"Don't interrupt me, my boy. We could see she was very beautiful. We

asked if we could be accommodated for the night, and she answered very

readily that we could, but that we should have to sleep all in one room,

and that we must be content with a poor supper. 'You will give us the

best you have, at all events,' said Richter; 'we are well able to pay

for it;' and he jingled his money-pouch. 'Oh, that I do not doubt!' said

she, her eyes glistening at the sound; 'but my old grandmother and I

live alone here, so we have not much to offer.' 'You two live alone in

this large house?' said Macdonald, rather harshly. The girl turned her

eyes on him for the first time--Richter had been our spokesman--and she

seemed somewhat confused at the scrutinizing glance she met. 'Yes,' said

she, at last; 'my father, and his father before him, were foresters

here--we were not always so poor--and since their death, we have been

allowed still to occupy the place.' 'I beg your pardon,' said Macdonald,

in a softer tone. 'But why,' resumed he, in a sharp, quick way--'why

must we all sleep in one room?' The girl gave him a keen, inquiring

look, as if to ask what he meant by his questions, and then answered,

firmly, 'Because, sir, besides our own room, we have only one other

furnished. But had you not better walk in? You seem tired, gentlemen;

have you come far?' 'To be sure we have, my pretty girl,' said the

Frenchman; 'and the fact is, we have lost our way. But why do we stand

talking here? Let us go in, my lads.' 'Stay a moment, my friends,'

interposed Macdonald. 'We should perhaps be burdensome to you,' said he,

addressing the girl: 'how far is it to the nearest inn?' 'About two

hours' good walking,' replied she. 'And which is the way?' he asked.

'This bridle-road,' said she, 'will bring you in an hour to a

country-road. By turning to your left, you will then reach Arnstadt in

another.' 'Good,' said Macdonald, 'many thanks. It is my advice, my

friends, that we push on to Arnstadt.' 'What!' cried the Pole, 'two

hours more walking! If we were on horseback it would be different; but

on foot, I will not go another yard;' and, as he spoke, he entered the

house. 'I beg you a thousand pardons, mademoiselle, for keeping you here

so long, and a heavy dew falling, too. Come, let us in at once,' said

the Frenchman, and he followed the Pole. 'It would certainly be far more

comfortable to have good beds at Arnstadt,' said Richter, 'instead of

sleeping six in a room; but I am too tired;' and he, too, went in.

Macdonald cast an imploring look at Laurenberg, who seemed irresolute.

But at the same moment the girl, who had already made a step to follow

our Jena companions into the house, turned slowly round, and, throwing a

bewitching glance at my poor friend, said, in a voice full of

persuasion, 'And you, fair young sir?' At that moment, the moon, which

had risen, passed from behind a cloud, and, throwing her light on the

maiden's features, gave them an almost unearthly beauty. As for

Macdonald, he remained in the shade; but his expressive eye flashed a

look of stern warning such as I had never seen it assume before. I shall

never forget that scene. Laurenberg was between his good and his evil

angel. But so it is ever. Poor humanity is constantly called on to make

the choice; and, alas! how much oftener is the evil preferred than the

good! In this world--"

But here Justus, who seemed greatly to dread his grandfather's homilies,

and to have an instinctive presentiment of their approach, rose on his

knees to fill our glasses. This done, he exclaimed, "That's a bad cigar,

grandfather. It does not burn even, and, besides, the ash is quite

black: throw it away, and take another."

The interruption was successful. "Thank you, my boy," said the pastor.

"Don't, however, break in so often on my story. Where was I?"

"Laurenberg was just about to go into the house with the beautiful

maiden--at least, I suppose so," said Justus.

"Yes," resumed the old man. "After a moment's hesitation, he took her

hand, which she yielded easily, and they entered together. 'Come,' said

Macdonald to me, with a sigh, 'since it must be so, we must go with

them.' He took my arm, and continued, 'We enter here according to our

degrees of wisdom and folly--the Pole first, you and I last; but who is

to pay for their blindness?' Give me a light, Justus. Is that the same

wine? It seems to me a little hard."

"It is the same wine," said Justus. "Perhaps you find it hard, because

it is cooler than the first."

"It may be so. Well, we went in, entering by a passage into a kind of

hall. Here we heard the Frenchman's voice: 'Come along, my beauty, and

show us your wonderful and enchanted chamber, where we are to sleep; for

I suppose it is there we are to sup, too. I have been trying all the

doors, and not one of them will open.' 'This way, gentlemen,' said the

girl, disengaging herself from Laurenberg, and opening one of several

doors which entered off the place we were in. 'That is your grandmother,

I suppose?' said Macdonald, pointing to a figure bending over a small

fire, which was expiring on the hearth. 'Good evening, my good woman;

you seem to feel chilly;' and, as he addressed these latter words to the

crouching creature, he made a step as if he would approach; but the

girl, quickly grasping his arm, whispered in his ear, 'Do not disturb

her. Since my father's death, she scarcely ever speaks to any one but

me. She is very old and feeble. Pray, leave her alone.' Macdonald threw

another of his penetrating glances at the girl, but said nothing, and he

and I followed her along a passage, some twenty paces in length, and

very narrow. At the end of it was another door, and this opened into the

chamber we were to occupy. It was a round room, and we immediately

guessed that it formed the under story of the tower we had remarked. The

girl brought a lamp, and we found that the furniture consisted of a

table and some stools, a large press, a heap of mattresses and bedding,

a few mats of plaited straw, and a pile of fire-wood. The most curious

thing about the place, however, was a strong pole, or rather mast, which

stood in the very centre, and seemed to pass through the roof of the

room. This roof, which was at a considerable distance from the floor,

was formed--a thing I had never seen before--of furze-bushes, supported

upon slender branches of pine, and appeared so rickety as to threaten

every moment to come down about our heads. On questioning the girl, I

was told that the mast supported the outer roof, which was possible

enough. 'In the first place,' said Richter to the damsel, when we had

seated ourselves, and she seemed to wait for our orders, 'is this an

inn, or is it not?' 'You may see, gentlemen,' replied she, 'by the

scantiness of the accommodation, that it is not exactly an inn.

Nevertheless, you can make yourselves at home, as if it was, and

welcome.' 'Good. Then, in the second place, have you any wine?' 'Plenty.

We sell a good deal to the foresters, who pass here often, and so have

always a supply.' 'Where is it?' asked Macdonald. 'Below, in the

cellar.' 'Very well,' returned he. 'I and two more of us will go down

and help you to bring up a dozen bottles or so, if you will show us the

way.' 'Certainly,' said she. While Macdonald and two of the others were

absent with her, I contrived to light a fire, and the Frenchman, on

exploring the press, having found that it contained plates, knives, and

forks, he and the Pole laid the table; so that when the others, laden

with bottles, re-appeared, the place had somewhat of a more cheerful

look. 'They have not had time to drug our wine, at least,' whispered

Macdonald to me. 'Pooh, my friend,' returned I, 'you are far too

suspicious. You will smile to-morrow at having had such ideas.' 'We

shall see,' said he. Presently, the girl brought in some bacon, some

eggs, and a piece of venison. These we cooked ourselves, staying our

appetite, in the mean time, with bread and wine. Then we made a hearty

supper, and became very merry. Richter and the Pole plied the bottle

vigorously, while Laurenberg and the Frenchman vied with each other in

somewhat equivocal gallantries to the damsel. As for Macdonald, he wore

an expression of mingled resignation, vigilance, and resolution, which

made me uncomfortable, I knew not why--"

"Come, grandfather, don't keep us so long in suspense. Tell us at once

if Macdonald's suspicions were well-founded," exclaimed Justus. "Had you

fallen into a den of thieves, or were you among honest people? Were you

all robbed and murdered before morning, or were you not?"

"Justus, my boy, you must let me tell my story my own way," said the old

pastor; "and pray don't interrupt me again. Where was I?"

"At supper grandfather."

"True. When we had supped, smoked a few pipes, and finished our wine, we

began to make our beds. As we were so occupied, the girl came in and

offered to help us. We readily consented, for we were tired enough. In a

very short time, she had made six beds on the floor. 'Why do you lay

them all with the head to the middle of the room?' asked Macdonald,

observing that all the pillows were ranged round the mast in a circle,

and as near it as possible.--'That is the way I always do,' said she,

with a careless air. But she did not succeed in concealing a certain

strange expression which her features assumed for a moment, and which

both Macdonald and I remarked, without understanding it. We well

understood afterward what it meant. As she was retiring, the Frenchman

and Laurenberg assailed her with some rather too free jokes. She turned,

and cast on them a look of ineffable indignation and scorn; then,

without a word, she passed out at the door, and closed it behind her. We

all admired her for her modesty and virtue. Fill our glasses, Justus.

But appearances are deceitful; this world is but a vain show; all is not

gold that glitters; and--"

But, a second time, Justus cut short the homily. He dextrously spilt

some of the wine, as he performed his Ganymedian office, and so drew

down on himself a mild sarcasm for his awkwardness.

Forgetting the sermon he had begun, the old man therefore thus went on:

"All, except Macdonald, were soon in bed. We had, however, only half

undressed. As for Macdonald, he drew a stool toward the fire, and,

seating himself, buried his face in his hands, as if in thought. I

almost immediately fell asleep, and must have slept for some time, for

when I awoke the fire was out. But I did not awaken of myself; it was

Macdonald who aroused me. He did the same to the others. He had thrown

himself on his bed, and spoke in a whisper, which, however, as our heads

were close together, was audible to all. 'Brothers,' said he, 'listen;

but for your lives make no noise, and, above all, do not speak. From the

first moment we arrived at this house, I feared that all was not right;

now I am sure of it. It seemed odd to me that two solitary women should

inhabit so large a house; that the girl should have been so ready, or

rather so anxious to receive us; that she should have shown no fear of

six young men, all strangers to her; and I said to myself, 'She and her

grandmother do not live here alone; she depends upon aid, if aid be

necessary, and that aid is not far off.' Again, I am used to read the

character in the countenance, and, despite her beauty, if ever treachery

was marked on the human face, it is on hers. Then why make us all sleep

in one room? If the others are empty, our beds would be as well on the

floor in them as in this one. However, all that was mere suspicion. But

there is more. You saw me examine the windows during supper. I could

then open the outside shutters; they have since been fastened; and, what

is more, the door is locked or barred on us, and will not yield. But,

what is most important, my ear, which is very quick, caught the sound of

steps in the passage--heavy steps, though taken on tiptoe--steps, in

short, of a man, or rather, I should say of men, for there were at least

two. I stole to the door, and I distinctly heard whisperings. Now, what

do you think of all that? Speak one at a time, and low.'--'Bah!'

whispered the Frenchman, 'I think nothing of it. It is quite common to

fasten the shutters outside; and, as for the door, your friend and I

were rather free with the girl last night, and she may have locked us in

for her own security, or she might be afraid of our decamping in the

morning without paying the reckoning. As for the footsteps, I doubt if

you can distinguish a man's from a woman's; and the whisperings were

probably the girl and the old woman conversing. Their voices, coming

along the passage, would sound like whisperings.' This explanation was

so plausible, that all expressed themselves satisfied with it. But

Macdonald resumed, and this time he spoke in a whisper so terrible--so

full of mysterious power, that it went straight to every heart, and

curdled all our blood. 'Brothers,' he said, 'be wise in time. If you

will not listen to common sense, take warning of a supernatural sense.

