, and lay in the sleep of drunkenness on the floor, which was

strewed and littered with the lieutenant's clothes, books, &c. A deep

oath escaped the lips of the ringleaders at this sight. Throughout the

fleet the mutineers had forbidden drunkenness on pain of death; for,

fully aware of the peril of their position, they kept up among

themselves a terribly severe discipline. They were raising their

insensible comrade in their arms, and coolly preparing to throw him

overboard, when, aware from their words of their intentions, the

condemned officer struck one of them to the floor, and standing over the

again prostrate drunkard, declared that while he lived he would not see

men who had sailed beneath the British flag guilty of murder! The

mutineers paused, touched probably by this generous defense of a

foe--for the insensible seaman had been peculiarly bitter against the

officers--and after a muttered oath or two they left the cabin.

The lieutenant remained alone with his disgusting and unwelcome

visitant, and the two hours following he described as the most painful

of his life. It was less the fear of death than the destined mode of it

which tortured him: not that he was insensible or indifferent to the

blessing of life, for he was by nature of a happy, joyous temperament,

and fair prospects of advancement were before him; but in "war-time"

existence was held on such a precarious tenure that the idea of death in

battle would scarcely have troubled his equanimity. Two hours waiting to

be hanged, however, is a far different trial for courage, and we have

never read or imagined any thing more painful than the description which

the aged admiral gave us of that (to him) endless period of time. As if

to add to the horror of his position, the silence on board was so great

that it appeared as if he could hear the pulsation of his own heart,

while the low snoring of the drunken man struck with painful

distinctness on his ear. At last the bell struck the fatal hour, and

steps were heard on the ladder. His door opened; he rose prepared to

show no symptoms of faltering courage, when the leaders of the party

advancing, told him "that the people had taken his case into

consideration, and as they believed he individually had no ill-feeling

toward them, and as he had recently given proof that he cared for the

men, they had changed his sentence from death to _flogging!_ He must

therefore prepare to receive three dozen on the following morning."

My kinsman, with the ready humor that never deserted him, returned

thanks with mock gravity for their clemency, and begged them to carry

his compliments to the gentlemen who sent them, and assure them that he

could not have believed he should ever have felt so much satisfaction at

the prospect of a whipping. The men, always susceptible of fun, laughed.

From that moment he was safe! Falstaff wisely despairs of gaining the

love of Prince John, "because he could not make him laugh;" the young

lieutenant acted as if he possessed Shakspeare's knowledge of human

nature when he awoke by his jest the slumbering sympathies of the

sailors. He was detained a prisoner, but no further notice was taken of

the threatened flogging.

The mutiny subsided on the 16th of May, when Parliament passed an act to

raise the seamen's wages, and the royal pardon was bestowed on the

mutineers; not, however, before some sacrifice of human life had ensued,

as Admiral Colpoys, on the recommencement of the mutiny on board the

_London_, had ordered the marines to fire on the people, and three

seamen fell. The funeral of these unfortunates was described to us as a

singularly impressive and touching spectacle. The townspeople were

fearful of some violence or riot on the part of the sailors when they

landed to bury their dead, and consequently closed their shutters and

retired into their houses. The mournful procession moved therefore

through deserted and silent streets on its way to the village

church-yard, in which the victims were to be interred. But there was no

cause for alarm. The men walked silently and solemnly, two and two,

after their slain comrades, a stern, quiet sorrow legible on their

weather-beaten faces; and nothing could exceed the reverence and

propriety of their conduct beside the grave. It is a quiet, pretty

village church-yard in which these most pardonable rebels have their

resting-place, not far from which is the large grave where three hundred

bodies of those who perished in the _Royal George_ are buried.

One can scarcely forbear wondering at the little real mischief which

proceeded from this alarming mutiny. It afforded, on the whole, a noble

display of the principal characteristics of the British seaman--the

frolic-spirit peculiar to him manifesting itself even when he is most

sadly and seriously in earnest. A captain of marines, who was especially

the object of the mutineers' aversion, was brought on shore by them, and

compelled to parade up the High-street to the "Rogue's March," which was

drummed before him. He was a tall, gaunt old man, with a singularly long

neck. The day after his expulsion from his ship, the crew sent a man to

his house with a message, ordering him to "come on board again and be

hanged!" The unpopular veteran sent back his compliments; but

considering his throat unbecomingly long _naturally_, he did not wish to

have it stretched: he declined, therefore, accepting their invitation.

The men went away laughing. The people and the times were both

extraordinary.

WOMAN'S OFFICES AND INFLUENCE.

BY PROF. J. H. AGNEW, UNIVERSITY OF MICHIGAN.

Ours is an age of stirring life, an age of notions and novelties, of

invention and enterprise, of steam-motives and telegraph-wires. The

ocean, for passage, has become a river. The air a medium for the flight,

not only of birds, but of thoughts. Distance scarce any more lends

enchantment to the view, for 'tis annihilated. The ends of the earth

meet, and the watchmen on her walls see eye to eye. Even worlds long

buried in the deep unknown are now revealed to human vision, and we

almost penetrate the arcana of our own fair satellite, as she nightly

looks down upon us in her beauty. And man would fain believe, too, in

his wisdom, or his folly, that e'en the rappings of spirits are heard in

this nether planet of ours.

But what of all this? Why, we live in this whirl of galvanic motion: we

breathe this excited atmosphere: we revolve on this stirring sphere.

And, think you, without feeling aught of its forces?

We have our being, too, amid the busy scenes of a new world, a free

world, a forming world. Our geologic species is a conglomerate. Whether

it shall be of rude, unshapen masses, or of polished gems, fit not only

for the pillars of this republican edifice, but for its adornment also,

will depend much on the present generation, more on the women of that

generation.

Believing that woman not only takes impressions from the age, but

emphatically makes them on it too, I select for my theme WOMAN'S OFFICES

AND INFULUENCE.

_To make home happy_ is one of the offices of woman. Home, blessed word.

Thanks to our Saxon fathers for it. Not the name merely, but the

realities it expresses. An English, an American home is a Bethlehem-star

in the horizon of earth's sorrows, the shadow of a great rock in a weary

land.

"There is a magic in that little word:

It is a mystic circle that surrounds

Comforts and virtues never known beyond

The hallowed limit."

"The tabernacle of our earthly joys

And sorrows, hopes and fears--this Home of ours

Is it not pleasant?"

Yes, home is the centre of all that is sweet in the sympathies, dear in

the affections of the soul. There the kiss of love is impressed in its

purity, the warm pressure of the hand knows no betrayal, the smile of

joy plays no deceiver's part. All is candid, cordial, sincere. The

faults and failings which belong to humanity fallen, are there covered

by the mantle of charity, and the feeling of every member of the family

is, "With all thy faults I love thee still."

How the traveler climbing Alpine summits, looking forth on the sublime

creations of Jehovah, thinks of home, and wishes the loved ones there

could share his rapture. How the wrecked mariner on some desert isle

longs for a mother's fond endearment, a sister's kindly care. Home is in

all his thoughts.

It is worth the while, then, to strive to make _home_ happy; to do each

his part toward rendering it the spot of all pleasant associations. In

the several relations of child, sister, wife, mother, let kindness and

cheerfulness reign.

Kindness comes over the spirit like the music of David's harp over the

passion of Saul. It softens and subdues. It manifests itself in a

thousand nameless forms, but all beautiful. It is a crown of glory on

the head of old age, a jewel on the breast of childhood. The light it

diffuses is soft, the rays it emits are melting.

"And oh, if those who cluster round,

The altar and the hearth,

Have gentle words and loving smiles,

How beautiful is earth."

Cheerfulness is another attribute of character tending to the happiness

of home: and let me commend it to woman's cultivation. Some there are,

ever disposed to look on the dark side of life; and thus they not only

becloud their own spirits, but cast a shadow over the smiling precincts

of home. Every single sour grape portends a cluster; every flash of

lightning a riving thunderbolt. Earth's actual cares are not enough;

troubles must be borrowed. The present does not fill their heart with

sadness; the future must be laid under contribution.

All this is just the opposite of cheerfulness. That scatters wide over

the soil of the household the seeds of many little joys, that the weeds

of small vexations may be kept under, and ever and anon the sickle be

thrust in and a harvest of good fruits be garnered for daily use. It

gazes on the bright side of the picture, and throws its delighted

glances upon every eye. And thus it not only augments present bliss, but

in hoary years the memory of other days around the family hearth will be

sweeter, and the influence on ourselves better.

"Cheerfully to bear thy cross in patient strength is duty." "Not few nor

light are the burdens of life: then load it not with heaviness of

spirit; sickness, and penury, and travail--these be ills enow: the tide

is strong against us: struggle, thou art better for the strife, and the

very energy shall hearten thee."

"In thy day of grief let nature weep; leave her alone; the freshet of

her sorrow must run off; and sooner will the lake be clear, relieved of

turbid floodings. Yet see, that her license hath a limit."

"For empty fears, the harassings of possible calamity, pray and thou

shalt prosper: trust God and tread them down." "The stoutest armor of

defense is that which is worn within the bosom, and the weapon which no

enemy can parry is a bold and cheerful spirit."

