THE GREAT HALL AT KARNAK.--We had spent so much time in the examination

of Luxor, and of the other portions of Karnak, that the evening was

advanced when we arrived at the Great Hall. The shadows were creeping

solemnly through the intricate recesses of its forest of columns, but

the red light rested for a while upon their beautiful flower-shaped

capitals, the paintings upon which, scarred and worn as they are by the

accidents of 3000 years, still display, under a strong light, much of

their original vividness. It is a perfect wilderness of ruin, almost

outrunning the wildest imagination or the most fantastic dream. We paced

slowly down the central avenue. The bases of the columns are buried

among the fallen fragments of the roof and a mass of superincumbent

earth; from his hiding-place, amidst which the jackal began to steal

forth, and wake the echoes of the ruins with his blood-curdling shriek;

while the shadowy bat flitted, spirit-like, from dusky pillar to pillar.

From the centre of the hall, whichever way we looked through the

deepening gloom, there seemed no end to the labyrinthine ruins. Obelisks

and columns, some erect in their pristine beauty, others fallen across,

and hurled together in hideous confusion, forming wild arcades of ruin;

enormous masses of prostrate walls and propylaea, seemed to have required

either to construct or to destroy them the power of a fabled race of

giants. Pillars, obelisks, and walls of this immense hall, were covered

with the forms of monarchs who reigned, and of the gods who were once

worshiped within it. Involuntarily the mind goes back, in gazing on

them, to the period of its original splendor, when Rameses in triumph

returned from his oriental conquests--pictures the pile in all its

completeness, the hall of a hundred and thirty columns with its superb

roof, glittering in all the vivid beauty of its paintings, thronged with

monarchs, and priests, and worshipers, and devoted to splendid and

gorgeous ceremonies.

[Illustration: GREAT HALL AT KARNAK.]

Next morning, after an early breakfast, I was again among the ruins of

the Great Hall, which I had but imperfectly surveyed the previous

evening. I give its dimensions from Wilkinson, with a description of the

rest of the temple. "It measures 170 feet by 329, supported by a

central avenue of twelve massive columns, 66 feet high (without the

pedestal and abacus) and 12 in diameter, besides a hundred and

twenty-two of smaller, or rather less gigantic dimensions, 41 feet 9

inches in height, and 27 feet 6 inches in circumference, distributed in

seven lines on either side of the former. The twelve central columns

were originally fourteen, but the two northernmost have been inclosed

within the front towers or popylaea, apparently in the time of Osirei

himself, the founder of the hall. The two at the other end were also

partly built into the projecting wall of the doorway, as appears from

their rough sides, which were left uneven for that purpose. Attached to

this are two other towers, closing the inner extremity of the hall,

beyond which are two obelisks, one still standing on its original site,

the other having been thrown down and broken by human violence. Similar

but smaller propylaea succeed to this court, of which they form the inner

side." This is the spot which I have selected for a retrospective view

of the Great Hall, the obelisk still standing, but the propylaea in the

fore-ground a mass of utter ruin. Still following the intricate plan of

the great temple through the ruined propylaea in the fore-ground, we

reach another court with two obelisks of larger dimensions, the one now

standing being 92 feet high and 8 square, surrounded by a peristyle, if

I may be allowed the expression, of Osiride figures. Passing between two

dilapidated propylaea, you enter another smaller area, ornamented in a

similar manner, and succeeded by a vestibule, in front of the granite

gateways that form the facade of the court before the sanctuary. This

last is also of red granite, divided into two apartments, and surrounded

by numerous chambers of small dimensions, varying from 29 feet by 16, to

16 feet by 8. The walls of this small sanctuary, standing on the site of

a more ancient one, are highly polished, sculptured, and painted, and

the ceiling of stars on a blue ground, the whole exquisitely finished.

The entire height of the hall, _i. e._, the central portion, is not less

than 80 feet, the propylaea still higher.

The imagination is no doubt bewildered in following these numerous

details, and yet much is left undescribed and even unnoticed, and the

eye, even of the visitor, more than satisfied with seeing, will return

to the prominent objects, those alone, of which he can expect to retain

a vivid recollection. The Great Hall will attract his attention above

every thing else.

SCENERY ON THE ERIE RAILROAD.

[Illustration: VIEW FROM PIERMONT, LOOKING NORTH.]

The construction of the Erie railroad through the hitherto secluded

valleys of the Delaware and Susquehanna rivers, and reaching now almost

to the Allegany, has opened to access new fields for the tourist,

abounding with the loveliest and the grandest works of Nature. From the

Hudson to the Lakes, the scenery is constantly changing from the

romantic and beautiful to the bold and rugged; and again from the

sublime and fearfully grand to the sweetest pictures of gentle beauty.

There is probably no road in the world that passes through such a

variety of scenery as does the Erie, and there is certainly none that

can present to the traveler such a succession of triumphs of art over

the formidable obstacles which nature has, at almost every step, raised

against the iron-clad intruders into her loveliest recesses. The

enchanting magnificence of the scenery keeps the attention alive, while

its varying character at every turn, continually opens new sources of

enjoyment. Immense rocky excavations salute you upon every side. Miles

of mountain acclivities of solid rock have been borne away by the

Herculean arm of persevering industry. You see where the lofty cliff has

been beaten down; the huge mountain-barrier leveled; rough and rugged

precipices overcome; chasms spanned, and wide valleys and rivers

crossed.

The scenery in the valley of the Delaware is grand beyond description;

and in the valley of the Susquehanna, after passing out of a wilderness,

where every portion is stamped with the impress of grandeur, a truly

agricultural region, in a high state of cultivation, and smiling with

abundance, meets the eye. At the point where the road first strikes the

Susquehanna, that noble river is seen in the plenitude of its

magnificent beauty.

[Illustration: VALLEY OF THE NEVERSINK.

From the Slate Rock Cutting. Port Jervis in the distance.]

It is not our purpose to point out the particular objects most worthy

of examination, or to describe any one of the numerous landscapes which

lie all along the track; but we will venture to assert, that nowhere

between sun and sun can such a combination and variety of the wonderful

in nature and art, with the beautiful be seen, as in a day's ride on the

Erie railroad. Sketches of some of these views accompany this article,

and we may, from time to time, give such others as we think will prove

interesting to our readers.

The reader is familiar with the geography of the road: commencing at

Piermont, on the Hudson, twenty-four miles from New York, on the long

pier that projects a mile into the river, it winds its way westward

among the hills along the course of the Sparkill. Just before leaving

the pier, looking north, the view on the preceding page is presented.

From the Sparkill the road leads over to the Ramapo, where the first

lovely scenery commences, in a wild and broken, but picturesque region;

thence through Orange county, beautiful mostly from its fertility and

high cultivation. Passing on, the road approaches the Shawangunk

mountains, which are seen stretching away to the northeast, where the

eye catches a misty glimpse of the distant Catskills. The appearance of

these mountains from the east is truly sublime; and ascending toward the

summit the country is as rugged as the wildest steeps of the Appenines

or Styrian Alps. After passing the summit of the mountain through a

rock-cutting, half a mile in length, the road winds by a gentle slope of

a dozen miles along the mountain side to the valley below. About half

way down, another deep cutting through the rock is passed, on emerging

from which, a view of remarkable loveliness meets the eye. At this point

the traveler has an unbroken view of the enchanting valley of the

Neversink in all its cultivated beauty. The accompanying view represents

the scene from the spot where the road boldly sweeps toward the south,

and shows the western verge of the valley bordered by a chain of

mountains, at the foot of which gleams the village of Port Jervis and

its level fields, losing themselves far in the south where rolls the

Delaware, beyond which again the distant town of Milford may be seen in

the misty light. Running south through this beautiful area is a winding

grove of trees, marking the course of the Neversink to where it unites

with the Delaware.

[Illustration: STARRUCCA VIADUCT.]

We will present only one other view, which represents one of the

imposing structures which characterize the Erie road. This is the

viaduct over the valley of the Starrucca, built of stone. It is elevated

one hundred feet above the valley, is over twelve hundred feet long, and

twenty-five wide, and is composed of eighteen heavy piers, with arches

of fifty feet span. It is simple in its design, but symmetrical and

beautiful, and is altogether the noblest piece of work upon the whole

line of the road. It is one of the most interesting objects which invite

the notice of the traveler, and gives dignity and grandeur, as well as a

picturesque character to the work. In this immediate neighborhood is

some of the finest scenery to be found on the whole line of the road,

and will tempt many a traveler to repeat his visit, and linger to

explore new beauties, which the eye in the rolling car does not detect.

[From Dr. Moore's new work on "Health, Disease, and Remedy."]

BATHING--ITS UTILITY.

The effects of cold and heat recall to my mind the words that I heard in

my youth from the lips of Abernethy, "Cold is bracing, heat

relaxing--that is the notion, but only consider its absurdity. Heat

excites, how then can it relax? There is a difference between heat and

moisture and mere heat. They say a cold bath is bracing. Ah! a man jumps

into a cold bath, and he feels chilled; he jumps out again, and rubs

himself with a coarse cloth; he is invigorated, refreshed, and cheery;

he feels as if he could jump over the moon. So, if a man takes a glass

of brandy, he feels vigorous enough for a little while, but the brandy

is any thing but bracing. Keep the man in the cold water, and see what a

poor, shivering mortal he would be; you might almost knock him down with

a feather; and add more brandy to the man, and he becomes a lump." Heat

and cold, in fact, both operate in the same manner, by exciting the

vital powers into action, but to use either to excess as surely

debilitates, disorders, and overpowers the system as an abuse of brandy

would do. All things that cause action of course must act as stimuli,

and whatever rouses the heart and nerves must be proportioned to the

degree of power existing in the patient, or it can not be safe; it is

spurring the jaded horse that kills him. Moderation is the course

prescribed in the law of nature and of God, and it needs no exquisite

discernment to distinguish right from wrong in a general way, or to see

when the system needs rest, and when rousing.

_Sea-bathing_ is serviceable only as a stimulus to all the functions by

rousing the nerves, and hence the heart and arteries, to greater

activity. In this manner, I have seen vast benefit in a multitude of

cases, more particularly those in which the lymphatic system and the

glands were diseased, as in scrofula, tumid abdomen, and harsh skin,

with deficient appetite, and indisposition to take exercise. It does

mischief if it does not at once improve power. In such cases, however,

great care is required to avoid too long a chill, which always

aggravates the glandular congestion. Salt stimulates the skin, but a

certain degree of cold, and, perhaps, of shock, is necessary for the

beneficial effects, a warm bath very often increasing the malady. I

speak from my experience of the effects of sea-bathing, and would

strongly urge the propriety of preparing children for plunging in the

sea, by getting them accustomed to cold sponging at home, as this plan

will often supersede the need of visiting the sea for their benefit, and

enable them to bear the sea the better when advisable.

