THE DAYS OF THE FRONDE.

At the beginning of the present year, and upon the authority of M.

Alexandre Dumas, we laid before the readers of this Magazine a sketch

of certain incidents in the lives of three French guardsmen, who, in

company with a young cadet of Gascony, fought, drank, loved, and

plotted under the reign of Louis the Thirteenth and the rule of

Richelieu. The sketch was incomplete: contrary to established

practice, M. Dumas neither married nor killed his heroes; but after

exposing them to innumerable perils, out of all of which they came

triumphant, although from none did they derive any important benefit,

he left them nearly as he found them--with their fortunes still to

make, and with little to rely upon save their good swords and their

dauntless courage. He promised, however, a continuation of their

history, and that promise he has kept, but with a difference. Passing

over a score of years, he again introduces us to the guardsmen, whom

he left in the heyday of youth, and who have now attained, most of

them passed, the sober age of forty.

Twenty years later, then, we find D'Artagnan, the young Gascon

gentleman aforesaid, alone upon the scene. His three friends,

influenced by various motives, have retired from the corps of

mousquetaires: Athos to reside upon a small estate in Poitou, Porthos

to marry a rich widow, Aramis to become an abbe. D'Artagnan alone,

having no estate to retire to larger than a cabbage-garden, no widow

to marry, or inclination for the church, has stuck to the service with

credit, but with small profit to himself; and the lieutenancy bestowed

upon him by the Cardinal-Duke in 1628, is still a lieutenancy in 1648,

under Richelieu's less able, but equally ambitious successor, Cardinal

Mazarine. Moreover, deprived, during the greater part of these twenty

years, of the society of his three fiends, who had in some measure

formed his character, and from the example of two of whom he had

caught much of what chivalry and elegance he possessed--deprived also

of opportunities of displaying those peculiar talents for bold

intrigue, which had once enabled him to thwart the projects of

Richelieu himself, D'Artagnan has degenerated into a mere trooper. His

talents and shrewdness have not deserted him; on the contrary, the

latter has increased with his experience of the world; but instead of

being employed in the service of queens and princes, their exercise

has been for some years confined to procuring their owner those

physical and positive comforts which soldiers seek and prize--namely,

a good table, comfortable quarters, and a complaisant hostess.

Although thus making the best of his position, and only occasionally

grumbling at the caprice of Dame Fortune, who seems entirely to have

forgotten him, it is with a lively sensation of joy that D'Artagnan,

one evening when on guard at the Palais Royal, hears himself summoned

to the presence of Mazarine. It is at the commencement of the Fronde;

the exactions of the cardinal have irritated the people, who show

symptoms of open resistance; his enemies, already sufficiently

numerous, are daily increasing and becoming more formidable. Mazarine

trembles for his power, and looks around him for men of head and

action, to aid him in breasting the storm and carrying out his

schemes. He hears tell of the four guardsmen, whose fidelity and

devotion had once saved the reputation of Anne of Austria, and baffled

the most powerful minister France ever saw; these four men he resolves

to make his own, and D'Artagnan is dispatched to find his three former

companions, and induce them to espouse the cause of the cardinal. The

mission is but partially successful. D'Artagnan finds Porthos, whose

real name is Du Vallon, rich, flourishing, and a widower, but,

notwithstanding all these advantages, perfectly unhappy because he has

no title. Vanity was always the failing of Porthos. Aramis, otherwise

the Chevalier--now the Abbe--d'Herblay, is up to the ears in intrigues

of every description. Athos, Count de la Fere, has abandoned the

wine-flask, formerly the deity of his adoration, and is busied in the

education of a natural son, a youth of sixteen, of whom the beautiful

Duchess of Chevreuse is the mother. By the promise of a barony,

D'Artagnan easily induces Porthos to follow him to Paris; but with his

other two friends he is less successful. Athos and Aramis put him off

with excuses, for both have already pledged themselves to the cause of

the Fronde and of the Duke of Beaufort.

This prince, the grandson of Henry the Fourth, and of the celebrated

Gabrielle D'Estrees, is a prisoner in the fortress of Vincennes, and a

constant subject of uneasiness to Mazarine. Brave as steel, but of

limited capacity, the idol of the people, who, by the use of his name,

are easily roused to rebellion, the duke has beguiled his long

captivity by abuse of the Facchino Mazarini, as he styles the

cardinal, and by keeping up a constant petty warfare with the governor

of Vincennes, Monsieur de Chavigny. On his way to prison, he boasted

to his guards that he had at least forty plans of escape, some one of

which would infallibly succeed. This was repeated to the cardinal; and

so well is the duke guarded in consequence, that five years have

elapsed and he is still at Vincennes. At last his friends find means

of communicating with him, and Grimaud, the servant of the Count de la

Fere, is introduced, in the capacity of an under jailer, into the

fortress, where, by his taciturnity and apparent strictness, he gains

the entire confidence of La Ramee, an official who, under M. de

Chavigny, is appointed to the especial guardianship of the Duke of

Beaufort. An attempt to escape is fixed for the day of the Pentecost.

Upon the morning of that day, Monsieur de Chavigny starts upon a short

journey, leaving the castle in charge of La Ramee, whom the duke

invites to sup with him upon a famous pasty, that has been ordered for

the occasion from a confectioner who has recently established himself

at Vincennes. Here is what takes place at the repast.

La Ramee, who, at the bottom of his heart, entertained a considerable

degree of regard and affection for M. de Beaufort, made himself a

great treat of this tete-a-tete supper. His chief foible was gluttony,

and for this grand occasion the confectioner had promised to outdo

himself. The pasty was to be of pheasants, the wine of the best

vintage of Chambertin. By adding to the agreeable images which this

promise called up in his mind, the society of the duke, who in the

main was such an excellent fellow, who played Monsieur de Chavigny

such capital tricks, and made such biting jokes against the cardinal,

La Ramee had composed a picture of a perfectly delightful evening,

which he looked forward to with proportionate jubilation, and with an

impatience almost equalling that of the duke. His first visit that

morning had been to the pastrycook, who had shown him the crust of a

gigantic pasty, decorated at the top with the arms of Monsieur de

Beaufort. The said crust was still empty, but beside it were a

pheasant and two partridges, so minutely and closely larded, that each

of them looked like a cushion stuck full of pins. La Ramee's mouth

watered at the sight.

Early in the day, M. de Beaufort went to play at ball with La Ramee; a

sign from Grimaud warned him to pay attention to every thing. Grimaud

walked before them, as if to point out the road that he and the duke

would have to take that evening. The place where they were in the

habit of playing was the smaller court of the fortress--a solitary

enclosure, where sentinels were only stationed when the duke was

there; even that precaution seeming unnecessary, on account of the

great height of the ramparts. There were three doors to open before

reaching this court, and each door was opened with a different key.

All three keys were kept by La Ramee. When they reached the court,

Grimaud seated himself negligently in one of the embrasures, his legs

dangling outside the wall. The duke understood that the rope-ladder

was to be fixed at that place. This, and other manoeuvres,

comprehensible enough to M. de Beaufort, and carefully noted by him,

had, of course, no intelligible meaning for La Ramee.

The game began. M. de Beaufort was in play, and sent the balls

wherever he liked; La Ramee could not win a game. When they had

finished playing, the duke, whilst rallying La Ramee on his ill

success, pulled out a couple of louis-d'ors, and offered them to his

guards, who had followed him to the court to pick up the balls,

telling them to go and drink his health. The guards asked La Ramee's

permission, which he gave, but for the evening only. Up to that time

he had various important matters to arrange, some of which would

require him to absent himself from his prisoner, whom he did not wish

to be lost sight of.

Six o'clock came, and although the dinner-hour was fixed for seven,

the table was already spread, and the enormous pie placed upon the

side-board. Every body was impatient for something: the guards to go

and drink, La Ramee to dine, and Monsieur de Beaufort to escape.

Grimaud was the only one who seemed to be waiting for nothing, and to

remain perfectly calm; and at times when the duke looked at his dull,

immoveable countenance, he almost doubted whether that could be the

man who was to aid his projected flight.

At half-past six La Ramee dismissed the guards, the duke sat down at

the table, and signed to his jailer to take a chair opposite to him.

Grimaud served the soup, and stationed himself behind La Ramee. The

most perfect enjoyment was depicted on the countenance of the latter,

as he commenced the repast from which he had been anticipating so much

pleasure. The duke looked at him with a smile.

"Ventre St Gris! La Ramee," cried he, "if I were told that at this

moment there is in all France a happier man than yourself, I would not

believe it."

"And you would be quite right not to do so, Monseigneur," said La

Ramee. "I confess that, when I am hungry, I know no pleasure equal to

that of sitting down to a good dinner; and when I remember that my

Amphitryon is the grandson of Henry the Fourth, the pleasure is at

least doubled by the honour done to me."

The duke bowed. "My dear La Ramee," said he, "you are unequaled in the

art of paying compliments."

"It is no compliment, Monseigneur," said La Ramee; "I say exactly what

I think."

"You are really attached to me then?" said the duke.

"Most sincerely," replied La Ramee; "and I should be inconsolable if

your highness were to leave Vincennes."

"A singular proof of affection that!" returned the duke.

"But, Monseigneur," continued La Ramee, sipping at a glass of Madeira,

"what would you do if you were set at liberty? You would only get into

some new scrape, and be sent to the Bastile instead of to Vincennes."

"Indeed!" said the duke, considerably amused at the turn the

conversation was taking, and glancing at the clock, of which the

hands, as he thought, advanced more slowly than usual.

"M. de Chavigny is not very amiable," said La Ramee, "but M. de

Tremblay is a great deal worse. You may depend, Monseigneur, that it

was a real kindness to send you here, where you breathe a fine air,

and have nothing to do but to eat and drink, and play at ball."

