Amidst the general misery and suffering, Thor Hansen might be

considered highly favoured, as compared with many others. For sergeant

Jon Svartberg, of the first regiment of Finland horse, who had

quartered himself upon the best house in the village, namely, upon

that of Hansen, was milder-mannered and of gentler heart than the

majority of his brethren in arms. Not but that he did honour to his

military schooling in Germany and Poland, and resembled a bear far

oftener than a lamb: he required much, and exacted it rigorously; but

still there was a limit to his demands, and when these were complied

with, the persons he was quartered upon had not to fear the wanton

torments and ill treatment which drive the oppressed to despair. The

smart young sergeant certainly deemed himself the first person in the

house, and expected to be treated as such; but, that conceded, he

asked no more. He stood up for what he considered his rights, and no

one must infringe upon them. One quality he had, which perhaps

contributed to soften and humanise his nature--he was a devoted

admirer of the gentler sex. Nor was he deficient in the qualities that

frequently find favour with women. A handsome well-grown fellow with

golden hair, and a fresh complexion, somewhat weathered by campaigns;

his lofty leathern helmet, his blue facings and broad yellow

bandelier, with brightly burnished buckles, his tall boots and

jingling spurs, became him well; in manner he was frank and joyous,

and when he laughed, which was often and loud, a row of ivory teeth

showed themselves beneath his light brown beard, and his blue eyes had

a bold and amorous sparkle. Confident in these various recommendations,

which had perhaps already, in other countries, procured him the favour

of the fair, Svartberg cherished the notion of his invincibility, and

flattered himself he had but to appear to overcome all rivals and

conquer all hearts. That he had completely gained that of Christina,

and that it was ready at any moment to beat the chamade and surrender

at discretion, he did not for an instant doubt. To say nothing of his

personal recommendations, he had never, during the whole time he had

been master in Thor Hansen's house, seen the least sign of a rival.

This arose from the circumstance that Hans and Christina had kept

their engagement a secret from the soldier, as if some instinct or

internal voice had told them that his acquaintance with it might prove

for them the source of great vexation and suffering. To maintain the

disguise, however, was no easy or pleasant task. Many consider it a

very hard case when two lovers are prevented seeing each other as

often as they wish but how much more painful must it be to have to

feign coldness in presence of a third person, and on his account? The

young people felt that the innocent familiarities of betrothed lovers

would have been highly displeasing to the enamoured Swede,--and deeply

enamoured he was, as none, having eyes, could fail to see. So Hans and

Christina were fain to be on their guard, except at such hours as the

sergeant was on duty, or when they worked together in farm or garden.

When Svartberg was at home, he was continually after Christina--paying

her compliments, cutting jokes, taking her by the chin, catching her

round the waist and making her waltz round the room, stealing her

slippers as she sat spinning, and playing other witty pranks of a

similar kind.

It was a November evening, and for those acquainted with that season

in the island of Funen, it is unnecessary to say that the night was a

rough one. The gale drove black masses of clouds across the sky, and

roared and whistled through the small thicket, composed of a score of

venerable oak trees mingled with hazel bushes, that grew at a short

distance from Thor Hansen's little garden. At that time there was

still a great deal of oak and beach timber in the neighbourhood of

Nyeborg, of which now scarce a vestige remains; and this small group

of trees, bounded on the north by a rivulet, lay within the limits of

the old man's farm. Although the night was dreary and cheerless out of

doors, it was warm and snug in Thor Hansen's cottage. Thor himself sat

on one side the huge fireplace, comfortably sunk in an old cushioned

chair; opposite to him Christina had taken her station, and was busy

with her distaff. Between them hung a large four-cornered iron

lantern; and upon the end of a bench Hans had seated himself, in such

a position that he could conveniently throw his arm round the young

girl's waist. Moreover, his cheek rested upon her shoulder, and in

this agreeable attitude he kept up an incessant whispering, only

interrupting the stream of his volubility to snatch an occasional kiss

from her ruddy cheek.

"But how know you all that, Hans?" said the maiden, who for some time

had listened with deep attention to her lover's words. "Who told you?"

"Not so loud, darling!" replied Hans; "I do not want the old man to

hear it yet: the thing is uncertain, and the result still more so. My

father becomes each day more anxious, so that I am almost uneasy lest

in his terror he should himself throw you into the arms of the

accursed Swede, if things looked dangerous."

"The _accursed_ Swede?" repeated Christina; "he deserves not the word

at your hands. He _has_ done us much service, and no harm. When I

think of my uncle's two poor girls, and of the many others who have

shared their lot, I deem myself most lucky, and so should you, that

our roof covers so gentle a foe."

