CHAPTER XVI.

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HARPER'S

NEW MONTHLY MAGAZINE.

No. XVIII.--NOVEMBER, 1851.--VOL. III.

[Entered, according to Act of Congress, in the year 1851, by Harper

and Brothers, in the Clerk's Office of the District Court of the

Southern District of New York.]

NAPOLEON BONAPARTE.

BY JOHN S.C. ABBOTT.

IV. THE SIEGE OF MANTUA.

Early in July, 1796, the eyes of all Europe were turned to Mantua.

Around its walls these decisive battles were to be fought which were to

establish the fate of Italy. This bulwark of Lombardy was considered

almost impregnable. It was situated upon an island, formed by lakes and

by the expansion of the river Mincio. It was approached only by five

long and narrow causeways, which were guarded by frowning batteries. To

take the place by assault was impossible. Its reduction could only be

accomplished by the slow, tedious, and enormously expensive progress of

a siege.

[Illustration: THE ENCAMPMENT.]

Napoleon, in his rapid advances, had not allowed his troops to encumber

themselves with tents of any kind. After marching all day, drenched with

rain, they threw themselves down at night upon the wet ground, with no

protection whatever from the pitiless storm which beat upon them. "Tents

are always unhealthy," said Napoleon at St. Helena. "It is much better

for the soldier to bivouac in the open air, for then he can build a fire

and sleep with warm feet. Tents are necessary only for the general

officers who are obliged to read and consult their maps." All the

nations of Europe, following the example which Napoleon thus

established, have now abandoned entirely the use of tents. The sick, the

wounded, the exhausted, to the number of fifteen thousand, filled the

hospitals. Death, from such exposures, and from the bullet and sword of

the enemy, had made fearful ravages among his troops. Though Napoleon

had received occasional reinforcements from France, his losses had kept

pace with his supplies, and he had now an army of but thirty thousand

men with which to retain the vast extent of country he had overrun, to

keep down the aristocratic party, ever upon the eve of an outbreak, and

to encounter the formidable legions which Austria was marshaling for his

destruction. Immediately upon his return from the south of Italy, he was

compelled to turn his eyes from the siege of Mantua, which he was

pressing with all possible energy, to the black and threatening cloud

gathering in the North. An army of sixty thousand veteran soldiers under

General Wurmser, an officer of high renown, was accumulating its

energies in the wild fastnesses of the northern Alps, to sweep down upon

the French through the gorges of the Tyrol, like a whirlwind.

About sixty miles north of Mantua, at the northern extremity of Lake

Garda, embosomed among the Tyrolean hills, lies the walled town of

Trent. Here Wurmser had assembled sixty thousand men, most abundantly

provided with all the munitions of war, to march down to Mantua, and

co-operate with the twenty thousand within its walls in the annihilation

of the audacious foe. The fate of Napoleon was now considered as sealed.

The republicans in Italy were in deep dismay. "How is it possible," said

they, "that Napoleon, with thirty thousand men, can resist the combined

onset of eighty thousand veteran soldiers?" The aristocratic party were

in great exultation, and were making preparations to fall upon the

French the moment they should see the troops of Napoleon experiencing

the slightest reverse. Rome, Venice, Naples began to incite revolt, and

secretly to assist the Austrians. The Pope, in direct violation of his

plighted faith, refused any further fulfillment of the conditions of the

armistice, and sent Cardinal Mattei to negotiate with the enemy. This

sudden development of treachery, which Napoleon aptly designated as a

"Revelation," impressed the young conqueror deeply with a sense of his

hazardous situation.

Between Mantua and Trent there lies, extended among the mountains, the

beautiful Lake of Garda. This sheet of water, almost fathomless, and

clear as crystal, is about thirty miles in length, and from four to

twelve in breadth. Wurmser was about fifteen miles north of the head of

this lake at Trent; Napoleon was at Mantua, fifteen miles south of its

foot. The Austrian general, eighty years of age, a brave and generous

soldier, as he contemplated his mighty host, complacently rubbed his

hands, exclaiming, "We shall soon have the boy now." He was very

fearful, however, that Napoleon, conscious of the utter impossibility of

resisting such numbers, might, by a precipitate flight, escape. To

prevent this, he disposed his army at Trent in three divisions of twenty

thousand each. One division, under General Quasdanovich, was directed to

march down the western bank of the lake, to cut off the retreat of the

French by the way of Milan. General Wurmser, with another division of

twenty thousand, marched down the eastern shore of the lake, to relieve

Mantua. General Melas, with another division, followed down the valley

of the Adige, which ran parallel with the shores of the lake, and was

separated from it by a mountain ridge, but about two miles in width. A

march of a little more than a day would reunite those vast forces, thus

for the moment separated. Having prevented the escape of their

anticipated victims, they could fall upon the French in a resistless

attack. The sleepless vigilance and the eagle eye of Napoleon, instantly

detected the advantage thus presented to him. It was in the evening of

the 31st of July, that he first received the intimation from his scouts

of the movements of the enemy. Instantly he formed his plan of

operations, and in an hour the whole camp was in commotion. He gave

orders for the immediate abandonment of the siege of Mantua, and for the

whole army to arrange itself in marching order. It was an enormous

sacrifice. He had been prosecuting the works of the siege with great

vigor for two months. He had collected there, at vast labor and expense,

a magnificent battering train and immense stores of ammunition. The city

was on the very point of surrender. By abandoning his works all would be

lost, the city would be revictualed, and it would be necessary to

commence the whole arduous enterprise of the siege anew. The promptness

with which Napoleon decided to make the sacrifice, and the unflinching

relentlessness with which the decision was executed, indicated the

energetic action of a genius of no ordinary mould.

The sun had now gone down, and gloomy night brooded over the agitated

camp. But not an eye was closed. Under cover of the darkness every one

was on the alert. The platforms and gun carriages were thrown upon the

campfires. Tons of powder were cast into the lake. The cannon were

spiked and the shot and shells buried in the trenches. Before midnight

the whole army was in motion. Rapidly they directed their steps to the

western shore of Lake Garda, to fall like an avalanche upon the division

of Quasdanovich, who dreamed not of their danger. When the morning sun

arose over the marshes of Mantua, the whole embattled host, whose

warlike array had reflected back the beams of the setting sun, had

disappeared. The besieged, who were half famished, and who were upon the

eve of surrender, as they gazed, from the steeples of the city, upon the

scene of solitude, desolation, and abandonment, could hardly credit

their eyes. At ten o'clock in the morning, Quasdanovich was marching

quietly along, not dreaming that any foe was within thirty miles of him,

when suddenly the whole French army burst like a whirlwind upon his

astonished troops. Had the Austrians stood their ground they must have

been entirely destroyed. But after a short and most sanguinary conflict

they broke in wild confusion, and fled. Large numbers were slain, and

many prisoners were left in the hands of the French. The discomfited

Austrians retreated to find refuge among the fastnesses of the Tyrol,

from whence they had emerged. Napoleon had not one moment to lose in

pursuit. The two divisions which were marching down the eastern side of

the lake, heard across the water the deep booming of the guns, like the

roar of continuous thunder, but they were entirely unable to render any

assistance to their friends. They could not even imagine from whence the

foe had come, whom Quasdanovich had encountered. That Napoleon would

abandon all his accumulated stores and costly works at Mantua, was to

them inconceivable. They hastened along with the utmost speed to reunite

their forces, still forty thousand strong, at the foot of the lake.

Napoleon also turned upon his track, and urged his troops almost to the

full run. The salvation of his army depended upon the rapidity of his

march, enabling him to attack the separated divisions of the enemy

before they should reunite at the foot of the mountain range which

separated them. "Soldiers?" he exclaimed, in hurried accents, "it is

with your legs alone that victory can now be secured. Fear nothing. In

three days the Austrian army shall be destroyed. Rely only on me. You

know whether or not I am in the habit of keeping my word."

Regardless of hunger, sleeplessness, and fatigue, unincumbered by

baggage or provisions, with a celerity, which to the astonished

Austrians seemed miraculous, he pressed on, with his exhausted, bleeding

troops, all the afternoon and deep into the darkness of the ensuing

night. He allowed his men at midnight to throw themselves upon the

ground an hour for sleep, but he did not indulge himself in one moment

of repose. Early in the morning of the 3d of August, Melas, who but a

few hours before had heard the thunder of Napoleon's guns, over the

mountains and upon the opposite shore of the lake, was astonished to see

the solid columns of the whole French army marching majestically upon

him. Five thousand of Wurmser's division had succeeded in joining him,

and he consequently had twenty-five thousand fresh troops drawn up in

battle array. Wurmser himself was at but a few hours' distance, and was

hastening with all possible speed to his aid, with fifteen thousand

additional men. Napoleon had but twenty-two thousand with whom to meet

the forty thousand whom his foes would thus combine. Exhausted as his

troops were with the Herculean toil they had already endured, not one

moment could be allowed for rest. It was at Lonato, in a few glowing

words he announced to his men their peril, the necessity for their

utmost efforts, and his perfect confidence in their success. They now

regarded their young leader as invincible, and wherever he led they were

prompt to follow. With delirious energy, they rushed upon the foe. The

pride of the Austrians was roused and they fought with desperation. The

battle was long and bloody. Napoleon, as cool and unperturbed as if

making the movements in a game of chess, watched the ebb and the flow of

the conflict. His eagle eye instantly detected the point of weakness and

exposure. The Austrians were routed and in wild disorder took to flight

over the plains, leaving the ground covered with the dead, and five

thousand prisoners and twenty pieces of cannon in the hands of the

victors. Junot, with a regiment of cavalry, dashed at full gallop into

the midst of the fugitives rushing over the plain, and the wretched

victims of war were sabred by thousands and trampled under iron hoofs.

The battle raged until the sun disappeared behind the mountains of the

Tyrol, and another night, dark and gloomy, came on. The groans of the

wounded and of the dying, and the fearful shrieks of dismembered and

mangled horses, struggling in their agony, filled the night air for

leagues around. The French soldiers, utterly exhausted, threw themselves

upon the gory ground by the side of the mutilated dead, the victor and

the bloody corpse of the foe reposing side by side, and forgot the

horrid butchery in leaden sleep. But Napoleon slept not. He knew that

before the dawn of another morning, a still more formidable host would

be arrayed against him, and that the victory of to-day might be followed

by a dreadful defeat upon the morrow. The vanquished army were falling

back to be supported by the division of Wurmser, coming to their rescue.

All night long Napoleon was on horseback, galloping from post to post,

making arrangements for the desperate battle to which he knew that the

morning sun must guide him.

Four or five miles from Lonato, lies the small walled town of

Castiglione. Here Wurmser met the retreating troops of Melas, and

rallied them for a decisive conflict. With thirty thousand Austrians,

drawn up in line of battle, he awaited the approach of his indefatigable

foe. Long before the morning dawned, the French army was again in

motion. Napoleon, urging his horse to the very utmost of his speed, rode

in every direction to accelerate the movements of his troops. The peril

was too imminent to allow him to intrust any one else with the execution

of his all-important orders. Five horses successively sank dead beneath

him from utter exhaustion. Napoleon was every where, observing all

things, directing all things, animating all things. The whole army was

inspired with the indomitable energy and ardor of their young leader.

Soon the two hostile hosts were facing each other, in the dim and misty

haze of the early dawn, ere the sun had arisen to look down upon the

awful scene of man's depravity about to ensue.

A sanguinary and decisive conflict, renowned in history as the battle of

Castiglione, inflicted the final blow upon the Austrians. They were

routed with terrible slaughter. The French pursued them, with merciless

massacre, through the whole day, in their headlong flight, and rested

not until the darkness of night shut out the panting, bleeding fugitives

from their view. Less than one week had elapsed since that proud army,

sixty thousand strong, had marched from the walls of Trent, with

gleaming banners and triumphant music, flushed with anticipated victory.

In six days it had lost in killed, wounded, and prisoners forty thousand

men, ten thousand more than the whole army which Napoleon had at his

command. But twenty thousand tattered, exhausted, war-worn fugitives

effected their escape. In the extreme of mortification and dejection

they returned to Trent, to bear themselves the tidings of their swift

and utter discomfiture. Napoleon, in these conflicts, lost but seven

thousand men. These amazing victories were to be attributed entirely to

the genius of the conqueror. Such achievements history had never before

recorded. The victorious soldiers called it, "_The six days' campaign_."

Their admiration of their invincible chief now passed all bounds. The

veterans who had honored Napoleon with the title of _corporal_, after

"the terrible passage of the bridge of Lodi," now enthusiastically

promoted him to the rank of _sergeant_, as his reward for the signal

victories of this campaign.

The aristocratic governments which, upon the marching of Wurmser from

Trent, had perfidiously violated their faith, and turned against

Napoleon, supposing that he was ruined, were now terror-stricken,

anticipating the most appalling vengeance. But the conqueror treated

them with the greatest clemency, simply informing them that he was fully

acquainted with their conduct, and that he should hereafter regard them

with a watchful eye. He, however, summoned Cardinal Mattei, the legate

of the perjured Pope, to his head-quarters. The cardinal, conscious that

not a word could be uttered in extenuation of his guilt, attempted no

defense. The old man, high in authority and venerable in years, bowed

with the humility of a child before the young victor, and exclaimed

"peccavi! peccavi!"--_I have sinned! I have sinned!_ This apparent

contrition disarmed Napoleon, and in jocose and contemptuous indignation

he sentenced him to do penance for three months, by fasting and prayer,

in a convent.

During these turmoils, the inhabitants of Lombardy remained faithful in

their adherence to the French interests. In a delicate and noble letter

which he addressed to them, he said, "When the French army retreated,

and the partisans of Austria considered that the cause of liberty was

crushed, you, though you knew not that this retreat was merely a

stratagem, still proved constant in your attachment to France and your

love of freedom. You have thus deserved the esteem of the French nation.

Your people daily become more worthy of liberty, and will shortly appear

with glory on the theatre of the world. Accept the assurance of my

satisfaction, and of the sincere wishes of the French people to see you

free and happy."

In the midst of the tumultuous scenes of these days of incessant battle,

when the broken divisions of the enemy were in bewilderment, wandering

in every direction, attempting to escape from the terrible energy with

which they were pursued, Napoleon, by mere accident, came very near

being taken a prisoner. He escaped by that intuitive tact and promptness

of decision which never deserted him. In conducting the operations of

the pursuit, he had entered a small village, upon the full gallop,

accompanied only by his staff and guards. A division of four thousand of

the Austrian army, separated from the main body, had been wandering all

night among the mountains. They came suddenly and unexpectedly upon this

little band of a thousand men, and immediately sent an officer with a

flag of truce, demanding their surrender. Napoleon, with wonderful

presence of mind, commanded his numerous staff immediately to mount on

horseback, and gathering his guard around him, ordered the flag of truce

to be brought into his presence. The officer was introduced, as is

customary, blindfolded. When the bandage was removed, to his utter

amazement he found himself before the commander-in-chief of the French

army, surrounded by his whole brilliant staff. "What means this insult?"

exclaimed Napoleon in tones of affected indignation. "Have you the

insolence to bring a summons of surrender to the French

commander-in-chief, in the middle of his army! Say to those who sent

you, that unless in five minutes they lay down their arms, every man

shall be put to death." The bewildered officer stammered out an apology.

"Go!" Napoleon sternly rejoined, "unless you immediately surrender at

discretion, I will, for this insult, cause every man of you to be shot."

The Austrians, deceived by this air of confidence, and disheartened by

fatigue and disaster, threw down their arms. They soon had the

mortification of learning that they had capitulated to one-fourth of

their own number, and that they had missed making prisoner the

conqueror, before whose blows the very throne of their empire was

trembling.

It was during this campaign that one night Napoleon, in disguise, was

going the rounds of the sentinels, to ascertain if, in their peculiar

peril, proper vigilance was exercised. A soldier, stationed at the

junction of two roads, had received orders not to let any one pass

either of those routes. When Napoleon made his appearance, the soldier,

unconscious of his rank, presented his bayonet and ordered him back. "I

am a general officer," said Napoleon, "going the rounds to ascertain if

all is safe." "I care not," the soldier replied, "my commands are to let

no one go by; and if you were the Little Corporal himself you should not

pass." The general was consequently under the necessity of retracing his

steps. The next day he made inquiries respecting the character of the

soldier, and hearing a good report of him, he summoned him to his

presence, and extolling his fidelity, raised him to the rank of an

officer.

[Illustration: THE LITTLE CORPORAL AND THE SENTINEL]

Napoleon and his victorious army again returned to Mantua. The besieged,

during his absence, had emerged from the walls and destroyed all his

works. They had also drawn all his heavy battering train, consisting of

one hundred and forty pieces, into the city, obtained large supplies of

provisions, over sixty thousand shot and shells, and had received a

reinforcement of fifteen thousand men. There was no suitable siege

equipage which Napoleon could command, and he was liable at any moment

to be again summoned to encounter the formidable legions which the

Austrian empire could again raise to crowd down upon him. He therefore

simply invested the place by blockade. After the terrible struggle

through which they had just passed, the troops, on both sides, indulged

themselves in repose for three weeks. The Austrian government, with

inflexible resolution, still refused to make peace with France. It had

virtually inserted upon its banners, "Gallia delenda est"--"The French

Republic shall be destroyed." Napoleon had now cut up two of their most

formidable armies, each of them nearly three times as numerous as his

own.

The pride and the energy of the whole empire were aroused in organizing

a third army to crush republicanism. In the course of three weeks

Wurmser found himself again in command of fifty-five thousand men at

Trent. There were twenty thousand troops in Mantua, giving him a force

of seventy-five thousand combatants. Napoleon had received

reinforcements only sufficient to repair his losses, and was again in

the field with but thirty thousand men. He was surrounded by more than

double that number of foes.

Early in September the Austrian army was again in motion, passing down

from the Tyrol for the relief of Mantua. Wurmser left Davidovich at

Roveredo, a very strong position, about ten miles south of Trent, with

twenty-five thousand men to prevent the incursions of the French into

the Tyrol. With thirty thousand men he then passed over to the valley of

the Brenta, to follow down its narrow defile, and convey relief to the

besieged fortress. There were twenty thousand Austrians in Mantua.

These, co-operating with the thirty thousand under Wurmser, would make

an effective force of fifty thousand men to attack Napoleon in front and

rear.

Napoleon contemplated with lively satisfaction this renewed division of

the Austrian force. He quietly collected all his resources, and prepared

for a deadly spring upon the doomed division left behind. As soon as

Wurmser had arrived at Bassano, following down the valley of the Brenta,

about sixty miles from Roveredo, where it was impossible for him to

render any assistance to the victims upon whom Napoleon was about to

pounce, the whole French army was put in motion. They rushed, at double

quick step, up the parallel valley of the Adige, delaying hardly one

moment either for food or repose. Early on the morning of the 4th of

September, just as the first gray of dawn appeared in the east, he burst

like a tempest upon the astounded foe. The battle was short, bloody,

decisive. The Austrians were routed with dreadful slaughter. As they

fled in consternation, a rabble-rout, the French cavalry rushed in among

them, with dripping sabres, and for leagues the ground was covered with

the bodies of the slain. Seven thousand prisoners and twenty pieces of

cannon graced the triumph of the victor. The discomfited remains of this

unfortunate corps retired far back into the gorges of the mountains.

Such was the battle of Roveredo, which Napoleon ever regarded as one of

his most brilliant victories. Next morning Napoleon, in triumph, entered

Trent. He immediately issued one of his glowing proclamations to the

inhabitants of the Tyrol, assuring them that he was fighting, not for

conquest, but for peace; that he was not the enemy of the _people_ of

the Tyrol; that the Emperor of Austria, incited and aided by British

gold, was waging relentless warfare against the French Republic; and

that, if the inhabitants of the Tyrol would not take up arms against

him, they should be protected in their persons, their property, and in

all their political rights. He invited the people, in the emergence, to

arrange for themselves the internal government of the country, and

intrusted them with the administration of their own laws.

Before the darkness of the ensuing night had passed away Napoleon was

again at the head of his troops, and the whole French army was rushing

down the defiles of the Brenta, to surprise Wurmser in his straggling

march. The Austrian general had thirty thousand men. Napoleon could

take with him but twenty thousand. He, however, was intent upon gaining

a corresponding advantage in falling upon the enemy by surprise. The

march of sixty miles was accomplished with a rapidity such as no army

had ever attempted before. On the evening of the 6th, Wurmser heard with

consternation that the corps of Davidovich was annihilated. He was awoke

from his slumbers before the dawn of the next morning by the thunders of

Napoleon's cannon in his rear. The brave old veteran, bewildered by

tactics so strange and unheard of, accumulated his army as rapidly as

possible in battle array at Bassano. Napoleon allowed him but a few

moments for preparation. The troops on both sides now began to feel that

Napoleon was invincible. The French were elated by constant victory. The

Austrians were disheartened by uniform and uninterrupted defeat. The

battle at Bassano was but a renewal of the sanguinary scene at Roveredo.

The sun went down as the horrid carnage continued, and darkness vailed

the awful spectacle from human eyes. Horses and men, the mangled, the

dying, the dead, in indiscriminate confusion were piled upon each other.

The groans of the wounded swelled upon the night air; while in the

distance the deep booming of the cannon of the pursuers and the pursued

echoed along the mountains. There was no time to attend to the claims of

humanity. The dead were left unburied, and not a combatant could be

spared from the ranks to give a cup of water to the wounded and the

dying. Destruction, not salvation was the business of the hour.

Wurmser, with but sixteen thousand men remaining to him of the proud

array of fifty-five thousand with which, but a few days before, he had

marched from Trent, retreated to find shelter within the walls of

Mantua. Napoleon pursued him with the most terrible energy, from every

eminence plunging cannon-balls into his retreating ranks. When Wurmser

arrived at Mantua the garrison sallied out to aid him. Unitedly they

fell upon Napoleon. The battle of St. George was fought, desperate and

most bloody. The Austrians, routed at every point, were driven within

the walls. Napoleon resumed the siege. Wurmser, with the bleeding

fragment of his army, was held a close prisoner. Thus terminated this

campaign of _ten days_. In this short time Napoleon had destroyed a

third Austrian army, more than twice as numerous as his own. The field

was swept clean of his enemies. Not a man was left to oppose him.

Victories so amazing excited astonishment throughout all Europe. Such

results had never before been recorded in the annals of ancient or

modern warfare.

While engaged in the rapid march from Roveredo, a discontented soldier,

emerging from the ranks, addressed Napoleon, pointing to his tattered

garments, and said, "We soldiers, notwithstanding all our victories, are

clothed in rags." Napoleon, anxious to arrest the progress of discontent

among his troops, with that peculiar tact which he had ever at command,

looked kindly upon him and said, "You forget, my brave friend, that with

a new coat, your honorable scars would no longer be visible." This well

timed compliment was received with shouts of applause from the ranks.

The anecdote spread like lightning among the troops, and endeared

Napoleon still more to every soldier in the army.

[Illustration: THE SOLITARY BIVOUAC]

The night before the battle of Bassano, in the eagerness of the march,

Napoleon had advanced far beyond the main column of the army. He had

received no food during the day, and had enjoyed no sleep for several

nights. A poor soldier had a crust of bread in his knapsack. He broke

it in two, and gave his exhausted and half famished general one half.

After this frugal supper, the commander-in-chief of the French army

wrapt himself in his cloak, and threw himself unprotected upon the

ground, by the side of the soldier, for an hour's slumber. After ten

years had passed away, and Napoleon, then Emperor of France, was making

a triumphal tour through Belgium, this same soldier stepped out from the

ranks of a regiment, which the emperor was reviewing, and said, "Sire!

on the eve of the battle of Bassano, I shared with you my crust of

bread, when you were hungry. I now ask from you bread for my father, who

is worn down with age and poverty." Napoleon immediately settled a

pension upon the old man, and promoted the soldier to a lieutenancy.

After the battle of Bassano, in the impetuosity of the pursuit,

Napoleon, spurring his horse to his utmost speed, accompanied but by a

few followers, entered a small village quite in advance of the main body

of his army. Suddenly Wurmser, with a strong division of the Austrians,

debouched upon the plain. A peasant woman informed him that but a moment

before Napoleon had passed her cottage. Wurmser, overjoyed at the

prospect of obtaining a prize which would remunerate him for all his

losses, instantly dispatched parties of cavalry in every direction for

his capture. So sure was he of success, that he strictly enjoined it

upon them to bring him in alive. The fleetness of Napoleon's horse saved

him.

In the midst of these terrible conflicts, when the army needed every

possible stimulus to exertion, Napoleon exposed himself like a common

soldier, at every point where danger appeared most imminent. On one of

these occasions a pioneer, perceiving the imminent peril in which the

commander-in-chief had placed himself, abruptly and authoritively

exclaimed to him, "Stand aside." Napoleon fixed his keen glance upon

him, when the veteran with a strong arm thrust him away, saying, "If

thou art killed who is to rescue us from this jeopardy?" and placed his

own body before him. Napoleon appreciated the sterling value of the

action, and uttered no reproof. After the battle he ordered the pioneer

to be sent to his presence. Placing his hand kindly upon his shoulder he

said, "My friend! your noble boldness claims my esteem. Your bravery

demands a recompense. From this hour an epaulet instead of a hatchet

shall grace your shoulder." He was immediately raised to the rank of an

officer.

The generals in the army were overawed by the genius and the magnanimity

of their young commander. They fully appreciated his vast superiority,

and approached him with restraint and reverence. The common soldiers,

however, loved him as a father, and went to him freely, with the

familiarity of children. In one of those terrific battles, when the

result had been long in suspense, just as the searching glance of

Napoleon had detected a fault in the movements of the enemy, of which

he was upon the point of taking the most prompt advantage, a private

soldier, covered with the dust and the smoke of the battle, sprung from

the ranks and exclaimed, "General! send a squadron _there_, and the

victory is ours." "You rogue!" rejoined Napoleon, "where did you get my

secret?" In a few moments the Austrians were flying in dismay before the

impetuous charges of the French cavalry. Immediately after the battle

Napoleon sent for the soldier who had displayed such military genius. He

was found dead upon the field. A bullet had pierced his brain. Had he

lived he would but have added another star to that brilliant galaxy,

with which the throne of Napoleon was embellished.

"Perhaps in that neglected spot is laid,

A heart once pregnant with celestial fire,

Hands which the rod of empire might have swayed.

Or waked to ecstasy the living lyre."

The night after the battle of Bassano, the moon rose cloudless and

brilliant over the sanguinary scene. Napoleon, who seldom exhibited any

hilarity or even exhilaration of spirits in the hour of victory, rode,

as was his custom, over the plain, covered with the bodies of the dying

and the dead, and, silent and thoughtful, seemed lost in painful

reverie. It was midnight. The confusion and the uproar of the battle had

passed away, and the deep silence of the calm starlight night was only

disturbed by the moans of the wounded and the dying. Suddenly a dog

sprung from beneath the cloak of his dead master, and rushed to

Napoleon, as if frantically imploring his aid, and then rushed back

again to the mangled corpse, licking the blood from the face and the

hands, and howling most piteously. Napoleon was deeply moved by the

affecting scene, and involuntarily stopped his horse to contemplate it.

In relating the event, many years afterward, he remarked, "I know not

how it was, but no incident upon any field of battle ever produced so

deep an impression upon my feelings. This man, thought I, must have had

among his comrades friends; and yet here he lies forsaken by all except

his faithful dog. What a strange being is man! How mysterious are his

impressions! I had, without emotion, ordered battles which had decided

the fate of armies. I had, with tearless eyes, beheld the execution of

those orders, in which thousands of my countrymen were slain. And yet

here my sympathies were most deeply and resistlessly moved by the

mournful howling of a dog. Certainly in that moment I should have been

unable to refuse any request to a suppliant enemy."

[Illustration: THE DEAD SOLDIER AND HIS DOG.]

Austria was still unsubdued. With a perseverance worthy of all

admiration, had it been exercised in a better cause, the Austrian

government still refused to make peace with republican France. The

energies of the empire were aroused anew to raise a fourth army.

England, contending against France wherever her navy or her troops could

penetrate, was the soul of this warfare. She animated the cabinet of

Vienna, and aided the Austrian armies with her strong co-operation and

her gold. The _people_ of England, republican in their tendencies, and

hating the utter despotism of the old monarchy of France, were clamorous

for peace. But the royal family and the aristocracy in general, were

extremely unwilling to come to any amicable terms with a nation which

had been guilty of the crime of renouncing monarchy.

All the resources of the Austrian government were now devoted to

recruiting and equipping a new army. With the wrecks of Wurmser's

troops, with detachments from the Rhine, and fresh levies from the bold

peasants of the Tyrol, in less than a month an army of nearly one

hundred thousand men was assembled. The enthusiasm throughout Austria,

in raising and animating these recruits, was so great that the city of

Vienna alone contributed four battalions. The empress, with her own

hand, embroidered their colors and presented them to the troops. All the

noble ladies of the realm devoted their smiles and their aid to inspire

the enterprise. About seventy-five thousand men were rendezvoused in the

gorges of the northern Tyrol, ready to press down upon Napoleon from the

north, while the determined garrison of twenty-five thousand men, under

the brave Wurmser, cooped up in Mantua, were ready to emerge at a

moment's warning. Thus in about three weeks another army of one hundred

thousand men was ready to fall upon Napoleon. His situation now seemed

absolutely desperate. The reinforcements he had received from France had

been barely sufficient to repair the losses sustained by disease and the

sword. He had but thirty thousand men. His funds were all exhausted. His

troops, notwithstanding they were in the midst of the most brilliant

blaze of victories, had been compelled to strain every nerve of

exertion. They were also suffering the severest privations, and began

loudly to murmur. "Why," they exclaimed, "do we not receive succor from

France? We can not alone contend against all Europe. We have already

destroyed three armies, and now a fourth, still more numerous, is rising

against us. Is there to be no end to these interminable battles?"

Napoleon was fully sensible of the peril of his position, and while he

allowed his troops a few weeks of repose, his energies were strained to

their very utmost tension in preparing for the all but desperate

encounter now before him. The friends and the enemies of Napoleon alike

regarded his case as nearly hopeless. The Austrians had by this time

learned that it was not safe to divide their forces in the presence of

so vigilant a foe. Marching down upon his exhausted band with

seventy-five thousand men to attack him in front, and with twenty-five

thousand veteran troops, under the brave Wurmser, to sally from the

ramparts of Mantua and assail him in the rear, it seemed to all

reasonable calculation that the doom of the French army was sealed.

Napoleon in the presence of his army assumed an air of most perfect

confidence, but he was fearfully apprehensive that, by the power of

overwhelming numbers, his army would be destroyed. The appeal which,

under the circumstances, he wrote to the Directory for reinforcements,

is sublime in its dignity and its eloquence. "All of our superior

officers, all of our best generals, are either dead or wounded. The army

of Italy, reduced to a handful of men, is exhausted. The heroes of

Millesimo, of Lodi, of Castiglione, of Bassano, have died for their

country, or are in the hospitals. Nothing is left to the army but its

glory and its courage. We are abandoned at the extremity of Italy. The

brave men who are left me have no prospect but inevitable death amidst

changes so continual and with forces so inferior. Perhaps the hour of

the brave Augereau, of the intrepid Massena is about to strike. This

consideration renders me cautious. I dare not brave death when it would

so certainly be the ruin of those who have so long been the object of my

solicitude. The army has done its duty. I do mine. My conscience is at

ease, but my soul is lacerated. I never have received a fourth part of

the succors which the minister of war has announced in his dispatches.

My health is so broken that I can with difficulty sit upon horseback.

The enemy can now count our diminished ranks. Nothing is left me but

courage. But that alone is not sufficient for the post which I occupy.

Troops, or Italy is lost."

Napoleon addressed his soldiers in a very different strain, endeavoring

to animate their courage by concealing from them his anxieties. "We have

but one more effort to make," said he, "and Italy is our own. True, the

enemy is more numerous than we; but half his troops are recruits, who

can never stand before the veterans of France. When Alvinzi is beaten

Mantua must fall, and our labors are at an end. Not only Italy, but a

general peace is to be gained by the capture of Mantua."

During the three weeks in which the Austrians were recruiting their army

and the French were reposing around the walls of Mantua, Napoleon made

the most Herculean exertions to strengthen his position in Italy, and to

disarm those states which were manifesting hostility against him. During

this period his labors as a statesman and a diplomatist were even more

severe than his toils as a general. He allowed himself no stated time

for food or repose, but day and night devoted himself incessantly to his

work. Horse after horse sunk beneath him, in the impetuous speed with

which he passed from place to place. He dictated innumerable

communications to the Directory, respecting treaties of peace with Rome,

Naples, Venice, Genoa. He despised the feeble Directory, with its

shallow views, conscious that unless wiser counsels than they proposed

should prevail, the republic would be ruined. "So long," said he, "as

your general shall not be the centre of all influence in Italy, every

thing will go wrong. It would be easy to accuse me of ambition, but I am

satiated with honor and worn down with care. Peace with Naples is

indispensable. You must conciliate Venice and Genoa. The influence of

Rome is incalculable. You did wrong to break with that power. We must

secure friends for the Italian army, both among kings and people. The

general in Italy must be the fountain-head of negotiation as well as of

military operations." These were bold assumptions for a young man of

twenty-five. But Napoleon was conscious of his power. He now listened to

the earnest entreaties of the people of the duchy of Modena and of the

papal states of Bologna and Ferrara, and, in consequence of treachery on

the part of the Duke of Modena and the Pope, emancipated those states

and constituted them into a united and independent Republic. As the

whole territory included under this new government extended south of the

Po, Napoleon named it the Cispadane Republic, that is the _This side of

the Po_ Republic. It contained about a million and a half of

inhabitants, compactly gathered in one of the most rich, and fertile,

and beautiful regions of the globe. The joy and the enthusiasm of the

people, thus blessed with a free government, surpassed all bounds.

Wherever Napoleon appeared he was greeted with every demonstration of

affection. He assembled at Modena a convention, composed of lawyers,

landed proprietors, and merchants to organize the government. All leaned

upon the mind of Napoleon, and he guided their counsels with the most

consummate wisdom. Napoleon's abhorrence of the anarchy which had

disgraced the Jacobin reign in France, and his reverence for law were

made very prominent on this occasion. "Never forget," said he in an

address to the Assembly, "that laws are mere nullities without the

necessary force to sustain them. Attend to your military organization,

which you have the means of placing upon a respectable footing. You will

then be more fortunate than the people of France. You will attain

liberty without passing through the ordeal of revolution."

The Italians were an effeminate people and quite unable to cope in arms

with the French or the Austrians. Yet the new republic manifested its

zeal and attachment for its youthful founder so strongly, that a

detachment of Austrians having made a sally from Mantua, they

immediately sprang to arms, took it prisoner, and conducted it in

triumph to Napoleon. When the Austrians saw that Napoleon was

endeavoring to make soldiers of the Italians, they ridiculed the idea,

saying that they had tried the experiment in vain, and that it was not

possible for an Italian to make a good soldier. "Notwithstanding this,"

said Napoleon, "I raised many thousands of Italians, who fought with a

bravery equal to that of the French, and who did not desert me even in

my adversity. What was the cause? I abolished flogging. Instead of the

lash I introduced the stimulus of honor. Whatever debases a man can not

be serviceable. What honor can a man possibly have who is flogged before

his comrades. When a soldier has been debased by stripes he cares little

for his own reputation or for the honor of his country. After an action

I assembled the officers and soldiers and inquired who had proved

themselves heroes. Such of them as were able to read and write I

promoted. Those who were not I ordered to study five hours a day, until

they had learned a sufficiency, and then promoted them. Thus I

substituted honor and emulation for terror and the lash."

He bound the Duke of Parma and the Duke of Tuscany to him by ties of

friendship. He cheered the inhabitants of Lombardy with the hope, that

as soon as extricated from his present embarrassments, he would do

something for the promotion of their independence. Thus with the skill

of a veteran diplomatist he raised around him friendly governments, and

availed himself of all the resources of politics to make amends for the

inefficiency of the Directory. Never was a man placed in a situation

where more delicacy of tact was necessary. The Republican party in all

the Italian states were clamorous for the support of Napoleon, and

waited but his permission to raise the standard of revolt. Had the

slightest encouragement been given the whole peninsula would have

plunged into the horrors of civil war; and the awful scenes which had

been enacted in Paris would have been re-enacted in every city in Italy.

The aristocratic party would have been roused to perfect desperation,

and the situation of Napoleon would have been still more precarious. It

required consummate genius as a statesman, and moral courage of the

highest order, to wield such opposing influences. But the greatness of

Napoleon shone forth even more brilliantly in the cabinet than in the

field. The course which he had pursued had made him extremely popular

with the Italians. They regarded him as their countryman. They were

proud of his fame. He was driving from their territory the haughty

Austrians whom they hated. He was the enemy of despots, the friend of

the people. Their own beautiful language was his mother tongue. He was

familiar with their manners and customs, and they felt flattered by his

high appreciation of their literature and arts.

Napoleon, in the midst of these stormy scenes, also dispatched an

armament from Leghorn, to wrest his native island of Corsica from the

dominion of the English. Scott, in allusion to the fact that Napoleon

never manifested any special attachment for the obscure island of his

birth, beautifully says, "He was like the young lion, who, while he is

scattering the herds and destroying the hunters, thinks little of the

forest cave in which he first saw the light." But at St. Helena Napoleon

said, and few will read his remarks without emotion, "What recollections

of childhood crowd upon my memory, when my thoughts are no longer

occupied with political subjects, or with the insults of my jailer upon

this rock. I am carried back to my first impressions of the life of man.

It seems to me always in these moments of calm, that I should have been

the happiest man in the world, with an income of twenty-five hundred

dollars a year, living as the father of a family, with my wife and son,

in our old house at Ajaccio. You, Montholon, remember its beautiful

situation. You have often despoiled it of its finest bunches of grapes,

when you ran off with Pauline to satisfy your childish appetite. Happy

hours! The natal soil has infinite charms. Memory embellishes it with

all its attractions, even to the very odor of the ground, which one can

so realize to the senses, as to be able with the eyes shut, to tell the

spot first trodden by the foot of childhood. I still remember with

emotion the most minute details of a journey in which I accompanied

Paoli. More than five hundred of us, young persons of the first families

in the island, formed his guard of honor. I felt proud of walking by

his side, and he appeared to take pleasure in pointing out to me, with

paternal affection, the passes of our mountains which had been witnesses

of the heroic struggle of our countrymen for independence. The

impression made upon me still vibrates in my heart. Come, place your

hand," said he to Montholon, "upon my bosom! See how it beats!" "And it

was true," Montholon remarks, "his heart did beat with such rapidity as

would have excited my astonishment, had I not been acquainted with his

organization, and with the kind of electric commotion which his thoughts

communicated to his whole being." "It is like the sound of a church

bell," continued Napoleon. "There is none upon this rock. I am no longer

accustomed to hear it. But the tones of a bell never fall upon my ear

without awakening within me the emotions of childhood. The Angelus bell

transported me back to pensive yet pleasant memories, when in the midst

of earnest thoughts and burdened with the weight of an imperial crown, I

heard its first sounds under the shady woods of St. Cloud. And often

have I been supposed to have been revolving the plan of a campaign or

digesting an imperial law, when my thoughts were wholly absorbed in

dwelling upon the first impressions of my youth. Religion is in fact the

dominion of the soul. It is the hope of life, the anchor of safety, the

deliverance from evil. What a service has Christianity rendered to

humanity! What a power would it still have, did its ministers comprehend

their mission."

Early in November the Austrians commenced their march. The cold winds of

winter were sweeping through the defiles of the Tyrol, and the summits

of the mountains were white with snow. But it was impossible to postpone

operations; for unless Wurmser were immediately relieved Mantua must

fall, and with it would fall all hopes of Austrian dominion in Italy.

The hardy old soldier had killed all his horses, and salted them down

for provisions; but even that coarse fare was nearly exhausted, and he

had succeeded in sending word to Alvinzi that he could not possibly hold

out more than six weeks longer. Napoleon, the moment he heard that the

Austrians were on the move, hastened to the head-quarters of the army at

Verona. He had stationed General Vaubois, with twelve thousand men, a

few miles north of Trent, in a narrow defile among the mountains to

watch the Austrians, and to arrest their first advances. Vaubois and his

division, overwhelmed by numbers, retreated, and thus vastly magnified

the peril of the army. The moment Napoleon received the disastrous

intelligence, he hastened, with such troops as he could collect, like

the sweep of the wind, to rally the retreating forces and check the

progress of the enemy. And here he singularly displayed that thorough

knowledge of human nature which enabled him so effectually to control

and to inspire his army. Deeming it necessary, in his present peril,

that every man should be a hero, and that every regiment should be

nerved by the determination to conquer or to die, he resolved to make a

severe example of those whose panic had proved so nearly fatal to the

army. Like a whirlwind, surrounded by his staff, he swept into the camp,

and ordered immediately the troops to be collected in a circle around

him. He sat upon his horse, and every eye was fixed upon the pale and

wan, and wasted features of their young and adored general. With a stern

and saddened voice he exclaimed, "Soldiers! I am displeased with you.

You have evinced neither discipline nor valor. You have allowed

yourselves to be driven from positions where a handful of resolute men

might have arrested an army. You are no longer French soldiers! Chief of

the staff, cause it to be written on their standards, _They are no

longer of the army of Italy_."

The influence of these words upon those impassioned men, proud of their

renown and proud of their leader, was almost inconceivable. The terrible

rebuke fell upon them like a thunderbolt. Tears trickled down the cheeks

of these battered veterans. Many of them actually groaned aloud in their

anguish. The laws of discipline could not restrain the grief which burst

from their ranks. They broke their array, crowded around the general,

exclaiming, "we have been misrepresented; the enemy were three to our

one; try us once more; place us in the post of danger, and see if we do

not belong to the army of Italy!" Napoleon relented, and spoke kindly to

them, promising to afford them an early opportunity to retrieve their

reputation. In the next battle he placed them in the van. Contending

against fearful odds they accomplished all that mortal valor could

accomplish, rolling back upon the Austrians the tide of victory. Such

was the discipline of Napoleon. He needed no blood-stained lash to scar

the naked backs of his men. He ruled over mind. His empire was in the

soul. "My soldiers," said he "are my children." The effect of this

rebuke was incalculable. There was not an officer or a soldier in the

army who was not moved by it. It came exactly at the right moment, when

it was necessary that every man in the army should be inspired with

absolute desperation of valor.

Alvinzi sent a peasant across the country to carry dispatches to Wurmser

in the beleaguered city. The information of approaching relief was

written upon very thin paper, in a minute hand, and inclosed in a ball

of wax, not much larger than a pea. The spy was intercepted. He was seen

to swallow the ball. The stomach was compelled to surrender its trust,

and Napoleon became acquainted with Alvinzi's plan of operation. He left

ten thousand men around the walls of Mantua, to continue the blockade,

and assembled the rest of his army, consisting only of fifteen thousand,

in the vicinity of Verona. The whole valley of the Adige was now

swarming with the Austrian battalions. At night the wide horizon seemed

illuminated with the blaze of their camp fires. The Austrians,

conscious of their vast superiority in numbers, were hastening to

envelop the French. Already forty thousand men were circling around the

little band of fifteen thousand who were rallied under the eagles of

France. The Austrians, wary in consequence of their past defeats, moved

with the utmost caution, taking possession of the most commanding

positions. Napoleon, with sleepless vigilance, watched for some exposed

point, but in vain. The soldiers understood the true posture of affairs,

and began to feel disheartened, for their situation was apparently

desperate. The peril of the army was so great, that even the sick and

the wounded in the hospitals at Milan, Pavia, and Lodi, voluntarily left

their beds and hastened, emaciate with suffering, and many of them with

their wounds still bleeding, to resume their station in the ranks. The

soldiers were deeply moved by this affecting spectacle, so indicative of

their fearful peril and of the devotion of their comrades to the

interests of the army. Napoleon resolved to give battle immediately,

before the Austrians should accumulate in still greater numbers.

A dark, cold winter's storm was deluging the ground with rain, as

Napoleon roused his troops from the drenched sods upon which they were

slumbering. The morning had not yet dawned through the surcharged

clouds, and the freezing wind, like a tornado, swept the bleak hills. It

was an awful hour in which to go forth to encounter mutilation and

death. The enterprise was desperate. Fifteen thousand Frenchmen, with

frenzied violence, were to hurl themselves upon the serried ranks of

forty thousand foes. The horrid carnage soon began. The roar of the

battle, the shout of onset, and the shriek of the dying, mingled in

midnight gloom, with the appalling rush and wail of the tempest. The

ground was so saturated with rain that it was almost impossible for the

French to drag their cannon through the miry ruts. As the darkness of

night passed and the dismal light of a stormy day was spread around

them, the rain changed to snow, and the struggling French were smothered

and blinded by the storm of sleet whirled furiously into their faces.

Through the live-long day this terrific battle of man and of the

elements raged unabated. When night came the exhausted soldiers,

drenched with rain and benumbed with cold, threw themselves upon the

blood-stained snow, in the midst of the dying and of the dead. Neither

party claimed the victory, and neither acknowledged defeat. No pen can

describe, nor can imagination conceive, the horrors of the dark and

wailing night of storm and sleet which ensued. Through the long hours

the groans of the wounded, scattered over many miles swept by the

battle, blended in mournful unison with the wailings of the tempest. Two

thousand of Napoleon's little band were left dead upon the field, and a

still larger number of Austrian corpses were covered with the

winding-sheet of snow. Many a blood-stained drift indicated the long and

agonizing struggle of the wounded ere the motionlessness of death

consummated the dreadful tragedy. It is hard to die even in the

curtained chambers of our ceiled houses, with sympathizing friends

administering every possible alleviation. Cold must have been those

pillows of snow, and unspeakably dreadful the solitude of those death

scenes, on the bleak hill sides and in the muddy ravines, where

thousands of the young, the hopeful, the sanguine, in horrid mutilation,

struggled through the long hours of the tempestuous night in the agonies

of dissolution. Many of these young men were from the first families in

Austria and in France, and had been accustomed to every indulgence. Far

from mother, sister, brother, drenched with rain, covered with the

drifting snow, alone--all alone with the midnight darkness and the

storm--they writhed and moaned through lingering hours of agony.

The Austrian forces still were accumulating, and the next day Napoleon

retired within the walls of Verona. It was the first time he had seemed

to retreat before his foes. His star began to wane. The soldiers were

silent and dejected. An ignominious retreat after all their victories,

or a still more ignominious surrender to the Austrians appeared their

only alternative. Night again came. The storm had passed away. The moon

rose clear and cold over the frozen hills. Suddenly the order was

proclaimed, in the early darkness, for the whole army, in silence and

celerity, to be upon the march. Grief sat upon every countenance. The

western gates of the city, looking toward France were thrown open. The

rumbling of the artillery wheels, and the sullen tramp of the dejected

soldiers fell heavily upon the night air. Not a word was spoken. Rapidly

the army emerged from the gates, crossed the river, and pressed along

the road toward France, leaving their foes slumbering behind them,

unconscious of their flight. The depression of the soldiers thus

compelled at last, as they supposed, to retreat, was extreme. Suddenly,

and to the perplexity of all, Napoleon wheeled his columns into another

road, which followed down the valley of the Adige. No one could imagine

whither he was leading them. He hastened along the banks of the river,

in most rapid march, about fourteen miles, and, just at midnight,

recrossed the stream, and came upon the rear of the Austrian army. Here

the soldiers found a vast morass, many miles in extent, traversed by

several narrow causeways, in these immense marshes superiority in number

was of little avail, as the heads of the column only could meet. The

plan of Napoleon instantly flashed upon the minds of the intelligent

French soldiers. They appreciated at once the advantage he had thus

skillfully secured for them. Shouts of joy ran through the ranks. Their

previous dejection was succeeded by corresponding elation.

It was midnight. Far and wide along the horizon blazed the fires of the

Austrian camps, while the French were in perfect darkness. Napoleon,

emaciate with care and toil, and silent in intensity of thought, as calm

and unperturbed as the clear, cold, serene winter's night, stood upon

an eminence observing the position, and estimating the strength of his

foes. He had but thirteen thousand troops. Forty thousand Austrians,

crowding the hill sides with their vast array, were manoeuvring to

envelop and to crush him. But now indescribable enthusiasm animated the

French army. They no longer doubted of success. Every man felt confident

that the _Little Corporal_ was leading them again to a glorious victory.

In the centre of these wide spreading morasses was the village of

Arcola, approached only by narrow dykes and protected by a stream,

crossed by a small wooden bridge. A strong division of the Austrian army

was stationed here. It was of the first importance that this position

should be taken from the enemy. Before the break of day the solid

columns of Napoleon were moving along the narrow passages, and the

fierce strife commenced. The soldiers, with loud shouts, rushed upon the

bridge. In an instant the whole head of the column was swept away by a

volcanic burst of fire. Napoleon sprung from his horse, seized a

standard, and shouted, "Conquerors of Lodi, follow your general!" He

rushed at the head of the column, leading his impetuous troops through a

perfect hurricane of balls and bullets, till he arrived at the centre of

the bridge. Here the tempest of fire was so dreadful that all were

thrown into confusion. Clouds of smoke enveloped the bridge in almost

midnight darkness. The soldiers recoiled, and trampling over the dead

and dying, in wild disorder retreated. The tall grenadiers seized the

fragile and wasted form of Napoleon in their arms as if he had been a

child, and regardless of their own danger, dragged him from the mouth of

this terrible battery. But in the tumult they were forced over the dyke,

and Napoleon was plunged into the morass and was left almost smothered

in the mire. The Austrians were already between Napoleon and his column,

when the anxious soldiers perceived, in the midst of the darkness and

the tumult, that their beloved chief was missing. The wild cry arose,

"Forward to save your general." Every heart thrilled at this cry. The

whole column instantly turned, and regardless of death, inspired by love

for their general, rushed impetuously, irresistibly upon the bridge.

Napoleon was extricated and Arcola was taken.

[Illustration: THE MARSHES OF ARCOLA.]

As soon as the morning dawned, Alvinzi perceived that Verona was

evacuated, and in astonishment he heard the thunder of Napoleon's guns

reverberating over the marshes which surrounded Arcola. He feared the

genius of his adversary, and his whole army was immediately in motion.

All day long the battle raged on those narrow causeways, the heads of

the columns rushing against each other with indescribable fury, and the

dead and the dying filling the morass. The terrible rebuke which had

been inflicted upon the division of Vaubois still rung in the ears of

the French troops, and every officer and every man resolved to prove

that _he_ belonged to the army of Italy. Said Augereau, as he rushed

into the mouth of a perfect volcano of flame and fire, "Napoleon may

break my sword over my dead body, but he shall never cashier _me_ in the

presence of my troops." Napoleon was every where, exposed to every

danger, now struggling through the dead and the dying on foot, heading

the impetuous charge; now galloping over the dykes, with the balls from

the Austrian batteries plowing the ground around him. Wherever his voice

was heard, and his eye fell, tenfold enthusiasm inspired his men.

Lannes, though severely wounded, had hastened from the hospital at

Milan, to aid the army in this terrible emergence. He received three

wounds in endeavoring to protect Napoleon, and never left his side till

the battle was closed. Muiron, another of those gallant spirits, bound

to Napoleon by those mysterious ties of affection which this strange man

inspired, seeing a bomb shell about to explode, threw himself between it

and Napoleon, saving the life of his beloved general by the sacrifice of

his own. The darkness of night separated the combatants for a few hours,

but before the dawn of the morning the murderous assault was renewed,

and continued with unabated violence through the whole ensuing day. The

French veterans charged with the bayonet, and hurled the Austrians with

prodigious slaughter into the marsh. Another night came and went. The

gray light of another cold winter's morning appeared faintly in the

east, when the soldiers sprang again from their freezing, marshy beds,

and in the dense clouds of vapor and of smoke which had settled down

over the morass, with the fury of blood-hounds rushed again to the

assault. In the midst of this terrible conflict a cannon-ball fearfully

mangled the horse upon which Napoleon was riding. The powerful animal,

frantic with pain and terror, became perfectly unmanageable. Seizing the

bit in his teeth, he rushed through the storm of bullets directly into

the midst of the Austrian ranks. He then, in the agonies of death,

plunged into the morass and expired. Napoleon was left struggling in the

swamp up to his neck in the mire. Being perfectly helpless, he was

expecting every moment either to sink and disappear in that inglorious

grave, or that some Austrian dragoon would sabre his head from his body

or with a bullet pierce his brain. Enveloped in clouds of smoke, in the

midst of the dismay and the uproar of the terrific scene, he chanced to

evade observation, until his own troops, regardless of every peril,

forced their way to his rescue. Napoleon escaped with but a few slight

wounds. Through the long day, the tide of war continued to ebb and to

flow upon these narrow dykes. Napoleon now carefully counted the number

of prisoners taken and estimated the amount of the slain. Computing thus

that the enemy did not outnumber him by more than a third, he resolved

to march out into the open plain for a decisive conflict. He relied upon

the enthusiasm and the confidence of his own troops and the dejection

with which he knew that the Austrians were oppressed. In these

impassable morasses it was impossible to operate with the cavalry. Three

days of this terrible conflict had now passed. In the horrible carnage

of these days Napoleon had lost 8000 men, and he estimated that the

Austrians could not have lost less, in killed, wounded, and prisoners,

than 20,000. Both armies were utterly exhausted, and those hours of

dejection and lassitude had ensued in which every one wished that the

battle was at an end.

It was midnight. Napoleon, sleepless and fasting, seemed insensible to

exhaustion either of body or of mind. He galloped along the dykes from

post to post, with his whole soul engrossed with preparations for the

renewal of the conflict. Now he checked his horse to speak in tones of

consolation to a wounded soldier, and again by a few words of kind

encouragement animated an exhausted sentinel. At two o'clock in the

morning the whole army, with the ranks sadly thinned, was again roused

and ranged in battle array. It was a cold, damp morning, and the weary

and half-famished soldiers shivered in their lines. A dense, oppressive

fog covered the flooded marsh and added to the gloom of the night.

