having been left with seven daughters, who might have been termed the
widower's garland. Alas! for that fragile beauty which fading rapidly
droops into an early grave. The funeral of one fair girl had just taken
place; and for Hilda Peregrine, the bell-ringers would on that evening
ring a dumb peal, which should speak to every heart in its sorrow, and
prove their sympathy with the bereaved. Six months before, they had
rung for the mother, little anticipating the early removal of one of
her children; she had passed away from them, beloved to the last. Was
it any wonder that the men took their way to the belfry in silence,
guided by the light of the lantern flashing on the snow-covered paths?
The bell-ringers of Linden could boast of no slight skill in their
manipulation of the splendid chime of eight bells which were wont to
speak their stirring language to the villages for miles around. The
sweet and musical bells of Linden had been a recent gift from the
ladies of the Hall, and each bell bore upon it the name of the giver.
Nathan Boltz preceded the ringers into the belfry. See him as he stands
there divested of his wraps, and revealed by the light of candles
burning in sconces fixed in the wall. He is a tall and stalwart man of
thirty-five, with a muscular development rarely excelled, inherited
from his father, a Dutch sailor. His face, of a true Saxon type, is
remarkable for its repose and force of expression; firmness without
obstinacy in the mouth and chin; benevolence written on the expansive
forehead; forgiveness and charity in the clear dark gray eye.
Nathan Boltz was truly one of Nature's gentlemen; a self-educated
man, a great reader, a deep thinker, a humble imitator of the Divine
Master. This was the man who, unaware of his true greatness, lived a
life of real enjoyment in zealously performing his duties and working
for his daily bread. He had no desire to extend his sphere beyond
his native village; the simple drama of his life had been played out
amidst its rural scenes, and it had not been destitute of pathos and
variation. Nathan had had a deep sorrow, which had washed his soul in
its tumultuous waters and left it stranded upon the Rock of Ages; and
when the memory of this sorrow came upon him, his voice took a deeper
tone in the chants and hymns, and a shadow would obscure the brightness
of his face. He had, like all his fellow-creatures, many faults; but
the good in him outbalanced the evil.
‘Now!’ cried Nathan. Instantly the men were at their posts. Every hand
grasped its respective rope; and there echoed forth on the night-air
the solemn far-sounding peal, carrying the melody down to earth,
catching it and bearing it to heaven above.
Hark to their dull unchanging roll!
As heavily on it floats,
And speaks of the dead to the mourner's soul
With its wildly solemn notes.
The cottagers opened their doors, and every heart answered its response
of regret and hope as the bells rang on. At last it was over; the
solemn sound died gradually away, and the silence which followed seemed
the more expressive from the contrast.
* * * * *
Old Father Time rings many changes; hour by hour and day by day they
steal upon us, imperceptibly but surely; and we mark their advent but
slightly, until at our yearly gatherings, when friend meets friend and
long-severed ties are reunited, the missing links shew many a vacant
chair, and faces filled with joy in meeting their beloved once more,
ever and anon cloud over, as memory recalls departed joys which never
can return.
We return with the mourners to the Hall, where the sisters can scarcely
realise the loss of her who has so lately been taken from them.
Patricia, the eldest, possesses her father's hauteur of disposition
and commanding manner. Gertrude, the second, resembles her mother in
person and disposition. Of the four younger sisters, two of them were
twins, and were a counterpart of their elder sister. The remaining two
had been trained by her whom they lamented, and were, like her, beloved
by all who knew them. The sisters sat together in the drawing-room,
awaiting the entrance of their father and another member of the family
regarded in the light of a son--their cousin, Oliver Peregrine, whose
marriage with Patricia was necessarily delayed by her sister Hilda's
death. These constituted the family dinner-party.