"Certainly," replied Hans. "God knows, I do think myself lucky, and

wish Svartberg no manner of harm in the main, but, on the contrary,

every thing that is good, save and except yourself. But listen

further. I fell in this afternoon with a couple of peasants from the

plain; they had stopped at the public-house to bait, and had been

doing work for Count Steenbock. Whilst the dragoons, whom they

accompanied with their carts, sat and drank in the tavern, I got into

discourse with these two men. I had noticed them whispering together,

and looking carefully about them, and felt sure there was something

up,--something they knew of, and which the Swede did not. I questioned

the oldest of them, and at last he told me that the rumour of powerful

and speedy succour was abroad in the country: he had his information

more particularly from Martin Thy; he had seen him not far from the

Odensee, standing at a forge, and bargaining with Swedish officers

about a horse."

"Martin Thy, say you?" cried Christina; "he is sick in bed."

"Never mind that, darling! You don't know Martin; he can be sick and

well at the same time, just as he pleases. At this moment his health

is as good as yours; and if this red cheek does not lie, you are as

fresh as a fish. Or have my kisses made your cheek so red? Come, let

me kiss the other."

"Nonsense, Hans! be quiet; the old man hears you," whispered

Christina, warding off with her arm the threatened salutation.

"What is that about Martin Thy?" inquired Thor Hansen from beyond the

fire. Without waiting an answer to his question, he sat up in his

chair, and anxiously listened. "What is that?" he said. "Who comes at

this hour of night? Svartberg it cannot be; his guard is not yet over.

Run out, Hans, and see who it is."

The son left the room, and in the moment of silence that ensued the

yard-dog barked loudly, and the tramp and neigh of a horse were heard.

After brief delay, Hans re-entered the apartment, accompanied by

another man.

"Yes, yes, Hans," said the stranger; "you are a very good lad, but

that is a matter I understand better than you do. Black Captain is as

good a beast as a horseman need wish to cross."

"May be," replied Hans; "but at present he is lame, if not hip-shot."

"Thank ye, friend," replied the stranger, warmly. "I expect you are a

judge. A trifle weary and footsore he may be. He has had a heavy day's

work, and drags a little with one leg. But no matter. The peace of God

and a good evening to this house," continued he, turning to Thor

Hansen and taking his hand. "Dog's-weather this," he added, as he

knocked the water from his broad-brimmed round hat till it streamed

over the floor, and passed both hands over his thick eyebrows and

black bushy hair. "I am wet to the very skin, and as stiff and weary

as an old plough-horse that can no longer follow the furrow. With your

permission!"--and so saying, he seated himself by the table, on the

end of the wooden bench. He was a little, broad-shouldered man, with

an unusual quantity of long hair upon his head, and with small lively

black eyes, shaded by projecting brows. He wore a peasant's jerkin of

coarse brown woollen stuff, and carried his whip, the end of whose

lash was tied to the handle, slung across his broad back, as a fowler

carries his gun.

"Whence so late, Martin Thy?" quoth Thor Hansen, with a curious glance

at the new-comer.

"Direct from Middelfahrt," replied the horse-dealer in a suppressed

voice. "I would speak with Sergeant Svartberg before I go to bed, and

therefore have I ridden straight up here. The worshipful sergeant is

doubtless at home?" he added, but with an expression of countenance as

if he wished the contrary. On receiving the assurance that Svartberg

was out, and not expected back for two or three hours, Martin Thy

peeped cautiously into the best bed-chamber, which the Swede occupied,

then into the kitchen and court; and having at last fully satisfied

himself that the person he inquired about was really absent, he pulled

his whip over his head, and threw it violently down upon the floor.

"I may speak then, and tell you the news," he said, thrusting both

hands into the breast of his doublet, and standing, with his short,

strong legs apart, colossus-fashion, in the middle of the floor. "I

went to Middelfahrt in a lucky hour. Every face was joyful, and every

mouth full of reports of a great and immediate succour, with which we

should drive the Swedes out of the country; and on this side the

Odensee I heard the Swedes themselves talk of it. For my part I have

not a doubt about the matter, and my information is of the best. I

was up there, bargaining with the Swedish Rittmeister Kron for his

gray mare, and doctoring one of his troop-horses which had broken its

fore-foot, and I heard the gossip of the grooms and soldiers, and all

manner of curious stories."

"Of course," said Thor Hansen, shaking his head incredulously; "if

lies were Latin, I too might turn preacher."

The horse-jockey looked Hansen hard in the face, whilst the young

people exchanged signs of intelligence.

"I tell you what it is, neighbour," continued Thy; "I am a tolerably

well-broken nag, and can keep a straight road of my own. There's no

shying or stumbling in me--I go a steady even trot, and aint vicious,

so you may take my word when I give it. Yes," added he, slowly and

significantly, and with a glance at Christina, "it might well happen

that others besides yourself found cause to repent your mistrust."