Napoleon ordered fifty of the guards to struggle with their horses

through the swamp, and conceal themselves in the rear of the enemy. With

incredible difficulty most of them succeeded in accomplishing this

object. Each dragoon had a trumpet. Napoleon commenced a furious attack

along the whole Austrian front. When the fire was the hottest, at an

appointed signal, the mounted guards sounded with their trumpets loudly

the charge, and with perfect desperation plunged into the ranks of the

enemy. The Austrians, in the darkness and confusion of the night,

supposing that Murat,[1] with his whole body of cavalry, was thundering

down upon their rear, in dismay broke and fled. With demoniacal energy

the French troops pursued the victory, and before that day's sun went

down, the proud army of Alvinzi, now utterly routed, and having lost

nearly thirty thousand men, marking its path with a trail of blood, was

retreating into the mountains of Austria. Napoleon, with streaming

banners and exultant music, marched triumphantly back into Verona, by

the eastern gates, directly opposite those from which, three days

before, he had emerged. He was received by the inhabitants with the

utmost enthusiasm and astonishment. Even the enemies of Napoleon so

greatly admired the heroism and the genius of this wonderful

achievement, that they added their applause to that of his friends. This

was the fourth Austrian army which Napoleon had overthrown in less than

eight months, and each of them more than twice as numerous as his own.

In Napoleon's dispatches to the Directory, as usual, silent concerning

himself, and magnanimously attributing the victory to the heroism of the

troops, he says, "Never was a field of battle more valiantly disputed

than the conflict at Arcola. I have scarcely any generals left. Their

bravery and their patriotic enthusiasm are without example."

In the midst of all these cares he found time to write a letter of

sympathy to the widow of the brave Muiron. "You," he writes, "have lost

a husband who was dear to you; and I am bereft of a friend to whom I

have been long and sincerely attached. But our country has suffered more

than us both, in being deprived of an officer so pre-eminently

distinguished for his talents and his dauntless bravery. If it lies

within the scope of my ability to yield assistance to yourself, or your

infant, I beseech you to reckon upon my utmost exertions." It is

affecting to record that in a few weeks the woe-stricken widow gave

birth to a lifeless babe, and she and her little one sank into an

untimely grave together. The woes of war extend far and wide beyond the

blood-stained field of battle. Twenty thousand men perished around the

marshes of Arcola. And after the thunders of the strife had ceased, and

the groans of the dying were hushed in death, in twenty thousand distant

homes, far away on the plains of France, or in the peaceful glens of

Austria, the agony of that field of blood was renewed, as the tidings

reached them, and a wail burst forth from crushed and lacerated hearts,

which might almost have drowned the roar of that deadly strife.

How Napoleon could have found time in the midst of such terrific scenes

for the delicate attentions of friendship, it is difficult to conceive.

Yet to a stranger he wrote, announcing the death of a nephew, in the

following affecting terms: "He fell with glory and in the face of the

enemy, without suffering a moment of pain. Where is the man who would

not envy such a death? Who would not gladly accept the choice of thus

escaping from the vicissitudes of an unsatisfying world. Who has not

often regretted that he has not been thus withdrawn from the calumny,

the envy, and all the odious passions which seem the almost exclusive

directors of the conduct of mankind." It was in this pensive strain that

Napoleon wrote, when a young man of twenty-six, and in the midst of a

series of the most brilliant victories which mortal man had ever

achieved.

The moment the Austrians broke and fled, while the thunders of the

pursuing cannonade were reverberating over the plains, Napoleon seized a

pen and wrote to his faithful Josephine, with that impetuous energy, in

which "sentences were crowded into words, and words into letters." The

courier was dispatched, at the top of his speed, with the following

lines, which Josephine with no little difficulty deciphered. She deemed

them worth the study. "My adored Josephine! at length I live again.

Death is no longer before me, and glory and honor are still in my

breast. The enemy is beaten. Soon Mantua will be ours. Then thy husband

will fold thee in his arms, and give thee a thousand proofs of his

ardent affection. I am a little fatigued. I have received letters from

Eugene and Hortense. I am delighted with the children. Adieu, my

adorable Josephine. Think of me often. Should your heart grow cold

toward me, you will be indeed cruel and unjust. But I am sure that you

will always continue my faithful friend as I shall ever continue your

fond lover. Death alone can break the union which love, sentiment, and

sympathy have formed. Let me have news of your health. A thousand and a

thousand kisses."

A vein of superstition pervaded the mind of this extraordinary man. He

felt that he was the child of destiny--that he was led by an arm more

powerful than his own, and that an unseen guide was conducting him along

his perilous and bewildering pathway. He regarded life as of little

value, and contemplated death without any dread. "I am," said he, "the

creature of circumstances. I do but go where events point out the way. I

do not give myself any uneasiness about death. When a man's time is

come, he must go." "Are you a Predestinarian?" inquired O'Meara. "As

much so," Napoleon replied, "as the Turks are. I have been always so.

When destiny wills, it must be obeyed. I will relate an example. At the

siege of Toulon I observed an officer very careful of himself, instead

of exhibiting an example of courage to animate his men. 'Mr. Officer,'

said I, 'come out and observe the effect of your shot. You know not

whether your guns are well pointed or not.' Very reluctantly he came

outside of the parapet, to the place where I was standing. Wishing to

expose as little of his body as possible, he stooped down, and partially

sheltered himself behind the parapet, and looked under my arm. Just then

a shot came close to me, and low down, which knocked him to pieces. Now,

if this man had stood upright, he would have been safe as the ball would

have passed between us without hurting either." Maria Louisa, upon her

marriage with Napoleon, was greatly surprised to find that no sentinels

slept at the door of his chamber; that the doors even were not locked;

and that there were no guns or pistols in the room where they slept.

"Why," said she, "you do not take half so many precautions as my father

does." "I am too much of a fatalist," he replied, "to take any

precautions against assassination." O'Meara, at St. Helena, at one time

urged him to take some medicine. He declined, and calmly raising his

eyes to heaven, said, "That which is written is written. Our days are

numbered." Strange and inconsistent as it may seem, there is a form

which the doctrine of Predestination assumes in the human mind, which

arouses one to an intensity of exertion which nothing else could

inspire. Napoleon felt that he was destined to the most exalted

achievements. Therefore he consecrated himself through days of toil and

nights of sleeplessness to the most Herculean exertions that he might

work out his destiny. This sentiment which inspired Napoleon as a

philosopher, animated Calvin as a Christian. Instead of cutting the

sinews of exertion, as many persons would suppose it must, it did but

strain those sinews to their utmost tension.

Napoleon had obtained, at the time of his marriage, an exquisite

miniature of Josephine. This, in his romantic attachment, he had

suspended by a ribbon about his neck, and the cheek of Josephine ever

rested upon the pulsations of his heart. Though living in the midst of

the most exciting tumults earth has ever witnessed, his pensive and

reflective mind was solitary and alone. The miniature of Josephine was

his companion, and often during the march, and in the midnight bivouac,

he gazed upon it most fondly. "By what art is it," he once passionately

wrote, "that you, my sweet love, have been able to captivate all my

faculties, and to concentrate in yourself my moral existence? It is a

magic influence which will terminate only with my life. My adorable

wife! I know not what fate awaits me, but if it keep me much longer from

you, it will be insupportable. There was a time when I was proud of my

courage. When contemplating the various evils to which we are exposed, I

could fix my eyes steadfastly upon every conceivable calamity, without

alarm or dread. But now the idea that Josephine may be ill, and, above

all, the cruel thought that she may love me less, withers my soul, and

leaves me not even the courage of despair. Formerly I said to myself,

Man can not hurt him who can die without regret. But now to die without

being loved by Josephine is torment. My incomparable companion! thou

whom fate has destined to make, along with me, the painful journey of

life, the day on which I shall cease to possess thy heart will be to me

the day of utter desolation." On one occasion the glass covering the

miniature was found to be broken. Napoleon considered the accident a

fearful omen of calamity to the beloved original. He was so oppressed

with this presentiment, that a courier was immediately dispatched to

bring him tidings from Josephine.

It is not surprising that Napoleon should thus have won, in the heart of

Josephine the most enthusiastic love. "He is," said she, "the most

fascinating of men." Said the Duchess of Abrantes, "It is impossible to

describe the charm of Napoleon's countenance when he smiled. His soul

was upon his lips and in his eyes." "I never," said the Emperor

Alexander, "loved any man as I did that man." Says the Duke of Vicenza,

"I have known nearly all the crowned heads of the present day--all our

illustrious contemporaries. I have lived with several of those great

historical characters on a footing quite distinct from my diplomatic

duties. I have had every opportunity of comparing and judging. But it is

impossible to institute any comparison between Napoleon and any other

man. They who say otherwise did not know him." Says Duroc, "Napoleon is

endowed with a variety of faculties, any one of which would suffice to

distinguish a man from the multitude. He is the greatest captain of the

age. He is a statesman who directs the whole business of the country,

and superintends every branch of the service. He is a sovereign whose

ministers are merely his clerks. And yet this Colossus of gigantic

proportions can descend to the most trivial details of private life. He

can regulate the expenditure of his household as he regulates the

finances of the empire."

Notwithstanding Napoleon had now destroyed four Austrian armies, the

imperial court was still unsubdued, and still pertinaciously refused to

make peace with republican France. Herculean efforts were immediately

made to organize a fifth army to march again upon Napoleon. These

exciting scenes kept all Italy in a state of extreme fermentation. Every

day the separation between the aristocratic and the republican party

became more marked and rancorous. Austria and England exerted all their

arts of diplomacy to rouse the aristocratic governments of Rome, Venice,

and Naples to assail Napoleon in the rear, and thus to crush that spirit

of republican liberty so rapidly spreading through Italy, and which

threatened the speedy overthrow of all their thrones. Napoleon, in

self-defense, was compelled to call to his aid the sympathies of the

republican party, and to encourage their ardent aspirations for free

government.

And here again the candid mind is compelled to pause, and almost to

yield its assent to that doctrine of destiny which had obtained so

strong a hold upon the mind of Napoleon. How could it be expected that

those monarchs, with their thrones, their wealth, their pride, their

power, their education, their habits, should have submissively

relinquished their exalted inheritance, and have made an unconditional

surrender to triumphant democracy. Kings, nobles, priests, and all the

millions whose rank and property were suspended upon the perpetuity of

those old monarchies, could, by no possibility have been led to such a

measure. Unquestionably many were convinced that the interests of

humanity demanded the support of the established governments. They had

witnessed the accomplishments of democracy in France--a frenzied mob

sacking the palace, dragging the royal family, through every conceivable

insult, to dungeons and a bloody death, burning the chateaus of the

nobles, bruising with gory clubs upon the pavements, the most venerable

in rank and the most austere in virtue, dancing in brutal orgies around

the dissevered heads of the most illustrious and lovely ladies of the

realm, and dragging their dismembered limbs in derision through the

streets. Priests crowded the churches, praying to God to save them from

the horrors of democracy. Matrons and maidens trembled in their chambers

as they wrought with their own hands the banners of royalty, and with

moistened eyes and palpitating hearts they presented them to their

defenders.

On the other hand, how could republican France tamely succumb to her

proud and aristocratic enemies. "Kings," said a princess of the house of

Austria, "should no more regard the murmurs of the people than does the

moon the barking of dogs." How could the triumphant millions of France,

who had just overthrown this intolerable despotism, and whose hearts

were glowing with aspirations for liberty and equal rights, yield

without a struggle all they had attained at such an enormous expense of

blood and misery. They turned their eyes hopefully to the United States,

where our own Washington and their own La Fayette had fought, side by

side, and had established liberty gloriously; and they could not again

voluntarily place their necks beneath the yoke of kingly domination.

Despotism engenders ignorance and cruelty; and despotism did but reap

the awful harvest of blood and woe, of which, during countless ages of

oppression, it had been scattering broadcast the seed.

The enfranchised people could not allow the allied monarchs of Europe to

rear again, upon the soil of republican France, and in the midst of

thirty millions of freemen, an execrated and banished dynasty. This was

not a warfare of republican angels against aristocratic fiends, or of

refined, benevolent, intellectual loyalists against rancorous, reckless,

vulgar Jacobins. It was a warfare of frail and erring man against his

fellow--many, both monarchists and republicans, perhaps animated by

motives as corrupt as can influence the human heart. But it can not be

doubted that there were others on each side, who were influenced by

considerations as pure as can glow in the bosom of humanity. Napoleon

recognized and respected these verities. While he had no scruples

respecting his own duty to defend his country from the assaults of the

allied kings, he candidly respected his opponents. Candidly he said,

"Had I been surrounded by the influences which have surrounded these

gentlemen, I should doubtless have been fighting beneath their banners."

There is probably not a reader of these pages, who, had he been an

English or an Austrian noble, would not have fought those battles of the

monarchy, upon which his fortune, his power, and his rank were

suspended. And there probably is not a noble upon the banks of the

Danube or the Thames, who, had he been a young lawyer, merchant, or

artisan, with all his prospects in life depending upon his own merit and

exertions, would not have strained every nerve to hew down these

bulwarks of exclusive privilege, which the pride and oppression of ages

had reared. Such is man; and such his melancholy lot. We would not

detract from the wickedness of these wars, deluging Europe with blood

and woe. But God alone can award the guilt. We would not conceal that

all our sympathies are with the republicans struggling for their

unquestionable rights. But we may also refrain from casting unmerited

obloquy upon those, who were likewise struggling for every thing dear to

them in life.

The Directory, trembling in view of the vast renown Napoleon was

acquiring, and not at all relishing the idea of having the direction of

affairs thus unceremoniously taken from their hands, sent Gen. Clarke,

as an envoy, to Napoleon's head-quarters, to conduct negotiations with

the Austrians. Napoleon received him with great external courtesy, but

that there might be no embarrassing misunderstanding between them,

informed him in so many words, "If you come here to obey me, I shall

always see you with pleasure; if not, the sooner you return to those who

sent you the better." The proud envoy yielded at once to the

master-mind, and so completely was he brought under the influence of

its strange fascination, that he became a most enthusiastic admirer of

Napoleon, and wrote to the Directory, "It is indispensable that the

General-in-chief should conduct all the diplomatic operations in Italy."

While Alvinzi had been preparing his overwhelming host to crush

Napoleon, the Pope also, in secret alliance, had been collecting his

resources to attack the common foe. It was an act of treachery. Napoleon

called Mattei from his fastings and penance in the convent, and

commissioned him to go and say to the Pope: "Rome desires war. It shall

have war. But first I owe it to humanity to make a final effort to

recall the Pope to reason. My army is strong. I have but to will it and

the temporal power of the Pope is destroyed. Still France permits me to

listen to words of peace. War, so cruel for all, has terrible results

for the vanquished. I am anxious to close this struggle by peace. War

has for me now neither danger nor glory." The Pope, however, believing

that Austria would still crush Napoleon, met these menaces with

defiance. Napoleon, conscious that he could not then march upon Rome,

devoted all his energies to prepare for the onset of the Austrians,

while he kept a vigilant eye upon his enemies in the south. Some he

overawed. Others, by a change of government, he transformed into fast

friends. Four weeks passed rapidly away, and another vast Austrian army

was crowding down from the north with gigantic steps to relieve Mantua,

now in the last stage of starvation. Wurmser had succeeded in sending a

spy through the French lines, conveying the message to Alvinzi, that

unless relieved he could not possibly hold out many days longer.

Josephine had now come, at Napoleon's request, to reside at the

head-quarters of the army, that she might be near her husband. Napoleon

had received her with the most tender affection, and his exhausted frame

was re-invigorated by her soothing cares. He had no tendencies to

gallantry, which provoked Madame de Stael once to remark to him, "It is

reported that you are not very partial to the ladies." "I am very fond

of my wife, Madame," was his laconic reply. Napoleon had not a high

appreciation of the female character in general, and yet he highly

valued the humanizing and refining influence of polished female society.

"The English," said he, "appear to prefer the bottle to the society of

their ladies; as is exemplified by dismissing the ladies from the table,

and remaining for hours to drink and intoxicate themselves. Were I in

England I should certainly leave the table with the ladies. You do not

treat them with sufficient regard. If your object is to converse instead

of to drink, why not allow them to be present. Surely conversation is

never so lively or so witty as when ladies take a part in it. Were I an

Englishwoman I should feel very discontented at being turned out by the

men, to wait for two or three hours while they were guzzling their wine.

In France society is nothing unless ladies are present. They are the

life of conversation." At one time Josephine was defending her sex from

some remarks which he had made respecting their frivolity and

insincerity. "Ah! my dear Josephine," he replied, "they are all nothing

compared with you."

Notwithstanding the boundless wealth at Napoleon's disposal, when

Josephine arrived at the head-quarters of the army, he lived in a very

simple and frugal manner. Though many of his generals were rolling in

voluptuousness, he indulged himself in no ostentation in dress or

equipage. The only relaxation he sought was to spend an occasional hour

in the society of Josephine. In the midst of the movements of these

formidable armies, and just before a decisive battle, it was necessary

that she should take her departure to a place of greater safety. As she

was bidding her husband adieu, a cart passed by, loaded with the

mutilated forms of the wounded. The awful spectacle, and the

consciousness of the terrible peril of her husband moved her tender

feelings. She threw herself upon his neck and wept most bitterly.

Napoleon fondly encircled her in his arms, and said, "Wurmser shall pay

dearly for those tears which he causes thee to shed." Napoleon's

appearance at this time was deplorable in the extreme. His cheeks were

pallid and wan. He was as thin as a skeleton. His bright and burning eye

alone indicated that the fire of his soul was unextinguished. The

glowing energies of his mind sustained his emaciated and exhausted body.

The soldiers took pleasure in contrasting his mighty genius and his

world-wide renown, with his effeminate stature and his wasted and

enfeebled frame.

In allusion to the wonderful tranquillity of mind which Napoleon

retained in the midst of all harassments, disasters, and perils, he

remarked. "Nature seems to have calculated that I should endure great

reverses. She has given me a mind of marble. Thunder can not ruffle it.

The shaft merely glides along."

Early in January Alvinzi descended toward Mantua, from the mountains of

Austria. It was the fifth army which the Imperial Court had sent for the

destruction of the Republicans. The Tyrol was in the hands of the

French. Napoleon, to prevent the peasants from rising in guerrilla

bands, issued a decree that every Tyrolese taken in arms should be shot

as a brigand. Alvinzi replied, that for every peasant shot he would hang

a French prisoner of war. Napoleon rejoined, that for every French

prisoner thus slain he would gibbet an Austrian officer, commencing with

Alvinzi's own nephew, who was in his hands. A little reflection taught

both generals that it was not best to add to the inevitable horrors of

war by the execution of these sanguinary threats. With the utmost

vigilance Napoleon, with his army gathered around him in the vicinity of

Mantua, was watching the movements of his formidable enemy, uncertain

respecting his line of march, or upon what points the terrible onset was

to fall.

The 12th of January, 1797, was a dark, stormy winter's day. The sleet,

swept by the gale over the bleak mountains, covered the earth with an

icy mantle. The swollen streams, clogged with ice, roared through the

ravines. As the sun went down a clear belt of cloudless sky appeared

brilliant in the west. The storm passed away. The cold north wind blew

furiously, and the stars with unwonted lustre, adorned the wintry night.

As the twilight was fading a courier galloped into the camp with the

intelligence that the Austrians had made their appearance in vast

numbers upon the plains of Rivoli, and that they were attacking with

great fury the advanced post of the French stationed there. At the same

time another courier arrived informing him that a powerful division of

the Austrian army was moving in another direction to carry relief to

Mantua. It was a fearful dilemma. Should Napoleon wait for the junction

of these two armies to assail him in front, while the garrison in

Mantua, emerging from the walls should attack him in the rear, his

situation would be hopeless. Should he march to attack one army, he must

leave the road open for the other to enter Mantua with reinforcements

and relief. But Napoleon lost not one moment in deliberation.

Instinctively he decided upon the only course to be pursued. "The

French," said the Austrians, "do not march; they fly." With a rapidity

of movement which seems almost miraculous, before two o'clock in the

morning, Napoleon, with thirty thousand men, stood upon the snow-clad

heights overlooking the encampment of his sleeping foes. It was a

sublime and an appalling spectacle which burst upon his view. For miles

and miles the watch-fires of the mighty host filled the extended plain.

The night was clear, cold, and beautiful. Gloomy firs and pines frowned

along the sides of the mountains, silvered by the rays of an unclouded

moon. The keen eye of Napoleon instantly detected that there were fifty

thousand men, in five divisions of ten thousand each, whom he, with

thirty thousand was to encounter upon that plain. He also correctly

judged, from the position of the divisions, that the artillery had not

arrived, and resolved upon an immediate attack. At four o'clock in the

morning, the Austrians were roused from their slumbers by the rush of

Napoleon's battalions and by the thunders of his artillery. The day of

Rivoli! It was a long, long day of blood and woe. The tide of victory

ebbed and flowed. Again and again Napoleon seemed ruined. Night came,

and the genius of Napoleon had again triumphed. The whole plain was

covered with the dead and the dying. The Austrians, in wild terror, were

flying before the impetuous charges of the French cavalry; while from

every eminence cannon-balls were plunged into the dense ranks of the

fugitives. The genius of this stern warrior never appeared more terrible

than in the unsparing energy with which he rained down his blows upon a

defeated army. Napoleon had three horses shot under him during the day.

"The Austrians," said he, "manoeuvred admirably, and failed only because

they are incapable of calculating the value of minutes."

An event occurred in the very hottest of the battle which singularly

illustrates Napoleon's wonderful presence of mind. The Austrians had

completely enveloped him, cutting off his retreat, and attacking him in

front, flanks, and rear; the destruction of the army seemed inevitable.

Napoleon, to gain time, instantly sent a flag of truce to Alvinzi,

proposing a suspension of arms for half an hour, to attend to some

propositions to be made in consequence of dispatches just received from

Paris. The Austrian general fell into the snare. The roar of battle

ceased, and the blood-stained combatants rested upon their guns. Junot

repaired to the Austrian head-quarters, and kept Alvinzi busy for half

an hour in discussing the terms of accommodation. In the mean time

Napoleon had re-arranged his army to repel these numerous attacks. As

was to be expected, no terms could be agreed upon, and immediately the

murderous onset was renewed.

The scene displayed at the close of this battle was awful in the

extreme. The fugitive army, horse, foot, cannon, baggage-wagons, and

ammunition-carts struggled along in inextricable confusion through the

narrow passes, while a plunging fire from the French batteries produced

frightful havoc in the crowd. The occasional explosion of an

ammunition-wagon under this terrific fire, opened in the dense mass a

gap like the crater of a volcano, scattering far and wide over the field

the mangled limbs of the dead. The battle of Rivoli Napoleon ever

regarded as one of the most dreadful battles he ever fought, and one of

the most signal victories he ever won.

Leaving a few troops to pursue and harass the fugitives, Napoleon, that

very night, with the mass of his army, turned to arrest the Austrian

division of twenty thousand men under Provera, hastening to the

reinforcement of Mantua. He had already marched all of one night, and

fought all of the ensuing day. He allowed his utterly exhausted troops a

few hours for sleep, but closed not his own eyes. He still considered

the peril of his army so great as to demand the utmost vigilance. So

intense was his solicitude, that he passed the hours of the night, while

the rest were sleeping, in walking about the outposts. At one of them he

found a sentinel, utterly worn down by fatigue, asleep at the root of a

tree. Without awaking him, Napoleon took his gun and performed a

sentinel's duty in his place for half an hour. At last the poor man,

starting from his slumbers, overwhelmed with consternation, perceived

the countenance and the occupation of his general. He knew that death

was the penalty for such a crime, and he fell speechless upon his knees.

"My brave friend," said Napoleon kindly, "here is your musket. You have

marched long and fought hard, and your sleep is excusable. But a

moment's inattention at the present time might ruin the army. I happened

to be awake, and have held your post for you. You will be more careful

another time." It is not surprising that such deeds as these,

continually repeated at the campfires of the soldiers, should have

inspired them with the most enthusiastic admiration of their

commander-in-chief.

[Illustration: THE EXHAUSTED SENTINEL.]

The hour of midnight had hardly passed before the whole army was again

in motion. The dawn of the morning found them pressing on with all

possible speed, hoping to arrive at Mantua before the Austrian force

should have effected an entrance into the beleaguered city. All the day

long they hurried on their way, and just as the sun was setting, they

heard the roar of the conflict around the ramparts of Mantua. Provera

was attacking the French in their intrenchments upon one side. The brave

old Wurmser was marching from the city to attack them upon the other. An

hour might have settled the unequal conflict. Suddenly Napoleon, like a

thunderbolt, plunged into the midst of the foe. Provera's band was

scattered like chaff before the whirlwind. Wurmser and his half-starved

men were driven back to their fortress and their prison. Thus terminated

this signal campaign of _three days_, during which the Austrians lost

twenty-five thousand prisoners, twenty-five standards, sixty pieces of

cannon, and six thousand men in killed and wounded. The Austrian army

was again destroyed, and the French remained in undisputed possession of

Italy. Such achievements filled the world with astonishment. Military

men of all lands have regarded these brilliant operations of Napoleon as

the most extraordinary which history has recorded.

Wurmser's situation was now hopeless, and no resource was left him but

to capitulate. One half of his once numerous garrison were in the

hospital. The horses which had been killed and salted down were all

consumed. Famine was now staring the garrison in the face. Wurmser sent

an aid-de-camp to the tent of Serrurier to propose terms of

capitulation. Napoleon was sitting in a corner of the tent unobserved,

wrapped in his cloak. The aid, with the artifice usual on such

occasions, expatiated on the powerful means of resistance Wurmser still

enjoyed, and the large stores of provisions still in the magazines.

Napoleon, without making himself known, listened to the conversation,

taking no part in it. At last he approached the table, silently took the

paper containing Wurmser's propositions, and, to the astonishment of the

aid, wrote upon the margin his answer to all the terms suggested.

"There," said he, "are the conditions which I grant to your marshal. If

he had provisions but for a fortnight and could talk of surrender, he

would not deserve an honorable capitulation. As he sends you, he must be

reduced to extremity. I respect his age, his valor, his misfortunes.

Carry to him the terms which I grant. Whether he leaves the place

to-morrow, in a month, or in six months he shall have neither better nor

worse conditions. He may stay as long as his sense of honor demands."

The aid now perceived that he was in the presence of Napoleon. Glancing

his eye over the terms of capitulation, he was surprised at the

liberality of the victor, and seeing that dissimulation was of no

further avail, he confessed that Wurmser had provisions but for three

days. The brave old marshal was deeply moved with gratitude in

acknowledging the generosity with which he was treated by his young

adversary. Wurmser was entirely in his power, and must have surrendered

at discretion. Yet Napoleon, to spare the feelings of his foe, allowed

him to march out of the place with all his staff, and to retire

unmolested to Austria. He even granted him two hundred horse and five

hundred men, to be chosen by himself, and six pieces of cannon, to

render his departure less humiliating. Wurmser most gratefully accepted

this magnanimous offer, and to prove his gratitude informed Napoleon of

a plan laid in the Papal States for poisoning him, and this undoubtedly

saved his life. The remainder of the garrison, twenty thousand strong,

surrendered their arms, and were retained as prisoners of war. Fifteen

standards, a bridge equipage, and above five hundred pieces of artillery

fell into the hands of the victor.

On the following morning the Austrian army, emaciate, humiliated, and

dejected, defiled from the gates of Mantua to throw down their arms at

the feet of the triumphant Republicans. But on this occasion also,

Napoleon displayed that magnanimity and delicacy of mind, which accorded

so well with the heroism of his character and the grandeur of his

achievements. Few young men, twenty-six years of age, at the termination

of so terrific a campaign, would have deprived themselves of the

pleasure of seeing the veteran Austrian marshal and his proud array pass

vanquished before him. But on the morning of that day Napoleon mounted

his horse, and heading a division of his army, disappeared from the

ground, and marched for the Papal States. He left Serrurier to receive

the sword of Wurmser. He would not add to the mortification of the

vanquished general, by being present in the hour of his humiliation.

Delicacy so rare and so noble attracted the attention of all Europe.

This magnanimous and dignified conduct extorted reluctant admiration

even from the bitterest enemies of the young Republican general.

The Directory, unable to appreciate such nobility of spirit, were

dissatisfied with the liberal terms which had been granted Wurmser.

Napoleon treated their remonstrances with scorn, and simply replied, "I

have granted the Austrian general such terms as, in my judgment, were

due to a brave and honorable enemy, and to the dignity of the French

Republic."

The Austrians were now driven out of Italy. Napoleon commenced the

campaign with thirty thousand men. He received, during the progress of

these destructive battles, twenty thousand recruits. Thus, in ten

months, Napoleon, with fifty-five thousand men, had conquered five

armies, under veteran generals, and composed of more than two hundred

thousand highly disciplined Austrian troops. He had taken one hundred

thousand prisoners, and killed and wounded thirty-five thousand men.

These were great victories, and "a great victory," said the Duke of

Wellington, "is the most awful thing in the world excepting a great

defeat."

Napoleon now prepared to march boldly upon Vienna itself, and to compel

the emperor, in his own palace, to make peace with insulted France. Such

an idea he had not conceived at the commencement of the campaign;

circumstances, however, or as Napoleon would say, _his destiny_ led him

on. But first it was necessary to turn aside to humble the Pope, who had

been threatening Napoleon's rear with an army of 40,000 men, but who was

now in utter consternation in view of the hopeless defeat of the

Austrians. Napoleon issued the following proclamation: "The French army

is about to enter the Pope's territories. It will protect religion and

the people. The French soldier carries in one hand the bayonet, as the

guarantee of victory; in the other the olive branch, a symbol of peace,

and a pledge of protection. Woe to those who shall provoke the vengeance

of this army. To the inhabitants of every town and village peace,

protection, and security are offered." All the spiritual machinery of

the Papal Church had been put into requisition to rouse the people to

frenzy. The tocsin had been tolled in every village, forty hours'

prayers offered, indulgences promised, and even miracles employed to

inspire the populace with delirious energy. Napoleon took with him but

four thousand five hundred French soldiers, aided by four thousand

Italian recruits. He first encountered the enemy, seven thousand strong,

under Cardinal Busca, intrenched upon the banks of the Senio. It was in

the evening twilight of a pleasant spring day, when the French

approached the river. The ecclesiastic, but little accustomed to the

weapons of secular warfare, sent a flag of truce, who very pompously

presented himself before Napoleon, and declared, in the name of the

cardinal-in-chief, that if the French continued to advance he should

certainly fire upon them. The terrible menace was reported through the

French lines, and was received with perfect peals of merriment. Napoleon

replied that he should be extremely sorry to expose himself to the

cardinal's fire, and that therefore, as the army was very much fatigued,

with the cardinal's leave it would take up its quarters for the night.

In the darkness a division of the French army was sent across the

stream, by a ford, to cut off the retreat of the Papal troops, and in

the morning the bloody conflict of an hour left nearly every man dead

upon the field, or a prisoner in the hands of Napoleon. Pressing rapidly

on, the French arrived the same day at Faenza. The gates were shut, the

ramparts manned with cannon, and the multitude, in fanatical enthusiasm,

exasperated the French soldiers with every species of insulting

defiance. The gates were instantly battered down, and the French rushed

into the city. They loudly clamored for permission to pillage. "The

case," said they, "is the same as that of Pavia." "No!" replied

Napoleon, "at Pavia the people, after having taken an oath of obedience,

revolted, and attempted to murder our soldiers who were their guests.

These people are deceived, and must be subdued by kindness." All the

prisoners taken here, and in the battle of the Senio, were assembled in

a large garden of one of the convents of Faenza. Napoleon had been

represented to them as a monster of atheism, cruelty, and crime. They

were in a perfect paroxysm of terror, not doubting that they were

gathered there to be shot. Upon the approach of Napoleon they fell upon

their knees, with loud cries for mercy. He addressed them in Italian,

and in those tones of kindness which seemed to have a magic power over

the human heart. "I am the friend," said he, "of all the people of

Italy. I come among you for your good. You are all free. Return to the

bosom of your families, and tell them that the French are the friends of

religion and of order, and of all the poor and the oppressed." From the

garden he went to the refectory of the convent, where the captured

officers were assembled. Familiarly he conversed with them a long time,

as with friends and equals. He explained to them his motives and his

wishes; spoke of the liberty of Italy, of the abuses of the pontifical

government, of its gross violation of the spirit of the gospel, and of

the blood which must be vainly expended in the attempt to resist such a

victorious and well-disciplined army as he had at his disposal. He gave

them all permission to return to their homes, and simply requested them,

as the price of his clemency, to make known to the community the

sentiments with which he was animated. These men now became as

enthusiastic in their admiration of Napoleon as they had previously been

exasperated against him. They dispersed through the cities and villages

of Italy, never weary in eulogizing the magnanimity of their conqueror.

He soon met another army of the Romans at Ancona. He cautiously

surrounded them, and took them all prisoners without hurting a man, and

then, by a few of his convincing words, sent them through the country as

missionaries proclaiming his clemency, and the benevolence of the

commander-in-chief of the Republican army. Ancona was so situated as to

be one of the most important ports of the Adriatic. Its harbor, however,

was in such a neglected condition, that not even a frigate could enter.

He immediately decided what ought to be done to fortify the place and to

improve the port. The great works which he consequently afterward

executed at Ancona, will remain a perpetual memorial of his foresight

and genius. The largest three-decker can now ride in its harbor with

perfect safety.

At Loretto there was an image of the Virgin, which the Church

represented as of celestial origin, and which, to the great edification

of the populace, seemed miraculously to shed tears in view of the perils

of the Papacy. Napoleon sent for the sacred image, exposed the deception

by which, through the instrumentality of a string of glass beads, tears

appeared to flow, and imprisoned the priests for deluding the people

with trickery which tended to bring all religion into contempt.

The Papal States were full of the exiled French priests. The Directory

enjoined it upon Napoleon to drive them out of the country. These

unhappy men were in a state of despair. Long inured to Jacobin fury they

supposed that death was now their inevitable doom. One of the

fraternity, weary of years of exile and frantic in view of his supposed

impending fate, presented himself to Napoleon, announced himself as an

emigrant priest, and implored that his doom of death might be

immediately executed. The bewildered man thought it the delirium of a

dream when Napoleon, addressing him in terms of courtesy and of

heartfelt sympathy, assured him that he and all his friends should be

protected from harm. He issued a proclamation enjoining it upon the

army to regard these unfortunate men as countrymen and as brothers, and

to treat them with all possible kindness. The versatile troops instantly

imbibed the humane spirit of their beloved chief. This led to a number

of very affecting scenes. Many of the soldiers recognized their former

pastors, and these unhappy exiles, long accustomed to scorn and insult,

wept with gratitude in being again addressed in terms of respect and

affection. Napoleon was censured for this clemency. "How is it

possible," he wrote to the Directory, "not to pity these unhappy men?

They weep on seeing us." The French emigrant priests were quite a burden

upon the convents in Italy, where they had taken refuge, and the Italian

priests were quite ready, upon the arrival of the French army, to drive

them away, on the pretext that by harboring the emigrants they should

draw down upon themselves the vengeance of the Republican army. Napoleon

issued a decree commanding the convents to receive them, and to furnish

them with every thing necessary for their support and comfort. In that

most singular vein of latent humor which pervaded his nature, he

enjoined that the French priests should make remuneration for this

hospitality in prayers and masses, at the regular market price. He found

the Jews in Ancona suffering under the most intolerable oppression, and

immediately relieved them from all their disabilities.

The court of Naples, hoping to intimidate Napoleon from advancing upon

the holy city, and not venturing openly to draw the sword against him,

sent a minister to his camp, to act in the capacity of a spy. This

envoy, Prince Pignatelli, assuming an air of great mystery and

confidential kindness, showed Napoleon a letter from the Queen of

Naples, proposing to send an army of thirty thousand men to protect the

Pontiff. "I thank you," said Napoleon, "for this proof of your

confidence, and will repay you in the same way." Opening the portfolio

of papers relating to Naples, he exhibited to him a copy of a dispatch,

in which the contemplated movement was not only anticipated, but

provision made, in case it should be attempted, for marching an army of

twenty-five thousand men to take possession of the capital, and compel

the royal family to seek refuge in Sicily. An extraordinary courier was

dispatched in the night to inform the Queen of the manner in which the

insinuation had been received. Nothing more was heard of the Neapolitan

interference.

Napoleon was now within three days' march of Rome. Consternation reigned

in the Vatican. Embassadors were hastily sent to Napoleon's

head-quarters at Tolentino, to implore the clemency of the conqueror.

The horses were already harnessed to the state carriages, and Pope Pius

the Sixth was just descending the stairs for flight, when a messenger

arrived from Napoleon informing the Pope that he need apprehend no

personal violence, that Napoleon was contending only for peace. The

Directory, exasperated by the unrelenting hostility and the treachery

of the Pope, enjoined it upon Napoleon to enter into no negotiations

with him, but immediately to deprive him of all temporal power.

Napoleon, however, understood fanatical human nature too well to attempt

such a revolution. Disregarding the wishes of the government at home, he

treated the Pope with that gentlemanly deference and respect which was

due to his exalted rank, as a temporal and a spiritual prince. The

treaty of Tolentino was soon concluded. Its simple terms were peace with

France, the acknowledgment of the Cispadane Republic, and a renewed

promise that the stipulations of the preceding armistice should be

faithfully performed. Even the Pope could not refrain from expressions

of gratitude in view of the moderation of his victor. Napoleon insisted

for a long time upon the suppression of the inquisition. But out of

complaisance to the Pope, who most earnestly entreated that it might not

be suppressed, assuring Napoleon that it no longer was what it had been,

but that it was now rather a tribunal of police than of religious

opinion, Napoleon desisted from pressing the article. All this was

achieved in nine days. Napoleon now returned to Mantua, and prepared for

his bold march upon Vienna.

Notwithstanding the singular moderation displayed by Napoleon in these

victories, the most atrocious libels respecting his conduct were

circulated by his foes throughout Europe. To exasperate the Catholics he

was reported to have seized the venerable Pope by his gray hairs, and

thus to have dragged him about the room. One day Napoleon was reading

one of these virulent libels, describing him as a perfect monster of

licentiousness, blood-thirstiness, and crime. At times he shrugged his

shoulders, and again laughed heartily, but did not betray the least sign

of anger. To one who expressed surprise at this, he said, "It is the

truth only which gives offense. Every body knows that I was not by

nature inclined to debauchery, and moreover the multiplicity of my

affairs allowed me no time for such vices. Still persons will be found

who will believe these things. But how can that be helped? If it should

enter any one's head to put in print that I had grown hairy and walked

on four paws, there are people who would believe it, and who would say

that God had punished me as he did Nebuchadnezzar. And what could I do?

There is no remedy in such cases."

[Footnote 1: Joachim Murat, subsequently married Caroline, the youngest

sister of Napoleon, and became Marshal of France, and finally King of

Sicily. After the fall of Napoleon he lost his throne, and was shot, by

command of the King of Naples. "Murat," said Napoleon, "was one of the

most brilliant men I ever saw upon a field of battle. It was really a

magnificent spectacle to see him heading the cavalry in a charge."]

THE STORY OF REYNARD THE FOX.

[The Story of Reynard the Fox, in prose and in rhyme, has for centuries

been the favorite popular tale in Europe. We can not go back to the time

when it was not told in every dialect spoken by the Teutonic race.

"Among the people," says Carlyle, "it was long a house-book, and

universal best-companion; it has been lectured on in universities,

quoted in imperial council-halls; it lay on the toilets of princesses,

and was thumbed to pieces on the work-bench of the artisan; we hear of

grave men ranking it next to the Bible.... It comes before us with a

character such as can belong only to a very few; that of being a true

world's book, which through centuries was every where at home, and the

spirit of which diffused itself through all languages and all minds."

The translation which we present is from the old Low-German version,

which, by superseding all previous ones, has come to be considered the

recognized form of the tale. Goethe has expanded it into a long poem,

for which Kaulbach designed some forty illustrations, forming the finest

series of pictures ever produced for the illustration of a single book.

Hermann Plouquet of Stuttgart, has contributed to the Great Exhibition

in London a display of animals stuffed in the most comic attitudes. A

portion of these are in illustration of Reynard the Fox, the designs of

Kaulbach serving as models. The illustrations which we furnish are taken

from daguerreotype pictures of these animals, and afford a striking

example of the expression which the animal face and figure are capable

of conveying.]

About the feast of Whitsuntide, when the woods were in their lustyhood

and gallantry, when every tree was clothed in the green and white livery

of glorious leaves and sweet-smelling blossoms, when the earth was

covered with her fairest mantle of flowers, and the sweet birds

entertained the groves with the delight of their harmonious songs, the

LION, the Royal King of Beasts, made solemn proclamation that all

quadrupeds whatsoever should attend his court, and celebrate this great

festival.

Now when the King had assembled all his subjects together, there was no

one absent save Reynard the Fox, against whom many grievous accusations

were laid. First came Isegrim the Wolf, with all his family and kindred,

who, standing before the King, complained loudly how that Reynard had

ill-treated his wife and children. Then there came a little hound named

Curtsie, who accused the fox of having stolen his pudding in the extreme

cold winter-time, when he was nigh dying of starvation. But scarcely had

the hound finished his tale, when, with a fiery countenance, in sprang

Tibert the Cat, and accused Curtsie of having stolen this pudding from

himself, and declared that Reynard had righteously taken it away.

Then rose the Panther: "Do you imagine, Tibert," quoth he, "that Reynard

ought not to be complained of? The whole world knows that he is a

murderer, a vagabond, and a thief."

Then quoth Grimbard the Badger, Reynard's nephew: "It is a common

proverb, _Malice never spake well_: what can you say against my kinsman

the fox? All these complaints seem to me to be either absurd or false.

Mine uncle is a gentleman, and can not endure falsehood. I affirm that

he liveth as a recluse; he chastiseth his body, and weareth a shirt of

hair-cloth. It is above a year since he hath eaten any flesh; he hath

forsaken his castle Malepardus, and abandoned all his wealth; he lives

only upon alms and good men's charities, doing infinite penance for his

sins; so that he has become pale and lean with praying and fasting."

While Grimbard was still speaking, there came down the hill Chanticleer

the Cock, and with him two hens, who brought with them on a bier their

dead sister Copple, who had just been murdered by Reynard. Chanticleer

smote piteously his feathers, and, kneeling before the King, spake in

this manner:

[Illustration: REYNARD AT HOME (Page 742.)]

"Most merciful and my great Lord the King, vouchsafe, I beseech you, to

hear our complaint, and redress the injuries which Reynard the Fox has

done to me and my children. Not longer ago than last April, when the

weather was fair, and I was in the height of my pride and glory, because

of my eight valiant sons and seven fair daughters, who were strong and

fat, and who walked in safety in a yard well-fenced round, wherein also

were several large dogs for their protection, Reynard, that false and

dissembling traitor, came to me in the likeness of a hermit, and brought

me a letter to read, sealed with your Majesty's seal, in which I found

written, that your Highness had made peace throughout all your realm,

and that no manner of beast or fowl should do injury one to another;

affirming unto me, that, for his own part, he was become a monk, vowing

to perform a daily penance for his sins; showing unto me his beads, his

books, and the hair shirt next to his skin; saying, in humble wise, unto

me, 'Sir Chanticleer, never henceforth be afraid of me, for I have vowed

never more to eat flesh. I am now waxed old, and would only remember my

soul; therefore I take my leave, for I have yet my noon and my evensong

to say.' Which spake, he departed, saying his _Credo_ as he went, and

laid him down under a hawthorn. At this I was exceeding glad, that I

took no heed, but went and clucked my children together, and walked

without the wall, which I shall ever rue; for false Reynard, lying under

a bush, came creeping betwixt us and the gate, and suddenly surprised

one of my children, which he trussed up and bore away, to my great

sorrow; for, having tasted the sweetness of our flesh, neither hunter

nor hound can protect or keep him from us. Night and day he waits upon

us, with that greediness, that of fifteen of my children, he hath left

me but four unslaughtered; and yesterday, Copple, my daughter, which

here lieth dead on this bier, was, after her murder, rescued from him.

This is my complaint, and this I leave to your Highness's mercy to take

pity on me, and the loss of my fair children."

Then spake the King; "Sir Grimbard, hear you this of your uncle the

recluse? he hath fasted and prayed well: believe me, if I live a year,

he shall dearly abide it. As for you, Chanticleer, your complaint is

heard, and shall be cured; to your daughter that is dead we will give

the rites of burial, and with solemn dirges bring her to the earth, with

worship."

After this the King sent for his lords and wisest counselors, to consult

how this foul murder of Reynard's might be punished. And in the end, it

was concluded that Reynard should be sent for, and without all excuse,

he should be commanded to appear before the King, to answer whatever

trespasses should be objected against him; and that this message should

be delivered by Bruin the Bear.

To all this the King gave consent, and calling the bear before him, he

said, "Sir Bruin, it is our pleasure that you deliver this message, yet

in the delivery thereof have great regard to yourself; for Reynard is

full of policy, and knoweth how to dissemble, flatter, and betray; he

hath a world of snares to entangle you withal, and without great

exercise of judgment, will make a scorn and mock of the best wisdom

breathing."

[Illustration]

"My Lord," answered Sir Bruin, "let me alone with Reynard; I am not such

a truant in discretion to become a mock to his knavery;" and thus, full

of jollity, the bear departed.

[Illustration: SIR TIBERT DELIVERING THE KING'S MESSAGE. (PAGE 746.)]

The next morning Bruin set out in quest of the fox; and after passing

through a dark forest and over a high mountain, he came to Malepartus,

Reynard's chiefest and most ancient castle. Reynard was at home, and

pretended to be ill with eating too much honey. When the bear heard

this, he was extremely desirous of knowing where such excellent food

could be obtained; and Reynard promised to take him to a garden where he

should find more honey-combs than ten bears could eat at a meal. But the

treacherous rascal took him to a carpenter's yard, where lay the trunk

of a huge oak-tree, half-riven asunder, with two great wedges in it, so

that the cleft stood a great way open. "Behold now, dear uncle," said

the fox, "within this tree is so much honey that it is unmeasurable."

The bear, in great haste, thrust his nose and fore-paws into the tree;

and immediately Reynard pulled out the two great wedges, and caught

Bruin in so sharp a trap, that the poor beast howled with pain. This

noise quickly brought out the carpenter, who, perceiving how matters

stood, alarmed the whole village, who came and belabored the bear's

sides with sticks and hoes and pitchforks, until, mad with rage, he tore

his bleeding face and paws from the tree, and rushed blindly into a

river that ran close by, knocking into the water with him many of the

villagers, and among them, Dame Julock, the parson's wife, for whose

sake every one bestirred himself; and so poor Bruin got safe away. After

some delay, the bear returned to the court, where, in dismal accents, he

recounted the sad trick that Reynard had played him.

Then said the King, "Now, by my crown, I will take such revenge as

shall make that traitor tremble;" and sending for his counselors, they

decided that Reynard should be again summoned to court, and that Tibert

the Cat should be the bearer of the message. "It is your wisdom, Sir

Tibert, I employ," said the great King, "and not your strength: many

prevail with art, when violence returns with lost labor."

So Tibert made ready, and set out with the King's letter to Malepardus,

where he found the fox standing before his castle-gates; to whom Tibert

said, "Health to my fair cousin Reynard; the King, by me, summons you to

the court, in which if you fail, there is nothing more assured unto you

than a cruel and a sudden death."

The fox answered, "Welcome, dear cousin Tibert; I obey your command, and

wish my Lord the King infinite days of happiness; only let me entreat

you to rest with me to-night, and take such cheer as my simple house

affordeth, and to-morrow, as early as you will, we will go toward the

court, for I have no kinsman I trust so dearly as yourself."

Tibert replied, "You speak like a noble gentleman; and methinks it is

best now to go forward, for the moon shines as bright as day."

"Nay, dear cousin," said the fox, "let us take the day before us, so may

we encounter with our friends; the night is full of danger."

"Well," said the cat, "if it be your pleasure, I am content; what shall

we eat?"

Reynard said, "Truly my store is small; the best I have is a honey-comb,

pleasant and sweet; what think you of it?"

To which Tibert replieth, "It is meat I little respect, and seldom eat;

I had rather have one mouse than all the honey in Europe."

[Illustration: REYNARD BRINGS FORWARD THE HARE AS HIS WITNESS. (PAGE

750.)]

[Illustration: REYNARD ON HIS PILGRIMAGE TO ROME. (PAGE 751.)]

"A mouse!" said Reynard; "why, my dear cousin, here dwelleth a priest

hard by, who hath a barn by his house so full of mice, that I think half

the wagons in the parish are not able to bear them."

"Oh, dear Reynard," quoth the cat, "do but lead me thither, and make me

your servant forever."

"Why," said the fox, "love you mice so exceedingly?"

"Beyond expression," quoth the cat.

Then away they went with all speed to the priest's barn, which was well

walled about with a mud wall, where, but the night before, the fox had

broken in and stolen an exceeding fat hen, at which the priest was so

angry, that he had set a snare before the hole to catch him at his next

coming, which the false fox knew of; and therefore said to the cat, "Sir

Tibert, creep in at this hole, and believe it, you shall not tarry a

minute's space but you shall have more mice than you are able to devour;

hark, you may hear how they peep. When you have eaten your fill, come

again, and I will stay and await for you here at this hole, that

to-morrow we may go together to the court; but, good cousin, stay not

too long, for I know my wife will hourly expect us."

Then Tibert sprang quickly in at the hole, but was presently caught fast

by the neck in the snare, which as soon as the cat felt, he quickly

leaped back again; and the snare running close together, he was

half-strangled, so that he began to struggle and cry out and exclaim

most piteously.

Then the priest, hearing the outcry, alarmed all his servants, crying

out, "The Fox is taken!" and away they all ran to where poor Tibert was

caught in the snare, and, without finding out their mistake, they beat

him most unmercifully, and cruelly wounded one of his eyes. The cat, mad

with pain, suddenly gnawed the cord, and seizing the priest by the legs,

bit him and tore him in such a way that he fell down in a swoon, and

then, as every one ran to help his master, Tibert leaped out of the

hole, and limped as fast as his wounded legs would carry him to the

court where the King was infinitely angry at the treatment he had

received.

Then Grimbard the Badger, Reynard's nephew fearing it was likely to go

hard with his uncle, offered to go to Malepardus and take the King's

message to his most subtle kinsman; to which his Majesty graciously

consented. So Grimbard set forth; and when he came to Malepardus, he

found Reynard with Dame Ermelin his wife, sporting with their children.

When Grimbard had delivered the King's letter, Reynard found that it

would be better for him to show himself at court at once; so bidding an

affectionate farewell to his dear wife and children, he immediately set

out with the badger to go with him before the King. On his way, Reynard,

remembering the heavy crimes he had committed, and fearing that his end

was at hand, desired of the holy Grimbard, who had always led a hermit's

life, that he would hear him confess, and set him a penance for his

sins. Grimbard bade him proceed. And the fox confessed how shamefully he

had ill-used the bear, and the cat, and the wolf, and Chanticleer's

children, and many other ill-doings during his life; and when he had

finished, he knelt before Grimbard, and said, "Thus have I told you my

wickedness; now order my penance, as shall seem fit in your discretion."

Grimbard was both learned and wise; and therefore brake a rod from a

tree, and said, "Uncle, you shall three times strike your body with this

rod, and then lay it down upon the ground, and spring three times over

it without bowing your legs or stumbling; then shall you take it up and

kiss it gently, in sign of meekness and obedience to your penance; which

done, you are absolved of your sins committed up to this day, for I

pronounce unto you clear remission."

[Illustration: REYNARD ATTACKETH LAPRELL THE RABBIT. (PAGE 752.)]

At this the fox was exceeding glad; and immediately he performed the

penance to Grimbard's satisfaction. But as they went journeying on, it

happened that they passed by the poultry-yard of a convent; and as one

young cock strayed far from the rest, Reynard leaped at him, and caught

him by the feathers, but the cock escaped.

"Villain that you are," said Grimbard, "will you, for a silly pullet,

fall again into your sins?"

To which Reynard answered, "Pardon me, dear nephew, I had forgotten

myself; but I will ask forgiveness, and mine eye shall no more wander."

However, Grimbard noted that he turned many times to look at the

poultry. But soon afterward they arrived at the court.

As soon as it was bruited in the court that Reynard the Fox and Grimbard

his kinsman were arrived there, every one, from the highest to the

lowest, prepared himself to complain of the fox; at which Reynard's

heart quaked, but his countenance kept the old look, and he went as

proudly as ever he was wont with his nephew through the high street, and

came as gallantly into the court as if he had been the King's son, and

as clear from trespass as the most innocent whosoever; and when he came

before the chair of state in which the King sat, he said, "Heaven give

your Majesty glory and renown above all the princes of the earth."

But the King cut him short at these words, and said, "Peace, traitorous

Reynard; think you I can be caught with the music of your words? no, it

hath too oft deceived me; the peace which I commanded and swore unto,

that have you broken."

Then Bellin the Ram, and Oleway his wife, and Bruin the Bear, and Tibert

the Cat, and Isegrim the Wolf, and Kyward the Hare, and Bruel the Goose,

and Baldwin the Ass, and Bortle the Bull, and Hamel the Ox, and

Chanticleer the Cock, and Partlett the Hen, and many others, came

forward; and all these with one entire noise cried out against the fox,

and so moved the King with their complaints, that the fox was taken and

arrested.

Upon this arrest a parliament was called; and notwithstanding that he

answered every objection severally, and with great art, Reynard was

condemned, and judgment was given that he should be hanged till his body

was dead; at which sentence the fox cast down his head, for all his

jollity was lost, and no flattery nor no words now prevailed.

Then Isegrim on the one side and Bruin on the other led the poor fox to

the gallows, Tibert running before with the halter. And when they were

come to the place of execution, the King and the Queen, and all the rest

of the nobility, took their places to see the fox die.

When all things were prepared, the fox said, "Now my heart is heavy, for

death stands in all his horror before me, and I can not escape. My dread

Lord the King, and you my sovereign Lady the Queen, and you my lords

that stand to behold me die, I beseech you grant me this charitable

boon, that I may unlock my heart before you, and clear my soul of her

burdens, so that hereafter no man may be blamed for me; which done, my

death will be easy."

Every creature now took compassion on the fox, and said his request was

small, beseeching the King to grant it, which was done; and then the fox

thus spake, "Help me, Heaven, for I see no man here whom I have not

offended; yet was this evil no natural inclination in me, for in my

youth I was accounted as virtuous as any breathing. This know, I have

played with the lambs all the day long, and taken delight in their

pretty bleating; yet at last in my play I bit one, and the taste of its

blood was so sweet unto me, that I approved the flesh, and both were so

good, that since I could never forbear it. This liquorish humor drew me

into the woods among the goats, where hearing the bleating of the little

kids, I slew one of them, and afterward two more, which slaughter made

me so hardy, that then I fell to murder hens, geese, and other poultry.