Beautiful in the family is this spirit of cheerfulness; and surely it

is an office of woman to cherish it. It can be wooed and won. Wherever

woman goes, and especially at home, let it be as an halo of light around

her head, and then shall she be a blessing to the circle in which she

moves. Despondency is death, cheerfulness life. But remember that levity

and boisterous mirth are no essential ingredients of this wholesome

cordial. Its chief element is rather that which Paul spake of when he

said, "I have learned in whatsoever state I am, therewith to be

content."

Another office of woman is, _to check the utilitarianism, the

money-loving spirit of the day_. There is something beside bread and

water to be cared for in this probationary world of ours, inhabited by

living _spirits_. And yet one is almost compelled to the conclusion that

the whole race, at the present day, has given itself up to the worship

of Mammon.

That which is a _physical_ fact, which is capable of being _used_, is

the _summum bonum. Cui bono_, in a terrene sense, is the great question.

"Will it pay," the grand idea of the age. And men are hurrying along,

life in hand, breathless and bootless, over the highways and byways to

the Great Mogul's temple, where there is no spiritual Divinity to

revere.

We almost wish the return of the old Grecian's faith, who enveloped

himself with a spiritual world, and this, at least, elevated his

intellect, if it did not renovate his heart. To him the majestic

mountain was peopled with august entities. To us it is of no account, if

it do not contain in its bowels buried stores of wealth, though it may

awaken the feeling of the sublime, and lift the soul up to God. To him

the shady tree was the habitation of dryads, the rippling brook of

naïads: to us, neither has beauty, unless the one can turn a mill, and

the other furnish us fire-wood or lumber.

We have made the soul slave to the body; have stripped the Universe of

its glory, as a reflecting mirror, pouring down upon us such rays of

Heaven's brilliancy as our vision can endure. God's sun is only to

lighten us on our pathway of business; His mighty ocean only to bear the

burden of our commerce; His magnificent lakes to carry our trade; His

beautiful hills and smiling vales but to grow our corn, feed our cattle,

and be the substratum for our railways.

This utilitarianism of the day, too, has but little sympathy with the

fine arts. It laughs at music and painting, poetry and sculpture, as

things of naught, although they may tend mightily to the culture of the

spirit and the refinement of humanity. Classical learning it discards,

because with its dusty eyes it can not just see how that can qualify man

or woman for the better enjoyment of life, or how it will help us plow

or measure our fields, grind our grain, or churn our butter.

The mere discipline of the mind, the symmetrical development of man's

higher powers, the æsthetic evolution of himself; all this, though it

expand his intellect and enlarge his heart, though it impress on him

more of the lineaments of the skies, and bring him nearer to his great

Original, is but waste of time and thought, because it falls not within

the described circle of the utilitarian. Shades of Bacon and Locke, of

Shakspeare and Milton, of Goethe and Schiller, come and alight at least

on the daughters of our land!

Here is a wide field of influence for woman. You are the vestal virgins

to watch the fires on the altar of the fine arts. Yours it is to check

the sensuousness of man, to recall him from his ceaseless toil after the

mammon of this life, his restless ambition to turn every thing to

account in available funds, in bank-stocks, copper-stocks,

railroad-stocks. Tell your sons and your sires that there are higher

sources of joy. Point them away from earth's sordid gold to the brighter

gems of literature. Direct their energies to the intellectual and moral

advancement of their age. Help them to slake their quenchless thirst at

the pure fountains of knowledge and religion.

There is a poetry of life worth cultivating. There are spiritual

entities around us to which we are linked by ethereal chains. Let us not

struggle to throw off those chains, but rather to bind them faster about

us. And when you see a link broken, and others likely to drop, mend it.

Woman's office is it also _to soften political asperities in the other

sex, and themselves to shun political publicity_. Not that woman need be

ignorant of the great questions of the age; better be familiar with

them. But let her not become absorbed in them: rather keep so aloof from

exciting occasions as to be better qualified to form and express a

deliberate and unbiased judgment on men and measures. Let her opinions

be well matured, and always uttered with calmness and caution. When her

dearest friends of the other sex seem embittered toward others, and in

danger of forgetting the sweet charities of life amid the chafings of

party rivalry, let her pour out the milk of human kindness into the cup

of courtesy, and ask them to drink of it. When the waters are troubled

and the billows roar, let her diffuse over them the oil of love to still

the waters into a great calm. Surely this is an office higher, better

far, than to be pressing on, as some would have her, into the busy

bustle of out-door politics. Here is _influence_, and it is better than

_power_.

Who that loves woman, that really admires her worth as _woman_, that

thinks of her as the delicate, refined, tasteful, sensitive development

of humanity, the incarnation of all that is lovely, gentle, modest,

peaceful, and pure, the highest earthly manifestation of God as _love;_

who that remembers her as the "help-meet," can bear the thought of

hurrying her out upon the theatre of politics, the platform of

legislation?

"Woman's rights," they cry, and so loud the cry, that even woman's

ambition has conquered her judgment and her delicacy, and she has gone

forth, out of her appointed and fitting sphere, to be gazed on by a

curious crowd, and perhaps to hear the plaudits of a noisy populace. _O

tempora! O mores!_ Save us from such a race of women!

Now woman has rights, many rights, and let them be well guarded; but she

has no right to be a _man_. Yet, no wonder 'tis, if amid the stirring

enterprises and new discoveries of the age, some half-amazon should defy

the customs of social life, and assume the right of leveling all

distinctions between the sexes, walking forth _à la Turk_, and becoming

the gazing-stock of the street. Oh, let beauteous, winning woman wear

the gracefully-flowing robes of modesty; let her not be met by us "up to

the eyes" in politics, nor at the ballot-box, nor the caucus, nor in the

legislative hall, nor on the judicial bench, surrounded, perchance, by

tobacco-chewing barristers, nor as the public haranguer, addressing

promiscuous multitudes.

Let us rather see her in the quiet retirement of home, not doomed to the

busy drudgery of hard housekeeping merely, but there the refined woman,

whose pure sensibilities are shocked at the thought of a public

notoriety; who shuns the wistful gaze of the crowd, and finds in her own

family circle her kingdom and her _rights_, and seeks to adorn that with

all that is lovely and of good report. Thus will she win our admiration

and secure our love. Were her intellect and her eloquence displayed at

the bar or on the platform, we might indeed wonder with deep amazement,

but we should not love; and wanting this, both she and we were unhappy.

While sensible, then, of her equality with man in the possession of a

soul like his own, capable of the highest enterprises in science and

literature, may she yet recognize, as the appointment of her all-wise

Creator, subordination to man in power, superordination in influence. Be

content to be _woman_. It is a province high enough. If not cherubic, it

is seraphic. It is that phase of humanity we think most godlike; for if

Jehovah's highest expression of himself is _Love_, then that form of

humanity expressing most of it, is most like Him. That form, in our

opinion, is woman.

Let her not, then, strip herself of her chief glory, and depart further

from her God and Saviour, by shooting out from her own feminine orbit,

and aiming to revolve in that of the other sex, under the false

impression that it is a higher one. Even if it were, it is not hers, and

by thus battling with the order of nature, and swinging loose from the

proper relations of her being, she might become a wandering star in the

blackness of darkness forever.

Another evident office of woman is, _to regulate the forms and control

the habits of social life_. In this land, especially, do the "lords of

creation" bow with due deference to their ladies. We give them our arms,

'tis true, and we ask them to lean upon us, yet do we take step with

them, and in turn lean on them, amid the trying times of life, and look

to them for many of our joys, for most of our happiness. He is vulgar,

even barbarous, we think, who does not appreciate her worth and respect

her character. Hence, every where, hers is the first place, the best

place; and an American gentleman would rather suffer an agony than

subject women to a discomfort.

Such being her relative position, hers it must be to prescribe the

customs of social life, and say to man, "hitherto shalt thou go and no

further." The tone of morals will be such as she makes it. Man will be

conformed to the model she exhibits. He seldom, if ever, rises above the

level of his female associates. Surround him with the vulgar, the

thoughtless, the impure, and you shall not see him pure, thoughtful,

refined. Place him ever in the society of intelligent, dignified,

Christian women, and their virtues will be reflected on him.

And is it so, that woman is responsible, in a great measure, for the

fashions and habits of the community in which she lives? It is even so.

If she discard that foolish frippery and passion for display, which

occasionally characterize her own sex, it will not long live. It must be

buried in its own foibles, and have no resurrection. If she frown upon

him who robs woman of her jewel, he is a fugitive on the face of the

earth. If she discountenance the use of intoxicating beverages, the

young man will learn that abstinence on his part is the price of respect

and love on hers. Her office here is magnified: her influence has become

a power. The other offices were guiding and directory; this is

reformatory. Society looks to her for its type. Its virtues and its

vices are of her moulding. _It is what she bids it be._

What a potency! Let her wield it for her country's welfare. Then shall

it be a beacon light to other lands now in darkness and degradation,

because there woman is still the slave of man's passions, and has never

risen, under Christianity, to know her dignity, and make her brutal

master feel her moral equality in the scale of being.

Only one other office of woman shall we notice at present--_the

exemplification and diffusion of Christianity_--of Christianity, not so

much in its forms and dogmas, as in its spirit; not solely as a

redeeming scheme, but also as a reforming power.