Sea-air and sea-water exert a very decided influence upon children, and,

indeed, upon all who are not accustomed to it, whether in health or

disease. Young persons coming from inland situations are very apt to

become somewhat fevered by the change, and bilious disorder is a common

consequence of their approaching the sea; and in almost all persons

sea-bathing begets after a while a slight intermittent disorder, which

seldom goes quite off in less than a fortnight from the last bath. If

the bath be resorted to daily, this disorder usually comes on in about a

week; if only twice or thrice a week, it may not appear for a month, and

those who bathe only now and then, without regularity, do not seem to be

subject to it. I am disposed to think that this new action of the system

promotes the cure of glandular disease, but it may, if neglected,

conduce to internal disorder of a worse kind, and I have frequently seen

a dangerous remittent fever supervene upon it in delicate and excitable

children. These results prove the stimulating operation of sea-water,

and sufficiently show the necessity of caution in its use. Instead of

improving the powers of the body, it may produce debility by

over-exciting them; hence it is prudent in most cases not to bathe

oftener than every other day, and to use milder measures if, after the

second or third occasion, there is not a visible increase of vigor.

Where exercise can not be taken immediately after the bath, friction of

the body, especially over the back and stomach, is desirable. The best

time for cold bathing, where there is any debility, is about two hours

after breakfast. Early bathing is best for the robust. Let it be

remembered that cold acts always as a stimulant; whenever it does good,

it rouses the nervous system; it makes a greater demand for oxygen; it

enables the body to absorb more of the vital air, and thus it

facilitates the changes on which the energy of life depends. In this

respect it acts like all other stimulants proper to the body, and not

like alcoholic stimuli, which excite the brain, while they diminish the

influence of the vital air upon the blood, and favor capillary

obstructions and inflammations.

The influence of cold on the nervous system is no new discovery, for

ever since man has felt and inferred from his feeling, he must have

known that influence alike from experience and observation. Used as a

bath, we have seen that it may produce very contrary effects; like any

other powerful agent, it both excites and depresses. The first action of

nearly all remedies is to excite; from fire to frost, from aqua fortis

to aqua fontis, the influence is always more or less stimulating, and it

is capable of depressing the vital powers in proportion to its power of

exciting them. Thus the hydropathists have in their hands the power of

producing all the stages of the most vehement fever, from the rigor of

the severest cold fit to the fiercest excitement which the heart and

brain will bear, succeeded by a perspiration proportionately violent;

and hence sometimes inadvertently they lose a patient by the production

of a sudden sinking like the collapse of cholera. Some tact and skill,

therefore, are requisite for the safe employment of such an agency as

cold water.

Paracelsus treated that form of St. Vitus' Dance which prevailed in his

day, and which he called _chorea lasciva_, by cooling his patients in

tubs of cold water; and Priesnitz brings his patients also to the right

point by baths that allow no idleness to whatever function of nature may

remain capable of action within them, and thus he often removes partial

complaints by a general diversion. Aubrey, in his account of the great

Harvey, informs us of a bold piece of practice with cold water. He says,

that when Harvey had a fit of the gout that interfered with his studies,

"He would sitt with his legges bare, though it were frosty, on the leads

of Cockayne-house, put them into a payle of water till he was almost

dead with cold, and betake himself to his stove, and so 'twas gone."

Harvey doubtless knew how to balance matters in his own mind between the

risk and the remedy, and he might feel justified in treating himself

with less gentleness than his patients; but, perhaps, physicians should

try such extreme remedies only on themselves. Since Harvey's day, the

virtues of cold water in fever and inflammation have been abundantly

tested, and we find it is capable of producing contrary effects,

according to the condition of the body at the time. Thus, if it be long

applied, or applied when the vital action is low, it dangerously

depresses the vascular system, to be followed by a more or less

dangerous and obstinate reaction; but if the system be tolerably strong,

without being very excitable, the use of cold in a moderate degree

always safely increases vigor. It is therefore always safe so far to

employ cold, as will help to maintain the ordinary temperature of the

body. Thus, in fever, when the skin is hot, sponging it with cold water

is both most refreshing and curative; while a free use of cold water as

drink is almost always in such cases highly advantageous.

It has been well shown by Dr. R. B. Todd, in his Lumleian Lectures at

the College of Physicians, on what principle cold may be employed to

modify and control a great number of diseases, especially those of a

convulsive character. But these things are of course known, or ought to

be known, by professional men; and as they are not of a character to

admit of practical application, except by those accustomed to treat

disease, it will answer no good purpose to enlarge on the subject in

this place.

The _warm-bath_ is among the most useful of remedial measures. One who

has experienced the delicious refreshment of a warm-bath at about the

temperature of the blood (100 deg.), after exhausting fatigue and want of

sleep, whether from disease or exertion, will need no arguments in its

favor. It is exactly under such conditions that it is most useful. From

time immemorial, thermal springs of tepid warmth have been lauded for

their virtues in relieving nervous disorders, and diseases dependent on

insufficiency of blood, and exhaustion of the brain, such as the

dyspepsy of anxious persons, and individuals debilitated by excitement,

bad habits, and hot climates. The mode in which it acts seems

evident--it checks waste of warmth from the skin, invigorates its

vessels without producing perspiration, admits a little pure water into

the blood by absorption, and by its tranquillizing influence on the

nerves, favors the action of any function that may have been checked or

disturbed. The body becomes highly electric in warm water, and probably

all the conditions of increased power are present for the time at least;

and of course, so far as warm bathing promotes appetite, digestion,

assimilation, and sound sleep, it contributes to the establishment of

increased vigor. Thus we find, that hypochondriacal patients have often

found new hopes in the genial lymph as it embraced and laved their naked

limbs; they have felt the elements were still in their favor; they have

rejoiced in the sunny air, and taken their homely meals as if they were

ambrosia, with hearts grateful to the Hand that helped them. The

blessing may, however, be abused--the remedy may be made a luxury, the

means of health a cause of weakness. When continually resorted to by

persons well nourished, but inactive, it is apt to produce a flaccidity

of the system, and to encourage that relaxation of the veins which

predisposes to excessive formation of fat. For the same reason, it is

generally injurious where there is a tendency to dropsy, and in some

such cases I have known it immediately followed by great lymphatic

effusion in the cellular tissue, which has been quickly removed,

however, by saline aperients and tonics.

As it is the combination of heat and moisture that renders the thermal

bath so efficacious, it frequently happens that a thoroughly hot bath

most effectually facilitates the cure, and we are not astonished that

the parboiling waters of Emmaus, at 148 deg., on the shores of Tiberias, are

as famous for their cures as any of the German baths. The

semi-barbarians about the sea of Galilee, the inhabitants of Iceland,

and the savages of America, know how to employ the hot bath skillfully;

and if we were equally accustomed with them to exercise our natural

instinct and common sense, we also might bathe in hot water without

consulting the doctor; but as it is, we had better take advantage of a

better opinion than our own. I the more earnestly urge this course,

because I know the danger of all hot baths, wherever there is acute

disease of an inflammatory kind affecting internal organs, more

especially of the lungs, heart, and bowels. Even _acute_ rheumatism is

more likely to attack the heart when the hot bath is employed; and where

there is any considerable structural disorder of that organ, the use of

the bath in any form is at all times attended with risk.

Warm baths are useful in all nervous disorders attended with debility,

in all cases in which there is dryness of the skin and a tendency to

feverish less, in mental fidgetiness, in irregular circulation, as when

a person can not take due exercise, and is subject to coldness of the

feet or hands, and in many forms of congestion and dyspepsia, with

tenderness over the stomach. It is serviceable in the convulsive

diseases of children, and in painful diseases, especially of a spasmodic

kind, but more particularly in cases of chronic irritation from local

causes, whether of the skin or of internal parts. It is injurious to

plethoric persons, to persons subject to haemorrhage of any kind, and in

the active stage of fever. But whether it would be good or bad in any

individual case, can be determined only by one who has ability to

examine and judge of that case.

As a general rule, mineral and salt-water warm baths are less relaxing

than those of pure water. The vapor bath, when the vapor is not

breathed, acts more powerfully, though much in the same manner as the

warm bath, but it is more useful in common cold and rheumatism. The

warm-air bath, at from 100 deg. to 120 deg., is highly convenient and useful,

where it is desirable to excite perspiration, as in rheumatism, scaly

eruptions, and certain stages of fever and cholera. The plan most

readily adopted is that of Dr. Gower: A lamp is placed under the end of

a metallic tube, which is introduced under the bed-clothes, which are

raised from the body by a wicker frame-work, and the degree of heat

regulated by moving the lamp.

The _cold bath_ is unsafe in infancy and old age, in plethoric habits,

in spitting of blood, in eruptive diseases, in great debility, during

pregnancy, and in case of weakness from any existing local disease of an

acute nature; but in nearly all other states of the body, cold water is

the best stimulant of the nerves, the finest quickener of every

function, the most delightful invigorator of the whole frame, qualifying

both brain and muscles for their utmost activity, and clearing alike the

features and the fancy from clouds and gloom.

Cold may always be safely applied when the surface is heated by warmth

from without, as from hot water or the vapor bath, and, indeed, whenever

the body is hot without previous exercise of an exhausting kind.

Probably, the method adopted by the Romans, in their palmiest days, of

plunging into the _baptisterium_, or cold bath, immediately after the

vapor or hot bath, or, as a substitute, the pouring of cold water over

the head, was well calculated to invigorate the system, and give a high

enjoyment of existence. The Russian practice of plunging into a cold

stream, or rolling in the snow, after the vapor-bath, is said to be

favorable to longevity. The Finlanders are accustomed to leave their

bathing-houses, heated to 167 deg., and to pass into the open air without

any covering whatever, even when the thermometer indicates a temperature

24 deg. below zero, and that without any ill effect, but, on the contrary,

it is said that by this habit they are quite exempted from rheumatism.

Would that the luxury of bathing, so cheaply enjoyed by all classes of

old Rome, were equally available among ourselves. The conquerors of the

world introduced their baths wherever they established their power; but

we have repudiated the blessings of water in such a form, and now the

Russian boor and the Finnish peasant, the Turk, the Egyptian, the basest

of people, and the barbarians of Africa, shame even the inhabitants of

England's metropolis; for every where but in our land, though the duty

of cleanliness may not be enjoined as next to godliness, as with us, yet

the benefit and the luxury of the bath are freely enjoyed, as the

natural means of ablution and of health.