Oliver Peregrine grew impatient at the decorous silence preserved by
his uncle, who in spite of his calm demeanour, was feeling the death
of this daughter more than he cared to shew. The servants who waited
had felt real affection for her, and their sorrow was not an outward
form. But the delay of the marriage chafed Oliver's temper, and with
difficulty he responded to his uncle's desire that all mention of it
might be for the present suppressed. Let us describe him. He was about
forty years of age; tall, thin, and stooping; his hair and moustache of
a faint sandy hue, his light-blue eyes uncertain and cruel-looking, the
mouth thin and compressed; haughty towards his dependents, possessing
an unblemished reputation, heir to the greater part of his uncle's
wealth, demanding respect, of love gaining none. He was a man who
looked suspiciously on every action of those around him, at the same
time given to concealment himself. He was an accomplished scholar, and
had been educated for a learned profession, being the orphan son of a
younger brother; but as the heir of Squire Peregrine, he followed his
studies as a recreation, and spent most of his time at the Hall.
Dinner was proceeding in the manner just described, when up the
snow-covered avenue a carriage rolled silently and swiftly; and
presently the butler handed a card to his master. Squire Peregrine
rose immediately; and all felt the interruption a welcome one. ‘My old
friend Colonel Lindsay,’ he said in explanation, ‘whom I have not seen
for many years.--Come with me, Patricia, and bid him welcome.’
They left the room; and after a short interval returned, bringing
Colonel Lindsay with them. Introductions followed, and he took his seat
at the table. No one present made mention of the time which had elapsed
since last he had visited them. Many changes of a painful character had
taken place during the interval, and the Colonel avoided all mention
of them until he found himself alone with his old friend. But when
Patricia and her sisters had left the dining-room, and Oliver with a
slight apology had followed them, the Colonel, in a few feeling words,
referred to the death of Squire Peregrine's wife and daughter; then
suddenly changing his tone, he added: ‘And where is the boy? Where is
Bertram?’
Squire Peregrine's face grew of an ashen paleness, as in a low voice he
answered: ‘Lindsay, I have no son.’
‘Dead?’ said the Colonel in a penetrating tone, as if he would read the
heart of his old friend.
‘To me and my family for ever. Name him no more!’
The Colonel took no notice of his tone. ‘His faults?’ he pressed--‘his
faults?’
No one else would have so dared to interrogate Squire Peregrine; yet
again he answered: ‘Abduction and forgery;’ and his old friend noticed
that he placed the word forgery last.
‘I do not believe it, Charles,’ he said calmly. ‘Against whom were
these crimes committed?’
‘Against a pure and innocent village girl, and against myself. He fled,
and all I could do was to try not to discover him. The girl is dead. To
the last she shielded him. He is the first Peregrine who has so fallen,
and his name is cut off from amongst us. God grant he may be dead!’
‘He is innocent!’ returned the Colonel in a firm tone.
Squire Peregrine stared at him as if he thought him mad. ‘How can you
prove that?’ he said hurriedly.
‘I have no proof but my remembrance of him as a lad, and an inward
conviction that you have been deceived. Did his mother believe him
guilty?’
‘I cannot say. I did not allow her to mention him. My two youngest
daughters are not aware they have a brother.’
The Colonel did not press the matter further, but changed the
subject, relating incidents of his life abroad, and making the time
pass pleasantly to his old friend. But that night the Colonel sat in
deep thought over the decaying embers of his fire, and had come to
a resolution before he sought his couch. The result was that Dobson
the butler furnished him with full particulars of the sad event; and
unknown to Oliver Peregrine the prosperity of that worthy was on the
wane.
EXPERIENCES IN CAMP AND COURT.
An interesting and gossiping volume of personal reminiscences,
entitled _Camp, Court, and Siege: a Narrative of Personal Adventure
and Observation during two Wars, 1861-65, 1870-71_ (Sampson Low &
Co.), has been given to the world by Colonel Hoffman, an officer whose
position during two great wars enabled him to record much that escaped
the notice of other observers. Colonel Hoffman held an important post
in the Federal army during the American civil war, and at its close
received an appointment in the diplomatic service of his country. As
Secretary to the American Legation in Paris, and _chargé d'affaires_
during the temporary absence of the United States minister, Mr
Washburne, he witnessed the events which preceded the Franco-German
war, and afterwards remained in Paris, in common with other members of
his Embassy, during the siege. The recollections he has strung together
relate rather to the byways than to the beaten track of history during
these periods; and it is this fact which gives his unpretending volume
its chief interest and novelty. Our readers will probably be amused in
spending with us a short time over its pages.