At these words the old man grew thoughtful, and listened attentively.

"Have you not heard of the many pretty country lasses made to serve

this year at Raskenbjerg, when young Count Magnus lay there in

quarters? Know ye not how it fared there with your own wife's nieces?

If you fancy they left the place as they went to it, you are mightily

mistaken. The Swede does not handle such wares so tenderly. Count

Magnus has his spies every where--he well knows whom to choose for

such work; your house may have its turn. The girl has a comely face

and a white neck, a smart walk and a bright eye, and those are hard to

hide at this time, and in this island."

"Nonsense!" said Thor Hansen. "More noise than mischief. And who would

do us so ill a turn?"

"I name no names," replied the horse-dealer. "You know him as well as

I do. But I have a means of protecting you and Christina from him, and

all other blood-hounds of his breed. If you are wise you will avail

yourself of it. Give her me to wife. And when any look after her, tell

them she is Martin Thy's betrothed, and you will soon see the

difference! What boots it that I wear silver buttons on my doublet,

and may soon wear gold ones? what avails it that I own fields and

garden, cows and horses, if I have not a nice young wife to share my

prosperity? She will be well cared for, and as comfortable as if she

lay in Abraham's bosom."

"He is old enough, certainly," muttered Hans with a smile.

"Hans, my boy, just run out and give Black Captain a handful of hay,

will you? Go, my son, go." Hans obeyed, and Martin continued, "I have

only this to tell you; beware of the sergeant! Trust him not!

Svartberg means the maiden no good. Do not ask how I know it, but the

fact is certain. Do as you like, however. If you have courage to risk

it, you are right to do so."

"Ay, but what would poor Hans say?" quoth the old man musingly.

"Hans!" cried the horse-dealer, much surprised; "I thought it was all

off, long ago, between Hans and Christina. They never whinny after

each other, and she seems ready to lash out whenever he comes near

her." He paused for a minute, and then drew Thor Hansen aside, and

spoke to him in an under tone. "It is only for appearance sake," said

he; "you don't suppose I am serious? A rusty old roadster like myself

would never suit to run in harness with so frisky a filly. What say

you, my child? Will you not for a while make believe to be Martin

Thy's sweetheart?"

"Have done with such nonsense," said the young girl, repulsing the

jockey's advances. He ran round the room after her, caught, and would

have kissed her, but she slipped through his hands like an eel, and

made for the kitchen. Just then the door opened, and Sergeant

Svartberg, who had entered the court unheard, strode into the room,

his heavy steel spurs jingling at every step. The sort of scuffle

between the young girl and the horse-dealer attracted his notice.

"What's up now, in the devil's name?" he cried, taking off his heavy

helmet.

"Nothing, sergeant," replied Martin Thy, in no way disconcerted. "A

very small matter, at least. I wanted to steal the first kiss from my

bride that is to be, and she would not allow it."

"Your bride, fat-paunch!" cried Svartberg in extreme wonderment; "what

the devil is all this? This will never do. Harkye, old currycomb, no

one has a right to take any thing here, not so much as a kiss, without

my leave. D'ye hear that?"

"Gently, gently," retorted Martin Thy in a jesting tone; "I am

certainly a mere David in comparison with such a Goliath as you, but I

am more active than I look--can jump higher than any one would

think--high enough, perhaps, to catch you by the flaxen curls upon

your forehead, if you meddle with the best horse in my stable. But you

can take a joke, sergeant dear?" concluded he, with a sly side-glance

at the Swede.

"No, no, jockey, not I indeed,--you are a deal too cunning for

me,--one never finds you where one leaves you. When I sent for you the

other day for my horse, they said you were sick, but it seems you were

on the road. Where have you been?"

"Westward," replied the horse-dealer quietly, "on my own honest

business. I came home this evening, and the first person I cared to

see was my little girl here--besides that, I have a word or two to say

to the worshipful sergeant."

"To me? Come then, and be quick about it, and have a care that my

sabre does not take a fancy to speak a word or two to your shoulders."

And with this uncivil warning, Svartberg took the little man by the

collar, and pushed him before him into the adjoining room.

Thor Hansen and the young people had listened in silence to this short

and sharp dialogue. Out of prudence they abstained from interrupting

the horse-dealer, although his bold assertions were not very pleasing

to them. Now they stood embarrassed and attentive, trying to catch

something of what passed in the next apartment,--but without success,

for the Swede and his companion spoke in low tones and in short broken

sentences. In a short time the two men returned to the sitting-room,

the horse-dealer's countenance wearing its usual sly quick expression;

the tall sergeant with less decision in his gait, and with a mixture

of vexation and mistrust upon his features. When Martin Thy took his

leave and departed, he followed him with a sort of constrained

courtesy as far as the courtyard, and did not re-enter the house till

the horse's hoofs were heard trotting along the narrow road.