"With us the man of no complaint demands

The warm ablution, just enough to clear

The sluices of the skin, enough to keep

The body sacred from indecent soil.

Still to be pure, even did it not conduce

(As much it does) to health, were greatly worth

Your daily pains."--ARMSTRONG.

POVERTY OF THE ENGLISH BAR.

With the exception, perhaps, of the lower order of the working clergy,

there is no class of the community, as a body, so desperately poor as

the bar. If it were not for extrinsic aids, one-half, at least, of its

members must necessarily starve. Of course a considerable number of them

have private property or income, and in point of fact, as a general

rule, he who goes to the bar without some such assistance and resource

is a fool--and probably a vanity-stricken fool--a fond dreamer about the

Eloquium ac famam Demosthenis aut Ciceronis;

forgetting that at the outset these worthies had the leisure to acquire,

and the ample means to pay for the best education that the world could

afford. The aspirant for forensic fame who can not do this is dreadfully

overweighted for the race, and can scarcely hope to come in a winner;

for the want of all facilities of tuition and of one's own library,

which is a thing of great cost, must be severely felt, and the necessity

of working in some extraneous occupation for his daily bread must

engross much of that time which should be devoted to study, and the

furtherance otherwise of the cardinal object he has in view. We have

read of many cases in which men have struggled triumphantly against all

such obstacles, and no doubt some there were--but for the most part, as

in Lord Eldon's instance, they were grossly exaggerated. Next, of those

who have no patrimony or private allowance from friends, the press, in

its various departments, supports a very large number. Some are editors

or contributors to magazines or reviews--daily, weekly, monthly,

quarterly; some are parliamentary reporters; some shorthand writers;

some reporters of the proceedings in the courts of law for the daily

journals and the now almost innumerous legal publications, from the

recognized reports down to the two-penny pamphlet; then some are

secretaries to public boards or bodies, some to private individuals. All

these are comparatively well off in the world, and may "bide their

time," though that time very rarely comes in any prolific shape, and

meanwhile devote their _tempora subseciva_ to the profession without the

physical necessity of doing any thing ungentlemanly. But there are

hundreds of others hanging on to the profession in a most precarious

position from day to day, who would do any thing for business, and who

taint the whole mass with the disgrace of their proceedings. These are

the persons who resort to the arts of the lowest tradesmen, such as

under-working, touting for employment, sneaking, cringing, lying, and

the like. These are the persons who, in such shabby or fraudulent cases

as may succeed, share the fees with low attorneys, and who sign

habitually, for the same pettifogging practitioners, half-guinea motions

in the batch, for half-a-crown or eighteenpence apiece; and, in short,

do any thing and every thing that is mean and infamous. Alas for the

_dignity_ of the bar! The common mechanic, who earns his regular thirty

shillings a week, the scene-shifter, the paltry play actor, enjoys more

of the comforts and real respectability of human life than one of those

miserable aspirants to the wool-sack, who spends his day in the

desperate quest for a brief, and sits at night in his garret shivering

over a shovel-full of coals and an old edition of Coke upon

Littleton.--_Frazer's Magazine._

SONNET ON THE DEATH OF WORDSWORTH.

_23d April, 1850._

Beneath the solemn shadow he doth sleep

Of his own mountains! closed the poet's eyes

To all earth's beauty--wood, and lake, and skies,

And golden mists that up the valleys creep.

Sweet Duddon's stream and Rydal's grassy steep,

The "snow-white lamb," his cottage-maiden's prize,

The cuckoo's note, and flowers, in which his wise

And gentle mind found "thoughts for tears too deep"--

These, Wordsworth! thou hast left; but oh, on these,

And the deep human sympathies that flow

Link'd with their beauty, an immortal train,

Thy benediction rests; and as the breeze

Sweeping the cloud-capp'd hills is heard below.

Descends to us a rich undying strain!

H. M. R.

[From the Dublin University Magazine.]

MAURICE TIERNAY,

THE SOLDIER OF FORTUNE.

[_Continued from Page 10._]

CHAPTER II.

THE RESTAURANT "AU SCELERAT."

As I gained the street, at a considerable distance from the "Place," I

was able to increase my speed; and I did so with an eagerness as if the

world depended on my haste. At any other time I would have bethought me

of my disobedience to the Pere's commands, and looked forward to meeting

him with shame and sorrow, but now I felt a kind of importance in the

charge intrusted to me. I regarded my mission as something superior to

any petty consideration of self, while the very proximity in which I had

stood to peril and death made me seem a hero in my own eyes.

At last I reached the street where we lived, and, almost breathless with

exertion, gained the door. What was my amazement, however, to find it

guarded by a sentry, a large, solemn-looking fellow, with a tattered

cocked hat on his head, and a pair of worn striped trowsers on his legs,

who cried out, as I appeared, "_Halte la!_" in a voice that at once

arrested my steps.

"Where to, youngster?" said he, in a somewhat melted tone, seeing the

shock his first words had caused me.

"I am going home, sir," said I, submissively. "I live at the third

story, in the apartment of the Pere Michel."

"The Pere Michel will live there no longer, my boy; his apartment is now

in the Temple," said he, slowly.

"In the Temple!" said I, whose memory at once recalled my father's fate;

and then, unable to control my feelings, I sat down upon the steps, and

burst into tears.

"There, there, child, you must not cry thus," said he; "these are not

days when one should weep over misfortunes; they come too fast and too

thick on all of us for that. The Pere was your tutor, I suppose?"

I nodded.

"And your father--where is he?"

"Dead."

He made a sign to imitate the guillotine, and I assented by another nod.

"Was he a royalist, boy?"

"He was an officer in the _gardes du corps_," said I, proudly. The

soldier shook his head mournfully, but with what meaning I know not.

"And your mother, boy?"

"I do not know where she is," said I, again relapsing into tears at the

thought of my utter desolation. The old soldier leaned upon his musket

in profound thought, and for some time did not utter a word. At last he

said,

"There is nothing but the Hotel de Ville for you, my child. They say

that the Republic adopts all the orphans of France. What she does with

them I can not tell."

"But I can, though," replied I, fiercely: "the Noyades or the Seine are

a quick and sure provision; I saw eighty drowned one morning below the

Pont Neuf myself."

"That tongue of yours will bring you into trouble, youngster," said he,

reprovingly: "mind that you say not such things as these."

"What worse fortune can betide me, than to see my father die at the

guillotine, and my last, my only friend, carried away to prison."

"You have no care for your own neck, then?"

"Why should I--what value has life for me?"

"Then it will be spared to you," said he, sententiously; "mark my words,

lad. You need never fear death till you begin to love life. Get up, my

poor boy, you must not be found there when the relief comes, and that

will be soon. This is all that I have," said he, placing three sous in

my palm, "which will buy a loaf; to-morrow there may be better luck in

store for you."

I shook the rough hand he offered, with cordial gratitude, and resolved

to bear myself as like a man as I could. I drew myself up, touched my

cap in soldier-like fashion, and cried out. "Adieu;" and then,

descending into the street, hurried away to hide the tears that were

almost suffocating me.

Hour after hour I walked the streets; the mere act of motion seemed to

divert my grief, and it was only when foot-sore and weary, that I could

march no longer, and my sorrows came back in full force, and overwhelmed

me in their flow. It was less pride or shame than a sense of my utter

helplessness, that prevented me addressing any one of the hundreds who

passed me. I bethought me of my inability to do any thing for my own

support, and it was this consciousness that served to weigh me down more

than all else; and yet I felt with what devotion I could serve him who

would but treat me with the kindness he might bestow upon his dog; I

fancied with what zeal I could descend to very slavery for one word of

affection. The streets were crowded with people; groups were gathered

here and there, either listening to some mob orator of the day, or

hearing the newspapers read aloud. I tried, by forcing my way into the

crowd, to feel myself "one of them," and to think that I had my share of

interest in what was going forward, but in vain. Of the topics discussed

I knew nothing, and of the bystanders none even noticed me.

High-swelling phrases met the ear at every moment, that sounded

strangely enough to me. They spoke of Fraternity--of that brotherhood

which linked man to man in close affection; of Equality--that made all

sharers in this world's goods; of Liberty--that gave freedom to every

noble aspiration and generous thought; and, for an instant, carried away

by the glorious illusion, I even forgot my solitary condition, and felt

proud of my heritage as a youth of France I looked around me, however,

and what faces met my gaze! The same fearful countenances I had seen

around the scaffold: the wretches, blood-stained, and influenced by

passion, their bloated cheeks and strained eye-balls glowing with

intemperance; their oaths, their gestures, their very voices having

something terrible in them. The mockery soon disgusted me, and I moved

away, again to wander about without object or direction through the

weary streets. It was past midnight when I found myself, without knowing

where I was, in a large open space, in the midst of which a solitary

lamp was burning. I approached it, and, to my horror, saw that it was

the guillotine, over which, in mournful cadence, a lantern swung,

creaking its chain as the night-wind stirred it. The dim outline of the

fearful scaffold, the fitful light that fell upon the platform, and the

silence, all conspired to strike terror into my heart; all I had so

lately witnessed seemed to rise up again before me, and the victims

seemed to stand up again, pale, and livid, and shuddering as last I saw

them.

I knelt down, and tried to pray, but terror was too powerful to suffer

my thoughts to take this direction, and, half-fainting with fear and

exhaustion, I lay down upon the ground and slept--slept beneath the

platform of the guillotine. Not a dream crossed my slumber, nor did I

awake till dawn of day, when the low rumbling of the peasants' carts

aroused me, as they were proceeding to the market. I know not why or

whence, but I arose from the damp earth, and looked about me with a more

daring and courageous spirit than I had hitherto felt. It was May; the

first bright rays of sunshine were slanting along the "Place," and the

fresh, brisk air felt invigorating and cheering. Whither to? asked I of

myself, and my eyes turned from the dense streets and thoroughfares of

the great city to the far-off hills beyond the barrier, and for a moment

I hesitated which road to take. I almost seemed to feel as if the

decision involved my whole future fortune--whether I should live and die

in the humble condition of a peasant, or play for a great stake in life.

"Yes," said I, after a short hesitation, "I will remain here; in the

terrible conflict going forward many must be new adventurers, and never

was any one more greedy to learn the trade than myself. I will throw

sorrow behind me. Yesterday's tears are the last I shall shed. Now for a

bold heart and a ready will, and here goes for the world!" With these

stout words I placed my cap jauntily on one side of my head, and, with a

fearless air marched off for the very centre of the city.