Have you never had a dim presentiment of approaching evil? I know you

have. Now, mark. I have at this moment the sure certitude of coming

evil. I know, I _know_, I KNOW, that if you continue to lie here, and

will not listen to my words, neither you nor I will ever see another

sun. I _know_ that we shall all certainly die before the morning. Will

you be advised? If not, your blood be on your own heads! As for mine, I

forgive it you. Decide!--resolve!'--These words, the tones in which they

were uttered, and our knowledge of the speaker, produced a profound

impression. As for me, I shuddered; but it was less at the idea of the

threatened material danger, than at that of an occult influence hovering

round us, inspiring Macdonald, and filling the place with its mysterious

presence. Laurenberg was the first to speak, or rather to whisper.

'Macdonald,' said he, 'I yield myself to your guidance.' I immediately

said, 'And I.' The others followed the example. Macdonald immediately

took the command on himself. 'Rise,' said he, 'but make not the

slightest noise. Collect yourselves and pay attention to the slightest

thing. Leave your shoes; take your swords'--I should tell you, my young

friend," said the pastor, addressing me, "that in those days students

wore swords, especially when they traveled. And they were not such

swords, Justus, as you fight your absurd duels with--not slim things,

that you can bend double, and of which only a foot or so is sharp--not

playthings to scratch each other's faces with; but good steel blades,

meant for thrusting as well as cutting--blades not to be trifled with

when wielded by a skillful and strong arm. But where was I? I remember.

'Take your swords,' said Macdonald. 'As it is so dark, there will

probably be confusion. We must have watchwords, therefore. Let them be

_Jena_ and _Göttingen_. Also, to avoid our blindly encountering each

other, let each of us, if it comes to a fight, keep calling _Burschen!

Burschen!_ I believe the attack I apprehend will come from the door. Let

us range ourselves three on each side of it. We from Göttingen will take

the right side, you from Jena the left. When they open the door, we rush

into the passage. I will lead my file, and do you brother,' said he to

the Frenchman, 'lead yours. When you hear me cry _Burschen!_ follow me,

and, remember, you strike for your lives.' All this was said in the

lowest whisper, but at the same time so distinctly and deliberately,

that we did not lose a word. We took the places assigned us, grasping

our bared swords. For a time--it seemed an interminable time--so we

stood silent, and hearing nothing. Of course, we could not see each

other, for the place was quite dark. At last our excited ears heard

footsteps cautiously approaching. Some one came to the door, and was

evidently listening. In about a minute, we heard the listener whisper to

some one in the passage--'They must all be asleep now. Tell Hans to cut

loose.' Our hearts beat quick. There was a pause of some minutes; then

suddenly we heard overhead a cracking sound among the furze bushes which

composed the roof of the room, and the next instant something fell to

the ground with a crash so tremendous that the whole house seemed to

shake. Then we heard a bolt withdrawn, then a key was turned. The door

began to open. '_Burschen!_' cried Macdonald, as he dashed it wide ajar,

and sprang into the passage. '_Burschen!_' cried the Frenchman, and the

next moment he was by our comrade's side. '_Burschen!_' cried we all, as

we made in after them."

"_Die Burschen sollen leben!_" (Students forever!) exclaimed Justus, in

a state of no little excitement.

"The robbers retreated precipitately into the hall, where we had seen

the old woman the previous night. It was brightly illuminated by a large

fire which was blazing on the hearth. Here we fought. '_Burschen!_'

thundered Macdonald, as he struck down a man armed with a hatchet. '_A

bas les voleurs!_' cried the Frenchman, quitting German for his mother

tongue, in the heat of the moment. '_Jena! Göttingen!_' shouted some of

us, forgetting in our excitement that these names were our passwords and

not our war-cry. '_Burschen!_' cried Laurenberg, as he drove into a

corner one of the enemy armed with a dagger and a sword. '_Burschen!_'

cried he again, as he passed his weapon twice through the robber's body.

'_Jena!_' yelled Richter, as his left arm, which he interposed to defend

his head, was broken by a blow with an iron bar. '_And Göttingen!_'

added he with a roar, as he laid his assailant at his feet. Meanwhile

the Pole and I had sustained a fierce attack from three robbers, who, on

hearing the cries and the clashing of arms, had rushed out of one of the

doors opening into the hall. The Pole was already slightly wounded, and

it was going hard with us, when the others came to our assistance. This

decided the fight, and we found ourselves victors."

"Bravo!" cried Justus, throwing his cap into the air. "That wasn't bad,

grandfather!" and taking the old man's hand, he kissed his cheek.

"You are a good boy, Justus," said the pastor, "but don't interrupt me.

Where was I? Oh, yes. We had gained the victory, and all the robbers lay

about the floor, killed or wounded. We stood still a moment to take

breath. At this moment, the girl of the previous evening rushed into the

hall, and threw herself on the body of the man who had fallen by the

hand of Laurenberg. She put her hand on his heart, then she approached

her cheek to his mouth. 'He is dead!' cried she, starting to her feet.

'You have killed my Heinrich! my beloved Heinrich! you have killed my

Heinrich! Dead! dead! dead!' Still speaking, she disappeared. But she

returned almost instantly. She had a pistol in each hand. 'It was _you_,

young sir,' said she, calmly and deliberately. 'I saw you,' and, as she

spoke, she covered Laurenberg with her weapon, taking a cool aim. With a

bound, Macdonald threw himself before the victim. But the generous

movement was in vain. She fired; and the bullet, grazing Macdonald's

shoulder, passed through poor Laurenberg's throat, and lodged in a door

behind him. He staggered and fell."

"Oh, weh!" exclaimed Justus.

"We all stood thunderstruck. 'Your life for his--and mine,' said the

girl. With these words, she discharged her other pistol into her bosom,

and sank slowly upon the corpse of her lover."

"What a tragedy!" cried Justus.

"It was indeed a tragedy," resumed the pastor, in a low voice. "I knelt

down beside my friend, and took his hand. Macdonald raised him up a

little, supporting him in a sitting posture. He said, 'My

pocket-book--the letter--my last wish.' Then he pressed my hand. Then he

said, 'Farewell, comrades--farewell, my brothers. Remember me to my

mother and Anna.' Then he pressed my hand again. And so he died."

Here the worthy pastor's voice faltered a little, and he paused. Justus

and I were silent. At last the old man began again. "Many, many years

have passed since then, but I have never forgotten my early friend, nor

ceased to mourn him. We laid him gently on his back; I closed his blue

eyes. Macdonald placed his sword upon his gallant breast, now still

forever, and crossed his arms over it. Meanwhile the Frenchman and the

Pole, finding the girl quite dead, had laid her decently by the side of

the man she had called Heinrich. 'That is enough in the mean time,' then

said Macdonald, 'the living before the dead. We must see to our own

safety first, and attend to the wounded.' We accordingly went over the

house, and satisfied ourselves that no one else was concealed in it; we

examined the fastenings of all the doors and windows, to guard against

an attack from any members of the gang who might be outside. We found a

considerable quantity of arms and ammunition, and congratulated

ourselves on having surprised our enemies, as otherwise we might have

been shot down like dogs. Returning to the door where we had supped, we

found that the thing which had fallen from the roof, with such a crash,

was an enormous ring or circle of iron, bigger than a cart-wheel. It was

lying on our beds, the mast being exactly in the centre of it, and

serving, as we found, to sustain it when it was hoisted up. Had we not

obeyed Macdonald's voice, we certainly should all have been crushed to

death, as it was plain many a victim had already been, for the infernal

thing was stained with blood, and in some places, patches of hair were

still sticking to it."

"And the old woman? the old grandmother?" asked Justus.

"We found her clothes, but not herself. Hence, we guessed that some one

of the gang had personated the character, and Macdonald reminded us how

the girl had prevented his approaching her supposed relative, and how he

had got no answer to his address, the man in disguise being probably

afraid that his voice might betray him. On examining the field of

battle, we found that the robbers were nine in number, and that two

besides Heinrich were dead. We bound the wounds of the others as well

as we could. They were all sturdy fellows, and, when we considered their

superior strength and numbers, we wondered at our own success. It was to

be attributed solely--of course, I mean humanly speaking--to our attack

being so unexpected, sudden, and impetuous. Indeed the combat did not

last five minutes, if nearly so long. On our side, there was the

irreparable loss of Laurenberg. Richter's broken arm gave him much pain,

and the Pole had lost a considerable quantity of blood; but, besides

this, we had only a few scratches. 'Now, lie down and rest,' said

Macdonald, 'for you have all need of it. As for me, I can not sleep, and

so will keep watch till morning.' We did as he recommended, for in

truth, now that the excitement was over, I could scarcely keep my eyes

open, and the rest were like me. Even Richter slept. Give us some wine,

Justus, my boy."

"He was a fine fellow that Macdonald," said Justus, as he obeyed.

"It was several hours before he awakened us," continued the pastor. "My

first thoughts were of poor Laurenberg. I remembered what he said about

a pocket-book. I searched his dress, and found it. What it contained, I

shall tell you presently. We breakfasted on some bread and wine, and

then Macdonald called a council of war. After putting a negative on the

absurd proposal of the Pole, that we should set fire to the house, and

to the stupid suggestion of Richter (he was in a state of fever from his

hurt) that, before doing any thing else, we should empty the cellar, we

unanimously agreed that our first step should be to give information to

the proper authorities of all that had happened. The Frenchman and I

were deputed to go and seek them out. 'You remember what the girl said

about the way to Arnstadt?' said Macdonald. 'I think you may so far rely

on it; but you must trust a good deal to your own judgment to find your

way.' With this piece of advice, we started."