To Christianity woman is emphatically a debtor. It has breathed into her

its breath of life, and she has become a living soul. Else had she been

but a dead manikin. To it she owes her present advanced position, her

commanding influence. Even all the literature and refinement of Greece

and Rome could not confer on woman the boon which the religion of Jesus

has brought her. He was woman's son, and his religion tells it. Go where

that religion is not, and there woman is naught.

Christianity has not only broken down the wall of partition between male

and female, but has opened the sealed fountains of her soul, and caused

them to send forth rills of gentleness and love, which have refreshed

humanity and poured out gladness on a dark and dreary world. Let the

cross, then, be woman's standard, Jesus woman's trust, Christianity

woman's charter. That thrown overboard, we are wrecked. Its principles

abandoned, the world sinks again into barbarism, and woman to brute

degradation. "The last at the cross and earliest at the sepulchre,"

must remember to cling to Christianity as her hope, her life. Let _her_

never be ashamed to confess it her ruling principle, her source of joy,

nor be hesitant in disseminating its seeds, that she may every where

behold its lily-flowers.

Can it ever be well said of woman, "she careth not if there be a God, or

a soul, or a time of retribution; pleasure is the idol of her heart: she

thirsteth for no purer heaven." Let such an one be decked in all the

gorgeous trappings of wealth, let her brow be crowned with the coronet

of rank, let her girdle hold the key which unlocks the treasures of

California, and yet she wants that which ennobles her sex, and would

render her an object of love and a source of joy to others.

"Oh, what is woman, what her smile,

Her lip of love, her eyes of light.

What is she, if her lips revile

The lowly Jesus? Love may write

His name upon her marble brow,

And linger in her curls of jet:

The light spring-flower may scarcely bow

Beneath her step--and yet--and yet--

Without that meeker grace she'll be

A lighter thing than vanity."

Never, then, let the sneer of the infidel, nor the scorn of the skeptic

drive woman from compounding the spices to embalm her crucified Master,

nor make her ashamed to be seen early at his sepulchre. Rather let her

glory in the cross, and make the most of her high mission here to send

its healing influences to every sick and sorrowing creature on this

green earth. Why should any poor, perishing mortal be left in all the

degradation of idolatry, when there is in our possession a power that

would lift him to heights of bliss, temporal and eternal? Why should the

world be left to its wailings and its woes, when Christianity diffused,

in its benign spirit, would convert those woes into joys, those wailings

into hallelujahs? How can woman, owing her all to the religion of the

Bible, refrain from exerting her energies to place this word of life in

the hands of every pilgrim over the deserts of time? And may she so

breathe its spirit and feel its power, that it shall never again be thus

written of her:

"There came

A stranger bright and beautiful

With steps of grace, and eye of flame,

And tone and look most sweetly blent

To make her presence eloquent;

Oh, then I looked for tears. She stood

Before the prisoner of Calvary.

I saw the piercing spear--the blood--

The gall--the writhe of agony.

I saw his quivering lips in prayer,

'Father, forgive them'--all was there!

I turned in bitterness of soul,

And spake of Jesus. I had thought

Her feelings would refuse control:

For woman's heart I knew was fraught

With gushing sympathies. She gazed

A moment on it carelessly,

Then coldly curl'd her lip, and praised

The high priest's garment! Could it be

That look was meant, dear Lord, for thee!"

A few words on _Influence_. This is woman's power. That distinctively

belongs to man, and is exercised by authority. Law and penalty grow out

of it. It regulates actions, it punishes crime. Influence, on the other

hand, awakens feeling, generates opinions, implants sentiments in the

soul, silently yet emphatically; and thus it crushes vice, promotes

virtue, and avoids the necessity of penal infliction.

Now this is pre-eminently the potent lever in the hands of woman for

regenerating and reforming the political and moral world. We may stand

in awe, indeed, before the exhibition of _power_, whether physical or

moral, but we are not won by them to the love of truth and goodness,

while _influence_ steals in upon our hearts, gets hold of the springs of

action, and leads us into its own ways. It is the _inflowing_ upon

others from the nameless traits of character which constitute woman's

idiosyncracy. Her heart is a great reservoir of love, the water-works of

moral influence, from which go out ten thousand tubes, conveying off the

ethereal essences of her nature, and diffusing them quietly over the

secret chambers of man's inner being.

Even the weakness of woman softens and subdues, and thus unseals the

soul for the infusion of her own sentiments. Her winning smiles, her

tender sympathies, her sensible expressions, her gentle ways, all

influence us, flow in upon our spirits. Who can be long boisterous in

the presence of woman? No more can the yeasty waves dash and foam when

superinfused by the mollifying touch of oil, than can the passions of

man rage with impetuosity in contact with the oleaginous serenity of

gentle woman.

Let man, then, exercise power; woman exert influence. By this will she

best perform her offices, discharge her duties. Thus will she most

effectually make home happy, restrain utilitarianism, allay party

asperities, regulate the habits of social life, and both exemplify and

diffuse Christianity. Thus will she become _vanqueur des vanqueurs de la

terre_--"conqueror of the conquerors of earth," and do more to bless the

world, and make it truly happy, than all political institutions, fiscal

agencies, and merely intellectual educations.

Surely this is a mission exalted. Let no woman despise it, though it

exclude her from the senator's seat and the chair of state. Let her

rather remember that she honors herself more, glorifies her God better,

and elevates her race higher, by adorning the sphere which her very

physical organization prescribes. Never will she be improved in her

nature, elevated in her influence, happier in her own spirit, or more

potent in effecting the happiness of the world, by aiming at the proper

dignities of _man_, throwing herself out upon the arena of public life,

meddling and mingling in its chafings and chances. Ah no! let us still

hope that woman will have good sense enough to discern the wisdom of God

in her proper relation, and that man shall still and ever have the

privilege and the joy of admiring and loving her as gentle, retiring,

delicate, yet influential _woman_.

THE TOWN-HO'S STORY.[5]

[5] From "The Whale." The title of a new work by Mr. Melville, in the

press of Harper and Brothers, and now publishing in London by Mr.

Bentley.

BY HERMAN MELVILLE.

The Cape of Good Hope, and all the watery region round about there, is

much like some noted four corners of a great highway, where you meet

more travelers than in any other part.

It was not very long after speaking the Goney that another

homeward-bound whaleman, the Town-Ho, was encountered. She was manned

almost wholly by Polynesians. In the short gam that ensued she gave us

strong news of Moby Dick. To some the general interest in the White

Whale was now wildly heightened by a circumstance of the Town-Ho's

story, which seemed obscurely to involve with the whale a certain

wondrous, inverted visitation of one of those so called judgments of God

which at times are said to overtake some men. This latter circumstance,

with its own particular accompaniments, forming what may be called the

secret part of the tragedy about to be narrated, never reached the ears

of Captain Ahab or his mates. For that secret part of the story was

unknown to the captain of the Town-Ho himself. It was the private

property of three confederate white seamen of that ship, one of whom, it

seems, communicated it to Tashtego with Romish injunctions of secresy,

but the following night Tashtego rambled in his sleep, and revealed so

much of it in that way, that when he was awakened he could not well

withhold the rest. Nevertheless, so potent an influence did this thing

have on those seamen in the Pequod who came to the full knowledge of it,

and by such a strange delicacy, to call it so, were they governed in

this matter, that they kept the secret among themselves so that it never

transpired abaft the Pequod's mainmast. Interweaving in its proper place

this darker thread with the story as publicly narrated on the ship, the

whole of this strange affair I now proceed to put on lasting record.

For my humor's sake, I shall preserve the style in which I once narrated

it at Lima, to a lounging circle of my Spanish friends, one saint's eve,

smoking upon the thick-gilt tiled piazza of the Golden Inn. Of those

fine cavaliers, the young Dons, Pedro and Sebastian, were on the closer

terms with me; and hence the interluding questions they occasionally

put, and which are duly answered at the time.

"Some two years prior to my first learning the events which I am about

rehearsing to you, gentlemen, the Town-Ho, Sperm Whaler of Nantucket,

was cruising in your Pacific here, not very many days' sail eastward

from the eaves of this good Golden Inn. She was somewhere to the

northward of the Line. One morning, upon handling the pumps, according

to daily usage, it was observed that she made more water in her hold

than common. They supposed a sword-fish had stabbed her, gentlemen. But

the captain, having some unusual reason for believing that rare good

luck awaited him in those latitudes; and therefore being very averse to

quit them, and the leak not being then considered at all dangerous,

though, indeed, they could not find it after searching the hold as low

down as was possible in rather heavy weather, the ship still continued

her cruisings, the mariners working at the pumps at wide and easy

intervals; but no good luck came; more days went by, and not only was

the leak yet undiscovered, but it sensibly increased. So much so, that

now taking some alarm, the captain, making all sail, stood away for the

nearest harbor, among the islands, there to have his hull hove out and

repaired.

"Though no small passage was before her, yet, if the commonest chance

favored, he did not at all fear that his ship would founder by the way,

because his pumps were of the best, and being periodically relieved at

them, those six-and-thirty men of his could easily keep the ship free;

never mind if the leak should double on her. In truth, well nigh the

whole of this passage being attended by very prosperous breezes, the

Town-Ho had all but certainly arrived in perfect safety at her port

without the occurrence of the least fatality, had it not been for the

brutal overbearing of Radney, the mate, a Vineyarder, and the bitterly

provoked vengeance of Steelkilt, a Lakeman and desperado from Buffalo.