"According to your account, La Ramee, I was very ungrateful ever to

think of escaping."

"Exceedingly so," replied La Ramee; "but your highness never did think

seriously of it."

"Indeed did I, though!" said the duke; "and what is more, folly though

it may be, I sometimes think of it still."

"Still by one of your forty plans, Monseigneur?"

The duke nodded affirmatively.

"Monseigneur," resumed La Ramee, "since you have so far honoured me

with your confidence, I wish you would tell me one of the forty

methods of escape which your highness had invented."

"With pleasure," replied the duke. "Grimaud, give me the pasty."

"I am all attention," said La Ramee, leaning back in his chair, and

raising his glass so as to look at the setting sun through the liquid

amber which it contained. The duke glanced at the clock. Ten minutes

more and it would strike seven, the hour for which his escape was

concerted. Grimaud placed the pie before M. de Beaufort, who took his

silver-bladed knife--steel ones were not allowed him--to cut it; but

La Ramee, unwilling to see so magnificent a pasty mangled by a dull

knife, passed him his own, which was of steel.

"Well, Monseigneur," said he, "and this famous plan?"

"Do you wish me to tell you," said the duke, "the one on the success

of which I most reckoned, and which I intended to try the first?"

"By all means," said La Ramee.

"Well," said M. de Beaufort, who was busy in the dissection of the

pie, "in the first place I hoped to have for my guardian some honest

fellow like yourself, Monsieur La Ramee."

"Your hope was realized, Monseigneur. And then?"

"I said to myself," continued the duke, "if once I have about me a

good fellow like La Ramee, I will get a friend, whom he does not know

to be my friend, to recommend to him a man devoted to my interests,

and who will aid my escape."

"Good!" said La Ramee. "No bad idea."

"When I have accomplished this," said the duke, "if the man is

skilful, and manages to gain the confidence of my jailer, I shall have

no difficulty in keeping up a communication with my friends."

"Indeed!" said La Ramee; "how so?"

"Easily enough," replied M. de Beaufort; "in playing at ball, for

instance."

"In playing at ball!" repeated La Ramee, who was beginning to pay

great attention to the duke's words.

"Yes. I strike a ball into the moat; a man who is at hand, working in

his garden, picks it up. The ball contains a letter. Instead of

throwing back the same ball, he throws another, which contains a

letter for me. My friends hear from me and I from them, without any

one being the wiser."

"The devil!" said La Ramee, scratching his head, "you do well to tell

me this, Monseigneur. In future I will keep an eye on pickers up of

balls. But, after all, that is only a means of correspondence."

"Wait a little. I write to my friends--'On such a day and at such an

hour, be in waiting on the other side of the moat with two led

horses.'"

"Well," said La Ramee, with some appearance of uneasiness, "but what

then? Unless, indeed, the horses have wings, and can fly up the

rampart to fetch you."

"Or that I have means of flying down," said the duke, carelessly. "A

rope-ladder, for instance."

"Yes," said La Ramee, with a forced laugh; "but a rope ladder can

hardly be sent in a tennis-ball, though a letter may."

"No; but it may be sent in something else. Let us only suppose, for

argument's sake, that my cook, Noirmont, has purchased the

pastrycook's shop opposite the castle. La Ramee, who is a bit of an

epicure, tries his pies, finds them excellent, and asks me if I would

like to taste one. I accept the offer, on condition that he shall help

me to eat it. To do so more at his ease, he sends away the guards, and

only keeps Grimaud here to wait upon us. Grimaud is the man whom my

friend has recommended, and who is ready to second me in all things.

The moment of my escape is fixed for seven o'clock. At a few minutes

to seven"----

"At a few minutes to seven!" repeated La Ramee, perspiring with alarm.

"At a few minutes to seven," continued the duke, suiting the action to

the word, "I take the crust off the pie. Inside it, I find two

poniards, a rope-ladder, and a gag. I put one of the poniards to La

Ramee's breast, and I say to him--'My good friend, La Ramee, if you

make a motion or utter a cry, you are a dead man!'"

The duke, as we have already said, whilst uttering these last

sentences, had acted in conformity. He was now standing close to La

Ramee, to whom his tone of voice, and the sight of the dagger levelled

at his heart, intimated plainly enough that M. de Beaufort would keep

his word. Meanwhile Grimaud, silent as the grave, took out of the pie

the second poniard, the rope-ladder, and the gag. La Ramee followed

each of these objects with his eyes with a visibly increasing terror.

"Oh, Monseigneur!" cried he, looking at the duke with an air of

stupefaction, which at any other time would have made M. de Beaufort

laugh heartily, "you would not have the heart to kill me?"

"No, if you do not oppose my flight."

"But, Monseigneur, if I let you escape, I am a ruined man."

"I will pay you the value of your office."

"And if I defend myself, or call out?"

"By the honour of a gentleman, you die upon the spot!"

At this moment the clock struck.

"Seven o'clock," said Grimaud, who had not yet uttered a word.

La Ramee made a movement. The duke frowned, and the unlucky jailer

felt the point of the dagger penetrate his clothes, and press against

his breast.

"Enough, Monseigneur," cried he; "I will not stir. But I entreat you

to tie my hands and feet, or I shall be taken for your accomplice."

The duke took off his girdle, and gave it to Grimaud, who tied La

Ramee's hands firmly behind his back. La Ramee then held out his legs;

Grimaud tore a napkin into strips, and bound his ankles together.

"And now the gag!" cried poor La Ramee; "the gag! I insist upon it; or

they will hang me for not having given the alarm."

In an instant La Ramee was gagged, and laid upon the ground; two or

three chairs were overturned, to make it appear that there had been a

struggle. Grimaud took from La Ramee's pockets all the keys that they

contained, opened the room-door, shut and double-locked it when the

duke and himself had passed out, and led the way to the court. This

the fugitives reached without accident or encounter, and found it

entirely deserted; no sentinels, nor any body at the windows that

overlooked it. The duke hurried to the rampart, and saw upon the

further side of the moat three horsemen and two led horses. He

exchanged a sign with them; they were waiting for him. Meanwhile

Grimaud was fastening the rope by which the descent was to be

effected. It was not a ladder, but a silken cord rolled upon a stick,

which was to be placed between the legs, and become unrolled by the

weight of the person descending.

"Go," said the duke.

"First, Monseigneur?" asked Grimaud.

"Certainly," was the reply; "if I am taken, a prison awaits me; if you

are caught, you will be hung."

"True," said Grimaud; and putting himself astride the stick, he

commenced his perilous descent. The duke followed him anxiously with

his eyes. About three quarters of the distance were accomplished, when

the cord broke, and Grimaud fell into the moat. M. de Beaufort uttered

a cry; but Grimaud said nothing, although he was evidently severely

hurt, for he remained motionless upon the spot on which he had fallen.

One of the three horsemen slid down into the moat, fastened the noose

of a rope under the arms of Grimaud, and his two companions, who held

the other end, pulled him up.

"Come down, Monseigneur," cried the cavaliers; "the fall is only about

fifteen feet, and the grass is soft."

The duke was already descending. His task was difficult; for the stick

was no longer there to sustain him, and he was obliged to lower

himself along the slender rope from a height of fifty feet by sheer

force of wrist. But his activity, strength, and coolness came to his

aid; in less than five minutes he was at the end of the cord. He then

let go his hold, and fell upon his feet without injury. Climbing out

of the moat, he found himself in the company of Count Rochefort, and

of two other gentlemen with whom he was unacquainted. Grimaud, whose

senses had left him, was fastened upon a horse.

"Gentlemen," said the duke, "I will thank you by and by; just now we

have not an instant to lose. Forward then, and let who loves me

follow."

And springing upon his horse, he set off at full gallop, breathing as

if a load were removed from his breast, and exclaiming in accents of

inexpressible joy--

"Free! Free! Free!"

The two cavaliers who accompany the Duke and the Count de Rochefort,

are Athos and Aramis. D'Artagnan and Porthos are sent in pursuit of

the cardinal, and in the obscurity by night the four friends, who have

so often fought side by side, find themselves at sword's point with

each other. Fortunately a recognition ensues before any harm is done.

A strong party of the Duke of Beaufort's adherents comes up, and

D'Artagan and Porthos are taken prisoners, but immediately set at

liberty by the duke.

The readers of the _Three Mousquetaires_ will not have forgotten a

certain Lady de Winter, having a _fleur-de-lis_ branded on her

shoulder, who plays an important part in that romance, and who, after

committing innumerable crimes, at last meets her death at the hands of

a public executioner, but without form of trial. This latter, indeed,

might be considered almost superfluous, so numerous and notorious were

her offences; but nevertheless, D'Artagnan and his three friends, by

whose order and in whose presence the execution took place, sometimes

feel pangs of remorse for the deed, which none of the many lives they

have taken in fair and open fight ever occasion them. Athos

especially, the most reflecting and sensitive of the four, continually

reproaches himself with the share he took in that act of illegal

justice. This woman has left a son, who inherits all her vices, and

who, having been proved illegitimate, has been deprived of Lord De

Winter's estates, and passes by the name of Mordaunt. He is now

brought upon the scene. Raoul, Viscount of Braguelonne, the son of

Athos, is proceeding to Flanders, in company with the young Count de

Guiche, to join the army under the Prince of Conde, when, on the last

day of his journey, and whilst passing through a forest, he falls in

with, and disperses a party of Spanish marauders who are robbing and

ill-treating two travellers. Of these latter, one is dead, and the

other, who is desperately wounded, implores the aid of a priest. Raoul

and his friend order their attendants to form a litter of branches,

and to convey the wounded man to a neighbouring forest inn, whilst

they hasten on to the next village to procure him the spiritual

consolation he is so urgent to obtain.