And thus my crimes increased by custom, and fury so possessed me, that

all was fish which came to my net. After this, in the winter season, I

met with Isegrim, where, as he lay hid under a hollow tree, he unfolded

unto me how he was my uncle, and laid the pedigree down so plain, that

from that day forth we became fellows and companions; which knot of

friendship I may ever curse, for then began the flood of our thefts and

slaughters. He stole the great things, I the small; he murdered nobles,

I the mean subjects; and in all our actions his share was still ever the

greatest: when he got a ram or a calf, his fury would hardly afford me

the horns to pick on; nay, when he had an ox or a cow, after himself,

his wife, and his seven children were served, nothing remained to me but

the bare bones to pick. This I speak not in that I wanted (for it is

well known I have more plate, jewels, and coin than twenty carts are

able to carry), but only to show his ingratitude."

When the King heard him speak of this infinite treasure and riches, his

heart grew inflamed with a desire thereof; and he said, "Reynard, where

is that treasure you speak of?"

The fox answered: "My Lord, I shall willingly tell you, for it is true

the wealth was stolen; and had it not been stolen in that manner which

it was, it had cost your Highness your life (which Heaven, I beseech,

keep ever in protection)."

When the Queen heard that dangerous speech, she started, and said: "What

dangers are these you speak of, Reynard? I do command you, upon your

soul's health, to unfold these doubtful speeches, and to keep nothing

concealed which concerns the life of my dread Lord."

Then the fox in these words unfolded to the King and Queen this most

foul treason: "Know, then, my dread sovereign Lord the King, that my

father, by a strange accident, digging in the ground, found out King

Ermerick's great treasure--a mass of jewels infinite and innumerable; of

which being possessed, he grew so proud and haughty, that he held in

scorn all the beasts of the wilderness, which before had been his

kinsmen and companions. At last he caused Tibert the Cat to go into the

vast forest of Arden to Bruin the Bear, and to tender to him his homage

and fealty; and to say that if it would please him to be king, he should

come into Flanders, where he would show him means how to set the crown

upon his head. Bruin was glad of this embassage (for he was exceeding

ambitious, and had long thirsted for sovereignty), and thereupon came

into Flanders, where my father received him nobly. Then presently he

sent for the wise Grimbard, my nephew, and for Isegrim the Wolf, and for

Tibert the Cat; then these five coming between Gaunt and the village

called Elfe, they held a solemn council for the space of a whole night,

in which, by the assistance of the evil one, and the strong confidence

of my father's riches, it was there concluded that your Majesty should

be forthwith murdered; which to effect, they took a solemn oath in this

manner: the bear, my father, the badger, and the cat, laying their hands

on Isegrim's crown, swore, first to make Bruin their king, and to place

him in the chair of estate at Aeon, and to set the imperial diadem on

his head; and if by any of your Majesty's blood and alliance they should

be gainsaid, that then my father with his treasure should hire those

which should utterly chase and root them out of the forest. Now after

this determination held and finished, it happened that my nephew

Grimbard being on a time high flown with wine, he discovered this dread

plot to Dame Slopecade, his wife, commanding her upon her life to keep

secret the same; but she, forgetful of her charge, disclosed it in

confession to my wife, as they went a pilgrimage over an heath, with

like conjuration of secrecy. But she, woman-like, contained it no longer

than till she met with me, and gave me a full knowledge of all that had

passed, yet so as by all means that I must keep it secret too, for she

had sworn by the Three Kings of Cologne never to disclose it: and withal

she gave me such assurance by certain tokens, that I right well found

all was true which she had spoken; insomuch that the very affright

thereof made my hair stand upright, and my heart become like lead, cold

and heavy in my bosom.

"But to proceed from this sorrow, I began to meditate how I might undo

my father's false and wicked conspiracies, who sought to bring a base

traitor and a slave into the throne imperial; for I well perceived as

long as he held the treasure, there was a possibility of deposing your

Majesty. And this troubled my thought exceedingly, so that I labored how

I might find out where my father's treasure was hid; and to that end I

watched and attended night and day in the woods, in the bushes, and in

the open fields; nay in all places wheresoever my father laid his eyes,

there was I ever watching and attending. Now it happened on a time, as I

was laid down flat on the ground, I saw my father come running out of a

hole, and as soon as he was come out, he gazed round about him, to see

if any discovered him; then seeing the coast clear, he stopped the hole

with sand, and made it so even, smooth, and plain, that no curious eye

could discern a difference betwixt it and the other earth; and where

the print of his foot remained, that with his tail he stroked over, and

with his mouth so smoothed, that no man might perceive it: and indeed

that and many other subtleties I learned of him there at that instant.

When he had thus finished, away he went toward the village about his

private affairs. Then I went presently toward the hole, and

notwithstanding all his subtlety, I quickly found it; then I entered the

cave, where I found that innumerable quantity of treasure, which can not

be expressed; which found, I took Ermelin my wife to help me; and we

ceased not, day nor night, with infinite great toil and labor, to carry

and convey away this treasure to another place, much more convenient for

us, where we laid it safe from the search of any creature.

"Thus by my art only was the treason of Bruin defeated, for which I now

suffer. From hence sprang all my misfortune, as thus: these foul

traitors, Bruin and Isegrim, being of the King's privatest council, and

sitting in high and great authority, tread upon me, poor Reynard, and

work my disgrace; notwithstanding, for your Majesty's sake, I have lost

my natural father. O my dread Lord, what is he, or who can tender you a

better affection, thus to lose himself to save you?"

Then the King and Queen, having great hope to get this inestimable

treasure from Reynard, took him from the gibbet; and the King, taking a

straw from the ground, pardoned the fox of all his trespasses which

either he or his father had ever committed. If the fox now began to

smile, it was no wonder; the sweetness of life required it: yet he fell

down before the King and Queen, and humbly thanked them for mercy,

protesting that for that favor he would make them the richest princes in

the world.

Then the King began to inquire where all these treasures were hid, and

Reynard told that he had hid them in a wood called Hustreloe, near a

river named Crekinpit. But when the King said that he had never heard of

such a place, Reynard called forth Kyward the Hare from among the rest

of the beasts, and commanded him to come before the King, charging him,

upon his faith and allegiance which he bore to the King and Queen, to

answer truly to such questions as he should ask him.

The hare answered, "I will speak truth in all things, though I were sure

to die for the same."

Then the fox said, "Know you not where Crekinpit floweth?"

"Yes," said the hare, "I have known it any time these dozen years; it

runneth in a wood called Hustreloe, upon a vast and wide wilderness."

"Well," said the fox, "you have spoken sufficiently; go to your place

again;" so away went the hare.

Then said the fox, "My sovereign Lord the King, what say you now to my

relation; am I worthy your belief or no?"

The King said, "Yes, Reynard, and I beseech thee excuse my jealousies;

it was my ignorance which did the evil; therefore forthwith make

preparation that we may go to this pit where the treasure lieth."

But the fox answered that he could not go with his Majesty without

dishonor; for that at present he was under excommunication, and that it

was necessary that he should go to Rome to be absolved, and that from

thence he intended to travel in the Holy Land. "The course you propose

is good," said the King; "go on and prosper in your intent."

Then the King mounted on a rock, and addressing his subjects, told them

how that, for divers reasons best known to himself, he had freely given

pardon to Reynard, who had cast his wickedness behind him, and would no

more be guilty of wrong-doing; and furthermore, he commanded them all to

reverence and honor not only Reynard, but also his wife and children. At

this, Isegrim the Wolf and Bruin the Bear inveighed against the fox in

such an unseemly way, that his Majesty caused them both to be arrested

for high treason. Now when the fox saw this, he begged of the Queen that

he might have so much of the bear's skin as would make him a large scrip

for his journey; and also the skin of the wolf's feet for a pair of

shoes, because of the stony ways he would have to pass over. To this the

Queen consented, and Reynard saw his orders executed.

The next morning Reynard caused his new shoes to be well oiled, and made

them fit his feet as tightly as they had fitted the wolf's. And the King

commanded Bellin the Ram to say mass before the fox; and when he had

sung mass and used many ceremonies over the fox, he hung about Reynard's

neck his rosary of beads, and gave him into his hands a palmer's staff.

Then the King took leave of him, and commanded all that were about him,

except the bear and the wolf, to attend Reynard some part of his

journey. Oh! he that had seen how gallant and personable Reynard was,

and how well his staff and his mail became him, as also how fit his

shoes were for his feet, it could not have chosen but have stirred in

him very much laughter. But when they had got onward on their way, the

fox entreated all the beasts to return and pray for him, and only begged

of Bellin the Ram and Kyward the Hare that they would accompany him as

far as Malepardus.

Thus marched these three together; and when Reynard was come to the

gates of his own house, he said to Bellin, "Cousin, I will entreat you

to stay here without a little, while I and Kyward go in." Bellin was

well content; and so the fox and the hare went into Malepardus, where

they found Dame Ermelin lying on the ground with her younglings about

her, who had sorrowed exceedingly for the loss and danger of her

husband; but when she saw his return, her joy was ten times doubled. But

beholding his mail, his staff, and his shoes, she grew into great

admiration, and said, "Dear husband, how have you fared?" so he told all

that had passed with him at the King's court, as well his danger as his

release, and that now he was to go a pilgrimage. As for Kyward, he said

the King had bestowed him upon them, to do with him what they pleased,

affirming that Kyward was the first that had complained of him, for

which, questionless, he vowed to be sharply revenged.

When Kyward heard these words, he was much appalled, and would fain have

fled away, but he could not, for the fox had got between him and the

gate; who presently seized the hare by the neck, at which the hare cried

unto Bellin for help, but could not be heard, for the fox in a trice had

torn out his throat; which done, he, his wife, and young ones feasted

therewith merrily, eating the flesh, and drinking to the King's health.

All this while stood Bellin the Ram at the gate, and grew exceedingly

angry both against the fox and the hare, that they made him wait so

long; and therefore called out aloud for Reynard to come away, which

when Reynard heard, he went forth, and said softly to the ram, "Good

Bellin, be not offended, for Kyward is in earnest conference with his

dearest aunt, and entreated me to say unto you, that if you would please

to walk before he would speedily overtake you, for he is light of foot

and speedier than you: nor will his aunt part with him thus suddenly,

for she and her children are much perplexed at my departure."

"Ay, but," quoth Bellin, "methought I heard Kyward cry for help."

"How! cry for help! can you imagine he shall receive hurt in my house?

far be such a thought from you; but I will tell you the reason. As soon

as we were come into my house, and that Ermelin my wife understood of my

pilgrimage, presently she fell down in a swoon, which, when Kyward saw,

he cried aloud, 'O Bellin, come, help my aunt, she dies, she dies!'"

Then said the ram: "In sadness, I mistook the cry, and thought the hare

had been in danger."

"It was your too much care of him," said the fox. "But, letting this

discourse pass, you remember, Bellin, that yesterday the King and his

council commanded me that, before I departed from the land, I should

send unto him two letters, which I have made ready, and will entreat

you, my dearest cousin, to bear them to his Majesty."

The ram answered: "I would willingly do you the service if there be

nothing but honorable matter contained in your letters; but I am

unprovided of any thing to carry them in."

The fox said: "That is provided for you already, for you shall have my

mail, which you may conveniently hang about your neck; I know they will

be thankfully received of his Majesty, for they contain matter of great

importance."

Then Bellin promised to carry them. So the fox returned into his house,

and took the mail, and put therein the head of Kyward, and brought it to

the ram, and gave him a great charge not to look therein till it was

presented to the King, as he did expect the King's favor; and that he

might further endear himself with his Majesty, he bade the ram take upon

him the inditing of the letters, "which will be so pleasing to the King,

that questionless he will pour upon you many favors."

This said, Bellin took leave of the fox and went toward the court, in

which journey he made such speed, that he came thither before noon,

where he found the King in his palace sitting among the nobility.

The king wondered when he saw the ram come in with the mail, which was

made of the bear's skin, and said: "Whence comest thou, Bellin, and

where is the fox, that you have that mail about you?"

Bellin answered: "My dread Lord, I attended the noble fox to his house,

where, after some repose, he desired me to bear certain letters to your

Majesty of infinite great importance, to which I easily consented.

Wherefore he delivered me the letters inclosed in this mail, which

letters I myself indited, and I doubt not but they are such as will give

your highness both contentment and satisfaction." Presently the King

commanded the letters to be delivered to Bocart, his secretary, who was

an excellent linguist and understood all languages, that he might read

them publicly; so that he and Tibert the Cat took the mail from Bellin's

neck, and opening the same instead of letters they drew out the head of

Kyward the Hare, at which being amazed, they said: "Wo and alas, what

letters call you these? Believe it, my dread Lord, here is nothing but

the head of poor murdered Kyward."

Which the King seeing, he said, "Alas, how unfortunate was I to believe

the traitorous fox!" And with that, being oppressed with anger, grief,

and shame, he held down his head for a good space, and so did the Queen

also. But in the end, shaking his curled locks, he groaned out such a

dreadful noise, that all the beasts of the forest did tremble to hear

it.

Then the King, full of wrath, commanded the bear and the wolf to be

released from prison, and gave to them and to their heirs forever Bellin

and all his generation.

Thus was peace made between the King and these nobles, and Bellin the

Ram was forthwith slain by them; and all these privileges doth the wolf

hold to this hour, nor could ever any reconcilement be made between the

wolf's and the ram's kindred. When this peace was thus finished, the

King, for joy thereof, proclaimed a feast to be held for twelve days

after, which was done with all solemnity.

To this feast came all manner of wild beasts, for it was known through

the whole kingdom, nor was there wanting any pleasure that could be

imagined. Also to this feast resorted abundance of feathered fowl, and

all other creatures that held peace with his Majesty, and no one missing

but the fox only.

Now after this feast had thus continued in all pomp the space of eight

days, about high noon came Laprell the Rabbit before the King and Queen,

as they sat at dinner, and with a heavy and lamentable voice said, "My

gracious and great Lord, have pity upon my misery and attend to my

complaint, which is of great violence which Reynard the Fox would

yesterday have committed against me. As I passed by the castle of

Malepardus, supposing to go peaceably toward my nest, I saw the fox,

standing without his gates, attired like a pilgrim and telling his beads

so devoutly, that I saluted him; but he, returning no answer, stretched

forth his right foot, and with his pilgrim's staff gave me such a blow

on the neck between the head and shoulders, that I imagined my head had

been stricken from my body; but yet so much memory was left me that I

leaped from his claws, though most grievously hurt and wounded. At this

he was wrathful extremely, because I escaped; only of one of my ears he

utterly deprived me, which I beseech your Majesty in your royal nature

to pity, and that this bloody murderer may not live thus to afflict your

poor subjects."

The royal King was much moved with anger when he heard this complaint,

so that his eyes darted out fire among the beams of majesty; his

countenance was dreadful and cruel to look on, and the whole court

trembled to behold him. In the end he said, "By my crown, I will so

revenge these outrages committed against my dignity, that goodness shall

adore me, and the wicked shall die with the remembrance; his falsehood

and flattery shall no more get belief in me. Is this his journey to Rome

and to the Holy Land? are these the fruits of his mail, his staff, and

other ornaments becoming a devout pilgrim? Well, he shall find the

reward of his treason. I will besiege Malepardus instantly, and destroy

Reynard and his generation from the earth forever."

When Grimbard heard this, he grew exceedingly sorry, and stealing from

the rest, he made all haste to Malepardus, and told to his uncle all

that had happened. Reynard received him with great courtesy, and the

next morning accompanied him back to court, confessing on his way many

heinous sins, and obtaining absolution from the badger. The King

received him with a severe and stately countenance, and immediately

asked him touching the complaint of Laprell the Rabbit.

To which Reynard made answer, "Indeed, sire, what Laprell received he

most richly deserved. I gave him a cake when he was hungry; and when my

little son Rossel wanted to share a bit, the rabbit struck him on the

mouth and made his teeth bleed; whereupon my eldest son Reynardine

forthwith leaped upon him, and would have slain him had I not gone to

the rescue." Then the rabbit, fearing Reynard, stole away out of court.

"But," quoth the King, "I must charge you with another foul treason.

When I had pardoned all your great transgressions, and you had promised

me to go a pilgrimage to the Holy Land; when I had furnished you with

mail, scrip, and all things fitting that holy order; then, in the

greatest despite, you sent me back in the mail, by Bellin the Ram, the

head of Kyward the Hare; a thing so notoriously to my disgrace and

dishonor, that no treason can be fouler."

Then spake Reynard to the King, and said, "Alas, my sovereign Lord, what

is that you have said? Is good Kyward the Hare dead? Oh, where is then

Bellin the Ram, or what did he bring to your Majesty at his return? For

it is certain I delivered him three rich and inestimable jewels, I would

not for the wealth of India they should be detained from you; the chief

of them I determined for you my Lord the King, and the other two for my

sovereign Lady the Queen."

"But," said the King, "I received nothing but the head of poor murdered

Kyward, for which I executed the ram, he having confessed the deed to be

done by his advice and counsel."

"Is this true?" said the fox; "then woe is me that ever I was born, for

there are lost the goodliest jewels that ever were in the possession of

any prince living; would I had died when you were thus defrauded, for I

know it will be the death of my wife, nor will she ever henceforth

esteem me."

Then Reynard told the King and Queen of the great value of these

inestimable jewels. One was a gold ring, another a comb polished like

unto fine silver, and the third was a glass mirror; and so great were

the virtues of this rare glass that Reynard shed tears to think of the

loss of it. When the fox had told all this, he thus concluded, "If any

one can charge me with crime and prove it by witness, here I stand to

endure the uttermost the law can inflict upon me; but if malice only

slander me without witness, I crave the combat, according to the law and

instance of the court."

Then said the King, "Reynard, you say well, nor know I any thing more of

Kyward's death than the bringing of his head unto me by Bellin the Ram;

therefore of it I here acquit you."

"My dear Lord," said the fox, "I humbly thank you; yet is his death

grievous unto me."

But Isegrim the Wolf was not content with this conclusion, and defied

the fox to mortal combat. This challenge the fox accepted; and the next

day was appointed for the meeting.

When all the ceremonies were done, and none but the combatants were in

the lists, the wolf went toward the fox with infinite rage and fury,

thinking to take him in his fore-feet; but the fox leaped nimbly from

him, and the wolf pursued him, so that there began a tedious chase

between them, on which their friends gazed. The wolf taking larger

strides than the fox, often overtook him, and lifted up his feet to

strike him; but the fox avoided the blow, and smote him on the face with

his tail, so that the wolf was stricken almost blind, and was forced to

rest while he cleared his eyes; which advantage when Reynard saw, he

scratched up the dust with his feet, and threw it in the eyes of the

wolf. This grieved him worse than the former, so that he durst follow

him no longer, for the dust and sand sticking in his eyes smarted so

sore, that of force he must rub and wash it away; which Reynard seeing,

with all the fury he had he ran upon him, and with his teeth gave him

three sore wounds on his head.

Then the wolf being enraged, said, "I will make an end of this combat,

for I know my very weight is able to crush him to pieces; and I lose

much of my reputation to suffer him thus long to contend against me."

And this said, he struck the fox again so sore a blow on the head with

his foot, that he fell down to the ground; and ere he could recover

himself and arise, the wolf caught him in his feet and threw him under

him, lying upon him in such wise, as if he would have pressed him to

death.

Then the fox bethought himself how he might best get free: and thrusting

his hand down, he caught the wolf fast by the belly, and he wrung him so

extremely hard thereby, that he made him shriek and howl out with the

anguish, and in the end the wolf fell over and over in a swoon; then

presently Reynard leaped upon him, and drew him about the lists and

dragged him by the legs, and struck, wounded, and bit him in many

places, so that the whole field might take notice thereof.

Then a great shout was raised, the trumpets were sounded, and every one

cried, "Honor to the fox for this glorious conquest." Reynard thanked

them all kindly, and received their congratulations with great joy and

gladness. And, the marshals going before, they went all to the King,

guarding the fox on every side, all the trumpets, pipes, and minstrelsy

sounding before him.

When Reynard came before the King he fell on his knees, but the King

bade him stand up, and said to him, "Reynard, you may well rejoice, for

you have won much honor this day; therefore here I discharge you, and

set you free to go whither your own will leads you." So the court broke

up, and every beast returned to his own home.

With Reynard, all his friends and kinsfolk, to the number of forty, took

their leave also of the King, and went away with the fox, who was no

little glad that he had sped so well, and stood so far in the King's

favor; for now he had power enough to advance whom he pleased, and pull

down any that envied his fortune.

After some travel the fox and his friends came to his borough or castle

of Malepardus, where they all, in noble and courteous manner, took leave

of each other, and Reynard did to every one of them great reverence, and

thanked them for the love and honor he had received from them,

protesting evermore to remain their faithful servant, and to send them

in all things wherein his life or goods might be available unto them;

and so they shook hands and departed.

Then the fox went to Dame Ermelin his wife, who welcomed him with great

tenderness; and to her and her children he related at large all the

wonders which had befallen him at court, and missed no tittle or

circumstance therein. Then grew they proud that his fortune was so

excellent; and the fox spent his days from thenceforth, with his wife

and children, in great joy and content.

A STORY OF AN ORGAN.

"It is haunted with an evil thing, believe me, sir. Never till the

plowshare has passed over the place will men dwell there in peace."

The gray-headed speaker turned away, and left me alone to gaze on the

mansion he had thus banned. I had heard the same when I was a child; the

nurse had been chidden for talking of it in my presence, and my own

questions on the subject had always been evaded. Strange that now, after

thirty years' sojourning in a far-off land, I should come back to hear

the same mystery alluded to, the same destiny foretold! The impressions

were more than half effaced; but now, like the colors of a picture

brought to light after long obscurity, they returned vividly to my mind.

I gazed on the mansion; it was the only thing in the village of my birth

that I found greatly changed; but in looking at this once stately Tudor

hall I was reminded painfully how long I had been absent. When I last

saw it, the sunshine had glowed upon the gables and mullions of a goodly

mansion; the clear starlight now only showed a moss-grown ruin. The

balustrades and urns were cracked and thrown down; there were no peacocks

on the sloping lawn, and its once trim grass was overgrown with nettles

and coltsfoot. The quaint-patterned beds of the garden, too, had lost the

shapes of diamonds and stars, and, no longer glittering with flowers,

were scarcely to be distinguished from the walks save by more luxuriant

crops of weeds. The roof of the private chapel had recently fallen in,

and little remained of the building but an exquisitely-sculptured window,

amidst the tracery of which the wall-flower and the ivy had long taken

the place of the herald's blazon. The shadow of all this ruined beauty

was on my spirit; so being just in the humor for a ghostly legend, I

determined, on my return, to ask my friend L., with whom I was spending

a few days, for an explanation of the mystery. Thus much was readily

told. Briarhurst had been suffered to fall into decay ever since old

Sir Lambert's death; another branch of the family had become the

possessors; and as no tenant staid there, the present owner intended

very shortly to have it pulled down.

"Well, but what is the difficulty of living there?" said I. "It is quite

possible, with the aid of a yearly run up to town in the season, and

plenty of books, to exist even in that 'lonesome lodge' without hanging

one's self. Do any lords spiritual interfere with one's repose?"

"Ring for Edward and Hetty, my dear," said L. to his wife. Then, turning

to me, "Please don't allude to that subject before the children, or we

shall have them both afraid to stir after dark."

My curiosity was balked again; so, after a more constrained evening than

we had yet passed, I wished the family good night. My friend followed me

out of the room.

"Look at that picture for five minutes, while I fetch something," said

he, pointing to a portrait, evidently just rescued from damp and

destruction, that leant against the wall.

I obeyed. It represented a lady in a white morning dress of the fashion

of a century ago. She was young and beautiful, with bright hair, and

blue eyes of infinite depth and lustre. In her bosom she wore a

curiously-shaped ruby brooch; a bracelet, set with the same stones, was

clasped round the white arm that supported her head; and on her knee was

an open book. Inscribed on its page was the name "Cicely Clayton," and

the initials "L.E." She was apparently seated in some church or chapel,

for over her head was a grotesque Gothic corbel, and the polished oak of

a sombre-looking organ was visible in the back-ground. My eyes had

wandered from the mild face, and I was pondering on the significance of

the Cain and Abel on the carving, when L. returned.

"I see you are bent on hearing the legend. Professionally connected as I

am with the Evrards and their affairs, it is not my place to encourage

such tales; but you are nobody; and," he added, smiling, "I rather want

to know your opinion of my style: I may turn author one of these days."

So saying, he handed me a few sheets of exceedingly legal-looking paper,

and, wishing me pleasant dreams, left me to the perusal of the following

story.

From the time of the fourth Henry to the beginning of the present

century, Briarhurst was in the possession of the Evrard family. The last

baronet was a Sir Lambert Evrard; at the time I speak of, a gallant,

hearty gentleman, who, after a youth spent amidst the brilliance and

gayety of the court, the acquaintance of Walpole, and the worshiper of

Lady Montague had, in the evening of his days, settled down at his

country seat, a quiet country gentleman. He was not rich, for his

father's extravagance had mortgaged and wasted every thing available.

Worldly wisdom, undoubtedly, would have had Sir Lambert marry an

heiress, but, most perversely, he chose the Daphne of his early love

sonnets--a lady whose sweet voice and sparkling eyes had captivated him

on his Italian travels. His wife had no fortune, so he could not afford

to keep up a town house, and, soon after the birth of his first son,

came to reside permanently at Briarhurst. They had two sons, whom the

father, before they were three years old, had respectively destined for

the bar and the army, and his time was principally occupied in their

education. It was natural, in the then state of his affairs, that he

should look forward to his sons distinguishing themselves, as the only

means of restoring the family to its former position. Circumstances,

however, pointed out another way by which the desired wealth might be

more easily secured. On the death of a distant relative, Sir Lambert

became the guardian of an orphan heiress; he earnestly hoped his eldest

son would marry her, and thus fulfill the wish of his life. Contrary to

the custom of the heroes and heroines of romance, who always wantonly

thwart the desires of their parents and guardians in affairs of

matrimony, young Lambert Evrard and his beautiful cousin, Cicely

Clayton, glided imperceptibly from childhood's pretty playing at man

and wife to the more serious kind of love-making, and by the time they

had reached respectively the ages of twenty and seventeen, their union

was fixed on.

The young man was of a strangely meditative turn of mind; he was very

studious, too, and had imbued his ladye love with a taste for the sombre

musings and sage books he loved himself. There is one spot in the old

garden--a knot of lindens shading a broken figure of Niobe--where I have

often fancied those two lovers might have sat. It seems just the place

for such an earnest, thoughtful love as theirs was, to hold communion

in. Lambert inherited from his mother a rare skill in music; and he and

Cicely would spend hours at the organ in the chapel, his fingers seeming

unconsciously to wander over the keys, and his spirit apparently

floating heavenward in the tide of glorious anthem and solemn symphony

his art awakened. He was a painter, too; and many an hour would she sit

before him as he sketched her lovely face, sometimes in the simple dress

she wore at her books or work, at other times as the garlanded

Pastorella, or the green-robed Laura of their favorite poets. His

brother Maurice was seldom their companion in these pursuits. In

disposition, and even in person, he was the very opposite of Lambert.

When a child, his temper had been morose and reserved; and, as he grew

up, all the unamiable points of his character became more conspicuous.

In fact, he was galled perpetually by the manifest superiority of his

brother, by his success in all he undertook, by his popularity with the

tenantry, by Cicely's preference for him. He had great command of

temper, however, and contrived to prevent any outbreaks of passion

before his father or Cicely; but when alone with Lambert he would vent

his ill-humor in sarcasms and taunts that would have bred innumerable

quarrels, had the temper of the elder brother been a whit less equable

than it was. But no human being is less prone to seek offense or

contention than a gentle scholar whose poet-mind is just awakened by the

spirit of love; and such was Lambert Evrard.

It was settled that the wedding should take place on Cicely's eighteenth

birthday; and preparations had long been making for the ceremony and its

attendant festival, when the destined bridegroom was suddenly taken ill.

His physician never assigned a name to his complaint, and its origin

appeared unaccountable. He was in danger for weeks; and on his being

sufficiently recovered was immediately ordered abroad for change of air.

The marriage was, of course, deferred till his health was

re-established. Maurice, whose attention to his sick brother had been as

exemplary as it was unexpected, accompanied him to the Continent. They

had not been abroad three months before letters brought tidings of his

brother's rapid convalescence. The soft Italian air was doing wonders

for his enfeebled constitution; he was comparatively well, and they

purposed to prolong their absence, and convert the quest of health into

a tour of pleasure. We may be sure that with the announcement of their

intention came many a line of kind regret and wistful longing (lines

destined to be read alone and often), many a leaf plucked from the

haunts of song, and many a plaintive verse inscribed to Cicely. There

were tears, perhaps, when the news of lengthened separation came; but

the lady consoled herself with the reflection that it would prevent

Lambert leaving her after their marriage, and give them both many happy

hours of converse in the sunny days to come. All the hopes and promises

of future happiness, however, were fated to be disappointed. The next

letter that arrived brought news of a fearful calamity. Lambert Evrard

was dead! The particulars of the accident were thus given in a letter

written by a friend of Maurice's, for he himself was too much afflicted

by the event to give any detailed account. It appeared that the brothers

had set out with the intention of ascending one of the loftiest peaks in

the Tyrol, and had started overnight, that they might reach the summit

in time to see the glories of an Alpine sunrise. The guide left them for

a moment to see whether a stream was fordable, when Lambert, attempting,

against his brother's advice, to pass a ledge of rock unassisted by the

mountaineer's pole, fell into a chasm between the glaciers.

The body was never found. It was said that for days Maurice remained in

the neighborhood, offering immense rewards to any peasant who would even

commence a search for the remains; but the men knew too well the

hopelessness and peril of the task to attempt it. Finding this

unavailing, he left the place. His return was delayed by severe illness;

but at length, in one gray autumn twilight, a traveling-carriage dashed

up the shadowy avenue of Briarhurst, and Maurice was received in his

father's hall--a mourner amid mourners. He was much altered. The demure

severity of his old manner was changed to at least an appearance of

candor and trustfulness. Grief for his brother _seemed_ to have bettered

his whole nature, to have opened his heart to the influences of kindness

and gentleness--to have made him, in short, more lovable. Such appeared

the best interpretation of the change that was wrought in him, and which

showed itself conspicuously in his conduct to the afflicted ones around

him. Kindly and thoughtfully did he console the anguish of his parents,

and with innumerable offices of delicate care and thoughtful

consideration did he show his respect and sympathy for Cicely's

affliction. By no intrusive efforts at comforting, but silently and

gently did he seek to wean his cousin from the remembrance of her

bereavement. By sparing her feelings in every possible way, by avoiding

the mention of Lambert's name, save in a manner calculated to awaken

those tender memories which are the softeners of grief, he strove to

divert Cicely's mind from dwelling too constantly on her dead betrothed;

and thus, without appearing to drive away the impression, he gradually

supplied her with other objects and pursuits; and though at first her

walks were always to the scenes he had loved, and her mornings spent

over the books he had read, their beauties were soon explored with other

interests than those which arose merely from the pleasures of

remembrance. The chapel which had been wont to recall Lambert most

painfully to her mind was now unentered.

The dell of lindens, through the bright leaves of which the sunbeams had

so often poured upon his open book, was now unfrequented. With none of

the ardor of first love, but with a regard originating in their mutual

sharing of the same grief, and nurtured by gratitude for his constant

sympathy, Cicely accepted Maurice for her lover; then, in obedience to

the earnest wish of those whom she had always reverenced as parents,

consented to be his wife. It had ever been the fervent hope of Sir

Lambert that he might live to see the wealth of his family restored

before he died. The plan for the accomplishment of this wish of a life

had been once fatally disappointed. It was natural, then, that he should

rejoice in this new prospect of its realization. Lady Evrard also was

desirous that the stain the baronet had brought on the family escutcheon

by his marriage with her should be blotted out. Sir Lambert was a kind

husband in the main, but his wife's penetration could not help

perceiving that he often inwardly sighed for the society of his

aristocratic neighbors, when his inability to return their hospitality

made him refuse their invitations. She had another inducement. Her

mother's eye had observed with pleasure what seemed to her the

beneficial influence of adversity upon her wayward son's character, and

she hoped the gentleness of his cousin would complete his reformation.

All seemed to favor the alliance. The day was fixed; and Cicely Clayton,

in a strange mood of alternating doubt and hope, arrayed herself for her

bridal. The hour had come. The wedding party were assembled in the

chapel. Few had been invited, for it had been the express wish of the

bride that the rite should be celebrated as privately as possible. Two

bridemaids, daughters of a neighboring gentleman, Lord R., a friend of

the late Lambert, and the family lawyer were the only bidden guests.

They approached the communion rails. The ruby-tinged sunbeams streamed

through the graceful trefoil on the white-robed Cicely and on the

trembling Maurice. There was need of something to lend a glow to his

haggard face, for he was ghastly pale. No artist's tint was half so

radiant as the rising blush upon her cheek. The minister had commenced

the service; the address had been read; the irrevocable "I will" had

been uttered in a stifled whisper by the bridegroom, had been murmured

in accents of gentlest music by the bride, when, as Maurice received the

ring from the priest, a strange unearthly sound rang through the

chapel--a strange interruption stayed every hand, hushed every voice.

From the organ (untouched since Lambert in his happy youth awoke its

melody) burst forth a wailing, plaintive sound, more like a restless

spirit's cry, than any mortal note--so loud, so long, so wild, that it

seemed to rack the senses that it held in horrible uncertainty till it

was done. Such a strain that nameless minstrel might have used to kindle

prophet-fire in Elisha. Then it stopped. But only for an instant; and a

dirge, sad as the contrite's weeping, clear as the accents of

forgiveness, came from that wondrous organ. Such a strain the

shepherd-harper might have woke who calmed the demon rage in Saul.

But the second solemn threne was more terrible than the first crashing

peal, for it called up an awful memory and a dark suspicion. It was the

very same air that Lambert had composed and played the night before he

left. With a cry as of recognition the mother stood expectant. With

clasped hands and broken voice the father prayed. Cicely and Maurice

thought only of that strain as they had heard it first. The bride

remembered how on that sad night Lambert had sought to smile away her

tears, and called them dearest tributes to his music.

It seemed like listening to his voice to hear again that unforgotten

melody; she listened then unfearing, in very delight of spirit; but when

the dirge was done, the influence that had upheld her in such ecstasy

gave way too, and she fell fainting on the steps. The bridegroom

remembered the purpose that was in his heart that night, and which had

made the music jarring discord. In his ears the sound was but the voice

of retribution, and, in an agony of passion, he hurried down the aisle

to see who woke a strain so dreadful to him. But no human hand had

touched the keys.

Maurice was taken to bed in a state of delirium, and expired the next

morning. Those who watched beside him remembered long, that through the

live-long night he raved of nothing but a deep abyss that he was falling

down, and that he prayed them to stretch a hand and help him, for that

down there rotted a ghastly corpse, whose stare was death to him.

The vault in Briarhurst church was next opened to receive the remains of

Lady Evrard.

Cicely survived for some years, the good genius of the village poor, a

ministering angel to the sorrowing and the helpless; then, full of that

glorious confidence which faith engenders, entered into her rest.

Sir Lambert lived to a great age; but happily he had sunk into perfect

childishness before Cicely was taken from him. It was a sad sight to

watch that desolate old man as he would sometimes wander about the

neglected shrubbery, or sometimes stand pondering before the pictures of

his sons and of their betrothed bride, apparently quite forgetful of the

features of Lambert and Maurice, but often asking anxiously why the

beautiful lady that was once so kind to him sat always silent now.

THE HOUSEHOLD OF SIR THOs. MORE.

[Concluded from the October Number.]

LIBELLUS A MARGARETA MORE, QUINDECIM ANNOS NATA, CHELSEIAE INCEPTVS.

"Nulla dies sine linea."

September.

Seeing ye woodman fell a noble tree, which, as it went to the ground,

did uptear several small plants by ye roots, methoughte such woulde be

the fall of dear father, herein more sad than that of the abbot of Sion

and the Charterhouse monks, inasmuch as, being celibate, they involve

noe others in theire ruin. Brave, holie martyrs! how cheerfully they

went to theire death. I'm glad to have seene how pious men may turn e'en

an ignominious sentence into a kind of euthanasy. Dear father bade me

note how they bore themselves as bridegrooms going to theire marriage,

and converted what mighte have beene a shock to my surcharged spiritts,

into a lesson of deep and high comfort.

One thing hath grieved me sorelie. He mistooke somewhat I sayd at

parting for an implication of my wish that he shoulde yield up his

conscience. Oh, no, dearest father, that be far from me! It seems to

have cut him to the heart, for he hath writ that "none of the terrible

things that may befall him touch him soe nearlie as that his dearly

beloved child, whose opinion he soe much values, shoulde desire him to

overrule his conscience." That be far from me, father! I have writ to

explayn the matter, but his reproach, undeserved though it be, hath

troubled my heart.

November.

Parliament will meet to-morrow. 'Tis expected father and ye good bishop

of Rochester will be attainted for misprison of treason by ye slavish

members thereof, and though not given hithertoe unto much heede of omens

and bodements while our hearts were light and our courage high, yet now

ye coming evil seemeth foreshadowed unto alle by I know not how many

melancholick presages, sent, for aught we know, in mercy. Now that the

days are dark and short, and the nights stormy, we shun to linger much

after dusk in lone chambers and passages, and what was sayd of the

enemies of Israel may be nigh sayd of us, "that a falling leaf shall

chase them." I'm sure "a going in the tops of the mulberry-trees" on a

blusterous evening, is enow to draw us alle, men, mothers, and maids,

together in an heap.... We goe about ye house in twos and threes, and

care not much to leave the fireside. Last Sunday we had closed about ye

the hearth, and little Bill was a reading by the fire-light how

Herodias' daughter danced off the head of St. John the Baptist, when

down comes an emptie swallow's nest tumbling adown the chimnie, bringing

with it enow of soot, smoke, and rubbish to half smother us alle; but

the dust was nothing to the dismay thereby occasioned, and I noted one

or two of our bravest turn as pale as death. Then, the rats have

skirmished and galloped behind the wainscoat more like a troop of horse

than a herd of such smaller deer, to ye infinite annoyance of mother,

who coulde not be more firmly persuaded they were about to leave a

falling house, if, like the sacred priests in the temple of Jerusalem,

she had heard a voyce utter, "Let us depart hence." The round upper half

of the cob-loaf rolled off the table this morning, and Rupert, as he

picked it up, gave a kind of shudder, and muttered somewhat about a head

rolling from the scaffold. Worse than this was o' Tuesday night....

'Twas bedtime, and yet none were liking to goe, when, o' suddain, we

hearde a screech that made every body's heart thrill, followed by one or

two hollow groans. Will snatches up the lamp and runs forth, I close

following, and alle the others at our heels, and after looking into

sundrie deserted cupboards and corners, we descend the broad stone steps

of the cellars, halfway down which Will, stumbling over something he

sees not, takes a flying leap to clear himself down to the bottom,

luckily without extinguishing the lamp. We find Gillian on the steps in

a swoon; on bringing her to, she exclayms about a ghost without a head,

wrapped in a winding-sheet, that confronted her and then sank to the

ground as she entered the vaults. We cast a fearfulle look about, and

descry a tall white sack of flour, recently overturned by the rats,

which clears up the mystery, and procures Gillian a little jeering, but

we alle return to the hall with fluttered spiritts. Another time I,

going up to the nurserie in the dark, on hearing baby cry, am passed on

the stairs by I know not what breathing heavilie. I reach forthe my arm,

but pass cleare through the spirituall nature, whatever it is, yet

distinctlie feel my cheek and neck fanned by its breath. I turn very

faint, and get nurse to goe with me when I return, bearing a light, yet

think it as well to say naught to distress the rest.

But worst of alle was last night ... After I had been in bed awhile, I

minded me that deare Will had not returned me father's letter. I awoke

him and asked if he had broughte it upstairs; he sleepily replied he had

not, soe I hastily arose, threw on a cloke, took a light, and entered

the gallery, when, halfway along it, between me and the pale moonshine,

I was scared to behold a slender figure alle in white, with naked feet

and arms extended. I stoode agaze, speechlesse, and to my terror made

out the features of Bess ... her eyes open, but vacant; then saw John

Dancey softly stealing after her, and signing to me with his finger on

his lips. She passed without noting me, on to father's door, there knelt

as if in prayer, making a low sort of wail, while Dancey, with tears

running down his cheeks, whispered, "'Tis the third time of her thus

sleep-walking ... the token of how troubled a mind!"

We disturbed her not, dreading that a suddain waking might bring on

madness; soe, after making moan awhile, she kisses the senseless door,

rises up, moves toward her own chamber, followed by Dancey and me,

wrings her hands a little, then lies down, and graduallie falls into

what seems a dreamless sleep, we watching her in silence till she's

quiet, and then squeezing each other's hands ere we part.

... Will was wide awake when I got back; he sayd, "Why, Meg, how long

you have beene! coulde you not lighte on the letter?" ... When I tolde

him what had hindered me by the way, he turned his face to the wall and

wept.

Midnight.

The wild wind is abroad, and, methinketh, _nothing else_. Sure, how it

rages through our empty courts! In such a season, men, beasts, and fowls

cower beneath ye shelter of their rocking walls, yet almost fear to

trust them. Lord, I know that thou canst give the tempest double force,

but do not, I beseech thee! Oh! have mercy on the frail dwelling and the

ship at sea.

Dear little Bill hath ta'en a feverish attack. I watch beside him while

his nurse sleeps. Earlie in the night his mind wandered, and he told me

of a pretty ring-streaked poney noe bigger than a bee, that had golden

housings and barley-sugar eyes; then dozed, but ever and anon kept

starting up, crying "Mammy, dear!" and softlie murmured "Oh" when he saw

I was by. At length I gave him my forefinger to hold, which kept him

ware of my presence without speaking, but presentlie he stares hard

toward ye foot of the bed, and says fearfullie, "Mother, why hangs yon

hatchet in the air, with its sharp edge turned toward us?" I rise, move

the lamp, and say, "Do you see it now?" He sayth, "No, not now," and

closes his eyes. After a good space, during the which I hoped he slept,

he says in quite an altered tone, most like unto soft, sweet music,

"There's a pretty little cherub there now, alle head and noe body, with

two little wings aneath his chin; but, for alle he's soe pretty, he is

just like dear Gaffer, and seems to know me ... and he'll have a body

agayn, too, I believe, by and by ... Mother, mother, tell Hobbinol

there's such a gentle lamb in heaven!" And soe, slept.

* * * * *

He's gone, my pretty ...! slipt through my fingers like a bird! upfled

to his own native skies, and yet whenas I think on him, I can not choose

but weepe.... Such a guileless little lamb!... My Billy-bird! his

mother's owne heart. They are alle wondrous kind to' me....

* * * * *

How strange that a little child shoulde be permitted to suffer soe much

payn, when of such is the kingdom of heaven! But 'tis onlie transient,

whereas a mother makes it permanent, by thinking it over and over agayn.

One lesson it taughte us betimes, that a naturall death is not,

necessarilie, the most easie. We must alle die.... As poor Patteson was

used to say, "The greatest king that ever was made, must bed at last

with shovel and spade," ... and I'd sooner have my Billy's baby deathbed

than King Harry's, or Nan Boleyn's either, however manie years they may

yet carry matters with a high hand. Oh, you ministers of evill, whoever

you be, visible or invisible, you shall not build a wall between my God

and me.... I've something within me, grows stronger and stronger, as

times grow more and more evill; some woulde call it resolution, but

methinketh 'tis faith.

Meantime, father's foes ... alack that anie can shew 'emselves such! are

aiming by fayr seemings of friendlie conference, to draw from him

admissions they can come at after noe other fashion. The new Solicitor

General hath gone to ye Tower to deprive him of ye few books I have

taken him from time to time.... Ah, Master Rich, you must deprive him of

his brains afore you can rob him of their contents!... and, while having

'em packt up, he falls into easie dialogue with him, as thus ... "Why

now, sure, Mr. More, were there an act of parliament made that all ye

realm shoulde take me for king, you woulde take me for such with the

rest."

"Aye, that would I, sir," returns father.

"Forsooth, then," pursues Rich, "we'll suppose another act that should

make me the Pope. Would you not take me for Pope?"

"Or suppose another case, Mr. Rich," returns father, "that another act

shoulde pass, that God shoulde not be God, would you say well and good?"

"No, truly," returns the other hastily, "for no parliament coulde make

such act lawful."

"True, as you say," repeats father, "they coulde not" ... soe eluded the

net of the fowler; but how miserable and unhandsome a device to lay wait

for him thus, to catch him in his talk.

... I stole forthe, ere 'twas lighte, this damp, chill morning, to pray

beside the little grave, but found dear Daisy there before me. How

Christians love one another!

Will's loss is as heavie as mine, yet he bears with me tenderlie.

Yesternighte, he sayth to me half reproachfullie, "Am not I better unto

thee than ten sons?"

March, 1534.

Spring comes, that brings rejuvenescence to ye land, and joy to the

heart, but it brings none to us, for where hope dieth, joy dieth. But

patience, soul; God's yet in the aumry!

* * * * *

May 7. Father arraigned.

* * * * *

July 1. By reason of Will's minding to be present at ye triall, which,

for the concourse of spectators, demanded his earlie attendance, he

committed the care of me, with Bess, to Dancey, who got us places to see

father on his way from the Tower to Westminster Hall. We coulde not come

at him for the press, but clambered on a bench to gaze our very hearts

away after him as he went by, sallow, thin, gray-haired, yet in mien not

a whit cast down. Wrapt in a coarse woollen gown, and leaning on a

staff, which unwonted support when Bess markt, she hid her eyes on my

shoulder and wept sore, but soon lookt up agayn, though her eyes were

soe blinded, I think she coulde not see him. His face was calm, but

grave, as he came up, but just as he passed he caughte the eye of some

one in the crowd, and smiled in his old, frank way; then glanced up

toward the windows with the bright look he hath soe oft cast to me at my

casement, but saw us not. I coulde not help crying "Father," but he

heard me not; perchance 'twas soe best.... I woulde not have had his

face cloud at ye sighte of poor Bessy's tears.

... Will tells me the indictment was ye longest ever hearde; on four

counts. First, his opinion on the king's marriage. Second, his writing

sundrie letters to the Bishop of Rochester, counselling him to hold out.

Third, refusing to acknowledge his grace's supremacy. Fourth, his

positive deniall of it, and thereby willing to deprive the king of his

dignity and title.

When the reading of this was over, the Lord Chancellor sayth, "You see

how grievouslie you have offended the king his grace, but and yet he is

soe mercifulle, as that if ye will lay aside your obstinacie, and change

your opinion, we hope ye may yet obtayn pardon."

Father makes answer ... and at sounde of his deare voyce alle men hold

their breaths.... "Most noble Lords, I have great cause to thank your

honors for this your courtesie ... but I pray Almighty God I may

continue in the mind I'm in, through his grace, until death."

They coulde not make good their accusation agaynst him. 'Twas onlie on

the last count he could be made out a traitor, and proof of 't had they

none; how coulde they have? He shoulde have beene acquitted out of hand,

'steade of which, his bitter enemy, my Lord Chancellor, called on him

for his defense. Will sayth there was a general murmur or sigh ran

through ye court. Father, however, answered the bidding by beginning to

express his hope that the effect of long imprisonment mighte not have

beene such upon his mind and body, as to impair his power of rightlie

meeting alle ye charges agaynst him ... when, turning faint with long

standing, he staggered and loosed hold of his staff, whereon he was

accorded a seat. 'Twas but a moment's weakness of the body, and he then

proceeded frankly to avow his having always opposed the king's marriage

to his grace himself, which he was soe far from thinking high treason,

that he shoulde rather have deemed it treachery to have withholden his

opinion from his sovereign king when solicited by him for his counsell.

His letters to ye good Bishop he proved to have beene harmlesse.

Touching his declining to give his opinion, when askt, concerning the

supremacy, he alleged there coulde be noe transgression in holding his

peace thereon, God only being cognizant of our thoughts.

"Nay," interposeth the Attorney Generall, "your silence was the token of

a malicious mind."

"I had always understoode," answers father, "that silence stoode for

consent. Qui tacet, consentire videtur;" which made sundrie smile. On

the last charge, he protested he had never spoken word against ye law

unto anie man.

The jury are about to acquit him, when up starts the Solicitor Generall,

offers himself as witness for the crown, is sworn, and gives evidence of

his dialogue with father in the Tower, falselie adding, like a liar as

he is, that on his saying "No parliament coulde make a law that God

shoulde not be God," father had rejoined, "No more coulde they make the

king supreme head of the Church."

I marvell the ground opened not at his feet. Father brisklie made

answer, "If I were a man, my lords, who regarded not an oath, ye know

well I needed not stand now at this bar. And if the oath which you, Mr.

Rich, have just taken, be true, then I pray I may never see God in the

face. In good truth, Mr. Rich, I am more sorry for your perjurie than my

perill. You and I once dwelt long together in one parish; your manner of

life and conversation from your youth up were familiar to me, and it

paineth me to tell ye were ever held very light of your tongue, a great

dicer and gamester, and not of anie commendable fame either there or in

the Temple, the inn to which ye have belonged. Is it credible,

therefore, to your lordships, that the secrets of my conscience touching

the oath, which I never woulde reveal, after the statute once made,

either to the king's grace himself, nor to anie of you, my honorable

lords, I should have thus lightly blurted out in private parley with Mr.

Rich?"

In short, the villain made not goode his poynt; ne'erthelesse, the issue

of this black day was aforehand fixed; my Lord Audley was primed with a

virulent and venomous speech; the jury retired, and presentlie returned

with a verdict of Guilty; for they knew what the king's grace would have

'em doe in that case.

Up starts my Lord Audley--commences pronouncing judgment, when--

"My lord," says father, "in my time, the custom in these cases was ever

to ask the prisoner before sentence, whether he could give anie reason

why judgment shoulde not proceed agaynst him."

My lord, in some confusion, puts the question.

And then came ye frightfulle sentence.

Yes, yes, my soul, I know; there were saints of old sawn asunder. Men of

whom the world was not worthy.

... Then he spake unto 'em his mind, how that after lifelong studdy, he

could never find that a layman mighte be head of the church. And bade

his judges and accusers farewell; hoping that like as St. Paul was

present and consenting unto St. Stephen's death, and yet both were now

holy saints in heaven, soe he and they might speedilie meet there, joint

heirs of e'erlasting salvation.

Meantime, poor Bess and Cecilie, spent with grief and long waiting, were

forct to be carried home by Heron, or ever father returned to his

prison. Was't less feeling, or more strength of body, enabled me to bide

at the Tower wharf with Dancey? God knoweth. They brought him back by

water; my poor sisters must have passed him.... The first thing I saw

was the ax, _turned with its edge toward him_--my first note of his

sentence. I forct my way through the crowd ... some one laid a cold hand

on mine arm; 'twas poor Patteson, soe changed I scarce knew him, with a

rosary of gooseberries he kept running through his fingers. He sayth,

Bide your time, mistress Meg; when he comes past, I'll make a passage

for ye.... Oh, brother, brother! what ailed thee to refuse the oath?

_I've_ taken it! In another moment, "Now, mistress, now!" and flinging

his arms right and left, made a breach through which I darted, fearlesse

of bills and halberds, and did fling mine arms about father's neck. He

cries, "My Meg!" and hugs me to him as though our very souls shoulde

grow together. He sayth, "Bless thee, bless thee! Enough, enough, my

child; what mean ye, to weep and break mine heart? Remember, though I

die innocent, 'tis not without the will of God, who coulde send 's

angels to rescue me if 'twere best; therefore possess your soul in

patience. Kiss them alle for me, thus and thus" ... soe gave me back

into Dancey's arms, the guards about him alle weeping; but I coulde not

thus lose sight of him forever; soe, after a minute's pause, did make a

second rush, brake away from Dancey, clave to father agayn, and agayn

they had pitie on me, and made pause while I hung upon his neck. This

time there were large drops standing on his dear brow; and the big tears

were swelling into his eyes. He whispered, "Meg, for Christ's sake don't

unman me; thou'lt not deny my last request?" I sayd, "Oh! no;" and at

once loosened mine arms. "God's blessing be with you," he sayth with a

last kiss. I could not help crying, "My father! my father!" "The chariot

of Israel, and the horsemen thereof!" he vehementlie whispers, pointing

upward with soe passionate a regard, that I look up, almost expecting a

beatific vision; and when I turn about agayn, he's gone, and I have noe

more sense nor life till I find myself agayn in mine own chamber, my

sisters chafing my hands.

* * * * *

Alle's over now ... they've done theire worst, and yet I live. There

were women coulde stand aneath ye cross. The Maccabees' mother-- ...

yes, my soul, yes; I know--Naught but unpardoned sin.... The chariot of

Israel.

* * * * *

Dr. Clement hath beene with us. Sayth he went up as blythe as a

bridegroom to be clothed upon with immortality.

Rupert stoode it alle out. Perfect love casteth out feare. Soe did his.

* * * * *

... My most precious treasure is this deare billet, writ with a coal;

the last thing he sett his hand to, wherein he sayth, "I never liked

your manner toward me better than when you kissed me last."

They have let us bury his poor mangled trunk; but, as sure as there's a

sun in heaven, I'll have his head!--before another sun hath risen, too.

If wise men won't speed me, I'll e'en content me with a fool.

I doe think men, for ye most part, be cowards in theire hearts ...

moral cowards. Here and there, we find one like father, and like

Socrates, and like ... this and that one, I mind not theire names just

now; but in ye main, methinketh they lack the moral courage of women.

Maybe, I'm unjust to 'em just now, being crost.