The journey to Arnstadt, the interview with the bürgermeister, the

reference to the rural amptman, the expedition of that functionary to

the scene of the tragedy, the imprisonment of the surviving robbers,

their trial, confession, and punishment, were all minutely dwelt upon by

the worthy but somewhat diffuse narrator; none of these circumstances,

however, interested me, and I took little note of them. At last, the

pastor returned to personages more attractive of attention.

"We buried Laurenberg by night," said he. "There chanced to be some

students from other universities in the neighborhood of Arnstadt, and

they joined us in paying him all due honor. We followed the coffin, on

which lay his sword and cap, walking two-and-two, and each bearing a

torch. When the body was lowered into the grave, we quenched the

torches, and sung a Latin dirge. Such was the end of my friend."

"And the pocket-book?" asked Justus.

"It contained a letter to me, a very curious letter. It was dated

Gotha, and bore, in substance, that Macdonald's presentiments were

weighing on the mind of the writer, more than he was willing should be

known until _after_ the anticipated catastrophe, if, indeed, any should

take place. But, that such a thing being _possible_, he took that

opportunity of recommending his mother and sister to my care, and of

expressing his hope that I should find I could love Anna, and that so I

would one day make her my wife. I need not relate to you how I performed

the sad duty of bearing the news of his death to his two dear relatives.

As you know, Justus, Anna in about three years afterward became mine.

And here, in this house, young stranger, we lived very happily for

thirty years. Here, too, she died. And yonder, in the church-yard, near

the west porch, she awaits being rejoined by her own--by her children,

and her husband."

We were all silent for some time. At length Justus, whose emotions were

yet as summer clouds, inquired of his grandfather, "And your other

comrades in the Thuringian Forest affair?"

"Of the Jena students I heard no more till many years afterward. It was

in November, 1813; Napoleon was retreating from the nation-fight at

Leipsic. The battle of Hanau, too, had been fought. A wounded French

officer asked hospitality of me here. Of course, I granted it, and he

remained more than two months with me; for, though not for several days

after his arrival, I discovered that he was the French student who, with

Richter and the Pole, had joined our party at Gotha. He had returned to

France about a year after our fatal adventure, had entered the army, and

had been fighting almost ever since. When he left me, he was sent to

Mainz, a prisoner on parole; but, at the Restoration in his own country,

he was allowed to return. On the return of Napoleon from Elba, he

however once more took up arms for his old master, and, with the many

other victims of one man's ambition, and the, alas! too prevalent thirst

for military glory common among his countrymen, he was killed at

Waterloo. When will such things cease? When--"

"And Richter?" asked Justus, nipping in the bud the dreaded moralizing.

"Richter was killed in a duel--"

"And Macdonald?"

"Don't interrupt me, my boy; fill our glasses instead. Richter was

killed in a duel; so the Frenchman told me. I also heard of the fate of

the Pole through him. It was a strange and melancholy one. He, too, had

gone to France, and entered the army, serving zealously and with

distinction. In 1807, being then with the division that was advancing on

the Vistula, he obtained leave to visit his father, whom he had not seen

for years, but whom he hoped to find in the paternal mansion, situated

in a wild part of the country, but not very far from the route which his

corps was taking. He was, however, surprised by the night, as he was

still riding through a forest of firs which seemed interminable. He

therefore put up at a small roadside inn, which presented itself just

as he reached the limits of the wood. Here the Frenchman's account of

the matter became rather obscure, indeed, his friend the Pole had never

told him very exactly all the circumstances. Suffice it that there were

two ladies in the inn--a mother and daughter--two Polish ladies, who

were hurrying to meet the husband of one of them, a colonel in Jerome

Bonaparte's army. They were in a great state of alarm, the conduct of

the people about the place having roused their suspicions. At their

request, the Pole took up his quarters in a room from which their

chamber entered, so that no one could reach them without passing by him.

The room he thus occupied was on the first floor, and at the top of a

staircase, from which access was obtained by a trap-door. This trap the

officer shut, and fastened by a wooden bolt belonging to it. Then,

telling the ladies to fear nothing, he placed his sword and pistols on a

table beside him, and resolved to keep good watch. About midnight, he

heard steps on the staircase. No answer was returned to the challenge he

immediately made; on the contrary, some one tried to force the trap. The

officer observing a hole two or three inches square in it, passed the

muzzle of one of his pistols through it, and fired. There was the sound

of a body rolling down the staircase. But the attempt was soon after

renewed; this time, however, differently. A hand appeared through the

hole, and grasped the bolt. The bolt was even half withdrawn, when the

Pole, at a single blow, severed the hand from the body it belonged to.

There followed groans and horrid imprecations; but nothing more took

place that night. In the morning, a squadron of French cavalry arrived,

and the ladies were placed in safety. Not a single person was found in

the inn. The officer continued his way to his father's house. One thing,

however, had much struck him; the hand he had cut off was very small,

delicate, and white; moreover, one of the fingers wore a ring of

considerable value. This ring he took possession of, with a strange,

uncomfortable feeling of coming evil, which increased as he went on.

Arrived at his father's house, he was told that his parent was ill, and

in bed. He was, however, soon introduced to his presence. The old man

was evidently suffering great pain; but he conversed with his son for

some time, with tolerable composure. Suddenly, however, by a convulsive

movement, he threw off the bedclothes, and the officer, to his horror,

saw that his father's right hand was wanting. 'It was then you! and this

is your ring!' he cried, in an agony of conflicting passions, as,

throwing the jewel on the floor, he rushed out of the house, mounted his

horse, and rode off at full speed. A few weeks afterward, he sought and

found his death amid the bloody snows of Prussian Eylau."

"Poor fellow!" said Justus. "And Macdonald?"

"Of Macdonald's fate," said the pastor, gravely, "I know nothing. When I

returned to Göttingen, after visiting Anna and her mother, he was gone.

He had left his rooms the previous day with a stranger, an elderly man,

dressed in gray. And he never returned. I made every inquiry all round

Göttingen, but could get no tidings of him, no one on any road had seen

him or his companion pass. In short, I never saw or heard any thing more

of him. His books and things were sold some two or three months after; I

bought every thing I thought he cared for, in order some day to restore

them to him. But he has never appeared to claim them, and so I have them

still. His sword hangs between Laurenberg's and mine, in my study. But

come, the dew is falling, let us go in. Justus, my boy, be kind enough

to carry in my chair for me. Trinchen will come out for the rest of the

things."

So ended the worthy pastor's story.

THE COUNTESS--A TALE OF THE FRENCH REVOLUTION.

BY PERCY B. ST. JOHN.

The Citizen Aristides Godard was the very beau ideal of a republican

patriot during the early times of the Terror. During the day, the

Citizen Godard sold cloth to his brother and sister democrats, and

talked politics by the yard all the while. He was of the old

school--hated an aristocrat and a poet with an intensity which

degenerated into the comic, and never once missed a feast of reason, or

any other solemnity of those days. Enter his shop to purchase a few

yards of cloth, and he would eagerly ask you for the latest news,

discuss the debate of the previous night in the Convention, and invite

you to his club. His club! for it was here the Citoyen Godard was great.

The worthy clothier could scarcely read, but he could talk, and better

still, he could perorate with remarkable emphasis and power, knew by

heart all the peculiar phrases of the day, and even descended to the

slang of political life.

The Citoyen Godard was a widower, with an only son, who having inherited

a small fortune from his mother, had abandoned trade, and given up his

whole time to the affairs of the nation. Paul Godard was a young man, of

handsome form and mien, of much talent, full of sincerity and

enthusiasm; and with these characteristics was, though not more than

four-and-twenty, president and captain of his section, where he was

distinguished for his eloquence, energy, and civism. Sincerely attached

to the new ideas of the hour, he, however, had none of the violence of a

party man; and though some very exaggerated patriots considered him

lukewarm, the majority were of a very different opinion.

It was eight o'clock on one gloomy evening in winter, when the Citizen

Godard entered the old convent, where sat the Jacobin Club. The hall

was, as usual, very full. The locality contained nearly fourteen hundred

men, seated upon benches placed across the room, in all the strange and

varied costumes of the time. Red caps covered many heads, while

tricolored vests and pantaloons were common. The chief characteristic

was poverty of garb, some of the richest present wearing wooden shoes,

and using a bit of cord for strings and buttons. The worst dressed were,

of course, the men who assumed the character of Jacobins as a disguise.

One of these was speaking when Godard entered, and though there was

serious business before the club, was wasting its time in denouncing

some fabulous aristocratic conspiracy. Godard, who was late, had to take

his place in the corner, where the faint glimmer of the taller candles

scarcely reached him. Still, from the profound silence which as usual

prevailed, he could hear every word uttered by the orator. The Jacobins,

except when there was a plot to stifle an unpopular speaker, listened

attentively to all. The eloquent rhetorician, and the unlettered

stammerer, were equally attended to--the matter, not the manner, being

cared for.

The orator who occupied the tribune was young. His face was covered with

a mass of beard, while his uncombed hair, coarse garments, dirty hands,

and a club of vast dimensions, showed him to be a politician by

profession. His language was choice and eloquent, though he strove to

use the lowest slang of the day.

"Word of a patriot!" said the Citoyen Godard, after eying the speaker

suspiciously for some time. "I know that voice. He is fitter for the

_Piscine des Carmagnoles_[26] than for the tribune."

"Who is the particular?" asked a friend of the clothier, who stood by.

"It is the Citizen Gracchus Bastide," said a third, in a soft and shrill

tone, preventing the reply of Godard; and then the speaker bent low, and

added--"Citoyen Godard, you are a father and a good man. I am Helene de

Clery; the orator is my cousin. Do not betray him!"

The Citoyen Godard looked wildly at the speaker, and then drew the young

woman aside. Her garb was that of a man. A red cap confined her

luxuriant hair; a full coat, loose tricolored pantaloons, and a sword

and brace of pistols completed her attire.

"_Citoyenne!_" said the revolutionary clothier, drily, "thou art an

aristocrat. I should denounce thee!"

"But thou wilt not?" replied the young woman, with a winning smile, "nor

my cousin, though playing so foolish, so unworthy a part."

"Oh!" said Godard, "thou ownest this, then?"