The two young men had ridden more than a league, and were already in

sight of the village of Greney, when they saw coming towards them,

mounted upon a mule, a poor monk, whom, from his large hat and grey

woollen gown, they took to be an Augustine friar. Chance seemed to

have sent them exactly what they were seeking. Upon approaching the

monk, they found him to be a man of two or three and twenty years of

age, but who might have been taken for some years older, owing

probably to long fasts and severe penances. His complexion was pale,

not that clear white paleness which is agreeable to behold, but a

bilious yellow; his hair was of a light colour, and his eyes, of a

greenish grey, seemed devoid of all expression.

"Sir," said Raoul, with his usual politeness, "have you taken orders?"

"Why do you ask?" said the stranger, in a tone so abrupt as to be

scarcely civil.

"For our information," replied the Count de Guiche haughtily.

The stranger touched his mule with his heel, and moved onwards. With a

bound of his horse, De Guiche placed himself before him, blocking up

the road. "Answer, sir" said he. "The question was polite put, and

deserves a reply."

"I am not obliged, I suppose, to inform the first comer who and what I

am."

With considerable difficulty De Guiche repressed a violent inclination

to break the bones of the insolent monk.

"In the first place," said he, "we will tell you who _we_ are. My

friend here is the Viscount of Braguelonne, and I am the Count de

Guiche. It is no mere caprice that induces us to question you; we are

seeking spiritual aid for a dying man. If you are a priest, I call

upon you in the name of humanity to afford him the assistance he

implores; if, on the other hand, you are not in orders, I warn you to

expect the chastisement which your impertinence merits."

The monk's pale face became livid, and a smile of so strange an

expression overspread it, that Raoul, whose eyes were fixed upon him,

felt an involuntary and unaccountable uneasiness.

"He is some spy of the Imperialists," said the viscount, putting his

hand upon his pistols. A stern and menacing glance from the monk

replied to the accusation.

"Well, sir," said De Guiche, "will you answer?"

"I am a priest," replied the young man, his face resuming its former

calm inexpressiveness.

"Then, holy father," said Raoul, letting his pistol fall back into the

holster, and giving a tone of respect to his words, "since you are a

priest, you have now an opportunity of exercising your sacred

functions. A man wounded to death is at the little inn which you will

soon find upon your road, and he implores the assistance of one of

God's ministers."

"I will go to him," said the monk calmly, setting his mule in motion.

"If you do not, sir," said De Guiche, "remember that our horses will

soon overtake your mule, that we possess sufficient influence to have

you seized wherever you go, and that then your trial will be very

short. A tree and a rope are to be found every where."

The eyes of the monk emitted an angry spark, but he merely repeated

the words, "I will go to him," and rode on.

"Let us follow," said De Guiche; "it will be the surest plan."

"I was about to propose it," said Raoul. And the young men followed

the monk at pistol-shot distance.

On arriving in sight of the roadside tavern, they saw their servants

approaching it from the opposite direction, leading their horses, and

carrying the wounded man. On perceiving the monk, an expression of joy

illuminated the countenance of the sufferer.

"And now," said Raoul, "we have done all we can for you, and must

hasten onwards to join the prince's army. There is to be a battle

to-morrow, it is said, and we would not miss it."

The host had got everything ready, a bed, lint and bandages, and a

messenger had been dispatched to Lens, which was the nearest town, to

bring back a surgeon.

"You will follow us," said Raoul to the servants, "as soon as you have

conveyed this person to his room. A horseman will arrive here in the

course of the afternoon," added he to the innkeeper, "and will

probably enquire if the Viscount de Braguelonne has passed this way.

He is one of my attendants, and his name is Grimaud. You will tell him

that I have passed, and shall sleep at Cambrin."

By this time the litter had reached the door of the inn. The monk got

off his mule, ordered it to be put in the stable without unsaddling,

and entered the house. The two young men rode away, followed by the

benedictions of the wounded man.

The litter was just being carried into the inn, when the hostess

hurried forward to receive her guests. On catching sight of the

sufferer, she seized her husband's arm with an exclamation of terror.

"Well," said the host, "what is the matter?"

"Do you not recognise him?" said the woman, pointing to the wounded

man.

"Recognise him! No--yet--surely I remember the face. Can it be?"----

"The former headsman of Bethune," said his wife, completing the

sentence.

"The headsman of Bethune!" repeated the young monk, recoiling with a

look and gesture of marked repugnance.

The chief of Raoul's attendants perceived the disgust with which the

monk heard the quality of his penitent.

"Sir," he said, "although he may have been an executioner, or even if

he still be so, it is no reason for refusing him the consolations of

religion. Render him the service he claims at your hands, and you will

have the more merit in the sight of God."

The monk made no reply, but entered a room on the ground-floor, in

which the servants were now placing the wounded man upon a bed. As he

did so, every one left the apartment, and the penitent remained alone

with his confessor. The presence of Raoul's and De Guiche's followers

being no longer required, the latter remounted their horses, and set

off at a sharp trot to rejoin their masters, who were already out of

sight.

They had been gone but a few minutes, when a single horseman rode up

to the door of the inn.

"What is your pleasure, sir?" said the host, still pale and aghast at

the discovery his wife had made.

"A feed for my horse, and a bottle of wine for myself," was the reply.

"Have you seen a young gentleman pass by," continued the stranger,

"mounted on a chestnut horse, and followed by two attendants."

"The Viscount de Braguelonne?" said the innkeeper.

"The same."

"Then you are Monsieur Grimaud?"

The traveller nodded assent.

"Your master was here not half an hour ago," said the host. "He has

ridden on, and will sleep at Cambrin."

Grimaud sat down at a table, wiped the dust and perspiration from his

face, poured out a glass of wine, and drank in silence. He was about

to fill his glass a second time, when a loud shrill cry was heard,

issuing from the apartment in which the monk and the patient were shut

up together. Grimaud started to his feet.

"What is that?" exclaimed he.

"From the wounded man's room," replied the host.

"What wounded man?"

"The former headsman of Bethune, who has been set upon and sorely hurt

by Spanish partisans. The Viscount de Braguelonne rescued and brought

him hither, and he is now confessing himself to an Augustine friar. He

seems to suffer terribly."

"The headsman of Bethune," muttered Grimaud, apparently striving to

recollect something. "A man of fifty-five or sixty years of age, tall

and powerful; of dark complexion, with black hair and beard?"

"The same; excepting that his beard has become grey, and his hair

white. Do you know him?"

"I have seen him once," replied Grimaud gloomily.

At this moment another cry was heard, less loud than the first, but

followed by a long deep groan. Grimaud and the innkeeper looked at

each other.

"It is like the cry of a man who is being murdered," said the latter.

"We must see what it is," said Grimaud.

Although slow to speak, Grimaud was prompt in action. He rushed to the

door, and shook it violently; it was secured on the inner side.

"Open the door instantly," cried he, "or I break it down."

No answer was returned. Grimaud looked around him, and perceived a

heavy crowbar standing in a corner of the passage. This he seized hold

of, and before the host could interfere, the door was burst open. The

room was inundated with blood, which was trickling from the mattrass;

there was a hoarse rattling in the wounded man's throat; the monk had

disappeared. Grimaud hurried to an open window which looked upon the

court-yard.

"He has escaped through this," said he.

"Do you think so?" said the host. "Boy, see if the monk's mule is

still in the stable."

"It is gone," was the answer.

Grimaud approached the bed, and gazed upon the harsh and strongly

marked features of the wounded man.

"Is he still alive?" said the host.

Without replying, Grimaud opened the man's doublet to feel if his

heart beat, and at the same time the innkeeper approached the bed.

Suddenly both started back with an exclamation of horror. A poniard

was buried to the hilt in the left breast of the headsman.

What had passed between the priest and his penitent was as follows.

It has been seen that the monk showed himself little disposed to delay

his journey in order to receive the confession of the wounded man; so

little, indeed, that he would probably have endeavoured to avoid it by

flight, had not the menaces of the Count de Guiche, and afterwards the

presence of the servants, or perhaps his own reflections, induced him

to perform to the end the duties of his sacred office.

On finding himself alone with the sufferer, he approached the pillow

of the latter. The headsman examined him with one of those rapid,

anxious looks peculiar to dying men, and made a movement of surprise.

"You are very young, holy father," said he.

"Those who wear my dress have no age," replied the monk severely.

"Alas, good father, speak to me more kindly! I need a friend in these

my last moments."

"Do you suffer much?" asked the monk.

"Yes, but in soul rather than in body."

"We will save your soul," said the young man; "but, tell me, are you

really the executioner of Bethune, as these people say?"

"I was," replied the wounded man hurriedly, as though fearful that the

acknowledgment of his degrading profession might deprive him of the

assistance of which he stood in such imminent need. "I was, but I am

so no longer; I gave up my office many years ago. I am still obliged

to appear at executions, but I no longer officiate. Heaven forbid that

I should!"

"You have a horror of your profession, then?"

The headsman groaned.

"So long as I only struck in the name of the law and of justice," said

he, "my conscience was at rest, and my sleep untroubled; but since

that terrible night when I served as instrument of a private

vengeance, and raised my sword with hatred against one of God's

creatures--since that night"----

The headsman paused, and shook his head despairingly.

"Speak on," said the monk, who had seated himself on the edge of the

bed, and began to take an interest in a confession that commenced so

strangely.

"Ah!" exclaimed the dying man, "what efforts have I not made to stifle

my remorse by twenty years of good works! I have exposed my own

existence to preserve that of others, and have saved human lives in

exchange for the one I had unwarrantably taken. I frequented the

churches, sought out the poor to console and relieve them; those who

once avoided became accustomed to see me, and some have even loved me.

But God has not pardoned me; for, do what I will, the memory of my

crime pursues me, and each night in my dreams the spectre of that

woman stands menacing before me."