Meanwhile the father and son had gone out to fodder the cattle. With

folded arms Svartberg walked for a while up and down the room. On a

sudden he stopped short in front of Christina, who sat spinning, as

usual, and gazed at her long and tenderly. At last he broke silence.

"Fye upon you, my pretty Christina!" he said; "you surely do not

seriously mean to throw yourself away on yon black-bearded monster?"

"You must not take for earnest all Martin Thy says," replied the

maiden, blushing; "you know what a strange creature he is."

"Oh certainly," replied the soldier in a sharper tone, "I know

devilish well what he is, and I also know what I am myself. Better I

certainly might be; but you, Christina, your father and all belonging

to you, know well that I am none of the worst."

"That we do, Svartberg,--you have been a help and protection so long

as you have dwelt in our house; and, without you, Heaven knows how it

might have fared with us."

"Once for all, then, Christina, tell me how I stand with you; for

curse me if I can make out. You know I love you,--I have never

concealed it, and I did think you looked kindly upon me; but here

comes this pot-bellied horse-dealer, and says you are to marry him!

Tell me honestly, is it true?"

Whilst the young girl, with natural bashfulness, hesitated to reply to

this home-question, the sergeant seated himself by her side, and, in

his softest tones and sweetest words, told her how ardently he loved

her. He strove to rouse her gratitude by reminding her of the

beneficial influence of his presence in the house, how he had defended

and saved her and hers from the plunder and ill-treatment they would

otherwise inevitably have suffered. In glowing colours he depicted

the happy and prosperous life they would lead together, if she would

follow him to Sweden when his term of service expired. He had a farm

in Dalecarlia, he said, and she should be his wife and its mistress.

Then he drew from his finger a broad gold ring, with his name upon it,

and endeavoured, but in vain, to prevail upon her to accept it. And

many times he asked, with mournful earnestness, if what Master Thy had

told him were true; betraying in his manner, each time he mentioned

the name of this man, previously so indifferent to him, an unusual

reserve and circumspection. At last, as Christina, although with eyes

full of tears, still persisted in her silence, he rose from his seat.

"I have opened my whole heart to you, Christina," said he, "and I have

too good an opinion of you to suppose for an instant you would,

without compulsion, prefer that little punchy hedgehog of a Jutlander

to a gallant Swede and smart soldier like myself. Perhaps you are

afraid of your father? or of your dwarf of a bridegroom? If so, I

promise you efficient protection. I have at Raskenbjerg"--here the

young girl looked up from her work with a terrified glance,--"a good

comrade, who has married a country-woman of yours. With your consent,

I will conduct you thither, and there you shall remain, in all safety,

until we leave the country;--and that will not be long," added he,

sinking his voice, and with a cautious glance around him.

The mere name of Raskenbjerg had upon Christina an effect of which

Svartberg never dreamed. She thought with a shudder of the tales she

had often heard related, and to which the horse-dealer had so recently

referred. She remembered the blunt cordiality with which Martin Thy

had promised her protection, and suspected Svartberg of evil designs,

which he proposed carrying out by craft rather than by violence. Full

of this idea, she told the sergeant plainly that she really was

betrothed to Martin Thy, entreated him to show himself as generous in

this matter as he had always previously been, and declared firmly and

positively she would adhere to her promise. She ventured even to tell

him, he must have a very poor opinion of her if he thought to lead her

astray by honeyed words and fine manners. All this she said to the

young Swede in plain language, and in tones earnest, although gentle;

and the whole expression of her countenance and manner gave evidence

of so much strength of will that Svartberg, after having once or twice

more passionately conjured her to tell him the truth about Martin

Thy--betraying, each time he mentioned the name, the same kind of

confused manner as before--grasped helm and sabre, and with an

exclamation of disappointment and vexation, hurried into his

apartment.

It had rained and blown the entire night, the sky was gray and dreary,

the first glimpse of dawn scarce appeared in the east. Christina had

milked the cows, but still she lingered in the stable awaiting her

lover. Her heart was very heavy; the peace and safety in which the

family had hitherto lived seemed suddenly to have fled, and that she

should be the innocent cause of its departure forced many a sigh from

her gentle bosom. She had not waited long when there was a cautious

tap at the back-door leading into the field; she opened it quickly,

and Hans entered. Christina threw her arms round his neck.

"At last, dear Hans!" said she tenderly: "how anxiously I have waited

for you!"