"Papa Godard," answered the young countess, in a low, imploring tone,

"my father was once thy best customer, and thou hadst never reason to

complain of him. He was a good man. For his and for my sake, spare my

cousin, led away by bad counsels and by fatal ambition."

"I will spare him," said the clothier, moving away, "but let him take

the warning I shall give him."

The clothier had noticed that the Citoyen Gracchus Bastide was about to

finish, and he hurried to ask a hearing, which was instantly granted

him. The Citoyen Godard was not an orator, and, as is the case under

such circumstances, his head, arms, and feet were more active than his

tongue. Ascending the tribune, he struck the desk three times with his

feet, while his eyes seemed ready to start out of his head, at the same

time that his lips moved inarticulately. At length, however, he spoke:

"The truths spoken by the citizen who preceded me are truths of which

every man is fully aware, and I am not here in consequence to reiterate

them. The friends of the defunct Louis Capet are conspiring in the midst

of us every day. But the citoyen _preopinant_ forgot to say, that they

come to our very forum--that they dress like true patriots--that they

take names which belong rightly only to the faithful--and denounce often

true men to cheat us. Many a Gracchus hides a marquis--many a _bonnet

rouge_ a powdered crown! I move the order of the day."

The citizen Gracchus Bastide had no sooner caught sight of Godard

advancing toward the tribune, than he hurried toward the door, and ere

the conclusion of the other's brief oration, had vanished. Godard's

object gained, he descended from the forum, and gave way to a speaker

big with one of those propositions which were orders to the Legislature,

and which swayed the fate of millions at that eventful period.

Godard reassumed his former post, which he patiently kept until a late

hour, when the sitting being terminated, after speeches from Danton,

Robespierre, and Camille Desmoulins, he sallied forth into the open air.

It was eleven o'clock, and the streets of Paris were dark and gloomy.

The order for none to be out after ten, without a _carte de civisme_,

was in force, and few were inclined to disobey it. At that time, Paris

went to bed almost at night-fall, with the exception of those who did

the government business of the hour, and they never rested. Patriots,

bands of armed men guarding prisoners, volunteers returning from

festivals, the chiefs of different parties sitting in committees, the

orators writing their speeches for next day, the sections organizing

public demonstrations--such was the picture of this great town by night.

Dawn was the most unwelcome of times, for then the statesman had to

renew his struggle for existence, the accused had to defend himself, the

suspected began again to watch the hours as they flew, and the terrific

machine that depopulated the earth was at work--horrid relic of

ignorance and barbarism, that killed instead of converting.

Father Godard had scarcely left the Jacobins, when from a narrow passage

darted a slight figure, which he instantly recognized as that of Helene

de Clery. The young girl caught hold of his arm and began speaking with

extreme volubility, she said that her father had been dead six months,

leaving her and a hot-headed cousin alone in the world. This young man

embraced with fiery zeal the cause of the exiled royal family, and had

already twice narrowly escaped--once on the occasion of the king's

execution, and on that of the queen's. Every royalist conspiracy, every

movement for insurrection against the Committee of Public Safety, found

him mixed up in it. For some time they had been able to exist on what

remained of her father's money, but now their resources were utterly

exhausted. It was only by the charity of royalist friends that she

starved not, and to obtain even this she had to disguise herself, and

act with her party. But Helene said, that she had no political instinct.

She loved her country, but she could not join with one party against

another.

"Give me some work to do--show me how to earn a livelihood, with my

fingers, Father Godard, and I will bless you."

"No person shall ask me how to be a good citizen in vain. Citoyenne

Helene, thou art under my protection. My wife is dead: wilt thou be too

proud to take charge of my household?"

"Surely too grateful."

"And thy cousin?"

"Heaven have mercy on him. He will hear no reason. I have begged and

implored him to leave the dark road of conspiracy, and to seek to serve

his country, but in vain. Nothing will move him."

"Let the wild colt have his course," replied Godard, adding rather

coarsely, "he will end by sneezing in Samson's sack."

Helene shuddered, but made no reply, clinging firmly to the old

_sans-culotte's_ arm as he led her through the deserted streets.

It was midnight when the residence of the clothier was reached. It was

in a narrow street running out of the Rue St. Honore. There was no

coach-door, and Godard opened with a huge key that hung suspended at his

girdle. Scarcely had the old man inserted the key in the key-hole when a

figure darted forth from a guard-house close at hand.

"I thought I should find the old Jacobin," said a merry, hearty voice;

"he never misses his club. I am on duty to-night in the neighborhood,

and, says I, let us see the father, and get a crust out of him."

"Paul, my boy, thou art a good son, and I am glad to see thee. Come in:

I want to talk seriously to thee."

The clothier entered, Helene followed him closely, and Paul closed the

door. A lantern burned in the passage, by which some candles were soon

lit in the cosy back sitting-room of the old _sans-culotte_. Paul looked

curiously at the stranger, and was about to let a very impertinent grin

cross his face, when his father taking off his red cap, spoke with some

emotion, laying aside, under the impression of deep feeling, all his

slang.

"My son, you have heard me speak often of my benefactor and friend, the

Count de Clery, who for some trifling service, rendered when a lad, gave

me the means of starting in life. This is his daughter and only child.

My boy, we know how terrible are the days. The daughter of the royalist

Count de Clery is fated to die if discovered. We must save her."

Paul, who was tall, handsome, and intellectual in countenance, bowed low

to the agitated girl. He said little, but what he said was warm and to

the point. Helene thanked both with tears in her eyes, begging them also

to look to her cousin. Paul turned to his father for an explanation,

which Papa Godard gave.

"Let him beware," said Paul, drily. "He is a spy, and merits death. Ah!

ah! what noise is that?"

"Captain," cried half a dozen voices in the street, "thou art wanted. We

have caught a suspicious character."

"'Tis perhaps Albert, who has followed me," cried Helene. "He thinks I

would betray him."

Paul rushed to the door. Half a dozen national guards were holding a

man. It was Citizen Gracchus Bastide. Paul learned that no sooner had he

entered the house, than this man crept up to the door, listened

attentively, and stamped his feet as if in a passion. Looking on this as

suspicious, the patriots had rushed out and seized him.

"Captain," cried the Citizen Gracchus, "what is the meaning of this? I

am a Jacobin, and a known patriot."

"Hum!" said Paul, "let me look at thee. Ah! pardon, citizen, I recognize

thee now; but why didst thou not knock? We wait supper for thee. Come

in. Bravo, my lads, be always on the alert. I will join you soon."

And pushing the other into the passage, he led him without another word

into the parlor. For an instant all remained silent. Paul then spoke:

"Thou art a spy and a traitor, and as such worthy of death. Not content

with foreign armies and French traitors on the frontiers, we must have

them here in Paris. Albert de Clery, thou hast thy choice--the

guillotine, or a voluntary enrollment in the army. Go forth, without

regard to party, and fight the enemies of thy country, and in one year

thou shalt find a cousin, a friend, and, I suppose, a wife."

Godard, Helene, Paul, all spoke in turns. They joined in regretting the

misery of Frenchmen fighting against Frenchmen. They pointed out that,

no matter what was its form of government, France was still France.

Albert resisted for some time, but at last the strong man yielded. The

four men then supped in common, and the young royalist, as well as the

republican, found that men may differ in politics, and yet not be

obliged to cut each other's throats. They found ample subjects for

agreement in other things. Before morning, Albert, led away by the

eloquence of young Paul, voluntarily pledged himself not to fight

against France. Next day he took service, and, after a tearful adieu,

departed. He went with a ragged band of raw recruits to fight the

battles of his country, a little bewildered at his new position; but not

unconvinced that he was acting more wisely than in fomenting the evil

passions of the hour.

Immediately after the leave-taking, Helene commenced her new existence

in plain and ordinary garb, taking her post as the old clothier's

housekeeper. An old woman was cook and housemaid, and with her aid

Helene got on comfortably. The warm-hearted _sans-culotte_ found, in

additional comfort, and in her society, ample compensation for his

hospitality. Helene, by gentle violence, brought him to the use of clean

linen, which, like Marat, and other semi-insane individuals, Godard had

originally affected to reject, as a sign of inferior civism. He became,

too, more humanely disposed in general to his enemies, and, ere three

months, ardently longed for the end of the awful struggle which was

desolating the land. Aristides Godard felt the humanizing influence of

woman, the best attribute of civilization--an influence which, when men

can not feel it, they at once stamp their own character.

Paul became an assiduous visitor at his father's house. He brought the

fair countess news from the army, flowers, books, and sometimes letters

from cousin Albert. They soon found much mutual pleasure in each other's

society, but Paul never attempted to offer serious court to the

affianced wife of the young Count de Clery. Paul was of a remarkably

honorable character. Of an ardent and passionate temperament, he had

imbibed from his mother a set of principles which were his guide through

life. He saw this young girl, taken away from the class in which she was

brought up, deprived of the pleasures of her age and rank, and compelled

to earn her living, and he did his utmost to make her time pass

pleasantly. Helene was but eighteen, and the heart at this age, knows

how to bound away from sorrow, as from a precipice, when a better

prospect offers; and Helene, deeply grateful at the attention paid her,

both by father and son, soon became reconciled to her new mode of

existence, and then quite happy. Paul devoted every spare hour to her,

and as he had read, thought, and studied, the once spoiled child of

fortune found much advantage in his society.

At the end of three months, Albert ceased to write, and his friend

became anxious. Inquiries were made, which proved that he was alive and

well, and then they ceased to hear of him. A year passed, two years, and

calmer days came round, but no tidings reached of the absent one. Helene

was deeply anxious--her cheeks grew pale--she became thin. Paul did all

he could to rouse her. He took her out, he showed her all the amusements

and gayeties of Paris, but nothing seemed to have any effect. The poor

fellow was in despair, as he was deeply attached to the orphan girl.

Once a week, at least, he pestered the war office with inquiries about

Bastide, the name under which the cousin had enrolled himself.

Father Godard, when the days of the club were over, doubly grateful for

the good deed he had done, and which had its full reward, retired from

business, took a simple lodging in a more lively quarter, and found in

Helene a dutiful and attached daughter. For a wonder, there was a garden

attached to the house, and here the retired tradesman, on a summer's

evening, would smoke his pipe and take his coffee, while Paul and Helene

strolled about the alleys or chatted by his side.