"'Lakeman!--Buffalo! Pray, what is a Lakeman, and where is Buffalo?'

said Don Sebastian, rising in his swinging mat of grass.

"On the eastern shore of our Lake Erie, Don; but--I crave your

courtesy--may be, you shall soon hear further of all that. Now,

gentlemen, in square-sail brigs and three-masted ships, well nigh as

large and stout as any that ever sailed out of your old Callao to far

Manilla; this Lakeman, in the land-locked heart of our America, had yet

been nurtured by all those agrarian free-booting impressions popularly

connected with the open ocean. For in their interflowing aggregate,

those grand fresh-water seas of ours--Erie, and Ontario, and Huron, and

Superior, and Michigan--possess an ocean-like expansiveness, with many

of the ocean's noblest traits; with many of its rimmed varieties of

races and of climes. They contain round archipelagoes of romantic isles,

even as the Polynesian waters do; in large part, are shored by two great

contrasting nations, as the Atlantic is; they furnish long maritime

approaches to our numerous territorial colonies from the East, dotted

all round their banks; here and there are frowned upon by batteries, and

by the goat-like craggy guns of lofty Mackinaw; they have heard the

fleet thunderings of naval victories; at intervals, they yield their

beaches to wild barbarians, whose red painted faces flash from out their

peltry wigwams; for leagues and leagues are flanked by ancient and

unentered forests, where the gaunt pines stand like serried lines of

kings in Gothic genealogies; those same woods harboring wild Afric

beasts of prey, and silken creatures whose exported furs give robes to

Tartar Emperors; they mirror the paved capitals of Buffalo and

Cleveland, as well as Winnebago villages; they float alike the

full-rigged merchant ship, the armed cruiser of the State, the steamer,

and the beech canoe; they are swept by Borean and dismasting blasts as

direful as any that lash the salted wave; they know what shipwrecks are,

for out of sight of land, however inland, they have drowned full many a

midnight ship with all its shrieking crew. Thus, gentlemen, though an

inlander, Steelkilt was wild-ocean born, and wild-ocean nurtured; as

much of an audacious mariner as any. And for Radney, though in his

infancy he may have laid him down on the lone Nantucket beach, to nurse

at his maternal sea; though in after life he had long followed our

austere Atlantic and your contemplative Pacific; yet was he quite as

vengeful and full of social quarrel as the backwoods seaman, fresh from

the latitudes of buck-horn handled Bowie-knives. Yet was this

Nantucketer a man with some good-hearted traits; and this Lakeman, a

mariner, who though a sort of devil indeed, might yet by inflexible

firmness, only tempered by that common decency of human recognition

which is the meanest slave's right; thus treated, this Steelkilt had

long been retained harmless and docile. At all events, he had proved so

thus far; but Radney was doomed and made mad, and Steelkilt--but,

gentlemen, you shall hear.

"It was not more than a day or two at the furthest after pointing her

prow for her island haven, that the Town-Ho's leak seemed again

increasing, but only so as to require an hour or more at the pumps every

day. You must know that in a settled and civilized ocean like our

Atlantic, for example, some skippers think little of pumping their whole

way across it; though of a still, sleepy night, should the officer of

the deck happen to forget his duty in that respect, the probability

would be that he and his shipmates would never again remember it, on

account of all hands gently subsiding to the bottom. Nor in the solitary

and savage seas far from you to the westward, gentlemen, is it

altogether unusual for ships to keep clanging at their pump-handles in

full chorus even for a voyage of considerable length; that is, if it lie

along a tolerably accessible coast, or if any other reasonable retreat

is afforded them. It is only when a leaky vessel is in some very out of

the way part of those waters, some really landless latitude, that her

captain begins to feel a little anxious.

"Much this way had it been with the Town-Ho; so when her leak was found

gaining once more, there was in truth some small concern manifested by

several of her company; especially by Radney the mate. He commanded the

upper sails to be well hoisted, sheeted home anew, and every way

expanded to the breeze. Now this Radney, I suppose, was as little of a

coward, and as little inclined to any sort of nervous apprehensiveness

touching his own person as any fearless, unthinking creature on land or

on sea that you can conveniently imagine, gentlemen. Therefore when he

betrayed this solicitude about the safety of the ship, some of the

seamen declared that it was only on account of his being a part owner

in her. So when they were working that evening at the pumps, there was

on this head no small gamesomeness slily going on among them, as they

stood with their feet continually overflowed by the rippling clear

water; clear as any mountain spring, gentlemen--that bubbling from the

pumps ran across the deck, and poured itself out in steady spouts at the

lee scupper-holes.

"Now, as you well know, it is not seldom the case in this conventional

world of ours--watery or otherwise; that when a person placed in command

over his fellow-men finds one of them to be very significantly his

superior in general pride of manhood, straightway against that man he

conceives an unconquerable dislike and bitterness; and if he have a

chance he will pull down and pulverize that subaltern's tower, and make

a little heap of dust of it. Be this conceit of mine as it may,

gentlemen, at all events Steelkilt was a tall and noble animal with a

head like a Roman, and a flowing golden beard like the tasseled housings

of your last viceroy's snorting charger; and a brain, and a heart, and a

soul in him, gentlemen, which had made Steelkilt Charlemagne, had he

been born son to Charlemagne's father. But Radney, the mate, was ugly as

a mule; yet as hardy, as stubborn, as malicious. He did not love

Steelkilt, and Steelkilt knew it.

"Espying the mate drawing near as he was toiling at the pump with the

rest, the Lakeman affected not to notice him, but unawed, went on with

his gay banterings.

"'Ay, ay, my merry lads, it's a lively leak this; hold a cannikin, one

of ye, and let's have a taste. By the Lord, it's worth bottling! I tell

ye what, men, old Rad's investment must go for it! he had best cut away

his part of the hull and tow it home. The fact is, boys, that sword-fish

only began the job; he's come back again with a gang of ship-carpenters,

saw-fish, and file-fish, and what not; and the whole posse of 'em are

now hard at work cutting and slashing at the bottom; making

improvements, I suppose. If old Rad were here now, I'd tell him to jump

overboard and scatter 'em. They're playing the devil with his estate, I

can tell him. But he's a simple old soul--Rad, and a beauty, too. Boys,

they say the rest of his property is invested in looking-glasses. I

wonder if he'd give a poor devil like me the model of his nose.'

"'Damn your eyes! what's that pump stopping for?' roared Radney,

pretending not to have heard the sailors' talk. 'Thunder away at it!'

"'Ay, ay, sir,' said Steelkilt, merry as a cricket. 'Lively, boys,

lively, now!' And with that the pump clanged like fifty fire-engines;

the men tossed their hats off to it, and ere long that peculiar gasping

of the lungs was heard which denotes the fullest tension of life's

utmost energies.

"Quitting the pump at last, with the rest of his band, the Lakeman went

forward all panting, and sat himself down on the windlass; his face

fiery red, his eyes bloodshot, and wiping the profuse sweat from his

brow. Now what cozening fiend it was, gentlemen, that possessed Radney

to meddle with such a man in that corporeally exasperated state, I know

not; but so it happened. Intolerably striding along the deck, the mate

commanded him to get a broom and sweep down the planks, and also a

shovel, and remove some offensive matters consequent upon allowing a pig

to run at large.

"Now, gentlemen, sweeping a ship's deck at sea is a piece of household

work which in all times but raging gales is regularly attended to every

evening; it has been known to be done in the case of ships actually

foundering at the time. Such, gentlemen, is the inflexibility of

sea-usages and the instinctive love of neatness in seamen; some of whom

would not willingly drown without first washing their faces. But in all

vessels this broom business is the prescriptive province of the boys, if

boys there be aboard. Besides, it was the stronger men in the Town-Ho

that had been divided into gangs, taking turns at the pumps; and being

the most athletic seaman of them all, Steelkilt had been regularly

assigned captain of one of the gangs; consequently he should have been

freed from any trivial business not connected with truly nautical

duties, such being the case with his comrades. I mention all these

particulars so that you may understand exactly how this affair stood

between the two men.

"But there was more than this: the order about the shovel was almost as

plainly meant to sting and insult Steelkilt, as though Radney had spat

in his face. Any man who has gone sailor in a whale-ship will understand

this; and all this and doubtless much more, the Lakeman fully

comprehended when the mate uttered his command. But as he sat still for

a moment, and as he steadfastly looked into the mate's malignant eye and

perceived the stacks of powder-casks heaped up in him and the slow match

silently burning along toward them; as he instinctively saw all this,

that strange forbearance and unwillingness to stir up the deeper

passionateness in any already ireful being--a repugnance most felt, when

felt at all, by really valiant men even when aggrieved--this nameless

phantom feeling, gentlemen, stole over Steelkilt.