* * * * *

... I lay down, but my heart was waking. Soon after the first cock crew,

I hearde a pebble cast agaynst my lattice, knew ye signall, rose,

dressed, stole softlie down and let myself out. I knew the touch of ye

poor fool's fingers; his teeth were chattering, 'twixt cold and fear,

yet he laught aneath his breath as he caught my arm and dragged me after

him, whispering, "Fool and fayr lady will cheat 'em yet." At the stairs

lay a wherry with a couple of boatmen, and one of 'em stepping up to me,

cries, "Alas for ruth, mistress Meg, what is 't ye do? Art mad to go on

this errand?" I sayd, "I shall be mad if I go not, and succeed too--put

me in, and push off."

We went down the river quietlie enow--at length reach London Bridge

stairs. Patteson, starting up, says, "Bide ye all as ye are," and

springs aland and runneth up to the bridge. Anon, returns, and sayth,

"Now, mistress, alle's readie ... readier than ye wist ... come up

quickly, for the coast's clear." Hobson (for 'twas he) helps me forth,

saying, "God speed ye, mistress.... Gin I dared, I woulde goe with ye."

... Thought I, there be others in that case.

Nor lookt I up, till aneath the bridge-gate, when casting upward a

fearsome look, I beheld ye dark outline of the ghastly yet precious

relic; and, falling into a tremour, did wring my hands and exclaym,

"Alas, alas, that head hath lain full manie a time in my lap, woulde

God, woulde God it lay there now!" When, o' suddain, I saw the pole

tremble and sway toward me; and stretching forth my apron, I did in an

extasy of gladness, pity, and horror, catch its burthen as it fell.

Patteson, shuddering, yet grinning, cries under his breath, "Managed I

not well, mistress? Let's speed away with our theft, for fools and their

treasures are soon parted; but I think not they'll follow hard after us,

neither, for there are well-wishers to us on the bridge. I'll put ye

into the boat, and then say, God speed ye, lady, with your burthen."

* * * * *

Rizpah, daughter of Aiah, did watch her dead from the beginning of

harvest until the latter rain, and suffered neither the birds of the air

to light on them by day, nor the wild beasts of the the field by night.

And it was told the king, but he intermeddled not with her.

Argia stole Polynices' body by night and buried it, for the which, she

with her life did willingly pay forfeit. Antigone, for aiding in the

pious theft, was adjudged to be buried alive. Artemisia did make

herself her loved one's shrine, by drinking his ashes. Such is the love

of woman; many waters can not quench it, neither can the floods drown

it. I've hearde Bonvisi tell of a poor Italian girl, whose brothers did

slay her lover; and in spite of them, she got his heart, and buried it

in a pot of basil, which she watered day and night with her tears, just

as I do my coffer. Will has promised it shall be buried with me; layd

upon my heart; and since then, I've beene easier.

He thinks he shall write father's life, when he gets more composed, and

we are settled in a new home. We are to be cleared out o' this in alle

haste; the king grutches at our lingering over father's footsteps, and

gazing on the dear familiar scenes associate with his image; and yet,

when the news of the bloody deed was taken to him, as he sate playing at

tables with Queen Anne, he started up and scowled at her, saying, "Thou

art the cause of this man's death!" Father might well say, during our

last precious meeting in the Tower, "'Tis I, Meg, not the king, that

love women. They bely him; he onlie loves himself." Adding, with his own

sweet smile, "Your Gaffer used to say that women were a bag of snakes,

and that the man who put his hand therein woulde be lucky if he founde

one eel among them alle; but 'twas onlie in sport, Meg, and he owned

that I had enough eels to my share to make a goodly pie, and called my

house the eel-pie house to the day of his death. 'Twas our Lord Jesus

raised up women and shewed kindnesse unto 'em, and they've kept theire

level, in the main, ever since."

I wish Will may sett down everie thing of father's saying he can

remember; how precious will his book then be to us! But I fear me, these

matters adhere not to a man's memory ... he'll be telling of his doings

as Speaker and Chancellor, and his saying this and that in Parliament.

Those are the matters men like to write and to read; he won't write it

after my fashion.

I had a misgiving of Will's wrath, that night, 'speciallie if I failed;

but he called me his brave Judith. Indeed I was a woman bearing a head,

but one that had oft lain on my shoulder.

My thoughts beginne to have connexion now; but till last night, I slept

not. 'Twas scarce sunsett. Mercy had been praying beside me, and I lay

outside my bed, inclining rather to stupor than sleep. O' suddain, I

have an impression that some one is leaning over me, though I hear 'em

not nor feel theire breath. I start up, cry "Mercy!" but she's not there

nor anie one else. I turn on my side and become heavie to sleep; but or

ere I drop quite off, agayn I'm sensible or apprehensive of some living

consciousness between my closed eyelids and the setting sunlight; agayn

start up and stare about, but there's nothing. Then I feel like ... like

Eli, maybe, when the child Samuel came to him twice; and tears well into

mine eyes, and I close 'em agayn, and say in mine heart, "If he's at

hand, oh, let me see him next time ... the third time's lucky." But

'steade of this, I fall into quiet, balmy, dreamlesse sleep. Since then,

I've had an abiding, assuring sense of help, of a hand upholding me, and

smoothing and glibbing the way before me.

We must yield to ye powers that be. At this present, we are weak, but

they are strong; they are honourable, but we are despised. They have

made us a spectacle unto the world, and, I think, Europe will ring with

it; but at this present hour, they will have us forth of our home,

though we have as yet no certayn dwelling-place, and must flee as scared

pigeons from their dove-cot. No matter, our men are willing to labour,

and our women to endure; being reviled, we bless; being persecuted, we

suffer it. Onlie I marvell how anie honest man, coming after us, will be

able to eat a mouthful of bread with a relish within these walls. And,

methinketh, a dishonest man will have sundrie frights from the Lares and

Lemures. There 'ill be dearth o' black beans in ye market.

Flow on, bright shining Thames. A good brave man hath walked aforetime

on your margent, himself as bright, and usefull, and delightsome as be

you, sweet river. And like you, he never murmured; like you, he upbore

the weary, and gave drink to the thirsty, and reflected heaven in his

face. I'll not swell your full current with any more fruitless tears.

There's a river whose streams make glad the city of our God. He now

rests beside it. Good Christian folks, as they hereafter pass this spot,

upborne on thy gentle tide, will, maybe, point this way, and say--"There

dwelt Sir Thomas More;" but whether they doe or not, _vox populi_ is a

very inconsiderable matter, for the majority are evil, and "_the people_

sayd, Let him be crucified!" Who would live on theire breath? They

hailed St. Paul as Jupiter, and then stoned him and cast him out of the

city, supposing him to be dead. Theire favourite of to-day may, for what

they care, goe hang himself to-morrow in his surcingle. Thus it must be

while the world lasts; and the very racks and scrues wherewith they aim

to overcome the nobler spiritt, onlie test and reveal its power of

exaltation above the heaviest gloom of circumstance.

_Interfecistis, interfecistis hominem omnium Anglorum optimum._

THE FLYING ARTIST.

Karl Herwitz is a German. He is about fifty years of age, and one of the

most original of characters. Since I have known him, I have passed whole

nights in listening to his adventures, which are in general as

instructive as they are amusing. Married at a very early age, he left

the military career for that of inventions. He had a most marvelous

talent for conceiving novel machines, often of practical utility; but

his soul was set upon perfecting a flying machine. To this he had

devoted nearly his whole life. He made models, he tried experiments, he

brought to bear all his prodigious knowledge of mathematics on the

subject of traveling in air, with an enthusiasm, a childish earnestness,

which is not uncharacteristic of genius. He studied every natural law

which was likely to advance him toward the consummation of all his hopes

and desires, namely, the ability to fly. At one time his little garden

was turned into an aviary. He filled it with birds of various kinds, to

study the mechanism of their powers of flight. There was the eagle and

the dove, the vulture and the sparrow, all of which were made

subservient to his darling object. He has often explained all this to

me. "The Golden Eagle," he once said, "can cleave the air at the rate of

forty miles an hour. Now, if I can succeed in imitating the mechanism by

which he travels in space, exactly and efficiently, of course, my

machine will move in the air at the same pace." What could I say? No

argument, no warning availed. Still he went on, hoping and working, and

buying expensive tools and materials. He completed aerial ships one

after another; and although none of them answered, he was never

discouraged.

At one time, however, he thought he had succeeded. His contrivance was a

curious affair, shot out of a bomb; but it was about as buoyant as a

shot, fell, and failed, disheartening every body but the persevering

projector. Still he did not wholly neglect useful productions, and

several times made improvements in mechanism, and sold them for very

good prices. But the money went as fast as it came. His winged Pegasus

was a merciless Ogre, which swallowed up all the money the old German

earned.

Last Christmas-eve, in Paris, five of us were collected, after dinner,

round a roaring fire, half wood, half charcoal. For some time the

conversation was general enough. We spoke of England and of an English

Christmas. The magic spell of the fireside was felt, and the word "home"

hung on the trembling lip of all; for we were in a foreign land; we were

all English, save one. There was a lawyer, the most unlawyer-like man I

ever knew, a noble-hearted fellow, whom to know is to like; there was a

poet, of an eccentric order of merit, whose love of invective, bitter

satire, and intense propensity to hate--whose fantastic and Germanic

cast of philosophy will ever prevent his succeeding among rational

beings; then there was an artist, a young man well known in the world,

not half so much as he deserves, if kindness of soul could ever make a

man famous; there was Citizen Karl Herwitz, as he loved to be called;

lastly myself. I had been speaking of some far-off land, relating some

personal adventure; and, with commendable modesty, feeling that I had

held possession of the chair quite long enough, paused for a reply.

"Tell us your adventures at the court of Konningen," said the poet,

standing up to see that his hair hung tastefully around his shoulders,

addressing at the same time Karl, and mentioning the name of one of the

smaller German states. "I have heard it before, but it will be new to

the rest, and I promise them a rich treat."

"Ah!" sighed the German, with a huge puff at his long pipe; "that _was_

an adventure--or, rather, a whole string of adventures. I have told it

several times; but, if you like, I will tell it again."

All warmly called on the German to keep his promise. After freshly

loading his pipe, and taking a drain at his glass, he drew his armchair

closer to the fire, settled his feet on the _chenets_, and began his

narrative in a quaint and strange English, which I shall not seek to

copy:

I had spent all my money. I had sold all my property. There remained

nothing but a little furniture in my house, which was in a quiet retired

quarter of the town; but then I had completed a machine, and sent it for

the approval of the Minister of the Interior, who promised to purchase

it for the government. I now looked forward with delight to a long

career of success, and saw the completion of my flying machine in

prospect. On this I depended, and still depend, for fame, reputation,

and fortune.

I had then a good wife and four children; she is dead now.--The German

paused, puffed away vigorously at his pipe, and tried to hide his

emotion from our view by enveloping himself in smoke.--

I was naturally impatient for some result,--he continued, when his face

became once more visible.--I used to go every day to the Minister, and

wait in the ante-chamber, with other suitors, for my turn. Weeks passed,

and then months, and yet it never came. But we must all eat, and six

mouths are not fed for nothing. We had no resources, save our clothes

and our furniture. My clothes were needed to go out with, so the

furniture went first. One article was sold, and the produce applied by

my careful wife to the wants of the family. We had come to that point

when food is the only thing which must be looked on as a necessity. We

lived hardly, indeed. Bread, and a little soup, was all we ever

attempted to indulge in.

Six months passed without any change for the better. I went to the

Minister's every day; sometimes I saw him, and sometimes I did not. He

was always very polite, bowed to me affably, said my machine was under

consideration, should be reported on immediately, and passed on his way.

It was the dead of winter. Every article of furniture was now gone, my

wife and children having not gone out for two months for want of

clothes. We huddled together, for warmth, on two straw mattresses, in

the corner of an empty room, without table, without chairs, without

fire. Catherine had nothing to wear but an old cotton gown and one

under-garment. We had not eaten food for a day and a night, when I rose

in the morning to go to the Minister's. I felt savage, irate, furious. I

thought of my starving and perishing family, of the long delay which had

taken place in the consideration of my machine. I compared the luxurious

ease of the Minister with my own position, and was inclined to do some

desperate act. I think I could have turned conspirator, and have

overthrown the government. I was already half a misanthrope.

When I entered the Minister's ante-chamber, I placed myself, as usual,

near the stove. I kept away from the well-dressed mob as much as

possible. They were solicitors, it is true, and humble enough, some of

them; but then they had good coats on, smart uniforms, polite boots, and

came, perhaps, in carriages. I came on foot, clad in a long frock

reaching almost to my heels, patched in several places; with trowsers so

darned about the calves as to be almost falling to pieces; with boots

which were absolutely only worn for look, for they had no soles to them.

My hat, too, was a dreadful-looking thing. This day, being faint with

hunger, and pinched by the cold, the heat of the room overcame me, and I

grew dizzy. I am sure I knew nothing of what passed around. I saw my

wife and children, through a misty haze, starving with hunger and cold.

A basket full of logs of wood lay beside my knee. Reckless, wild, not

caring who saw me, I took a thick log, huddled it under my frock, and

went away. I passed the porter's lodge unseen; I was in the open air; I

was proud, I was happy. _I had stolen a log of wood_; but my children

would have fire for one day.

When I got home I went to bed. I was feverish and ill; wild shapes

floated round me; I saw the officers of justice after me; I beheld a

furious mob chasing me along interminable fields; and on every hedge,

and every tree, and every house, and every post, I read, in large

letters, the word 'thief.' It was evening when I awoke. I looked around

for some minutes without moving or speaking; a delicious fragrance

seemed to fill the air, a fire blazed on the hearth, and round it

huddled my wife and children, sitting on logs of wood. I rubbed my eyes:

The presence of these logs of wood seemed to convince me that I still

dreamed. But there was an odor of mutton-broth which was too real to be

mistaken.

"Catherine," said I, "why, you seem to have some food."

All came rushing to my bedside, mother and children. They scarcely

spoke; but one brought a basin of broth, another a hunch of bread,

another a plate of meat and potatoes, which had been kept hot before the

fire. I was too faint and sick to talk. I took my broth slowly. Never

did food prove a greater blessing. Life, reason, courage, hope, all

seemed to return, as mouthful by mouthful I swallowed the nourishing

liquid. It spread warmth and comfort through every fibre of my frame.

When I had taken this, I ate the meat, and vegetables, and bread without

fear. While I did so, my wife, sending the children back to the

fire-place, told me, in a whisper, how she had procured such unexpected

subsistence. It seems that scarcely had I got home, and, after flinging

my log on the ground, rushed to bed, when a knock came to the door.

Catherine went to answer it. A man of middle age entered. He gave a

hurried glance around, seemed to shudder at its emptiness, looked at the

next room through the open door, saw that it was as bare as the other,

turned his eyes away from the crouching form of my half-dressed wife,

and spoke:

"Have you any children?"

"Four," said Catherine, tremblingly; but, still, answering at once, so

peremptory was the tone of the stranger.

"How long have you been in this state?"

"Six months."

"Your husband is Karl Herwitz, the mechanist?"

"He is, sir."

"Well, madam, please to tell him that I recognized him as he came out of

the Minister's of the Interior, and, noticing what he clutched with such

wild energy, followed him here. Tell him, I am not rich, but I can pay

my debts; I owe him the sum contained in this purse. I am happy to pay

it."

"And did he owe it you?" said I, anxiously.

No, replied Karl; he had never seen me or heard of me before. Generous

Englishman, I shall never forget him. I found out afterward that he was

a commercial traveler, with a large family and a moderate income. On

what he left we lived a month, by exercising strict economy. I did not

go to the minister's for several days. I feared some one might have seen

me, and I was bowed by shame. But, at last, I mustered courage, and

presented myself at the audience. I was, as usual, totally unnoticed,

and I resumed my wretched dangling in the ante-chamber, as usual. The

result was always the same. Generally I caught a glimpse of the

minister; but, when I did, it was eternally the same words. Meanwhile

time swept rapidly by, and soon my misery was as great as ever. My

children, who, during the past month, had recovered a little their

health and looks, looked pale and wan again. I was more shabby, more

dirty, more haggard and starved-looking than ever. Once again I went

out, after our all being without food for some twenty-four hours. I knew

not what to do. I walked along the street, turning over every possible

expedient in my mind.

Suddenly I saw, on the opposite side of the way, a lieutenant belonging

to the regiment I had quitted. He had been my intimate friend, but so

shabby was I, that I sought to avoid him. He saw me, however, and, to my

surprise, hurried across and shook me heartily by the hand. I could

scarce restrain tears; so sure was I, in my present state, to be cut by

even old friends. But, in my worst troubles, something has always turned

up to make me love and cherish the human heart.

"My poor Karl," said he, "the world uses you badly."

"Very," said I: and in a few words I told my story.

"My dear Karl!" he exclaimed, when I had concluded, "I was going to ask

you to dine with me on what I have left. I am come up to claim a year's

arrears of pay, and I have been sent back with a free passage and

promises. But I have a little silver; and, as I said, meant to ask you

to devour it. But after what you have told me, will you share my purse

with me for your wife and children's sake?" And he pulled out a purse

containing about the value of five shillings English, forced me to take

half, shook me heartily by the hand, and hurried away to escape my

thanks.

Home I rushed with mad eagerness, a loaf in one hand, the rest of the

money in the other. My poor wife once more could give food to her little

ones. On the morning of the third day after I had obtained this little

help, I lay in bed, ruminating. I was turning over in my mind every

possible expedient by which to raise enough money to go on with, a brief

time, until my machine was really decided on by the government. Suddenly

I sat up in my bed and addressed my wife.

"How much money have you got left, Catherine?"

She had threepence of your money.

"Can you manage with the loaf of bread then, and three-halfpence for

to-day?"

"I have often managed on less," said she.

"Then give me three-halfpence to take out with me."

"But what are you going to do? We may have nothing to-morrow, and then

the three-halfpence will be missed."

"Give!" said I, rather sternly, reflecting as I was on my scheme; "be

assured, it is for our good."

My poor wife gave me the money with a very ill-grace, but without

another word; and, rising, I went out. When in the street, I directed my

footsteps toward the outskirts. They were soon reached. I halted before

a tavern frequented wholly by workmen, and going into the public room,

called for a _choppe_ of beer. I had purposely chosen my position.

Before me was a handsome, neatly-dressed young workman, who, like all

his companions, was smoking and drinking beer. Quietly, without saying a

word, I drew out a small note-book and a drawing-pencil. I was then

considered a very good artist; but had only used my pencil to sketch

models. But I now sketched the human face with care and anxiety.

Presently, as my pencil was laid down, a man sitting next to me peeped

over my shoulder.

"Why!" he cried, "that's Alexis to the life."

"How so?" said the man I had been sketching, holding out his hand, into

which I put my note-book.

"Good!" cried he, while a smile of satisfaction covered his face. "Will

you sell this? I should like to keep it."

"I will sell it if you like," replied I, as quietly as I could, though

my heart was nigh bursting with excitement.

"How much?"

I knew my man, and asked but six sous, threepence, which the workman

gladly paid, while five others followed his example at the same price. I

went home a proud and happy man with my thirty-six pence of copper.

Would you believe it? that was the commencement of a long and prosperous

career, which lasted until the Revolution of 1848 threw me back again.

Six months after, I received a thousand florins for a portrait in oil

of the Grand Duchess of B----; and about the end of the same year I

drove up to the hotel of the Minister of the Interior in a splendid

carriage, a gentleman by my side; it was the English commercial

traveler.

We had a letter of audience, and were admitted at once. The Minister

rose, and after a very warm greeting, requested us to be seated. We took

chairs.

"My dear Herwitz," said the Minister, a little, bowing, smirking man,

"what can I do for you? Glad to see you doing so well. The Grand Duchess

says wonders of you. I will have the committee on your machine."

"I beg your pardon," said I, "but I have come to request your written

order for its removal. I have sold it to the English house represented

by this gentleman."

"Its removal!" cried the astonished Minister; "but it is impossible. So

excellent an invention should not pass into the hands of foreigners."

"So I thought," replied I, coldly, "when for nine months I waited daily

in your ante-chamber, with my family starving at home. But it is now

sold. My word is my bond."

The Minister bit his lip, but made no reply. He took up a sheet of

paper, and wrote the order for removal. I took it, bowed stiffly, and

came away.--

We all heartily thanked the old German for his narrative. Since the

Revolution, and the consequent impossibility of selling his machines in

Germany, he has come to Paris, and taken to portrait-painting once more.

His perseverance and endurance are untiring. His wife died long since,

and he is like a mother to his four girls--all of whom are most

industrious and devoted. He still believes in his flying machine; but,

for the sake of his parental love, his hard-working head and

fingers--for the sake of his goodness of soul, his eccentricities, he

must be forgiven for this invincible credulity.

None can fail to admire the original dreamer, when he is also a

practical worker; while few will be willing to patronize the mere

visionary, who is always thinking and never doing.

SEALS AND WHALES.

Except, perhaps, to naturalists, the Seal will be known to many readers

only through the medium of Sir Walter Scott's "_Antiquary_." "'What is

that yonder!' says Hector M'Intyre to his uncle, Jonathan Oldbuck. 'One

of the herd of Proteus,' replied the Antiquary--'a _Phoca_, or Seal,

lying asleep on the beach.' Upon which M'Intyre, with the eagerness of a

young sportsman, exclaiming, 'I shall have him! I shall have him!'

snatched the walking-stick out of the hand of the astonished Antiquary,

at some risk of throwing him down, and set off at full speed to get

between the animal and the sea, to which element, having caught the

alarm, she was rapidly retreating.... The Seal finding her retreat

intercepted by the light-footed soldier, confronted him manfully, and

having sustained a heavy blow without injury, she knitted her brows, as

is the fashion of the animal, and making use at once of her fore-paws

and her unwieldy strength, wrenched the weapon out of the assailant's

hand, overturned him on the sands, and scuttled away into the sea

without doing him any further injury." We shall not dwell on the

mortification of the gallant captain, or the gibes of his uncle, as

these will readily occur to the readers of Scott's magic pages. Turning,

then, from the romancer, we shall trace the records of the _Phoca_

through the denser chapters of the scientific compiler, and the Arctic

voyagers.

The literature of the Seal, which is very limited, would lead us to

suppose that, like the owl of _terra firma_, it maintains--to quote from

one authority--an "ancient, solitary reign, threading an unfurrowed

track along the dark waters of the Atlantic, and skimming in peace and

security along the margins of ice-bound shores, where all is dumb." But

how stands the actual fact? In the year 1850, no fewer than one hundred

thousand Seals were captured by British vessels, and in the present year

a greater number will probably be slain. What will be the commercial

value of those animals? Reckoning the whole to be even young seals, and

estimating one ton of oil to be produce of one hundred seals, the oil

will yield, in round numbers, thirty-five thousand pounds, and the

skins, calculated at three shillings each, would bring fifteen thousand

pounds--in all, fifty thousand pounds. So that we have an interesting

branch of commerce represented in our literature as all but extinct,

while in reality it is flourishing in a high degree, adding extensively

to national wealth, and giving employment to a large portion of the

seafaring community.

Whale-fishery in the Arctics has been in a declining state for a number

of years; a result which, so far as mere purposes of illumination are

concerned, might have been of minor consequence, seeing that the

substitution of gas for oil-lamps has rendered us comparatively

independent of oil as a lighting agent; but, concurrently with the

introduction of gas, there has been an increased demand for oil for

lubricating machinery, and for other manufacturing purposes; hence

fish-oil has maintained its price remarkably well, notwithstanding an

opposition that at first seemed fatal to it. Greenland was, at the

beginning of the whale-fishing, the resort of the whale, and thither its

pursuers went, and captured it in large numbers; but in process of time,

the animal finding the peace of its ancient home ruthlessly invaded;

retreated to the more northern latitude of Davis Straits. The distance,

although greater, being still practicable, the chase was still

continued, and the slaughter went on as before. Again, the leviathan, as

if conscious that its track was followed, beat another retreat, which

has turned out more successful than the first. Each spring witnessed the

departure of Arctic fleets from every port of note in Britain, and the

regions of the North were instinct with life, in search of the monster

of the deep. Captains would stand, telescope in hand, in the "crow's

nest," perched on the summit of the main-mast, and peer through the

instrument till eye became dim and hand was frozen--boats' crews would

be dispatched, and pull for weary miles in the sea, or drag their skiffs

for still more weary miles on the surface of the ice--men on deck would

gaze wistfully across the main, and mutter charms, or invoke omens; but

all in vain. The ice would close in like iron mountains around them, and

the time would come that they must bend their sails homeward. Then stray

fish would be seen far off, or very shy fish would dart off in their

immediate vicinity, and the disappointed mariners would return for the

season, either with _clean_ vessels, or at best with small cargoes of

oil. Some accounted for the change by asserting that the whale had been

hunted from Davis Straits just as it had been pursued from Greenland,

and that it had betaken itself to still higher and now inaccessible

latitudes;--some held that the animal had diminished in numbers, and as

gestation takes place only once in two years, there was some ground for

this conjecture;--while a third section, who were principally composed

of superannuated Blowhards, and who harpooned only by the fireside, held

pertinaciously to the notion that the failure arose from the

inefficiency of modern fishermen. But, arise from what cause it might,

whales were either not brought home at all, or else they were brought

home in woefully diminished numbers. Owners became discouraged, and

captains sank in despair; harpoons and flinching gear were flung aside,

and whalers were dispatched to the Baltic for timber, or wherever else a

freight could be procured, and others departed to strange ports, and

returned no more; for they were sold. The whaling fleet became,

therefore, small by degrees. Yet two ports struggled on against the

receding tide; Hull in England, and Peterhead in Scotland, always hoped

against hope, and persevered amid every disadvantage. They still sent

vessels out; if not to catch whales, to be contented with seals.

Peterhead reaped the reward of perseverance. We observe from a recent

return, that out of the hundred thousand Seals captured in 1850,

sixty-three thousand four hundred and twenty-six fell to the share of

ten Peterhead vessels.

There was something romantic about whale-fishing. When the captain, with

his assisted eye, descried the far-off parabolic _spout_ of his victim,

the cry of "_Fall! fall!_" would resound from stem to stern, and from

hold to cross-trees. Down went the boats, sharp and graceful as regatta

skiffs, and yet as strong and compact as herring yawls; the steerer took

his oar, for rudders are too slow for this kind of navigation; the

line-coiler, stood by his ropes; while last, and most important of all,

the harpooner descended with his glittering instruments. Muffled oars

dip in the waters, and the skiff nears the sleeping leviathan. A single

awkward splash would rouse him; but all is silent as death, and the

harpooner, poising himself, takes his deadly aim, and buries his

javelin in the huge carcase. Smarting with pain, the enormous black mass

lurches, and then with lightning speed darts underneath the wave; the

boiling surge raised by its descent lifts the boat like a feather; the

line attached to the harpoon disappears fathom after fathom, hissing

around the rolling-pin, with a force and velocity that, but for copious

libations, would cause ignition; a long and still extending streak of

gore marks the route of the wounded animal; the rope at last goes less

rapidly off, and as its rapidity decreases, they pull up to the victim,

and insert more instruments, and then after a few deadly slaps with his

tail, the monarch of the ocean yields up the contest.

What has the Russian, the Dutch or the Hanseatic man, or the Esquimaux,

been doing all this time? They have been following the pastime of

Captain Hector M'Intyre, and endeavoring to slay the _Phoca_. Most of

the Britons pursuing whales, and the foreigners and natives peddling

with seals; just as if Captain Gordon Cumming had been hunting a lion,

while some other sportsmen would stand by shooting sparrows or mice. No

glory in capturing a seal, and as little pay. Thirty large seals are

needed to make up one ton of oil, while an average whale would produce

twenty tons of the oleaginous fluid. The whale-fishers despised such

small game, and regarded mere seal-fishers with contempt;--we say mere

seal-fishers, because if seals did come in the way, they were shot or

knocked down by the whale-fisher; but his main vocation consisted in

waging war with the colossal member of the finny tribe. And apart from

the larger quantity of oil yielded by the one animal, the bone of the

whale was singularly valuable. Twenty tons of oil would indicate one ton

of bone, and that was worth some two hundred and fifty pounds sterling.

The seal, too, had its extrinsic value, for its skin was worth

_seven-pence_--dust in the balance compared with the bone of its huge

contemporary. Whales, then, undoubtedly were the superior subjects for

capture; but as whales could not be had, and seals became plentiful, the

whalers lowered their plumes, and raised their arms against their

amphibious prey.

Old seals had wont to be pursued, but although their capture was more

profitable than young ones, still the old seals are so excessively shy

that they can only be shot in detail, and hence a preference is given to

the destruction of the young. The seal propagates twice a year--the

first pups of the season lie upon the ice early in the spring, and being

unable to run to the water and swim off, they fall ready prey to the

spoiler. A smart blow with a club stuns them, and a wound does the rest.

Their numbers are very large. During the present season of 1851, a flock

of them extending to about fifteen miles was discovered, not far from

the Scottish coast; a dozen animals at least occupying every hundred

square yards. Of course, with such opportunities, a ship is readily

filled, and bearing homeward with her valuable cargo, there is still

time to undertake a second and more northern voyage, in search of whales

or larger seals.

The Dutch have been in the habit of prosecuting the trade with small

vessels, but the British although occasionally using tiny craft, prefer

employing large and stout vessels, as with such they can penetrate into

fissures of the ice, instead of timidly sailing by the margin; and their

success in this respect is gradually inducing their foreign competitors

to follow their example.

The size of ships generally preferred for seal or whale fishing, is

three hundred and fifty tons burden, or upward, although this year some

vessels have gone out so small as eighty tons. A ship of the larger size

carries sixty-five men, of the latter dimensions, twenty. The average

outfit of a large vessel costs about one thousand four hundred pounds,

and the original cost of such varies from two thousand to ten thousand

pounds, according to age and quality of vessel, and also whether a used

ship has been purchased, or one expressly built for the trade. The loss

when a vessel is unsuccessful, is greater than in any other maritime

speculation, there being no return whatever to stand against outlay;

but, on the other hand, if fortunate, no other kind of shipping

adventure yields so large profits. One vessel this year brought home a

cargo of the gross value of six thousand pounds, leaving (it being her

first fishing voyage) a net profit to her owners of three thousand

pounds. The vessels sailing from the small northern port of Peterhead

have, as before stated, been remarkably successful. The following is a

statement of the produce of the ten vessels which sailed from thence in

1850:

1,144 tons of oil.

63,426 seal-skins.

14 tons of whalebone.

The aggregate commercial value of the whole would amount to about fifty

thousand pounds. Seal-skins have lately risen in value--the former rate

of seven-pence having been augmented to three shillings; and they are

used principally for the purpose of being manufactured into

patent-leather. Each skin is split into two or three layers, and each

layer is turned to separate account. No other leather possesses the same

closeness of texture, smoothness of surface, and elasticity. From being

employed as rough waist-coats for seamen, and hairy coverings for

trunks, it is now in its _stratified_ state applied to the most delicate

artistic purposes.

The Seal belongs to the four-limbed mammiliferous animals. It is half

quadruped, half fish. The head and general physiognomy, especially when

seen in the water, resemble those of a dog. The limbs, which in the sea

act as excellent paddles, are indifferent instruments of locomotion on

land--the fore-paws are almost the only motive powers, the posterior

portion of the body having to be dragged over the ground. The young are

very obedient to the parent seals, and are obedient to, and recognize

the voices of their dams amid the loudest tumult. They are decidedly

gregarious in their habits, and hunt and herd together in common; and,

in those cases, when surprised by an enemy, they have great facilities

in expressing, both by tone and gesture, the approach of a dreaded

enemy. There are four different species of the animal; the one to which

we have been referring is called the _Phoca Greenlandica_, and is about

six feet in length, and has the peculiar property of often changing the

color of its skin as it approaches maturity. The seal visiting the

British shores (_Phoca Vitulina_) is seldom more than four or five feet

in length.

We have now given our contribution to the literature of the Seal, and

submit, that it has the merit of being up to what Mr. Carlyle calls the

"present hour."

MAURICE TIERNAY, THE SOLDIER OF FORTUNE.

[Continued from the October Number.]

CHAPTER XLIII.

A FOREST RIDE.

While I was dressing, a note was handed to me from the cure, apologizing

for his departure without seeing me, and begging, as a great favor, that

I would not leave the Chateau till his return. He said that the count's

spirits had benefited greatly by our agreeable converse, and that he

requested me to be his guest for some time to come. The postscript added

a suggestion, that I should write down some of the particulars of my

visit to Ettenheim, but particularly of my conversation alluding to the

meditated assassination of Bonaparte.

There were many points in the arrangement which I did not like. To

begin, I had no fancy whatever for the condition of a dependent, and

such my poverty would at once stamp me. Secondly, I was averse to this

frequent intercourse with men of the Royalist party, whose restless

character and unceasing schemes were opposed to all the principles of

those I had served under; and finally, I was growing impatient under the

listless vacuity of a life that gave no occupation, nor opened any view

for the future. I sat down to breakfast in a mood very little in unison

with the material enjoyments around me. The meal was all that could

tempt appetite; and the view from the open window displayed a beautiful

flower-garden, imperceptibly fading away into a maze of ornamental

planting, which was backed again by a deep forest, the well-known wood

of Belleville. Still I ate on sullenly, scarce noticing any of the

objects around me. I will see the count, and take leave of him, thought

I, suddenly; I can not be his guest without sacrificing feeling in a

dozen ways.

"At what hour does monsieur rise?" asked I, of the obsequious valet who

waited behind my chair.

"Usually at three or four in the afternoon, sir; but to-day he has

desired me to make his excuses to you. There will be a consultation of

doctors here; and the likelihood is, that he may not leave his

chamber."

"Will you convey my respectful compliments, then, to him, and my regrets

that I had not seen him before leaving the Chateau?"

"The count charged me, sir, to entreat your remaining here till he had

seen you. He said you had done him infinite service already, and indeed

it is long since he has passed a night in such tranquillity."

There are few slight circumstances which impress a stranger more

favorably, than any semblance of devotion on the part of a servant to

his master. The friendship of those above one in life is easier to

acquire than the attachment of those beneath. Love is a plant whose

tendrils strive ever upward. I could not help feeling struck at the

man's manner, as he spoke these few words; and insensibly my mind

reverted to the master who had inspired such sentiments.

"My master gave orders, sir," continued he, "that we should do every

thing possible to contribute to your wishes; that the carriage, or, if

you prefer them, saddle-horses, should be ready at any hour you ordered.

The wood has a variety of beautiful excursions; there is a lake, too,

about two leagues away; and the ruins of Monterraye are also worth

seeing."

"If I had not engagements in Paris," muttered I, while I affected to

mumble over the conclusion of the sentence to myself.

"Monsieur has seldom done a greater kindness than this will be," added

he, respectfully; "but if monsieur's business could be deferred for a

day or two without inconvenience--"

"Perhaps that might be managed," said I, starting up, and walking to the

window, when, for the first time, the glorious prospect revealed itself

before me. How delicious, after all, would be a few hours of such a

retreat!--a morning loitered away in that beautiful garden; and then, a

long ramble through the dark wood till sunset. Oh, if Laura were but

here; if she could be my companion along those leafy alleys! If not

_with_, I can at least think _of_ her, thought I; seek out spots she

would love to linger in, and points of view she would enjoy with all a

painter's zest. And this poor count, with all his riches, could not

derive in a whole lifetime the enjoyment that a few brief hours would

yield to us! So is it almost ever in this world; to one man the

appliances, to another the faculties for enjoyment.

"I am so glad monsieur has consented," said the valet, joyously.

"Did I say so? I don't know that I said any thing."

"The count will be so gratified," added he; and hurried away to convey

the tidings.

Well, be it so. Heaven knows my business in Paris will scarcely suffer

by my absence; my chief occupation there being to cheat away the hours

till meal-time. It is an occupation I can easily resume a few days

hence. I took a book, and strolled out into the garden; but I could not

read. There is a gush of pleasure felt at times from the most familiar

objects, which the most complicated machinery of enjoyment often fails

to equal; and now the odor of moss-roses and geraniums, the rich perfume

of orange flowers, the plash of fountains and the hum of the summer

insects, steeped my mind in delight; and I lay there in a dream of bliss

that was like enchantment. I suppose I must have fallen asleep; for my

thoughts took every form of wildness and incoherency. Ireland; the

campaign; the Bay of Genoa; the rugged height of Kuffstein, all passed

before my mind, peopled with images foreign to all their incidents. It

was late in the afternoon that I aroused myself, and remembered where I

was, the shadows of the dark forest were stretching over the plain; and

I determined on a ride beneath their mellow shade. As if in anticipation

of my wishes, the horses were already saddled, and a groom stood

awaiting my orders. Oh, what a glorious thing it is to be rich! thought

I, as I mounted; from what an eminence does the wealthy man view life.

No petty cares nor calculations mar the conceptions of his fancy. His

will, like his imagination, wanders free and unfettered. And so

thinking, I dashed spurs into my horse, and plunged into the dense wood.

Perhaps I was better mounted than the groom, or perhaps the man was

scarcely accustomed to such impetuosity. Whatever the reason, I was soon

out of sight of him. The trackless grass of the alley, and its noiseless

turf, made pursuit difficult in a spot where the paths crossed and

recrossed in a hundred different directions; and so I rode on for miles

and miles without seeing more of my follower.

Forest riding is particularly seductive; you are insensibly led on to

see where this alley will open, or how that path will terminate. Some of

the spirit of discovery seems to seal its attractions to the wild and

devious track, untrodden as it looks; and you feel all the charm of

adventure as you advance. The silence, too, is most striking; the

noiseless footfalls of the horse, and the unbroken stillness, add

indescribable charm to the scene, and the least imaginative can not fail

to weave fancies and fictions as he goes.

Near as it was to a great city, not a single rider crossed my path; not

even a peasant did I meet. A stray bundle of fagots, bound and ready to

be carried away, showed that the ax of the woodman had been heard within

the solitude; but not another trace told that human footstep had ever

pressed the sward.

Although still a couple of hours from sunset, the shade of the wood was

dense enough to make the path appear uncertain, and I was obliged to

ride more cautiously than before. I had thought that by steadily

pursuing one straight track, I should at last gain the open country, and

easily find some road that would reconduct me to the Chateau; but now I

saw no signs of this. "The alley" was, to all appearance, exactly as I

found it--miles before. A long aisle of beech-trees stretched away in

front and behind me; a short, grassy turf was beneath my feet; and not

an object to tell me how far I had come, or whither I was tending. If

now and then another road crossed the path, it was in all respects like

this one. This was puzzling; and to add to my difficulty, I suddenly

remembered that I had never thought of learning the name of the Chateau,

and well knew that to ask for it as the residence of the Count de

Maurepas would be a perfect absurdity. There was something so ludicrous

in the situation, that I could not refrain from laughing at first; but a

moment's re-consideration made me regard the incident more gravely. In

what a position should I stand, if unable to discover the Chateau. The

cure might have left Paris before I could reach it; all clew to the

count might thus be lost; and although these were but improbable

circumstances, they came now very forcibly before me, and gave me

serious uneasiness.

I have been so often in false positions in life, so frequently

implicated where no real blame could attach to me, that I shall not be

in the least surprised if I be arrested as a horse-stealer! The night

now began to fall rapidly, so that I was obliged to proceed at a slow

pace; and at length, as the wood seemed to thicken, I was forced to get

off, and walk beside my horse. I have often found myself in situations

of real peril, with far less anxiety than I now felt; my position seemed

at the time inexplicable and absurd. I suppose, thought I, that no man

was ever lost in the wood of Belleville; he must find his way out of it

sooner or later; and then, there can be no great difficulty in returning

to Paris. This was about the extent of the comfort I could afford

myself; for, once back in the capital, I could not speculate on a single

step further.

I was at last so weary with the slow and cautious progression I was

condemned to, that I half determined to picket my horse to a tree, and

lie down to sleep till daylight. While I sought out a convenient spot

for my bivouac, a bright twinkling light, like a small star, caught my

eye. Twice it appeared, and vanished again so that I was well assured of

its being real, and no phantom of my now over-excited brain. It appeared

to proceed from the very densest part of the wood, and whither, so far

as I could see, no path conducted. As I listened to catch any sounds, I

again caught sight of the faint star, which now seemed at a short

distance from the road where I stood. Fastening my horse to a branch, I

advanced directly through the brushwood for about a hundred yards, when

I came to a small open space, in which stood one of those modest

cottages, of rough timber, wherein, at certain seasons, the game-keepers

take refuge. A low, square, log hut, with a single door, and an unglazed

window, comprised the whole edifice, being one of the humblest, even of

its humble kind, I had ever seen. Stealing cautiously to the window, I

peeped in. On a stone, in the middle of the earthen floor, a small iron

lamp stood, which threw a faint and fickle light around. There was no

furniture of any kind; nothing that bespoke the place as inhabited; and

it was only as I continued to gaze that I detected the figure of a man,

who seemed to be sleeping on a heap of dried leaves, in one corner of

the hovel. I own that, with all my anxiety to find a guide, I began to

feel some scruples about obtruding on the sleeper's privacy. He was

evidently no "Garde de chasse," who are a well-to-do sort of folk, being

usually retired sous-officiers of the army. He might be a poacher, a

robber, or perhaps a dash of both together--a trade I had often heard of

as being resorted to by the most reckless and abandoned of the

population of Paris, when their crimes and their haunts became too well

known in the capital.

I peered eagerly through the chamber, to see if he were armed; but not a

weapon of any kind was to be seen. I next sought to discover if he were

quite alone; and although one side of the hovel was hidden from my view,

I was well assured that he had no comrade. Come, said I to myself, man

to man, if it should come to a struggle, is fair enough; and the chances

are I shall be able to defend myself.

His sleep was sound and heavy, like that after fatigue; so that I

thought it would be easy for me to enter the hovel, and secure his arms,

if he had such, before he should awake. I may seem to my reader, all

this time, to have been inspired with an undue amount of caution and

prudence, considering how evenly we were matched; but I would remind

him, that it was a period when the most dreadful crimes were of daily

occurrence. Not a night went over without some terrible assassination;

and a number of escaped galley slaves were known to be at large in the

suburbs and outskirts of the capital. These men, under the slightest

provocation, never hesitated at murder; for their lives were already

forfeited, and they scrupled at nothing which offered a chance of

escape. To add to the terror their atrocities excited, there was a rumor

current at the time, that the Government itself made use of these

wretches for its own secret acts of vengeance; and many implicitly

believed that the dark assassinations of the "Temple" had no other

agency. I do not mean to say that these fears were well founded, or that

I myself partook of them; but such were the reports commonly circulated,

and the impunity of crime certainly favored the impression. I know not

if this will serve as an apology for the circumspection of my

proceeding, as, cautiously, pushing the door, inch by inch, I at length

threw it wide open. Not the slightest sound escaped as I did so; and

yet, certainly before my hand quitted the latch, the sleeper had sprung

to his knees; and with his dark eyes glaring wildly at me, crouched like

a beast about to rush upon an enemy.

His attitude and his whole appearance at that moment are yet before me.

Long black hair fell in heavy masses at either side of his head; his

face was pale, haggard, and hunger-stricken; a deep, drooping mustache

descended from below his chin, and almost touched his collar-bones

which were starting from beneath the skin; a ragged cloak, that covered

him as he lay, had fallen off, and showed that a worn shirt and a pair

of coarse linen trowsers were all his clothing. Such a picture of

privation and misery I never looked upon before nor since!

"Qui va la?" cried he, sternly, and with the voice of one not unused to

command; and although the summons showed his soldier training, his

condition of wretchedness suggested deep misgivings.

"Qui va la?" shouted he again, louder and more determinedly.

"A friend--perhaps a comrade," said I, boldly.

"Advance, comrade, and give the counter-sign," replied he, rapidly, and

like one repeating a phrase of routine; and then, as if suddenly

remembering himself, he added with a low sigh, "There is none!" His arms

dropped heavily as he spoke, and he fell back against the wall with his

head drooping on his chest.

There was something so unutterably forlorn in his looks, as he sat thus,

that all apprehension of personal danger from him left me at the moment,

and advancing frankly, I told him how I had lost my way in the wood, and

by mere accident chanced to descry his light as I wandered along in the

gloom.

I do not know if he understood me at first, for he gazed half vacantly

at my face while I was speaking, and often stealthily peered round to

see if others were coming; so that I had to repeat more than once that I

was perfectly alone. That the poor fellow was insane seemed but too

probable; the restless activity of his wild eye, the suspicious

watchfulness of his glances, all looked like madness, and I thought that

he had probably made his escape from some military hospital, and

concealed himself within the recesses of the forest. But even these

signs of over-wrought excitement began to subside soon; and as though

the momentary effort at vigilance had been too much for his strength, he

now drew his cloak about him, and lay down once more.

I handed him my brandy flask, which still contained a little, and he

touched it to his lips with a slight nod of recognition. Invigorated by

the stimulant, he supped again and again, but always cautiously, and

with prudent reserve.

"You have been a soldier," said I, taking my seat at his side.

"I _am_ a soldier," said he, with a strong emphasis on the verb.

"I, too, have served," said I; "although, probably, neither as long nor

as creditably as you have."

He looked at me fixedly for a second or two and then dropped his eyes

without a reply.

"You were probably with the Army of the Meuse?" said I, hazarding the

guess, from remembering how many of that army had been invalided by the

terrible attacks of ague contracted in North Holland.

"I served on the Rhine," said he, briefly, "but I made the campaign of

Jemappes, too. I served the king also--King Louis," cried he, sternly.

"Is that avowal candid enough; or do you want more!"

Another Royalist, thought I, with a sigh. Whichever way I turn they meet

me--the very ground seems to give them up.

"And could _you_ find no better trade than that of a Mouchard?" asked

he, sneeringly.

"I am not a Mouchard--I never was one. I am a soldier like yourself;

and, mayhap, if all were to be told, scarcely a more fortunate one."

"Dismissed the service--and for what?" asked he, bluntly.

"If not broke, at least not employed;" said I, bitterly.

"A Royalist?"

"Not the least of one, but suspected."

"Just so. Your letters--your private papers ransacked, and brought in

evidence against you. Your conversations with your intimates noted down

and attested--every word you dropped in a moment of disappointment or

anger; every chance phrase you uttered when provoked, all quoted; wasn't

that it?"

As he spoke this, with a rapid and almost impetuous utterance, I for the

first time, noticed that both the expressions and the accent implied

breeding and education. Not all his vehemence could hide the evidences

of former cultivation.

"How comes it," asked I, eagerly, "that such a man as you are, is to be

found thus? You certainly did not always serve in the ranks?"

"I had my grade," was his short, dry reply.

"You were a quarter-master; perhaps a sous-lieutenant?" said I, hoping

by the flattery of the surmise to lead him to talk further.

"I was the colonel of a dragoon regiment," said he; sternly; "and that

neither the least brave nor the least distinguished in the French army."

Ah! thought I, my good fellow, you have shot your bolt too high this

time; and in a careless, easy way, I asked, "What might have been the

number of the corps?"

"How can it concern you?" said he, with a savage vehemence. "You say

that you are not a spy. To what end these questions? As it is, you have

made this hovel, which has been my shelter for some weeks back, no

longer of any service to me. I will not be tracked. I will not suffer

espionage, by heaven!" cried he, as he dashed his clenched fist against

the ground beside him. His eyes, as he spoke, glared with all the

wildness of insanity, and great drops of sweat hung upon his damp

forehead.

"Is it too much," continued he, with all the vehemence of passion, "is

it too much that I was master here? Are these walls too luxurious? Is

there the sign of foreign gold in this tasteful furniture and the

splendor of these hangings? Or is this"--and he stretched out his lean

and naked arms as he spoke--"is this the garb?--is this the garb of a

man who can draw at will on the coffers of Royalty? Ay!" cried he, with

a wild laugh, "if this is the price of my treachery, the treason might

well be pardoned."

I did all I could to assuage the violence of his manner. I talked to him

calmly and soberly of myself and of him, repeating over and over the

assurance that I had neither the will nor the way to injure him. "You

may be poor," said I, "and yet scarcely poorer than I am--friendless,

and have as many to care for you as I have. Believe me, comrade, save in

the matter of a few years the less on one side, and some services the

more on the other, there is little to choose between us."

These few words, wrung from me in sorrowful sincerity, seemed to do more

than all I had said previously, and he moved the lamp a little to one

side that he might have a better view of me as I sat; and thus we

remained for several minutes staring steadfastly at each other without a

word spoken on either side. It was in vain that I sought in that face,

livid and shrunk by famine--in that straggling matted hair, and that

figure enveloped in rags, for any traces of former condition. Whatever

might once have been his place in society, now he seemed the very lowest

of that miserable tribe whose lives are at once the miracle and shame of

our century.

"Except that my senses are always playing me false," said he, as he

passed his hand across his eyes, "I could say that I have seen your face

before. What was your corps?"

"The Ninth Hussars, 'the Tapageurs,' as they called them."

"When did you join--and where?" said he, with an eagerness that

surprised me.

"At Nancy," said I, calmly.

"You were there with the advanced guard of Moreau's corps," said he,

hastily; "you followed the regiment to the Moselle."

"How do you know all this?" asked I, in amazement.

"Now for your name; tell me your name," cried he, grasping my hand in

both of his--"and I charge you by all you care for here or hereafter, no

deception with me. It is not a head that has been tried like mine can

bear a cheat."

"I have no object in deceiving you; nor am I ashamed to say who I am,"

replied I. "My name is Tiernay--Maurice Tiernay."

The word was but out, when the poor fellow threw himself forward, and

grasping my hands, fell upon and kissed them.

"So, then," cried he, passionately, "I am not friendless--I am not

utterly deserted in life--_you_ are yet left to me, my dear boy."

This burst of feeling convinced me that he was deranged; and I was

speculating in my mind how best to make my escape from him, when he

pushed back the long and tangled hair from his face, and staring wildly

at me, said, "You know me now--don't you? Oh, look again, Maurice, and

do not let me think that I am forgotten by all the world."

"Good heavens!" cried I; "it is Colonel Mahon!"

"Ay, 'Le Beau Mahon,'" said he, with a burst of wild laughter; "Le Beau

Mahon, as they used to call me long ago. Is this a reverse of fortune, I

ask you?" and he held out the ragged remnants of his miserable clothes.

"I have not worn shoes for nigh a month. I have tasted food but once in

the last thirty hours! I, that have led French soldiers to the charge

full fifty times, up to the very batteries of the enemy, am reduced to

hide and skulk from place to place like a felon, trembling at the clank

of a gendarme's boot, as never the thunder of an enemy's squadron made

me. Think of the persecution that has brought me to this, and made me a

beggar and a coward together!"

A gush of tears burst from him at these words, and he sobbed for several

minutes like a child.

Whatever might have been the original source of his misfortunes, I had

very little doubt that now his mind had been shaken by their influence,

and that calamity had deranged him. The flighty uncertainty of his

manner, the incoherent rapidity with which he passed from one topic to

another, increased with his excitement, and he passed alternately from

the wildest expressions of delight at our meeting, to the most

heart-rending descriptions of his own sufferings. By great patience and

some ingenuity, I learned that he had taken refuge in the wood of

Belleville, where the kindness of an old soldier of his own brigade--now

a Garde de Chasse--had saved him from starvation. Jacques Caillon was

continually alluded to in his narrative. It was Jacques sheltered him

when he came first to Belleville. Jacques had afforded him a refuge in

the different huts of the forest, supplying him with food--acts not

alone of benevolence, but of daring courage, as Mahon continually

asserted. If it were but known, "they'd give him a peleton and eight

paces." The theme of Jacques's heroism was so engrossing, that he could

not turn from it; every little incident of his kindness, every stratagem

of his inventive good-nature, he dwelt upon with eager delight, and

seemed half to forget his own sorrows in recounting the services of his

benefactor. I saw that it would be fruitless to ask for any account of

his past calamity, or by what series of mischances he had fallen so low.

I saw--I will own with some chagrin--that, with the mere selfishness of

misfortune, he could not speak of any thing save what bore upon his own

daily life, and totally forgot _me_ and all about me.

The most relentless persecution seemed to follow him from place to

place. Wherever he went, fresh spies started on his track, and the

history of his escapes was unending. The very fagot-cutters of the

forest were in league against him, and the high price offered for his

capture had drawn many into the pursuit. It was curious to mark the

degree of self-importance all these recitals imparted, and how the poor

fellow, starving and almost naked as he was, rose into all the imagined

dignity of martyrdom, as he told of his sorrows. If he ever asked a

question about Paris, it was to know what people said of _himself_ and

of _his_ fortunes. He was thoroughly convinced that Bonaparte's thoughts

were far more occupied about him than on that empire now so nearly in

his grasp, and he continued to repeat with a proud delight, "He has

caught them all but _me_! _I_ am the only one who has escaped him!"

These few words suggested to me the impression that Mahon had been

engaged in some plot or conspiracy; but of what nature, how composed, or

how discovered, it was impossible to arrive at.

"There!" said he, at last, "there is the dawn breaking! I must be off. I

must now make for the thickest part of the wood till nightfall. There

are hiding-places there known to none save _myself_. The blood-hounds

can not track me where _I_ go."

His impatience became now extreme. Every instant seemed full of peril to

him now; every rustling leaf and every waving branch a warning. I was

unable to satisfy myself how far this might be well-founded terror, or a

vague and causeless fear. At one moment I inclined to this--at another,

to the opposite impression. Assuredly nothing could be more complete

than the precautions he took against discovery. His lamp was concealed

in the hollow of a tree; the leaves that formed his bed he scattered and

strewed carelessly on every side; he erased even the foot-tracks on the

clay; and then gathering up his tattered cloak, prepared to set out.

"When are we to meet again, and where?" said I, grasping his hand.

He stopped suddenly, and passed his hand over his brow, as if

reflecting. "You must see Caillon; Jacques will tell you all," said he,

solemnly. "Good-by. Do not follow me. I will not be tracked;" and with a

proud gesture of his hand he motioned me back.

Poor fellow! I saw that any attempt to reason with him would be in vain

at such a moment; and determining to seek out the Garde de Chasse, I

turned away slowly and sorrowfully.

"What have been _my_ vicissitudes of fortune compared to _his_?" thought

I. "The proud colonel of a cavalry regiment, a beggar and an outcast!"

The great puzzle to me was, whether insanity had been the cause or the

consequence of his misfortunes. Caillon will, perhaps, be able to tell

me his story, said I to myself; and thus ruminating, I returned to where

I had picketed my horse three hours before. My old dragoon experiences

had taught me how to "hobble" a horse, as it is called, by passing the

bridle beneath the counter before tying it, and so I found him just as I

left him.