For some hours I amused myself gazing at the splendid shops, or staring

in at the richly-decorated cafes, where the young celebrities of the day

were assembled at breakfast, in all the extravagance of the new-fangled

costume. Then I followed the guard to the parade at the "Carousel," and

listened to the band; quitting which, I wandered along the quays,

watching the boats, as they dragged the river, in search of murdered

bodies or suicides. Thence I returned to the Palais Royal, and listened

to the news of the day, as read out by some elected enlightener of his

countrymen.

By what chance I know not, but at last my rambling steps brought me

opposite to the great, solemn-looking towers of the "Temple." The gloomy

prison, within whose walls hundreds were then awaiting the fate which

already their friends had suffered; little groups, gathered here and

there in the open Place, were communicating to the prisoners by signs

and gestures, and from many a small-grated window, at an immense height,

handkerchiefs were seen to wave in recognition of those below. These

signals seemed to excite neither watchfulness nor prevention; indeed,

they needed none, and perhaps the very suspense they excited was a

torture that pleased the inhuman jailers. Whatever the reason, the

custom was tolerated, and was apparently enjoyed at that moment by

several of the turnkeys, who sat at the windows, much amused at the

efforts made to communicate. Interested by the sight, I sat down upon a

stone bench to watch the scene, and fancied that I could read something

of the rank and condition of those who signalled from below their

messages of hope or fear. At last a deep bell within the prison tolled

the hour of noon, and now every window was suddenly deserted. It was the

hour for the muster of the prisoners, which always took place before the

dinner at one o'clock. The curious groups soon after broke up. A few

lingered round the gate, with, perhaps some hope of admission to visit

their friends but the greater number departed.

My hunger was now such, that I could no longer deny myself the

long-promised meal, and I looked about me for a shop where I might buy a

loaf of bread. In my search, I suddenly found myself opposite an immense

shop, where viands of every tempting description were ranged with all

that artistic skill so purely Parisian, making up a picture whose

composition Snyders would not have despised. Over the door was a

painting of a miserable wretch, with hands bound behind him, and his

hair cut close in the well-known crop for the scaffold, and underneath

was written, "Au Scelerat;" while on a larger board, in gilt letters,

ran the inscription:

"Boivin Pere et Fils, Traiteurs pour M. lea Condammees."

I could scarcely credit my eyes as I read and re-read this infamous

announcement; but there it stood, and in the crowd that poured

incessantly to and from the door, I saw the success that attended the

traffic. A ragged knot were gathered around the window, eagerly gazing

at something, which, by their exclamations, seemed to claim all their

admiration. I pressed forward to see what it was, and beheld a miniature

guillotine, which, turned by a wheel, was employed to chop the meat for

sausages. This it was that formed the great object of attraction, even

to those to whom the prototype had grown flat and uninteresting.

Disgusted as I was by this shocking sight, I stood watching all that

went forward within with a strange interest. It was a scene of incessant

bustle and movement, for now, as one o'clock drew nigh, various dinners

were getting ready for the prisoners, while parties of their friends

were assembling inside. Of these latter, there seemed persons of every

rank and condition: some, dressed in all the brilliancy of the _mode_;

others, whose garments bespoke direst poverty. There were women, too,

whose costume emulated the classic drapery of the ancients, and who

displayed, in their looped togas, no niggard share of their forms; while

others, in shabby mourning, sat in obscure corners, not noticing the

scene before them, nor noticed themselves. A strange equipage, with two

horses extravagantly bedizened with rosettes and bouquets, stood at the

door; and as I looked, a pale, haggard-looking man, whose foppery in

dress contrasted oddly with his care-worn expression, hurried from the

shop, and sprung into the carriage. In doing so, a pocket-book fell from

his pocket. I took it up, but as I did so, the carriage was already

away, and far beyond my power to overtake it.

Without stopping to examine my prize, or hesitating for a second, I

entered the _restaurant_, and asked for M. Boivin.

"Give your orders to me, boy," said a man busily at work behind the

counter.

"My business is with himself," said I, stoutly.

"Then you'll have to wait with some patience," said he, sneeringly.

"I can do so," was my answer, and I sat down in the shop.

I might have been half-an-hour thus seated, when an enormously fat man,

with a huge "_bonnet rouge_" on his head, entered from an inner room,

and, passing close to where I was, caught sight of me.

"Who are you, sirrah--what brings you here?"

"I want to speak with M. Boivin."

"Then speak," said he, placing his hand upon his immense chest.

"It must be alone," said I.

"How so, alone, sirrah?" said he, growing suddenly pale; "I have no

secrets--I know of nothing that may not be told before all the world."

Though he said this in a kind of appeal to all around, the dubious looks

and glances interchanged seemed to make him far from comfortable.

"So you refuse me, then," said I, taking up my cap, and preparing to

depart.

"Come hither," said he, leading the way into the room from which he had

emerged. It was a very small chamber; the most conspicuous ornaments of

which were busts and pictures of the various celebrities of the

revolution. Some of these latter were framed ostentatiously, and one,

occupying the post of honor above the chimney, at once attracted me, for

in a glance I saw that it was a portrait of him who owned the

pocket-book, and bore beneath it the name "Robespierre."

"Now, sir, for your communication," said Boivin; "and take care that it

is of sufficient importance to warrant the interview you have asked

for."

"I have no fears on that score," said I, calmly, still scanning the

features of the portrait, and satisfying myself of their identity.

"Look at me, sir, and not at that picture," said Boivin.

"And yet it is of M. Robespierre I have to speak," said I, coolly.

"How so--of M. Robespierre, boy? What is the meaning of this? If it be a

snare--if this be a trick, you never leave this spot living," cried he,

as he placed a massive hand on each of my shoulders, and shook me

violently.

"I am not so easily to be terrified, Citoyen," said I; "nor have I any

secret cause for fear--whatever you may have. My business is of another

kind. This morning, in passing out to his carriage, he dropped his

pocket-book, which I picked up. Its contents may well be of a kind that

should not be read by other eyes than his own. My request is, then, that

you will seal it up before me, and then send some one along with me,

while I restore it to its owner."

"Is this a snare--what secret mischief have we here?" said Boivin, half

aloud, as he wiped the cold drops of perspiration from his forehead.

"Any mishap that follows will depend upon your refusal to do what I

ask."

"How so--I never refused it; you dare not tell M. Robespierre that I

refused, sirrah?"

"I will tell him nothing that is untrue," said I, calmly; for already a

sense of power had gifted me with composure. "If M. Robespierre--"

"Who speaks of me here?" cried that identical personage, as he dashed

hurriedly into the room, and then, not waiting for the reply, went on,

"You must send out your scouts on every side--I lost my pocket-book as I

left this a while ago."

"It is here, sir," said I, presenting it at once.

"How--where was it found--in whose keeping has it been, boy?"

"In mine only; I took it from the ground the same moment that you

dropped it, and then came here to place it in M. Boivin's hands."

"Who has taken care of it since that time," continued Robespierre, with

a slow and sneering accentuation on every word.

"The pocket-book has never left my possession since it quitted yours,"

was my reply.

"Just so," broke in Boivin, now slowly recovering from his terror. "Of

its contents I know nothing; nor have I sought to know any thing."

Robespierre looked at me, as if to corroborate this statement, and I

nodded my head in acquiescence.

"Who is your father, boy?"

"I have none--he was guillotined."

"His name?"

"Tiernay."

"Ah, I remember; he was called L'Irlandais."

"The same."

"A famous Royalist was that same Tiernay, and, doubtless, contrived to

leave a heritage of his opinions to his son."

"He left me nothing--I have neither house, nor home, nor even bread to

eat."

"But you have a head to plan, and a heart to feel, youngster; and it is

better that fellows like you should not want a dinner. Boivin, look to

it that he is taken care of. In a few days I will relieve you of the

charge. You will remain here, boy; there are worse resting-places, I

promise you. There are men who call themselves teachers of the people,

who would ask no better life than free quarters on Boivin. And so

saying, he hurriedly withdrew, leaving me face to face with my host.

"So then, youngster," said Boivin, as he scratched his ear thoughtfully,

"I have gained a pensioner! _Parbleu!_ if life were not an uncertain

thing in these times, there's no saying how long we might not be blessed

with your amiable company."

"You shall not be burthened heavily, _Citoyen_" said I; "Let me have my

dinner--I have not eaten since yesterday morning, and I will go my ways

peacefully."

"Which means straight to Robespierre's dwelling, to tell him that I have

turned you out of doors--eh, sirrah?"

"You mistake me much," said I; "this would be sorry gratitude for eaten

bread; I meant what I said--that I will not be an unwelcome guest, even

though the alternative be, as it is, something very nigh starvation."

Boivin did not seem clearly to comprehend the meaning of what I said; or

perhaps my whole conduct and bearing puzzled him, for he made no reply

for several seconds. At last, with a kind of sigh, he said,

"Well well, it can not be helped; it must be even as he wished, though

the odds are, he'll never think more about him Come, lad, you shall have

your dinner."

I followed him through a narrow, unlighted passage, which opened into a

room, where, at a long table, were seated a number of men and boys at

dinner. Some were dressed as cooks--others wore a kind of gray blouse,

with a badge upon the arm bearing the name "Boivin" in large letters,

and were, as I afterward learned, the messengers employed to carry

refreshments into the prison, and who, by virtue of this sign, were

freely admitted within the gates.

Taking my place at the board, I proceeded to eat with a voracity that

only a long fast could have excused; and thus took but little heed of my

companions, whose solecisms in table etiquette might otherwise have

amused me.

"Art a _marmiton_, thou?" asked an elderly man in a cook's cap, as he

stared fixedly at me for some seconds.

"No," said I, helping myself, and eating away as before.

"Thou can'st never be a commissionaire, friend, with an appetite like

that," cried another; "I wouldn't trust thee to carry a casserole to

the fire."

"Nor shall I be," said I, coolly.

"What trade, then, has the good fortune to possess your shining

abilities?"

"A trade that thrives well just now, friend-pass me the flask."

"Indeed, and what may it be?"

"Can you not guess, _Citoyen_," said I, "if I tell you that it was never

more in vogue; and, if there be some who will not follow it, they'll

wear their heads just as safely by holding their peace."

_"Parbleu!_ thou hast puzzled me," said the chief cook; "and if thou

hast not a coffin-maker--." A roar of merriment cut short his speech, in

which I myself could not but join heartily.

"That is, I know," said I, "a thriving business; but mine is even

better; and, not to mystify you longer, I'll just tell you what I

am--which is, simply, a friend of the _Citoyen_ Robespierre."