"A woman! Was it a woman, then, whom you assassinated?" cried the

monk.

"And you, too," exclaimed the headsman--"you, too, use that word,

assassinated. It _was_ an assassination, then, not an execution, and I

am a murderer!"

He shut his eyes and uttered a hollow moan. The monk feared probably

that he would die without completing his confession, for he hastened

to console him.

"Go on," said he. "I cannot yet know how far you are guilty. When I

have heard all, I will decide. Tell me, then, how you came to commit

this deed."

"It was night," resumed the headsman, in faltering accents: "a man

came to my house to seek me, and showed me an order. I followed him.

Four other gentlemen were waiting for him; they put a mask upon my

face, and led me with them. I was resolved to resist, if what they

required me to do appeared unjust. We rode on for five or six leagues

almost without uttering a word; at last we halted--and they showed me,

through the window of a cottage, a woman seated at a table. 'That,'

said they, 'is she whom you are to decapitate.'"

"Horrible!" exclaimed the monk. "And you obeyed?"

"Father, that woman was a monster; she had poisoned her husband, had

tried to assassinate her brother-in-law, who was one of the men that

now accompanied me; she had murdered a young girl whom she thought her

rival; and, before leaving England, had instigated the assassination

of the king's favourite."

"Buckingham?" exclaimed the monk.

"Yes, Buckingham--that was the name."

"She was an Englishwoman, then?"

"No--a Frenchwoman, but she had been married to an English nobleman."

The monk grew pale, passed his hand across his forehead, and, rising

from the bed, approached the door and bolted it. The headsman thought

that he was leaving him, and implored him to return.

"I am here," said the monk, resuming his seat. "Who were the five men

who accompanied you?"

"One was an Englishman; the other four were French, and wore the

uniform of the mousquetaires."

"Their names?" demanded the monk.

"I do not know them. But the four Frenchmen called the Englishman 'My

lord.'"

"And the woman; was she young?"

"Young and beautiful, most beautiful, as she kneeled before me

imploring mercy. I have never been able to understand how I had the

courage to strike off that pale and lovely head."

The monk seemed to be under the influence of some violent emotion; his

limbs trembled, and he appeared unable to speak. At last, mastering

himself by a strong effort--"The name of this woman?" said he.

"I do not know it. She had been married twice, once in France and once

in England."

"And you killed her!" said the monk, vehemently. "You served as

instrument to those dastardly villains who dared not kill her

themselves. You had no pity on her youth, her beauty, her weakness!

You killed her!"

"Alas! holy father," said the headsman, "this woman concealed, under

the exterior of an angel, the vices of a demon; and when I saw her,

when I remembered all that I had myself suffered from her"----

"You? And what could she have done to you?"

"She had seduced my brother, who was a priest, had fled with him from

his convent, lost him both body and soul."

"Your brother?"

"Yes, my brother had been her first lover. Oh, my father! do not look

at me thus. I am very guilty, then! You cannot pardon me!"

The monk composed his features, which had assumed a terrible

expression during the latter part of the dying man's confession.

"I will pardon you," said he, "if you tell me all. Since your brother

was her first lover, you must know her maiden name. Tell it me."

"Oh, my God! my God!" exclaimed the headsman--"I am dying! Absolution,

holy father! absolution!"

"Her name," said the monk, "and I give it to you."

The headsman, who was convulsed with agony, both physical and moral,

seemed scarcely able to speak. The monk bent over him as if to catch

the smallest sound he should utter.

"Her name," said he, "or no absolution." The dying man seemed to

collect all his strength.

"Anne de Bueil," murmured he.

"Anne de Bueil!" repeated the monk, rising to his feet and lifting his

hands to heaven, "Anne de Bueil! Did you say Anne de Bueil?"

"Yes, yes, that was her name; and now absolve me, for I am dying."

"_I_ absolve you?" cried the monk, with a laugh that made the

sufferer's hair stand on end; "_I_ absolve you? I am no priest!"

"You are no priest!" cried the headsman; "but who and what are you,

then?"

"I will tell you, miscreant! I am John de Winter, and that woman"----

"And that woman"----gasped the executioner.

"Was my mother!"

The headsman uttered a shriek, the long and terrible one which Grimaud

and the innkeeper had heard.

"Oh, pardon, pardon!" murmured he--"forgive me, if not in God's name,

at least in your own. If not as a priest, as a son."

"Pardon you!" replied the pretended monk; "pardon you! God may perhaps

do it, but I never will. Die, wretch, die! unabsolved, despairing, and

accursed." And, drawing a dagger from under his gown, he plunged it

into the breast of the headsman. "Take that," said he, "for my

absolution."

It was then that the second cry, followed by a long moan, had been

uttered. The headsman, who had partially raised himself, fell back

upon the bed. The monk, without withdrawing his dagger from the wound,

ran to the window, opened it, jumped out into the little flower-garden

below, and hurried to the stable. Leading out his mule, he plunged

into the thickest part of the adjacent forest, stripped off his monk's

garb, took a horseman's dress out of his valise, and put it on. Then,

making all haste to the nearest post-house, he took a horse, and

continued with the utmost speed his journey to Paris.

The headsman lives long enough to inform Grimaud of what has passed;

and Grimaud, who was present at the decapitation of Lady de Winter,

returns to Paris, to put Athos and his friends on their guard against

the vengeance of her son. Mordaunt, _alias_ De Winter, is one of

Cromwell's most devoted and unscrupulous agents, and is proceeding to

the French capital to negotiate with Mazarine on the part of the

Parliamentary general. Guided by what he has heard from the

executioner of Bethune, he discovers who the men are by whose order

his mother was beheaded, and he vows their destruction. The four

friends soon afterwards meet in England, whither D'Artagnan and

Porthos have been sent on a mission to Cromwell; whilst Athos and

Aramis have repaired thither to strive to prop the falling fortunes of

Charles the First. We cannot say much in favour of that portion of the

book of which the scene is laid on English ground. M. Dumas is much

happier in his delineations of Frondeurs and Mazarinists than of

Puritans and Cavaliers; and his account of Charles the First, and of

the scenes prior to his execution, is horribly Frenchified.

After numerous narrow escapes from Mordaunt, who pursues them with

unrelenting rancour, and succeeds in assassinating their friend and

his uncle, Lord de Winter, the four guardsmen embark on board a small

vessel to return to France. Mordaunt discovers this, gets the captain

and crew out of the way, replaces them by one Groslow and other

creatures of his own, and conceals himself on board. His plan is, so

soon as the vessel is a short distance out at sea, to escape in a boat

with his confederates, after firing a train communicating with some

barrels of powder in the hold. There is some improbability in this

part of the story; but gunpowder plots have special privilege of

absurdity. The guardsmen, however, discover the mischief that is

brewing against them, just in time to escape through the cabin

windows, and swim off to the boat, which is towing astern.

Scarcely had D'Artagnan cut the rope that attached the boat to the

ship, when a shrill whistle was heard proceeding from the latter,

which, as it moved on whilst the boat remained stationary, was already

beginning to be lost to view in the darkness. At the same moment a

lantern was brought upon deck, and lit up the figures of the crew.

Suddenly a great outcry was heard; and just then the clouds that

covered the heavens split and parted, and the silver light of the moon

fell upon the white sails and dark rigging of the vessel. Persons were

seen running about the deck in bewilderment and confusion; and

Mordaunt himself, carrying a torch in his hand, appeared upon the

poop.

At the appointed hour, Groslow had collected his men, and Mordaunt,

after listening at the door of the cabin, and concluding from the

silence which reigned that his intended victims were buried in sleep,

had hurried to the powder barrels and set fire to the train. Whilst he

was doing this, Groslow and his sailors were preparing to leave the

ship.

"Haul in the rope," said the former, "and bring the boat along-side."

One of the sailors seized the rope and pulled it. It came to him

without resistance.

"The cable is cut!" exclaimed the man; "the boat is gone."

"The boat gone!" repeated Groslow; "impossible!"

"It is nevertheless true," returned the sailor. "See here; nothing in

our wake, and here is the end of the rope."

It was then that Groslow uttered the cry which the guardsmen heard

from their boat.

"What is the matter?" demanded Mordaunt, emerging from the hatchway,

his torch in his hand, and rushing towards the stern.

"The matter is, that your enemies have escaped you. They have cut the

rope, and saved themselves in the boat."

With a single bound Mordaunt was at the cabin-door, which he burst

open with his foot. It was empty.

"We will follow them," said Groslow; "they cannot be far off. We will

give them the stem; sail right over them."

"Yes; but the powder--I have fired the train!"

"Damnation!" roared Groslow, rushing to the hatchway. "Perhaps there

is still time."

A horrible laugh and a frightful blasphemy were Mordaunt's reply; and

then, his features distorted by rage and disappointed hate rather than

by fear, he hurled his torch into the sea, and precipitated himself

after it. At the same moment, and before Groslow had reached the

powder barrels, the ship opened like the crater of a volcano, a gush

of fire rose from it with a noise like that of fifty pieces of

artillery, and blazing fragments of the doomed vessel were seen

careering through the air in every direction. It lasted but an

instant; the red glow that had lit up the sea for miles around

vanished; the burning fragments fell hissing into the water; and, with

the exception of a vibration in the air, all was calm as before. The

felucca had disappeared; Groslow and his men were annihilated.

Our four guardsmen had witnessed this terrible spectacle with mute awe

and horror, and when it was over, they remained for a moment downcast

and silent. Porthos and D'Artagnan, who had each taken an oar, forgot

to use them, and sat gazing at their companions, whilst the boat

rocked to and fro at the will of the waves.

"_Ma foi!_" said Aramis, who was the first to break the pause, "this

time I think we are fairly rid of him."