"I come from the horse-dealer's," replied Hans, breathing short, like

one who had made speed. "He was in bed and fast asleep, and was almost

angry with me for awaking him. He told me, however, that he had heard,

God knows from whom, that Danish troops had attempted a night-landing

near Nyeborg, but had been prevented by the storm, and had sailed

northwards. He pretends also that Danish and German reinforcements are

off the west coast of the island. With respect to you, and the

proposal he made last night, he maintains it is the only safe means of

escaping Svartberg's designs. Whether the offer was serious or sham,

he would not distinctly say: it was no business of mine, he said; it

might be joke, or it might be earnest. And when I solemnly swore to

him that I would endure neither the one nor the other, he laughed at

me, and bid me go home and let him go to sleep. As I stole through the

village, the trumpeters blew the alarm, and the troopers began to

mount. So we are not safe here; the sergeant may surprise us at any

moment."

And having concluded his parting narrative, Hans prepared to quit his

mistress for the day. So engrossed were the young people by a long

farewell kiss, that they were unaware of the entrance of sergeant

Svartberg, till he had gazed at them for some seconds in a state of

seeming petrifaction.

"Hell and the devil!" was the profane exclamation of the gallant

sergeant, on recovering his powers of speech. "Pretty work this, by my

honour! So so, my coy beauty," continued he, his lips trembling, his

cheeks pale, his eyes ominously flashing, and with bitter irony in his

voice, "is it the custom in this country to marry two husbands, one

young and the other old? Now I know the meaning of your shyness, and

what your intentions are; oh! I see through the whole conspiracy. But

wait a bit, I'll pay you all off. Hallo! Olof and Peter!" cried he to

two dragoons in the stable-yard, "dismount, and tie this younker upon

the ammunition-waggon you have to take to Nyeborg."

Whilst the bearded horsemen got out of their saddles to obey their

sergeant's commands, the latter turned once more to the trembling

Christina.

"So this was your game, my charmer!" said he scornfully. "Have you

already forgotten what you told me last evening, when you had me

sighing like an old woman? I never felt so soft in my life, not since

my mother first laid me in the cradle, with a pap-spoon in my mouth.

Ha! it shall be the last time I waste fair words when force will gain

my end. No, no!" he shouted, as Christina, with tearful eyes and

speechless with grief, extended her clasped hands in supplication,

"you won't get him off, I can tell you, not if you were an angel from

heaven. Why don't you intercede for your other lover, the old one? No,

no, neither mercy nor pardon."

"Ah! sergeant, be not so cruel; let the lad go," exclaimed a voice

behind Svartberg. "Surely you are not going to turn restive! You kick

out a little, but I am certain a mouthful of hay will pacify you.

Come, a word with you!"

The horse-dealer, for he it was, took the angry Swede by the

bandelier, and Svartberg followed him, although with manifest

unwillingness, to the further side of the court. Here Martin Thy

deliberately unbuttoned his brown doublet and three or four

waistcoats, produced, from the inmost recesses of his attire, a small

greasy leather book, and thence extracted a scrap of parchment. This

he placed before the eyes of the sergeant, following the lines with

his finger as Svartberg read, and pausing now and then at particular

words, as if they were talismanic characters, intended to allay the

soldier's irritation. This, whatever they were, they appeared to do.

More calmly, but with a harsh and sullen expression of countenance,

and like a man yielding with an ill grace to a power he dares not

resist, Svartberg approached Hans Thorsen, who stood in gloomy silence

between the two dragoons.

"Let the fellow go," he cried, "and to horse! You tell me we shall not

come back, Thy. I neither know nor care how you learned it, but

remember I make you responsible for both of them. If I do return, I

will claim both her and him at your hands, and God help you if they

are not forthcoming."

He spoke thus whilst tightening his horse's girths, and when he turned

his head the horse-dealer had already disappeared. With a muttered

oath, Svartberg sprang into the saddle, and, without bestowing another

glance upon the young people, galloped out of the court, quite

forgetting to bequeath Christina one of those graceful salutations

with which it was his wont to bid her adieu.

Field-marshal Shack had landed his troops without accident at

Kjerteminde, and Lieutenant-general Eberstein, with equal good

fortune, had got his little army on shore at Middelfahrt. The young

prince of Sulzbach at first advanced against the latter general; but

then, afraid of being cut off and surrounded by the former, he changed

his plan, and drew back his whole forces to a stronger position at

Nyeborg. The entire Swedish army lay either in this town, or encamped

in its front; their previous quarters were vacant. Consequently, in

the village of Vinding all was still and quiet as in the grave. It was

evening. Thor Hansen and his son had betaken themselves to the tavern,

where a great number of peasants, retainers of the lord of the soil,

travellers, and others, were assembled, discussing the latest news.