One evening in June--one of those lovely evenings which makes Paris half

Italian in look, when the boulevards are crowded with walkers, when

thousands crowd open-air concerts, and all is warm, and balmy, and

fragrant, despite a little dust--the trio were collected. Father Godard

was smoking his second pipe, Helene was sipping some sugar and water,

and Paul, seated close by her side, was thinking. The young man's face

was pale, while his eyes were fixed on Helene with a half-melancholy,

half-passionate expression. There was a world of meaning in that look,

and Paul perhaps felt that he was yielding to an unjustifiable emotion,

for he started.

"A flower for your thoughts, Paul," said Helene, quietly.

"My thoughts," replied Paul, with rather a forced laugh, "are not worth

a flower."

Helene seemed struck by the tone, and she bowed her head and blushed.

"Helene," said Paul, in a low, hushed, and almost choking tone, "this

has been too much; the cup has at last overflowed. I was wrong, I was

very wrong to be near you so much, and it has ended as I should have

expected. I love you, Helene! I feel it, and I must away and see you no

more. I have acted unwisely--I have acted improperly."

"And why should you not love me, Paul?" replied Helene, with a great

effort, but so faintly none else but a lover could have heard.

"Are you not Albert's affianced wife?" continued Paul, gravely.

"At last I can explain that which fear of being mistaken has made me

never say before. I and Albert were never affianced, never could be, for

I could not love him."

"Helene! Helene!" cried Paul, passionately, "why spoke you not two years

ago? I said he should find his cousin, his friend, and his affianced

wife when he came back, and I must keep my word."

"True, true--but Paul, he could not have heard you. But you are

right--you are right."

"Let me know all," said the young man, moodily, "but for this

unfortunate accident."

"Paul, you have been to me more than a brother and I will be just toward

you. Influenced by this mistake you clearly did not care more for me

than a friend, and what else has made me ill, and pale, and gloomy but

shame, because--"

"Because what?" asked the young man, eagerly.

"Because, under the circumstances in which I was placed, I had let my

heart lean where it could find no support."

No man could hear such a confession unmoved, and Paul was half wild with

delight; but he soon checked himself, and, gravely rising, took Helene's

hand respectfully.

"But I have been wrong to ask you this until Albert gives me back my

word."

At this instant a heavy step was heard, the clanking of spurs and arms

on the graveled way, and now a tall cavalry officer of rank, preceded by

a woman-servant running, was seen coming toward them. Both trembled--old

Godard was asleep--and stood up, for both recognized Albert de Clery.

"Ah! ah! my friend," cried the soldier, gayly; "I find you at last,

Helene, my dear cousin. Let me embrace you! Eh! how is it? Still

mademoiselle, or are you madam by this time? Paul, my good friend, give

me your hand again. But come into the house. I have brought my wife to

show you--an Italian, a beauty, and an heiress. How do you do, Papa

Godard?"

"Hum--ah! I was asleep. Ah! Citizen Gracchus--Monsieur Albert, I

mean--glad to see you."

"Guide me to the house," continued the soldier, "my wife is impatient to

see you. Give me your arm, Papa Godard; follow, cousin, and let us talk

of old times."

One look, one pressure of the hand, and arm-in-arm they followed, happy

in reality for the first time for two years.

Madame de Clery was indeed a fascinating and beautiful Italian, and upon

her Albert laid the blame of his not writing. He had distinguished

himself greatly, and, remarked by his officers, had risen with

surprising rapidity to the rank of lieutenant-colonel. On the Rhine, he

was one day located in the house of a German baron, with two handsome

daughters. An Italian girl, an heiress, a relation by marriage, was

there, and an attachment sprung up between the young people. The

difficulties in the way of marriage were many; but it is an old story,

how love delights in vanquishing them. Antonia contrived to enter France

under a safe conduct, and then was married. Albert had obtained a

month's leave of absence. He thought at once of those who had paved the

way for his success.

Godard, who had seen something of what had been going on, frankly

explained why Helene was still unmarried. Albert turned round, and shook

Paul by the hand.

"My dear friend, I scarcely heard your sentence. But you are a noble

fellow. I shall not leave Paris until you are my cousin."

This sentence completed the general delight. The meeting became doubly

interesting to all, and ere ten days the wedding took place, Albert

carrying every thing with a high hand, as became a gallant soldier. He

did more. He introduced Paul to influential members of the government,

and obtained for him an excellent position, one that gave him an

occupation, and the prospect of serving his country. Old Godard was

delighted, but far more so when some years after, in a garden near

Paris, he scrambled about with the children of Madame Paul and Madame de

Clery, who resided with the first, her husband being generally on

service. Paul and his wife were very happy. They had seen adversity, and

been chastened by it. Helene doubly loved her husband, from his nobility

of character in respecting her supposed affianced state; and never once

did the descendant of the "ancient and noble" House of Clery regret that

in finding that great and sterling treasure, a good husband, she had

lost the vain and empty satisfaction of being called Madame "the

Countess."

FOOTNOTE:

[26] Another slang word for the guillotine.

[From Bentley's Miscellany.]

A MIDNIGHT DRIVE.--A TALE OF TERROR.

I was sitting one night in the general coach-office in the town of ----,

reflecting upon the mutability of human affairs, and taking a

retrospective glance at those times when I held a very different

position in the world, when one of the porters of the establishment

entered the office, and informed the clerk that the coach, which had

long been expected, was in sight, and would be at the inn in a few

minutes. I believe it was the old Highflyer, but at this distance of

time I can not speak with sufficient certainty. The strange story I am

about to relate, occurred when stage-coaches were the usual mode of

conveyance, and long before any more expeditious system of traveling had

engaged the attention of mankind.

I continued to sit by the fire till the coach arrived, and then walked

into the street to count the number of the passengers, and observe their

appearance. I was particularly struck with the appearance of one

gentleman, who had ridden as an inside passenger. He wore a large black

cloak, deeply trimmed with crape; his head was covered with a black

traveling-cap, surmounted with two or three crape rosettes, and from

which depended a long black tassel. The cap was drawn so far over his

eyes that he had some difficulty to see his way. A black scarf was

wrapped round the lower part of his face, so that his countenance was

completely concealed from my view. He appeared anxious to avoid

observation, and hurried into the inn as fast as he could. I returned to

the office and mentioned to the clerk the strange appearance of the

gentlemen in question, but he was too busy to pay any attention to what

I had said.

Presently afterward a porter brought a small carpet-bag into the office,

and placed it upon the table.

"Whose bag is that, Timms?" inquired the clerk.

"I don't wish to be personal," replied the man, "but I think it belongs

to ----," and the fellow pointed to the floor.

"You don't mean _him_, surely?" said the clerk.

"Yes, I do though; at any rate, if he is not the gentleman I take him

for, he must be a second cousin of his, for he is the most unaccountable

individual that ever I clapped my eyes on. There is not much good in

him, I'll be bound."

I listened with breathless anxiety to these words. When the man had

finished, I said to him,

"How was the gentleman dressed?"

"In black."

"Had he a cloak on?"

"Yes."

"A traveling-cap drawn over his eyes?"

"Yes."

"It's the man I saw descend from the coach," I said to the clerk.

"Where is he?" inquired that gentleman.

"In the inn," replied the porter.

"Is he going to stay all night?" I inquired.

"I don't know."

"It's very odd," observed the clerk, and he put his pen behind his ear,

and placed himself in front of the fire; "very odd," he repeated.

"It don't look well," said the porter; "not at all."

Some further conversation ensued upon the subject, but as it did not

tend to throw any light upon the personage in question, it is

unnecessary for me to relate it.

Awhile afterward, the clerk went into the hotel to learn, if possible,

something more relative to this singular visitor. He was not absent more

than a few minutes, and when he returned his countenance, I fancied, was

more sedate than usual. I asked him if he had gathered any further

information.

"There is nobody knows any thing concerning him," he replied; "for when

the servants enter the room, he always turns his back toward them. He

has not spoken to a single individual since he arrived. There is a man

who came by the same coach, who attends upon him, but he does not look

like a servant."

"There is something extraordinary in his history, or I am much

deceived."

"I am quite of your opinion," observed the clerk.

While we were conversing, some persons entered the office to take places

by the mail, which was to leave early on the following morning. I

hereupon departed, and entered the inn with the view of satisfying my

curiosity, if possible, which was now raised to the utmost pitch. The

servants, I remarked, moved about more silently than usual, and

sometimes I saw two or three of them conversing together, _sotto voce_,

as though they did not wish their conversation to be overheard by those

around them. I knew the room that the gentleman occupied, and

stealthily and unobserved stole up to it, hoping to hear or see

something that might throw some light upon his character. I was not,

however, gratified in either respect.

I hastened back to the office and resumed my seat by the fire. The clerk

and I were still conversing upon the subject, when one of the girls came

in, and informed me that I was to get a horse and gig ready immediately,

to drive a gentleman a distance of fifteen or twenty miles.

"To-night!" I said in surprise.

"Immediately!"

"Why, it's already ten o'clock!"

"It's the master's orders; I can not alter them," tartly replied the

girl.

This unwelcome intelligence caused me to commit a great deal of sin, for

I made use of a number of imprecations and expressions which were quite

superfluous and perfectly unavailing. It was not long before I was ready

to commence the journey. I chose the fastest and strongest animal in the

establishment, and one that had never failed me in an emergency. I lit

the lamps, for the night was intensely dark, and I felt convinced that

we should require them. The proprietor of the hotel gave me a paper, but

told me not to read it till we had proceeded a few miles on the road,

and informed me at the same time in what direction to drive. The paper,

he added, would give me further instructions.

I was seated in the vehicle, busily engaged in fastening the leathern

apron on the side on which I sat, in order to protect my limbs from the

cold, when somebody seated himself beside me. I heard the landlord cry,

"Drive on;" and, without looking round, I lashed the mare into a very

fast trot. Even now, while I write, I feel in some degree the

trepidation which stole over me when I discovered who my companion was.