The blow told with full force; and I saw, in the terrified looks that

were interchanged around the table, that my sojourn among them, whether

destined to be of short or long duration, would not be disturbed by

further liberties. It was truly a reign of terror that same period! The

great agent of every thing was the vague and shadowy dread of some

terrible vengeance, against which precautions were all in vain. Men met

each other with secret misgivings, and parted with the same dreadful

distrust. The ties of kindred were all broken; brotherly affection died

out. Existence was become like the struggle for life upon some

shipwrecked raft, where each sought safety by his neighbor's doom! At

such a time--with such terrible teachings--children became men in all

the sterner features of character: cruelty is a lesson so easily

learned.

As for myself, energetic and ambitious by nature, the ascendency my

first assumption of power suggested was too grateful a passion to be

relinquished. The name--whose spell was like a talisman, because now the

secret engine by which I determined to work out my fortune--Robespierre

had become to my imagination like the slave of Aladdin's lamp; and to

conjure him up was to be all-powerful. Even to Boivin himself this

influence extended; and it was easy to perceive that he regarded the

whole narrative of the pocket-book as a mere fable, invented to obtain a

position as a spy over his household.

I was not unwilling to encourage the belief--it added to my importance,

by increasing the fear I inspired; and thus I walked indolently about,

giving myself those airs of "mouchard" that I deemed most fitting, and

taking a mischievous delight in the tenor I was inspiring.

The indolence of my life, however, soon wearied me, and I began to long

for some occupation, or some pursuit. Teeming with excitement as the

world was--every day, every hour, brimful of events--it was impossible

to sit calmly on the beach, and watch the great, foaming current of

human passions, without longing to be in the stream. Had I been a man at

that time, I should have become a furious orator of the Mountain--an

impassioned leader of the people. The impulse to stand foremost, to take

a bold and prominent position, would have carried me to any lengths. I

had caught up enough of the horrid fanaticism of the time, to think that

there was something grand and heroic in contempt for human suffering;

that a man rose proudly above all the weakness of his nature, when, in

the pursuit of some great object, he stifled within his breast every

throb of affection--every sentiment of kindness and mercy. Such were the

teachings rife at the time--such the first lessons that boyhood learned;

and oh! what a terrible hour had that been for humanity if the

generation then born had grown up to manhood, unchastened and

unconverted!

But to return to my daily life. As I perceived that a week had now

elapsed, and the Citizen Robespierre had not revisited the "restaurant,"

nor taken any interest in my fate or fortunes, I began to fear lest

Boivin should master his terror regarding me, and take heart to put me

out of doors--an event which, in my present incertitude, would have been

sorely inconvenient. I resolved, therefore, to practice a petty

deception on my host, to sustain the influence of terror over him. This

was, to absent myself every day at a certain hour, under the pretense of

visiting my patron--letting fall, from time to time, certain indications

to show in what part of the city I had been, and occasionally, as if in

an unguarded moment, condescending to relate some piece of popular

gossip. None ventured to inquire the source of my information--not one

dared to impugn its veracity. Whatever their misgivings in secret, to

myself they displayed the most credulous faith. Nor was their trust so

much misplaced, for I had, in reality, become a perfect chronicle of all

that went forward in Paris--never missing a debate in the Convention,

where my retentive memory could carry away almost verbally all that I

heard--ever present at every public fete or procession, whether the

occasions were some insulting desecration of their former faith, or some

tasteless mockery of heathen ceremonial.

My powers of mimicry, too, enabled me to imitate all the famous

characters of the period; and in my assumed inviolability, I used to

exhibit the uncouth gestures and spluttering utterance of Marat--the

wild and terrible ravings of Danton--and even the reedy treble of my own

patron, Robespierre, as he screamed denunciations against the enemies of

the people. It is true these exhibitions of mine were only given in

secret to certain parties, who, by a kind of instinct, I felt could be

trusted.

Such was my life, as one day, returning from the Convention, I beheld a

man affixing to a wall a great placard, to which the passing crowd

seemed to pay deep attention. It was a decree of the Committee of Public

Safety, containing the names of above seven hundred royalists, who were

condemned to death, and who were to be executed in three "tournees," on

three successive days.

For some time back the mob had not been gratified with a spectacle of

this nature. In the ribald language of the day, the "holy guillotine had

grown thirsty from long drought;" and they read the announcement with

greedy eyes, commenting as they went upon those whose names were

familiar to them. There were many of noble birth among the proscribed,

but by far the greater number were priests, the whole sum of whose

offending seemed written in the simple and touching words, "_ancien

cure_," of such a parish! It was strange to mark the bitterness of

invective with which the people loaded these poor and innocent men, as

though they were the source of all their misfortunes. The lazy indolence

with which they reproached them, seemed ten times more offensive in

their eyes than the lives of ease and affluence led by the nobility. The

fact was, they could not forgive men of their own rank and condition

what they pardoned in the well-born and the noble! an inconsistency that

has characterized democracy in other situations besides this.

As I ran my eyes down the list of those confined in the Temple, I came

to a name which smote my heart with a pang of ingratitude as well as

sorrow--the "Pere Michel Delannois, soi disant cure de St. Blois"--my

poor friend and protector was there among the doomed! If up to that

moment, I had made no effort to see him, I must own the reason lay in my

own selfish feeling of shame--the dread that he should mark the change

that had taken place in me--a change that I felt extended to all about

me, and showed itself in my manner, as it influenced my every action. It

was not alone that I lost the obedient air and quiet submissiveness of

the child, but I had assumed the very extravagance of that democratic

insolence which was the mode among the leading characters of the time.

How should I present myself before him, the very impersonation of all

the vices against which he used to warn me--how exhibit the utter

failure of all his teachings and his hopes? What would this be but to

imbitter his reflections needlessly. Such were the specious reasons with

which I fed my self-love, and satisfied my conscience; but now, as I

read his name in that terrible catalogue, their plausibility served me

no longer, and at last I forgot myself to remember only him.

"I will see him at once," thought I, "whatever it may cost me--I will

stay beside him for his last few hours of life; and when he carries with

him from this world many an evil memory of shame and treachery,

ingratitude from me shall not increase the burden." And with this

resolve I turned my steps homeward.

CHAPTER III.

THE "TEMPLE."

At the time of which I write, there was but one motive-principle

throughout France--"TERROR." By the agency of terror and the threat of

denunciation was every thing carried on, not only in the public

departments of the state, but in all the common occurrences of every-day

life. Fathers used it toward their children--children toward their

parents; mothers coerced their daughters--daughters, in turn, braved the

authority of their mothers. The tribunal of public opinion, open to all,

scattered its decrees with a reckless cruelty--denying to-day what it

had decreed but yesterday, and at last obliterating every trace of

"right" or "principle," in a people who now only lived for the passing

hour, and who had no faith in the future, even of this world.

Among the very children at play, this horrible doctrine had gained a

footing; the tyrant urchin, whose ingenuity enabled him to terrorize,

became the master of his playfellows. I was not slow in acquiring the

popular education of the period, and soon learned that fear was a "Bank"

on which one might draw at will. Already the domineering habit had given

to my air and manner all the insolence of seeming power; and, while a

mere boy in years, I was a man in all the easy assumption of a certain

importance.

It was with a bold and resolute air I entered the restaurant, and

calling Boivin aside, said,

"I have business in the Temple this morning, Boivin; see to it that I

shall not be denied admittance."

"I am not governor of the jail," grunted Boivin, sulkily, "nor have I

the privilege to pass any one."

"But your boys have the entree; the 'rats' (so were they called) are

free to pass in and out."

"Ay, and I'm responsible for the young rascals, too, and for any thing

that may be laid to their charge."

"And you shall extend this same protection to _me_, Master Boivin, for

one day, at least. Nay, my good friend, there's no use in sulking about

it. A certain friend of ours, whose name I need not speak aloud, is

little in the habit of being denied any thing: are you prepared for the

consequence of disobeying his orders?"

"Let me see that they are his orders," said he, sturdily; "who tells me

that such is his will?"

"I do," was my brief reply, as, with a look of consummate effrontery, I

drew myself up, and stared him insolently in the face.

"Suppose, then, that I have my doubts on the matter; suppose--"

"I will suppose all you wish, Boivin," said I, interrupting, "and even

something more; for I will suppose myself returning to the quarter

whence I have just come, and within one hour--ay, within one hour,

Boivin--bringing back with me a written order, not to pass me into the

Temple, but to receive the charge of the Citizen Jean Baptiste Boivin,

and be accountable for the same to the Committee of Public Safety."

He trembled from head to foot as I said these words, and in his shaking

cheeks and fallen jaw I saw that my spell was working.

"And now, I ask for the last time, do you consent or not?"

"How is it to be done?" cried he, in a voice of downright wretchedness.

"You are not 'inscribed' at the secretaries' office as one of the

'rats.'"

"I should hope not," said I, cutting him short; "but I may take the

place of one for an hour or so. Tristan is about my own size; his blouse

and badge will just suit me."

"Ay, leave me to a fine of a thousand francs, if you should be found

out," muttered Boivin, "not to speak of a worse mayhap."

"Exactly so--far worse in case of your refusing: but there sounds the

bell for mustering the prisoners; it is now too late."

"Not so--not so," cried Boivin, eagerly, as he saw me prepared to leave

the house. "You shall go in Tristan's place. Send him here, that he may

tell you every thing about the 'service,' and give you his blouse and

badge."

I was not slow in availing myself of the permission; nor was Tristan

sorry to find a substitute. He was a dull, depressed-looking boy, not

over communicative as to his functions, merely telling me that I was to

follow the others--that I came fourth in the line--to answer when my

name was called "Tristan," and to put the money I received in my

leathern pocket, without uttering a word, lest the jailers should notice

it.

To accoutre myself in the white cotton night-cap and the blouse of the

craft, was the work of a few seconds, and then, with a great knife in my

girdle, and a capacious pocket slung at my side, I looked every inch a

"_Marmiton_."

In the kitchen, the bustle had already begun; and half a dozen cooks,

with as many under-cooks, were dealing out "portions" with all the speed

of a well-practiced performance. Nothing short of great habit could have

prevented the confusion degenerating into downright anarchy. The

"service" was, indeed, effected with a wonderful rapidity, and certain

phrases, uttered with speed, showed how it progressed. "_Maigre des

Cures_"--"finished." "Bouillon for the 'expectants'"--"ready here."

"Canards aux olives des condamnes"--"all served." "Red partridges for

the reprieved at the upper table"--"dispatched." Such were the quick

demands, and no less quick replies, that rung out, amidst the crash of

plates, knifes, and glasses, and the incessant movement of feet, until,

at last, we were all marshaled in a long line, and, preceded by a drum,

set out for the prison.