"Therefore, in his ordinary tone, only a little broken by the bodily

exhaustion he was temporarily in, he answered him, saying that sweeping

the deck was not his business, and he would not do it. And then, without

at all alluding to the shovel, he pointed to three lads as the customary

sweepers; who, not being billeted at the pumps, had done little or

nothing all day. To this, Radney replied with an oath, in a most

domineering and outrageous manner unconditionally reiterating his

command; meanwhile advancing upon the still seated Lakeman, with an

uplifted cooper's club hammer which he had snatched from a cask near by.

"Heated and irritated as he was by his spasmodic toil at the pumps, for

all his first nameless feeling of forbearance the sweating Steelkilt

could but ill brook this bearing in the mate; but somehow still

smothering the conflagration within him, without speaking he remained

doggedly; rooted to his seat, till at last the incensed Radney shook the

hammer within a few inches of his face, furiously commanding him to do

his bidding.

"Steelkilt rose, and slowly retreating round the windlass, steadily

followed by the mate with his menacing hammer, deliberately repeated his

intention not to obey. Seeing, however, that his forbearance had not the

slightest effect, by an awful and unspeakable intimation with his

twisted hand he warned off the foolish and infatuated man; but it was to

no purpose. And in this way the two went once slowly round the windlass;

when, resolved at last no longer to retreat, bethinking him that he had

now forborne as much as comported with his humor, the Lakeman paused on

the hatches and thus spoke to the officer:

"'Mr. Radney, I will not obey you. Take that hammer away, or look to

yourself.' But the predestinated mate coming still closer to him, where

the Lakeman stood fixed, now shook the heavy hammer within an inch of

his teeth; meanwhile repeating a string of insufferable maledictions.

Retreating not the thousandth part of an inch; stabbing him in the eye

with the unflinching poniard of his glance, Steelkilt, clenching his

right hand behind him and creepingly drawing it back, told his

persecutor that if the hammer but grazed his cheek he (Steelkilt) would

murder him. But, gentlemen, the fool had been branded for the slaughter

by the gods. Immediately the hammer touched the cheek; the next instant

the lower jaw of the mate was stove in his head; he fell on the hatch

spouting blood like a whale.

"Ere the cry could go aft Steelkilt was shaking one of the backstays

leading far aloft to where two of his comrades were standing their

mast-heads. They were both Canalers.

"'Canalers!' cried Don Pedro. 'We have seen many whaleships in our

harbors, but never heard of your Canalers. Pardon: who and what are

they?'

"Canalers, Don, are the boatmen belonging to our grand Erie Canal. You

must have heard of it.

"'Nay, Senor; hereabouts in this dull, warm, most lazy, and hereditary

land, we know but little of your vigorous North.'

"Ay? Well, then, Don, refill my cup. Your chicha's very fine; and, ere

proceeding further I will tell you what our Canalers are; for such

information may throw side-light upon my story.

"For three hundred and sixty miles, gentlemen, through the entire

breadth of the state of New York; through numerous populous cities and

most thriving villages; through long, dismal, uninhabited swamps, and

affluent, cultivated fields, unrivaled for fertility; by billiard-room

and bar room; through the holy-of-holies of great forests; on Roman

arches over Indian rivers; through sun and shade; by happy hearts or

broken; through all the wide contrasting scenery of those noble Mohawk

counties; and especially by rows of snow-white chapels, whose spires

stand almost like milestones, flows one continual stream of Venetianly

corrupt and often lawless life. There's your true Ashantee, gentlemen;

there howl your pagans; where you ever find them, next door to you;

under the long-flung shadow, and the snug patronizing lee of churches.

For by some curious fatality, as it is often noted of your metropolitan

freebooters that they ever encamp around the halls of justice, so

sinners, gentlemen, most abound in holiest vicinities.

"'Is that a friar passing?' said Don Pedro, looking downward into the

crowded plaza, with humorous concern.

"'Well for our northern friend, Dame Isabella's Inquisition wanes in

Lima,' laughed Don Sebastian. 'Proceed, Senor.'

"'A moment! Pardon!' cried another of the company. 'In the name of all

us Limeese, I but desire to express to you, sir sailor, that we have by

no means overlooked your delicacy in not substituting present Lima for

distant Venice in your corrupt comparison. Oh! do not bow and look

surprised; you know the proverb all along this coast--"Corrupt as Lima."

It but bears out your saying, too; churches more plentiful than

billiard-tables, and forever open--and "Corrupt as Lima." So, too,

Venice; I have been there; the holy city of the blessed evangelist, St.

Mark!--St. Dominic, purge it! Your cup! Thanks: here I refill; now, you

pour out again.'

"Freely depicted in his own vocation, gentlemen, the Canaler would make

a fine dramatic hero, so abundantly and picturesquely wicked is he. Like

Mark Antony, for days and days along his green-turfed, flowery Nile, he

indolently floats, openly toying with his red-cheeked Cleopatra,

ripening his apricot thigh upon the sunny deck. But ashore, all this

effeminacy is dashed. The brigandish guise which the Canaler so proudly

sports; his slouched and gayly-ribboned hat betoken his grand features.

A terror to the smiling innocence of the villages through which he

floats; his swart visage and bold swagger are not unshunned in cities.

Once a vagabond on his own canal, I have received good turns from one of

those Canalers; I thank him heartily; would fain be not ungrateful; but

it is often one of the prime redeeming qualities of your man of

violence, that at times he has as stiff an arm to back a poor stranger

in a strait, as to plunder a wealthy one. In sum, gentlemen, what the

wildness of this canal life is, is emphatically evinced by this; that

our wild whale-fishery contains so many of its most finished graduates,

and that scarce any race of mankind, except Sydney men, are so much

distrusted by our whaling captains. Nor does it at all diminish the

curiousness of this matter, that to many thousands of our rural boys and

young men born along its line, the probationary life of the Grand Canal

furnishes the sole transition between quietly reaping in a Christian

corn-field, and recklessly ploughing the waters of the most barbaric

seas."

"'I see! I see!' impetuously exclaimed Don Pedro, spilling his chicha

upon his silvery ruffles. 'No need to travel! The world's one Lima. I

had thought, now, that at your temperate North the generations were cold

and holy as the hills. But the story.'

"I left off, gentlemen, where the Lakeman shook the backstay. Hardly had

he done so, when he was surrounded by the three junior mates and the

four harpooners, who all crowded him to the deck. But sliding down the

ropes like baleful comets, the two Canalers rushed into the uproar, and

sought to drag their man out of it toward the forecastle. Others of the

sailors joined with them in this attempt, and a twisted turmoil ensued;

while standing out of harm's way, the valiant captain danced up and down

with a whale-pike, calling upon his officers to manhandle that atrocious

scoundrel, and smoke him along to the quarter-deck. At intervals, he ran

close up to the revolving border of the confusion, and prying into the

heart of it with his pike, sought to prick out the object of his

resentment. But Steelkilt and his desperadoes were too much for them

all; they succeeded in gaining the forecastle deck, where, hastily

slewing about three or four large casks in a line with the windlass,

these sea-Parisians entrenched themselves behind the barricade."

"'Come out of that, ye pirates!' roared the captain, now menacing them

with a pistol in each hand, just brought to him by the steward. 'Come

out of that, ye cut-throats!'

"Steelkilt leaped on the barricade, and striding up and down there,

defied the worst the pistols could do; but gave the captain to

understand distinctly, that his (Steelkilt's) death would be the signal

for a murderous mutiny on the part of all hands. Fearing in his heart

lest this might prove but too true, the captain a little desisted, but

still commanded the insurgents instantly to return to their duty.

"'Will you promise not to touch us, if we do?' demanded their

ringleader.

"'Turn to! turn to!--I make no promise; to your duty! Do you want to

sink the ship, by knocking off at a time like this? Turn to!' and he

once more raised a pistol.

"'Sink the ship?' cried Steelkilt. 'Ay, let her sink. Not a man of us

turns to, unless you swear not to raise a rope-yarn against us. What say

ye, men?' turning to his comrades. A fierce cheer was their response.

"The Lakeman now patrolled the barricade, all the while keeping his eye

on the Captain, and jerking out such sentences as these: 'It's not our

fault; we didn't want it; I told him to take his hammer away; it was

boys' business: he might have known me before this; I told him not to

prick the buffalo; I believe I have broken a finger here against his

cursed jaw; ain't those mincing knives down in the forecastle there,

men? look to those handspikes, my hearties. Captain, by God, look to

yourself; say the word; don't be a fool; forget it all; we are ready to

turn to; treat us decently, and we're your men; but we won't be

flogged.'

"'Turn to! I make no promises: turn to, I say!'

"'Look ye, now,' cried the Lakeman, flinging out his arm toward him,

'there are a few of us here (and I am one of them) who have shipped for

the cruise, d'ye see; now as you well know, sir, we can claim our

discharge as soon as the anchor is down; so we don't want a row; it's

not our interest; we want to be peaceable; we are ready to work, but we

won't be flogged.'

"'Turn to!' roared the Captain.

"Steelkilt glanced round him a moment, and then said: 'I tell you what

it is now, Captain, rather than kill ye, and be hung for such a shabby

rascal, we won't lift a hand against ye unless ye attack us; but till

you say the word about not flogging us, we don't do a hand's turn.'

"'Down into the forecastle then, down with ye, I'll keep ye there till

ye're sick of it. Down ye go.'