I had not gone far before I was made acquainted with this astounding

fact. It was as though an electric shock had suddenly and unexpectedly

been imparted to my frame, or as, in a moment of perfect happiness, I

had been hastily plunged into the greatest danger and distress. A

benumbing chilliness ran through me, and my mouth all at once became dry

and parched. Whither was I to drive? I knew not. Who and what was my

companion? I was equally ignorant. It was the man dressed so

fantastically whom I had seen alight from the coach; whose appearance

and inexplicable conduct had alarmed a whole establishment, whose

character was a matter of speculation to every body with whom he had

come in contact. This was the substance of my knowledge. For aught I

knew, he might be--. But no matter. The question that most concerned me

was, how was I to extricate myself from this dilemma? Which was the best

course to adopt? To turn back, and declare I would not travel in such a

night, with so strange a person, or to proceed on my journey? I greatly

feared the consequences of the former step would be fatal to my own

interests. Besides, I should be exposed to the sneers and laughter of

all who knew me. No: I had started, and I would proceed, whatever might

be the issue of the adventure.

In a few minutes we had emerged from the town. My courage was now put to

the severest test. The cheerful aspect of the streets, and the light

thrown from the lamps and a few shop-windows, had hitherto buoyed me up,

but my energy and firmness, I felt, were beginning to desert me. The

road on which we had entered was not a great thoroughfare at any time,

but at that late hour of the night I did not expect to meet either

horseman or pedestrian to enliven the long and solitary journey. I cast

my eyes before me, but could not discern a single light burning in the

distance. The night was thick and unwholesome, and not a star was to be

seen in the heavens. There was another matter which caused me great

uneasiness. I was quite unarmed, and unprepared for any attack, should

my companion be disposed to take advantage of that circumstance. These

things flashed across my mind, and made a more forcible impression than

they might otherwise have done, from the fact of a murder having been

committed in the district only a few weeks before, under the most

aggravated circumstances. An hypothesis suggested itself. Was this man

the perpetrator of that deed--the wretch who was endeavoring to escape

from the officers of justice, and who was stigmatized with the foulest,

the blackest crime that man could be guilty of? Appearances were against

him. Why should he invest himself with such a mystery? Why conceal his

face in so unaccountable a manner? What but a man conscious of great

guilt, of the darkest crimes, would so furtively enter an inn, and

afterward steal away under the darkness of the night, when no mortal eye

could behold him? If he was sensible of innocence, he might have

deferred his journey till the morning, and faced, with the fortitude of

a man, the broad light of day, and the scrutiny of his fellow-men. I

say, appearances were against him, and I felt more and more convinced,

that whatever his character was--whatever his deeds might have

been--that the present journey was instigated by fear and apprehension

for his personal safety. But was I to be the instrument of his

deliverance? Was I to be put to all this inconvenience in order to favor

the escape of an assassin? The thought distracted me. I vowed that it

should not be so. My heart chafed and fretted at the task that had been

put upon me. My blood boiled with indignation at the bare idea of being

made the tool of so unhallowed a purpose. I was resolved. I ground my

teeth with rage. I grasped the reins with a tighter hold. I determined

to be rid of the man--nay, even to attempt to destroy him rather than it

should be said that I had assisted in his escape. At some distance

further on there was a river suitable for that purpose. When off his

guard, he could in a moment be pushed into the stream; in certain

places it was sufficiently deep to drown him. One circumstance perplexed

me. If he escaped, he could adduce evidence against me. No matter; it

would be difficult to prove that I had any intention of taking away his

life. But should he be the person I conceived, he would not dare to come

forward.

Hitherto we had ridden without exchanging a word. Indeed, I had only

once turned my eyes upon him since we started. The truth was, I was too

busy with my own thoughts--too intent upon devising some plan to

liberate myself from my unparalleled situation. I now cast my eyes

furtively toward him. I shuddered as I contemplated his proximation to

myself. I fancied I already felt his contaminating influence. The cap,

as before, was drawn over his face; the scarf muffled closely round his

chin, and only sufficient space allowed for the purpose of respiration.

I was most desirous of knowing who he was; indeed, had he been "the Man

with the Iron Mask," so many years incarcerated in the French Bastile,

he could scarcely have excited a greater curiosity.

I deemed it prudent to endeavor to draw him into conversation, thinking

that he might drop some expression that would, in some measure, tend to

elucidate his history. Accordingly, I said,

"It's a very dark, unhealthy night, sir."

He made no reply. I thought he might not have heard me.

"A bad night for traveling!" I shouted, in a loud tone of voice.

The man remained immovable, without in the least deigning to notice my

observation. He either did not wish to talk, or he was deaf. If he

wished to be silent, I was contented to let him remain so.

It had not occurred to me till now that I had received a paper from the

landlord which would inform me whither my extraordinary companion was to

be conveyed. My heart suddenly received a new impulse--it beat with hope

and expectation. This document might reveal to me something more than I

was led to expect; it might unravel the labyrinth in which I was

entangled, and extricate me from all further difficulty. But how was I

to decipher the writing? There was no other means of doing so than by

stopping the vehicle and alighting, and endeavoring to read it by the

aid of the lamp, which, I feared, would afford but a very imperfect

light, after all. Before I had recourse to this plan, I deemed it

expedient to address once more my taciturn companion.

"Where am I to drive you to?" I inquired, in so loud a voice that the

mare started off at a brisker pace, as though I had been speaking to

her. I received no reply, and, without further hesitation, I drew in the

reins, pulled the paper from my pocket, and alighted. I walked to the

lamp, and held the paper as near to it as I could. The handwriting was

not very legible, and the light afforded me so weak, that I had great

difficulty to discover its meaning. The words were few and pointed. The

reader will judge of my surprise when I read the following laconic

sentence: "_Drive the gentleman to Grayburn Church-yard!_" I was more

alarmed than ever; my limbs shook violently, and in an instant I felt

the blood fly from my cheeks. What did my employer mean by imposing such

a task upon me? My fortitude in some degree returned, and I walked up to

the mare and patted her on the neck.

"Poor thing--poor thing!" I said; "you have a long journey before you,

and it may be a dangerous one."

I looked at my companion, but he appeared to take no notice of my

actions, and seemed as indifferent as if he were a corpse. I again

resumed my seat, and in part consoled myself with the prospect of being

speedily rid of him in some way or other, as the river I have already

alluded to was now only two or three miles distant. My thoughts now

turned to the extraordinary place to which I was to drive--Grayburn

Church-yard! What could the man do there at that hour of the night? Had

he somebody to meet? something to see or obtain? It was

incomprehensible--beyond the possibility of human divination. Was he

insane, or was he bent upon an errand perfectly rational, although for

the present wrapped in the most impenetrable mystery? I am at a loss for

language adequate to convey a proper notion of my feelings on that

occasion. He shall never arrive, I internally ejaculated, at Grayburn

Church-yard; he shall never pass beyond the stream, which even now I

almost heard murmuring in the distance! Heaven forgive me for harboring

such intentions! but when I reflected that I might be assisting an

assassin to fly from justice, I conceived I was acting perfectly correct

in adopting any means (no matter how bad) for the obviation of so horrid

a consummation. For aught I knew, his present intention might be to

visit the grave of his victim, for now I remembered that the person who

had so lately been murdered was interred in this very church-yard.

We gradually drew nearer to the river. I heard its roaring with fear and

trepidation. It smote my heart with awe when I pondered upon the deed I

had in contemplation. I could discover, from its rushing sound, that it

was much swollen, and this was owing to the recent heavy rains. The

stream in fine weather was seldom more than a couple of feet deep, and

could be crossed without danger or difficulty; there however were places

where it was considerably deeper. On the occasion in question, it was

more dangerous than I had ever known it. There was no bridge constructed

across it at this place, and people were obliged to get through it as

well as they could. Nearer and nearer we approached. The night was so

dark that it was quite impossible to discern any thing. I could feel the

beatings of my heart against my breast, a cold, clammy sweat settled

upon my brow, and my mouth became so dry that I fancied I was choking.

The moment was at hand that was to put my resolution to the test. A few

yards only separated us from the spot that was to terminate my journey,

and, perhaps, the mortal career of my incomprehensible companion. The

light of the lamps threw a dull, lurid gleam upon the surface of the

water. It rushed furiously past, surging and boiling as it leaped over

the rocks that here and there intersected its channel. Without a

moment's hesitation, I urged the mare forward, and in a minute we were

in the midst of the stream. It was a case of life or death! The water

came down like a torrent--its tide was irresistible. There was not a

moment to be lost. My own life was at stake. With the instinctive

feeling of self-preservation, I drove the animal swiftly through the

dense body of water, and in a few seconds we had gained the opposite

bank of the river. We were safe, but the opportunity of ridding myself

of my companion was rendered, by the emergency of the case, unavailable.

I know not how it was, but I suddenly became actuated by a new impulse.

Wretch though he was, he had intrusted his safety, his life, into my

hands. There was, perhaps, still some good in the man; by enabling him

to escape, I might be the instrument of his eternal salvation. He had

done me no injury, and at some period of his life he might have rendered

good offices to others. I pitied his situation, and determined to render

him what assistance I could. I applied the whip to the mare. In a moment

she seemed to be endowed with supernatural energy and swiftness. Though

he was a murderer--though he was henceforth to be driven from society as

an outcast, he should not be deserted in his present emergency. On, on

we sped; hedges, trees, houses were passed in rapid succession. Nothing

impeded our way. We had a task to perform--a duty to fulfill; dangers

and difficulties fled before us. A human life depended upon our

exertions, and every nerve required to be strained for its preservation.

On, on we hurried. My enthusiasm assumed the appearance of madness. I

shouted to the mare till I was hoarse, and broke the whip in several

places. Although we comparatively flew over the ground, I fancied we did

not go fast enough. My body was in constant motion, as though it would

give an impetus to our movements. My companion appeared conscious of my

intentions, and, for the first time, evinced an interest in our

progress. He drew out his handkerchief, and used it incessantly as an

incentive to swiftness. Onward we fled. We were all actuated by the same

motive. This concentration of energy gave force and vitality to our

actions.

The night had hitherto been calm, but the rain now began to descend in

torrents, and at intervals we heard distant peals of thunder. Still we

progressed; we were not to be baffled, not to be deterred; we would yet

defy pursuit. Large tracts of country were passed over with amazing

rapidity. Objects, that at one moment were at a great distance, in

another were reached, and in the next left far behind. Thus we sped

forward--thus we seemed to annihilate space altogether. We were endowed

with superhuman energies--hurried on by an impulse, involuntary and

irresistible. My companion became violent, and appeared to think we did

not travel quick enough. He rose once or twice from his seat, and

attempted to take the remnant of the whip from my hand, but I resisted,

and prevailed upon him to remain quiet.

How long we were occupied in this mad and daring flight, I can not even

conjecture. We reached, at length, our destination; but, alas! we had no

sooner done so, than the invaluable animal that had conveyed us thither

dropped down dead!