As we drew near, the heavy gates opened to receive, and closed behind us

with a loud bang, that I could not help feeling must have smote heavily

on many a heart that had passed there. We were now in a large

court-yard, where several doors led off, each guarded by a sentinel,

whose ragged clothes and rusty accoutrements proclaimed a true soldier

of the republic. One of the large hurdles used for carrying the

prisoners to the "Place" stood in one corner, and two or three workmen

were busied in repairing it for the coming occasion.

So much I had time to observe, as we passed along; and now we entered a

dimly-lighted corridor, of great extent, passing down which, we emerged

into a second "Cour," traversed by a species of canal or river, over

which a bridge led. In the middle of this was a strongly-barred iron

gate, guarded by two sentries. As we arrived here, our names were called

aloud by a species of turnkey, and at the call "Tristan" I advanced,

and, removing the covers from the different dishes, submitted them for

inspection to an old, savage-looking fellow, who, with a long steel

fork, prodded the pieces of meat, as though any thing could have been

concealed within them. Meanwhile another fellow examined my cotton cap

and pocket, and passed his hands along my arms and body. The whole did

not last more than a few minutes, and the word "forward" was given to

pass on. The gloom of the place--the silence, only broken by the heavy

bang of an iron-barred door, or the clank of chains--the sad thoughts of

the many who trod these corridors on their way to death, depressed me

greatly, and equally unprepared me for what was to come; for as we drew

near the great hall, the busy hum of voices, the sound of laughter, and

the noises of a large assembly in full converse, suddenly burst upon the

ear, and as the wide doors were thrown open, I beheld above a hundred

people, who, either gathered in single groups, or walking up and down in

parties, seemed all in the fullest enjoyment of social intercourse.

A great table, with here and there a large flagon of water, or a huge

loaf of the coarse bread used by the peasantry, ran from end to end of

the chamber. A few had already taken their places at this; but some were

satisfied with laying a cap or a kerchief on the bench opposite their

accustomed seat; while others again had retired into windows and

corners, as if to escape the general gaze, and partake of their humble

meal in solitude.

Whatever restrictions prison discipline might have exercised elsewhere,

here the widest liberty seemed to prevail. The talk was loud, and even

boisterous; the manner to the turnkeys exhibited nothing of fear: the

whole assemblage presented rather the aspect of a gathering of riotous

republicans, than of a band of prisoners under sentence. And yet such

were the greater number; and the terrible slip of paper attached to the

back of each, with a date, told the day on which he was to die.

As I lingered to gaze on this strange gathering, I was admonished to

move on, and now perceived that my companion had advanced to the end of

the hall, by which a small flight of stone steps led out upon a terrace,

at the end of which we entered another, and not less spacious chamber,

equally crowded and noisy. Here the company were of both sexes, and of

every grade and condition of rank, from the highest noble of the once

court, to the humblest peasant of La Vendee. If the sounds of mirth and

levity were less frequent, the buzz of conversation was, to the full, as

loud as in the lower hall, where, from difference of condition in life,

the scenes passing presented stranger and more curious contrasts. In one

corner a group of peasants were gathered around a white-haired priest,

who, in a low but earnest voice, was uttering his last exhortation to

them; in another, some young and fashionably-dressed men were exhibiting

to a party of ladies the very airs and graces by which they would have

adorned a saloon; here, was a party at piquet; there, a little group

arranging, for the last time, their household cares, and settling, with

a few small coins, the account of mutual expenditure. Of the ladies,

several were engaged at needlework, some little preparation for the

morrow--the last demand that ever vanity was to make of them!

Although there was matter of curiosity in all around me, my eyes sought

for but one object, the cure of St. Blois. Twice or thrice, from the

similarity of dress, I was deceived, and at last, when I really did

behold him, as he sat alone in a window, reading, I could scarcely

satisfy myself of the reality. He was lividly pale; his eyes deep sunk,

and surrounded with two dark circles, while along his worn cheek the

tears had marked two channels of purple color. What need of the

guillotine there; the lamp of life was in its last flicker without it.

Our names were called, and the meats placed upon the table. Just as the

head turnkey was about to give the order to be seated, a loud commotion,

and a terrible uproar in the court beneath, drew every one to the

window. It was a hurdle which, emerging from an archway, broke down from

overcrowding; and now the confusion of prisoners, jailors, and sentries,

with plunging horses and screaming sufferers, made a scene of the

wildest uproar. Chained two by two, the prisoners were almost helpless,

and in their efforts to escape injury made the most terrific struggles.

Such were the instincts of life in those on the very road to death!

Resolving to profit by the moment of confusion, I hastened to the

window, where alone, unmoved by the general commotion, sat the Pere

Michel. He lifted his glassy eyes as I came near, and, in a low, mild

voice, said,

"Thanks, my good boy, but I have no money to pay thee; nor does it

matter much now, it is but another day."

I could have cried as I heard these sad words, but mastering emotions

which would have lost time so precious, I drew close, and whispered,

"Pere Michel, it is I, your own Maurice!"

He started, and a deep flush suffused his cheek, and then stretching out

his hand, he pushed back my cap, and parted the hair off my forehead, as

if doubting the reality of what he saw, when, with a weak voice, he

said,

"No, no, thou art not my own Maurice. _His_ eyes shone not with that

worldly lustre thine do; _his_ brow was calm and fair as children's

should be--_thine_ is marked with manhood's craft and subtlety; and yet

thou art like him."

A low sob broke from me as I listened to his words, and the tears gushed

forth, and rolled in torrents down my cheeks.

"Yes," cried he, clasping me in his arms, "thou art my own dear boy. I

know thee now: but how art thou here, and thus?" and he touched my

"blouse" as he spoke.

"I came to see and to save you, Pere," said I. "Nay, do not try to

discourage me, but rather give me all your aid. I saw _her_--I was with

her in her last moments at the guillotine; she gave me a message for

you, but this you shall never hear till we are without these walls."

"It can not be, it can not be," said he, sorrowfully.

"It can, and shall be," said I, resolutely. "I have merely assumed this

dress for the occasion; I have friends, powerful and willing to protect

me. Let us change robes; give me that 'soutane,' and put on the blouse.

When you leave this, hasten to the old garden of the chapel, and wait

for my coming; I will join you there before night."

"It can not be," replied he, again.

"Again I say, it shall, and must be. Nay, if you still refuse, there

shall be two victims, for I will tear off the dress here where I stand,

and openly declare myself the son of the royalist Tiernay."

Already the commotion in the court beneath was beginning to subside, and

even now the turnkeys' voices were heard in the refectory, recalling the

prisoners to table, another moment and it would have been too late; it

was, then, less by persuasion than by actual force I compelled him to

yield, and pulling off his black serge gown, drew over his shoulders my

yellow blouse, and placed upon his head the white cap of the "Marmiton."

The look of shame and sorrow of the poor cure would have betrayed him at

once, if any had given themselves the trouble to look at him.

"And thou, my poor child," said he, as he saw me array myself in his

priestly dress, "what is to be thy fate."

"All will depend upon you, Pere Michel," said I, holding him by the arm,

and trying to fix his wandering attention. "Once out of the prison,

write to Boivin, the _restaurateur_ of the '_Scelerat_,' and tell him

that an escaped convict has scruples for the danger into which he has

brought a poor boy, one of his 'Marmitons,' and whom, by a noxious drug,

he has lulled into insensibility, while having exchanged clothes, he has

managed his escape. Boivin will comprehend the danger he himself runs by

leaving me here. All will go well--and now there's not a moment to lose.

Take up your basket, and follow the others."

"But the falsehood of all this," cried the Pere.

"But, your life and mine, too, lost, if you refuse," said I, pushing him

away.

"Oh, Maurice, how changed have you become!" cried he, sorrowfully.

"You will see a greater change in me yet, as I lie in the sawdust

beneath the scaffold," said I, hastily. "Go, go."

There was, indeed, no more time to lose. The muster of the prisoners was

forming at one end of the chamber, while the "Marmitons" were gathering

up their plates and dishes, previous to departure, at the other; and it

was only by the decisive step of laying myself down within the recesses

of the window, in the attitude of one overcome by sleep, that I could

force him to obey my direction. I could feel his presence as he bent

over me, and muttered something that must have been a prayer. I could

know, without seeing, that he still lingered near me, but as I never

stirred, he seemed to feel that my resolve was not to be shaken, and at

last he moved slowly away.

At first the noise and clamor sounded like the crash of some desperate

conflict, but by degrees this subsided, and I could hear the names

called aloud, and the responses of the prisoners, as they were "told

off" in parties from the different parts of the prison. Tender

leave-takings and affectionate farewells from many who never expected to

meet again accompanied these, and the low sobs of anguish were mingled

with the terrible chaos of voices; and at last I heard the name of

"Michel Delannois:" I felt as if my death-summons was in the words

"Michel Delannois."

"That crazy priest can neither hear nor see, I believe," said the

jailor, savagely. "Will no one answer for him?"

"He is asleep yonder in the window," replied a voice from the crowd.

"Let him sleep, then," said the turnkey "when awake he gives us no peace

with his prayers and exhortations."

"He has eaten nothing for three days," observed another; "he is,

perhaps, overcome by weakness more than by sleep."

"Be it so! if he only lie quiet, I care not," rejoined the jailor, and

proceeded to the next name on the list.

The monotonous roll-call, the heat, the attitude in which I was lying,

all conspired to make me drowsy; even the very press of sensations that

crowded to my brain lent their aid, and at last I slept as soundly as

ever I had done in my bed at night. I was dreaming of the dark alleys in

the wood of Belleville, where so often I had strolled of an evening with

Pere Michel; I was fancying that we were gathering the fresh violets

beneath the old trees, when a rude hand shook my shoulder, and I awoke.

One of the turnkeys and Boivin stood over me, and I saw at once that my

plan had worked well.

"Is this the fellow?" said the turnkey, pushing me rudely with his foot.

"Yes," replied Boivin, white with fear; "this is the boy; his name is

Tristan." The latter words were accompanied with a look of great

significance toward me.

"What care we how he is called; let us hear in what manner he came

here."

"I can tell you little," said I, staring and looking wildly around; "I

must have been asleep and dreaming, too."

"The letter," whispered Boivin to the turnkey--"the letter says that he

was made to inhale some poisonous drug, and that while insensible--"

"Bah!" said the other, derisively, "this will not gain credit here;

there has been complicity in the affair, Master Boivin. The

_commissaire_ is not the man to believe a trumped-up tale of the sort;

besides, you are well aware that you are responsible for these 'rats' of

yours. It is a private arrangement between you and the _commissaire_,

and it is not very probable that he'll get himself into a scrape for

you."