"'Shall we?' cried the ringleader to his men. Most of them were against

it; but at length, in obedience to Steelkilt, they preceded him down

into their dark den, growlingly disappearing like bears into a cave.

"As the Lakeman's bare head was just level with the planks, the Captain

and his posse leaped the barricade, and rapidly drawing over the slide

of the scuttle, planted their group of hands upon it, and loudly called

for the steward to bring the heavy brass padlock belonging to the

companionway. Then opening the slide a little, the Captain whispered

something down the crack, closed it, and turned the key upon them--ten

in number--leaving on deck some twenty or more, who thus far had

remained neutral.

"All night a wide-awake watch was kept by all the officers, forward and

aft, especially about the forecastle scuttle and fore hatchway; at which

last place it was feared the insurgents might emerge, after breaking

through the bulkhead below. But the hours of darkness passed in peace;

the men who still remained at their duty toiling hard at the pumps,

whose clinking and clanking at intervals through the dreary night

dismally resounded through the ship.

"At sunrise the Captain went forward, and knocking on the deck summoned

the prisoners to work; but with a yell they refused. Water was then

lowered down to them, and a couple of handfuls of biscuit were tossed

after it; when again turning the key upon them and pocketing it, the

Captain returned to the quarter-deck. Twice every day for three days

this was repeated; but on the fourth morning a confused wrangling, and

then a scuffling was heard, as the customary summons was delivered; and

suddenly four men burst up from the forecastle, saying they were ready

to turn to. The fetid closeness of the air, and a famishing diet, united

perhaps to some fears of ultimate retribution, had constrained them to

surrender at discretion. Emboldened by this, the Captain reiterated his

demand to the rest, but Steelkilt shouted up to him a terrific hint to

stop his babbling and betake himself where he belonged. On the fifth

morning three others of the mutineers bolted up into the air from the

desperate arms below that sought to restrain them. Only three were left.

"'Better turn to, now!' said the Captain with a heartless jeer.

"'Shut us up again, will ye!' cried Steelkilt.

"'Oh! certainly,' said the Captain, and the key clicked.

"It was at this point, gentlemen, that enraged by the defection of seven

of his former associates, and stung by the mocking voice that had last

hailed him, and maddened by his long entombment in a place as black as

the bowels of despair; it was then that Steelkilt proposed to the two

Canalers, thus far apparently of one mind with him, to burst out of

their hole at the next summoning of the garrison; and armed with their

keen mincing knives (long, crescentic, heavy implements with a handle at

each end) run a muck from the bowsprit to the taffrail; and if by any

devilishness of desperation possible, seize the ship. For himself, he

would do this, he said, whether they joined him or not. That was the

last night he should spend in that den. But the scheme met with no

opposition on the part of the other two; they swore they were ready for

that, or for any other mad thing, for any thing, in short, but a

surrender. And what was more, they each insisted upon being the first

man on deck, when the time to make the rush should come. But to this

their leader as fiercely objected, reserving that priority for himself;

particularly as his two comrades would not yield, the one to the other,

in the matter; and both of them could not be first, for the ladder would

but admit one man at a time. And here, gentlemen, the foul play of these

miscreants must come out.

"Upon hearing the frantic project of their leader, each in his own

separate soul had suddenly lighted, it would seem, upon the same piece

of treachery, namely: to be foremost in breaking out, in order to be the

first of the three, though the last of the ten, to surrender; and

thereby secure whatever small chance of pardon such conduct might merit.

But when Steelkilt made known his determination still to lead them to

the last, they in some way, by some subtle chemistry of villainy, mixed

their before secret treacheries together; and when their leader fell

into a doze, verbally opened their souls to each other in three

sentences; and bound the sleeper with cords, and gagged him with cords;

and shrieked out for the Captain at midnight.

"Thinking murder at hand, and smelling in the dark for the blood, he and

all his armed mates and harpooners rushed for the forecastle. In a few

minutes the scuttle was opened, and, bound hand and foot, the still

struggling ringleader was shoved up into the air by his perfidious

allies, who at once claimed the honor of securing a man who had been

fully ripe for murder. But all three were collared, and dragged along

the deck like dead cattle; and, side by side, were seized up into the

mizen rigging, like three quarters of meat, and there they hung till

morning. 'Damn ye,' cried the Captain, pacing to and fro before them,

'the vultures would not touch ye, ye villains!'

"At sunrise he summoned all hands; and separated those who had rebelled

from those who had taken no part in the mutiny, he told the former that

he had a good mind to flog them all around--thought, upon the whole, he

would do so--he ought to--justice demanded it; but, for the present,

considering their timely surrender, he would let them go with a

reprimand, which he accordingly administered in the vernacular.

"'But as for you, ye carrion rogues,' turning to the three men in the

rigging--'for you, I mean to mince ye up for the try-pots;' and, seizing

a rope, he applied it with all his might to the backs of the two

traitors, till they yelled no more, but lifelessly hung their head

sideways, as the two crucified thieves are drawn.

"'My wrist is sprained with ye!' he cried, at last; 'but there is still

rope enough left for you, my fine bantam, that wouldn't give up. Take

that gag from his mouth, and let us hear what he can say for himself.'

"For a moment the exhausted mutineer made a tremulous motion of his

cramped jaws, and then painfully twisting round his head, said, in a

sort of hiss, 'What I say is this--and mind it well--if you flog me, I

murder you!'

"'Say ye so? then see how ye frighten me'--and the Captain drew off with

the rope to strike.

"'Best not,' hissed the Lakeman.

"'But I must'--and the rope was once more drawn back for the stroke.

"Steelkilt here hissed out something, inaudible to all but the Captain;

who, to the amazement of all hands, started back, paced the deck rapidly

two or three times, and then suddenly throwing down his rope, said, 'I

won't do it--let him go--cut him down: d'ye hear?'

"But as the junior mates were hurrying to execute the order, a pale man,

with a bandaged head, arrested them--Radney the chief mate. Ever since

the blow, he had lain in his berth; but that morning, hearing the tumult

on the deck, he had crept out, and thus far had watched the whole scene.

Such was the state of his mouth, that he could hardly speak; but

mumbling something about _his_ being willing and able to do what the

Captain dared not attempt, he snatched the rope and advanced to his

pinioned foe.

"'You are a coward!' hissed the Lakeman.

"'So I am, but take that.' The mate was in the very act of striking,

when another hiss stayed his uplifted arm. He paused: and then pausing

no more, made good his word, spite of Steelkilt's threat, whatever that

might have been. The three men were then cut down, all hands were turned

to, and, sullenly worked by the moody seamen, the iron pumps clanged as

before.

"Just after dark that day, when one watch had retired below, a clamor

was heard in the forecastle; and the two trembling traitors running up,

besieged the cabin-door, saying they durst not consort with the crew.

Entreaties, cuffs, and kicks could not drive them back, so at their own

instance they were put down in the ship's run for salvation. Still, no

sign of mutiny re-appeared among the rest. On the contrary, it seemed,

that mainly at Steelkilt's instigation, they had resolved to maintain

the strictest peacefulness, obey all orders to the last, and, when the

ship reached port, desert her in a body. But in order to insure the

speediest end to the voyage, they all agreed to another thing--namely,

not to sing out for whales, in case any should be discovered. For, spite

of her leak, and spite of all her other perils, the Town-Ho still

maintained her mast heads, and her captain was just as willing to lower

for a fish that moment, as on the day his craft first struck the

cruising-ground, and Radney the mate was quite as ready to change his

berth for a boat, and with his bandaged mouth seek to gag in death the

vital jaw of the whale.

"But though the Lakeman had induced the seamen to adopt this sort of

passiveness in their conduct, he kept his own counsel (at least till all

was over) concerning his own proper and private revenge upon the man who

had stung him in the ventricles of his heart. He was in Radney the

chief-mate's watch; and as if the infatuated man sought to run more than

half way to meet his doom, after the scene at the rigging, he insisted,

against the express counsel of the captain, upon resuming the head of

his watch at night. Upon this, and one or two other circumstances,

Steelkilt systematically built the plan of his revenge.

"During the night, Radney had an unseaman-like way of sitting on the

bulwarks of the quarter-deck, and leaning his arm upon the gunwale of

the boat which was hoisted up there, a little above the ship's side. In

this attitude, it was well known, he sometimes dozed. There was a

considerable vacancy between the boat and the ship, and down between

this was the sea. Steelkilt calculated his time, and found that his next

trick at the helm would come round at two o'clock, in the morning of the

third day from that in which he had been betrayed. At his leisure, he

employed the interval in braiding something very carefully in his

watches below.

"'What are you making there?' said a shipmate.

"'What do you think? what does it look like?'

"'Like a lanyard for your bag; but it's an odd one, seems to me.'

"'Yes, rather oddish,' said the Lakeman, holding it at arm's length

before him; 'but I think it will answer. Shipmate, I haven't enough

twine--have you any?'

"But there was none in the forecastle.

"'Then I must get some from old Rad;' and he rose to go aft.

"'You don't mean to go a-begging to _him!_' said a sailor.