My companion and I alighted. I walked up to where the poor animal lay,

and was busy deploring her fate, when I heard a struggle at a short

distance. I turned quickly round, and beheld the mysterious being with

whom I had ridden so fatal a journey, in the custody of two powerful

looking men.

"Ha, ha! I thought he would make for this here place," said one of them.

"He still has a hankering after his mother's grave. When he got away

before, we nabbed him here."

The mystery was soon cleared up. The gentleman had escaped from a

lunatic asylum, and was both deaf and dumb. The death of his mother, a

few years before, had caused the mental aberration.

The horrors of the night are impressed as vividly upon my memory as

though they had just occurred. The expenses of the journey were all

defrayed, and I was presented with a handsome gratuity. I never ceased,

however, to regret the loss of the favorite mare.

[From Dickens's Household Words.]

SPIDER'S SILK.

Urged by the increased demand for the threads which the silk-worm

yields, many ingenious men have endeavored to turn the cocoons of other

insects to account. In search of new fibres to weave into garments, men

have dived to the bottom of the sea, to watch the operations of the

pinna and the common mussel. Ingenious experimentalists have endeavored

to adapt the threads which hold the mussel firmly to the rock, to the

purposes of the loom; and the day will probably arrive when the minute

thread of that diminutive insect, known as the money-spinner, will be

reeled, thrown, and woven into fabrics fit for Titania and her court.

In the early part of last century, an enthusiastic French gentleman

turned his attention to spiders' webs. He discovered that certain

spiders not only erected their webs to trap unsuspecting flies, but that

the females, when they had laid their eggs, forthwith wove a cocoon, of

strong silken threads, about them. These cocoons are known more

familiarly as spiders' bags. The common webs of spiders are too slight

and fragile to be put to any use; but the French experimentalist in

question, Monsieur Bon, was led to believe that the cocoons of the

female spiders were more solidly built than the mere traps of the

ferocious males. Various experiments led M. Bon to adopt the

short-legged silk spider as the most productive kind. Of this species he

made a large collection. He employed a number of persons to go in search

of them; and, as the prisoners were brought to him, one by one, he

inclosed them in separate paper cells, in which he pricked holes to

admit the air. He kept them in close confinement, and he observed that

their imprisonment did not appear to affect their health. None of them,

so far as he could observe, sickened for want of exercise; and, as a

jailer, he appears to have been indefatigable, occupying himself

catching flies, and delivering them over to the tender mercies of his

prisoners. After a protracted confinement in these miniature Bastiles,

the grim M. Bon opened the doors, and found that the majority of his

prisoners had beguiled their time in forming their bags. Spiders exude

their threads from papillæ or nipples, placed at the hinder part of

their body. The thread, when it leaves them, is a glutinous liquid,

which hardens on exposure to the air. It has been found that, by

squeezing a spider, and placing the finger against its papillæ, the

liquid of which the thread or silk is made may be drawn out to a great

length.

M. Reaumur, the rival experimentalist to M. Bon, discovered that the

papillæ are formed of an immense number of smaller papillæ, from each of

which a minute and distinct thread is spun. He asserted that, with a

microscope, he counted as many as seventy distinct fibres proceeding

from the papillæ of one spider, and that there were many more threads

too minute and numerous to compute. He jumped to a result, however, that

is sufficiently astonishing, namely, that a thousand distinct fibres

proceed from each papillæ; and there being five large papillæ, that

every thread of spider's silk is composed of at least five thousand

fibres. In the heat of that enthusiasm, with which the microscope filled

speculative minds in the beginning of last century, M. Leuwenhoek

ventured to assert that a hundred of the threads of a full-grown spider

were not equal to the diameter of one single hair of his beard. This

assertion leads to the astounding arithmetical deduction, that if the

spider's threads and the philosopher's hair be both round, ten thousand

threads are not bigger than such a hair; and, computing the diameter of

a thread spun by a young spider as compared with that of an adult

spider, four millions of the fibres of a young spider's web do not equal

a single hair of M. Leuwenhoek's beard. The enthusiastic experimentalist

must have suffered horrible martyrdom under the razor, with such an

exaggerated notion of his beard as these calculations must have given

him. A clever writer, in Lardner's Cyclopædia notices these

measurements, and shows that M. Leuwenhoek went far beyond the limits of

reality in his calculation.

M. Bon's collection of spiders continued to thrive; and, in due season,

he found that the greater number of them had completed their cocoons or

bags. He then dislodged the bags from the paper boxes; threw them into

warm water, and kept washing them until they were quite free from dirt

of any kind. The next process was to make a preparation of soap,

saltpetre, and gum-arabic dissolved in water. Into this preparation the

bags were thrown, and set to boil over a gentle fire for the space of

three hours. When they were taken out and the soap had been rinsed from

them, they appeared to be composed of fine, strong, ash-colored silk.

Before being carded on fine cards, they were set out for some days to

dry thoroughly. The carding, according to M. Bon, was an easy matter:

and he affirmed that the threads of the silk he obtained were stronger

and finer than those of the silk-worm. M. Reaumur, however, who was

dispatched to the scene of M. Bon's investigations by the Royal Academy

of Paris, gave a different version of the matter. He found, that whereas

the thread of the spider's bag will sustain only thirty-six grains, that

of the silkworm will support a weight of two drachms and a half--or four

times the weight sustained by the spider-thread. Though M. Bon was

certainly an enthusiast on behalf of spiders, M. Reaumur as undoubtedly

had a strong predilection in favor of the bombyx; and the result of

these contending prejudices was, that M. Bon's investigations were

overrated by a few, and utterly disregarded by the majority of his

countrymen. He injured himself by rash assertions. He endeavored to make

out that spiders were more prolific, and yielded a proportionably larger

quantity of silk than silkworms. These assertions were disproved, but in

no kindly spirit, by M. Reaumur. To do away with the impression that

spiders and their webs were venomous, M. Bon not only asserted, with

truth, that their bite was harmless, but he even went so far as to

subject his favorite insect to a chemical analysis, and he succeeded in

extracting from it a volatile salt which he christened Montpelier drops,

and recommended strongly as an efficacious medicine in lethargic states.

M. Bon undoubtedly produced, from the silk of his spiders, a material

that readily absorbed all kinds of dyes, and was capable of being worked

in any loom. With his carded spider's silk the enthusiastic

experimentalist wove gloves and stockings, which he presented to one or

two learned societies. To these productions several eminent men took

particular exceptions. They discovered that the fineness of the separate

threads of the silk detracted from its lustre, and inevitably produced a

fabric less refulgent than those woven from the silkworm. M. Reaumur's

most conclusive fact against the adoption of spider's silk as an

article of manufacture, was deduced from his observations on the

combativeness of spiders. He discovered that they had not arrived at

that state of civilization when communities find it most to the general

advantage to live on terms of mutual amity and confidence; on the

contrary, the spider-world, according to M. Reaumur (we are writing of a

hundred and forty years ago), was in a continual state of warfare; nay,

not a few spiders were habitual cannibals. Having collected about five

thousand spiders (enough to scare the most courageous old lady), M.

Reaumur shut them up in companies varying in number from fifty to one

hundred. On opening the cells, after the lapse of a few days, "what was

the horror of our hero," as the graphic novelist writes, "to behold the

scene which met his gaze!" Where fifty spiders, happy and full of life,

had a short time before existed, only about two bloated insects now

remained--they had devoured their fellow spiders! This horrible custom

of the spider-world accounts for the small proportion of spiders in

comparison to the immense number of eggs which they produce. So

formidable a difficulty could only be met by rearing each spider in a

separate cage; whether this separation is practicable--that is to say,

whether it can be made to repay the trouble it would require--is a

matter yet to be decided.

Against M. Bon's treatise on behalf of spider's silk, M. Reaumur urged

further objections. He asserted that, when compared with silkworm's

silk, spider's silk was deficient both in quality and in quantity. His

calculation went to show that the silk of twelve spiders did not more

than equal that of one bombyx; and that no less than fifty-five thousand

two hundred and ninety-six spiders must be reared to produce one pound

of silk. This calculation is now held to be exaggerated; and the spirit

of partisanship in which M. Reaumur's report was evidently concocted,

favors the supposition that he made the most of any objections he could

bring to bear against M. Bon.

M. Bon's experiments are valuable as far as they go; spider's silk may

be safely set down as an untried raw material. The objections of M.

Reaumur, reasonable in some respects, are not at all conclusive. It is

of course undeniable that the silkworm produces a larger quantity of

silk than any species of spider; but, on the other hand, the spider's

silk may possess certain qualities adapted to particular fabrics, which

would justify its cultivation. At the Great Industrial Show, we shall

probably find some specimens of spider's silk; such contributions would

be useful and suggestive. The idea of brushing down cobwebs to convert

them into ball-room stockings, forces upon us the association of two

most incongruous ideas; but that this transformation is not impossible,

the Royal Society, who are the possessors of some of M. Bon's

spider-fabric, can satisfactorily demonstrate.

[From the Dublin University Magazine.]

THE RAILWAY.

The silent glen, the sunless stream,

To wandering boyhood dear,

And treasur'd still in many a dream,

They are no longer here;

A huge red mound of earth is thrown

Across the glen so wild and lone,

The stream so cold and clear;

And lightning speed, and thundering sound,

Pass hourly o'er the unsightly mound.

Nor this alone--for many a mile

Along that iron way,

No verdant banks or hedgerows smile

In summer's glory gay;

Thro' chasms that yawn as though the earth

Were rent in some strange mountain-birth,

Whose depth excludes the day,

We're born away at headlong pace,

To win from time the wearying race!

The wayside inn, with homelike air,

No longer tempts a guest

To taste its unpretending fare,

Or seek its welcome rest.

The prancing team--the merry horn--

The cool fresh road at early morn--

The coachman's ready jest;

All, all to distant dream-land gone,

While shrieking trains are hurrying on.

Yet greet we them with thankful hearts,

And eyes that own no tear,

'Tis nothing now, the space which parts

The distant from the dear;

The wing that to her cherish'd nest

Bears home the bird's exulting breast,

Has found its rival here.

With speed like hers we too can haste,

The bliss of meeting hearts to taste.

For me, I gaze along the line

To watch the approaching train,

And deem it still, 'twixt me and mine,

A rude, but welcome chain

To bind us in a world, whose ties

Each passing hour to sever tries,

But here may try in vain;

To bring us near home many an art,

Stern fate employs to keep apart.