Colonel Hoffman was in 1862 captain on the staff of Brigadier-general
Williams at Hatteras, an island which lies in the direct route of
vessels bound from the West Indies to Baltimore, New York, &c. The
‘guileless natives’ of this place are, we are informed, well known as
wreckers, and in pursuit of this calling they adopt a plan which is
simple but effective. A half-wild kind of horse called a ‘marsh pony,’
is bred upon the island, and one of these animals is caught, one of
its legs is tied up, a lantern slung to its neck, and the pony is thus
driven along the beach on a stormy night. The effect is just that of
a vessel riding at anchor; but other ships approaching are soon made
unpleasantly aware of the difference between a merchantman riding out
the gale, and this Hatteras decoy.
From Hatteras, Captain Hoffman was ordered to join General Butler's
expedition to New Orleans, and proceeded in a vessel which took three
regiments, numbering three thousand souls. A fact which transpired on
the voyage he commends to the attention of those parish authorities in
England who refuse to enforce the Vaccination Act. A man who had been
ill with small-pox, but was supposed to be cured, was on board this
vessel, and two days after they had sailed his disease broke out again.
The men among whom he lay were packed as close as herrings in a barrel,
yet only one took it. They had all been vaccinated within sixty days.
Ship Island, off Mobile in the Gulf of Mexico, was their first
destination to await supplies for the expedition. An odd thing here was
the abundance of fresh water obtainable everywhere by digging a hole
two feet deep in the sand; in two hours it became full, but after using
it for a week the water would be found brackish, when all that was
necessary to procure another supply was to dig a hole as before. And
yet the island scarcely rises five feet above the sea. While staying
at this place the writer witnessed a curious freak of lightning.
Eight prisoners were sleeping side by side in a circular tent, when a
terrible thunderstorm broke out. The sentry stood leaning against the
tent-pole, with the butt of his musket on the ground and the bayonet
touching his shoulder. The lightning struck the tent-pole, leaped to
the bayonet and tore the stock to splinters, but only slightly stunned
the sentry; thence it passed along the ground and struck the first
prisoner, killing him; glided by the six inside men without injury to
them, but struck and killed the eighth man as it disappeared.
We now come to the writer's reminiscences of warfare.
A characteristic anecdote is told of General Sherman's coolness. ‘He
had a pleasant way of riding up in full sight of the enemy's batteries
accompanied by his staff. Here he held us while he criticised the
manner in which the enemy got his guns ready to open on us. Presently a
shell would whiz over our heads, followed by another somewhat nearer.
Sherman would then quietly remark: “They are getting the range now; you
had better scatter.” As a rule we did not wait for a second order.’
On one occasion Sherman sent out a strong party to reconnoitre, and
Captain Hoffman asked permission to accompany them. It was given; and
the general added: ‘By the way, captain, when you are over there, just
ride up and draw their fire, and see where their guns are. They won't
hit you.’ The order was obeyed, and Hoffman was not hit; but he does
not recommend the experiment to his friends.
There are occasionally amenities in warfare, and imbittered as was
the conflict between North and South, still some curious instances
occurred. At the siege of Port Hudson the soldiers on both sides
established a sort of _entente cordiale_. Growing weary of trying
to pick each other off through loopholes, one would tie a white
handkerchief to his bayonet and wave it above the parapet; and
presently a similar signal would be made on the other side. This meant
a truce; and in a moment the men would swarm out on both sides, and
commence chaffing each other. After a while some one would cry out:
‘Get under cover now, Johnnie,’ or ‘Look out now, Yank; we are going to
fire,’ when handkerchiefs would be lowered and hostilities recommence.
No one dared to violate this tacit truce without notice; had any one
done so, his comrades would have roughly handled him.