The sun was now up, and I could see that a wide track led off through

the forest straight before me. I accordingly mounted, and struck into a

sharp canter. About an hour's riding brought me to a small clearing, in

the midst of which stood a neat and picturesque cottage, over the door

of which was painted the words "Station de Chasse--No. 4." In a little

garden in front, a man was working in his shirt sleeves, but his

military trowsers at once proclaimed him the "Garde." He stopped as I

came up, and eyed me sharply.

"Is this the road to Belleville?" said I.

"You can go this way, but it takes you two miles of a round," replied

he, coming closer, and scanning me keenly.

"You can tell me, perhaps, where Jacques Caillon, Garde de Chasse, is to

be found?"

"I am Jacques Caillon, sir," was the answer, as he saluted in soldier

fashion, while a look of anxiety stole over his face.

"I have something to speak to you about," said I, dismounting, and

giving him the bridle of my horse. "Throw him some corn, if you have got

it, and then let us talk together;" and with this I walked into the

garden, and seated myself on a bench.

If Jacques be an old soldier, thought I, the only way is to come the

officer over him; discipline and obedience are never forgotten, and

whatever chances I may have of his confidence will depend on how much I

seem his superior. It appeared as if this conjecture was well founded,

for as Jacques came back, his manner betrayed every sign of respect and

deference. There was an expression of almost fear in his face, as, with

his hand to his cap, he asked, "What were my orders?"

The very deference of his air was disconcerting, and so, assuming a look

of easy cordiality, I said,

"First, I will ask you to give me something to eat; and, secondly, to

give me your company for half an hour."

Jacques promised both, and learning that I preferred my breakfast in the

open air, proceeded to arrange the table under a blossoming

chestnut-tree.

"Are you quite alone here?" asked I, as he passed back and forward.

"Quite alone, sir; and except a stray fagot-cutter or a chance traveler

who may have lost his way, I never see a human face from year's end to

year's end. It's a lonely thing for an old soldier, too," said he, with

a sigh.

"I know more than one who would envy you, Jacques," said I, and the

words made him almost start as I spoke them. The coffee was now ready,

and I proceeded to make my breakfast with all the appetite of a long

fast.

There was indeed but little to inspire awe, or even deference in my

personal appearance--a threadbare undress frock and a worn-out old

foraging cap were all the marks of my soldier-like estate; and yet, from

Jacques's manner, one might have guessed me to be a general at the

least. He attended me with the stiff propriety of the parade, and when,

at last, induced to take a seat, he did so full two yards off from the

table, and arose almost every time he was spoken to. Now it was quite

clear that the honest soldier did not know me either as the hero of

Kehl, of Ireland, or of Genoa. Great achievements as they were, they

were wonderfully little noised about the world, and a man might frequent

mixed companies every day of the week, and never hear of one of them. So

far, then, was certain it could not be my fame had imposed on him, and,

as I have already hinted, it could scarcely be my general appearance.

Who knows, thought I, but I owe all this obsequious deference to my

horse. If Jacques be an old cavalry-man, he will have remarked that the

beast is of great value, and doubtless argue to the worth of the rider

from the merits of his "mount." If this explanation was not the most

flattering, it was, at all events, the best I could hit on; and with a

natural reference to what was passing in my own mind, I asked him if he

had looked to my horse?

"Oh, yes, sir," said he, reddening suddenly, "I have taken off the

saddle, and thrown him his corn."

What the deuce does his confusion mean, thought I; the fellow looks as

if he had half a mind to run away, merely because I asked him a simple

question.

"I've had a sharp ride," said I, rather by way of saying something, "and

I shouldn't wonder if he was a little fatigued."

"Scarcely so, sir," said he, with a faint smile; "he's old now, but it's

not a little will tire him."

"You know him, then," said I, quickly.

"Ay, sir, and have known him for eighteen years. He was in the second

squadron of our regiment; the major rode him two entire campaigns!"

The reader may guess that his history was interesting to me, from

perceiving the impression the reminiscence made on the relator, and I

inquired what became of him after that.

"He was wounded by a shot at Neuwied, and sold into the train, where

they couldn't manage him; and after three years, when horses grew

scarce, he came back into the cavalry. A sergeant-major of lancers was

killed on him at 'Zwei Brucken.' That was the fourth rider he brought

mishap to, not to say a farrier whom he dashed to pieces in his stable."

Ah, Jack, thought I, I have it; it is a piece of old-soldier

superstition about this mischievous horse has inspired all the man's

respect and reverence; and, if a little disappointed in the mystery, I

was so far pleased at having discovered the clew.

"But I have found him quiet enough," said I; "I never backed him till

yesterday, and he has carried me well and peaceably."

"Ah, that he will now, I warrant him; since the day a shell burst under

him at Waitzen, he never showed any vice. The wound nearly left the ribs

bare, and he was for months and months invalided; after that he was sold

out of the cavalry, I don't know where or to whom. The next time I saw

him was in his present service."

"Then you are acquainted with the present owner?" asked I, eagerly.

"As every Frenchman is?" was the curt rejoinder.

"Parbleu! it will seem a droll confession, then, when I tell you, that I

myself do not even know his name."

The look of contempt these words brought to my companion's face could

not, it seemed, be either repressed or concealed; and although my

conscience acquitted me of deserving such a glance, I own that I felt

insulted by it.

"You are pleased to disbelieve me, Master Caillon," said I, sternly,

"which makes me suppose that you are neither so old nor so good a

soldier as I fancied; at least, in the corps I had the honor to serve

with, the word of an officer was respected like an 'order of the day.'"

He stood erect as if on parade, under this rebuke, but made no answer.

"Had you simply expressed surprise at what I said, I would have given

you the explanation frankly and freely; as it is, I shall content myself

with repeating what I said--I do not even know his name."

The same imperturbable look and the same silence met me as before.

"Now, sir, I ask you how this gentleman is called, whom I alone, of all

France, am ignorant of?"

"Monsieur Fouche," said he, calmly.

"What! Fouche, the Minister of Police?"

This time, at least, my agitated looks seemed to move him, for he

replied, quietly:

"The same, sir. The horse has the brand of the 'Ministere' on his

haunch."

"And where is the Ministere?" cried I, eagerly.

"In the Rue des Victoires, monsieur."

"But he lives in the country, in a chateau near this very forest."

"Where does he not live, monsieur? At Versailles, at St. Germain, in the

Luxembourg, in the Marais, at Neuilly, the Battignolles. I have carried

dispatches to him in every quarter of Paris. Ah, monsieur, what secret

are you in possession of, that it was worth while to lay so subtle a

trap to catch you?"

This question, put in all the frank abruptness of a sudden thought,

immediately revealed every thing before me.

"Is it not as I have said?" resumed he, still looking at my agitated

face; "is it not as I have said--monsieur is in the web of the

Mouchards?"

"Good heavens! is such baseness possible?" was all that I could utter.

"I'll wager a piece of five francs I can read the mystery," said

Jacques. "You served on Moreau's staff, or with Pichegru in Holland; you

either have some of the general's letters, or you can be supposed to

have them, at all events; you remember many private conversations held

with him on politics; you can charge your memory with a number of strong

facts; and you can, if needed, draw up a memoir of all your intercourse.

I know the system well, for I was a Mouchard myself."

"You a police spy, Jacques?"

"Ay, sir; I was appointed without knowing what services were expected

from me, or the duties of my station. Two months' trial, however, showed

that I was 'incapable,' and proved that a smart sous-officier is not

necessarily a scoundrel. They dismissed me as impracticable, and made me

Garde de Chasse; and they were right, too. Whether I was dressed up in a

snuff-brown suit, like a Bourgeois of the Rue St. Denis; whether they

attired me as a farmer from the provinces, a retired maitre-de-poste,

an old officer, or the conducteur of a diligence, I was always Jacques

Caillon. Through every thing, wigs and beards, lace or rags, jack-boots

or sabots, it was all alike; and while others could pass weeks in the

Pays Latin as students, country doctors, or 'notaires de village,' I was

certain to be detected by every brat that walked the streets."

"What a system! And so these fellows assume every disguise?" asked I, my

mind full of my late rencontre.

"That they do, monsieur. There is one fellow, a Provencal by birth, has

played more characters than ever did Brunet himself. I have known him as

a laquais de place, a cook to an English nobleman, a letter-carrier, a

flower-girl, a cornet-a-piston in the opera, and a cure from the

Ardeche."

"A cure from the Ardeche!" exclaimed I. "Then I am a ruined man."

"What! has monsieur fallen in with Paul?" cried he, laughing. "Was he

begging for a small contribution to repair the roof of his little

chapel, or was it a fire that had devastated his poor village? Did the

altar want a new covering, or the cure a vestment? Was it a canopy for

the Fete of the Virgin, or a few sous toward the 'Orphelines de St.

Jude'?"

"None of these," said I, half angrily, for the theme was no jesting one

to me. "It was a poor girl that had been carried away."

"Lisette, the miller's daughter, or the schoolmaster's niece?" broke he

in, laughing. "He must have known you were new to Paris, monsieur, that

he took so little trouble about a deception. And you met him at the

'Charette rouge' in the Marais?"

"No; at a little ordinary in the Quai Voltaire!"

"Better again. Why half the company there are Mouchards. It is one of

their rallying-points, where they exchange tokens and information. The

laborers, the beggars, the fishermen of the Seine, the hawkers of old

books, the venders of gilt ornaments, are all spies; the most miserable

creature that implored charity behind your chair as you sat at dinner,

has, perhaps, his ten francs a day on the roll of the Prefecture! Ah,

monsieur! if I had not been a poor pupil of that school, I'd have at

once seen that you were a victim and not a follower; but I soon detected

my error--my education taught me at least so much!"

I had no relish for the self-gratulation of honest Jacques, uttered, as

it was, at my own expense. Indeed I had no thought for any thing but the

entanglement into which I had so stupidly involved myself; and I could

not endure the recollection of my foolish credulity, now that all the

paltry machinery of the deceit was brought before me. All my regard,

dashed as it was with pity for the poor cure; all my compassionate

interest for the dear Lisette; all my benevolent solicitude for the sick

count, who was neither more nor less than Mons. Fouche himself, were

any thing but pleasant reminiscences now, and I cursed my own stupidity

with an honest sincerity that greatly amused my companion.

"And is France come to this?" cried I, passionately, and trying to

console myself by inveighing against the Government.

"Even so, sir," said Jacques. "I heard Monsieur de Talleyrand say as

much the other day, as I waited behind his chair. It is only 'dans les

bonnes maisons,' said he, 'that servants ever listen at the doors;

depend upon it, then, that a secret police is a strong symptom that we

are returning to a monarchy.'"

It was plain that even in his short career in the police service,

Caillon had acquired certain shrewd habits of thought, and some power of

judgment, and so I freely communicated to him the whole of my late

adventure from the moment of my leaving the Temple to the time of my

setting out for the Chateau.

"You have told me every thing but one, monsieur," said he, as I

finished. "How came you ever to have heard the name of so humble a

person as Jacques Caillon, for you remember you asked for me as you rode

up?"

"I was just coming to that point, Jacques; and, as you will see, it was

not an omission in my narrative, only that I had not reached so far."

I then proceeded to recount my night in the forest, and my singular

meeting with poor Mahon, which he listened to with great attention and

some anxiety.

"The poor colonel!" said he, breaking in, "I suppose he is a hopeless

case; his mind can never come right again."

"But if the persecution were to cease; if he were at liberty to appear

once more in the world--"

"What if there was no persecution, sir?" broke in Jacques. "What if the

whole were a mere dream, or fancy? He is neither tracked nor followed.

It is not such harmless game the blood-hounds of the Rue des Victoires

scent out."

"Was it, then, some mere delusion drove him from the service?" said I,

surprised.

"I never said so much as that," replied Jacques; "Colonel Mahon has foul

injury to complain of, but his present sufferings are the inflictions of

his own terror; he fancies that the whole power of France is at war with

him; that every engine of the Government is directed against him; with a

restless fear he flies from village to village, fancying pursuit every

where; even kindness now he is distrustful of, and the chances are, that

he will quit the forest this very day, merely because he met you there."

From being of all men the most open-hearted and frank, he had become the

most suspicious; he trusted nothing nor any one; and if for a moment a

burst of his old generous nature would return, it was sure to be

followed by some excess of distrust that made him miserable almost to

despair. Jacques was obliged to fall in with this humor, and only assist

him by stealth and by stratagem; he was even compelled to chime in with

all his notions about pursuit and danger, to suggest frequent change of

place, and endless precautions against discovery.

"Were I for once to treat him frankly, and ask him to share my home with

me," said Jacques, "I should never see him more."

"What could have poisoned so noble a nature?" cried I; "when I saw him

last he was the very type of generous confidence."

"Where was that, and when?" asked Jacques.

"It was at Nancy, on the march for the Rhine."

"His calamities had not fallen on him then. He was a proud man in those

days, but it was a pride that well became him; he was the colonel of a

great regiment, and for bravery had a reputation second to none."

"He was married, I think?"

"No, sir; he was never married!"

As Jacques said this, he arose, and moved slowly away as though he would

not be questioned further. His mind, too, seemed full of its own

crowding memories, for he looked completely absorbed in thought, and

never noticed my presence for a considerable time. At last he appeared

to have decided some doubtful issue within himself, and said,

"Come, sir, let us stroll into the shade of the wood, and I'll tell you

in a few words the cause of the poor colonel's ruin--for ruin it is!

Even were all the injustice to be revoked to-morrow, the wreck of _his_

heart could never be repaired."

We walked along, side by side, for some time, before Jacques spoke

again, when he gave me, in brief and simple words, the following

sorrowful story. It was such a type of the age, so pregnant with the

terrible lessons of the time, that, although not without some

misgivings, I repeat it here as it was told to myself, premising that

however scant may be the reader's faith in many of the incidents of my

own narrative--and I neither beg for his trust in me, nor seek to entrap

it--I implore him to believe that what I am now about to tell was a

plain matter of fact, and, save in the change of one name, not a single

circumstance is owing to imagination.

CHAPTER XLIV.

AN EPISODE OF '94.

When the French army fell back across the Sambre, after the battle of

Mons, a considerable portion of the rear, who covered the retreat, were

cut off by the enemy, for it became their onerous duty to keep the

allied forces in check, while the Republicans took measures to secure

and hold fast the three bridges over the river. In this service many

distinguished French officers fell, and many more were left badly

wounded on the field; among the latter was a young captain of dragoons,

who, with his hand nearly severed by a sabre cut, yet found strength

enough to crawl under cover of a hedge, and there lie down in the fierce

resolve to die where he was, rather than surrender himself as a

prisoner.

Although the allied forces had gained the battle, they quickly foresaw

that the ground they had won was untenable; and scarcely had night

closed in when they began their preparations to fall back. With strong

pickets of observation to watch the bridges, they slowly withdrew their

columns toward Mons, posting the artillery on the heights around

Grandrengs. From these movements the ground of the late struggle became

comparatively deserted, and before day began to dawn, not a sound was

heard over its wide expanse, save the faint moan of a dying soldier, or

the low rumble of a cart, as some spoiler of the dead stole stealthily

along. Among the demoralizing effects of war, none was more striking

than the number of the peasantry who betook themselves to this infamous

trade; and who, neglecting all thoughts of honest industry, devoted

themselves to robbery and plunder. The lust of gain did not stop with

the spoil of the dead, but the wounded were often found stripped of

every thing, and in some cases the traces of fierce struggle, and the

wounds of knives and hatchets, showed that murder had consummated the

iniquity of these wretches.

In part, from motives of pure humanity, in part, from feelings of a more

interested nature--for terror to what this demoralization would tend,

was now great and wide spread--the nobles and gentry of the land

instituted a species of society to reward those who might succor the

wounded, and who displayed any remarkable zeal in their care for the

sufferers after a battle. This generous philanthropy was irrespective of

country, and extended its benevolence to the soldiers of either army: of

course, personal feeling enjoyed all its liberty of preference, but it

is fair to say, that the cases were few where the wounded man could

detect the political leanings of his benefactor.

The immense granaries, so universal in the Low Countries, were usually

fitted up as hospitals, and many rooms of the chateau itself were often

devoted to the same purpose, the various individuals of the household,

from the "seigneur" to the lowest menial, assuming some office in the

great work of charity; and it was a curious thing to see how the

luxurious indolence of chateau life become converted into the zealous

activity of useful benevolence; and not less curious to the moralist to

observe how the emergent pressure of great crime so instinctively, as it

were, suggested this display of virtuous humanity.

It was a little before daybreak that a small cart, drawn by a mule, drew

up by the spot where the wounded dragoon sat, with his shattered arm

bound up in his sash, calmly waiting for the death that his sinking

strength told could not be far distant. As the peasant approached him,

he grasped his sabre in the left hand, resolved on making a last and

bold resistance; but the courteous salutation, and the kindly look of

the honest countryman, soon showed that he was come on no errand of

plunder, while, in the few words of bad French he could muster, he

explained his purpose.

"No, no, my kind friend," said the officer, "your labor would only be

lost on me. It is nearly all over already! A little further on in the

field, yonder, where that copse stands, you'll find some poor fellow or

other better worth your care, and more like to benefit by it. Adieu!"

But neither the farewell, nor the abrupt gesture that accompanied it,

could turn the honest peasant from his purpose. There was something that

interested him in this very disregard of life, as well as in the

personal appearance of the sufferer, and, without further colloquy, he

lifted the half-fainting form into the cart, and, disposing the straw

comfortably on either side of him, set out homeward. The wounded man was

almost indifferent to what happened, and never spoke a word nor raised

his head as they went along. About three hours' journey brought them to

a large old-fashioned chateau beside the Sambre, an immense straggling

edifice which, with a facade of nearly a hundred windows, looked out

upon the river. Although now in disrepair and neglect, with ill-trimmed

alleys and grass-grown terraces, it had been once a place of great

pretensions, and associated with some of the palmiest days of Flemish

hospitality. The Chateau d'Overbecque was the property of a certain rich

merchant of Antwerp, named D'Aerschot, one of the oldest families of the

land, and was, at the time we speak of, the temporary abode of his only

son, who had gone there to pass the honeymoon. Except that they were

both young, neither of them yet twenty, two people could not easily be

found so discrepant in every circumstance and every quality. He the true

descendant of a Flemish house, plodding, commonplace, and methodical,

hating show and detesting expense. She a lively, volatile girl, bursting

with desire to see and be seen, fresh from the restraint of a convent at

Bruges, and anxious to mix in all the pleasures and dissipations of the

world. Like all marriages in their condition, it had been arranged

without their knowledge or consent; circumstances of fortune made the

alliance suitable; so many hundred thousands florins on one side were

wedded to an equivalent on the other, and the young people were married

to facilitate the "transaction."

That he was not a little shocked at the gay frivolity of his beautiful

bride, and she as much disappointed at the staid demureness of her

stolid-looking husband, is not to be wondered at; but their friends knew

well that time would smooth down greater discrepancies than even these;

and if ever there was a country, the monotony of whose life could subdue

all to its own leaden tone, it was Holland in old days. Whether engaged

in the active pursuit of gain in the great cities, or enjoying the

luxurious repose of chateau life, a dull, dreary uniformity pervaded

every thing--the same topics, the same people, the same landscape,

recurred day after day; and save what the season induced, there was

nothing of change in the whole round of their existence. And what a dull

honeymoon was it for that young bride at the old Chateau of Overbecque!

To toil along the deep sandy roads in a lumbering old coach, with two

long-tailed black horses--to halt at some little eminence, and strain

the eyes over a long unbroken flat, where a wind-ill, miles off, was an

object of interest--to loiter beside the bank of a sluggish canal, and

gaze on some tasteless excrescence of a summerhouse, whose owner could

not be distinguished from the wooden effigy that sat, pipe in mouth,

beside him--to dine in the unbroken silence of a funeral feast, and doze

away the afternoon over the "Handelsblatt," while her husband smoked

himself into the seventh heaven of a Dutch Elysium--Poor Caroline! this

was a sorry realization of all her bright dreamings! It ought to be

borne in mind, that many descendants of high French families, who were

either too proud or too poor to emigrate to England or America, had

sought refuge from the Revolution in the convents of the Low Countries;

where, without entering an order, they lived in all the discipline of a

religious community. These ladies, many of whom had themselves mixed in

all the elegant dissipations of the court, carried with them the most

fascinating reminiscences of a life of pleasure, and could not readily

forget the voluptuous enjoyments of Versailles, and the graceful

caprices of "La Petit Trianon." From such sources as these the young

pupils drew all their ideas of the world, and assuredly it could have

scarcely worn colors more likely to fascinate such imaginations.

What a shortcoming was the wearisome routine of Overbecque to a mind

full of the refined follies of Marie Antoinette's court! Even war and

its chances offered a pleasurable contrast to such dull monotony, and

the young bride hailed with eagerness the excitement and bustle of the

moving armies--the long columns which poured along the high road, and

the clanking artillery, heard for miles off! Monsieur D'Aerschot, like

all his countrymen who held property near the frontier, was too prudent

to have any political bias. Madame was, however, violently French. The

people who had such admirable taste in "toilet," could scarcely be wrong

in the theories of government; and a nation so invariably correct in

dress, could hardly be astray in morals. Besides this, all their notions

of morality were as pliant and as easy to wear as their own well-fitting

garments. Nothing was wrong but what _looked_ ungracefully; every thing

was right that sat becomingly on her who did it. A short code, and

wonderfully easy to learn. If I have dwelt somewhat tediously on these

tendencies of the time, it is that I may pass the more glibly over the

consequences, and not pause upon the details by which the young French

captain's residence at Overbecque gradually grew, from the intercourse

of kindness and good offices, to be a close friendship with his host,

and as much of regard and respectful devotion as consisted with the

position of his young and charming hostess.

He thought her, as she certainly was, very beautiful; she rode to

perfection, she sung delightfully; she had all the volatile gayety of a

happy child with the graceful ease of coming womanhood. Her very passion

for excitement gave a kind of life and energy to the dull old chateau,

and made her momentary absence felt as a dreary blank.

It is not my wish to speak of the feelings suggested by the contrast

between her husband and the gay and chivalrous young soldier, nor how

little such comparisons tended to allay the repinings at her lot. Their

first effect, was, however, to estrange her more and more from

D'Aerschot, a change which he accepted with most Dutch indifference.

Possibly, piqued by this, or desirous of awakening his jealousy, she

made more advances toward the other, selecting him as the companion of

her walks, and passing the greater part of each day in his society.

Nothing could be more honorable than the young soldier's conduct in this

trying position. The qualities of agreeability which he had previously

displayed to requite, in some sort, the hospitality of his hosts, he now

gradually restrained, avoiding as far as he could, without remark, the

society of the young countess, and even feigning indisposition, to

escape from the peril of her intimacy.

He did more--he exerted himself to draw D'Aerschot more out, to make him

exhibit the shrewd intelligence which lay buried beneath his native

apathy, and display powers of thought and reflection of no mean order.

Alas! these very efforts on his part only increased the mischief, by

adding generosity to his other virtues! He now saw all the danger in

which he was standing, and, although still weak and suffering, resolved

to take his departure. There was none of the concealed vanity of a

coxcomb in this knowledge. He heartily deplored the injury he had

unwittingly done, and the sorry return he had made for all their

generous hospitality.

There was not a moment to be lost; but the very evening before, as they

walked together in the garden, she had confessed to him the misery in

which she lived by recounting the story of her ill-sorted marriage. What

it cost him to listen to that sad tale with seeming coldness--to hear

her afflictions without offering one word of kindness; nay, to proffer

merely some dry, harsh counsels of patience and submission, while he

added something very like rebuke for her want of that assiduous

affection which should have been given to her husband!

Unaccustomed to even the slightest censure, she could scarcely trust her

ears as she heard him. Had she humiliated herself, by such a confession,

to be met by advice like this! And was it _he_ that should reproach her

for the very faults his own intimacy had engendered! She could not

endure the thought, and she felt that she could hate, just at the very

moment when she knew she loved him!

They parted in anger--reproaches, the most cutting and bitter, on her

part; coldness, far more wounding, on his! Sarcastic compliments upon

his generosity, replied to by as sincere expressions of respectful

friendship. What hypocrisy and self-deceit together! And yet deep

beneath all lay the firm resolve for future victory. Her wounded

self-love was irritated, and she was not one to turn from an unfinished

purpose. As for him, he waited till all was still and silent in the

house, and then seeking out D'Aerschot's chamber, thanked him most

sincerely for all his kindness, and, affecting a hurried order to join

his service, departed. While in her morning dreams she was fancying

conquest, he was already miles away on the road to France.

* * * * *

It was about three years after this, that a number of French officers

were seated one evening in front of a little cafe in Freyburg. The town

was then crammed with troops moving down to occupy the passes of the

Rhine, near the Lake of Constance, and every hour saw fresh arrivals

pouring in, dusty and wayworn from the march. The necessity for a sudden

massing of the troops in a particular spot compelled the generals to

employ every possible means of conveyance to forward the men to their

destination, and from the lumbering old diligence with ten horses, to

the light charette with one, all were engaged in this pressing service.

When men were weary, and unable to march forward, they were taken up for

twelve or fourteen miles, after which they proceeded on their way,

making room for others, and thus forty, and even fifty miles were

frequently accomplished in the same day.

The group before the cafe were amusing themselves criticising the

strange appearance of the new arrivals, many of whom certainly made

their entry in the least military fashion possible. Here came a great

country wagon, with forty infantry soldiers all sleeping on the straw.

Here followed a staff-officer trying to look quite at his ease in a

donkey-cart. Unwieldy old bullock-carts were filled with men, and a

half-starved mule tottered along with a drummer-boy in one pannier, and

camp-kettles in the other.

He who was fortunate enough to secure a horse for himself, was obliged

to carry the swords and weapons of his companions, which were all hung

around and about him on every side, together with helmets and shakos of

all shapes and sizes, whose owners were fain to cover their heads with

the less soldier-like appendages of a nightcap or a handkerchief. Nearly

all who marched carried their caps on their muskets, for in such times

as these all discipline is relaxed, save such as is indispensable to the

maintenance of order; and so far was freedom conceded, that some were to

be seen walking barefoot in the ranks, while their shoes were suspended

by a string on their backs. The rule seemed to be "Get forward--it

matters not how--only get forward!"

And with French troops, such relaxation of strict discipline is always

practicable; the instincts of obedience return at the first call of the

bugle or the first roll of the drum; and at the word to "fall in!" every

symptom of disorder vanishes, and the mass of seeming confusion becomes

the steady and silent phalanx.

Many were the strange sights that passed before the eyes of the party at

the cafe, who, having arrived early in the day, gave themselves all the

airs of ease and indolence before their wayworn comrades. Now laughing

heartily at the absurdity of this one, now exchanging some good-humored

jest with that, they were in the very full current of their criticism,

when the sharp, shrill crack of a postillion's whip informed them that a

traveler of some note was approaching. A mounted courier, all slashed

with gold lace, came riding up the street at the same moment, and a

short distance behind followed a handsome equipage, drawn by six horses,

after which came a heavy "fourgon" with four.

One glance showed that the whole equipage betokened a wealthy owner.

There was all that cumbrous machinery of comfort about it that tells of

people who will not trust to the chances of the road for their daily

wants. Every appliance of ease was there; and even in the self-satisfied

air of the servants who lounged in the "rumble" might be read habits of

affluent prosperity. A few short years back, and none would have dared

to use such an equipage. The sight of so much indulgence would have

awakened the fiercest rage of popular fury; but already the high fever

of democracy was gradually subsiding, and bit by bit men were found

reverting to old habits and old usages. Still each new indication of

these tastes met a certain amount of reprobation. Some blamed openly,

some condemned in secret; but all felt that there was at least impolicy

in a display which would serve as a pretext for the terrible excesses

that were committed under the banner of "Equality."

"If we lived in the days of princes," said one of the officers, "I

should say there goes one now. Just look at all the dust they are

kicking up yonder; while, as if to point a moral upon greatness, they

are actually stuck fast in the narrow street, and unable from their own

unwieldiness to get further."

"Just so," cried another; "they want to turn down toward the 'Swan,' and

there isn't space enough to wheel the leaders."

"Who or what are they?" asked a third.

"Some commissary-general, I'll be sworn," said the first. "They are the

most shameless thieves going; for they are never satisfied with robbery,

if they do not exhibit the spoils in public."

"I see a bonnet and a lace vail," said another, rising suddenly and

pushing through the crowd. "I'll wager it's a 'danseuse' of the Grand

Opera."

"Look at Merode!" remarked the former, as he pointed to the last

speaker. "See how he thrusts himself forward there. Watch, and you'll

see him bow and smile to her, as if they had been old acquaintances."

The guess was so far unlucky, that Merode had no sooner come within

sight of the carriage-window, than he was seen to bring his hand to the

salute, and remain in an attitude of respectful attention till the

equipage moved on.

"Well, Merode, who is it?--who are they?" cried several together, as he

fell back among his comrades.

"It's our new adjutant-general, parbleu!" said he, "and he caught me

staring at his pretty wife."

"Colonel Mahon!" said another, laughing; "I wish you joy of your

gallantry, Merode." "And worse, still," broke in a third, "she is not

his wife. She never could obtain the divorce to allow her to marry

again. Some said it was the husband--a Dutchman, I believe--refused it;

but the simple truth is, she never wished it herself."

"How, not wish it?" remarked three or four in a breath.

"Why should she? Has she not every advantage the position could give

her, and her liberty into the bargain? If we were back again in the old

days of the Monarchy, I agree with you, she could not go to court; she

would receive no invitations to the 'petits soupers' of the Trianon, nor

be asked to join the discreet hunting-parties at Fontainebleu; but we

live in less polished days; and if we have little virtue, we have less

hypocrisy."

"Voila!" cried another, "only I, for one, would never believe that we

are a jot more wicked or more dissolute than those powdered and perfumed

scoundrels that played courtier in the King's bed-chamber."

"There, they are getting out, at the 'Tour d'Argent!'" cried another.

"She _is_ a splendid figure, and what magnificence in her dress!"

"Mahon waits on her like a laquais," muttered a grim old lieutenant of

infantry.

"Rather like a well-born cavalier, I should say," interposed a young

hussar. "His manner is all that it ought to be--full of devotion and

respect."

"Bah!" said the former; "a soldier's wife, or a soldier's mistress--for

it's all one--should know how to climb up to her place on the

baggage-wagon, without three lazy rascals to catch her sleeve or her

petticoats for her."

"Mahon is as gallant a soldier as any in this army," said the hussar;

"and I'd not be in the man's coat who disparaged him in any thing."

"By St. Denis!" broke in another, "he's not more brave than he is

fortunate. Let me tell you, it's no slight luck to chance upon so lovely

a woman as that, with such an immense fortune, too."

"Is she rich?"

"Enormously rich. _He_ has nothing. An emigre of good family, I believe,

but without a sous; and see how he travels yonder."

While this conversation was going forward, the new arrivals had alighted

at the chief inn of the town, and were being installed in the principal

suite of rooms, which opened on a balcony over the "Place." The active

preparations of the host to receive such distinguished guests--the

hurrying of servants here and there--the blaze of wax-lights that shone

half way across the street beneath--and, lastly, the appearance of a

regimental band to play under the windows--were all circumstances well

calculated to sustain and stimulate that spirit of sharp criticism which

the group around the cafe were engaged in.

The discussion was, however, suddenly interrupted by the entrance of an

officer, at whose appearance every one arose and stood in attitudes of

respectful attention. Scarcely above the middle size, and more

remarkable for the calm and intellectual cast of his features, than for

that air of military pride then so much in vogue among the French

troops--he took his place at a small table near the door, and called for

his coffee. It was only when he was seated, and that by a slight gesture

he intimated his wishes to that effect, that the others resumed their

places, and continued the conversation, but in a lower, more subdued

tone.

"What distinguished company have we got yonder?" said he, after about

half an hour's quiet contemplation of the crowd before the inn, and the

glaring illumination from the windows.

"Colonel Mahon, of the Fifth Cuirassiers, general," replied an officer.

"Our republican simplicity is not so self-denying a system, after all,

gentlemen," said the general, smiling half sarcastically. "Is he very

rich?"

"His mistress is, general," was the prompt reply.

"Bah!" said the general, as he threw his cigar away, and, with a

contemptuous expression of looks, arose and walked away.

"Parbleu! he's going to the inn," cried an officer, who peered out after

him; "I'll be sworn Mahon will get a heavy reprimand for all this

display and ostentation."

"And why not?" said another. "Is it when men are arriving half dead with

fatigue, without rations, without billets, glad to snatch a few hours'

rest on the stones of the Place, that the colonel of a regiment should

travel with all the state of an eastern despot."

"We might as well have the Monarchy back again," said an old

weather-beaten captain; "I say far better, for their vices sat

gracefully and becomingly on those essenced scoundrels, whereas they but

disfigure the plainness of our daily habits."

"All this is sheer envy, comrades," broke in a young major of hussars,

"sheer envy; or, what is worse, downright hypocrisy. Not one of us is a

whit better or more moral than if he wore the livery of a king, and

carried a crown on his shako instead of that naked damsel that

represents French Liberty. Mahon is the luckiest fellow going, and, I

heartily believe, the most deserving of his fortune! And see if General

Moreau be not of my opinion. There he is on the balcony, and she is

leaning on his arm."

"Parbleu! the major is right!" said another; "but, for certain, it was

not in that humor he left us just now; his lips were closely puckered

up, and his fingers were twisted into his sword-knot, two signs of anger

and displeasure, there's no mistaking."

"If he's in a better temper, then," said another, "it was never the

smiles of a pretty woman worked the change. There's not a man in France

so thoroughly indifferent to such blandishments."

"Tant pis pour lui," said the major; "but they're closing the

window-shutters, and we may as well go home."

CHAPTER XLV.

THE CABINET OF A CHEF-DE-POLICE.

Whatever opinion may be formed of the character of the celebrated

conspiracy of Georges and Pichegru, the mode of its discovery, and the

secret rules by which its plans were detected, are among the great

triumphs of police skill. From the hour when the conspirators first met

together in London, to that last fatal moment when they expired in the

Temple, the agents of Fouche never ceased to track them.

Their individual tastes and ambitions were studied; their habits

carefully investigated; every thing that could give a clew to their turn

of thought or mind well weighed; so that the Consular Government was not

only in possession of all their names and rank, but knew thoroughly the

exact amount of complicity attaching to each, and could distinguish

between the reckless violence of Georges and the more tempered, but

higher ambition of Moreau. It was a long while doubtful whether the

great general would be implicated in the scheme. His habitual reserve--a

habit less of caution than of constitutional delicacy--had led him to

few intimacies, and nothing like even one close friendship; he moved

little in society; he corresponded with none, save on the duties of the

service. Fouche's well-known boast of, "Give me two words of a man's

writing and I'll hang him," were then scarcely applicable here.

To attack such a man unsuccessfully, to arraign him on a weak

indictment, would have been ruin; and yet Bonaparte's jealousy of his

great rival pushed him even to this peril, rather than risk the growing

popularity of his name with the army.

Fouche, and, it is said also, Talleyrand, did all they could to dissuade

the First Consul from this attempt, but he was fixed and immutable in

his resolve, and the Police Minister at once addressed himself to his

task with all his accustomed cleverness.

High play was one of the great vices of the day. It was a time of wild

and varied excitement, and men sought, even in their dissipations, the

whirlwind passions that stirred them in active life. Moreau, however,

was no gambler; it was said that he never could succeed in learning a

game. He, whose mind could comprehend the most complicated question of

strategy, was obliged to confess himself conquered by ecarte! So much

for the vaunted intellectuality of the play-table! Neither was he

addicted to wine. All his habits were temperate, even to the extent of

unsociality.

A man who spoke little, and wrote less, who indulged in no

dissipations, nor seemed to have taste for any, was a difficult subject

to treat; and so Fouche found, as, day after day, his spies reported to

him the utter failure of all their schemes to entrap him. Lajolais, the

friend of Pichegru, and the man who betrayed him, was the chief

instrument the Police Minister used to obtain secret information. Being

well born, and possessed of singularly pleasing manners, he had the

_entree_ of the best society of Paris, where his gay, easy humor made

him a great favorite. Lajolais, however, could never penetrate into the

quiet domesticity of Moreau's life, nor make any greater inroad on his

intimacy than a courteous salutation as they passed each other in the

garden of the Luxembourg. At the humble restaurant where he dined each

day for two francs, the "General," as he was distinctively called, never

spoke to any one. Unobtrusive and quiet, he occupied a little table in a

recess of the window, and arose the moment he finished his humble meal.

After this he was to be seen in the garden of the Luxembourg, with a

cigar and a book, or sometimes, without either, seated pensively under a

tree for hours together.

If he had been conscious of the "espionage" established all over his

actions, he could scarcely have adopted a more guarded or more

tantalizing policy. To the verbal communications of Pichegru and Armand

Polignac, he returned vague replies; their letters he never answered at

all, and Lajolais had to confess that, after two months of close

pursuit, the game was as far from him as ever!

"You have come to repeat the old song to me, Monsieur Lajolais," said

Fouche, one evening, as his wily subordinate entered the room; "you have

nothing to tell me, eh?"

"Very little, Monsieur le Ministre, but still something. I have at last

found out where Moreau spends all his evenings. I told you that about

half-past nine o'clock every night all lights were extinguished in his

quarters, and, from the unbroken stillness, it was conjectured that he

had retired to bed. Now, it seems that, about an hour later, he is

accustomed to leave his house, and crossing the Place de l'Odeon, to

enter the little street called the 'Allee de Caire,' where, in a small

house next but one to the corner, resides a certain officer, 'en

retraite'--a Colonel Mahon, of the Cuirassiers."

"A Royalist?"

"This is suspected, but not known. His politics, however, are not in

question here; the attraction is of a different order."

"Ha! I perceive; he has a wife or a daughter."

"Better still, a mistress. You may have heard of the famous Caroline de

Stassart, that married a Dutchman named D'Aerschot."

"Madame Laure, as they called her," said Fouche, laughing.

"The same. She has lived as Mahon's wife for some years, and was as such

introduced into society; in fact, there is no reason, seeing what

society is in these days, that she should not participate in all its

pleasures."

"No matter for that," broke in Fouche; "Bonaparte will not have it so.

He wishes that matters should go back to the old footing, and wisely

remarks, that it is only in savage life that people or vices go without

clothing."

"Be it so, monsieur. In the present case no such step is necessary. I

know her maid, and from her I have heard that her mistress is heartily

tired of her protector. It was originally a sudden fancy, taken when she

knew nothing of life--had neither seen any thing, nor been herself seen.

By the most wasteful habits she has dissipated all, or nearly all, her

own large fortune, and involved Mahon heavily in debt; and they are thus

reduced to a life of obscurity and poverty--the very things the least

endurable to her notions."

"Well, does she care for Moreau?" asked Fouche, quickly; for all stories

to his ear only resolved themselves into some question of utility or

gain.

"No, but he does for her. About a year back she did take a liking to

him. He was returning from his great German campaign, covered with

honors and rich in fame; but as her imagination is captivated by

splendor, while her heart remains perfectly cold and intact, Moreau's

simple, unpretending habits quickly effaced the memory of his hard-won

glory, and now she is quite indifferent to him."

"And who is her idol now, for, of course, she has one?" asked Fouche.

"You would scarcely guess," said Lajolais.

"Parbleu! I hope it is not myself," said Fouche, laughing.

"No, Monsieur le Ministre, her admiration is not so well placed. The man

who has captivated her present fancy is neither good-looking nor

well-mannered; he is short and abrupt of speech, careless in dress,

utterly indifferent to women's society, and almost rude to them."

"You have drawn the very picture of a man to be adored by them," said

Fouche, with a dry laugh.

"I suppose so," said the other with a sigh; "or General Ney would not

have made this conquest."

"Ah! it is Ney, then. And he, what of him?"

"It is hard to say. As long as she lived in a grand house of the Rue St.

Georges, where he could dine four days a week, and, in his dirty boots

and unbrushed frock, mix with all the fashion and elegance of the

capital; while he could stretch full length on a Persian ottoman, and

brush the cinders from his cigar against a statuette by Canova, or a

gold embroidered hanging; while in the midst of the most voluptuous

decorations he alone could be dirty and uncared for, I really believe

that he did care for her, at least, so far as ministering to his own

enjoyments; but in a miserable lodging of the 'Allee de Caire,' without

equipage, lackeys, liveried footmen--"

"To be sure," interrupted Fouche, "one might as well pretend to be

fascinated by the beauty of a landscape the day after it has been

desolated by an earthquake. Ney is right! Well, now, Monsieur Lajolais,

where does all this bring us to?"

"Very near to the end of our journey, Monsieur le Ministre. Madame, or

mademoiselle, is most anxious to regain her former position; she longs

for all the luxurious splendor she used to live in. Let us but show her

this rich reward, and she will be our own!"

"In _my_ trade, Monsieur Lajolais, generalities are worth nothing. Give

me details; let me know how you would proceed."

"Easily enough, sir; Mahon must first of all be disposed of, and perhaps

the best way will be to have him arrested for debt. This will not be

difficult, for his bills are every where. Once in the Temple, she will

never think more of him. It must then be her task to obtain the most

complete influence over Moreau. She must affect the deepest interest in

the Royalist cause: I'll furnish her with all the watch-words of the

party, and Moreau, who never trusts a man, will open all his confidence

to a woman."

"Very good, go on!" cried Fouche, gathering fresh interest as the plot

began to reveal itself before him.

"He hates writing; she will be his secretary, embodying all his thoughts

and suggestions; and now and then, for _her own guidance_, obtaining

little scraps in _his_ hand. If he be too cautious here, I will advise

her to remove to Geneva, for change of air; he likes Switzerland, and

will follow her immediately."

"This will do; at least it looks practicable," said Fouche,

thoughtfully; "is she equal to the part you would assign her?"

"Ay, sir, and to a higher one, too! She has considerable ability, and

great ambition; her present narrow fortune has irritated and disgusted

her; the moment is most favorable for us."

"If she should play us false," said Fouche, half aloud.

"From all I can learn, there is no risk of this; there is a headlong

determination in her, when once she has conceived a plan, from which

nothing turns her; overlooking all but her object, she will brave any

thing, do any thing to attain it."

"Bonaparte was right in what he said of Necker's daughter," said Fouche,

musingly, "and there is no doubt it adds wonderfully to a woman's

_head_, that she has no _heart_. And now, the price, Master Lajolais;

remember that our treasury received some deadly wounds lately--what is

to be the price?"

"It may be a smart one; she is not likely to be a cheap purchase."

"In the event of success--I mean of such proof as may enable us to

arrest Moreau, and commit him to prison--" He stopped as he got thus

far, and paused for some seconds--"Bethink you, then, Lajolais," said

he, "what a grand step this would be, and how terrible the consequences

if undertaken on rash or insufficient grounds. Moreau's popularity with

the army is only second to one man's! His unambitious character has

made him many friends; he has few, very few enemies."

"But you need not push matters to the last--an implied, but not a proven

guilt would be enough; and you can pardon him!"

"Ay, Lajolais, but who would pardon _us_?" cried Fouche, carried beyond

all the bounds of his prudence, by the thought of a danger so imminent.

"Well, well, let us come back; the price--will that do?" And taking up a

pen he scratched some figures on a piece of paper.

Lajolais smiled dubiously, and added a unit to the left of the sum.

"What! a hundred and fifty thousand francs!" cried Fouche.

"And a cheap bargain, too," said the other; "for, after all, it is only

the price of a ticket in the Lottery, of which the great prize is

General Ney!"

"You say truly," said the Minister; "be it so."

"Write your name there, then," said Lajolais, "beneath those figures;

that will be warranty sufficient for my negotiation, and leave the rest

to me."

"Nature evidently meant you for a _Chef-de-Police_, Master Lajolais."

"Or a cardinal! Monsieur le Ministre," said the other, as he folded up

the paper, a little insignificant slip, scrawled over with a few

figures, and an almost illegible word; and yet pregnant with infamy to

one, banishment to another, ruin and insanity to a third.

This sad record need not be carried further. It is far from a pleasant

task to tell of baseness unredeemed by one trait of virtue--of

treachery, unrepented even by regret. History records Moreau's unhappy

destiny--the pages of private memoir tell of Ney's disastrous

connection; our own humble reminiscences speak of poor Mahon's fate, the

least known of all, but the most sorrowful victim of a woman's

treachery!

(TO BE CONTINUED.)

THE FLOATING ISLAND.

A LEGEND OF LOCH DOCHART.

One night in midsummer, a long, long time ago--so long ago that I may

not venture to assign the date--the moon shone down, as it might have

done last night, over the wild, lone shore of Loch Dochart. Upon a

little promontory on its southern margin stood a girl, meanly clad,

wasted, and wayworn. In her arms she bore a little babe, wrapped up in

the folds of a plaid; and as she bent her thin, pallid face over that of

the child, her rich, long, yellow hair fell in a shower around her,

unconfined either by _snood_ or _curch_. One might have taken her for

Magdalene, in her withered beauty, her penitence, and her grief; but

other than Magdalene, in her passionate despair. She looked around her,

and a shudder shook her feeble frame. Was it the chill of the night

mist?--it might be; for as her eye wandered away toward the hills

beyond, northward, the mists were creeping along their sides, and she

saw the moonlight gleaming on a lowly cot, amid a fir grove. 'Twas the

home of her parents, the home of her happy childhood, her innocent

youth. She looked again at the little one in her bosom; it slept, but a

spasm of pain wrung its pale, pinched, sharp features. It appeared to be

feeble and pining, for sleepless nights and days of grief and tears had

turned the milk of the mother to gall and poison, and the little

innocent drank in death--death, the fruit of sin in all climes and ages.

Gently she laid the little one by the margent of the water, amid the

green rushes; and the breeze of night sweeping by murmured plaintively

to them, and caused them to sigh, and rock to and fro around the infant.

Then the poor mother withdrew a space from the babe, and sat her down

upon a white stone, and covered her face with her long, thin, bloodless

hands. She said in her heart, as Hagar said, "Let me not see the death

of the child." And she wept sore, for the poor girl loved the babe, as a

mother, like her, only can love her babe, with a wild, passionate,

absorbing love, for it is her all, her pearl of great price, which she

has bought with name and fame, with home and friends, with health and

happiness, with earth, and, it may be, with heaven. And she thought

bitterly over that happy home, where, a few months since, in the

gloaming of the autumn's eve, she sat on the heathery braes, and tripped

along the brink of the warbling burn, or milked the kine in the byre, or

sang to her spinning-wheel beside her mother, near the ingle. Next came

the recollection of one who sat beside her in the braes, and strayed

with her down the burn; who won her heart with his false words, and drew

her from the holy shelter of her father's roof, to leave her in her

desolation among the southern strangers. And now, with the

faithfulness--though not with the purity or trustfulness--of the dove,

she was returning over the waste of the world's dark waters to that ark

which had sheltered her early years--from which no father had sent her

forth. The ark is in sight; but the poor bird is weary from her flight,

and she would even now willingly fold her wings and sink down amid the

waters, for she is full of shame, and fear, and sorrow. Ah! will her

father "put forth his hand and take her in, and pull her in unto him

into the ark," with the glory of her whiteness defiled, her plumage

ruffled and drooping? Ah! will her mother draw her again to nestle

within her bosom, when she sees the dark stain upon her breast, once so

pure and spotless? The poor girl wept as she thought these things--at

first wild and bitterly, but at length her sorrow became gentler, and

her soul more calm, for her heavy heart was relieved by the tears that

seemed to have gushed straight up from it, as the dark clouds are lightened

when the rain pours from them. And so she sobbed and mused in the cold,

dreary night, till her thoughts wandered and her vision grew dim, and

she sank down in slumber--a slumber like that of childhood, sweet and

deep. And she dreamed that angels, pure and white, stood around: and,

oh! strange and charming, they looked not on her as the unfallen ones

of the world--the pure and the sinless in their own sight--looked upon

her through the weary days of her humiliation--scornfully, loathingly,

pitilessly; but their sweet eyes were bent upon her full of ruth, and

gentleness, and love; and tears like dew-pearls fell from those mild

and lustrous orbs upon her brow and bosom, as those beautiful beings

hung over her, and those tears calmed her poor wild brain, and each,

where it fell upon her bosom, washed away a stain. Then the angels

took the little one from her breast, and spread their wings as if for

flight; but she put forth her arms to regain her child, and one of the

bright beings repressed her gently, and said,

"It may not be--the babe goes with us."

Then said she to the angel, "Suffer me also to go with my child, that I

may be with it and tend it ever."

But the angel said, in a voice of sweet and solemn earnestness, "Not

yet--not yet. Thou mayest not come with us now, but in a little while

shalt thou rejoin us, and this our little sister."

And the dreamer thought that they rose slowly on the moonlit air, as the

light clouds float before a gentle breeze at evening; then the child

stretched forth its arms toward her with a plaintive cry, and she awoke

and sprang forward to where her child lay. The waters of the lake

rippled over the feet of the mother, but the babe lay beyond in the

rushes at the point of the promontory where she had laid it. The

bewildered mother essayed to spring across the stream that now flowed

between her and the island, but in vain; her strength failed her, and as

she sank to the earth she beheld the island floating slowly away upon

the waveless bosom of the lake, while eldritch laughter rang from out

the rushes, mingled with sweet tiny voices soothing with a fairy lullaby

the cries of the babe that came fainter and fainter on the ears of the

bereaved mother, as the little hands of the elfin crew impelled the

floating island over the surface of Loch Dochart.

Some herdsmen going forth in the early morning found a girl apparently

lifeless lying on the edge of the lake. She was recognized and brought

to her early home. When she opened her eyes her parents stood before

her. No word of anger passed from the lips of her father, though his eye

was clouded and his head was bowed down with sorrow and humiliation. Her

mother took the girl's head and laid it on her bosom--as she had done

when she was a little guileless child--and wept, and kissed her, and

prayed over her. Then after a time she came to know those around her and

where she was, and she started up and looked restlessly around, and

cried out with a loud and wild cry, "My child! Where is my child!"

Near the spot where she had been discovered was found a portion of a

baby's garment. The people feared the child had been drowned, and

searched the loch along its shores. Nothing, however, was found which

could justify their suspicions; but, to the astonishment of the

searchers, they discovered in the midst of the lake a small island,

about fifty feet in length, and more than half that in width, covered

with rushes and water-plants. No one had ever seen it before, and when

they returned with others to show the wonder, they found that it had

sensibly changed its position. The home-returned wanderer whispered into

her mother's ear all her sin and all her sorrow. Then she pined away day

by day. And when the moon was again full in the heavens, she stole forth

in the gloaming. She was missed in the morning, and searched for during

many days, but no trace could be found of her. At length some fishermen

passing by the floating island, scared a large kite from the rushes, and

discovered the decaying body of the hapless girl. How she had reached

the island none could say--whether it drifted sufficiently near the land

to enable her to wade to it in her search for her babe, and then floated

out again from the shore; or whether beings of whom peasants fear to

speak had brought her there. The latter conjecture was, of course, the

one more generally adopted by the people, and there are those who say

that at midnight, when the moon shines down at the full upon Loch

Dochart, he who has sharp ears may hear the cry of a baby mingling with

elfish laughter and sweet low songs from amidst the plants and rushes of

the floating island.

SIBERIA, AS A LAND OF POLITICAL EXILE.

From the reign of Peter the Great to the present moment, exile to

Siberia as a punishment for political offenses, has been of constant

recurrence, and most of the romance of Russian history is connected with

the frozen steppes of that country. To enumerate all the illustrious

names that have swelled the list of exiles up to the reign of Alexander,

would be to write the history of the innumerable conspiracies which at

various periods have shaken the throne of Russia, of the cruel caprices

of a race of absolute and unscrupulous despots, and of the various

individual passions which, under governments such as that of Russia, can

always find means of making the public authorities the avengers of

private hatreds. From the reign of Alexander up to the present time,

sentence of exile to Siberia for political offenses has perhaps been

more frequently pronounced than before; and as within this period the

victims have mostly suffered for opinions, not for criminal deeds, and

in many instances for opinions which, judged from the point of view of

absolute right, must be pronounced to be noble and generous, though, in

opposition to the reigning system in the country, the fate of these

exiles has elicited the sympathy of Europe in a far higher degree than

was ever called forth by the fall of court favorites, whose change of

fortune was generally caused by an inordinate and selfish ambition. That

to the latter, life in Siberia was but a succession of hardships,

privations, and humiliations, history affirms; but what may be the fate

of the exiles in the present day, there are no more authentic means of

ascertaining than the narratives of the few west Europeans who have

visited Siberia, and the inferences which may be drawn from the general

system of convict colonization followed in the country, and from the

spirit which pervades society there.

A regular system of convict colonization was commenced in 1754, during

the reign of the Empress Elizabeth, who was too tender-hearted to sign

the death-warrant even of the most atrocious criminal, though she

tolerated and countenanced the most barbarous cruelties; but it was

carried on without any attention to the necessities of the various

localities, and was found not to work as favorably as might be desired.

The existing irregularities having been brought to light, by the census

taken in Siberia in 1819, new regulations were issued in 1822; and these

were further improved upon in 1840, and brought into harmony with the

improved penal code of the country. Notwithstanding the energetic

endeavors of Peter the Great to force European civilization upon his

people, he took little pains with regard to the necessary preliminary

process of humanizing the penal laws of the country, and the most

barbarous and degrading punishments continued, during his and several

subsequent reigns, to be inflicted on persons of all ranks and both

sexes. Torture in its most cruel forms was frequently applied, and the

bodies of the criminals mutilated in the most inhuman manner, their

noses and ears being cut off, and their tongues torn out by the root.

Under the reign of Catharine II., mitigations were, however, introduced:

torture was abolished, and the nobles, as also the burghers of the two

first guilds, were exempted from corporeal punishment. The cruel and

capricious Paul I., however, again gave to the world the sad and

degrading spectacle of individuals of high social position and refined

education wincing under the lash of the executioner; and to this day the

knout and the cat-o'-nine-tails are reckoned among the instruments of

correction in Russia. The punishments, as regulated by law at present,

consist, according to the nature of the offense committed, in money

fines, restitution, church penitence, loss of office, forfeiture of

privileges and of honor, and in corporeal punishments of various kinds

and degrees--regarding which it is, however, expressly stipulated that

the sentence must not contain a recommendation "to flog without mercy,"

as was formerly the case--and in banishment to Siberia, which, in case

of heinous offenses, is further sharpened by forced labor in the mines

and manufactories. Capital punishment is reintroduced, but for crimes of

high treason only, and is even in such cases but very rarely applied.