These seemed important, judging from the noise and excitement that

prevailed: all spoke at once, none listened, and, as if all danger

were now over, none troubled their heads about what passed out of

doors. But in the little room at Thor Hansen's house, Christina sat at

work, full of melancholy thoughts. She certainly understood little

about the march of events and prospects of the country, but love and

sorrow had so far quickened her perceptions of political matters, that

she foresaw much evil to herself and Hans if the Swedes got the upper

hand. Another of her subjects of meditation was the strange influence

the horse-dealer exercised over Svartberg. Upon what was it founded?

Would it last? And, even if it did, and she was thereby delivered from

the sergeant's importunities, might not Martin Thy press his own

claims--claims which her own and her father's consent, admitted to

Svartberg, and whereon was based the protection they enjoyed, rendered

in some sort valid? These, and similar reflections, always ending in

fears for Hans, drew bitter tears from her eyes, and so absorbed her

mind that she was as unconscious as the noisy party at the tavern of

what occurred without. Suddenly the latch was lifted, the house-door

gently opened, and Svartberg stood before her.

"You weep, dearest!" he said, as he slowly approached the table beside

which Christina sat, whilst an expression of mingled irony and grief

passed across his martial features; "do those precious tears flow,

perchance, for me? By the cross! how pale and moist are those pretty

cheeks."

"What would you, sergeant?" said the maiden, recovering from her first

surprise, and in accents of deep affliction. "Do you come to renew

your recent cruelty, or to atone for it?"

"What I would?" replied the sergeant. "You know, Christina, that my

heart is not a hard one, but quite the contrary, soft as can be, and

you it is, my angel, who have made it so. Frankly and plainly,

however, do I tell you, that without you it will harden again, ay, as

marble. Without you I cannot live: you must away with me on the

instant!"

"Alas, Svartberg, have I not already told you I am betrothed to Martin

Thy!" cried the alarmed maiden anxiously.

"Pshaw!" cried Svartberg, "you do not expect me to swallow that fable?

All lie and deception, as sure as there is a God in heaven. I have

long seen through the old fox, but now I know him, and he shall not

stand long in any body's way. As to any harm he may have told you of

me, the knave lies in his throat."

"Svartberg!" exclaimed Christina, terrified at the increasing

vehemence of the Swede's tone and manner, "you have power----"

"Ha!" interrupted the soldier, "that have I, and know how to use it.

Christina, I cannot exist without you--by the living God I cannot! and

though you were betrothed to Sweden's king, to me you must

belong--mine you shall be! I have here," he continued, in a hurried

and passionate whisper, "two comrades, and a cart to convey you to

Nyeborg. I shall soon have served my time, and then will I take you

home to my old mother in Dalecarlia, and there you shall live like a

queen, or my name is not Jon Svartberg! Come! every moment is

precious!"

The stalwart sergeant seized the fainting girl by the waist, raised

her in his arms, regardless of her feeble struggles, and hurried to

the door. Just then a loud uproar arose outside the house. Svartberg

started, laid Christina in an arm-chair, and listened. The noise

increased; shouts and cries, and two pistol-shots, reached his ear;

and then Hans Thorsen and Martin Thy, followed by a legion of rustics

armed with axes and hay-forks, poured into the room through both its

doors. Surprised, but no way disconcerted, by their sudden appearance

and menacing mien, the sergeant, with a military eye for a good

position, retreated into a corner, where the oak table served him as

barricade, and laid hand upon a pistol in his belt. Either on account

of the great odds against him, or through fear of injuring Christina,

or because consciousness of evil-doing robbed him of his usual

decision, he did not use the weapon, however, but preferred flight to

a contest whose issue could hardly have been advantageous to him.

Springing actively upon the long bench below the window, and still

keeping his face to the enemy, he set his heavily-booted leg against

the casement, which gave way, and fell with a clatter and jingling

into the garden. Then, with his favourite exclamation, "Ha! in the

devil's name!" he swung himself, light as a bird, through the opening.

A peasant, on sentry below, essayed to seize him, but was prostrated

by a blow that might have felled an ox; and the fugitive sped through

the garden, his accoutrements rattling as he ran, and indicating the

direction he took. All this while the peasants were not idle: some

followed him through the window, others through the door; and as it

was nearly full moon and the sky tolerably clear, the foremost

distinctly saw him run across the meadow, and disappear amongst the

oaks. With all speed they surrounded the little thicket; some lining

the banks of the stream bounding it to the north, whilst others made

diligent search amongst the trees and brushwood. Far and near their

voices were heard, shouting to each other encouragement and inquiries.

"Have you got him? Is he there? He has not crossed the stream. Look

out, lads! Cut him down, wherever you find him!" And cut down the

Swede undoubtedly would have been, had he been found; but to find him

was the great difficulty. Not a bush large enough to shelter a rabbit

but was beaten by the peasants, furious at the disappointment of their

revenge on one of the detested tyrants who so long had oppressed them.