"'Why not? Do you think he won't do me a turn, when it's to help himself

in the end, shipmate?' and going to the mate, he looked at him quietly,

and asked him for some twine to mend his hammock. It was given

him--neither twine nor lanyard was seen again; but the next night an

iron ball, closely netted, partly rolled from the pocket of the

Lakeman's monkey-jacket, as he was tucking the coat into his hammock for

a pillow. Twenty-four hours after, his trick at the silent helm--nigh to

the man who was apt to doze over the grave always ready dug to the

seaman's hand--that fatal hour was then to come; and in the

fore-ordaining soul of Steelkilt, the mate was already stark and

stretched as a corpse, with his forehead crushed in.

"But, gentlemen, a fool saved the would-be murderer from the bloody deed

he had planned. Yet complete revenge he had, and without being the

avenger. For by a mysterious fatality, Heaven itself seemed to step in

to take out of his hands into its own the damning thing he would have

done.

"It was just between daybreak and sunrise of the morning of the second

day, when they were washing down the decks, that a stupid Teneriffe man,

drawing water in the main-chains, all at once shouted out, 'There she

rolls! there she rolls! Jesu! what a whale!' It was Moby Dick.

"'Moby Dick!' cried Don Sebastian; 'St. Dominic! Sir sailor, but do

whales have christenings? Whom call you Moby Dick?'

"A very white, and famous, and most deadly immortal monster, Don; but

that would be too long a story.

"'How? how? cried all the young Spaniards, crowding.

"Nay, Dons, Dons--nay, nay! I can not rehearse that now. Let me get more

into the air, sirs.

"'The chicha! the chicha!' cried Don Pedro; 'our vigorous friend looks

faint; fill up his empty glass!'

"No need, gentlemen; one moment, and I proceed. Now, gentlemen, so

suddenly perceiving the snowy whale within fifty yards of the

ship--forgetful of the compact among the crew--in the excitement of the

moment, the Teneriffe man had instinctively and involuntarily lifted his

voice for the monster, though for some little time past it had been

plainly beheld from the three sullen mast-heads. All was now a frenzy.

'The White Whale--the White Whale!' was the cry from captain, mates, and

harpooners, who, undeterred by fearful rumors, were all anxious to

capture so famous and precious a fish; while the dogged crew eyed

askance, and with curses, the appalling beauty of the vast milky mass,

that lit up by a horizontal spangling sun, shifted and glistened like a

living opal in the blue morning sea. Gentlemen, a strange fatality

pervades the whole career of these events, as if verily mapped out

before the world itself was charted. The mutineer was the bowsman of the

mate, and when fast to a fish, it was his duty to sit next him, while

Radney stood up with his lance in the prow, and haul in or slacken the

line, at the word of command. Moreover, when the four boats were

lowered, the mate's got the start; and none howled more fiercely with

delight than did Steelkilt, as he strained at his oar. After a stiff

pull, their harpooner got fast, and, spear in hand, Radney sprang to the

bow. He was always a furious man, it seems, in a boat. And now his

bandaged cry was, to beach him on the whale's topmost back. Nothing

loath, his bowsman hauled him up and up, through a blinding foam that

blent two whitenesses together; till of a sudden the boat struck as

against a sunken ledge, and keeling over, spilled out the standing mate.

That instant, as he fell on the whale's slippery back, the boat righted,

and was dashed aside by the swell, while Radney was tossed over into the

sea, on the other flank of the whale. He struck out through the spray,

and, for an instant, was dimly seen through that vail, wildly seeking to

remove himself from the eye of Moby Dick. But the whale rushed round in

a sudden maelstrom--seized the swimmer between his jaws; and rearing

high up with him, plunged headlong again, and went down.

"Meantime, at the first tap of the boat's bottom, the Lakeman had

slackened the line, so as to drop astern from the whirlpool; calmly

looking on, he thought his own thoughts. But a sudden, terrific,

downward jerking of the boat, quickly brought his knife to the line. He

cut it; and the whale was free. But, at some distance, Moby Dick rose

again, with some tatters of Radney's red woolen shirt, caught in the

teeth that had destroyed him. All four boats gave chase again; but the

whale eluded them, and, finally, wholly disappeared.

"In good time, the Town-Ho reached her port--a savage, solitary

place--where no civilized creature resided. There, headed by the

Lakeman, all but five or six of the foremast-men deliberately deserted

among the palms; eventually, as it turned out, seizing a large double

war-canoe of the savages, and setting sail for some other harbor.

"The ship's company being reduced to but a handful, the Captain called

upon the Islanders to assist him in the laborious business of heaving

down the ship to stop the leak. But to such unresting vigilance over

their dangerous allies was this small band of whites necessitated, both

by night and by day, and so extreme was the hard work they underwent,

that upon the vessel being ready again for sea, they were in such a

weakened condition that the captain durst not put off with them in so

heavy a vessel. After taking counsel with his officers, he anchored the

ship as far off shore as possible; loaded and ran out his two cannon

from the bows; stacked his muskets on the poop; and warning the

Islanders not to approach the ship at their peril, took one man with

him, and setting the sail of his best whale-boat, steered straight

before the wind for Tahiti, five hundred miles distant, to procure a

reinforcement to his crew.

"On the fourth day of the sail, a large canoe was descried, which seemed

to have touched at a low isle of corals. He steered away from it; but

the savage craft bore down on him; and soon the voice of Steelkilt

hailed him to heave to, or he would run him under water. The captain

presented a pistol. With one foot on each prow of the yoked war-canoes,

the Lakeman laughed him to scorn; assuring him that if the pistol so

much as clicked in the lock, he would bury him in bubbles and foam.

"'What do you want of me?' cried the captain.

"'Where are you bound? and for what are you bound?' demanded Steelkilt;

'no lies.'

"'I am bound to Tahiti for more men.'

"'Very good. Let me board you a moment--I come in peace.' With that he

leaped from the canoe, swam to the boat; and climbing the gunwale, stood

face to face with the captain.

"'Cross your arm, sir; throw back your head. Now, repeat after me. As

soon as Steelkilt leaves me, I swear to beach this boat on yonder

island, and remain there six days. If I do not, may lightnings strike

me!'

"'A pretty scholar,' laughed the Lakeman. 'Adios, Senor!' and leaping

into the sea, he swam back to his comrades.

"Watching the boat till it was fairly beached, and drawn up to the roots

of the cocoa-nut trees, Steelkilt made sail again, and in due time

arrived at Tahiti, his own place of destination. There, luck befriended

him; two ships were about to sail for France, and were providentially in

want of precisely that number of men which the sailor headed. They

embarked; and so forever got the start of their former captain, had he

been at all minded to work them legal retribution.

"Some ten days after the French ships sailed, the whale-boat arrived,

and the captain was forced to enlist some of the more civilized

Tahitans, who had been somewhat used to the sea. Chartering a small

native schooner, he returned with them to his vessel; and finding all

right there, again resumed his cruisings.

"Where Steelkilt now is, gentlemen, none know; but upon the island of

Nantucket, the widow of Radney still turns to the sea which refuses to

give up its dead; still in dreams sees the awful white whale that

destroyed him....

"'Are you through?' said Don Sebastian, quietly.

"I am, Don.

"'Then I entreat you, tell me if to the best of your own convictions,

this your story is, in substance, really true? It is so passing

wonderful! Did you get it from an unquestionable source? Bear with me if

I seem to press.'

"'Also bear with all of us, sir sailor; for we all join in Don

Sebastian's suit,' cried the company, with exceeding interest.

"Is there a copy of the Holy Evangelists in the Golden Inn, gentlemen?

"'Nay,' said Don Sebastian; 'but I know a worthy priest near by, who

will quickly procure one for me. I go for it; but are you well advised?

this may grow too serious.'

"'Will you be so good as to bring the priest also, Don?'

"'Though there are no Auto-da-Fés in Lima now,' said one of the company

to another; 'I fear our sailor friend runs risk of the archiepiscopacy.

Let us withdraw more out of the moonlight. I see no need of this.'

"Excuse me for running after you, Don Sebastian; but may I also beg that

you will be particular in procuring the largest sized Evangelists you

can....

"'This is the priest; he brings you the Evangelists,' said Don

Sebastian, gravely, returning with a tall and solemn figure.

"Let me remove my hat. Now, venerable priest, further into the light,

and hold the Holy Book before me that I may touch it.

"So help me Heaven, and on my honor, the story I have told ye,

gentlemen, is, in substance and its great items, true. I know it to be

true; it happened on this ball; I trod the ship; I knew the crew; I have

seen and talked with Steelkilt since the death of Radney."

MY NOVEL, OR, VARIETIES IN ENGLISH LIFE.[6]

[6] Continued from the September Number.

Book VII.--INITIAL CHAPTER.

"What is courage?" said my uncle Roland, rousing himself from a reverie

into which he had fallen after the Sixth Book in this history had been

read to our family circle.

"What is courage?" he repeated more earnestly. "Is it insensibility to

fear? _That_ may be the mere accident of constitution; and, if so, there

is no more merit in being courageous than in being this table."

"I am very glad to hear you speak thus," observed Mr. Caxton, "for I

should not like to consider myself a coward; yet I am very sensible to

fear in all dangers, bodily and moral."

"La, Austin, how can you say so?" cried my mother, firing up; "was it

not only last week that you faced the great bull that was rushing after

Blanche and the children?"

Blanche at that recollection stole to my father's chair, and, hanging

over his shoulder kissed his forehead.