"Help, gentlemen, help!" just then cried a voice that came sweeping in

piteous accents over the troubled surface of the sea. "Help! for

heaven's sake, help!"

The guardsmen looked at each other. Athos shuddered.

"It is his voice!" said he.

All recognised the voice, and strained their eyes in the direction in

which the felucca had disappeared. Presently a man was seen swimming

vigorously towards them. Athos extended his arm, pointing him out to

his companions.

"Yes, yes," said D'Artagnan; "I see him."

"Will nothing kill him?" said Porthos.

Aramis leaned forward and spoke in a whisper to D'Artagnan. Mordaunt

advanced a few yards, and raised one hand out of the water in sign of

distress.

"Pity! gentlemen," cried he; "pity and mercy! My strength is leaving

me, and I am about to sink."

The tone of agony in which these words were spoken awakened a feeling

of compassion in the breast of Athos.

"Unhappy man!" he murmured.

"Good!" said D'Artagnan. "I like to see you pity him. On my word, I

think he is swimming towards us. Does he suppose we are going to take

him in? Row, Porthos, row."

And D'Artagnan plunged his oar into the water. Two or three long

strokes placed twenty fathoms between the boat and the drowning man.

"Oh! you will have mercy!" cried Mordaunt. "You will not let me

perish!"

"Aha! my fine fellow," said Porthos, "we have you now, I think,

without a chance of escape."

"Oh, Porthos!" murmured the Count de la Fere.

"For heaven's sake, Athos," replied Porthos, "cease your eternal

generosity, which is ridiculous under such circumstances. For my part

I declare to you, that if he comes within my reach, I will split his

skull with the oar."

D'Artagnan, who had just finished his colloquy with Aramis, stood up

in the boat.

"Sir," said he to the swimmer, "be so good as to betake yourself in

some other direction. The vessel which you intended for our coffin is

scarcely yet at the bottom of the sea, and your present situation is a

bed of roses compared to that in which you intended to put us."

"Gentlemen!" said Mordaunt in despairing accents, "I swear to you that

I sincerely repent. I am too young to die. I was led away by a

natural resentment; I wished to revenge my mother. You would all have

acted as I have done."

"Pshaw!" said D'Artagnan, who saw that Athos was becoming more and

more softened by Mordaunt's supplications. The swimmer was again

within three or four fathoms of the boat. The approach of death seemed

to give him supernatural strength.

"Alas!" said he, "I am going to die, then. And yet I was right to

avenge my mother. And besides, if it were a crime, I repent of it, and

you ought to pardon me."

A wave that passed over his head, interrupted his entreaties. He again

emerged, and made a stroke in the direction of the boat. D'Artagnan

took his oar in both hands. The unhappy wretch uttered a groan of

despair. Athos could bear it no longer.

"D'Artagnan!" cried he, "my son D'Artagnan, I entreat of you to spare

his life. It is so horrible to let a man die when you can save him by

stretching out your hand. I cannot witness such a deed; he _must_ be

saved."

"Mordieu!" replied D'Artagnan, "why do you not tie our hands and feet,

and deliver us up to him at once? The thing would be sooner over. Ha!

Count de la Fere, you wish to perish at his hands: well, I, whom you

call your son--I will not suffer it."

Aramis quietly drew his sword, which he had carried between his teeth

when he swam off from the ship.

"If he lays a hand upon the boat," said he, "I sever it from his body,

like that of a regicide, as he is."

"Wait a moment," said Porthos.

"What are you going to do?" said Aramis.

"Jump overboard and strangle him," replied the giant.

"Oh, my friends!" said Athos, in a tone of entreaty that was

irresistible; "remember that we are men and Christians! Grant me the

life of this unhappy wretch!"

D'Artagnan hung his head: Aramis lowered his sword: Porthos sat down.

"Count de la Fere," exclaimed Mordaunt, now very near the boat, "it is

you whom I implore. Have pity upon me, and that quickly, for my

strength is exhausted. Count de la Fere, where are you?"

"I am here, sir," replied Athos, with that noble and dignified air

that was habitual to him. "Take my hand, and come into our boat."

"I cannot bear to witness it," said D'Artagnan; "such weakness is

really pitiable." And he turned towards his two remaining friends,

who, on their part, recoiled to the other side of the boat, as if

unwilling to touch the man to whom Athos alone did not fear to give

his hand. Mordaunt made an effort, raised himself up, and seized the

arm extended to him.

"So," said Athos, leaning over the gunwale of the boat--"now place

your other hand here;" and he offered him his shoulder as a support,

so that his head nearly touched that of Mordaunt; and for a moment the

two deadly foes seemed to embrace each other like brothers. Mordaunt

grasped the count's collar with his cold and dripping fingers.

"And now, sir, you are saved," said Athos; "compose yourself."

"Ah, my mother!" exclaimed Mordaunt, with the look of a demon, and an

accent of hatred impossible to render, "I can offer you but one

victim, but it is the one you would yourself have chosen!"

D'Artagnan uttered a cry; Porthos raised his oar; Aramis sprang

forward, his naked sword in his hand. But it was too late. By a last

effort, and with a yell of triumph, Mordaunt dragged Athos into the

water, compressing his throat, and winding his limbs round him like

the coils of a serpent. Without uttering a word, or calling for help,

Athos strove for a moment to maintain himself on the surface of the

water. But his movements were fettered, the weight that clung to him

was too great to bear up against, and little by little he sank. Before

his friends could get to his assistance, his head was under water, and

only his long hair was seen floating; then all disappeared, and a

circle of foam, which in its turn was rapidly obliterated, alone

marked the spot where the two men had been engulfed. Struck dumb by

horror, motionless, and almost suffocated with grief and indignation,

the three guardsmen remained, with dilated eyes and extended arms,

gazing down upon the dark waves that rolled over the body of their

friend, the brave, the chivalrous, the noble-hearted Athos. Porthos

was the first to recover his speech.

"Oh, Athos!" said he, tearing his hair, and with an explosion of grief

doubly affecting in a man of his gigantic frame and iron mould; "Oh,

Athos! are you indeed gone from us?"

At this moment, in the midst of the vast circle which the rays of the

moon lit up, the agitation of the water which had accompanied the

absorption of the two men, was renewed, and there appeared, first a

quantity of fair hair, then a pallid human face, with eyes wide open,

but fixed and glazed, then a body, which, after raising its bust out

of the water, fell softly backwards, and floated upon the surface of

the sea. In the breast of the corpse was buried a dagger, of which the

golden hilt sparkled in the moonbeams.

"Mordaunt! Mordaunt!" cried the three friends; "it is Mordaunt! But

Athos! where is he?"

Just then the boat gave a lurch, and Grimaud uttered an exclamation of

joy. The guardsmen turned, and saw Athos, his face livid with

exhaustion, supporting himself with a trembling hand upon the gunwale

of the boat. In an instant he was lifted in, and clasped in the arms

of his friends.

"You are unhurt?" said D'Artagnan.

"Yes," replied Athos. "And Mordaunt?"

"Oh! thank God, he is dead at last. Look yonder."

And D'Artagnan forced Athos to look in the direction he pointed out,

where the body of Mordaunt, tossed upon the wave, seemed to pursue the

friends with a look of insult and mortal hate. Athos gazed at it with

an expression of mingled pity and melancholy.

"Bravo! Athos," cried Aramis, with a degree of exultation which he

rarely showed.

"A good blow," exclaimed Porthos.

"I have a son," said Athos, "and I wished to live. But it was not I

who killed him. It was the hand of fate."

Soon after the escape of Monsieur de Beaufort, the Parisians, stirred

up by various influential malecontents--one of the chief of whom is

the famous Jean de Gondy, Coadjutor of Paris, and afterwards Cardinal

de Retz--break out into open insurrection. Mazarine's life is menaced;

the queen-mother and the young king are virtually prisoners of the

Frondeurs. The Prince of Conde, with the laurels he has gained on the

battle-field of Lens yet fresh upon his brow, hurries to Paris to take

part against the Fronde; the queen and Mazarine are anxious to escape

from the capital in order to carry on the war in the open field

instead of in the narrow streets, fighting in which latter, or from

behind their barricades, the ill-disciplined troops of the insurgents

are nearly as efficient as the most practised veterans. How to manage

the escape is the difficulty. The gates of the city are guarded by

armed citizens; there appears no possibility of egress. In this

dilemma, Anne of Austria bethinks her of the man to whose address and

courage she had, twenty years previously, been so deeply indebted;

D'Artagnan is called in to her assistance. He succeeds in smuggling

the cardinal out of Paris, and then returns to fetch Louis XIV. and

the queen-mother.

Instead of re-entering Paris by the gate of St Honore, D'Artagnan, who

had time to spare, went round to that of Richelieu. The guard stopped

him, and when they saw by his plumed hat and laced cloak that he was

an officer of mousquetaires, they insisted upon his crying out, "Down

with Mazarine." This he did with so good a grace, and in so sonorous a

voice, that the most difficult were fully satisfied. He then walked

down the Rue Richelieu, reflecting how he should manage the escape of

the queen, for it would be impossible to take her away in one of the

royal carriages, with the arms of France painted upon it. On passing

before the hotel of Madame de Guemenee, who passed for the mistress of

Monsieur de Gondy, he perceived a coach standing at the door. A sudden

idea struck him.

"Pardieu!" said he, "it would be an excellent manoeuvre." And,

stepping up to the carriage, he examined the arms upon the panels,

and the livery of the coachman, who was sleeping on the box.

"It is the Coadjutor's carriage," said D'Artagnan to himself.

"Providence is decidedly in our favour."

He opened the door without noise, got into the coach, and pulled the

check-string.

"To the Palais Royal," cried he to the coachman.