From the execution of the Cossack rebel Pugatscher, which took place in

Moscow, in 1775, fifty years elapsed before sentence of death was again

pronounced in Russia, when five of the leaders of the insurrection of

1826, which had nearly deprived the Emperor Nicholas of the throne to

which he had just succeeded, were sentenced to lose their lives at the

hands of the hangman. The knout, in addition to hard labor for life in

the mines of Siberia, is the general substitute for capital punishment;

and up to 1822, all criminals under this last sentence were branded on

the forehead, though the practice of slitting up the ears and nostrils,

which continued in force until the reign of Alexander, was discontinued.

In cases when the criminals are condemned to banishment for life, the

sentence may be rendered still more rigorous by condemnation to _civil

death_, in which cases alone the families of the convicts are not

allowed to follow them into exile, and they are neither allowed to

receive nor to write letters.

Kasan, in which city there is a bureau of dispatch for exiles, is the

starting point of the detachments of convicts and exiles which

periodically leave Russia for Siberia--their halting-places being

indicated along the line of route by large four-winged wooden buildings,

with yellow walls and red roofs, and surrounded by a stout palisade,

erected at every post-station opposite the crown post-house. According

to the improved regulations of 1840, the convicts condemned to forced

labor are not allowed to travel in company with the criminals of lesser

degree destined for immediate colonization, as was previously the case,

but are sent in separate detachments, care being also taken that several

days shall elapse between the departures of the successive detachments,

so as to preclude all possibility of contact on the road. As far as can

be judged from the very imperfect records which are available, the

number of convicts transported to Siberia up to the year 1818 averaged

2500 yearly; but among these it may be presumed were not numbered the

political exiles. In the year 1819, 3141 persons were transported; in

1820, the number swelled to 4051; and from that period until 1823, the

annual number was from 4000 to 5000. In 1823 a ukase was issued,

ordering that all vagrants who had until then been subjected to forced

labor in the fortresses should in future be sent to Siberia as

colonists. This of course greatly augmented the number transported; and

during the period of six years which elapsed from the date of this ukase

to 1829, 64,035 persons, or 10,067 individuals annually, were sent to

people these uncultivated wilds. Among these, persons convicted of

vagrancy only were, however, in a great majority, the number of criminal

offenders condemned to hard labor, amounting only to one-seventh of the

whole number. The number of women in proportion to that of the men was

one to ten. The convicts travel on foot, all being, on starting,

supplied with clothing at the public expense. The men walk in pairs;

but, except in cases of extreme criminality, are rarely burdened with

fetters during the journey. When passing through towns, however, irons

are generally attached to their ankles, and every attempt at escape is

punished with corporeal chastisement, without any reference to the cause

of exile or the former social position of the individual. To each

detachment are generally attached some wagons or sledges for the women,

the aged, and the infirm; and these usually lead the van, the younger

men following, and the whole party, commonly numbering from fifty to

sixty individuals, being escorted from station to station by a

detachment of the Cossacks stationed in the villages. That a journey of

several thousand wersts on foot, and through such a country as Siberia,

must cause much suffering, can not be doubted; but the stations are not

at very great distances from each other, and travelers agree in

asserting that the ostrogs--that is, fortified places--in which the

convicts rest from their fatigues, afford as comfortable accommodation

as any post-house throughout Siberia; besides which the inhabitants of

the towns and villages through which they pass, either from that

perverse sympathy which so frequently leads the unthinking masses to

look upon a doomed felon as upon a victim of oppression, or from a

knowledge of how many sufferers for mere opinion may be mixed up with

the really guilty individuals in the troop, contribute in every way in

their power to mitigate the hardships of their position. The officer

commanding the escort is intrusted with the sum stipulated by law for

the daily subsistence of each convict, and this must never, under any

pretense, pass into the hands of the latter. Many tales are told of the

barbarous treatment to which the exiles are subjected during their

passage to their various places of destination; but this, it would seem,

must be attributed to the general brutality of the men forming the

escort, and not to any desire in the government to render in an indirect

way the punishment of the condemned more severe than expressed in the

terms of the sentence; though in these cases, as in all others, it is of

course the despotic character of the government in Russia which prevents

the complaints of the oppressed from being heard, and thus perpetuates

all abuses.

The convicts who have committed heinous offenses, such as murder,

burglary, highway robbery, or who have been judged guilty of high

treason, and are banished for life and condemned to forced labor, are

chiefly under the superintendence of the governor of Irkutsk, who

determines whether they are to be employed in the mines and salt-works,

or in the distilleries, or other manufactories of the crown. For each of

these convicts government allows thirty-six paper rubles yearly; but the

price of the necessaries of life being in Siberia so very low that the

half of this suffices for the support of the convict, the other half

goes to form a fund which, in case, after the lapse of four or six

years, he gives proofs of reform, is given to him to begin life with in

some part of the wide-spread steppes which admits of cultivation, and

where a certain portion of land and materials for building a house are

assigned to him. The house must, however, be erected by his own labor,

and the money laid by for him be applied to the purchasing of the

necessary utensils and implements for commencing house-keeping and

agricultural pursuits. From this moment the convicts become _glebae

adscripti_ in the strictest sense of the term, as they are, under no

pretense whatsoever, allowed to quit the lands assigned to them, or to

change their condition; thenceforward also they pay the capitation tax

and other imposts in like manner as the other crown peasants of Siberia,

and enjoy in return the same rights, such as they are. The children of

these convicts, born during the parents' period of punishment, are bound

to the soil; but their names are not enrolled among those of the exiles,

and the law orders that they shall be treated in the same manner as the

overseers of the works.

The second class of convicts is subdivided into five classes, namely, 1.

Exiles sentenced to labor in the manufactories; 2. Those sentenced to

form part of the labor companies engaged on the public works; 3. Those

allowed to work at their respective trades; 4. Those hired out as

domestic servants; and 5. Those destined to become colonists. The

last-mentioned of these are at once established on the waste lands

allotted to them, each person obtaining an area of not less than thirty

acres, and being besides furnished with materials for building a house,

with a cow, some sheep, agricultural implements, and seed corn. During

the first three years these settlers are exempted from all imposts;

during the next seven years they pay half the usual amount of taxes, and

in addition to this, fifteen silver copeks annually toward an economical

fund erected for their benefit. After the lapse of these ten years they

take their rank among the other crown peasants, and are subjected to the

same burdens. Except when especially pardoned, these colonists are not

either allowed to change their condition, or arbitrarily to quit the

lands allotted to them. Colonization, according to this system, being

found excessively expensive, and at the same time very precarious, on

account of the frequent desertion of the colonists, who, living without

families, were bound by no ties, was given up in 1822, but has since

been resumed. In order to promote the speedy amalgamation of the convict

population with the free population, the government bestows on every

free woman who marries one of these colonists a donation of fifty silver

rubles; while the free man who takes to wife a female convict receives a

donation of fifteen rubles. Persons enjoying the privilege of collecting

gold from the sands of the government of Tomsk, and who employ convicts

for the washings, are bound to pay, in addition to the daily wages, one

ruble and fifteen copeks in silver toward the economical fund. The

convicts employed as domestic servants are fed by their employers, and

receive in wages one silver ruble and a half per month. After eight

years of such compulsory service, these exiles may also become

colonists, and be enrolled among the peasants of the crown. Convict

colonists may, should the authorities deem it expedient, be allowed to

work at trades in the towns, but they must not become members of

corporations or guilds, and must never be considered as being withdrawn

from their condition of colonists.

The convicts condemned to forced labor, and employed in the

manufactories, are the most leniently dealt with of this class, their

position being, indeed, such as to render the sentence a reward rather

than a punishment. In the manufactories of Telma more than eight hundred

convicts are employed, who receive in wages, according to the work

executed by them, from six to fifty rubles per month, besides bread

flour; and their wives, who dwell in the village, earn from two and a

half to five rubles per month by spinning and weaving hemp. The convicts

employed in manufactories, and receiving wages, are, however, generally

such as have previously been under stricter discipline, and are in a

state of transition toward the position of liberated colonists. In

several towns of Siberia there are establishments for them during the

first stage of their punishment. In these establishments, called

_Remeslenui Dom_, or the House of Trades, the convicts are employed as

joiners, turners, saddlers, wheelwrights, smiths, &c., and are housed,

clothed, and fed at the public expense, but do not receive wages, their

wives and children finding employment in other ways. All orders must be

addressed to the officers intrusted with the superintendence of the

establishments; but persons having work executed there are at liberty to

enter the workshops, and to communicate directly with the different

craftsmen, who are not chained, but are guarded by military. In winter,

the hours of labor are eight, in summer, twelve. The proceeds of the

labor of the convicts go to pay the expenses of the establishment, and

the surplus is applied to charitable purposes, such as the building and

maintenance of hospitals. The convict laborers in the mines of the Ural,

as well as those of Nertchynsk, dwell together in large barrack-like

buildings, the worst criminals among them being alone chained; but owing

to the unhealthy nature of the mines, particularly those of Nertchynsk,

their existence is a very miserable one. The usual term of compulsory

labor in the mines is twenty years, at the expiration of which the

convicts are generally established as colonists in the vicinity of the

mines, and continue to labor in them, but as free laborers, receiving

wages. In case there be at any time a scarcity of mining laborers, the

authorities are at liberty to apply to this purpose exiles who have not

been especially sentenced to this punishment; but in such cases the

exiles are paid for their labor, and are not confined to the mines for

more than one year, which counts, besides, for two years of exile. Upon

the whole, great latitude is allowed the central and local authorities

in Siberia with regard to the employment and allocation of the convicts

and exiles, it being merely laid down as a general rule that

agricultural settlements shall always be made in the least populous

districts of the localities capable of cultivation. It seems also to be

the plan, as far as possible, to put each man to the work which he is

most competent to execute; and the exiles belonging to the laboring

classes are therefore, in preference, established as agricultural

colonists, while those belonging to the higher classes, who are

unaccustomed to manual labor, are generally located in the towns, where

it is easier for them to find some means of subsistence, which may

relieve the government from the burden of their support. Even

independently of the political exiles, the number of the latter is

great, for exile is the punishment which usually follows the detection

of those peculations and abuses of power of which the Russian officials

are so frequently guilty. On their first arrival, it seems, the exiles

of this class are made to do penance in the churches, under the

guardianship of the police, but after a time they are allowed to go

about unguarded; and it is said that, when exiled for life, the Russians

even of high birth bear the change of fortune with extraordinary

equanimity, assimilating in a very short time, and without any apparent

struggle, to the Cossacks and peasants among whom they are thrown. When,

as is frequently the case, they marry Siberian women, their children in

no way differ from the people among whom they live. In the city of

Tobolsk, in particular, there are a great many exiles belonging to the

class of unfaithful _employes_, the sentence being considered less

rigorous the nearer the place of exile to the frontiers of Russia

Proper. Political exiles are, on the contrary, sent further north and

east, where the nature of the surrounding country is such as to make an

attempt at flight impossible, or at least very difficult. The hardships

to which these exiles are subjected seem, in by far the greater number

of cases, to be exclusively such as are necessarily connected with their

being torn away from all they hold dear, and transplanted from the

luxurious life of European society (for these exiles mostly belong to

the higher classes) to the uncultivated wilds and rigorous climate of a

country but very partially redeemed from a state of nature; but the

tenderest sympathies of the natives of all races seem, by all accounts,

to be readily bestowed upon the exiles, who, whatever be the nature of

the offense of which they have been guilty, are never named by a harsher

term than that of "unfortunates." In many cases the lot of the political

exiles is also mitigated by the kindness of the local authorities, who

allow them the use of books and other indulgences, and even receive them

as friends in their houses, when this can be done without risk of giving

offense at St. Petersburg.

As in Russia nothing with which the government is concerned can be

commented on by the press without especial permission, it is difficult

to ascertain correctly how far the system followed in Siberia works

beneficially as regards the moral reformation of the criminals, and

their relations to society in general. The accounts of travelers are

very conflicting--some extolling the extreme leniency with which even

the worst offenders are treated, as the _ne plus ultra_ of social

policy, and dwelling with delight on its happy results; while others

consider it disastrous in its consequences, and relate instances of the

most atrocious crimes committed by the convicts, and of whole tracts of

country in which life and property have been rendered insecure by their

presence. The statistics of Siberia, however, prove the country to be

improving; and all travelers agree as to the freedom from molestation

which they have experienced while traversing its immeasurable steppes;

and it is therefore but fair to conclude, that though the attempt at

moral reformation may be unsuccessful in many instances, in general

convict colonization has here borne good fruits. That great severity in

the chastisement of new transgressions has been found necessary, is on

the other side proved by the penal laws bearing exclusively on Siberia.

According to these laws, drunkenness, fighting, idleness, theft of

articles of small value, unallowed absence from the place of detention,

are considered venial offenses, and are punished with from ten to forty

lashes with the cat-o'-nine-tails; while desertion among the colonists

is punished, the first time with simple flogging, the second and third

time with the cat-o'-nine-tails. If the offense be persisted in after

this, sentence is to be pronounced by the local tribunals, and often

consists in temporary removement to some distant and thinly-populated

district, or incorporation in one of the penal labor companies. Convicts

condemned to hard labor who attempt to escape are punished with the

knout, and are branded on the forehead, in case this mark of ignominy

have not previously been inflicted on them. Repeated thefts, robberies,

and other like offenses are punished in the same way as desertion; but

in these cases the value of the object stolen is not so much taken into

consideration as the motives by which the criminals are actuated, and

the number of times the offense has been repeated. A fourth repetition

by an exile of a crime previously punished renders him liable to forty

lashes with the knout, and to being placed in the category of the

convicts condemned to forced labor. Murder, highway robbery, and

incendiarism are, if the offender be a simple exile, punished with from

thirty-five to fifty lashes with the knout, in addition to branding on

the forehead, and forced labor in irons for a period of not less than

three years--the term beyond this being left to the judgment of the

local tribunals. The convict condemned to forced labor who renders

himself guilty of similar crimes receives fifty-five lashes of the

knout, is branded on the forehead, and is chained to the wall of a

prison for five years, after which period he is allowed to move about,

but must continue to wear fetters during his life. Criminals of this

class are never to be employed beyond the prison walls, and are not even

in illness to be taken into the open air beyond the prison-yard, or to

be relieved from their chains, except by especial permission of the

superior authorities, which can only be granted in consequence of a

medical certificate.

The river Irtysh is the Styx of the Siberian Hades: from the moment they

cross the ferry in the neighborhood of the city of Tobolsk, the Russian

_employes_ appointed to offices in Siberia are placed in the enjoyment

of the higher grade of rank which they so much covet; and from the

moment they cross this same ferry commences the extinction of the

political life of the exiles. Here they exchange the name by which,

until then, they have been known in the world, for one bestowed upon

them by the authorities, and any change of the latter is punished with

five years' compulsory labor over and above the original sentence. At

Tobolsk sits the board which decides the final destination of each

culprit or each martyr. It consists of a president and assessors, having

under them a chancellerie divided into two sections, and has offices of

dispatch in several of the towns of Siberia. Before their arrival at

Tobolsk the convicts are, however, liable to be detained by the

authorities of Kasan or Perm, for the public works, in their respective

governments.

It is as the land of political exile that Siberia is generally known,

and that it has gained so unenviable a reputation among the

liberty-loving nations of Europe, whose imagination pictures it to them

as a vast unredeemable desert, whose icy atmosphere chills the breath of

life, and petrifies the soul. Yet the truly benevolent should rejoice in

circumstances which have led a government that punishes a dissentient

word as severely as the direst crime, to select exile as the extreme

penalty of the law. Siberia is, it is true, the great prison-house of

Russia; but it is a prison-house through which the blessed light of the

sun shines, through which the free air of plain and mountain plays, and

in which the prisoner, though he may not labor in a self-elected field,

may still devote his faculties to the benefit of his fellow-creatures,

and continue the great task of moral and intellectual progress. How

different his lot from that of the Austrian prisoner of state, doomed to

drag on long years of a miserable existence in the dungeons of

Spielberg, or some other fortress, severed from all intercourse with the

world beyond his prison-walls, deprived even of the light of day, and

left in solitude and forced idleness to brood over his dark and

despairing thoughts.

APPLICATION OF ELECTRO-MAGNETIC POWER TO RAILWAY TRANSIT.

One of the most wonderful characteristics of scientific discovery is the

singular way in which every advance connects itself with past phases of

progress. Each new victory over the stubborn properties of matter not

only gives man increase of power on its own account, but also reacts on

older conquests, and makes them more productive. Thirty years ago, Davy

and Arago observed that iron-filings became magnetic when lying near a

wire that was carrying a current of galvanic electricity. Since then

powerful temporary magnets have been made for various purposes by

surrounding bars of soft iron by coils of copper-wire, and transmitting

electric currents through these. In fact, it has been ascertained that

iron always becomes a magnet when electricity is passed round it. The

alarm-bells of the electric telegraphs are set ringing by a simple

application of this principle. A conducting wire is made to run for

hundreds of miles, and then coils itself round an iron bar. Electric

currents are sent at will through the hundreds of miles of wire, and the

inert iron becomes an active magnet. Observe the clerk in the Telegraph

Office at London. When he jerks the handle that is before him, he turns

on a stream of electricity that runs to Liverpool or Edinburgh, as the

case may be. In either of those places a piece of iron that is twisted

round with the extremity of the wire becomes a magnet for an instant,

and attracts to itself a steel armature that is connected with a train

of wheel-work. The motion of the armature, as it is drawn up to the

magnet, sets free a spring that was before kept quiet; and this gives

token of its freedom by making an alarm-bell to ring. The clerk in

London awakens the attention of the clerk in Edinburgh by turning a

piece of soft iron placed near to the latter into a magnet for a few

seconds. He is able to do this because currents of electricity induce

magnetism in iron. This, and this alone, is the secret principle to

which he is indebted for the wonderful power that enables him to

annihilate space when he instantaneously attracts the attention of an

ear hundreds of miles away.

It has recently been announced that this electro-magnetic induction has

been made a means for the instantaneous registration of astronomical

observations. We have already to draw attention to another practical

application of the principle. M. Nikles has just invented an arrangement

of apparatus that enables him to make the wheels of locomotives bite the

rails with any degree of force without increasing the weight that has to

be carried to the extent of a single grain. Our readers are aware that

in wet weather the driving-wheels of locomotives often slip round upon

the rail without acquiring the power of moving the weight that is

attached behind them. Whenever they are asked to ascend inclined planes

with a weight that is beyond the adhesive powers of their wheels this

result invariably follows; and the only practical escape from the

difficulty hitherto has been the adoption of one of two

expedients--either to increase their own intrinsic weight, so that the

earth's attraction might bind the wheels down more firmly, or to let the

railway be level and the load to be dragged proportionally light. In

either of these cases a waste of power is experienced. Power is either

expended in moving a superfluous load, or the same amount of power drags

less weight even upon a level rail than it otherwise could upon an

ascending one, that would have required less outlay in its construction.

It therefore becomes a great desideratum to find some means of making

the locomotive wheels bite more tenaciously without increasing the load

they have to carry. The important problem of how to do this it is that

M. Nikles has solved.

If our readers will take a common horse-shoe magnet, and slide the

connecting slip of steel that rests upon its ends backward and forward,

they will feel that the slip sticks to the magnet with a certain degree

of force. M. Nikles' plan is to convert the wheel of the locomotive into

a magnet, and make it stick to the iron rail by a like adhesion. This he

does by placing a galvanic battery under the body of the engine. A wire

coming from the poles of this battery is then coiled horizontally round

the lower part of the wheel, close to the rail, but in such a way that

the wheel turns round freely within it, fresh portions of its

circumference coming continually into relation with the coil. The part

of the wheel in immediate contact with the rail is thus made magnetic,

and therefore has a strong adhesion for the surface along which it

moves--and the amount of the adhesion may be increased or diminished at

any time, by merely augmenting or reducing the intensity of the galvanic

current that circulates through the surrounding coil. By means of a

handle the electricity may be turned on or off, and an effectual break

be thus brought into activity that can make the iron rail smooth or

adhesive according to the requirements of the instant, and this without

in any way interfering with the free rotation of the wheels as the

friction-breaks of necessity do. Increased adhesion is effected by

augmented pressure, but the pressure results from an attraction that is

altogether independent of weight. The lower portion of the wheel for the

time being is in exactly the same condition as a bar of soft iron placed

within a coil of wire circulating electricity. But as it rises up out of

the coil during the rotation of the wheel, it grows less and less

magnetic, the descending portions of the opposite side of the

circumference acquiring increased magnetic power in the like degree.

M. Nikles' experiments have been made with large locomotives in full

operation; and he states as the result, that the velocity of the wheel's

motion does not in any way affect the development of the magnetic force.

He finds the condition of the rail, as regards wetness or dryness, to be

quite unimportant to the success of his apparatus, and he has already

managed by its aid to achieve an ascent as rapid as one in five.

THE STOLEN ROSE.

Geraldine Delisle was the year previous to the late Revolution, which in

one day shattered one of the great monarchies of the earth, the reigning

belle in her circle. Lovely in form and face, she wanted but to correct

some trifling defects of character to be perfect. But if she had large

black eyes and massive brow, and beautiful hair and white teeth--if she

had a lily-white hand and tiny feet, she knew it too well, and knew the

power of her charms over man. She loved admiration, and never was so

happy as when in a ball-room all the men were almost disputing for the

honor of her hand. But Geraldine had no declared suitor; she never gave

the slightest encouragement to any one. Many offered themselves, but

they were invariably rejected, until at twenty her parents began to be

alarmed at the prospect of her never marrying. M. and Mme Delisle had

found so much genuine happiness in marriage--the only natural state for

adult human beings--that they had promoted the early marriage of two

sons and an elder daughter; and now that Geraldine alone remained, they

earnestly desired to see her well and happily married before they died.

They received numerous offers: but the young girl had such winning ways

with her parents, that when she declared that she did not like the

proposer, they never had courage to insist.

During the season of 1847 Geraldine never missed a party or ball. She

never tired as long as there was music to listen to, and it was

generally very nearly morning before she gained her home. About the

middle of the season she was sitting by her mother's side in the

splendid _salons_ of the Princess Menzikoff. She had been dancing, and

her late partner was saying a few words, to which she scarcely made any

reply. Her eyes were fixed upon a gentleman, who, after observing her

for some time, had turned away in search of some one. He was the

handsomest man she had ever seen in her life, and she was curious to

know who he was. A little above the middle height, slight, pale, with

great eyes, soft in repose like those of a woman, he had at once

interested Geraldine, who, like most women, could excuse every bad

feature in a man save insipid or unmeaning eyes; and she asked her

mother who he was.

"He's a very bad man," said Mme Delisle. "Of noble family, rich,

titled, young, and handsome, he is celebrated only for his follies. He

throws away thousands on very questionable pleasures, and has the

unpardonable fault, in my eyes of always ridiculing marriage."

"I can not forgive him for ridiculing marriage, mamma, but I can excuse

him for not wishing to marry."

"My dear, a man who dislikes marriage is never a good man. A woman may

from caprice or from many motives object to marrying, but a man, except

when under the influence of hopeless affection--and men have rarely

feeling enough for this--always must be a husband to be a good citizen."

"Ah, mamma, you have been so happy that you think all must be so; but

you see many who are not."

"Mme Delisle," said the Princess Menzikoff, who unperceived had come

round to her, "allow me to introduce you to my friend Alfred de

Rougement. I must not call him count, he being what we call a democrat

with a clean face and white kid-gloves."

"The princess is always satirical," replied M. de Rougement smiling;

"and my harmless opposition to the government now in power, and which

she honors with her patronage; is all her ground for so terrible an

announcement."

Mme Delisle and Geraldine both started and colored, and when Alfred de

Rougement proposed for the next dance, was accepted, though next minute

the mother would gladly have found any excuse to have prevented her

daughter from dancing. Alfred de Rougement was the very "bad man" whom

she had the instant before been denouncing. But it was now too late.

From that evening Geraldine never went to a ball without meeting Alfred.

She received many invitations from most unexpected quarters, but as

surely as she went she found her new admirer, who invited her to dance

as often as he could without breaking the rules of etiquette. And yet he

rarely spoke; the dance once over, he brought her back to her mother's

side, and left her without saying a word, coming back when his turn came

again with clockwork regularity. In their drives Mme Delisle and

Geraldine were always sure to meet him. Scarcely was the carriage

rolling up the Champs Elysees before he was on horseback within sight.

He merely bowed as he passed, however, keeping constantly in sight

without endeavoring to join them.

One evening, though invited to an early soiree and to a late ball,

during dinner they changed their mind, and decided on going to the Opera

at the very opening, to hear some favorite music which Geraldine very

much admired. They had not yet risen from dessert when a note came from

Alfred de Rougement, offering them his box, one of the best in the

house!

"Why he is a regular Monte Christo," cried Mme Delisle impatiently.

"How can he know our movements so well?"

"He must have bribed some one of the servants," replied Geraldine; "we

talked just now of where we were going before they left the room."

"But what does he mean?" said Mme Delisle. "Is he going to give up his

enmity to marriage, and propose for you!"

"I don't know, mamma," exclaimed the daughter, coloring very much; "but

he may spare himself the trouble."

"Geraldine--Geraldine! you will always then make me unhappy!" said her

mother, shaking her head.

"But you can not want me to marry Alfred? You told me every thing

against him yourself."

"But if he is going to marry and be steady, I owe him an apology. But go

and dress; you want to hear the overture."

They went to Alfred's box--father, mother, and daughter. But though in

the house, he scarcely came near them. He came in to inquire after their

health, claimed Geraldine's hand for the opening quadrille at the soiree

to which they were going after the opera, and went away. The young girl

rather haughtily accepted his offer, and then turned round to attend to

the music and singing.

Next day, to the astonishment of both M. and Mme Delisle, Alfred de

Rougement proposed for the hand of their daughter, expressing the

warmest admiration for her, and declaring with earnestness that the

happiness of his whole life depended on her decision. Geraldine was

referred to. She at once refused him, giving no reason, but expressing

regret that she could not share his sentiments. The young man cast one

look of reproach at her, rose, and went away without a word. When he was

gone she explained to her parents, that though in time she thought she

should have liked him, she did not admire his mode of paying his

addresses; she thought he ought to have spoken to her first. Mme

Delisle replied, that she now very much admired him, and liked his

straightforward manner; but Geraldine stopped the conversation by

reminding her that he was rejected, and that all discussion was now

useless.

That evening Geraldine danced several times with her cousin Edouard

Delisle, a young man who for a whole year had paid his addresses to her.

They were at a house in the Faubourg St. Germain, where the ball-room

opened into a splendid conservatory. Geraldine was dressed in white,

with one beautiful rose in her hair, its only ornament. Edouard had been

dancing with her, and now sat down by her side. They had never been so

completely alone. They occupied a corner near the end, with a dense mass

of trees behind them and a tapestry door. Edouard once again spoke of

his love and passion, vowed that if she would not consent to be his he

should never be happy; all this in a tone which showed how fully he

expected to be again refused.

"If you can get mamma's consent, Edouard," she replied quickly, "I am

not unwilling to be your wife."

Edouard rose from his seat and stood before her the picture of

astonishment. Geraldine rose at the same time.

"But where is your rose?" said the young man, still scarcely able to

speak with surprise.

"It is gone--cut away with a knife!" replied she thoughtfully; "but

never mind; let us look for mamma."

Edouard took her arm, and in a few minutes the whole family were united.

The young man drew his uncle away from a card-table, saying that

Geraldine wished to go home. After handing his aunt and cousin to their

carriage, he got in after them, quite an unusual thing for him.

"Why, Edouard, you are going out of your way," said the father.

"I know it. But I can not wait until to-morrow. M. Delisle, will you

give me your daughter's hand? Geraldine has given her consent."

"My dear girl," exclaimed her mother, "why did you not tell us this

before? You would have saved us so much pain, and your other suitors the

humiliation of being rejected."

"I did not make up my mind until this evening," replied Geraldine. "I do

not think I should have accepted him to-morrow. But he was cunning

enough to come and propose before I had time for reflection."

"You will then authorize me to accept him?" said M. Delisle.

"I have accepted him, papa," replied Geraldine.

That evening Edouard entered the house with them, and sat talking for

some time. When he went away, he had succeeded in having the wedding

fixed for that day-month. Geraldine looked pale the next day; and when

her mamma noticed it, said that she should go to no more parties, as she

wished to look well the day she was married, and expressed a wish to go

on excursions into the country instead. Mme Delisle freely acquiesced,

Edouard came to dinner, looking much pleased, but still under the

influence of the astonishment which had not yet been effaced from his

plump and rosy face.

"Why, what do you think?" he said toward the end of the dinner, "Alfred

de Rougement has left Paris. All his servants were dismissed this

morning, and his steward received orders to meet him at Constantinople."

"Indeed?" replied Mme Delisle, gravely, while Geraldine turned deadly

pale. "But this room is too close for you, my child."

"No, mamma," said she, quietly; "but we are forgetting all about our

excursions. I should like to go to Versailles to-morrow, and take all

the pretty places round Paris in turn."

"_Bon!_" cried Edouard; "that suits me. I shall be with you early, for I

suppose you will go in the morning?"

"I want to breakfast at Versailles," replied Geraldine; "so we must go

to bed early."

"That I vote to be an admirable proposition. At eleven I will go. But

you are going to practice the new variations on _Pastoris_, are you

not?"

"Yes; and you are going to sing, monsieur," said Geraldine, rising from

table. "So come along, and ma and papa can play trictrac all the time."

That evening the cousins played and sang together until about ten, when

they took tea, which Edouard, good-natured fellow, pretended to like

prodigiously, drinking three cups of milk and water under the serious

impression that it was the genuine infusion--a practice very common in

France, where tea is looked on as dangerous to the nerves. Next day they

went to Versailles, breakfasted at the Hotel de France, visited the

interminable galleries of pictures, and dined in Paris at a late hour.

The day after they went to Montmorency.

Swiftly passed the hours, and days, and weeks, and soon Geraldine saw

the last day which was to be her own. In twenty-four hours she was to

leave her mother's home forever, to share that of a man to whom it must

be supposed she was very much attached, but who was not exactly the

companion suited to her. Geraldine was very grave that morning. It had

been arranged that they were to go to St. Germain; and though the sky

was a little dark, the young girl insisted on the excursion not being

put off.

"This is the last day I shall have any will of my own," said she; "so

let me exercise it."

"My dear Geraldine," replied her cousin, kindly, "you will always find

me ready to yield to you in every thing. I shall be a model husband, for

I am too lazy to oppose any one."

"My dear Edouard," put in Mme Delisle, "a man who consults his wife's

happiness will always be happy himself. We are very easily pleased when

we see you try to please us. The will is every thing to us."

"Then let us start," said Edouard, laughing, "it will pass the time, and

I am eager to try."

They entered the open carriage which they usually used for their

excursions, and started, the sun now shining very brightly. Edouard was

full of spirits: he seemed bursting with happiness, and was forced to

speak incessantly to give it vent. Geraldine was very grave, though she

smiled at her cousin's sallies, and every now and then answered in her

own playful, witty way. The parents, though happy, were serious too.

They were about to lose their last child, and though they knew she would

be always near them, a feeling of involuntary loneliness came over them.

A marriage-day is always for affectionate parents a day of sorrowful

pleasure--a link in the chain of sacrifices which makes a parent's love

so beautiful and holy, so like what we can faintly trace in thought as

the love of the Creator for man.

They took the road by Bongiral, and they were about a mile distant from

that place when suddenly they found themselves caught in a heavy shower.

The coachman drove hastily for shelter into the midst of a grove of

trees, which led up to a villa that appeared totally uninhabited. But it

was not so; for the _porte cochere_ flew wide open as they drew up, and

two servants advancing, requested them to take shelter in the house.

"But we are intruding?" said Mme Delisle.

"No, madame. Our master is out, but had he been at home he would insist

as we do."

Edouard leaped out, and set the example of compliance. The whole party

followed the servants, who led the way into a splendidly-furnished suite

of rooms. The style was that of the _renaissance_, of the richest

materials, while the walls were covered with genuine paintings by the

first masters. The servants then left them, and they were heard next

minute assisting to take the horses from the carriage. The rain fell

heavily all the time.

"Upon my word we are very fortunate," said Mme Delisle: "in ten minutes

we should have been soaked through. The master of the house must be some

very noble-minded man; no ordinary person would have such polite and

attentive servants."

"Some eccentric foreigner," said Edouard: "all his servants are men; I

don't see the sign of a petticoat any where."

"Some woman-hater, perhaps," said Geraldine, laughing, as she took from

the table before her a celebrated satire against the sex.

"All the more polite of him," said Mme Delisle, while looking with

absolute horror at a book which she knew spoke irreverently of marriage.

"If you will pass this way," said a servant entering, "we shall have the

honor to offer you breakfast. The rain has set in for some hours, and

your servants spoke of your wishing to breakfast at St. Germain. But you

will not be able to wait so long."

The whole party looked unfeignedly surprised; but there was no resisting

a servant who spoke so politely, and who threw open a door whence they

discovered a table magnificently laid out. Several servants were ready

to wait.

"_Ma foi!_" cried Edouard, "there is no resisting such temptation. You

seem to know your master's character, and we take your word for it that

he would make us welcome."

With these words he gave Geraldine his arm, and led the way, setting the

example also of attacking the delicate viands offered to them so

unexpectedly. All breakfasted with appetite after their ride, and then

returned to the room they had first occupied. The shower was over, and

the warm sun was quickly clearing away all sign of the rain.

"What a beautiful house and grounds your master has here!" exclaimed

Edouard: "the garden appears to me even better than the house."

"It is very beautiful," said the servant addressed.

"Can we go over it?" continued the young man.

"Certainly, monsieur: I was about to offer to show it you."

"I shall remain here," said Geraldine; "my shoes are very thin; besides

I wish to have another look at the pictures."

Edouard demurred, but the young girl bade him go at once; and, like an

obedient lover, he took the mamma's arm, and went into the garden.

The instant all were gone Geraldine rose from her chair and tottered

across the room. She was pale, and looked cautiously round, as if about

to do some guilty act. Presently she stood before a curtain which had

been hastily drawn before a kind of niche in the wall, or rather before

a portion of the room. But it had been done very quickly, and through

two apartures you could see stained glass, and on a small table

something under a glass-case. Geraldine could not restrain herself. She

pulled away the curtain, and there, under a large glass on a velvet

cushion, lay the rose which had been cut from her head-dress on the

night she had accepted the hand of her cousin. Near it was a

pencil-sketch of herself.

"My God!" she cried, passionately, "he did love me then: what a fool I

have been! Wicked pride, to what will you lead me?"

"My Geraldine," exclaimed Alfred, who rose from a chair where he had

been seated in a dark corner, "pardon me! But I could not resist the

temptation. To see, to hear you once more, for the last time, was my

only wish. Do you forgive me?"

"Do you forgive _me_?" said Geraldine, hanging down her head, and

speaking in a low, soft, sweet voice, that had never been hers before.

"My God!--what?" exclaimed Alfred, who, pale and trembling, stood by her

side.

"You will not force me to say, Alfred," she continued in a beseeching

tone.

"Do I understand aright? O forgive me, Geraldine, if I say too much; but

is it possible that you do not hate me?"

"Hate you, Alfred! How can I hate one so generous and good? If you think

me not bold to say it, I will say I love you. After behaving as I did,

that confession will be my punishment."

"My Geraldine! then why did you refuse me?" cried Alfred, in a tone of

passionate delight.

"Because you did not seem to love me; because you only in my eyes sought

to marry me because others did."

"Geraldine, I seemed cold because I loved you with all my heart and

soul. But I was a known satirist on marriage, and I was ashamed to let

the world see my deep affection. I wanted them to think that I married

merely because it was a triumph to carry off the reigning belle."

"You deceived me and all the world together," replied Geraldine; "but to

own the truth, after you were gone and took my rose with you, I guessed

the truth."

"The rose! but did you know--"

"I guessed--"

"My God!" cried Edouard, returning alone to fetch Geraldine, to whom he

wanted to show the garden, "what is the meaning of this?"

"My good cousin," said Geraldine, advancing toward him, and taking both

his hands, "come here; you will forgive Geraldine, won't you? I have

been very wicked. Do excuse your cousin, will you not? but I was only

going to marry you because I thought Alfred did not love me."

"_Hein!_" cried Edouard, quite bewildered.

"Don't be angry with me," continued Geraldine, gravely: "I should have

been a very good wife, and have loved you very much had I married you."

"Oh, then, you do not mean to marry me now?" said Edouard, in a tone of

deep sadness.

"What am I to do?" cried Geraldine. "See, my dear cousin, how he loved

me! How can I marry you when my heart is given to another?"

"You were going to do so, but for a shower of rain," said Edouard, with

a vain attempt at gravity. "But take her, M. Alfred: I think after all

I'm lucky to have escaped her! I don't forgive you a bit, because it's

hard to find out that when at last one thinks one's self loved, the lady

was only pretending."

"You do forgive me!" exclaimed Geraldine, shaking her head, and putting

his hand into that of Alfred, who shook it warmly.

"Yes, yes!--of course you're pleased! But I must marry now. I shall ask

Helene at Bordeaux to have me, as nobody there will know any thing about

my present mishap."

At this moment M. and Mme Delisle returned; their astonishment was of

course very great. Edouard gravely introduced the young couple.

"You see, madame," he said, "that while you were walking round the

garden, I have managed to lose my wife, and you to find a son-in-law."

"But, my Geraldine," exclaimed her mother, "are you not behaving very

badly to Edouard?"

"Not at all!" said the young man: "I could not think of marrying her.

Look at her! Five minutes with Alfred has done her more good than all

her excursions in search of roses!"

"Mischievous man to betray me!" said Geraldine in her turn, warmly

shaking his hand.

"But what will the world say?" exclaimed M. Delisle.

"I will tell the truth," said Alfred; and in a few words he explained

the cause of the refusal of Geraldine to have him.

It was now settled that the day should be spent at the villa; that in

the evening they should return to Paris, without the count, who was to

present himself only next day. He agreed to own frankly to all his

friends the depth and sincerity of his affection, while Edouard

good-naturedly volunteered to tell every one that he had been turned

off--a promise which he gravely kept, relating his discomfiture in a way

that drew tears of laughter from all his hearers.

And Geraldine and Alfred were married, to the surprise of the world.

They were both cured of their former errors, and I know no instance of a

happier marriage than that of M. and Mme de Rougement. He is now a

member of the Legislative Assembly, and is remarked for the liberality

of his opinions--being one of the many ex-legitimists who have gone over

to the moderate republican party. Edouard married his country cousin.

Both young couples have children, and both are happy: the only revenge

the young man having taken is to persevere on all occasions, even before

his own wife, in calling Geraldine "The Stolen Rose."

THOMAS MOORE.

Thomas Moore, a man of brilliant gifts and large acquirements, if not an

inspired poet, was born on the 28th of May, 1780, in Augier-street,

Dublin, where his father carried on a respectable business as a grocer

and spirit-dealer. Both his parents were strict Roman Catholics, and he,

of course, was educated in the same faith; at that time under the ban

not only of penal statutes, but of influential opinion both in Great

Britain and Ireland. Thus humble and unpromising were the birth and

early prospects of an author who--thanks to the possession of great

popular talent, very industriously cultivated and exercised, together

with considerable tact and prudence, and pleasing social

accomplishments--won for himself not only the general fame which

ordinarily attends the successful display of genius, but the especial

sympathy and admiration of his countrymen and fellow-religionists, and

the smiles and patronage of a large and powerful section of the English

aristocracy, at whose tables and in whose drawing-rooms his sparkling

wit and melodious patriotism rendered him an ever-welcome guest. Few

men, indeed, have passed more pleasantly through the world than Thomas

Moore. His day of life was one continual sunshine, just sufficiently

tempered and shaded by passing clouds--"mere crumpling of the

rose-leaves"--as to soften and enhance its general gayety and

brightness. With its evening thick shadows came--the crushing loss of

children--and the gray-haired poet, pressed by his heavy grief, has

turned in his latter years from the gay vanities of brilliant society,

and sought peace and consolation in seclusion, and the zealous

observance of the precepts and discipline of the church to which he is,

not only from early training and association, but by temperament and

turn of mind, devotedly attached.

As a child, Moore was, we are told, remarkable for personal beauty, and

might have sat, says a writer not over-friendly to him, "as Cupid for a

picture." This early promise was not fulfilled. Sir Walter Scott,

speaking of him in 1825, says: "He is a little, very little man--less, I

think, than Lewis, whom he resembles: his countenance is plain, but very

animated when speaking or singing." The lowness of his stature was a

sore subject with Moore--almost as much, and as absurdly so, as the

malformation of his foot was with Lord Byron. Leigh Hunt, in a work

published between twenty and thirty years ago, gives the following

detailed portrait of the Irish poet: "His forehead is bony and full of

character, with bumps of wit large and radiant enough to transport a

phrenologist; his eyes are as dark and fine as you would wish to see

under a set of vine-leaves; his mouth, generous and good-humored, with

dimples; 'his nose, sensual and prominent, and at the same time the

reverse of aquiline: there is a very peculiar characteristic in it--as

if it were looking forward to and scenting a feast or an orchard.' The

face, upon the whole, is Irish, not unruffled by care and passion, but

festivity is the predominant expression." In Mr. Hunt's autobiography,

not long since published, this portrait is repeated, with the exception

of the words we have inclosed within single inverted commas--struck out

possibly from a lately-awakened sense of their injustice; and it is

added that "his (Moore's) manner was as bright as his talk was full of

the wish to please and be pleased." To these testimonials as to the

personal appearance and manners of Thomas Moore, we can only add that of

Mr. Joseph Atkinson, one of the poet's most intimate and attached

friends. This gentleman, when speaking to an acquaintance of the author

of the "Melodies," said that to him "Moore always seemed an infant

sporting on the bosom of Venus." This somewhat perplexing idea of the

mature author of the songs under discussion was no doubt suggested by

the speaker's recollections of his friend's childhood.

Whatever the personal graces or defects of Mr. Moore, it is quite

certain, at all events, that he early exhibited considerable mental

power and imitative faculty. He was placed when very young with Mr.

Samuel Whyte, who kept a respectable school in Grafton-street, Dublin.

This was the Mr. Whyte who attempted to educate Richard Brinsley

Sheridan, and pronounced him to be "an incorrigible dunce;" a verdict in

which at the time the mother of the future author of the "School for

Scandal" fully concurred. Mr. Whyte, it seems, delighted in private

theatricals, and his labors in this mode of diffusing entertaining

knowledge were, it appears, a good deal patronized by the Dublin

aristocracy. Master Moore was his "show-actor," and played frequently at

Lady Borrowes's private theatre. On one occasion the printed bills

announced "An Epilogue--_A Squeeze at St. Paul's_, by Master Moore," in

which he is said to have been very successful. These theatricals were

attended by several members of the ducal family of Leinster, the

Latouches of Dublin, with many other Irish notabilities; and it was

probably here that Moore contracted the taste for aristocratic society

which afterward became a passion with him.

The obstinate exclusion of the Catholics from the common rights of

citizenship naturally excited violent and growing discontent among that

body of religionists; and Thomas Moore's parents, albeit prudent, wary

folk, were, like thousands of others naturally sensible and pacific

people, carried away for a moment by the tremendous outburst of the

French Revolution. The meteor-blaze which suddenly leaped forth and

dazzled the astonished world, seemed a light from Heaven to the

oppressed nations of Europe; and in Ireland, especially, it was hailed

as the dawn of a great deliverance by millions whom an unwise

legislation had alienated and almost maddened. Young Moore, when little

more than twelve years of age, sat upon his father's knee at a great

banquet in Dublin, where the toast--"May the breezes from France fan our

Irish oak into verdure!" was received with a frantic vehemence which,

child as he was, left an impression upon him that did not pass away with

many years. The Day-star of Liberty, as it was termed, which arose in

France, set in blood and tempest; but the government, alarmed at the

ominous aspect of the times, relaxed (1793) the penal laws, and

Catholics, for the first time, were eligible for admission to the Dublin

University: eligible--that is, to partake of the instruction conferred

at the national seat of learning, but not for its honors or rewards.

These were still jealously reserved for the dominant caste. Young Moore

was immediately entered of Trinity College; and although he succeeded by

his assiduity and ability in extorting an acknowledgment from the

authorities that he had earned a classical degree, he was, for

religion's sake, as a matter of course, denied it. Some English verses,

however, which he presented at one of the quarterly examinations in lieu

of the usual Latin metre, were extolled; and he received a well-bound

copy of the "Travels of Anarchasis" as a reward. The young student's

proficiency in the Greek and Latin languages was also acknowledged,

though not officially.

For several previous years the thunder-cloud which burst so fatally in

1798, had been slowly gathering in Ireland. Moore sympathized with the

object, if not with the mode of operation contemplated by the opponents

of English rule in that country; and he appears to have been only saved

from serious if not fatal implication in the rebellion by the wise

admonitions of his excellent mother, aided by his own instinctive

aversion to the committal of any act which might compromise his present

and future position, by placing him among extreme men in the front and

forlorn hope of the battle, instead of amid the wiser respectabilities

of liberalism, from whose ranks a man of wit and genius may, he knew,

shoot his diamond-tipt arrows at the enemy not only without danger, but

with almost certain fame and profit to himself. Moore was intimate with

the two Emmets, and an active member of a debating-club, in which the

eldest, the unfortunate Robert, endeavored to mature his oratorical

powers against the time when his dream of political regeneration should

be realized. Toward the close of the year 1797, the, at the time,

celebrated newspaper called "The Press," was started by Arthur O'Connor,

the Emmets, and other chiefs of the United Irishmen. It was published

twice a week, and although, Mr. Moore says, not distinguished at all for

talent, had a large circulation among the excited masses. Moore first

contributed a poetical effusion--anonymously of course--and soon growing

bolder with impunity, contributed a fiery letter, which had the

questionable honor of being afterward quoted in the House of Commons by

the minister as one of his proofs that severe repressive measures were

required to put down the dangerous spirit manifested in Ireland. On the

evening this letter appeared, young Moore read it after supper to the

assembled family--his heart beating violently all the while lest the

sentiments it contained, and the style in which they were expressed,

should reveal the eloquent author. His fears were groundless; no one

suspected him; and the only remark elicited by the violent letter was a

quiet one from his sister--"that it was rather strong!" Next day his

mother, through the indiscretion of a person connected with the

newspaper, discovered his secret, and commanded him, as he valued her

blessing, to disconnect himself at once from so dangerous a pursuit and

companionship. The young man obeyed, and the storm of 1798 passed over

harmlessly for him. Moore was once slightly questioned upon the subject

of the apprehended conspiracy by Lord Chancellor Clare, who insisted

upon compelling a disclosure, upon oath, of any knowledge the students

of the university might possess of the persons and plans of the

plotters. Moore at first declined being sworn, alleging in excuse that

he had never taken an oath, and although perfectly unconscious himself

of offense against the government, that he might unwittingly compromise

others. This odd excuse Lord Clare, after consulting with Duigenan,

famous for his anti-papist polemics, declined to receive, and Moore was

sworn. Three or four questions were asked as to his knowledge of any

conspiracy to overthrow the government, by violence; and these briefly

answered, the matter ended. This is Mr. Moore's own version of a scene

which has been rendered in various amusing and exaggerated forms.

The precocity of Moore's rhyming genius had been also exemplified by a

sonnet, written when he was only fourteen years of age, and inserted in

a Dublin magazine called "The Anthologia." Two or three years later he

composed a Masque, which was performed by himself, his elder sister, and

some young friends, in the little drawing-room over the shop in

Augier-street, a friend, afterward a celebrated musician, enacting

orchestra on the piano-forte. One of the songs of the masque was

written to the air of Haydn's Spirit Song, and obtained great applause.

Master Moore belonged, moreover, to a band of gay spirits who

occasionally amused themselves by a visit to Dalkey, a small island in

the Bay of Dublin, electing one Stephen Armitage, a respectable

pawnbroker, and "very agreeable singer," King of that Ilk. On one of

these coronation days King Stephen conferred the honor of knighthood

upon Incledon, with the title of Sir Charles Melody; and he created Miss

Battier, a rhyming lady, Henrietta, Countess of Laurel, and His

Majesty's Poetess-Laureate. The working laureate was, however, Master

Moore, and in that capacity he first tried his hand at political

squibbing, by launching some not very brilliant sarcasms against

governments in general. Lord Clare, we are told, was half alarmed at

this Dalkey court and its poets, and insisted upon an explanation from

one of the mock officials. This is, however, we believe, a fable, though

at the time a current one.

In 1799, being then only in his twentieth year, Thomas Moore arrived in

London, for the purpose of entering himself of the Middle Temple, and

publishing his translation of the Odes of Anacreon. He had already

obtained the friendship of Earl Moira, and that nobleman procured him

permission to dedicate the work to the Prince of Wales. His poetical

career may now be said to have fairly commenced. It was a long and

brilliant one, most of his works having rapidly passed through numerous

editions, and been, perhaps, more extensively read than those of any

contemporary author, always excepting the romances of Scott. There can

be no reasonable doubt that Moore owed much of this popularity and

success to the accident of his position, and the favoring circumstances

of the times in which he wrote. The _enfant gate_ of high and

influential circles; as well as the melodious expositor and

poet-champion of the wrongs of a nation to whose glorious music he has,

happily for himself, married much of his sweetest verse, he dwelt in a

peculiar and irradiating atmosphere, which greatly enhanced his real

magnitude and brightness. Even now, when the deceptive medium has lost

its influence, it is somewhat difficult, and may seem ungracious, to

assign his true place in the splendid galaxy of British poets to a

writer who has contributed so largely to the delight of the reading and

musical population of these kingdoms.

The Odes of Anacreon obtained much present popularity at a time when the

moralities of respectable literature were not so strictly enforced by

public opinion as in the present day. Many of them are paraphrases

rather than translations, containing, as Dr. Laurence, Burke's friend,

remarked at the time, "pretty turns not to be found in Anacreon."

"Thomas Little's Poems, Songs," &c., given to the world by Mr. Moore in

1801, are a collection of puerile rhapsodies still more objectionable

than the Anacreontic Odes: and the only excuse for them was the extreme

youth of the writer. Byron thus alluded to the book in his once famous

satire:

"'Tis Little, young Catullus of his day,

As sweet but as immoral in his lay."

Many years afterward his lordship, in a letter to Moore (1820),

reverted, half in jest, half in earnest, to the work in these words, "I

believe all the mischief I have ever done or sung has been owing to that

confounded book of yours." The most objectionable of these songs have

been omitted from the recent editions of Moore's works, and we believe

no one has more deplored their original publication than the author

himself.

In 1803, thanks to his verses and Lord Moira's patronage, Moore obtained

a place under the government--that of Registrar to the Court of

Admiralty at Bermuda. Moore sailed in the _Phoenix_ frigate, and took

formal possession of his post; but he soon wearied of the social

monotony of the "still vexed Bermoothes," hastily appointed a deputy to

perform all the duties of his office for a share of the income, and

betook himself to America. He was as much out of his proper element

there as in Bermuda. The rugged republicanism of the States disgusted

him, and after a brief glance at Canada he returned to England, having

been absent about fifteen months.

Soon after his return he favored the world with his impressions of

Bermuda, the United States, and Canada. His sketches of Bermudan scenery

have been pronounced by Captain Basil Hall and others to be extremely

accurate and vivid. On the truthfulness of his American social and

political pictures and prophecies, Time--a much higher authority--has

unmistakably delivered judgment. While in Canada, Mr. Moore composed the

popular "Boat-song," the words and air of which were, he says, inspired

by the scenery and circumstances which the verses portray, and by the

measured chant of the Canadian rowers. Captain Hall also testifies to

the fidelity of this descriptive song.

The republication in 1806 of Juvenile Songs, Odes, &c., elicited a

fierce and contemptuous denunciation of them from the Edinburgh Review,

and this led to a hostile meeting between the editor of that

publication, the late Lord Jeffrey, and Mr. Moore. They met at Chalk

Farm, near Hampstead; but the progress of the duel was interrupted by

police officers, who, on examining the pistols of the baffled

combatants, found that they had been charged with powder only. This was

probably a sensible device--it was not at all an uncommon one--on the

part of the seconds to prevent mischief; or, it might have been, as is

usually believed, that the bullets dropped out of one or both of the

pistols by the jolting of the carriages in which the combatants reached

the field of expected battle; but of course the discovery created a

great laugh at the time. Moore indignantly denied through the newspapers

that he was cognizant of the innocent state of Mr. Jeffrey's pistol--an

assertion there can not be the slightest reason for doubting. This droll

incident led to his subsequent acquaintance with Lord Byron, who,

unmindful or regardless of Mr. Moore's denial of the "calumny," repeated

it with variations in his "English Bards and Scotch Reviewers," chiefly

with a view to annoy Mr. Jeffrey. Moore was again indignant, and

demanded an apology or satisfaction. His letter did not, however, reach

the noble lord till many months afterward, when _explanations_ ensued,

and the affair terminated by a dinner at the house of Mr. Rogers, where

the four poets, Byron, Campbell, Moore, and Rogers, met each other for

the first time.

The intimacy thus commenced, if we may judge from the biography of

Byron, ripened into a lasting friendship on the part of Moore. This

feeling was but faintly reciprocated by Byron. Indeed, if we are to

believe his own statement, made in one of his latest letters, the noble

poet was almost incapable of friendship, "never having," he says,

"except toward Lord Clare, whom he had known from infancy, and perhaps

little Moore," experienced any such emotion. "Little Tommy dearly loves

a lord," was Byron's sneering expression more than once; and perhaps he

believed Moore's loudly-expressed regard for himself to be chiefly based

on that predilection.

Moore had before this married a Miss Dyke, who is described as a lady of

great beauty and amiability, and moreover distinguished for considerable

decision of character and strong common sense--qualities which more than

once proved of essential service to her husband. They had several

children, the loss of whom, as we have before stated, has darkened and

embittered the close of the poet's days.