Mr. Caxton (sublimely unmoved by these flatteries).--"I don't deny that

I faced the bull, but I assert that I was horribly frightened."

Roland.--"The sense of honor which conquers fear is the true courage of

chivalry: you could not run away when others were looking on--no

gentleman could."

Mr. Caxton.--"Fiddledee! It was not on my gentility that I stood,

Captain. I should have run fast enough, if it had done any good. I stood

upon my understanding. As the bull could run faster than I could, the

only chance of escape was to make the brute as frightened as myself."

Blanche.--"Ah, you did not think of that; your only thought was to save

me and the children."

Mr. Caxton.--"Possibly, my dear--very possibly I might have been afraid

for you too--but I was very much afraid for myself. However, luckily I

had the umbrella, and I sprang it up and spread it forth in the animal's

stupid eyes, hurling at him simultaneously the biggest lines I could

think of in the First Chorus of the 'Seven against Thebes.' I began with

ELEDEMNAS PEDIOPLOKTUPOS; and when I came to the grand howl of Iô, iô,

iô, iô--the beast stood appalled as at the roar of a lion. I shall never

forget his amazed snort at the Greek. Then he kicked up his hind legs,

and went bolt through the gap in the hedge. Thus, armed with Æschylus

and the umbrella, I remained master of the field; but (continued Mr.

Caxton, ingenuously), I should not like to go through that half minute

again."

"No man would," said the Captain, kindly. "I should be very sorry to

face a bull myself, even with a bigger umbrella than yours, and even

though I had Æschylus, and Homer to boot, at my fingers' ends."

Mr. Caxton.--"You would not have minded if it had been a Frenchman with

a sword in his hand?"

Captain.--"Of course not. Rather liked it than otherwise," he added,

grimly.

Mr. Caxton.--"Yet many a Spanish matador, who doesn't care a button for

a bull, would take to his heels at the first lunge _en carte_ from a

Frenchman. Therefore, in fact, if courage be a matter of constitution,

it is also a matter of custom. We face calmly the dangers we are

habituated to, and recoil from those of which we have no familiar

experience. I doubt if Marshal Turenne himself would have been quite at

his ease on the tight rope; and a rope-dancer, who seems disposed to

scale the heavens with Titanic temerity, might possibly object to charge

on a cannon."

Captain Roland.--"Still, either this is not the courage I mean, or there

is another kind of it. I mean by courage that which is the especial

force and dignity of the human character, without which there is no

reliance on principle, no constancy in virtue--a something," continued

my uncle, gallantly, and with a half bow toward my mother, "which your

sex shares with our own. When the lover, for instance, clasps the hand

of his betrothed, and says, 'Wilt thou be true to me, in spite of

absence and time, in spite of hazard and fortune, though my foes malign

me, though thy friends may dissuade thee, and our lot in life may be

rough and rude?' and when the betrothed answers, 'I will be true,' does

not the lover trust to her courage as well as her love?"

"Admirably put, Roland," said my father. "But _apropos_ of what do you

puzzle us with these queries on courage?"

Captain Roland (with a slight blush).--"I was led to the inquiry

(though, perhaps, it may be frivolous to take so much thought of what,

no doubt, costs Pisistratus so little), by the last chapters in my

nephew's story. I see this poor boy, Leonard, alone with his fallen

hopes (though very irrational they were), and his sense of shame. And I

read his heart, I dare say, better than Pisistratus does, for I could

feel like that boy if I had been in the same position; and, conjecturing

what he and thousands like him must go through, I asked myself, 'What

can save him and them?' I answered, as a soldier would answer,

'Courage!' Very well. But pray, Austin, what is courage?"

Mr. Caxton (prudently backing out of a reply).--"_Papæ!_ Brother, since

you have just complimented the ladies on that quality, you had better

address your question to them."

Blanche here leant both hands on my father's chair, and said, looking

down at first bashfully, but afterward warming with the subject, "Do you

not think, sir, that little Helen has already suggested, if not what is

courage, what at least is the real essence of all courage that endures

and conquers, that ennobles, and hallows, and redeems? Is it not

Patience, father?--and that is why we women have a courage of our own.

Patience does not affect to be superior to fear, but at least it never

admits despair."

Pisistratus.--"Kiss me, my Blanche, for you have come near to the truth

which perplexed the soldier and puzzled the sage."

Mr. Caxton (tartly).--"If you mean me by the sage, I was not puzzled at

all. Heaven knows you do right to inculcate patience--it is a virtue

very much required in your readers. Nevertheless," added my father,

softening with the enjoyment of his joke--"nevertheless, Blanche and

Helen are quite right. Patience is the courage of the conqueror; it is

the virtue, _par excellence_, of Man against Destiny--of the One against

the World, and of the Soul against Matter. Therefore this is the courage

of the Gospel; and its importance, in a social view--its importance to

races and institutions--can not be too earnestly included. What is it

that distinguishes the Anglo-Saxon from all other branches of the human

family, peoples deserts with his children, and consigns to them the

heritage of rising worlds? What but his faculty to brave, to suffer, to

endure--the patience that resists firmly, and innovates slowly. Compare

him with the Frenchman. The Frenchman has plenty of valor--that there is

no denying; but as for fortitude, he has not enough to cover the point

of a pin. He is ready to rush out of the world if he is bit by a flea."

Captain Roland.--"There was a case in the papers the other day, Austin,

of a Frenchman who actually did destroy himself because he was so teased

by the little creatures you speak of. He left a paper on his table,

saying that 'life was not worth having at the price of such

torments.'"[7]

[7] Fact. In a work by M. Gibert, a celebrated French physician, on

diseases of the skin, he states that that minute troublesome kind of

rash, known by the name of _prurigo_, though not dangerous in itself,

has often driven the individual afflicted by it to--suicide. I believe

that our more varying climate, and our more heating drinks and aliments,

render the skin complaint more common in England than in France, yet I

doubt if any English physician could state that it had ever driven one

of his _English_ patients to suicide.

Mr. Caxton (solemnly).--"Sir, their whole political history, since the

great meeting of the Tiers État, has been the history of men who would

rather go to the devil than be bit by a flea. It is the record of human

impatience, that seeks to force time, and expects to grow forests from

the spawn of a mushroom. Wherefore, running through all extremes of

constitutional experiment, when they are nearest to democracy they are

next door to a despot; and all they have really done is to destroy

whatever constitutes the foundation of every tolerable government. A

constitutional monarchy can not exist without aristocracy, nor a

healthful republic endure with corruption of manners. The cry of

Equality is incompatible with Civilization, which, of necessity,

contrasts poverty with wealth, and, in short, whether it be an emperor

or a mob that is to rule, Force is the sole hope of order, and the

government is but an army.

"Impress, O Pisistratus! impress the value of patience as regards man

and men. You touch there on the kernel of the social system--the secret

that fortifies the individual and disciplines the million. I care not,

for my part, if you are tedious so long as you are earnest. Be minute

and detailed. Let the real human life, in its war with Circumstance,

stand out. Never mind if one can read you but slowly--better chance of

being less quickly forgotten. Patience, patience! By the soul of

Epictetus, your readers shall set you an example!"

CHAPTER II.

Leonard had written twice to Mrs. Fairfield, twice to Riccabocca, and

once to Mr. Dale; and the poor proud boy could not bear to betray his

humiliation. He wrote with as cheerful spirits--as if perfectly

satisfied with his prospects. He said that he was well employed, in the

midst of books, and that he had found kind friends. Then he turned from

himself to write about those whom he addressed, and the affairs and

interests of the quiet world wherein they lived. He did not give his own

address, nor that of Mr. Prickett. He dated his letters from a small

coffee-house near the bookseller, to which he occasionally went for his

simple meals. He had a motive in this. He did not desire to be found

out. Mr. Dale replied for himself and for Mrs. Fairfield, to the

epistles addressed to these two. Riccabocca wrote also. Nothing could be

more kind than the replies of both. They came to Leonard in a very dark

period in his life, and they strengthened him in the noiseless battle

with despair.

If there be a good in the world that we do without knowing it, without

conjecturing the effect it may have upon a human soul, it is when we

show kindness to the young in the first barren footpath up the mountain

of life.

Leonard's face resumed its serenity in his intercourse with his

employer; but he did not recover his boyish ingenuous frankness. The

under-currents flowed again pure from the turbid soil and the splintered

fragments uptorn from the deep; but they were still too strong and too

rapid to allow transparency to the surface. And now he stood in the

sublime world of books, still and earnest as a seer who invokes the

dead. And thus, face to face with knowledge, hourly he discovered how

little he knew. Mr. Prickett lent him such works as he selected and

asked to take home with him. He spent whole nights in reading; and no

longer desultorily. He read no more poetry, no more Lives of Poets. He

read what poets must read if they desire to be great--_Sapere principium

et fons_--strict reasonings on the human mind; the relations between

motive and conduct, thought and action; the grave and solemn truths of

the past world; antiquities, history, philosophy. He was taken out of

himself. He was carried along the ocean of the universe. In that ocean,

O seeker, study the law of the tides; and seeing Chance nowhere--Thought

presiding over all--Fate, that dread phantom, shall vanish from

creation, and Providence alone be visible in heaven and on earth!