The man, waking in a fright, made no doubt that the order came from

his master, and drove off at full speed to the palace. The gates of

the court were just closing as he drove in. On pulling up at the

steps, the coachman perceived that the footmen were not behind the

carriage, and, supposing that M. de Gondy had sent them somewhere, he

got off his box and opened the door. D'Artagnan jumped out, and just

as the coachman, alarmed at seeing a stranger instead of his master,

made a step backwards, he seized him by the collar with his left hand,

and with his right put a pistol to his breast.

"Not a word," said D'Artagnan, "or you are a dead man."

The coachman saw that he had fallen into a snare. He remained silent,

with open mouth and staring eyes. Two mousquetaires were walking up

and down the court; D'Artagnan called them, handed over the coachman

to one of them, with orders to keep him in safe custody, and desired

the other to get on the box of the carriage, drive it round to the

door of the private staircase leading out of the palace, and there to

wait till he came. The coachman's livery coat and hat went with the

carriage. These arrangements completed, D'Artagnan entered the palace,

and knocked at the door of the queen's apartments. He was instantly

admitted; Anne of Austria was waiting for him in her oratory.

"Is every thing prepared?" said she.

"Every thing, madam."

"And the cardinal?"

"He has left Paris without accident, and waits for your majesty at

Cours la Reine."

"Come with me to the king."

D'Artagnan bowed and followed the queen. The young king was already

dressed, with the exception of his shoes and doublet. He seemed

greatly astonished at being thus roused in the middle of the night,

and overwhelmed his valet-de-chambre, Laporte, with questions, to all

of which the latter replied--"Sire, it is by order of her majesty."

The bed-clothes were thrown back, and the sheets were seen worn

threadbare and even into holes. This was one of the results of

Mazarine's excessive parsimony. The queen entered, and D'Artagnan

remained at the door of the apartment. As soon as the child saw his

mother, he escaped from Laporte's hand and ran up to her. She signed

to D'Artagnan to approach.

"My son," said Anne of Austria, showing him the mousquetaire, who

stood with his plumed hat in his hand, calm, grave, and collected,

"this is M. D'Artagnan, who is brave as one of those knights of old

whose histories you love to hear repeated. Look at him well, and

remember his name, for he is about to render us a great service."

Louis XIV. gazed at D'Artagnan with his large proud eyes; then, slowly

lifting his little hand, he held it out to the officer, who bent his

knee and kissed it.

"Monsieur D'Artagnan," repeated the young king. "It is well, madam; I

shall remember it."

At this moment a loud murmuring noise was heard approaching the

palace.

"Ha!" said D'Artagnan, straining his ears to distinguish the

sound--"The people are rising."

"We must fly instantly," said the queen.

"Madam," said D'Artagran, "you have deigned to give me the direction

of this night's proceedings. Let your majesty remain and learn what

the people want. I will answer for every thing."

Nothing is more easily communicated than confidence. The queen,

herself courageous and energetic, appreciated in the highest degree

those two virtues in others.

"Do as you please," said she. "I trust entirely to you."

"Does your majesty authorize me to give orders in your name?"

"I do, sir."

D'Artagnan hurried from the room. The tumult was increasing; the mob

seemed to surround the Palais Royal. On all sides were heard seditious

cries and clamours. Presently M. de Comminges, who was on guard that

night at the Palais Royal, craved admittance to the queen's presence.

He had about two hundred men in the court-yard and stables, and he

placed them at her majesty's disposal.

"What do the people want?" said Anne of Austria to D'Artagnan, who

just then re-appeared.

"A report has been spread, madam, that your majesty has left the

Palais Royal, taking the king with you. The mob demand a proof of the

contrary, or threaten to demolish the palace."

"Oh! this time it is too bad," said the queen. "I will soon show them

that I am not gone."

D'Artagnan saw by the expression of Anne's face, that she was about to

give some violent order. He hastened to interfere.

"Madam," said he, in a low voice, "have you still confidence in me?"

"Entire confidence, sir," was the reply.

"Then let your majesty send away M. de Comminges, and order him to

shut himself up with his men in the guard-room and stables. The people

wish to see the king, and the people must see him."

"See him! But how? On the balcony?"

"No, madam; here, in his bed, sleeping."

The queen reflected a moment, and smiled. There as a degree of

duplicity in the course proposed that chimed in with her humour.

"Let it be as you will," said she.

"Monsieur Laporte," said D'Artagnan; "go and announce to the people,

that in five minutes they shall see the king in his bed. Say also that

his majesty is sleeping, and that the queen requests them to be

silent, in order not to awaken him."

"But they cannot all come," said Anne. "A deputation of two or four

persons."

"All of them, madam."

"But it will last till to-morrow morning."

"In a quarter of hour it will be over. I know the mob, madam; it is a

great baby that only wants flattery and caresses. Before the king,

these noisy rioters will be mute and timid as lambs."

"Go, Laporte," said the queen. The young king approached his mother.

"Why do you do what these people ask?" said he.

"It must be so, my son," said Anne of Austria.

"But if they can tell me that it _must_ be so, I am no longer king."

The queen remained silent.

"Sire," said D'Artagnan, "will your majesty permit me to ask you a

question?"

"Yes, sir," replied Louis, after a moment's pause, occasioned by

surprise at the guardsman's boldness.

"Does our majesty remember, when playing in the park at

Fontaine-bleau, or the gardens at Versailles, to have seen the heavens

become clouded, and to have heard the thunder roll?"

"Certainly I do," answered Louis.

"Well, the noise of that thunder told your majesty, that, however

disposed you might be to play, you _must_ go in-doors."

"Certainly, sir; but I have been told that the voice of the thunder is

the voice of God."

"Well, sire, let your majesty listen to the voice of the people, and

you will perceive that it greatly resembles that of the thunder."

As he spoke, a low deep roar, proceeding from the multitude without,

was borne upon the night breeze to the windows of the apartment. The

next instant all was still and hushed.

"Hark, sire," said D'Artagnan, "they have just told the people that

you are sleeping. You see that you are still king."

The queen looked with astonishment at the singular man, whose

brilliant courage made him the equal of the bravest; whose keen and

ready wit rendered him the equal of all. Laporte entered the room, and

announced that the message he had taken to the people had acted like

oil upon the waves, and that they were waiting in respectful silence,

till the five minutes, at the expiration of which they were to see the

king, should have elapsed. By the queen's order, Louis was put into

bed, dressed as he was, and covered up to the throat with the sheets.

His mother stooped over him, and kissed his forehead.

"Pretend to sleep, Louis," said she.

"Yes," said the king, "but not one of those men must touch me."

"Sire," said D'Artagnan, "I am here; and if one of them had that

audacity, he should pay for it with his life."

The five minutes were over. Laporte went out to usher in the mob; the

queen remained standing near the door; D'Artagnan concealed himself

behind the curtains of the bed. Then was heard the march of a great

multitude of men, striving to step lightly and noiselessly. The queen

raised with her own hand the tapestry that covered the doorway, and

placed her finger on her lips. On beholding her, the crowd paused,

struck with respect.

"Come in, gentlemen--come in," said the queen.

There was apparent in the mob a degree of hesitation which resembled

shame; they had expected resistance, had anticipated a contest with

the guards, bloodshed and violence; instead of that, the gates had

been peaceably opened, and the king, ostensibly at least, was

unguarded save by his mother. The men in front of the throng stammered

out an excuse, and attempted to retire.

"Come in, gentlemen," said Laporte, "since the queen desires it."

Upon this invitation, a man, bolder than the rest, entered the room,

and advanced on tiptoe towards the bed. He was followed by others, and

the chamber was rapidly filled, as silently as if the new-comers had

been the most humble and obsequious courtiers. D'Artagnan saw every

thing through a hole he had made in the curtain. In the man who had

first entered, he recognised his former servant Planchet, who, since

he had left his service, had been a sergeant in the regiment of

Piedmont, and who was now a confectioner in the Rue des Lombards, and

an active partisan of the Fronde.

"Sir," said the queen, who saw that Planchet was a leader of the mob,

"you wished to see the king, and the king is here. Approach, and look

at him, and say if we resemble persons who are going to escape."

"Certainly not, your majesty," said Planchet, a little astonished at

the honour done to him.

"You will tell my good and loyal Parisians," continued Anne of

Austria, with a smile of which D'Artagnan well understood the meaning,

"that you have seen the king in bed, and sleeping, and the queen about

to go to bed also."

"I will tell them so, madam, and those who accompany me will also bear

witness to it, but"----

"But what?" said the queen.

"I beseech your majesty to pardon me," said Planchet "but is this

really the king?"

The queen trembled with suppressed anger.

"Is there one amongst you who knows the king?" said she. "If so, let

him approach, and say if this be his majesty or not."

A man, muffled in a cloak, which he wore in such a manner as to

conceal his face, drew near, and stooping over the bed, gazed at the

features of Louis. For a moment D'Artagnan thought that this person

had some evil design, and he placed his hand upon his sword; but as he

did so, the cloak slipped partially from before the man's face, and

the guardsman recognised the Coadjutor, De Gondy.

"It is the king himself," said the man. "God bless his majesty!"

"God bless his majesty!" murmured the crowd.

"And now, my friends," said Planchet; "let us thank her majesty, and

retire."

The insurgents bowed their thanks, and left the room with the same

caution and silence with which they had entered it. When the last had

disappeared, followed by Laporte, the remaining actors in this strange

scene remained for a moment looking at each other without uttering a

word: the queen standing near the door; D'Artagnan half out of his

hiding-place; the king leaning on his elbow, but ready to fall back

upon his pillow at the least noise that should indicate the return of

the mob. The noise of footsteps, however, grew rapidly more remote,

and at last entirely ceased. The queen drew a deep breath of relief;

D'Artagnan wiped the perspiration of anxiety from his brow; the king

slid out of his bed.