A striking instance is noted of the effect produced by the imagination
when exalted by the excitement of battle. A staff-officer by Captain
Hoffman's side dropped his bridle, threw up his arms, and said: ‘I am
hit; my boot is full of blood.’ He was helped from his horse, and sent
to the ambulance, the captain mentally wishing him farewell. Next day
he appeared at headquarters as well as ever; he had been struck by a
spent ball, which had broken the skin, but inflicted no serious injury.
Captain Hoffman saw the same effect produced on another occasion. A man
limped from the field supported by two others, and said his leg was
broken. He was pale as death, and had the chaplain to read to him; but
the surgeon was surprised to find no hole in his stocking, and cutting
it off, nothing was discernible but a black-and-blue mark on the leg.
Men notoriously brave may thus occasionally be imposed upon by their
imagination.
Woman's wit, in the opinion of Colonel Hoffman, played an important
part at times in the conflict, the ‘rebels’ gaining many an advantage
over the Northern men by its influence. ‘In such matters,’ he remarks,
‘one woman is worth a wilderness of men. I recollect one day we
sent a steam-boat full of rebel officers (exchanged prisoners) into
the Confederacy. They were generally accompanied by their wives and
children. Our officers noticed the most extraordinary number of dolls
on board--every child had a doll--but they had no suspicions. A lady
told me afterwards that every doll was filled with quinine; the sawdust
was taken out, and quinine substituted. Depend upon it that female wit
devised that trick.’
Woman's ingenuity also displayed itself in other ways. A bag of
intercepted letters from the Confederate side gave an instance. A
Southern young lady, writing to her brother-in-law in Mobile, narrated
how she had successfully played a trick upon a Boston newspaper,
compelling it to unwittingly belaud its foes. She sent them a poem
called _The Gypsy's Wassail_, the original in Sanscrit, with a
translation in English, expressing every patriotic and loyal sentiment.
The ‘Sanscrit’ was simply English written backward, and properly
adjusted, read as follows:
God bless our brave Confederates, Lord!
Lee, Johnson, Smith, and Beauregard!
Help Jackson, Smith, and Johnson Joe
To give them fits in Dixie, oh!
The _Wassail_ was published with a compliment to the ‘talented
contributor;’ but in a few days the trick was discovered and exposed.
We pass on to the writer's European recollections. He received his
appointment to the Legation at Paris in 1866, when the imperial court
was at the height of its splendour. The Emperor, when he designed to
be, was always happy in his reception of diplomates, and the formal
introductory speeches were followed by informal conversations. He liked
to ventilate his English, but could not speak the language perfectly.
To an American officer (Colonel Hay) he observed, for instance:
‘You have made _ze_ war in _ze_ United States?’ (_Vous avez fait la
guerre?_)--meaning, ‘Did you serve?’ The colonel was strongly tempted
to tell his Majesty it was not he made the war, but Jeff. Davis. The
Empress spoke English not so fluently as the Emperor, but with less
accent. American ladies were always well received by her, and her balls
were sometimes called by the envious _bals américains_. If the Embassy
desired one or two presentations beyond the usual number, the inquiry
was generally made: ‘Is it a young and pretty woman?’ and if it were,
there was no difficulty, for the Empress was pleased to have her balls
set off by beautiful and well-dressed women.
Comparison is favourable we are told, in American eyes, to British over
the French imperial display on a very important occasion--the opening
of parliament by the sovereign, as contrasted with that of the Corps
Législatif. The spectacle in this country bears the palm, says Colonel
Hoffman, both in splendour and interest. Her Majesty's demeanour is
much admired. ‘Short and stout as is the Queen, she has the most
graceful and stately walk perhaps in Europe. It is a treat to see her
move.’ The Empress of the French, however, created great enthusiasm
on these occasions. ‘Her beauty, her grace, and her stately bearing
carried the enthusiasm to its height. You would have sworn that every
man there was ready to die for his sovereign. Within less than four
years she sought in vain for one of them to stand by her in her hour of
danger.’