"Then what are we to do?" cried Boivin, passionately, as he wrung his

hands in despair.

"I know what I should, in a like case," was the dry reply.

"And that is--?"

"Laisser aller!" was the curt rejoinder. "The young rogue has passed for

a cure for the last afternoon; I'd even let him keep up the disguise a

little longer, and it will be all the same by this time to-morrow."

"You'd send me to the guillotine for another?" said I, boldly; "thanks

for the good intention my friend; but Boivin knows better than to follow

your counsel. Hear me one moment," said I, addressing the latter, and

drawing him to one side--"if you don't liberate me within a quarter of

an hour, I'll denounce you and yours to the commissary. I know well

enough what goes on at the Scelerat--you understand me well. If a priest

has really made his escape from the prison, you are not clean-handed

enough to meet the accusation; see to it then, Boivin, that I may be

free at once."

"Imp of Satan," exclaimed Boivin, grinding his teeth, "I have never

enjoyed ease or quietness since the first hour I saw you."

"It may cost a couple of thousand francs, Boivin," said I, calmly; "but

what then? Better that than take your seat along with us to-morrow in

the 'Charrette rouge.'"

"Maybe he's right, after all," muttered the turnkey in a half whisper;

"speak to the commissary."

"Yes," said I, affecting an air of great innocence and simplicity--"tell

him that a poor orphan boy, without friends or home, claims his pity."

"_Scelerat infame_!" cried Boivin, as he shook his fist at me, and then

followed the turnkey to the commissary's apartment.

In less time than I could have believed possible, Boivin returned with

one of the upper jailors, and told me in a few dry words that I was

free. "But, mark me," added he, "we part here--come what may, you never

shall plant foot within my doors again."

"Agreed," said I, gayly; "the world has other dupes as easy to play

upon, and I was getting well nigh weary of you."

"Listen to the scoundrel!" muttered Boivin; "what will he say next?"

"Simply this," rejoined I--"that as these are not becoming garments for

me to wear--for I'm neither 'Pere' nor 'Frere'--I must have others ere I

quit this."

If the insolence of my demand occasioned some surprise at first, a

little cool persistence on my part showed that compliance would be the

better policy; and, after conferring together for a few minutes, during

which I heard the sound of money, the turnkey retired, and came back

speedily with a jacket and cap belonging to one of the drummers of the

"Republican Guard"--a gaudy, tasteless affair enough, but, as a

disguise, nothing could have been more perfect.

"Have you not a drum to give him?" said Boivin, with a most malignant

sneer at my equipment.

"He'll make a noise in the world without that!" muttered the jailor,

half soliloquizing; and the words fell upon my heart with a strange

significance.

"Your blessing, Boivin," said I, "and we part."

"_Te te--_"

"No, no; don't curse the boy," interposed the jailor, good humoredly.

"Then, move off, youngster; I've lost too much time with you already."

The next moment I was in the "Place"--a light, misty rain was falling,

and the night was dark and starless; the "_Scelerat_" was brilliant with

lamps and candles, and crowds were passing in and out, but it was no

longer a home for me--so I passed on, and continued my way toward the

Boulevard.

CHAPTER IV.

"THE NIGHT OF THE NINTH THERMIDOR."

I had agreed with the Pere Michel to rendezvous at the garden of the

little chapel of St. Blois, and thitherward I now turned my steps.

The success which followed this my first enterprise in life had already

worked a wondrous change in all my feelings. Instead of looking up to

the poor Cure for advice and guidance, I felt as though our parts were

exchanged, and that it was _I_ who was now the protector of the other.

The oft-repeated sneers at "les bons Pretres," who were good for

nothing, must have had a share in this new estimate of my friend; but a

certain self-reliance just then springing up in my heart, effectually

completed the change.

The period was essentially one of action and not of reflection. Events

seemed to fashion themselves at the will of him who had daring and

courage to confront them, and they alone appeared weak and poor-spirited

who would not stem the tide of fortune. Sentiments like these were not,

as may be supposed, best calculated to elevate the worthy Pere in my

esteem, and I already began to feel how unsuited was such companionship

for me, whose secret promptings whispered ever, "go forward."

The very vagueness of my hopes served but to extend the horizon of

futurity before me, and I fancied a thousand situations of distinction

that might yet be mine. Fame--or its poor counterfeit, notoriety--seemed

the most enviable of all possessions. It mattered little by what merits

it were won, for, in that fickle mood of popular opinion, great vices

were as highly prized as transcendent abilities, and one might be as

illustrious by crime as by genius. Such were not the teachings of the

Pere; but they were the lessons that Paris dinned into my ears

unceasingly. Reputation, character, was of no avail, in a social

condition where all was change and vacillation. What was idolized one

day, was execrated the next. The hero of yesterday, was the object of

popular vengeance to-day. The success of the passing hour was every

thing.

The streets were crowded as I passed along; although a drizzling rain

was falling, groups and knots of people were gathered together at every

corner, and, by their eager looks and gestures, showed that some event

of great moment had occurred. I stopped to ask what it meant, and

learned that Robespierre had been denounced in the Assembly, and that

his followers were hastening, in arms, to the Place de Greve. As yet,

men spoke in whispers, or broken phrases. Many were seen affectionately

embracing and clasping each other's hands in passionate emotion, but few

dared to trust themselves to words, for none knew if the peril were

really passed, or if the power of the tyrant might not become greater

than ever. While I yet listened to the tidings which, in half sentences

and broken words, reached my ears, the roll of drums, beating the

"generale," was heard, and suddenly the head of a column appeared,

carrying torches, and seated upon ammunition-wagons and caissons, and

chanting in wild chorus the words of the "Marseillaise." On they came, a

terrible host of half-naked wretches, their heads bound in

handkerchiefs, and their brawny arms bare to the shoulders.

The artillery of the Municipale followed, many of the magistrates riding

among them dressed in the tricolored scarfs of officers. As the

procession advanced, the crowds receded, and gradually the streets were

left free to the armed force.

While, terror-struck, I continued to gaze at the countenances over which

the lurid torchlight cast a horrid glare, a strong hand grasped my

collar, and by a jerk swung me up to a seat on one of the caissons; and

at the same time a deep voice said, "Come, youngster, this is more in

thy way than mine," and a black-bearded "sapeur" pushed a drum before

me, and ordered me to beat the generale. Such was the din and uproar

that my performance did not belie my uniform, and I beat away manfully,

scarcely sorry, amid all my fears, at the elevated position from which

I now surveyed the exciting scene around me.

As we passed, the shops were closed on either side in haste, and across

the windows of the upper stories beds and mattresses were speedily

drawn, in preparation for the state of siege now so imminent. Lights

flickered from room to room, and all betokened a degree of alarm and

terror. Louder and louder pealed the "Marseillaise," as the columns

deployed into the open Place, from which every street and lane now

poured its _tributaires_ of armed men. The line was now formed by the

artillery, which, to the number of sixteen pieces, ranged from end to

end of the square, the dense crowd of horse and foot forming behind, the

mass dimly lighted by the waving torches that here and there marked the

presence of an officer. Gradually the sounds of the "Marseillaise" grew

fainter and fainter, and soon a dreary silence pervaded that varied

host, more terrible now, as they stood speechless, than in all the

tumultuous din of the wildest uproar. Meanwhile, from the streets which

opened into the Place at the furthest end, the columns of the National

Guard began to move up, the leading files carrying torches; behind them

came ten pieces of artillery, which, as they issued, were speedily

placed in battery, and flanked by the heavy dragoons of the Guard; and

now, in breathless silence, the two forces stood regarding each other,

the cannoniers with lighted matches in their hands, the dragoons firmly

clasping their sabres--all but waiting for the word to plunge into the

deadliest strife. It was a terrible moment--the slightest stir in the

ranks--the rattling of a horse's panoply--the clank of a sabre--fell

upon the heart like the toll of a death-bell. It was then that two or

three horsemen were seen to advance from the troops of the Convention,

and approaching the others, were speedily lost among their ranks. A low

and indistinct murmur ran along the lines, which each moment grew

louder, till at last it burst forth into a cry of "Vive la Convention."

Quitting their ranks, the men gathered around a general of the National

Guard, who addressed them in words of passionate eloquence, but of which

I was too distant to hear any thing. Suddenly the ranks began to thin;

some were seen to pile their arms, and move away in silence; others

marched across the Place, and took up their position beside the troops

of the National Guard: of the cannoniers many threw down their matches,

and extinguished the flame with their feet, while others again,

limbering up their guns, slowly retired to the barracks.

As for myself, too much interested in the scene to remember that I was,

in some sort, an actor in it, I sat upon the caisson, watching all that

went forward so eagerly, that I never noticed the departure of my

companions, nor perceived that I was left by myself. I know not how much

later this discovery might have been deferred to me, had not an officer

of the "Guard" ridden up to where I was, and said "Move up, move up, my

lad; keep close to the battery." He pointed at the same time with his

sabre in the direction where a number of guns and carriages were already

proceeding.

Not a little flattered by the order, I gathered up reins and whip, and,

thanks to the good drilling of the beasts, who readily took their proper

places, soon found myself in the line, which now drew up in the rear of

the artillery of the Guard, separated from the front by a great mass of

horse and foot. I knew nothing of what went forward in the Place; from

what I gathered, however, I could learn that the artillery was in

position, the matches burning, and every thing in readiness for a

cannonade. Thus we remained for above an hour, when the order was given

to march. Little knew I that, in that brief interval, the whole fortunes

of France--ay, of humanity itself--had undergone a mighty change--that

the terrible reign of blood, the Tyranny of Robespierre had closed, and

that he who had sent so many to the scaffold, now lay bleeding and

mutilated upon the very table where he had signed the death-warrants.

The day was just beginning to dawn as we entered the barracks of the

Conciergerie, and drew up in a double line along its spacious square.

The men dismounted, and stood "at ease," awaiting the arrival of the

staff of the National Guard, which, it was said, was coming; and now the

thought occurred to me, of what I should best do, whether make my escape

while it was yet time, or remain to see by what accident I had come

there. If a sense of duty to the Pere Michel urged me on one side, the

glimmering hope of some opening to fortune swayed me on the other. I

tried to persuade myself that my fate was bound up with his, and that he

should be my guide through the wild waste before me; but these

convictions could not stand against the very scene in which I stood. The

glorious panoply of war--the harnessed team--the helmeted dragoon--the

proud steed in all the trappings of battle! How faint were the pleadings

of duty against such arguments. The Pere, too, designed me for a priest.