"Let us go," said Louis.

Just then Laporte returned.

"I have followed them to the gates, madam," said the valet-de-chambre;

"they informed their companions that they had seen the king and spoken

to the queen, and the mob has dispersed, perfectly satisfied."

"The wretches!" murmured Anne of Austria; "they shall pay dearly for

their insolence." Then, turning to D'Artagnan, "Sir," said she, "you

have this night given me the best advice I ever received in my life.

What is next to be done?"

"We can set out when your majesty pleases. I shall be waiting at the

foot of the private staircase."

"Go, sir," said the queen. "We will follow you."

D'Artagnan descended the stairs, and found the carriage at the

appointed place, with the guardsman sitting on the box. He took the

hat and coat of M. de Gondy's coachman, put them on himself, and took

the guardsman's place. He had a brace of pistols in his belt, a

musquetoon under his feet, his naked sword behind him. The queen

appeared, accompanied by the king, and by his brother, the Duke of

Anjou.

"The Coadjutor's carriage!" exclaimed she, starting back in

astonishment.

"Yes, madam," said D'Artagnan "but be not alarmed. I shall drive you."

The queen uttered a cry of surprise, and stepped into the coach. The

king and his brother followed, and sat down beside her. By her

command, Laporte also entered the vehicle. The mantelets of the

windows were closed, and the horses set off at a gallop along the Rue

Richelieu. On reaching the gate at the extremity of the street, the

chief of the guard advanced at the head of a dozen men, and carrying a

lantern in his hand. D'Artagnan made him a sign.

"Do you recognise the carriage?" said he to the sergeant.

"No," was the reply.

"Look at the arms."

The sergeant put his lantern close to the pannel.

"They are those of M. le Coadjuteur," said he.

"Hush!" said d'Artagnan. "Madam de Guemenee is with him."

The sergeant laughed. "Open the gate," said he; "I know who it is."

Then, approaching the mantelet--"Much pleasure, Monseigneur," said he.

"Hold your tongue!" cried D'Artagnan, "or you will lose me my place."

The gate creaked upon its hinges; D'Artagnan, seeing the gate open,

flogged his horses, and set off at a rapid trot. In five minutes he

had rejoined the cardinal's coach.

"Mousqueton," cried D'Artagnan to M. du Vallon's servant, "open the

door of his majesty's carriage."

"It is he!" exclaimed Porthos, who was waiting for his friend.

"In a coachman's livery!" cried Mazarine.

"And with the Coadjutor's carriage," said the queen.

"_Corpo di Dio_, Monsieur d'Artagnan!" said the cardinal, "you are

worth your weight in gold!"

We cannot attempt to give more than these slight glimpses of the eight

volumes now lying before us, in which the extravagance and

exaggeration of many of the incidents are only redeemed by the

brilliant diction and animated narrative of their clever but

unscrupulous author. It would be too lengthy to give even a sketch of

the chain of incidents that succeeds those above detailed, or to show

how, according to M. Dumas, D'Artagnan and his friends became

instrumental to the conclusion of the treaty by which the hostilities

between Frondeurs and Mazarinists are for the time brought to a close.

The first act of the war of the Fronde is over; Louis XIV., now within

a year of his majority, re-enters the capital with Anne of Austria and

Mazarine, D'Artagnan, now captain of mousquetaires, riding on one side

of his carriage, and Porthos, now Baron du Vallon, on the other. Baron

Porthos goes back to his estates, happy and glorious; Aramis and Athos

return to the seclusion whence the stirring times had called them

forth, the latter leaving his son in charge of D'Artagnan, who is to

take the young man with him to the Flemish wars. The restless spirit

of the Gascon abhors the idea of repose.

"Come, D'Artagnan," said Porthos, as he got upon his horse to depart,

"take my advice; throw up your commission, hang up your sword, and

accompany me to Du Vallon. We will grow old together, whilst talking

of our past adventures."

"Not so," replied D'Artagnan. "_Peste!_ the campaign is just opening,

and I mean to make it. I hope to gain something by it."

"And what do you hope to become?"

"_Pardieu!_ who can tell? Marshal of France, perhaps."

"Ah, ah!" said Porthos, looking at D'Artagnan, to whose gasconading he

had never been able quite to accustom himself. And the two friends

parted.

"You will prepare your best apartment for me, Madeleine," said

D'Artagnan to his handsome hostess, as he re-entered his hotel. "I

must keep up appearances, now that I am Captain of Mousquetaires."

THE GRAND GENERAL JUNCTION AND INDEFINITE EXTENSION RAILWAY RHAPSODY.

BY A PROVISIONAL COMMITTEE OF CONTRIBUTORS.

Though the farmer's hope may perish,

While in floods the harvest lies,

Speculation let us cherish,

Let the Railway market rise!

Honest trader, whosoever,

Sick with losses, sad with cares,

Quit your burden now or never,

Cut the shop and deal in shares.

Spendthrift--short of drink and dinners,

Half-pay captain, younger son,

Boldly throw while all are winners,

Laugh henceforth at debt and dun.

Come, ye saints, whose skill in cavilling,

Shock'd at skittles, cards, or dice,

Thinks, except for Sunday travelling,

Railway gaming is no vice.

Hither haste, each black-leg fellow,

Quit the turf or loaded bone;

Like your brother-black Othello,

Own your occupation's gone.

Tribes that live by depredation--

"Bulls" and "Bears," and birds of prey,

See the coming spoliation,

Scent the premiums far away.

"Stags!" your rapid forms revealing,

Show awhile your front so bright,

Then from your pursuers stealing,

Vanish sudden out of sight.

Leave all meaner things, my St John,

For the locomotive race;

Post your tin upon the engine,

Go ahead, and keep the pace.

At a Railway Monarch's splendour

Envious squires and nobles stare;

Even the Hebrew gewgaw vender

Turns sharebroker in despair.

Now no more the Ragfair dealer

Hints with horrid breath, "Old Clo';"

Putting forth another feeler,

"Any shares?" he whispers low.

Every paper's a prospectus,

Nostrums, news, are at an end;

"Easy shaving" don't affect us,

Silent even "The Silent Friend."

Morison resigns his bubbling,

Lazenby has lost his zest;

Widow Welch has ceased from troubling,

Weary Moses is at rest.

Every station, age, and gender,

Deep within the torrent dip;

Even our children, young and tender,

Play at games of nursery scrip.

Over meadows, moors, and mosses,

Quagmires black, and mountains grey,

Careless where or how it crosses,

Speculation finds the way.

Every valley is exalted,

Every mountain is made low;

Where we once were roughly jolted,

Light and lively now we go.

Speed along with fire and fury!

Hark! the whistle shrilly shrieks!

Speed--but mark! we don't insure ye

'Gainst the boiler's frolic freaks.

But before a trip is ventured,

This precaution prudence begs:

When you've seen your luggage enter'd,

Also book your arms and legs.

Ask not if yon luckless stoker,

Blown into the air, survive--

These are trifles, while the broker

Quotes our shares at Ninety-five.

Vainly points some bleeding spectre

To his mangled remnants;--still

Calmly answers each Director,

"Charge the damage to the bill."

All the perils which environ

(As the poet _now_ would sing)

Him who meddles with _hot_ iron,

Seem to us a pleasant thing.

Countless lines, from Lewes to Lerwick,

Cross like nets the country soon;

Soon a railway (Atmospheric,)

Speeds our progress to the moon.

Traversing yon space between us,

Soon the rapid trains will bring

Ores from Mars and fires from Venus,

Lots of lead from Saturn's Ring;

Belts from Jupiter's own factory,

Mercury from Maia's Son;

And when summers look refractory,

Bottled sunbeams from the sun.

If too soaring, too seraphic,

Seems to some that heavenward track,

T'other way there's much more traffic,

Though not many travel back.

What a gradient through Avernus!

What a curve will Hades take!

When with joy the Shades discern us,

How Hell's terminus will shake!

How the Pandemonium Junction,

With the Central will combine,

Rattling both without compunction

Down the Tartarus incline!

Phlegethon no more need fright us,

For we've bridged its fiery way;

And the steamer on Cocytus

Long ago has ceased to pay.

Charon--under sequestration--

Does the Stygian bark resign,

Glad to find a situation

As policeman to the line.

Thoughts of penance need not haunt us;

Who remains our sins to snub?

Pluto, Minos, Rhadamanthus,

All have joined the "Railway Club."

Fortune's gifts, then, catch and cherish;

Follow where her currents flow;

Sure to prosper--or to perish,

Follow, though to Styx we go!

SKETCHES OF ITALY--LUCCA.

The records of travellers in the _Livre des Etrangers_ at Modena, had

prepared us to expect nothing tolerable at the night halts in our

journey through the Apennines to our projected place of _sejour_

during the great heats of summer, the _Bagni di Lucca_. At the

_mountain_ locandas, we were always prepared, not to say resigned, to

encounter those various distresses which seem light evils at a

distance--knowing that we could not starve as long as eggs and

maccaroni were to be found, and even as to lodging we were too old

travellers to flinch at trifles. The rural inn at Piave, which looked

more inviting than the great one of the small place, was delighted to

receive us, and gave us good trout, tolerable bread, and excellent

honey: we were in the midst of a lovely country, we heard a limpid

stream running within a few yards of our window; and what had we to

fear? But night came, and with it more annoyances than one bargains

for even in Italy. A floor of thin planks which had never fitted, and

of which the joinings, which had never been of the kind called

_callidae_, were now widened by time, was all that parted our small

bedroom from that of the horses. Through these, and also through large

rat-holes, there came up copious ammoniacal smells, which our mucous

membrane resented from the first; and well it had fared with us had

this been all. We had never been so near horses at night, and had no

idea they made such an incessant noise. _One_ horse stabled and

littered for the night were bad enough, but we had a whole stableful;

and just as we were forgetting the fleas, and forgiving the mosquitos,

and sleep led on by indigestion was heavy on our eyelids, a snort,

loud as a lion's roar, made us start. Then there came a long

succession of chump, chump, from the molar teeth, and a snort, snort,

from the wakeful nostril of our mute companions, (_equo ne credite,

Teucri!_)--one stinted quadruped was ransacking the manger for hay,

another was cracking his beans to make him frisky to-morrow, and more

than one seemed actually rubbing his moist nose just under our bed!