In the year of the last Paris Exhibition (1867), Napoleon III.
entertained in his capital the Emperor of Russia and the King of
Prussia, the latter accompanied by Bismarck and Moltke. Sixty
thousand men passed before the sovereigns in review, and it was on
the return from the spectacle that the Emperor Alexander was shot at
by a Pole. The ball struck the horse of one of the equerries, and
blood spurted from the animal upon the Emperor's second son, who was
with him in the carriage. It was reported that the Emperor of the
French turned to his imperial guest and said: ‘Sire, we have been
under fire together for the first time to-day.’ To which the Emperor
replied with much solemnity of manner: ‘Sire, we are in the hands
of Providence.’ That evening the writer saw the Russian Emperor at
a ball at his own Embassy, not more than two hundred persons being
present. He looked pale and _distrait_, and Madame Haussmann, wife
of the celebrated baron, was trying, but without much tact, to make
conversation with him. ‘He looked over her head, as if he did not see
her, and finally turned upon his heel and left her. It was not perhaps
polite, but it was very natural. The Emperor and Empress of the French
made extraordinary exertions to enliven the ball; but there was a
perceptible oppression in the air.’ The would-be assassin was not
condemned to death, the jury finding ‘extenuating circumstances.’
On the outbreak of war in 1870, the American Legation was requested
to undertake the protection of North German subjects in France, and
procured the consent of the French government thereto. Thirteen
distinct nationalities, European and South American, eventually came
under the same protection, and caused plenty of employment. Partly on
this account, when the representatives of the great European powers
had left Paris for Tours, after the downfall of the Empire, the United
States Legation remained, and its members endured the unpleasant
experiences of the siege. To Colonel Hoffman, however, the anticipation
of this was a matter of perfect indifference--or rather he looked
forward to it with some degree of liking. ‘I had quite a curiosity
to be a besieged. I had been a besieger at Port Hudson, and thought
that I would like to experience the other sensation. The sensation is
not an unpleasant one, especially in a city like Paris. If you have
been overworked or harassed, the relief is very great. There is a
calm or sort of Sunday rest about it that is quite delightful. In my
experience, the life of the besieged is altogether the most comfortable
of the two.’ And the writer professes to think that the suffering
endured in famous sieges, and the heroism of the inhabitants, have been
much exaggerated. There were, however, many points of considerable
difference between the circumstances attendant upon the siege of
Paris and that, say, of Saragossa or Plevna. The Germans never made a
bombardment in earnest. ‘We were being bombarded, but after a very
mild fashion. I have since talked with a German general who commanded
at the quarter whence most of the shells entered the city. He assured
me that there never was the slightest intention to bombard Paris. If
there had been, it would have been done in a very different style.’ But
shells fell during nineteen days into the city, and nearly two hundred
people were killed by the explosions. In both bombardments, that by the
Germans and afterwards by the French government troops, much of the
mischief done is reported to have been caused by the mere wantonness
of the artillerymen, who under such circumstances are eager to hit
something, it matters little what it may be. Indifference acts also on
the side of the besieged, and during the worst of the bombardment, men
and boys were to be seen lurking in the Champs Elysées near the Arch,
and darting to secure the fragments of an exploded shell while they
were still too hot to hold, or crying _Obus!_ and suddenly squatting,
to watch the effect upon elderly gentlemen passing by. A large business
was done in these fragments as relics after the siege.
As regards provisions, the members of the Legation were of course as
well off as it was possible to be under the circumstances. The staple
diet, however, which Mr Washburne and the Secretary preferred to
expensive luxuries, was ‘our national pork and beans, and the poetic
fish-ball.’ Occasionally they indulged in small portions of elephant,
yak, camel, reindeer, porcupine, &c., at an average rate of four
dollars a pound. This meat came from the Jardin d'Acclimation, where it
was found impossible to get food for the animals. Colonel Hoffman gives
the preference among these varieties of flesh to that of the reindeer,
which resembles venison, but he thinks all these meats but poor
substitutes for beef and mutton. Horseflesh was the main stay of the
population in the way of fresh meat; it was rationed and sold by the
government at reasonable prices, nine and a half ounces per day being
allowed to each adult. It is ‘poor stuff at best,’ says the writer. ‘It
has a sweet, sickening flavour. The only way I found it eatable was as
mince mixed with potato.’