Even the branches of the trees, although stripped of their leaves by

the chill autumn wind so as scarcely to afford concealment, did not

escape examination. But all was in vain. It seemed as though the earth

had swallowed the missing man. He had disappeared and left no trace.

When at last convinced of this, the boors gazed at each other in

astonishment and vexation, not unmingled with dismay. The devil--so

some of them muttered--had helped his own. At last Hans Thorsen,

convinced of the inutility of further research, prevailed on a few of

the most resolute to keep guard round the wood, and returned home to

look for his father and comfort his mistress.

Although Sergeant Svartberg had never implicitly believed Martin Thy's

story of his intended marriage with Christina, the horse-dealer had

found means to inspire him with a certain respect, which prevented his

pursuing his object with open violence. His passion for the maiden,

inflamed by unexpected resistance, had made him resolve, especially

when the scene in the cow-house put him upon the trail of the truth,

to employ every means to attain his end. Hans he despised as a peasant

lout, and felt himself in no way obliged to respect his claims, or

consider his rights. Were Christina once his, he trusted to win, by

redoubled tenderness, a heart which he believed--perhaps

rightly--harboured no particular repugnance towards him. He was

overjoyed, therefore, when he received orders to take two dragoons,

and fetch a couple of ammunition waggons left behind in Vinding; and

he promised himself he would make good use of this favourable

opportunity of carrying out his designs upon Thor Hansen's pretty

kinswoman. Out of precaution, he avoided riding through the village,

and took a circuitous route to Hansen's house. Before arriving there,

however, he was compelled to pass some stables where Martin Thy was

wont to keep horses, of which he sometimes had a great number on hand.

Cunning Martin, whom nothing escaped, was looking through a hole in

the stable wall, and recognised, notwithstanding the evening gloom,

Jon Svartberg's big-boned mare. Suspecting mischief, he hurried to the

tavern, and proposed to surprise the uninvited guests; the peasants

joyfully assented, and at once sallied forth, heated with liquor and

with thirst of revenge. The scene just described was the result.

But that very night the bold boors were doomed to experience the evil

consequences of their exploit. Intimidated by the crowd of assailants,

the two dragoons took to flight, leaving the sergeant to take care of

himself. They hurried back to the camp, and made report to their

captain of the evening's events. The captain, unwilling to lose a

daring and useful subordinate, instantly despatched another sergeant

to Vinding, with a stronger party, and with orders to fetch the

waggons, to rescue Svartberg, or, should violence have been done him,

to arrest the murderers. Fortunately, the approach of the troopers was

observed sufficiently soon for old Hansen and Christina to find a

hiding-place; but, in facilitating their escape, Hans was so unlucky

as to fall into the hands of the Swedes, who hurried him off to Count

Steenbock's quarters at Nyeborg.

Early the following morning, Christina donned her holiday attire, put

on a clean cap, a pair of yellow leathern gloves, and her best apron,

and, without telling the old man a word of her intentions, took the

road to Nyeborg. She thought not of the dangers besetting her path:

she thought only of sharing her lover's fate, should she find it

impossible to rescue him; and bitterly reproached herself for having

consented to separate from him. Mournfully, and with eyes red from

weeping, she hurried along the rain-soaked road, when she heard the

tramp of hoofs behind her, and looked round in alarm. It was Martin

Thy, mounted upon Black Captain, to whose tail two other horses were

tied. When near enough to recognise Christina, he drew rein with an

exclamation of astonishment, and inquired whither she was going. She

briefly told him her destination, and the object of her journey. He at

first tried to dissuade her from prosecuting the latter, representing

the many dangers to which she exposed herself, and without a chance of

benefit, seeing that none would listen to her entreaties and

representations. Finding his advice and remonstrances unattended to by

the faithful and loving girl, he suddenly sprang from his horse. "You

shall not go afoot, at any rate," he cried, "so long as Martin Thy has

a horse belonging to him, on whose back you can sit. You shall have a

ride on Black Captain for once in your life at least. You see, my

lamb," continued he, throwing the right stirrup over the horse's neck

and tightening the girths--"you see what a soft-mouthed beast I am; I

may be ridden any where with a plain snaffle by those who know me.

Come, I will help you up." He placed her in the saddle, detached the

other horses from Captain's tail, clambered with considerable

difficulty upon the bare back of one of them, and set off at a trot.

"Only see," said he, "if we do not resemble Mary and old Joseph, in

the picture upon the lid of my box at home. To be sure, Black Captain

is no jackass; and indeed," he added, with a sly smile, "there is

another difference besides that."