This was not all; not a whisk of their tails escaped us, and when they

coughed, which was often, the hoarse _roncione_ shook the very

tressels of our bed; in short, we never suffered such real night_mare_

before. We dreamt _stethoscopes_ and racks. But morning came, and,

with it, morning freshness and morning sound. The wood-pigeons are

cooing, the green hills just opposite seem to have come closer up to

our window to wish us good-day; so we throw open our little casement,

to let out the gaseous compounds from bed and stable. How elegantly do

the dew-bedded vines take hold of the poplars and elms, and hang their

festoons of ripening fruit from branch to branch! But the sun begins

to break a brilliant pencil of rays over the hill-top, nor will he

take long to leave the screen and uncover himself; indeed, in less

than a quarter of an hour, he will have stared us quite out of

countenance, and, long before the hour of his advent shall have been

completed, the birds, which till now have been all activity, will

become torpid, the pigeons will have given over their cooing, and the

sparrow his chirp; so the fish that has not yet breakfasted had better

make haste, for his are chariot-wheels which have been looked after

overnight, and linchpins that never come out; nor has he had one

break-down or overturn since he first set off on his _Macadamized_

way. In haste to escape from the heat of the plains of Tuscany, we

were not sorry when we saw the douaniers of _Pistoia_, the last of its

cities. This town is dulness, not epitomized, but extended over a

considerable space; its streets are many, long, and, what is not usual

in Italy, wide. There is no population stirring; the very piazza is

without activity; and, if you leave it, you may walk a mile between

very large houses, churches, convents, and palaces, without meeting

any one. Pistoia, in short, is an improvement on _Oxford_ in the long

vacation--the place, however, has its ancient fame, has given birth to

two or three distinguished literati, and figured in the civil wars.

The fifteenth century records among others the name of _Cini_, whose

epitaph we saw in the cathedral; and the author of the _Riciardetto_

was, we believe, also one of its citizens. In its immediate vicinity

fell _Catiline_. They say the Italian language is spoken here with

great purity of _accent_, which is remarkable, as it is only twenty

miles from the guttural and inharmonious speech of Florence. It was

not our purpose to explore its decayed manufactures, if such there

still exist at all, of fire-arms and organs; indeed, we know not if

pistols and organ-pipes have any thing particular to do with it; so,

after refreshment of the cattle, we passed on through a beautiful

country at its most beautiful season, and thought we had seldom seen

any thing more striking than the views from _Serravalle_, or those

about _Pescia_ and _Monte Catino_. The high, almost the highest

Apennines were right a-head; and could we have taken the wings of the

bird, or of the morning, and lighted on any of those peaks at no great

distance, we should have looked directly down on to the Mediterranean,

and almost into the gulf of _La Spezzia_; we should have seen the long

Ligurian promontory in the distant horizon to the right, and have

embraced Leghorn, Elba, Gorgona, and the coast as far as _Piombino_,

in the opposite direction. An imperceptible ascent conducts from the

_town of Lucca_ towards its _baths_; and you may expect, in about

three hours, to have accomplished its sixteen miles. The road follows

the long windings and beautiful valleys of the _Serchio_, of which,

harmless as it looks, we read on all the bridges records of its

occasional violence, and of their repeated destruction. After a

morning's ride, to which there are few equals even in Italy or

Switzerland, we begin to get our books, and paper, and light luggage,

out of the nets and pockets of the carriage--for there are the _Bagni

Caldi_, about a mile before us. It is not our purpose to describe the

humours of an Italian watering-place; but let it not be supposed that

this retreat is the happy thought of our own restless population. The

English have had nothing to do with bringing the baths of Lucca into

notice or fashion, although they are at present among its principal

inhabitants from June to September. Hither flock in summer the

families who have established themselves in winter-quarters at

Florence or Pisa; and here they soon get possession of all the cracked

pianos, and strolling music-masters who come on speculation, and

forthwith begin a series of screaming lessons, called singing,

executed by English young women, studious of cheap accomplishments, to

the infinite distress of all who pass by their open windows, at

whatever hour! As the baths are frequented by the little court of

Lucca, there is a _residenza_, a _casino_, and tables for play. There

are two or three good hotels or _tables-d'hotes_, and there is a

shabby little coffee-house, and a handful of _Balzacs and Paul de

Kocks_ at one circulating library. There is one butcher and one baker

at each of the villages, privileged dispensers of their respective

commodities. There is a scarcity of poultry, of fresh butter, and

vegetables; but there is abundance of maccaroni. There are two

grocers, who both supply amateurs with English pickles, Harvey's

sauce, Warren's blacking, Henry's magnesia, James's powder, and the

other necessaries of life. The houses are generally let for the

season, and the rent of the best is as high as L4 a-week. The

furniture is old and bad, but tolerably clean. Ascend any of the

hills, and you look down on roofs that have scarcely any chimneys.

Whenever you ride or walk, you have a hill on the right and left of

you, and a river making its way against the opposition of huge masses

of stone, and angular impediments from the turns of the valley itself.

On these hills, you have uniformly vines below; and when you get above

the vines, you walk entirely among the chestnut-trees which constitute

the real riches of the country. The best office, however, of the

hills, is not the production of fruit-trees, but the screen they

afford against the Italian sun. The early sunset here is worth all the

wine of the territory, which is scarce and very bad. In the evenings

of July and August, there is a turn-out of equipages that have figured

on the Boulevards and in Hyde Park, which commonly make a halt

opposite the little shabby coffee-house, to eat bad ices, and do the

agreeable to each other--the rush-bottomed chairs at the door being

occupied the while by a set of _intelligent_ young men, with mustache,

who smoke bad cigars, and cultivate as elsewhere the charm of each

others' classical conversation. Montaigne was here in the 15th

century, and Fallopius, he of the trumpets, came here to be cured of

deafness--which is one of the infirmities which the Latin inscription

declares to have yielded to the use of the waters. Lorenzo di Medici

came to talk platonism and the fine arts at a place which will never

know either any more; and, from a Latin letter extant, was summoned

from the Bagni to the death-bed of his wife. Ladies have often been

recommended to the baths to be cured of sterility; and, from what we

have seen, we think there are far more unpromising places. Doctors,

whose names only are known, but who were probably men of learning,

have written on these salutary springs, and modern flippancy has at

present forborne them. We have no Quack to patronize them; the "_numen

aquae_" is not violated in _print_ at least by jobbing apothecaries;

but there is Gentile di Foligno, and Ugolino di Monte Catino, and

Savonarola, and Bandinelli (1483,) and Fallopio (1569,) and Ducini

(1711,) who have written books, of which the object, as they are in

Latin, is not assuredly what there is too much reason to believe it

_is_, when such books are now presented to the world. Of the waters,

(which, like those of Bath, contain minute portions of silex and oxide

of iron,) the temperature differs at the different establishments--and

there are three; 43 deg. Reaumur is assigned as the highest, and 35 deg. 24'

to two others.

We were stranded at this pleasant place of endurable ennui for three

long months, during which there was no going out from nine to five

P.M. Our society afforded little resource, our reading less. When the

weather permitted--that is, in the delicious, incomparable month of

October--we made little excursions to Barga, Ponte Nero, &c. &c., and

always returned delighted; nor were our walks of shorter distance

unproductive of interest. The Lucchese are the most industrious people

in the world, and their agriculture made us, _pro tempore_, amateurs

of rural economy. We will not bore the reader with _Georgics_ such as

ours; but if he will accept, in place of picture galleries and

churches, the "_quid faciat laetas segetes_" of this far from miserable

population, we will cheerfully take him with us in our walks.

AGRICULTURE ROUND LUCCA.

The _bearded_ wheat, or _triticum_, not the _siligo_, or common wheat

of our English culture, was the plant which, whenever the attributes

of Ceres were to be represented on ancient coins, was selected for

that purpose; but the Lucchese territory, where the _Cerealia_ in

general abound, offers few specimens of either kind. These productions

seem afraid of their _ears_ in the neighbourhood of the _Great Turk_,

who is the great tyrant here, and, together with the rice, monopolizes

three-fourths of all the land devoted to the culture of grain; the

_millet_ (_miglio_,) the _panixa_ (_panico_,) Indian wheat (_sagena_,)

together with the lupins, and a variety of peas, beans, and lentiles,

occupy the remainder. "The Great Turk is a great eater, is he not?"

"Yes," replied the peasant who cultivated him, "_mangia come

Cristiano_,"--he eats like a Christian all he can get out of the

ground; only, the more he gets the better he looks for it--which is

not always the case with Christians. There are two kinds of _Gran

Turco_, or _maize_; that sown in May is of rather better quality than

the other, and produces on an average 10 lbs. more per sack in weight

than that which is sown afterwards in June. In order to secure a good

crop, it is necessary that the ground should be well manured with

lupins, which are either grown for this single purpose the year

before, and left to rot, or boiled to prevent their germination, and

then scattered over the field. The Grand Turk commonly carries but one

head on his shoulders, but occasionally we have remarked two or more

on the same stem. In the year 1817, the sack (160 lbs.) fetched

fifty-eight pauls; while wheat was seventy-eight, and even the

chestnut flour sold at fifty; so that, even in the Lucchese territory,

they have their approach to famine in bad years.