In 1811, Moore made a first and last appearance before the world as a

dramatist, by the production at the Lyceum theatre of an operatic piece

called "An M.P.; or, The Blue Stocking." It was emphatically damned,

notwithstanding two or three pleasing songs, which somewhat redeemed its

dull and vapid impertinence. The very pretty song of "Young Love lived

once in an humble shed," occurs in this piece. Moore's acquaintance with

Leigh Hunt dates from the acting of the "Blue Stocking." Mr. Hunt was at

the time editor of the "Examiner" newspaper, in which he had just before

paid some compliments to Moore's poetry; and the nervous dramatist,

naturally anxious to propitiate a critic whose opinion was esteemed

oracular in certain circles, wrote him a rather fulsome letter, in which

he set forth, as an _ad misericordiam_ plea for lenient judgment, that

he had rashly been induced to promise Arnold a piece for his theatre, in

consequence of the state of attenuation to which the purses of poets are

proverbially liable. The "M.P." was, as we have said, condemned, and

Esop's disappointed fox received another illustration. "Writing bad

jokes," quoth Mr. Moore, "for the Lyceum to make the galleries laugh is

in itself sufficiently degrading; but to try to make them laugh, and

fail to do so, is indeed deplorable." In sooth, to make "galleries"

either laugh or weep was never Mr. Moore's aim or vocation. His eye was

ever fixed upon the gay company of the "boxes," occasionally only

glancing apprehensively aside from its flattering homage to scan the

faces of the sour critics of the pit. And yet to make the galleries of

the theatre and the world laugh has tasked and evidenced wit and humor,

in comparison with which the gayest sallies, the most sparkling of Mr.

Moore's fancies, are vapidity itself. The mortified dramatist gave up

play-writing forever, or, as he contemptuously expressed it, "made a

hearty abjuration of the stage and all its heresies of pun, equivoque,

and clap-trap." He was wise in doing so. The discretion evinced by the

hasty retreat was only exceeded by the rashness of the venture.

The intimacy of Thomas Moore and Leigh Hunt continued for some years.

Moore, in company with Lord Byron, dined once or twice with Hunt in

prison during his confinement for a pretended libel upon the regent. A

pertinent anecdote, throwing some light on Byron's sneer respecting

Moore's love of lords, is told of one of these visits. The three

friends, Byron, Moore, and Hunt, were walking before dinner in the

prison garden, when a shower of rain came on, and Moore ran into the

house, and upstairs, leaving his companions to follow as they best

might. Consciousness of the discourtesy of such behavior toward his

noble companion quickly flashed upon him, and he was overwhelmed with

confusion. Mr. Hunt tried to console him. "I quite forgot at the

moment," said Moore, "whom I was walking with; but I was forced to

remember it by his not coming up. I could not in decency go on, and to

return was awkward." This anxiety--on account of Byron's lameness--Mr.

Hunt remarks, appeared to him very amiable.

This friendship came to an abrupt and unpleasant close. Lord Byron

agreed with Hunt and Shelley to start a new periodical, to be called

"The Liberal," the profits of which were to go to Leigh Hunt. Byron's

parody on Southey's "Vision of Judgment" appeared in it, and ultimately

William Hazlitt became a contributor. Moore immediately became alarmed

for his noble friend's character, which he thought would be compromised

by his connection with Hunt and Hazlitt, and wrote to entreat him to

withdraw himself from a work which had "a taint in it," and from

association with men upon whom society "had set a mark." His prayer was

complied with, and the two last-named gentlemen were very angry, as well

they might be. There has been a good deal of crimination and

recrimination between the parties on the subject, not at all worth

reproducing. The truth is that both Hunt and Hazlitt, but especially the

latter, were at the time under the ban of influential society and a then

powerful Tory press; and Moore, with his usual prudence, declining to be

mad-dog'd in their company and for their sakes, deliberately _cut_ two

such extreme Radicals, and induced his noble friend to do likewise. How

could a prudent man who had given hostages to fortune, which Moore by

this time had, in a wife and children, act otherwise?

Moore had long cherished a hope of allying his poetry with the

expressive music of Ireland; of giving appropriate vocal utterance to

the strains which had broken fitfully from out the tumults and

tramplings of centuries of unblest rule. A noble task! in which even

partial success demands great powers and deserves high praise. The

execution of the long-meditated design now commenced; and the

"Melodies," as they appeared, obtained immense and well-deserved

popularity. It is upon these his fame, as a poet, will mainly rest; and

no one can deny that, as a whole, they exhibit great felicity of

expression, and much graceful tenderness of thought and feeling,

frequently relieved by flashes of gay and genial wit and humor. No one

could be more keenly aware, or could more gracefully acknowledge than

Moore the great help to a poet's present reputation of connecting his

verse with national or local associations.

In 1812 Moore determined on writing an Eastern tale in verse; and his

friend Mr. Perry of the "Chronicle" accompanied him to Messrs. Longman,

the publishers, to arrange for the sale of a work of which the proposed

author had not yet written a line nor even settled the subject. Mr.

Perry appears to have been an invaluable intermediary. He proposed at

once, as the basis of the negotiation, that Moore should have the

largest sum ever given for such a work. "That," observed the Messrs.

Longman, "was three thousand guineas." And three thousand guineas it was

ultimately covenanted the price should be, thanks to Moore's reputation,

and the business abilities of his friend Perry. It was further agreed

that the manuscript should be furnished at whatever time might best suit

the author's convenience, and that Messrs. Longman should accept it for

better for worse, and have no power or right to suggest alterations or

changes of any kind. The bargain was altogether a safe one on Moore's

side, and luckily it turned out equally profitable for the publishers.

In order to obtain the necessary leisure and quiet for the composition

of such a work, Moore resolved to retire from the gayeties of Holland

and Lansdowne Houses, and other mansions of his distinguished patrons

and friends, to the seclusion and tranquillity of the country. He made

choice of Mayfield Cottage, near Ashbourne in Derbyshire, and not far

distant from Donnington Park, Lord Moira's country-seat, where an

excellent library was at his service. It may be as well to mention that

when this early and influential friend of Moore went out to India as

governor-general, he apologized for not being able to present his

poetical protege with any thing worth his acceptance in that country.

"But," said Lord Moira (Marquis of Hastings), "I can perhaps barter a

piece of India patronage against something at home that might suit you."

This offer, which would have gravely compromised Moore with his Whig

friends, he with some asperity declined. The governor-general went to

India, and Moore retired to Derbyshire, remaining, with the exception of

his Bermudan registrarship, placeless. This offer and refusal Moore

communicated by letter to Leigh Hunt.

Mayfield Cottage, when the poet and his wife arrived to view it, wore

any thing but an inviting aspect. "It was a poor place," Moore wrote,

"little better than a barn; but we at once took it, and set about making

it habitable and comfortable." He now commenced the formidable task of

working himself up into a proper Oriental state of mind for the

accomplishment of his work. The first part of this process consisted in

reading every work of authority that treated of the topography, climate,

zoology, ornithology, entomology, floriculture, horticulture,

agriculture, manners, customs, religion, ceremonies, and languages of

the East. Asiatic registers, D'Herbelot, Jones, Tavernier, Flemming, and

a host of other writers were industriously consulted; and so perfect did

Mr. Moore become in these various branches of knowledge, that a great

Eastern traveler, after reading "Lalla Rookh," and being assured that

the poet had never visited the scenes in which he placed his stories,

remarked that if it were so, a man might learn as much of those

countries by reading books as by riding on the back of a camel! This,

however, was but a part of the requisite preparation. "I am," says Mr.

Moore, "a slow, painstaking workman, and at once very imaginative and

very matter-of-fact;" and he goes on to say that the slightest exterior

interruption or contradiction to the imaginary state of things he was

endeavoring to conjure up in his brain threw all his ideas into

confusion and disarray. It was necessary, therefore, to surround himself

in some way or other with an Eastern atmosphere. How this could be

managed in the face of the snows of the Derbyshire winters, during which

the four stories which compose "Lalla Rookh" were written, it is

difficult to conceive, and perhaps to the fact that it could _not_ be

effectually done, must be ascribed the ill success which beset the poet

during an entire twelvemonth. Vainly did he string together peris and

bulbuls, and sunny apples of Totkahar: the inspiration would _not_ come.

It was all "Double, double, toil and trouble," to no purpose. Each

story, however trippingly it began, soon flagged, drooped, and, less

fortunate than that of

----"The bear and fiddle,

Begun and broke off in the middle,"

expired of collapse after a brief career of a few score lines only,

frequently nothing like so many. Some of these fragments have since been

published. One of them, "The Peri's Daughter," ran to some length, and

is rather pretty and sparkling.

This uninspiring state of things seemed interminable--the three thousand

guineas were as far off as ever; and apprehension of the necessity of a

bodily journey to the East, in order to get at the genuine "atmosphere,"

must have suggested itself, when a gleam of light, in the idea of the

"Fire-Worshipers," broke in upon the poet; the multifarious collection

of Eastern materials deposited in the chambers of his brain arranged

themselves in flowing numbers, without encountering any further

accident; and at the end of three years "Lalla Rookh" was ushered

before an admiring world. Its success was immense, and the work ran

rapidly through many editions. "Paradise and the Peri," the second

story, although not so much praised as the first and third, is, we

fancy, much the most read of the four; and from its light, ringing tone,

its delicate and tender sentiment, its graceful and musical flow, will

always be a principal favorite with the admirers of Thomas Moore's

poetry.

The bow so long bent required relaxation, and in the first flush of his

great success, while his ears were still ringing with the applauses, and

his nostrils still titillating with the incense which the press showered

upon "Lalla Rookh," pronounced by general consent--"when they _do_

agree, their unanimity is wonderful"--to be unrivaled as a work of

melody, beauty, and power, Moore set out on a continental tour with his

friend and brother-poet Rogers. On his return to England he published

the "Fudge Family"--not a very brilliant performance, and which, with

the exception of its political hits, is but an imitation of "Les

Anglaises Pour Rire." He also worked at the "Melodies," and wrote

articles for the "Edinburgh Review." In 1818 one of the most pleasing

incidents in his life occurred. A public dinner was given in his honor

at Dublin, the Earl of Charlemont in the chair--the poet's venerable

father, Garret Moore, being present on the chairman's right hand, the

honored and delighted witness of the enthusiastic welcome bestowed upon

his son by his warm-hearted fellow-countrymen. Moore made a graceful,

cleverly-turned speech; but he was no orator: few literary men are. He

could not think upon his legs; and you could see by the abstraction of

his look that he was not speaking, in the popular sense, but reciting

what had previously been carefully composed and committed to memory.

Such speeches frequently read well, but if long, they are terrible

things to sit and hear.

The following year Moore accompanied Lord John Russell on a continental

tour, taking the road of the Simplon to Italy. Lord John went on to

Genoa, and Moore directed his steps toward Venice, for the purpose of

seeing Byron. It was during this visit the noble lord made Moore a

present of his personal memoirs, for publication after the writer's

death. Moore gives the following account of the transaction: "We were

conversing together when Byron rose and went out. In a minute or two he

returned carrying a white leathern bag. 'Look here!' he said, holding it

up, 'this would be worth something to Murray, though you, I daresay,

would not give sixpence for it.' 'What is it?' I asked, 'My life and

adventures,' he answered. On hearing this I raised my hands in a

gesture. 'It is not a thing that can be published during my life, but

you may have it if you like: then do whatever you please with it.' In

taking the bag, and thanking him most warmly, I added: 'This will make a

nice legacy for my little Tom, who shall astonish the latter end of the

nineteenth century with it.' He then added: 'You may show it to any of

your friends you think worthy of it.' This is as nearly as I can

recollect all that passed." These memoirs Moore sold to Murray for two

thousand guineas, but at Lord Byron's death, his executors and family

induced Moore to repay Mr. Murray and destroy the manuscript. The

precise reasons which decided Moore to yield to the solicitations of the

deceased lord's friends and family are not known, but there can be

little doubt that they were urgent, and in a moral sense irresistible. A

man does not usually throw away two thousand guineas for a caprice, even

of his own, much less for that of others. It is not likely that the

world has lost much by the destruction of these memoirs. Lord Byron's

life is sufficiently written in his published works for all purposes

save that of the gratification of a morbid curiosity and vulgar appetite

for scandal.

During the journey to and from Italy, Moore sketched the "Rhymes on the

Road," which were soon afterward published. There is nothing remarkable

about them except his abuse of Rousseau and Madame Warens, _a propos_ of

a visit to Les Charmettes. Moore was violently assailed for this by

writers, who held that as he had himself translated Anacreon, and

written juvenile songs of an immoral tendency, he was thereby

incapacitated from fy, fying naughty people in his maturer and better

years. This seems hardly a reasonable maxim, and would, if strictly

interpreted and enforced, silence much grave and learned eloquence, oral

as well as written. His denunciations of the eccentric and fanciful

author of the "Confessions," which twenty years before he would probably

have called the enunciations of "Virtue with her zone loosened;" were

certainly violent and unmeasured, and not, perhaps, in the very best

taste.

Pecuniary difficulties, arising from the misconduct of his deputy in

Bermuda, now threatened Mr. Moore, and flight to France--for process

against him had issued from the Court of Admiralty--became immediately

necessary. The deputy-registrar, from whom Mr. Moore had exacted no

securities, had made free with the cargoes of several American vessels,

and immediately decamped with the proceeds, leaving his principal

liable, it was feared, to the serious amount of six thousand pounds.

Active and successful efforts were, however, made by Moore's friends to

compromise the claims, and ultimately they were all adjusted by the

payment of one thousand guineas. Three hundred pounds toward this sum

were contributed by the delinquent's uncle, a London merchant; so that

Moore's ultimate loss was seven hundred and fifty pounds only. During

the progress, and at the close of these negotiations, numerous offers of

pecuniary assistance were addressed to Mr. Moore, all of which he

gratefully but firmly declined.

While the matter was pending, Moore resided near Paris at La Butte

Coaslin, on the road to Belle Vue. This was also the residence of some

agreeable Spanish friends of the poet. Kenny the dramatic writer lived

also in the neighborhood. Here Moore composed his "Loves of the

Angels," passing his days, when they were fine, in walking up and down

the park of Saint Cloud, "polishing verses and making them run easy,"

and the evenings in singing Italian duets with his Spanish friends.

Previous to leaving Paris, at the close of 1822, he attended a banquet

got up in his honor by many of the most distinguished and wealthy of the

English residents in that gay city. His speech on this occasion was a

high-flown panegyric upon England and every thing English, and

grievously astonished Byron, Shelley, Hunt, and others, when they read

it in Italy. Either they thought the tone of some of the Irish melodies

was wrong, or the speech was. They did not reflect that a judicious

speaker always adapts his speech to his audience. Apt words in apt

places are the essentials of true eloquence.

Moore's publishers' account, delivered in the following June, exhibited

a very pleasing aspect. He was credited with one thousand pounds for the

"Loves of the Angels," and five hundred pounds for "Fables for the Holy

Alliance." These were the halcyon days of poetry. There was truth as

well as mirthful jest in Sir Walter Scott's remark a few years

afterward, in reply to Moore's observation, "that hardly a magazine is

now published but contains verses which would once have made a

reputation." "Ecod!" exclaimed the baronet, "we were very lucky to come

before these fellows!"

In 1825 Moore paid a visit to Sir Walter Scott at Abbottsford. The

meeting was a cordial one, and the baronet, Mr. Lockhart informs us,

pronounced Mr. Moore "to be the prettiest warbler" he ever knew. What

somewhat diminishes the value of this praise is, that, according to the

warbler himself, Sir Walter--but the thing seems incredible--had no

genuine love or taste for music, except indeed for the Jacobite chorus

of "Hey tuttie, tattie," now indissolubly united to "Scots wha hae wi'

Wallace bled!" which, when sung after supper by the company, with hands

clasped across each other, and waving up and down, he hugely delighted

in. Scott accompanied Moore to Edinburgh, and both of them, with Mr.

Lockhart and his lady, went to the theatre on the same evening that it

was honored by the presence of the celebrated Mrs. Coutts, afterward

Duchess of St. Albans. Soon after their at first unmarked entrance, the

attention of the audience which had till then been engrossed by the lady

millionaire, was directed toward the new-comers, and according to a

newspaper report, copied and published by Mr. Moore, in one of his last

prefaces, considerable excitement immediately prevailed. "Eh!" exclaimed

a man in the pit--"eh! yon's Sir Walter, wi' Lockhart and his wife: and

wha's the wee body wi' the pawkie een? Wow, but it's Tam Moore just!"

"Scott--Scott! Moore--Moore!" immediately resounded through the house.

Scott would not rise: Moore did, and bowed several times with his hand

on his heart. Scott afterward acknowledged the plaudits of his

countrymen, and the orchestra, during the rest of the evening, played

alternately Scotch and Irish airs.

At the request of the Marquis of Lansdowne, who was desirous that he

should reside near him, Moore at this period took a journey into

Wiltshire, to look at a house in the village of Bromham, near Bowood,

the seat of the noble marquis, which it was thought might suit him. He,

however, pronounced it to be too large, and declined taking it. On his

return he told his wife there was a cottage in a thickly-wooded lane in

the neighborhood to let, which he thought might be made to do. Mrs.

Moore immediately left town, secured it, and there they shortly

afterward took up their permanent abode. They have greatly improved and

enlarged Sloperton Cottage; and covered almost as its front and two

porches are with roses and clematis, with the trim miniature lawn and

garden in front, along which runs a raised walk inclosed with

evergreens, from which a fine view is obtained, it presents an entirely

satisfactory aspect of well-ordered neatness, prettiness, and comfort.

It is situated within about two miles of Devizes, and is within easy

reach of the country residence of Lord Lansdowne. It was here he wrote

the biographies of Lord Edward Fitzgerald, Lord Byron, and Richard

Brinsley Sheridan, of which we need only remark that they are

industriously compiled and pleasantly written.

In 1824, five years before the passing of the Catholic Relief Act, Moore

published "The Memoirs of Captain Rock, written by Himself." It is a

bitter, rhapsodical, and of course one-sided commentary upon the

government of Ireland by England, not only since the Reformation, but

from the time of Pope Adrian's famous bull, which is twisted into an

exclusively English grievance and insult.

The next considerable work of Moore's--for his light Parthian warfare in

the politics of the hour continued as usual, and with about the same

success, as in his younger days--was "The Travels of an Irish Gentleman

in search of a Religion"--a perfectly serious and earnest book in

defense of the Roman Catholic faith. There is a vast amount of erudition

displayed in its pages; and remembering how slow and painstaking a

workman Moore declared himself to be, it must, one would suppose, have

been the work of years. The author's object is to prove, from the

writings of the early fathers and other evidence, that the peculiar

dogmas, and discipline, and practice of the Church of Rome, date from

the apostolic age, or at least from the first centuries of the Christian

era, and are consequently true. This the writer does entirely, at least,

to his own satisfaction, which is the case, we believe, with

controversial writers generally. The book concludes with the following

words, addressed to the Catholic Church, which his after-life proves to

have been earnest and sincere: "In the shadow of thy sacred mysteries

let my soul henceforth repose, remote alike from the infidel who scoffs

at their darkness, and the rash believer who would pry into its

recesses."

These imaginary travels were published anonymously, but the book was

always known to be Moore's. Apart from any other evidence, the poetic

translations of portions of the writings of ancient bishops would have

amply sufficed to determine the authorship.

The last, and, according to Moore's own authority, one of the most

successful of his works, as far as a great sale constitutes success, was

the prose romance of "The Epicurean." There is much learning displayed

in this book, and it contains some striking descriptions. We also meet

occasionally with passages of simple and natural beauty and eloquence,

the more striking and effective from the contrast they afford to the

cumbrous and ambitious rhetoric through which they are sparsely

scattered. It was commenced in verse, and gradually reached to a

considerable length in that form, but ultimately, like the "Peri's

Daughter," broke down irretrievably. No one who respects Mr. Moore's

poetical fame will regret this after reading the fragment which has been

published. "The Epicurean" is a moral and religious story; and it has

this great merit, that it has very little of the merely sensuous imagery

in which Mr. Moore generally indulged. The plot is of the most

commonplace kind, and the conduct of the story so entirely languid and

lulling, that it may be freely indulged in without the slightest fear of

ill-consequences by the most nervous and impressionable lady-reader in

the three kingdoms.

On the 30th of June, 1827, the day after the publication of "The

Epicurean," Moore was one of the gay and distinguished assemblage at a

magnificent fete at Boyle Farm, in the environs of London, the cost of

which had been clubbed by five or six rich young lords. It appears by

Mr. Moore's description to have been a very brilliant affair. There were

crowds of the _elite_ of society present of both sexes; well-dressed men

and groups of fair women, "all looking their best;" together with

dancing, music, the Tyrolese minstrels, and Madame Vestris and Fanny

Ayton, rowing up and down the river, singing Moore's "Oh, come to Me

when Daylight sets!" and so on. The author of "The Epicurean" relates

all this for the purpose of introducing an anecdote concerning his book,

and we notice it for the same reason. During one of the pauses of the

music, the Marquis of Palmella--Moore _disguises_ the name of the

Portuguese embassador in this impenetrable mode, the Marquis of

P-lm---a, approaching the poet, remarked upon the magnificence of the

fete. Moore agreed. "The tents," he remarked, "had a fine effect."

"Nay," said the marquis, "I was thinking of your fete at Athens. I read

it this morning in the newspaper." "Confound the newspaper!" Moore had a

great aversion to having his best _morceaux_ served up without context

in that manner; but worse remained behind. A Mr. D---- accosted him a

few minutes afterward, and mentioning the book, added these flattering

words, "I never read any thing so touching as the death of your

heroine." "What!" exclaimed the delighted author, "have you got so far

as that already?" "Oh, dear, no, I have not seen the book--I read what I

mentioned in the Literary Gazette." "Shameful!" says Mr. Moore, "to

anticipate my catastrophe in that manner!" Perhaps so; but that which we

should like especially to know is whether Mr. B----m, who is mentioned

as being present at the enunciation of these courtesies, was Mr.

Brougham. If so, the flash of the keen gray eyes that followed the

compliment on the touching death of Alethe, must, to an observant

looker-on, have been one of the most entertaining incidents of the fete.

The smart political squibs, scattered like fire-flies through the dreary

waste of journalism during the last active years of Moore's life, are

not obnoxious to criticism. Squire Corn, Famished Cotton, Weeping

Chancellors, Salmagundian Kings, and knavish Benthamites, as penciled by

Moore, have passed from the domain of wit and verse into that of the

historian and the antiquary, into the hands of the collector of

forgotten trifles; and there we very willingly leave them, pleasant,

piquant, and welcome, as we fully admit them in their day to have been.

Moore has also written several pieces of religious verse, which,

although not of very high merit as poetry, finely at times bring out and

illustrate the Christian spirit in its most engaging aspect--unalloyed,

unclouded by the mists of fanatic sectarianism.

That Moore was not an inspired creative poet like Shakspeare, Milton,

Burns, and a few others, is true; but beneath those heaven-reaching

heights there are many still lofty eminences upon which gifted spirits

sit enthroned, their brows encircled with coronets bright with gems of

purest ray, serene, though pale, indeed, and dim in presence of the

radiant crowns of the kings of poetry and song, between whom also there

are degrees of glory; for immeasurably above all, far beyond even the

constellated splendor of

"The blind old man of Scio's rocky isle,"

soars Shakspeare, palm-wreathed and diademed with stars. One of these

lesser heights and circlets must unquestionably be awarded to Thomas

Moore. His wing, it must be admitted, is feeble, requiring artificial

stimulants and help to lift him above the ground a sufficient time for

warbling a brief melody. He did not sing as a flower exhales--from the

law and necessity of its nature; still there is at times a grace, and

tenderness, and music, about his carefully-polished snatches of song,

which the world is not sufficiently rich in to willingly let die.

Turning from Moore the poet to Moore the politician, there is not much

to remark upon; neither certainly is there place for two opinions. Moore

wrote politics at times--pointed, bitter, rankling politics--but he was

really at heart no politician. There was no earnestness in what he did

in this way, and it was early and abundantly evident from his alternate

eulogies and vituperation of democratic institutions, that he had no

firmly-based convictions. His love for Ireland was a sentiment only: it

never rose to the dignity of a passion. Not one of his patriotic songs

breathes the fiery energy, the martyr zeal, the heroic hate and love,

which pulsate in the veins of men who ardently sympathize with a people

really oppressed, or presumed to be so. But let us hasten to say, that

if there was little of the hero or martyr, there was nothing of the

renegade or traitor about Thomas Moore. The pension of three hundred a

year obtained for him of the crown by his influential friends was not

the reward of baseness or of political tergiversation. It was the prize

and reward of his eminence as a writer, and his varied social

accomplishments. If he did not feel strongly, he at all events felt

honestly; and although he had no mission to evoke the lightning of the

national spirit, and hurl its consuming fire at the men who, had they

possessed the power, would have riveted the bondage of his people, he

could and did soothe their angry paroxysms with lulling words of praise

and hope, and, transforming their terribly real, physical, and moral

griefs and ills into picturesque and sentimental sorrows, awakened a

languid admiration, and a passing sympathy for a nation which could

boast such beautiful music, and whose woes were so agreeably, so

charmingly sung. Liberal opinions Moore supported by tongue and pen, but

then they were fashionable within a sufficiently extensive circle of

notabilities, and had nothing of the coarseness and downrightness of

vulgar Radicalism about them. The political idiosyncrasy of Moore is

developed in the same essential aspect in his memoir of Lord Edward

Fitzgerald as in his national songs. There is nothing impassioned,

nothing which hurries the pulse or kindles the eye--but a graceful

regret, a carefully guarded appreciation of the acts and motives of that

unfortunate and misguided nobleman, run throughout. Moore was what men

call a fair weather politician--which means, not that storms do not

frequently surround them, but that by a prudent forethought, a happy

avoidance of prematurely committing themselves, they contrive to make

fair weather for themselves, however dark and tempestuous may be the

time to other and less sagacious men, and who, when their sun does at

last shine, come out with extreme effulgence and brilliancy. Moore,

therefore, as a politician, was quite unexceptionable, though not

eminent. He was at once a pensioned and unpurchased, and, we verily

believe, unpurchasable partisan; an honest, sincere, and very mild

patriot; a faithful, and at the same time prudent and circumspect lover

of his country, its people, and its faith. There are very high-sounding

names in the list of political celebrities, of whom it would be well if

such real though not highly-flattering praise could be truly spoken.

Moore's prose works require but little notice at our hands beyond that

incidentally bestowed upon them in our passage through his works. None

of them that we are acquainted with add at all to the reputation for

genius acquired by his poetry. The flow and rhyme of verse are

indispensable to carry the reader through stories without probability or

interest, and to render men and women, not only without

originality--that frequently happens--but destitute of individualism,

decently tolerable. We are ignorant of the contributions to the

"Edinburgh Review;" but they could scarcely have much enhanced the power

and attractiveness of a periodical which in his time numbered among its

contributors such names as Jeffrey, Brougham, Sidney Smith, Hallam,

Macaulay, and others of that mint and standard. Moore is assigned by his

friends a high rank among the defenders or apologists of the Church of

Rome; and we believe his "Travels," like Cobbett's "Reformation," have

been translated by papal authority and command into most of the

languages of Europe. Of his merits in this department of literature,

which is quite out of our way, we do not presume to offer an opinion.

His book unquestionably displays a vast deal of research and learning;

but whether it is so entirely perverse as its adversaries contend, or so

pre-eminently irrefragable and convincing as its admirers assert, we

really can not say.

It is, after all, in the home-life of individuals that their true

character must be read and studied. The poet and the politician--the

latter more especially--dwell, as regards their vocations, apart from

the household tests which really measure the worth, the truth, the

kindliness of individual men and women. Moore, we are pleased to be able

to repeat, as a son, a husband, a father, a friend, and neighbor, bore,

and deservedly, the highest character. His domestic affections were

ardent, tender, and sincere; and the brilliant accomplishments which

caused his society to be courted by the great ones of the world, shed

their genial charm over the quiet fireside at which sat his wife, and in

whose light and warmth the children whose loss has bowed him to the

grave, grew up only to bloom and perish. There have been much greater

poets, more self-sacrificing, though perhaps no more sincere lovers of

their country; but in the intimate relations of domestic life, and the

discharge of its common, every-day, but sacred obligations, there are

few men who have borne a more unspotted and deservedly-high reputation

than Thomas Moore.

THE FAIRY'S CHOICE.

Many, many years ago, before fairies were exploded, and when every noble

family had a guardian spirit attached to it, the fairy Aquarella, my

heroine, existed. The date is so far back, that it belongs to those good

old days known as "once upon a time." Now, Aquarella was the spirit of a

pretty, sparkling streamlet, which strayed through the grounds of a

mighty lord, in whose welfare she had always been interested. She was

but a tiny little thing--one of the progeny of Isis and Thames; but

people said she inherited the beauties of both her parents. Her little

stream was of the purest water, and in her way she carefully avoided all

ugly spots, while her banks were always studded with the choicest

flowers. Here, the Narcissus found a fitting mirror for his waxen

leaves; here, the water-lilies spread their broad petals, and formed

cups fit for a fairy's board; and here, the humble forget-me-not crept

under the foliage, nestling close to its birth-place, and looking so

innocent, you could scarcely believe it had once lured a gay knight to a

melancholy death. Aquarella, however, could never become an accessary to

so sad a crime--her waters could never injure any one, save in one

place, where the young Lord Albert loved to come and bathe.

The lord's bath, as it was called, was in a sweet, shady spot--the

weeping willow and gentle aspen shielded it from the sun's rays, and the

bright smooth pebbles that lined it seemed quite to form a pavement.

This was Aquarella's favorite retreat, and hither she would calmly

repose after her capricious wanderings. Sometimes she would almost hide

herself under a sedgy canopy, when you could only trace her course by

the deeper verdure on either side of her; and this was the chosen

lurking-place of the speckled trout, the rosy dace, and other dandy

fish, for she would only allow her waters to be inhabited by the

choicest of their kind; slimy eels, vulgar tittlebats, or the voracious

pike, were forbidden to approach her court. Sometimes she would tire of

this quiet life, and suddenly making a prodigious fuss in the world,

would splash around a few great stones that lay in her path, spreading

herself out as wide as she could, sparkling and dancing in the sunlight,

till each tiny ripple seemed to wear a crown of diamonds, and you could

hardly fancy the noisy, smiling waters, belonged to the tranquil stream

that had been creeping along so gently.

Few mortals were acquainted with Aquarella; but she was well-known to

the gallant kingfisher, to the lordly heron, who would pursue their

sport by her banks.

It was when the Lord Albert was a baby, that Aquarella first saw and

loved him; his nurses had brought him to bask in her waters. The fairy

was resting in her chosen retreat, and never before having noticed a

mortal infant, was greatly struck with his beauty. She tempered her

natural delicious coolness to receive him, and the child crowed, and

clapped his pretty pink fingers, as the clear stream closed around him;

he laughed as he emerged from his bath, and struggled for another dip;

his women could scarcely tear him away. From that day the bath was his

favorite amusement; invisibly supported by Aquarella, he sported in her

waters, and each day imbibed new virtues from them. Health, strength,

good temper, and good looks--these were the fairy's gifts to her

protege, and wherever her wanderings led her, she heard him cited as the

kindest, the bravest, the wisest, and the best of young noblemen.

Albert knew not of the beneficent being who protected him, and when he

occasionally saw a vapory wreath arising from the brook, he little

suspected whom it concealed; and yet if he could have seen Aquarella,

her loveliness would have charmed him. She was fair--as all English

maidens are--and was attired in the highest fashion of her father's

court. Her dress was of that changing blue-green--known to aquatic

beauties as mackerel-back--spangled with scales from the gold and silver

fish. Some of her father's marine friends had brought her pearls and

coral, from the great ocean itself, and with them she looped up her

drapery, and braided her long tresses, while over all she threw a rich

vail of mist which concealed her from the common gaze; and thus she

would float along, hearing the praises of her beloved mortal, or busily

occupied in increasing his wealth, ornamenting his ground, and shielding

him from evil.

So passed Aquarella's days. She was now seldom seen in her father's

court; her whole happiness was centred in Albert. She cared not to join

in her sisters' gambols, as each brought their tribute to their august

parents--she was pining away for love, and only lived when in Albert's

domain; elsewhere she dwindled away till her fond mother feared she

would lose all her beauty and animation, and become a mere rillet. It

was proposed to unite her waters with those of a neighboring river, who

wished to marry, but she would not hear of such a thing, and threatened

if it were mentioned again to hide herself underground for the rest of

her life.

"But, good gracious! what is to be done?" asked Isis; "we can not let

the poor child, our youngest and prettiest, incur the unhappy fate of

the unfortunate little Fleet River."

"No, no," replied father Thames, "that must not be; I will take her

to-morrow to London Bridge; he is older, and has seen more of the world

than any one we know. I dare say he can give us some good advice."

"Very well," said Isis, "you may speak to the Bridge, as you go to meet

those nauseous salt rivers; I hate them, they are so rough and roar so

when they are angry. I will see what I can learn nearer home, at the

Universities; there are plenty of doctors there."

"You had better call at Sion House, too, and Richmond."

"To be sure, that I will; there--where fair queens have fretted and have

mourned, where noble ladies have dwelt and wept--they must know

something of this strange disease, called Love, for I really fear that

is Aquarella's disorder."

"Nonsense! where could she get that complaint?"

"On earth, to be sure. It is very prevalent there, and I am told it is

infectious; we can but ask, you know."

The two anxious parents now separated, Isis remaining impatiently till

old Thames's return from his sea visit allowed her to proceed on her

inland course. They gained but little information at any of the places

they had mentioned, as, though such things had occasionally happened in

Greece, the case was quite new to all the sages here. Aquarella was the

first English fairy who had been known to die of love for a mortal. This

low attachment of hers made her friends very unhappy, and at last they

summoned her godfather Aquarius. As he was the god of all the rivers,

and a very high personage, there was a great deal of ceremony in his

reception, and he came to the bed of Thames in a special train of

thunder, lightning, and rain, accompanied by his friend Boreas. This

high honor made the old couple so proud, that they spread out their

waters to make room for him, till they even covered their banks, and

frightened all who lived near them.

Aquarius, from his long experience and intimate acquaintance with

lady-rivers of all nations, was quite the most proper person to treat

with the poor fairy. He did not scold, rough as he was, for he knew

scolding was of no good in her complaint; he reasoned with her, but that

was scarce more efficient.

"Do you know, child, that to marry this mortal, you must take his

religion?"

"And is not that better than ours, your Mightiness?"

"Give up your immortality?"

"And gain his. Ours must cease with this world; his can never end."

"But it may be an immortality of grief?"

"Not unless we deserve it, and we will not. I learned much, your

Mightiness, while washing the walls of a little chapel, by whose side I

flow."

"You must relinquish your high privileges."

"What are they, without love?"

"Aquarella, you are mad! Do you know what the life of a mortal woman

is?"

"Oh, yes. Have I not watched Albert's mother? I know how she spends her

days; in providing comforts for son and husband, in instructing the

ignorant, in relieving the poor, in doing good to all. Hers is indeed a

happy and useful life."

"And suppose Albert should not love you?"

"I could still watch over him."

"Suppose he should become poor--should fall from his high estate?"

"I would work for, and comfort him."

"If he live, he will lose his youthful beauty."

"But he will preserve his virtues."

"He will become old and decrepit."

"I will nurse him."

"She has an answer for every thing; there must be a woman's soul in her.

After all--listen to me seriously, daughter--you may indeed do all you

say, and become the blessing of Albert's life; but to do this, you must

leave your parents, your sisters--leave them, and forever."

"Must I, indeed?"

"You must. Albert is of another class; he may be as good as you, still

he is not your equal, nor can you enjoy his love and that of your

family. Now choose between them."

"My sisters--my father--Albert."

"Choose--weigh them well in the balance; or one, or the other--both you

can not have."

"Does my father disapprove?"

"You can not expect he wishes you to leave him for one of another sort.

Your separation must be eternal."

"Will Albert be happy?"

"Why not? Even if he knew you, he could not think much of a wife who

could sever herself from her earliest ties."

"My mother, too! No, no, you are right; I should never be happy. What!

To feel I had offended those who have the best claim to my love and

affection! I must not think of it. Still, are they not a little

prejudiced?"

"Perhaps they are; but if you do your duty, their prejudices may

eventually give way."

"I am afraid all you say is true; I can not leave them. Oh! I am very

miserable. What shall I do?"

"Do good to every one, make yourself useful--that is the only cure for a

broken heart."

"Can I help Albert?"

"To be sure you can. And now you have shown yourself to be a dutiful

daughter, and a fairy of proper sense, I will teach you how to assist

him, and all his fellow-men."

I can not tell all the advice the old god gave to the disconsolate

Aquarella, but its consequences were of great benefit to the young lord,

and ultimately to all the world, for she consented to restrain her

vagaries, and become a useful member of society, a working river. The

same lively energy that helped her to quarrel with the stones, now

enabled her to turn a mill; there is no saying what amount of water

power is within her. Like all really benevolent, sensible persons, she

considers no good work a degradation; and her activity is boundless. She

has turned from her course to assist a paper manufacturer, her waters

are invaluable to a calico printer also, and she may be seen in a

bleaching ground.

She is not so wildly beautiful as in her early days, but her banks are

still charming, and, like a kind old maiden aunt, she is ever indulgent

to youth. She has famous bays, where rosy boys can launch their tiny

vessels; deep recesses, where sober anglers enjoy their silent sport;

and sweet nooks, where Albert's posterity have often mused on pleasant

thoughts, have pledged the faith, and vowed the love denied to the poor

fairy, and here her course flows placidly and serenely along, as if she

still took an interest in human happiness, and the trifles that compose

it.

It is even said that for the greater benefit of mankind, and of the

loved one's descendents in particular, she has consented to be united

with a sluggish, but wealthy canal, who wishes to get some pure water.

This report at present wants good authority; however, we shall see.

At all events the fairy's fate may teach us that all--even those who

have known great troubles--may be happy if they do their duty; that no

lot is without its trials and its reward, and that there is no cure to

sorrow so potent as a good conscience.

A GALLOP FOR LIFE.

About twenty years ago, after a fatiguing London season, I was stopping

at the decayed port and bathing village of Parkgate, on the Dee,

opposite the equally decayed town and castle of Flint. It was a curious

place to choose for amusement, for it had, and has, no recommendation

except brackish water, pleasant scenery at high water, and excessive

dullness. But, to own the truth, I was in love, desperately in love,

with one of the most charming, provoking little sylphs in the world,

who, after driving me half crazy in London, was staying on a visit with

an uncle, a Welsh parson, at dreary Parkgate. Not that it was dreary to

me when Laura was amiable; on the contrary, I wrote to my friends and

described it as one of the most delightful watering-places in England,

and, by so doing, lost forever the good graces and legacy of my Aunt

Grumph, who traveled all the way from Brighton on my description, and

only staid long enough to change horses. One sight of the one street of

tumble-down houses, in face of a couple of miles of sand and shingle at

low water, was enough. She never spoke to me again, except to express

her extreme contempt for my opinion.

Our chief amusement was riding on the sand, and sometimes crossing to

Flint at low water. You know, of course, that formerly the Dee was a

great commercial river, with important ports at Chester, Parkgate, and

Flint; but, in the course of time, the banks have fallen in, increasing

the breadth at the expense of the depth; so that at Parkgate, whence

formerly the Irish packets sailed, the fisher-girls can walk over at low

water, merely tucking up their petticoats in crossing the channel, down

which the main stream of fresh water flows.

But although this broad expanse of sand affords a firm footing, at low

water, for the whole way across, except just round Flint, where there

are several quicksands, when the tide turns, in certain states of the

wind, the whole estuary is covered with wonderful rapidity; for the tide

seems to creep up subterranean channels, and you may find yourself

surrounded by salt-water when you least expect it.

This was of no consequence to us, as we were never tied for time. I was

teaching Laura to ride on a little Welsh pony, and the sands made a

famous riding-school. I laugh now when I think of the little rat of a

pony she used to gallop about, for she now struggles into a Brougham of

ordinary dimensions with great difficulty, and weighs nearly as much as

her late husband, Mr. Alderman Mallard. In a short time, Laura made so

much progress in horsemanship that she insisted on mounting my hackney,

a full-sized well-bred animal, and putting me on the rat-pony. When I

indulged her in this fancy--for of course she had her own way--I had the

satisfaction of being rewarded by her roars of laughter at the

ridiculous figure I cut, ambling beside her respectable uncle, on his

cart-horse cob, with my legs close to the ground, and my nose peering

over the little Welshman's shaggy ears, while my fairy galloped round

us, drawing all sorts of ridiculous comparisons. This was bad enough,

but when Captain Egret, the nephew of my charmer's aunt's husband, a

handsome fellow, with "a lovely gray horse, with such a tail," as Laura

described it, came up from Chester to stay a few days, I could stand my

rat-pony no longer, and felt much too ill to ride out; so stood at the

window of my lodgings with my shirt-collar turned down, and Byron in my

hand open at one of the most murderous passages, watching Laura on my

chestnut, and Captain Egret on his gray, cantering over the deserted bed

of the Dee. They were an aggravatingly handsome couple, and the existing

state of the law on manslaughter enabled me to derive no satisfaction

from the hints contained in the "Giaour" or the "Corsair." These were

our favorite books of reference for Young England in those days. Indeed,

we were all amateur pirates, and felons in theory; but when I had been

cast down in disgust at the debased state of civilization, which

prevented me from challenging Captain Egert to single combat, with Laura

for the prize of the victor, instead of a cell in Chester Castle, my

eyes fell on an advertisement in a local paper, which turned my thoughts

into a new channel, of "_Sale of Blood Stock, Hunters, and Hackneys_, at

Plas * * *, near Holywell."

I determined to give up murder, and buy another horse, for I could ride

as well as the captain; and then what glorious _tete-a-tetes_ I could

have, with my hand on the pommel of Laura's side-saddle. The idea put me

in good-humor. Regimental duties having suddenly recalled Captain Egret,

I spent a delightful evening with Laura; she quite approved of my

project, and begged that I would choose a horse "with a long tail, of a

pretty color," which is every young lady's idea of what a horse should

be.

Accordingly I mounted my chestnut on a bright morning of July, and rode

across to Flint, accompanied by a man to bring back my intended

purchase. It was dead low water; when, full of happy thoughts, in the

still warm silence of the summer morning, holding my eager horse hard

in, I rode at a foot-pace across the smooth, hard, wave-marked bed of

the river. There was not a cloud in the sky. The sun, rising slowly,

cast a golden glow over the sparkling sand. Pat-pat-pit-pat, went my

horse's feet, not loud enough to disturb the busy crows and gulls

seeking their breakfast; they were not afraid of me; they knew I had no

gun. I remember it; I see it all before me, as if it were yesterday, for

it was one of the most delicious moments of my life. But the screaming

gulls and whistling curlews were put to flight, before I had half

crossed the river's bed, by the cheerful chatter, laughter, and

fragments of Welsh airs sung in chorus by a hearty crowd of cockle and

mussel gatherers, fishermen, and farmers' wives, on their way to the

market on the Cheshire side--men, women (they were the majority), and

children, on foot, on ponies, and donkeys, and in little carts.

Exchanging good-humored jokes, I passed on until I came to the ford of

the channel, where the river runs between banks of deep soft sand. At

low water, at certain points, in summer, it is but a few inches deep;

but after heavy rains, and soon after the turning of the tide, the depth

increases rapidly.

At the ford I met a second detachment of Welsh peasantry preparing to

cross, by making bundles of shoes and stockings, and tucking up

petticoats very deftly. Great was the fun and the splashing, and plenty

of jokes on the _Saxon_ and his red horse going the wrong way. The Welsh

girls in this part of the country are very pretty, with beautiful

complexions, a gleam of gold in their dark hair, and an easy, graceful

walk, from the habit of carrying the water-pitchers from the wells on

their heads. The scene made me feel any thing but melancholy or

ill-natured. I could not help turning back to help a couple of little

damsels across, pillion-wise, who seemed terribly afraid of wetting

their finery at the foot ford.

Having passed the channels, the wheels and footmarks formed a plain

direction for a safe route, which, leaving Flint Castle on my right,

brought me into the centre of Flint, without any need of a guide. The

rest of my road was straightforward and commonplace. I reached the farm

where the sale was to take place, in time for breakfast, and was soon

lost in a crowd of country squires, Welsh parsons, farmers,

horse-dealers, and grooms.

Late in the day I purchased a brown stallion, with a strain of Arab

blood, rather undersized, but compact, and one of the handsomest horses

I ever saw before or since, very powerful, nearly thorough-bred. When

the auctioneer had knocked him down to me, I said to one of the grooms

of the establishment who was helping my man--handing him a crown-piece

at the same time:

"As the little brown horse is mine, with all faults, just have the

goodness to tell me what is his fault?"

"Why, sir," he answered, "he can walk, trot, gallop, and jump, first

rate, surely; but he's very awkward to mount; and when you are on, he'll

try uncommon hard to get you off, for two minutes; if you stick fast, he

will be quiet enough all day."

"Thank you, my man," I replied; "I'll try him directly."

Just before starting I found the chestnut had a shoe loose, and had to

send him to the nearest village, two miles off. I had promised Laura to

return by eight o'clock, to finish a delightful book we were reading

aloud together, until the tiff about Captain Egret had interrupted us.

You may judge if I was not impatient; and yet, with fifteen miles to

ride to Flint, I had no time to spare.

My friend, the groom, saddled the brown horse, and brought him down to

the open road to me. He trotted along, with shining coat and arched

neck, snorting and waving his great tail like a lion. As he piaffed and

paraded sideways along, casting back his full eye most wickedly, every

motion spoke mischief; but there was no time for consideration; I had

barely an hour to do fifteen miles of rough roads before crossing the

river, and must get to the river-side, cool. I had intended to have

ridden the chestnut, who was experienced in water, but the loose shoe

upset that arrangement.

Without giving him any time to see what I was about, I caught him by the

mane and the reins, threw myself from a sloping bank into the saddle,

and, although he dragged the groom across the road, I had both feet in

the stirrups before he burst from his hold. Snorting fiercely, he bucked

and plunged until I thought the girths would surely crack; but other

horsemen galloping past, enabled me to bustle him into full speed, and

in five minutes he settled down into a long, luxurious stride, with his

legs under his haunches, that felt like a common canter, but really

devoured the way, and swept me past every thing on the road. Up hill and

down, it was all the same, he bounded, like a machine full of power on

the softest of steel-springs.

Ten miles were soon past, and we reached Holywell; up the steep hill and

through the town, and down the steep narrow lanes, we went, and reached

the level road along the shore leading to Flint, without halt, until

within two miles of that town; then I drew bridle, to walk in cool.

By this time the weather, which had been bright all day, had changed; a

few heat drops of rain fell, thunder was heard rolling in the distance,

and a wind seemed rising and murmuring from the sea.

I looked at my watch as we entered the town; it was an hour past the

time when I intended to have crossed--but Laura must not be

disappointed; so I only halted at the inn long enough to let the brown

wash his mouth out, and, without dismounting, rode on to the guide's

house. As I passed the Castle, I heard a band playing; it was a party of

officers, with their friends, who had come up on a pic-nic from Chester.

When I reached the cottage of old David, the guide, he was sitting on

the bench at the door, putting on his shoes and stockings; and part of

the party I had met in the morning, as they passed, cried, "You're late,

master; you must hurry on to cross to-night." David was beginning to

dissuade me; but when I threw him a shilling, and trotted on, he

followed me, pattering down the beach.

"You must make haste, master, for the wind's getting up, and will bring

the tide like a roaring lion--it will. But I suppose the pretty lady

with the rosy face expects you. But where's the red horse? I wish you

had him. I do not like strange horses on such a time as this--indeed,

and I do not," he added. But I had no time for explanations, although

David was a great ally of ours. I knew I was expected; it was getting

dusk, and Laura would be anxious, _I hoped_.

Pushing briskly along, we soon reached the ford of the channel, so calm

and shallow in the morning, but now filling fast with the tide; dark

clouds were covering the sky, and the wind brought up a hollow murmuring

sound.

"Now get across, young gentleman, as fast as you can, and keep your eye

on the wind-mill, and don't spare your spurs, and you will have plenty

of time; so, good-evening, God bless you! young gentleman, and the

pretty lady, too," cried David, honestest of Welsh guides.

I tried to walk the brown horse through the ford where it was not more

than three or four feet deep; but he first refused; then, when pressed,

plunged fiercely in, and was out of his depth in a moment. He swam

boldly enough, but obstinately kept his head down the stream, so that,

instead of landing on an easy, shelving shore, he came out where all but

a perpendicular bank of soft sand had to be leaped and climbed over.

After several unsuccessful efforts, I was obliged to slip off, and climb

up on foot, side by side with my horse, holding on by the flap of the

saddle. If I had not dismounted, we should probably have rolled back

together.

When I reached the top of the bank, rather out of breath, I looked back,

and saw David making piteous signs, as he moved off rapidly, for me to

push along. But this was easier said than done; the brown horse would

not let me come near him. Round and round he went, rearing and plunging,

until I was quite exhausted. Coaxing and threatening were alike useless;

every moment it was getting darker. Once I thought of letting the brute

go, and swimming back to David. But when I looked at the stream, and

thought of Laura, that idea was dismissed. Another tussle, in which we

plowed up the sand in a circle, was equally fruitless, and I began to

think he would keep me there to be drowned, for to cross the Parkgate on

foot before the tide came up strong, seemed hopeless. At length, finding

I could not get to touch his shoulder, I seized the opportunity, when he

was close to the bank of the stream, and catching the curb sharply in

both hands, backed him half way down almost into the water. Before he

had quite struggled up to the top, I threw myself into the saddle, and

was carried off at the rate of thirty miles an hour toward the sea.

But I soon gathered up the reins, and, firm in my seat, turned my

Tartar's head toward the point where I could see the white wind-mill

gleaming through the twilight on the Cheshire shore.

I felt that I had not a moment to spare. The sand, so firm in the

morning, sounded damp under my horse's stride; the little stagnant pools

filled visibly, and joining formed shallow lakes, through which we

dashed in a shower of spray; and every now and then we leaped over, or

plunged into deep holes. At first I tried to choose a path, but as it

rapidly grew darker, I sat back in my saddle, and with my eyes fixed on

the tower of the wind-mill, held my horse firmly into a hand gallop, and

kept a straight line. He was a famous deep-chested, long-striding,

little fellow, and bounded along as fresh as when I started. By degrees

my spirits began to rise; I thought the danger past; I felt confidence

in myself and horse, and shouted to him in encouraging triumph. Already

I was, in imagination, landed and relating my day's adventures to Laura,

when with a heavy plunge down on his head, right over went the brown

stallion, and away I flew as far as the reins, fortunately fast grasped,

would let me. Blinded with wet sand, startled, shaken, confused, by a

sort of instinct, I scrambled to my feet almost as soon as my horse, who

had fallen over a set of salmon-net stakes. Even in the instant of my

fall, all the honor of my situation was mentally visible to me. In a

moment I lived years. I felt that I was a dead man; I wondered if my

body would be found; I thought of what my friends would say; I thought

of letters in my desk I wished burned. I thought of relatives to whom my

journey to Parkgate was unknown, of debts I wished paid, of parties with

whom I had quarreled, and wished I had been reconciled. I wondered

whether Laura would mourn for me, whether she really loved me. In fact,

the most serious and ridiculous thoughts were jumbled altogether, while

I muttered, once or twice, a hasty prayer; and yet I did not lose a

moment in remounting. This time my horse made no resistance, but stood

over his hocks in a pool of salt water, and trembled and snorted--not

fiercely, but in fear. There was no time to lose. I looked round for the

dark line of the shore; it had sunk in the twilight. I looked again for

the white tower; it had disappeared. The fall and the rolling, and

turning of the horse in rising, had confused all my notions of the

points of the compass. I could not tell whether it was the dark clouds

from the sea, or the dizzy whirling of my brain; but it seemed to have

become black night in a moment.

The water seemed to flow in all directions round and round. I tried, but

could not tell which was the sea, and which the river side. The wind,

too, seemed to shift and blow from all points of the compass.

Then, "Softly," I said to myself, "be calm; you are confused by terror;

be a man;" and pride came to my rescue. I closed my eyes for a moment,

and whispered, "Oh Lord, save me." Then with an effort, calmer, as

though I had gulped down something, I opened my eyes, stood up in my

stirrups, and peered into the darkness. As far as I could see, were

patches of water eating up the dry bits of sand; as far as I could hear,

a rushing tide was on all sides. Four times, in different directions, I

pushed on, and stopped when I found the water rising over the shoulders

of my horse.

I drew up on a sort of island of sand, which was every minute growing

less, and gathering all the strength of my lungs, shouted again and

again, and then listened; but there came no answering shout. Suddenly, a

sound of music came floating past me. I could distinguish the air; it

was the military band playing "Home, sweet Home." I tried to gather from

what quarter the sound came; but each time the wind instruments brayed

out loudly, the sounds seemed to come to me from every direction at

once. "Ah!" I thought, "I shall see home no more." I could have wept,

but I had no time; my eyes were staring through the darkness, and my

horse plunging and rearing, gave me no rest for weeping. I gave him his

head once, having heard that horses, from ships sunk at sea, have

reached land distant ten miles, by instinct; but the alternation of

land, and shallow and deep water confused his senses, and destroyed the

calm power which might have been developed in the mere act of swimming.

At length, after a series of vain efforts, I grew calm and resigned. I

made up my mind to die. I took my handkerchief from my neck, and tied my

pocket-book to the D's of the saddle. I pulled my rings off my fingers,

and put them in my pocket--I had heard of wreckers cutting off the

fingers of drowned men--and then was on the point of dashing forward at

random, when some inner feeling made me cast another steady glance all

round. At that moment, just behind me, something sparkled twice, and

disappeared, and then reappearing, shone faintly, but so steadily, that

there could be no doubt it was a light on the Cheshire shore. In an

instant my horse's head was turned round. I had gathered him together,

dug in the spurs, and crying from the bottom of my heart, "Thank God!"

in the same moment, not profanely, but with a horseman's instinct,

shouting encouragingly, and dashed away toward the light. It was a hard

fight; the ground seemed melting from under us--now struggling through

soft sand, now splashing over hard, now swimming (that was easy), and

now and again leaping and half falling, but never losing hold of my

horse or sight of the beacon; we forced through every obstacle, until at

length the water grew shallower and shallower; we reached the sand, and,

passing the sand, rattled over the shingle at high-water mark--and I was

saved! But I did not, could not stop; up the loose shingles I pressed on

to the light that had saved me. I could not rest one instant, even for

thanksgiving, until I knew to what providential circumstance I owed my

safety. I drew up at a fisherman's hut of the humblest kind, built on

the highest part of the shore, full two miles from Parkgate; a light,

which seemed faint when close to it, twinkled from a small latticed

window. I threw myself from my horse, and knocked loudly at the door,

and as I knocked, fumbled with one hand in my soaked pocket for my

purse. Twice I knocked again, and the door, which was unhasped, flew

open. A woman, weeping bitterly, rose at this rude summons; and at the

same moment I saw on the table the small coffin of a young child, with a

rushlight burning at either end. I owed my life to death!