[From Bentley's Miscellany.]

THE BLIND SISTER, OR CRIME AND ITS PUNISHMENT.

For real comfort, snugness, and often rural beauty, where are there in

the wide world any dwellings that can equal the cottage homes of

England's middle classes? Whether they be clad with ivy and woodbine,

half hidden by forest-trees, and approached by silent, shady lanes, or,

glaring with stucco and green paint, stand perched upon flights of

steps, by the side of dusty suburban roads--whether they be

cockney-christened with fine titles, and dignified as villas, halls, or

lodges, or rejoice in such sweet names as Oak Cottage or Linden

Grove--still within their humble walls, before all other places, are to

be found content, and peace, and pure domestic love.

Upon the slope of a gentle hill, about a mile from a large town, where I

was attending to the practice of an absent friend, there stood a neat

and pretty residence, with slated roof and trellised porch. A light

verandah shaded the narrow French windows, opening from the favorite

drawing-room upon a trim, smooth lawn, studded with gay parterres, and

bounded by a sweetbriar hedge; and here old Mrs. Reed, the widow of a

clergyman, was busily employed, one lovely autumn afternoon, peering

through her spectacles at the fast-fading flowers, or plucking from some

favorite shrub the "sear and yellow leaf" that spoke of the summer

passed away, and the dreary season hurrying on apace. Her daughter, a

pale and delicate-looking girl, sat with her drooping head leant against

the open window-frame, watching her mother sorrowfully as she felt her

own declining health, and thought how her parent's waning years might

pass away, uncared for, and unsolaced by a daughter's love. Within the

room, a young man was reclining lazily upon a sofa; rather handsome,

about the middle height, _but_ had it not been for a stubby mustache,

very long hair, and his rather slovenly costume--peculiarities which he

considered indispensable to his profession as an artist--there was

nothing in his appearance to distinguish him from the generality of

young English gentlemen of his age and station. Presently there fell

upon his ear the notes of a beautiful symphony, played with most

exquisite taste upon the harp, and gradually blending with a woman's

voice, deep, soft and tremulous, every now and then, as if with intense

feeling, in one of those elaborate yet enervating melodies that have

their birth in sunny Italy. The performer was about twenty-five years of

age, of haughty and dazzling beauty. Her dark wavy hair, gathered behind

into a large glossy knot, was decked on one side with a bunch of pink

rose buds. A full white robe, that covered, without hiding, the outline

of her bust and arms, was bound at the waist with a thick cord and

tassel of black silk and gold, adding all that dress could add to the

elegance of her tall and splendid figure. Then, as she rose and

stretched out her jeweled hand to tighten a loose string, the ineffable

grace of the studied attitude in which she stood for some moments showed

her to be well skilled in those fascinating arts that so often captivate

the senses before the heart is touched.

This lady was the daughter of Mrs. Reed's only sister, who in her youth

had run away with an Italian music master. Signor Arnatti, although a

poor adventurer, was not quite devoid of honor, for, when first married,

he really loved his English wife, and proudly introduced her to his

friends at Florence, where her rank and fortune were made much of, and

she was caressed and fêted until half wild with pleasure and excitement.

But this was not to last. Her husband, a man of violent and

ungovernable temper, was heard to utter certain obnoxious political

opinions; and it being discovered that he was connected with a dangerous

conspiracy against the existing government, a speedy flight alone saved

him from the scaffold or perpetual imprisonment. They sought a temporary

home in Paris, where, after dissipating much of their little fortune at

the gambling-table, he met with a sudden and violent death in a

night-brawl, just in time to save his wife and child from poverty. The

young widow, who of late had thought more of her infant than its father,

was not long inconsolable. Discarded by her own relations, who, with

bitter and cruel taunts, had refused all communication with her, and now

too proud to return to them again, she settled with her little girl in

Italy, where a small income enabled her to lead a life of unrestrained

gayety, that soon became almost necessary to her existence. Here young

Catherine was reared and educated, flattered and spoiled by all about

her; and encouraged by her vain mother to expect nothing less than an

alliance with high rank and wealth, she refused many advantageous offers

of marriage, and ere long gained the character of a heartless and

unprincipled coquette, especially among the English visitors, who

constituted a great part of the society in which she moved. Her mother

corresponded occasionally with Mrs. Reed; and the sisters still

cherished an affection for each other, which increased as they advanced

in years; but their ideas, their views, even their religion was

different, and the letters they exchanged once, or at most twice a year,

afforded but little satisfaction to either. When the cholera visited

Italy, Madame Arnatti was seized with a presentiment that fate had

already numbered her among its victims, and, under the influence of this

feeling, wrote a long and touching letter to her sister, freely

confessing the sin and folly of her conduct in regard to her daughter's

management, of whom she gave a long description, softened, it is true,

by a mother's hand, yet containing many painful truths, that must have

caused the doting parent infinite sorrow to utter. She concluded by

repeating her conviction that her end was near, and consigning Catherine

to her sister's care, with an entreaty that she would take her from the

immoral and polluted atmosphere in which they lived, and try the effect

of her piety, and kindness, and steady English habits on the young

woman's violent and ungovernable passions. Months passed away; and then

Mrs. Reed received a letter from Catherine herself, telling of her

mother's death; also one from a lady, in whose company she was traveling

homeward, in accordance with her mother's dying wish. Another long

interval elapsed, and the good lady was preparing to visit London for

the purpose of consulting an eminent physician on her daughter's state

of health when news reached the cottage of Miss Arnatti's arrival in

that city, which had been retarded thus long by tedious quarantine laws,

illness, and other causes.

Her guardian was apparently glad enough to get rid of the charge she had

undertaken, and within a week Catherine removed to her aunt's lodgings,

where she was received and treated with every affectionate attention;

but a constant yearning after gayety and amusements, indelicate and

unfeeling as it appeared to her relatives, so soon after the loss of an

only parent; the freedom and boldness of her manners when in company or

in public, and her overbearing conduct to those about her, augured but

little in favor of such an addition to their circle. However, the good

aunt hoped for better things from the removal to her quiet country-home.

Their stay in London was even shorter than they had intended, and, for

some time after their return to the cottage, Miss Arnatti endeavored to

adapt herself to the habits that must have been so strange and new to

her; she even sought, and made herself agreeable in the very orderly but

cheerful society where her aunt and cousin introduced her, although

Annie Reed's increasing weakness prevented them from receiving much

company at their own house.

Edwin Reed, Catherine's other cousin, was absent on a tour in Wales, and

had only returned a few days previous to the afternoon on which we have

described him as listening, enraptured, to the lady's native music.

Seating herself at the piano, she followed this by a brilliant waltz,

the merry, sparkling notes of which made the eye brighten and the brain

whirl, from very sympathy; and then returning to her favorite

instrument, she sang, to a low, plaintive accompaniment, a simple

English ballad, telling of man's heartlessness, and woman's frailty and

despair. The last verse ran:

So faith and hope her soul forsaking,

Each day to heavier sorrow waking

This cruel love her heart was breaking

Yet, ere her breath

Was hushed in death,

She breathed a prayer

For her betrayer--

Angels to heaven her poor soul taking.

Scarcely had she finished, when, as if in thorough contempt of the

maiden's weakness, she drew her hand violently across the strings with a

discordant crash, that startled poor little Annie painfully, and pushing

the harp from her with an impatient gesture, abruptly quitted the room.

The old lady had gone in to enjoy a gossip with her next-door neighbor,

and so the brother and sister were alone. The signs of tears were on the

latter's cheek as Edwin approached and sat down by her side; attributing

this to her extreme sensibility wrought upon by what they had just

heard, he spoke some kind and cheering words, and then began to talk

enthusiastically of their cousin's beauty and accomplishments. She

listened to him quietly for some time, and then,

"Dear brother," she said, timidly, "you must forgive me for what I am

about to say, when it is to warn and caution you against those very

charms that have already made such an impression on you. I am not one,

Edwin, as you know, to speak ill, even of my enemies, if such there be;

and to any other but yourself would hide her faults, and try to think of

some pleasing trait on which to dwell, when her name was mentioned. Nay,

do not interrupt me, for rest assured, I am only prompted by a sister's

love. I have seen much of Catherine, and heard more; I fear her dreadful

temper--her different faith; although, indeed, she seems to neglect all

religious duties, even those of her own church. Then I think of her

rudeness and inattention to our dear mother, who is so kind and gentle

to her. Had you been in London when we first met, you would not wonder

at our being shocked and pained at all we witnessed there."

"But, Annie, dear," said her brother, "why should you talk thus

earnestly to me? Surely I may admire and praise a handsome woman,

without falling hopelessly in love."

"You may, or you may not," continued Annie, warmly. "But this I know and

feel, that, unless she were to change in every manner, thought, and

action, she is the last person in the world that I would see possess a

hold upon my brother's heart. Why, do you know, she makes a boast of the

many lovers she has encouraged and discarded; and even shows, with

ill-timed jests, letters from her admirers, containing protestations of

affection, and sentiments that any woman of common feeling would at

least consider sacred."

"And have you nothing, then, to say in her favor?" said young Reed,

quietly. "Can you make no allowance for the manner in which she has been

brought up? or, may she never change from what you represent her?"

"She may, perhaps; but let me beg of you, Edwin, to pause, and think,

and not be infatuated and led away, against your better judgment, as so

many have already been."

"Why, my dear sister," he replied, "if we were on the point of running

off together, you could not be more earnest in the matter; but I have

really never entertained such thoughts as you suggest, and if I did,

should consider myself quite at liberty to act as I pleased, whether I

were guided by your counsel or not."

"Well, Edwin, be not angry with me; perhaps I have spoken too strongly

on the subject. You know how much I have your happiness at heart, and

this it is that makes me say so much. I often think I have not long to

live, but while I am here would have you promise me--"

A chilly breeze swept over the lawn, and the invalid was seized with a

violent fit of coughing; her brother shut the casement, and wrapped the

shawl closer round her slight figure. Mrs. Reed entered the room at the

same instant, and their conversation ended.

Catherine Arnatti was in her own chamber, the open window of which was

within a few yards of where her cousins had been talking. Attracted

thither by the sound, she listened intently, and leaning out, apparently

employed in training the branches of a creeping plant, she had heard

every word they uttered.

The winter passed away pleasantly enough, for two at least of the party

at the cottage.