The life of a "seminarist" in a convent was to be mine! I was to wear

the red gown and the white cape of an "acolyte!"--to be taught how to

swing a censer, or snuff the candles of the high altar--to be a

train-bearer in a procession, or carry a relic in a glass-case! The

hoarse bray of a trumpet that then rung through the court routed these

ignoble fancies, and as the staff rode proudly in, my resolve was taken.

I was determined to be a soldier.

The day, I have said, was just breaking, and the officers wore their

dark gray capotes over their uniforms. One, however, had his coat partly

open, and I could see the blue and silver beneath, which, tarnished and

worn as it was, had to my eyes all the brilliancy of a splendid uniform.

He was an old man, and by his position in advance of the others, showed

that he was the chief of the staff. This was General Lacoste, at that

time "en mission" from the army of the Rhine, and now sent by the

Convention to report upon the state of events among the troops. Slowly

passing along the line, the old general halted before each gun,

pointing, out to his staff certain minutiae, which, from his gestures and

manner, it was easy to see were not the subject of eulogy. Many of the

pieces were ill slung, and badly balanced on the trucks; the wheels, in

some cases, were carelessly put on, their tires worn, and the iron

shoeing defective. The harnessing, too, was patched and mended in a

slovenly fashion; the horses lean and out of condition; the drivers

awkward and inexperienced.

"This is all bad, gentlemen," said he, addressing the officers, but in a

tone to be easily heard all around him; "and reflects but little credit

upon the state of your discipline in the capital. We have been now

seventeen months in the field before the enemy, and not idle either; and

yet I would take shame to myself if the worst battery in our artillery

were not better equipped, better horsed, better driven, and better

served, than any I see here."

One, who seemed a superior officer, here appeared to interpose some

explanation or excuse, but the general would not listen to him, and

continued his way along the line, passing around which he now entered

the space between the guns and the caissons. At last he stopped directly

in front of where I was, and fixed his dark and penetrating eyes

steadily on me. Such was their fascination, that I could not look from

him, but continued to stare as fixedly at him.

"Look here, for instance," cried he, as he pointed to me with his sword,

"is that 'gamin' yonder like an artillery-driver? or is it to a

drummer-boy you intrust the caisson of an eight-pounder gun? Dismount,

sirrah, and come hither," cried he to me, in a voice that sounded like

an order for instant execution. "This popinjay dress of yours must have

been the fancy of some worthy shop-keeper of the 'Quai Lepelletier;' it

never could belong to any regular corps. Who are you?"

"Maurice Tiernay, sir," said I, bringing my hand to my cap in military

salute.

"Maurice Tiernay," repeated he, slowly, after me. "And have you no more

to say for yourself than your name?"

"Very little, sir," said I, taking courage from the difficulty in which

I found myself.

"What of your father, boy?--is he a soldier?"

"He was, sir," replied I, with firmness.

"Then he is dead? In what corps did he serve?"

"In the Garde du Corps," said I, proudly.

The old general gave a short cough, and seemed to search for his

snuff-box, to cover his confusion; the next moment, however, he had

regained his self-possession, and continued: "And since that event--I

mean, since you lost your father--what have you been doing? How have you

supported yourself?"

"In various ways, sir," said I, with a shrug of the shoulders, to imply

that the answer might be too tedious to listen to. "I have studied to be

a priest, and I have served as a 'rat' in the Prison du Temple."

"You have certainly tried the extremes of life," said he, laughing; "and

now you wish, probably, to hit the 'juste milieu,' by becoming a

soldier?"

"Even so, sir," said I, easily. "It was a mere accident that mounted me

upon this caisson; but I am quite ready to believe that fortune intended

me kindly when she did so."

"These 'gredins' fancy that they are all born to be generals of France,"

said the old man, laughing; "but, after all, it is a harmless delusion,

and easily curable by a campaign or two. Come, sirrah, I'll find out a

place for you, where, if you can not serve the republic better, you

will, at least, do her less injury, than as a driver in her artillery.

Bertholet, let him be enrolled in your detachment of the gendarme, and

give him my address: I wish to speak to him to-morrow."

"At what hour, general?" said I, promptly.

"At eight, or half-past--after breakfast," replied he.

"It may easily be before mine," muttered I to myself.

"What says he?" cried the general, sharply.

The aid-de-camp whispered a few words in answer, at which the other

smiled, and said, "Let him come somewhat earlier--say eight o'clock."

"You hear that, boy?" said the aid-de-camp to me, while, with a slight

gesture, he intimated that I might retire. Then, as if suddenly

remembering that he had not given me the address of the general, he took

a scrap of crumpled paper from his pocket-book, and wrote a few words

hastily on it with his pencil. "There," cried he, throwing it toward me,

"there is your billet for this day at least." I caught the scrap of

paper, and after deciphering the words, perceived that they were written

on the back of an "assignat" for forty sous.

It was a large sum to one who had not wherewithal to buy a morsel of

bread; and as I looked at it over and over, I fancied there would be no

end to the pleasures such wealth could purchase. I can breakfast on the

Quai Voltaire, thought I, ay, and sumptuously too, with coffee, and

chestnuts, and a slice of melon, and another of cheese, and a "petite

goutte" to finish, for five sous. The panther, at the corner of the Pont

Neuf, costs but a sou; and for three one can see the brown bear of

America, the hyena, and another beast whose name I forget, but whose

image, as he is represented outside, carrying off a man in his teeth, I

shall retain to my last hour. Then, there is the panorama of Dunkirk, at

the Rue Chopart, with the Duke of York begging his life from a

terrible-looking soldier in a red cap and a tri-colored scarf. After

that, there's the parade at the "Carousel," and mayhaps something more

solemn still at the "Greve;" but there was no limit to the throng of

enjoyments which came rushing to my imagination, and it was in a kind of

ecstasy of delight I set forth on my voyage of pleasure.

CHAPTER V.

THE CHOICE OF A LIFE.

In looking back, after a long lapse of years, I can not refrain from a

feeling of astonishment, to think how little remembrance I possess of

the occurrences of that day--one of the most memorable that ever dawned

for France--the eventful 29th of July, that closed the reign of terror

by the death of the tyrant! It is true that all Paris was astir at

daybreak; that a sense of national vengeance seemed to pervade the vast

masses that filled the streets, which now were scenes of the most

exciting emotion. I can only account for the strange indifference that I

felt about these stirring themes, by the frequency with which similar,

or what, to me, at least, appeared similar scenes had already passed

before my eyes.

One of the most remarkable phases of the revolution was, the change it

produced in all the social relations, by substituting an assumed

nationality for the closer and dearer ties of kindred and affection.

France was every thing--the family nothing; every generous wish, every

proud thought, every high ambition or noble endeavor belonged to the

country. In this way, whatever patriotism may have gained, certainly all

the home affections were utterly wrecked; the humble and unobtrusive

virtues of domestic life seemed mean and insignificant beside the grand

displays of patriotic devotion which each day exhibited.

Hence grew the taste for that "life of the streets," then so popular;

every thing should be "en evidence." All the emotions which delicacy

would render sacred to the seclusion of home, were now to be paraded to

the noonday. Fathers were reconciled to rebellious children before the

eyes of multitudes; wives received forgiveness from their husbands in

the midst of approving crowds; leave-takings, the most affecting,

partings, for those never to meet again, the last utterings of the

death-bed, the faint whispers of expiring affection, the imprecations of

undying hate, all, all were exhibited in public, and the gaze of the

low, the vulgar, and the debauched, associated with the most agonizing

griefs that ever the heart endured. The scenes, which now are shrouded

in all the secrecy of domestic privacy, were then the daily life of

Paris; and to this cause alone can I attribute the hardened indifference

with which events the most terrible and heart-rending were witnessed.

Bred up amidst such examples, I saw little matter for emotion in scenes

of harrowing interest. An air of mockery was on every thing, and a

bastard classicality destroyed every semblance of truth in whatever

would have been touching and affecting.

The commotion of Paris on that memorable morning was, then, to my

thinking, little more than usual. If the crowds who pressed their way to

"The Place de la Revolution" were greater; if the cries of vengeance

were in louder utterance; if the imprecations were deeper and more

terrible, the ready answer, that satisfied all curiosity, was--it was

Robespierre, who was on his way to be executed. Little knew I what hung

upon that life! and now the fate of millions depended upon the blood

that morning was to shed. Too full of myself and my own projects, I

disengaged myself from the crowds that pressed eagerly toward the

Tuileries, and took my way by less frequented streets in the direction

of the Boulevard Mont Parnasse.

I wished, if possible, to see the Pere once more, to take a last

farewell of him, and ask his blessing, too; for still a lingering faith

in the lessons he had taught me, continued to haunt my mind, amidst all

the evil influences with which my wayward life surrounded me. The

further I went from the quarter of the Tuileries, the more deserted and

solitary grew the streets. Not a carriage or horseman was to be seen;

scarcely a foot-passenger. All Paris had, apparently, assembled on the

"Place de la Revolution;" and the very beggars had quitted their

accustomed haunts to repair thither. Even the distant hum of the vast

multitude faded away, and it was only as the wind bore them, that I

could catch the sounds of the hoarse cries that bespoke a people's

vengeance; and now I found myself in the little silent street which once

had been my home. I stood opposite the house where we used to live,

afraid to enter it, lest I might compromise the safety of her I wished

to save, and yet longing once more to see the little chamber where we

once sat together--the chimney-corner where, in the dark nights of

winter, I nestled, with my hymn-book, and tried to learn the rhymes that

every plash of the falling hail against the windows routed; to lie down

once more in the little bed, where so often I had passed whole nights of

happy imaginings--bright thoughts of a peaceful future, that were never

to be realized!

Half-choking with my emotion, I passed on, and soon saw the green

fields, and the windmill-covered hill of Montmartre, rising above the

embankment of the Boulevards; and now the ivy-clothed wall of the

garden, within which stood the chapel of St. Blois. The gate lay ajar,

as of old, and pushing it open, I entered. Every thing was exactly as I

had left it--the same desolation and desertion every where--so much so,

that I almost fancied no human foot had crossed its dreary precincts

since last I was there. On drawing nigh to the chapel, I found the door

fast barred and barricaded, as before; but a window lay open, and on

examining it closer, I discovered the marks of a recent foot-track on

the ground and the window-sill. Could the Pere Michel have been there?

was the question that at once occurred to my mind. Had the poor priest

come to take a last look and a farewell of a spot so dear to him? It

could scarcely have been any other. There was nothing to tempt cupidity

in that humble little church; an image of the "Virgin and Child" in wax

was the only ornament of the altar. No, no; pillage had never been the

motive of him who entered here.