SKETCHES OF ORIENTAL LIFE.

BY F.A. NEALE, ESQ.

LIFE OF A TURKISH GENTLEMAN.

The life of the Turkish Effendi, or gentleman, at Antioch, is rather of

a monotonous character. He lives in his own, or rather in two

houses--for the harem, though part of the same house, is entirely

partitioned off, and no one but himself and his slaves know where it is,

or how to get in or out of it. He always keeps the door-key in his

pocket, and when the ladies want any thing, they rap, like so many

woodpeckers, at a kind of revolving cupboard, which is securely fastened

into the wall. Through this cupboard at which neither party can see the

other, the lady speaks to the servant, and tells him what to fetch or

buy for her at the bazaars; and the article is brought and placed in the

cupboard, which is wheeled round by the lady inside, so that she may

take it out. When they are desirous of walking in the garden, or going

to the bath, the key is delivered into the charge of some old duenna,

and the Effendi sees nothing more of it till the party has returned, and

the ladies are safely locked up again.

The Effendi is, generally speaking, an early riser, and seldom sits up

till a late hour at night. On issuing from his harem, he is waited upon

by half a dozen slaves, who assist in his ablutions: one holds the ewer,

another the soap, a third the towel, and a fourth and fifth assist him

with his clean apparel. Having washed and dressed, he goes through his

morning devotions at the nearest mosque. Returning home, his servants

serve him with his cup of bitter coffee and pipe of real gibili, by

which time it is about seven A.M., the fashionable hour for a Turkish

gentleman to call and receive visits. Acquaintances and friends saunter

in, and salute the host, who salutes them. Beyond this, there is little

conversation; for Turks hate talking; and still less joking, for they

detest laughing. They inquire like a parcel of anxious doctors, very

kindly after each other's health, and after the general salubrity of

their respective houses, for no one ever dreams of asking how his

friend's wife is; that would be considered the grossest breach of

decorum. Draft-boards, and pipes, and coffee are introduced. Some play,

others look on; and, save the rattling of the dice, very little is heard

to interrupt the silence of the room. The Effendi's clerk comes in

occasionally, with a batch of unanswered letters in his hands, and

whispers mysteriously to the Effendi, who either goes off into a violent

fit of rage, or nods his consent in approval of what has been done, just

as the contents of the letter are pleasing or the reverse. Most of these

letters are from the overseers, or the laborers in the Effendi's

silk-gardens, or olive-plantations; some few from people craving his

assistance; others demanding repayment of loans of money; for there are

but few of the Effendis of Antioch, though all rolling in riches, that

are not indebted to some person or other for cash loans, as, such is

their strange avarice, that though they possess (to use an Oriental

expression) rooms full of money, they are loth to extract one farthing

from their treasures for their daily expenditure.

About ten A.M., the Effendi orders his horse, and followed by his

pipe-bearer, who is equally well-mounted, takes a sedate ride in the

environs of the town. On Saturdays, in lieu of riding, he goes to the

bath, but in either case he is pretty punctual as to the hour of his

return. On reaching home, more pipes and coffee are produced, and he

affixes his seal (for a Turk never signs his name) to the various

business letters that his secretary has prepared, ready for dispatching.

The cry from the minaret now warns him that it is the hour for mid-day

prayer. Washing his hands, face, and feet, he proceeds to the sami

(mosque), where he remains till it is time to breakfast; and when the

breakfast is served, he goes through the forms of ablution again. After

his meals, he is required to wash once more.

I may here remark, for the guidance of strangers, that there is nothing

a Turk considers more degrading than the want of this scrupulous

cleanliness in Europeans; and considering the climate, and the wisdom of

doing in Rome as Rome does (apart from all other arguments), travelers,

although seldom obliged to use their fingers as Turks do at their meals,

ought strictly to adhere to this custom while among Orientals.

The Effendi, after his breakfast, which is generally a very good one,

and is prepared by the careful hands of the fair ladies of the harem,

retires into his seraglio for a couple of hours' siesta, during the heat

of the day. In this interval, if a Pasha, or a bosom-friend, or the

devil himself were to appear, and ask of the servants to see their

master immediately, they would reply that he was asleep in the harem,

and that it was as much as their heads were worth to disturb him.

At about two, P.M., the Effendi is again visible. He then occupies his

time in playing drafts, or reading a Turkish newspaper. At four, he goes

once more to the mosque, and thence proceeds to the secluded garden, on

the banks of the Orontes. Here several other Effendis are sure to meet

him, for it is their usual evening rendezvous. Carpets are spread;

baskets of cucumbers and bottles of spirit produced; and they drink

brandy, and nibble cucumbers, till nigh upon sundown. Sometimes

cachouks, or dancing boys, dressed up in gaudy tinsel-work, and

musicians, are introduced, for the entertainment of the party. By

nightfall, every individual has finished his two--some more--bottles of

strong _aqua vitae_, and they return homeward, and dine--and dine

heartily. Coffee is then introduced, but nothing stronger--as they never

drink spirit or wine after their evening meals. The nine o'clock summons

to prayer, resounds from the minaret, and nine minutes after that, the

Effendi is fast asleep, and nothing under an earthquake would bring him

forth from the harem again, till he rises simultanously with the sun

next day.

LIVING IN ANTIOCH.

Antioch is, beyond dispute, the cheapest place in the world, as well as

one of the healthiest; and if it were not for the ragged little boys,

who hoot at every stranger, and throw stones at his door, annoying you

in every possible way, I should prefer it, as a place of residence, to

any spot I have visited in Europe, Asia, Africa, or America.

My house was of perfectly new construction, well planted, and well

situated, and proof against water, as well as wind. I had four rooms--a

sitting-room, a dining-room, a bed-room, and a dressing-room. I had a

walled inclosure of about eighty feet square, where roses and geraniums

vied in beauty with jessamines and lilies. There was also a

poultry-yard, a pigeon-house, stables for three horses, a store-house,

a kitchen, and a servants' room. I had in the garden a grape-vine

(muscatel), a pomegranate-tree, a peach-tree, a plum-tree, an apricot,

and a China quince; and, in addition to all these, a fountain

perpetually jetting up water, and a well, and a bathing-room. For all

this accommodation, I paid three hundred and fifty piastres--about three

pounds sterling--and this was a higher rent than would be paid by any

native. Of course, the house was unfurnished, but furniture in the East

is seldom on a grand scale: a divan, half a dozen chairs, a bedstead, a

mattress, a looking-glass, a table or two, and half a dozen pipes, and

narghilies are all one requires. Servants cost about three pounds a head

per annum. Seven and a half pounds of good mutton may be had for a

shilling. Fowls--and fat ones, too--twopence each. Fish is sold by the

weight--thirteen rotolos for a beshlik, or about seventy pounds weight

for a shilling. Eels--the very best flavored in the world--three

halfpence each. As for vegetables, whether cabbages, lettuces, _des

asperges_, celery, watercresses, parsley, beans, peas, radishes,

turnips, carrots, cauliflowers, and onions, a pennyworth would last a

man a week. Fruit is sold at the same rates; and grapes cost about five

shillings the horse-load. Game is also abundant. Dried fruits and nuts

can be obtained in winter. In fact, living as well as one could wish, I

found it impossible--house-rent, servants, horses, board, washing, and

wine included--to exceed the expenditure of forty pounds per annum.

Under these circumstances, it may appear marvelous that many Europeans,

possessed of limited means, have not made Antioch their temporary home;

but every question has two sides, and every thing its _pros_ and _cons_.

The cons, in this instance, are the barbarous character of the people

among whom you live; the perpetual liability of becoming, at one

instant's warning, the victim of some fanatical _emeute_; the small

hopes you have of redress for the grossest insults offered; the

continual intrigues entered into by the Ayans to disturb your peace and

comfort; the absence of many of the luxuries enjoyed in Europe; the want

of society and books, and the total absence of all places of worship,

which gradually creates in the mind a morbid indifference to religion,

and which feeling frequently degenerates into absolute infidelity. It is

better to choose with David in such a case, and say, "I would rather be

a door-keeper in the house of the Lord than dwell in the tents of

iniquity."

AN ENGLISH PHILANTHROPIST IN THE EAST.

Two hours and a half ride from Antioch, through a country that is a

perfect paradise upon earth, but over the most execrable and detestable:

road, brought me to the ancient Seleucia. Famed in the olden history as

the emporium of Eastern commerce and as a port unequaled for safe

harborage, Suedia is celebrated in our own days as having been the

residence and favorite retreat of the late John Barker, Esq., formerly

her Majesty's Consul-general in Egypt, equally eminent as a

philanthropist and a Christian gentleman.

Suedia, or, as it is termed by the Syrians, Zectoonli, embraces a wide

range of mulberry gardens, extending over a space of ten miles by three,

and containing a scattered and mixed population, equal, if not exceeding

in number, to that of Antioch. The village is spread chiefly upon the

banks of the Orontes, and running parallel with the beach, which forms a

boundary to the waves of the Seleucian gulf where the Orontes ends her

course, and nature has scattered around her choicest gifts.

It would require the pen of an inspired writer to describe in adequate

colors this garden of Eden. Mulberry, lemon, and orange-trees form an

uninterrupted succession of gardens, surrounding picturesque little

cottages, each one eclipsing the other in neatness and beauty of

situation. The peasants themselves are hale, robust, and sturdy-looking

men; the children are rosy and healthy; and the women beautiful,

innocent, and happy. Each stops, as a stranger passes, to make a bashful

salute, and bid him welcome to their country. This is what I never met

elsewhere; and it was very pleasing to find uncivilized and untaught

Arabs so polite and courteous. There is, in fact, nothing that a native

of Suedia will not do to render a sojourn among them agreeable and

pleasant. They are a simple people, and as simple in their habits as in

their character. The sun teaches them when to rise, and darkness when to

seek their beds. They labor for subsistence; they sleep for refreshment;

they laugh with the merry, and weep with the afflicted. Their simple old

pastor, in their venerable rustic church, has pointed out to them from

childhood how heinous is sin--how amiable virtue; and they are taught

ever to remember that an all-seeing Eye will detect and punish sins

hidden to men, as surely as public offenses will entail flagellation

from the pasha and governors of the district. Thus they live happy in

their innocence, and in each other, and almost void of offense toward

God and man; a meet people to inhabit a country like that they dwell in.

To this quiet retreat, Mr. Barker, after zealously serving his king and

country for a long period of years, retired, on quitting Egypt, to enjoy

in seclusion the pension awarded him by the government, and devote the

remainder of his days to the peaceful pursuit of agriculture. Few men

could better appreciate the rich gifts Nature had lavished on this spot.

A perfect botanist, and skilled in agriculture, his time and income

during a period of nearly twenty years, were spent in promoting every

improvement in the cultivation of the soil; and many have grown rich,

directly or indirectly, from the methods of tillage introduced into the

country by Mr. Barker.

On taking possession of his wife's landed inheritance, Mr. Barker's

first steps were to erect an edifice becoming his means and station, and

one that would render his sojourn in the country agreeable to himself

and his family, and the many friends and strangers, who delighted in

visiting him, remaining his guests for days, weeks, and, in some

instances, months. There was no mistake as to the genuine hospitality

of the worthy host. His word of welcome was truth itself; and the warm

cordiality of his excellent heart was felt in the firm grasp of his

hand. "Sir," he has said to me on more than one occasion, "it is the

traveler who confers a favor upon me by remaining, and giving me the

benefit of his society, provided he be a man that is at all sufferable.

Some few, I must own, have staid longer than myself or my family could

have wished, but they have been very few." A perfect gentleman, an

accomplished scholar, a sagacious thinker, a philosopher, and

philanthropist, people wondered how so great a heart could content

itself to remain in a place like Suedia. I had the honor to be on

intimate terms with him during my two years' residence in Suedia, and I

learned to love and respect him so much, that when he died, full of

years and honor, I felt a void in my heart, to which I still recur with

the deepest regret.

Mr. Barker's main object in life was to confer benefits upon his

suffering neighbors. He knew how much misery and wretchedness was to be

every day met with in England, and how incompetent were his means,

all-sufficient though they were for his own wants, to relieve such

distress; but in Syria a more available field for benevolence presented

itself. How far and how well his charitable disposition exerted itself

may be imagined, when I say that out of more than six thousand

inhabitants, there is not one who does not to this day bless the memory

of the good man, who through so many years was the friend of all. I

ought to add that through fifty years of uninterrupted intercourse with

as many thousand people, he never made one enemy, but was universally

respected and beloved.

The gardens of Mr. Barker have been long celebrated for the quantity,

variety, and excellent quality of their fruit. In the piece of ground

attached to his own private residence, I have plucked from the tree the

guava, the sweet-kerneled apricot, the Stanwick nectarine (for which the

Duke of Northumberland obtained for him a silver medal), the

sweet-kerneled peach, the shucapara, the celebrated apricot of Damascus,

the plaqueminia kaki, the loquot or nepolis japonica, the mandarin, and

the Malta blood-orange; in short, the fruit of every country in the

world. At Mr. Barker's request, I wrote to Penang and China for seeds of

some rare fruits and spices, which Colonel Butterworth and Sir George

Bonham had the kindness to send me; and though previously produced

solely in those climes, they have since sprung up in these charming

gardens. But, alas! they did not thus display themselves till the

excellent old man had passed away. On the demise of Mr. Barker, the

whole of his landed property reverted to his amiable and kind-hearted

widow.

Besides introducing the finest fruit-trees in the world, and many rare

ornamental trees, from the cuttings and graftings of which the whole of

the gardens of Suedia have been supplied, Mr. Barker greatly ameliorated

the conditions of the natives by obtaining from Italy regular supplies

of the best silk worm seed, which was then divided among them.

Originally, the silk produced was of a very inferior quality; it has now

become the finest in any part of the East. As for flowers, it was a

perfect sight to see the garden attached to Mr. Barker's house at any

season of the year, even in the depth of winter, when the surrounding

mountains were covered with snow, and every where else vegetation had

disappeared, thousands of Bengal roses and other rare and beautiful

flowers here presented the appearance of perpetual summer.

A ROMANCE OF CYPRUS.

Every traveler who has ever visited Cyprus has heard of Signor Baldo

Matteo, the Ebenezer Scrooge of the East. While I was at Larnaca, a sad

adventure, furnishing ample materials for a melodrama, nearly terminated

old Baldo's life, and all his speculations. His only daughter, and

heiress, lost her heart to a needy Austrian, who had come to Cyprus

expressly to make his fortune by marriage. Hearing of the wealth of old

Baldo, and of his daughter, he fixed upon him at once; but Baldo was not

to be easily caught, and totally repulsed every advance. The Austrian

grew desperate, and, as a final resource, became fanatically religious,

attending the Catholic chapel morning, noon, and night. Nothing could

exceed his devotion to a certain old priest troubled with the cramp, on

whose leg he sat, whenever it was attacked, till the pain passed off.

When, after this, he whispered to him the sin that preyed most heavily

upon his mind, which was a wish to possess riches, that he might bestow

them on Mother Church, and hinted at a passion for Miss Baldo, he

received immediate absolution, and was next day dining at old Baldo's

table, in company with the Padre Presidenti, and seated next to the

object in whom all his hopes were concentrated. Miss Baldo was luckily

placed on his right, and heard with unspeakable rapture all his

protestations of love and devotion. Had she been on his left, these

would all have been lost, as she had been perfectly deaf on that side

from her birth.

To be brief, the Austrian proposed, and was accepted, and all that he

had now to obtain was old Baldo's consent. Baldo, however, as a man of

the world, saw clearly through his designs, and knew him to be a knave,

though he had too much reverence for the priestly clique, who had

introduced the Austrian, to give a decided negative. All he asked was

time--a year--to consider so important a measure. This was accorded, and

Baldo devoutly prayed that the true character of his daughter's suitor

might before that time be unmasked. His prayer was granted, but in a way

the least expected, and certainly the least agreeable to himself.

The lover of the Signorina Baldo, finding his exchequer rather low, and

being sorrowfully conscious of his inability to increase his wealth, so

as to enable him to keep up necessary appearances, came to the desperate

resolution of grasping, without further delay, his intended wife's

fortune, by sending poor old Baldo out of the world. Accordingly, armed

with a loaded double-barreled pistol, which he concealed about his

person, he proceeded to Matteo's house at an hour when he knew he would

find him alone, the daughter and servants being in the habit of

attending high mass on Sunday mornings; and he knocked at the door,

which, after a little hesitation, was opened to him. Old Baldo, though

believed to be an honorable man, and fair and just in his transactions

with others, was a confirmed miser. He had accumulated great sums in

hard cash, which, unseen by human eye, he had buried in his garden, and

hidden in various parts of his house. The house was going to ruin, and

wanted whitewashing and repairing in many parts. The garden was a

perfect wilderness of weeds and thistles; but these he set fire to

regularly once a year, and by this means, to a certain extent, kept them

under. As for gardeners armed with a spade, which might dig up and bring

to light all kinds of secret hoards, if there was one trade Baldo

detested, it was this. He kept the key of his walled-in garden, and on

Sundays, when all his family were absent, he strolled about in it till

their return.

He was thus occupied when he admitted his would-be son-in-law; and the

first thing this promising youth did, was to draw forth his pistol and

take deliberate aim, discharging it at the breast of the feeble old man,

who, tottering backward a few paces, fell to the earth apparently a

corpse. For such the murderer took him; and depositing the pistol close

by his side, to make it appear he had died by his own hand, he rushed

into the street, closing the door after him.

Running with the haste of a man charged with some important news, he

came suddenly on a gentleman attached to the Austrian consulate, whom he

breathlessly informed that passing near Baldo's house, he had heard the

report of a pistol, followed by a sound like that of some heavy body

falling to the earth, that he had in vain knocked at the door for

admission, and that he had no doubt in his own mind that some sad

catastrophe had occurred.

In a few seconds a perfect mob was collected at Baldo's door, which they

broke open, and rushing in, beheld old Baldo stretched upon the ground,

his clothes literally saturated with blood, and a pistol lying close by

his side. The assassin, who never dreamt that the old man was still

alive, witnessed this spectacle with fiendish triumph, though loudly

lamenting the loss of him, whom he called the best friend on earth. But

it happened that the ball, though it struck against a part where a wound

would have been mortal, had come in contact with the sharp edge of a

bone, which turned it in another direction, and it was now safely lodged

between the skin and the spine. Baldo, who had fainted from fright and

loss of blood, now, to the amazement of all, recovered his senses, and

hearing the voice of his late assailant, slowly raised himself up, and

denounced him on the spot. Having done this, he fell back, and again

became unconscious. The wretch was immediately seized and handcuffed,

and safely borne away to the Austrian consulate, where he was placed in

confinement.

Doctors were now assembled from all parts of Cyprus, and all examined

the wound, and declared it fatal, expressing the greatest surprise that

the patient should have lingered so long. The blood being stanched, and

Baldo suffering from no real injury, but laboring under a sense of

approaching dissolution, begged that a confessor might be sent for. To

this confessor, he acknowledged, among other offenses, the commission of

one sin which weighed heavier than all the rest upon his guilty

conscience. It appeared that his niece, who was then married to a French

merchant at Larnaca, had been left at a very early age an orphan, and

had become his ward. She had, however, been well provided for by her

parents, and a large sum of money had been deposited in his hands,

which, after covering the expenses of her education and board, &c.,

would still leave a considerable surplus as a marriage portion. Now old

Baldo, never forgetting his thrift, had more than twice turned this

capital over before the date of the niece's marriage, but he had

retained the proceeds of his own, handing over the principal to the

bridegroom on the nuptial day. But on the approach of death, as it

seemed, he felt considerable qualms of conscience, and confessed his

unworthy stewardship, and indicated the spots where these savings were

concealed. The husband of the niece quickly dug them up, and came into

possession. Scarcely was this done, when Baldo recovered, and would

almost have forgiven the attempt upon his life, had it not involved such

serious results.

The Austrian was by the Turkish authorities handed over to his own

consulate, and was eventually removed to Trieste, but I believe, for

lack of sufficient testimony, escaped punishment. This affair, as it may

be imagined, created a great sensation in Cyprus, which was once the

scene of the memorable tragedy which terminated the life of Desdemona.

ANECDOTES OF A PRIEST.

It was in Nicosia, about the year 1840, that Dame Fortune once more

played off one of her eccentric frolics on the person of a poor Greek

priest, who had little to depend upon in this world, save such meagre

offerings as the more charitable of his parishioners bestowed upon him.

As the story goes, he was a devout and holy man, but beyond being able

to go through the regular routine of his priestly office, possessed but

scant learning, and was equally ignorant of the world's ways and

manners. At the commencement of a fast, fearing he should, from his

defective memory, forget its exact duration, he carefully filled his

pockets with so many dried peas as there were fast days, and each day

extracting one from his pockets, as the peas diminished, he was warned

of the proximity of a feast, and prepared accordingly. On one occasion,

his wife happening to find a few peas in her husband's pockets, and

imagining the devout man was fond of this Eastern luxury, very

affectionately replenished his pockets from her own store of cadamies,

or roasted peas. Great was the consternation of his congregation, when

on the eve of the feast day, instead of proclaiming its advent from the

pulpit, as is usual, he informed them that eight or ten days yet

remained for the approaching festival. A discussion on this point

immediately ensued, when the priest, in confirmation of what he

asserted, produced from his pocket the remaining peas, making known at

the same time his method of calculating. Upon this, his wife stepped

forward, and acknowledged what she had done, and great merriment ensued,

in which the priest joined.

To this poor man, fortune now brought one of those rare windfalls which

are more frequently heard of than experienced. One summer's evening he

was seated in the courtyard of his humble house, watching with

satisfaction and delight the gambols of his little children, who were

amusing themselves with throwing stones at a hole in the wall. At length

he remarked, that whenever a stone chanced to go near the crevice, he

heard a ringing sound, and to convince himself that he was not deceived,

he stepped nearer, and hit it repeatedly with a stone, each time hearing

the sound distinctly. It now occurred to him that there was some

concealed treasure within, and the thought made him tremble with

expectation. He went to bed early, but not to sleep, having formed the

determination that he would that night make a rigorous search. When all

was still, he rose from his sleepless couch, and going out stealthily

and noiselessly, commenced, by aid of a small pickax, breaking into the

wall, removing stone by stone. He had hardly worked an hour, when out

fell a bag of doubloons, followed by a second and a third. This was

indeed a treasure, sufficient to satisfy a more covetous man; but he

felt there would be no safety with it in Cyprus. That very night, he

carefully stowed his riches in two saddle-bags, and before daybreak,

awoke his wife and acquainted her with their good fortune, when horses

were hired at a neighboring khan, and priest, wife, and children turned

their backs upon Nicosia, and arriving early at Larnaca, embarked that

very day on board a vessel sailing for Italy. The priest became the head

of one of the wealthiest mercantile firms now established at Leghorn,

and is, I believe, still living.

THE SHADOW OF BEN JONSON'S MOTHER.

In Hartshorn Lane, near Charing Cross, about the year 1580, dwells Mr.

Thomas Fowler, a master bricklayer. He had married, in 1575, Mrs.

Margaret Jonson, a widow; and had become the protector of her little

boy, Benjamin, then about a year and a half old.

Benjamin is now in his sixth year. He duly attends the parish school in

St. Martin's Church; for his father was "a grave minister of the

gospel," and his mother is anxious that her only child, poor although he

must be, shall lack no advantages of education. We see the sturdy boy

daily pacing to school, through the rough and miry way of that

half-rural district. In his play-hours he is soon in the fields, picking

blackberries in Hedge-lane, or flying his kite by the Windmill in Saint

Giles's. His father-in-law is a plain, industrious, trusty man--not rich

enough to undertake any of the large works which the luxurious wants of

the town present; and oft-times interfered with, in the due course of

his labor, by royal proclamations against the increase of houses, which

are rigidly enforced when a humble man desires to build a cottage. But

young Ben has found friends. To the parish school sometimes comes Master

Camden; and he observes the bold boy, always at the head of his class,

and not unfrequently having his "clear and fair skin" disfigured by

combats with his dirty companions, who litter about the alleys of Saint

Martin's-lane. The boy has won good Master Camden's heart; and so, in

due time, he proposes to remove him to Westminster School.

Let us look at the Shadow of his Mother, as she debates this question

with her husband, at their frugal supper. "The boy must earn his

living," says the bricklayer. "He is strong enough to be of help to me.

He can mix the mortar; he will soon be able to carry the hod. Learning!

stuff! he has learning enow, for all the good it will do him."--"Thomas

Fowler," responds the mother, "if I wear my fingers to the bone, my boy

shall never carry the hod. Master Camden, a good man, and a learned,

will pay for his schooling. Shall we not give him his poor meals and his

pallet-bed? Master Camden says he will make his way. I owe it to the

memory of him who is gone, that Benjamin shall be a scholar, and perhaps

a minister."--"Yes; and be persecuted for his opinions, as his father

was. These are ticklish times, Margaret--the lowest are the safest. Ben

is passionate, and obstinate, and will quarrel for a straw. Make him a

scholar, and he becomes Papist or Puritan--the quiet way is not for the

like of him. He shall be apprenticed to me, wife, and earn his daily

bread safely and honestly." Night after night is the debate renewed. But

the mother triumphs. Ben does go to Westminster School. He has hard fare

at home; he has to endure many a taunt as he sits apart in the Abbey

cloisters, intent upon his task. But Camden is his instructor and his

friend. The bricklayer's boy fights his way to distinction.

Look again at the Shadow of that proud Mother as, after three or four

anxious years, she hears of his advancement. He has an exhibition. He is

to remove to Cambridge. Her Benjamin must be a bishop. Thomas Fowler is

incredulous--and he is not generous: "When Benjamin leaves this roof he

must shift for himself, wife." The mother drops one tear when her boy

departs; the leathern purse which holds her painful savings is in

Benjamin's pocket.

It is a summer night of 1590, when Benjamin Jonson walks into the poor

house of Hartshorn-lane. He is travel-stained and weary. His jerkin is

half hidden beneath a dirty cloak. That jerkin, which looked so smart in

a mother's eyes when last they parted, is strangely shrunk--or, rather,

has not the spare boy grown into a burly youth, although the boy's

jerkin must still do service? The bricklayer demands his business; the

wife falls upon his neck. And well may the bricklayer know him not. His

face is "pimpled;" hard work and irregular living have left their marks

upon him. The exhibition has been insufficient for his maintenance. His

spirit has been sorely wounded. The scholar of sixteen thinks he should

prefer the daily bread which is to be won by the labor of his hands, to

the hunger for which pride has no present solace. Benjamin Jonson

becomes a bricklayer.

And now, for two years, has the mother--her hopes wholly gone, her love

only the same--to bear up under the burden of conflicting duties. The

young man duly works at the most menial tasks of his business. He has

won his way to handle a trowel; but he is not conformable in all things.

"Wife," says Thomas Fowler, "that son of yours will never prosper. Can

not he work--and can not he eat his meals--without a Greek book in his

vest? This very noon must he seat himself, at dinner-hour, in the shade

of the wall in Chancery-lane, on which he had been laboring; and then

comes a reverend Bencher and begins discourse with him; and Ben shows

him his book--and they talk as if they were equal. Margaret, he is too

grand for me; he is above his trade."--"Shame on ye, husband! Does he

not work, honestly and deftly? and will you grudge him his books?"--"He

haunts the play-houses; he sits in the pit--and cracks nuts--and hisses

or claps hands, in a way quite unbeseeming a bricklayer's apprentice.

Margaret, I fear he will come to no good." One night there is a fearful

quarrel. It is late when Benjamin returns home. In silence and darkness,

the son and mother meet. She is resolved. "Benjamin, my son, my dear

son, we will endure this life no longer. There is a sword; it was your

grandfather's. A gentleman wore it; a gentleman shall still wear it. Go

to the Low-Countries. Volunteers are called for. There is an expedition

to Ostend. Take with you these few crowns, and God prosper you."

Another year, and Benjamin's campaign is ended. At the hearth in

Hartshorn-lane sits Margaret Fowler--in solitude. There will be no more

strife about her son. Death has settled the controversy. Margaret is

very poor. Her trade is unprosperous; for the widow is defrauded by her

servants. "Mother, there is my grandfather's sword--it has done service;

and now, I will work for you."--"How, my son?"--"I will be a bricklayer

again." We see the Shadow of the Mother, as she strives to make her son

content. He has no longer the "lime and mortar" hands with which it was

his after-fate to be reproached; but he bestows the master's eye upon

his mother's workmen. Yet he has hours of leisure. There is a chamber in

the old house now filled with learned books. He reads, and he writes, as

his own pleasure dictates. "Mother," he one day says, "I wish to

marry."--"Do so, my son; bring your wife home; we will dwell together."

So a few years roll on. He and his wife weep

"Mary, the daughter of their youth."

But there is an event approaching which sets aside sorrow. "Daughter,"

says the ancient lady, "we must to the Rose Playhouse to-night. There is

a new play to be acted, and that play is Benjamin's."--"Yes, mother, he

has had divers moneys already. Not much, I wot, seeing the labor he has

given to this 'Comedy of Humors'--five shillings, and ten shillings,

and, once, a pound."--"No matter, daughter, he will be famous; I always

knew he would be famous." A calamity clouds that fame. The play-writer

has quarrels on every side. In the autumn of 1598, Philip Henslowe, the

manager of "the Lord Admiral's men," writes thus to his son-in-law,

Alleyn; "Since you were with me, I have lost one of my company, which

hurteth me greatly--that is, Gabriel; for he is slain in Hogsden Fields,

by the hands of Benjamin Jonson, bricklayer." Twenty years after, the

great dramatist, the laureat, thus relates the story to Drummond: "Being

appealed to the fields, he had killed his adversary, which had hurt him

in the arm, and whose sword was ten inches longer than his; for the

which he was imprisoned and almost at the gallows." There is the proud

Shadow of a Roman Matron hovering about his cell, in those hours when

the gallows loomed darkly in the future.

The scholar and the poet has won his fame. Bricklayer no longer, Ben is

the companion of the illustrious. Shakspeare hath "wit-combats" with

him; Camden and Selden try his metal, in learned controversies; Raleigh,

and Beaumont, and Donne, and Fletcher, exchange with him "words of

subtle flame" at "The Mermaid." But a new trouble arises--James is come

to the throne. Hear Jonson's account of a remarkable transaction: "He

was delated by Sir James Murray to the King, for writing something

against the Scots, in a play, 'Eastward Ho,' and voluntarily imprisoned

himself, with Chapman and Marston, who had written it among them. The

report was, that they should then have had their ears cut, and noses."

They are at length released. We see the shadow of a banquet, which the

poet gave to his friends in commemoration of his deliverance. There is a

joyous company of immortals at that feast. There, too, is that loving

and faithful mother. The wine-cups are flowing; there are song and jest,

eloquence, and the passionate earnestness with which such friends speak

when the heart is opened. But there is one, whose Shadow we now see,

more passionate and more earnest than any of that company. She rises,

with a full goblet in her hand: "Son, I drink to thee. Benjamin, my

beloved son, thrice I drink to thee. See ye this paper; one grain of the

subtle drug which it holds is death. Even as we now pledge each other in

rich canary, would I have pledged thee in lusty strong poison, had thy

sentence taken execution. Thy shame would have been my shame, and

neither of us should have lived after it."

"She was no churl," says Benjamin.

LIGHT AND AIR.

Light and Air are two good things: two necessaries of existence to us

animals, possessing eyes and lungs: two of the things prayed for by

sanitary philosophers in the back streets of London; where, we fear,

they might as well be crying for the moon.

Light and Air, then, being two good things, what happens when they come

together? Spirit and water combined, says the toper, are two good things

spoiled; and how do light and air mix? Pick out of Cheapside the busiest

of men, and he will tell you that he loves the sky-blue in its proper

place, making a sickly joke about his milk-jug. There is not a Scrub in

the whole world who would not think it necessary to show pleasure--yes,

and feel some indication of it--over sunset colors, when, by chance, he

treads the fields upon a summer evening. We all look up at the stars,

and feel that they would seem much less the confidential friends they

really are, if they were shining down upon us with a rigid light. There

is a beating human pulse which answers to our hearts in their incessant

twinkling. And then the rainbow! Light that might pass down to us, and

give us sight, but nothing more, gives sight and blesses it at once. Its

touch converts the air into a region of delightful visions, ever

changing, ever new. To reach us it must penetrate our atmosphere, and it

is a fact that He who made the Universe, so made it that, in the whole

range of Nature there is not one barren combination. Light must pass

through the air; and, from a knowledge of the other laws of Nature, it

might confidently be proclaimed, that, in addition to the useful

purposes of each, and their most necessary action on each other, beauty

and pleasure would be generated also by their union, to delight the

creatures of this world.

It is not our design just now to talk about the nature of the

atmosphere; to attempt any analysis of light, or even to mention its

recondite mysteries. But in a plain way we propose to look into the

reason of those changes made by light in the appearance of the sky,

those every-day sights with which we are the most familiar.

Blue sky itself, for example. Why is the sky blue? To explain that, we

must state a few preliminary facts concerning light, and beg pardon of

any one whose wisdom may be outraged by the elementary character of our

information. There are some among our readers, no doubt, who may find it

useful. In the first place, then, we will begin with the erection of a

pole upon a play-ground, and, like boys and girls, we will go out to

play about it with an india-rubber ball. The pole being planted upright,

is said to be planted at right angles to the surface of the ground. Now,

if we climb the pole, and throw our ball down in the same line with it,

it will run down the pole and strike the ground, and then jump back

again by the same road into our fingers. The bouncing back is called in

scientific phrase, Reflection; and so we may declare about our ball,

that if it strike a plane surface at right angles, it is reflected

immediately back upon the line it went by, or, as scientific people

say, "the line of incidence." Now, let us walk off, and mount a wall at

a short distance from the pole. We throw our ball so that it strikes the

ground quite close to the spot at which the pole is planted in the

earth, and we observe that the said ball no longer returns into our

hand, but flies up without deviating to the right or left (in the same

plane, says Science) beyond the pole, with exactly the same inclination

toward the pole on one side, and the surface of the ground on the other,

as we gave it when we sent it down. So if there were a wall on the other

side of our pole, exactly as distant and as high as our own, and

somebody should sit thereon directly opposite to us, the ball would

shoot down from our fingers to the root of the pole, and then up from

the pole into his hand. Spread a string on each side along the course

the ball has taken, from wall to pole, and from pole to wall. The string

on each side will make with the pole an equal angle: the angle to the

pole, by which the ball went, is called, we said, the angle of

incidence; the angle from the pole, by which it bounced off, is called

the angle of reflection. Now, it is true not only of balls, but of all

things that are reflected; of light, for example, reflected from a

looking-glass, or a sheet of water, that "the angle of reflection is

equal to the angle of incidence."

The light that shines back to us from a sheet of water, has not

penetrated through its substance, certainly. But now, let us be Tritons,

or sea-nymphs, and let us live in a cool crystal grot under the waves.

We don't live in the dark, unless we be unmitigated deep-sea Tritons.

The deeper we go, the darker we find it. Why? Now, let us be absurd, and

suppose that it is possible for light to be measured by the bushel. Ten

bushels of light are poured down from the sun upon a certain bit of

water; six of these, we will say, reflected from its surface, cause the

glittering appearance, which is nothing to us Tritons down below. But

light can pass through water; that is to say, water is a transparent

substance; so the other four bushels soak down to illuminate the fishes.

But this light, so soaking down, is by the water (and would be by any

other transparent substance) absorbed, altered, partly converted into

heat--when we understand exactly what Mr. Grove calls the Correlation of

Physical Forces, we shall understand the why and how--we only know just

now the fact, that all transparent bodies do absorb and use up light; so

that the quantity of light which entered at the surface of our water

suffers robbery, becoming less and less as if sinks lower down toward

our coral caves.

Furthermore, beside reflection and absorption, there is one more thing

that light suffers; and that we must understand before we can know

properly why skies are blue, and stars are twinkling. That one thing

more is called Refraction. A horse trots fairly over the stones, but

slips the moment stones end, and he comes upon wood pavement. A ray of

light travels straight as a dancing-master's back, so long as it is in

air, or water, or glass, or any other "medium," as the books say, of a

certain unvarying thinness or thickness, fineness or coarseness, or

according to the school-word "density." But if a ray that has been

traveling through warm and light air, suddenly plunges into air cold and

heavy, it is put out of the way by such a circumstance, and in the

moment of making such a change, it alters its direction. Still more, a

ray of light that has been traveling in a straight line through air, is

put out of its course on entering the denser medium of water; it is

dislocated, refracted very much, alters its course, and then continues

in a straight line on the new course, so long as the new medium

continues. In the same way, a ray of light which travels through a

medium that becomes denser and denser very gradually would be

perpetually swerving from its straight path, and would travel on a

curve. Our atmosphere is heaviest upon the surface of the earth, and

becomes lighter and thinner as we rise; the ray, therefore, from a star

comes to us after traveling in such a curve. But we see all objects in

the direction of a perfectly straight line continued in the direction

which the rays sent from them took at the moment of falling upon our

sense of sight. Therefore we see all stars in a part of the heavens

where they really are not; we see the sun before it really rises. Light

entering a denser medium is refracted from, entering a lighter medium is

refracted toward, a line drawn at right angles to its surface. Light

entering a new medium at right angles--that is to say, not

aslant--continues its own course unaltered.

There is but one more fact necessary to fill up the small measure of

preliminary knowledge necessary for a general understanding of the

phenomena produced by the mixing of light with air. Light in its perfect

state is white, but the white light is a compound of other rays in due

proportion, each ray being different in color and different in quality.

So it takes place, because their qualities are different, that grass

reflects the green ray and absorbs the rest, and therefore grass is

green; while orange-peel reflects another ray, and swallows up the green

and all the rest. These colors being in the light, not in the substance

colored; in a dark room it is not merely a fact that we can not see red

curtains and pictures; but the curtains really are not red, the

paintings have no color in them, till the morning come, and artfully

constructed surfaces once more in a fixed manner decompose the light.

Beside the color of these rays, from which light is compounded, there

are combined with them other subtle principles which act mysteriously

upon matter. Upon the hard surface of a pebble there are changes that

take place whenever a cloud floats before the sun. Never mind that now.

The colored rays of which pure white light is compounded are usually

said to be seven--Violet, Indigo, Blue, Green, Yellow, Orange, Red; and

they may be technically remembered in their proper order by combining

their initials into the barbarous word Vibgyor. These are called

prismatic colors, because they were first separated by the passing of a

ray of pure light through a prism. In that passage light is much

refracted, and it happens that the contained rays all disagree with one

another as to the extent to which they suffer themselves to be put out

by a change of medium. Violet refracts most, and red least; the others

stand between in the order in which they have just been named, the order

in which you see them in the rainbow. So the rays after refraction come

out in a state of dissension; all the rays--made refractory--having

agreed to separate, because they are not of one mind, but of seven

minds, about the degree to which they should be put out by the trouble

they have gone through.

Now we have settled our preliminaries, we have got our principles; the

next thing is to put them into practice. Let us first note what has been

said of the absorption of light by transparent bodies. The air is one of

the most transparent bodies known. On a clear day--when vapor (that is

not air) does not mingle with our atmosphere--mechanical obstacles and

the earth's figure form the only limits to our vision. You may see

Cologne Cathedral from a mountain distant nearly sixty miles.

Nevertheless, if the atmosphere had no absorbing power, only direct rays

of the sun, or rays reflected from the substances about us, would be

visible; the sky would be black, not blue; and sunset would abruptly

pitch us into perfect night. The air, however, absorbs light, which

becomes intermixed with its whole substance. Hold up your head, open

your eyes widely, and stare at the noonday sun. You will soon shut your

eyes and turn your head away; look at him in the evening or in the

morning, and he will not blind you. Why? Remembering the earth to be a

globe surrounded by an atmosphere, you will perceive that the sun's rays

at noonday have to penetrate the simple thickness of the atmosphere,

measured in a straight line upward from the earth; but in the evening or

morning its beams fall aslant, and have to slip through a great deal of

air before they reach us; suffering, therefore, a great deal of robbery;

that is to say, having much light absorbed.

Now, why is the sky blue? Not only does the air absorb light; it

reflects it also. The particles of air reflect, however, most especially

the blue ray, while they let the red and his companions slip by. This

constant reflection of the blue ray causes the whole air to appear blue;

but what else does it cause? Let us consider. If air reflects or turns

aside, or hustles out of its place the blue ray, suffering the rest to

pass, it follows as a consequence that the more air a ray of light

encounters, the more blue will it lose. The sun's rays in the morning

and the evening falling aslant, as we have said, across a great breadth

of our atmosphere, must lose their blue light to a terrible extent, and

very likely reach us with the blue all gone, and red lord paramount. But

so, in truth, the case is; and the same fact which explains the blueness

of the atmosphere, explains the redness of the sunrise and the sunset.

It will now easily be understood, also, why the blue color of the sky is

deepest in the zenith, faintest when we look over the horizon; why the

blue is at noon deeper than after mid-day; why it grows more intense as

we ascend to higher elevations. From what we have already said, the

reason of these things will come out with a very little thought. Again,

in the example of our London fogs, &c., when in the upper portion of the

dense mass the blue rays have been all refracted, there can penetrate

only those other rays which make the lurid sky, with which we are

familiar, or the genuine old yellow fog. Fog in moderation, the thin

vapor on the open sea, and so forth, simply gives a lightness to the

blue tint, or more plentiful, an absolute whiteness to the atmosphere.

Now let us see whether we are yet able to make out the philosophy of a

fine autumn sunset. As the sun comes near the horizon, he and the air

about him become red, because the light from that direction has been

robbed of the blue rays in traversing horizontally so large a portion of

the atmosphere. The sky in the zenith pales, for it has little but the

absorbed or diffused light to exist upon. Presently, we see a redness in

the east, quite opposite to the sun, and this redness increases till the

sun sinks from our sight. In this case, the last rays of the sun that

traverse the whole breadth of the atmosphere, reflected from the east,

from vapors there, and more especially from clouds, come red to our

eyes; no blue can be remaining in them. From the west, where the sun is

setting, the rays come from the surrounding air, and from the clouds,

variously colored; they lose their blue, but there remain the red,

green, orange, yellow, and the purple rays; and some or all of these may

make the tints that come to us, according to the state and nature of the

clouds, the atmosphere, and other circumstances that may modify the

process of refraction. The sun has set; it is immediately below the

horizon, and its rays still dart through all our atmosphere, except that

portion which is shielded from them by the intervening shadow of the

earth. That shadow appears in the east, soon after sunset, in the shape

of a calm blue arch, which rises gradually in the sky, immediately

opposite to the part glorified by sunset colors. Over this arch the sky

is red, with the rays not shut out by the round shadow of our ball. As

the sun sinks, our shadow of course rises; and within it there can be

only the diffused twilight, always blue. When this arch--this shadow of

the earth--has risen almost to the zenith, and the sun is at some

distance below the horizon, then the red color in the west becomes much

more distinct and vivid; for the sun then shoots up thither its rays

through a still larger quantity of intervening atmosphere; so that the

redness grows as the sun sinks, until the shadow of the earth has

covered all, and the stars--of which the brightest soon were

visible--grow numerous upon the vault of heaven. When stars of the sixth

magnitude are visible, then, astronomically speaking, twilight ends. The

length of twilight will depend upon the number of rays of light that are

reflected and dispersed, and that, again, will depend entirely on the

atmosphere. Where there is much vapor, and the days are dull by reason

of the quantity of kidnapped light, there compensation is made by the

consequent increase of twilight. In the interior of Africa night follows

immediately upon sunset. In summer the vapor rises to a great height,

and pervades the atmosphere; the twilight then is longer than in winter,

when the colder air contains less vapor, and the vapor it contains lies

low.

Now, since the appearances at twilight depend on the condition of the

sky, it follows that our weather-wisdom, drawn from such appearances, is

based upon a philosophical foundation. When there is a blue sky, and

after sunset a slight purple in the west, we have reason for expecting

fine weather. After rain, detached clouds, colored red and tolerably

bright, may rejoice those who anticipate a pic-nic party. If the

twilight show a partiality for whitish yellow in its dress, we say that

very likely there will be some rain next day; the more that whitish

yellow spreads over the sky, the more the chance of water out of it.

When the sun is brilliantly white, and sets in a white light, we think

of storms; especially so when light high clouds that dull the whole sky

become deeper near the horizon. When the color of the twilight is a

grayish red, with portions of deep red passing into gray that hide the

sun, then be prepared, we say, for wind and rain. The morning signs are

different. When it is very red, we expect rain; a gray dawn means fine

weather. The difference between a gray dawn and a gray twilight is

this--in the morning, grayness depends usually upon low clouds, which

melt before the rising sun; but in the evening grayness is caused by

high clouds, which continue to grow denser through the night. But if in

the morning there be so much vapor as to make a red dawn, it is most

probable that thick clouds will be formed out of it in the course of the

operations of the coming day.

Refraction of light has a good deal to do also with the twinkling of the

stars; though there may go to the explanation of the phenomenon other

principles which do not concern our present purpose. The air contains

layers of different density, shifting over each other in currents. The

fixed stars are, to our eyes, brilliant points of light; their rays

broken in passing through these currents, exhibit an agitation which is

not shown by the planets. The planets are not points to our sight, nor

points to our telescopes; being much nearer, although really smaller,

they are to our eyes of a decided, measurable size; so being in greater

body, we at most could only see their edges scintillate; and this we can

do sometimes through a telescope, but scarcely with the naked eye.

In rainbows, light is both refracted and reflected. You can only see a

rainbow when the sun is low, your own position being between the rainbow

and the sun. The rays of light refracted by the shower into their

prismatic colors, are then reflected by the shower back into your eye,

and so, from the principles we started with, it will be clear that while

a thousand people may see under the same circumstances a rainbow of the

same intensity, no two people see precisely the same object, but each

man enjoys a rainbow to himself.

Of halos, and of lunar rainbows, of double suns, of the mirage, or any

other extraordinary things developed by the play of light and air

together, we did not intend to speak. Our discussion was confined to

such an explanation of some every-day sights as may lend aid to

contemplation sometimes of an autumnal evening, when

----"the soft hour

Of walking comes: for him who lonely loves

To seek the distant hills, and there converse

With Nature."

Do you not think the man impenetrably deaf who, professing to converse

with Nature, can not hear the tale which Nature is forever telling?

THE WIDOW OF COLOGNE.

In the year 1641, there lived in a narrow, obscure street of Cologne a

poor woman named Marie Marianni. With an old female servant for her sole

companion, she inhabited a small, tumble-down, two-storied house, which

had but two windows in front. Nothing could well be more miserable than

the furniture of this dark dwelling. Two worm-eaten four-post bedsteads,

a large deal-press, two rickety tables, three or four old wooden chairs,

and a few rusty kitchen utensils, formed the whole of its domestic

inventory.

Marie Marianni, despite of the wrinkles which nearly seventy years had

left on her face, still preserved the trace of former beauty. There was

a grace in her appearance, and a dignity in her manner, which

prepossessed strangers in her favor whenever they happened to meet her;

but this was rarely. Living in the strictest retirement, and avoiding as

much as possible all intercourse with her neighbors, she seldom went out

except for the purpose of buying provisions. Her income consisted of a

small pension, which she received every six months. In the street where

she lived she was known by the name of "The Old Nun," and was regarded

with considerable respect.

Marie Marianni usually lived in the room on the ground-floor, where she

spent her time in needlework; and her old servant Bridget occupied the

upper room, which served as a kitchen, and employed herself in spinning.

Thus lived these two old women in a state of complete isolation. In

winter, however, in order to avoid the expense of keeping up two fires,

Marie Marianni used to call down her domestic, and cause her to place

her wheel in the chimney-corner, while she herself occupied a large old

easy-chair at the opposite side. They would sometimes sit thus evening

after evening without exchanging a single word.

One night, however, the mistress happened to be in a more communicative

temper than usual, and addressing her servant, she said: "Well, Bridget,

have you heard from your son?"

"No, madame, although the Frankfort post has come in."

"You see, Bridget, it is folly to reckon on the affection of one's

children; you are not the only mother who has to complain of their

ingratitude."

"But, madame, my Joseph is not ungrateful: he loves me, and if he has

not written now, I am certain it is only because he has nothing to say.

One must not be too hard upon young people."

"Not too hard, certainly; but we have a right to their submission and

respect."

"For my part, dear lady, I am satisfied with possessing, as I do, my

son's affection."

"I congratulate you, Bridget," said her mistress, with a deep sigh.

"Alas! I am also a mother, and I ought to be a happy one. Three sons,

possessing rank, fortune, glory; yet here I am, forgotten by them, in

poverty, and considered importunate if I appeal to them for help. You

are happy, Bridget, in having an obedient son--mine are hard and

thankless!"

"Poor, dear lady, my Joseph loves me so fondly!"

"You cut me to the heart, Bridget: you little know what I have suffered.

An unhappy mother, I have also been a wretched wife. After having lived

unhappily together during several years, my husband died, the victim of

an assassin. And whom, think you, did they accuse of instigating his

murder? Me! In the presence of my children--ay, at the instance of my

eldest son--I was prosecuted for this crime!"

"But doubtless, madame, you were acquitted?"

"Yes; and had I been a poor woman, without power, rank, or influence, my

innocence would have been publicly declared. But having all these

advantages, it suited my enemies' purpose to deprive me of them, so they

banished me, and left me in the state in which I am!"

"Dear mistress!" said the old woman.

Marie Marianni hid her face in her handkerchief, and spoke no more

during the remainder of the evening.

As the servant continued silently to turn her wheel, she revolved in her

mind several circumstances connected with the "Old Nun." She had often

surprised her reading parchments covered with seals of red wax, which,

on Bridget's entrance, her mistress always hurriedly replaced in a small

iron box.

One night Marie Marianni, while suffering from an attack of fever, cried

out in a tone of unutterable horror: "No: I will not see him! Take away

yon red robe--that man of blood and murder!"

These things troubled the simple mind of poor Bridget, yet she dared not

speak of them to her usually haughty and reserved mistress.

On the next evening, as they were sitting silently at work, a knock was

heard at the door.

"Who can it be at this hour?" said Marie Marianni.

"I can not think," replied her servant; "'tis now nine o'clock."

"Another knock! Go, Bridget, and see who it is, but open the door with

precaution."

The servant took their solitary lamp in her hand, went to the door. She

presently returned, ushering into the room Father Francis, a priest who

lived in the city. He was a man of about fifty years old, whose hollow

cheeks, sharp features, and piercing eyes wore a sinister and far from

hallowed expression.

"To what, father, am I indebted for this late visit?" asked the old

lady.

"To important tidings," replied the priest, "which I am come to

communicate."

"Leave us, Bridget," said her mistress. The servant took an old iron

lamp, and went upstairs to her fireless chamber.

"What have you to tell me?" asked Marie Marianni of her visitor.

"I have had news from France."

"Good news?"

"Some which may eventually prove so."

"The stars, then, have not deceived me!"

"What, madam!" said the priest, in a reproving tone; "do you attach any

credit to this lying astrology? Believe me, it is a temptation of Satan

which you ought to resist. Have you not enough of real misfortune

without subjecting yourself to imaginary terrors?"

"If it be a weakness, father, it is one which I share in common with

many great minds. Who can doubt the influence which the celestial bodies

have on things terrestrial?"

"All vanity and error, daughter. How can an enlightened mind like yours

persuade itself that events happen by aught save the will of God?"

"I will not now argue the point, father; tell me rather what are the

news from France?"

"The nobles' discontent at the prime minister has reached its height.

Henri d'Effiat, grand-equerry of France, and the king's favorite, has

joined them, and drawn into the plot the Duke de Bouillon, and Monsieur,

his majesty's brother. A treaty, which is upon the point of being

secretly concluded with the king of Spain, has for its object peace, on

condition of the cardinal's removal."

"Thank God!"

"However, madame, let us not be too confident; continue to act with

prudence, and assume the appearance of perfect resignation. Frequent the

church in which I minister, place yourself near the lower corner of the

right-hand aisle, and I will forewarn you of my next visit."

"I will do so, father."

Resuming his large cloak, the priest departed, Bridget being summoned by

her mistress to open the door.

From that time, during several months, the old lady repaired regularly

each day to the church; she often saw Father Francis, but he never

spoke, or gave her the desired signal. The unaccustomed daily exercise

of walking to and from church, together with the "sickness of hope

deferred," began to tell unfavorably on her health; she became subject

to attacks of intermitting fever, and her large, bright eyes seemed each

day to grow larger and brighter. One morning, in passing down the aisle,

Father Francis for a moment bent his head toward her, and whispered,

"All is lost!"

With a powerful effort Marie Marianni subdued all outward signs of the

terrible emotion which these words caused her, and returned to her

cheerless dwelling. In the evening Father Francis came to her. When they

were alone, she asked, "Father, what has happened?"

"Monsieur de Cinq-Mars is arrested."

"And the Duke de Bouillon?"

"Fled."

"The treaty with the king of Spain?"

"At the moment it was signed at Madrid, the cunning cardinal received a

copy of it."

"By whom was the plot discovered?"

"By a secret agent, who had wormed himself into it."

"My enemies, then, still triumph?"

"Richelieu is more powerful, and the king more subject to him than

ever."

That same night the poor old woman was seized with a burning fever. In

her delirium the phantom-man in red still pursued her, and her ravings

were terrible to hear. Bridget, seated at her bedside, prayed for her;

and at the end of a month she began slowly to recover. Borne down,

however, by years, poverty, and misfortune, Marie Marianni felt that her

end was approaching. Despite Father Francis's dissuasion, she again had