It was a chilly morning; the wind blew keen and cutting from the

coast, and the air was clear and transparent; so that from afar the

travellers discerned the Swedish tents, shimmering snow-white in the

sunshine. Before they had proceeded much farther, the murmur of the

camp became audible, like the hum from a stack of bee-hives. On

reaching the outposts they were challenged; but the horse-dealer

stooped his head and whispered a word in the ear of the vidette, who

forthwith allowed him and his companion free passage, and they

proceeded through the southern portion of the Swedish camp, towards

the farm-house where Steenbock had his quarters. Preoccupied by her

grief, Christina did not observe how completely at home Martin Thy

seemed to be. Every body knew him, and he found his way without

assistance through the canvass mazes of the camp. When close to the

general's quarters, the travellers' progress was for a moment delayed

by a crowd of people following two soldiers, who escorted a prisoner

into the house. From her lofty seat upon the back of Black Captain,

Christina saw over the heads of the throng, and in the captive

recognised her lover, with hands bound behind his back. With a cry of

grief, she sprang unaided from the saddle, and pressed through the

crowd. Wonder at her boldness, and compassion for her evident

affliction, procured her a passage, and, after some effort, she

succeeded in penetrating to the hall where the court-martial was held.

The case was probably prejudged by the Swedish officers, who made no

scruple to sacrifice a peasant, whether innocent or guilty, by way of

example and warning to the disaffected. But the trial, and the threats

for which it gave opportunity, might probably, they thought, throw

light upon the fate of Sergeant Svartberg, and account for his

mysterious disappearance--besides eliciting the names of the

accomplices in the murder of which, there could be small doubt, he had

been a victim. The sergeant was respected and beloved by his comrades

and superiors, and dissatisfaction was apprehended if his fate did not

receive due investigation.

The court-martial was over. All that could be extracted from Hans

Thorsen amounted to no more than was already known. Svartberg had

attempted to carry off his mistress, and he and others had interfered

to frustrate his design. He gave a plain narrative of the wonderful

disappearance of the sergeant, and did not conceal his regret that the

ravisher had thus escaped his vengeance. To the tears and entreaties

of Christina the court naturally paid small attention, and she was at

last compelled by threats to cease her importunity. Sentence was

passed; the president of the court stood up, and gave orders to the

provost-marshal to carry out the prisoner's doom by hanging him in

front of the camp. In the extremity of despair, Christina cast her

eyes over the crowd which filled the room to the very doorway, seeking

succour where she expected none, when suddenly she perceived Martin

Thy, who stood in a corner, with folded arms and immovable features,

watching the proceedings. The sight of the horse-dealer was a gleam of

hope to the unhappy girl.

"Help us!" she cried, hurrying to him with clasped hands--"for the

blessed Saviour's sake, help us if you can!"

"Ay, but what shall I get by that, my lamb?" replied Martin in a

suppressed voice. "I give nothing for nothing, and like to gain by my

bargains. Do you still remember what you lately told Svartberg? Keep

your word to me, and I will see what I can do."

The peril was pressing, and Christina beside herself with sorrow.

Distracted by fears for her lover, whom the soldiers were already

leading away to execution, she promised all that was asked of her. The

horse-dealer gave a satisfied nod, and advanced slowly and with a

certain air of importance to the green table around which some members

of the court still sat, whilst others had risen and were about to

depart. Making as low a bow as his fat, thickset figure was capable

of, he respectfully begged a hearing. The officers looked at him with

surprise; Hans, recognising the voice, turned his face towards him,

whilst his escort lingered a moment, as if to indulge their prisoner

with a last glance at a friendly face.

"What is your business?" abruptly demanded the president of the

court-martial. "Have you aught new to communicate touching this

affair?"

"A single word, with your excellency's permission," replied Martin

Thy; and, approaching the Count, he whispered something in his ear.

Steenbock took a step backwards, and looked keenly in the

horse-dealer's face, examining him for a few seconds attentively, and

without speaking. Then beckoning him into a corner of the room, where

they could not be overheard, he exchanged a few sentences with him,

and cast his eyes over some papers produced by the horse-dealer. This

done, the two men returned to the table.

"I think, therefore, with due submission to your excellency," said the

horse-dealer in more decided tones, "that the truth is most likely to

be got at in the manner I suggest. If the sergeant has been murdered,

this lad was certainly not his only assassin. Upon the other hand, if,

as I think more probable, Svartberg is in some place of concealment,

the punishment of the prisoner would but increase his danger. And that

the worshipful sergeant has sunk into the earth or ascended to heaven,

vanishing so as to leave no trace--that, of course, is a fable my

horses would laugh at."

"Well, well, jockey," said the Count, loud enough for all in the room

to hear, "if you undertake to throw light upon the business, I will

make over the prisoner to you, it being well understood you become

responsible for him: the girl, too, must appear, should I require her

presence. And remember, you cannot deceive me without risking your own

neck. Enough! you are answerable for them both."

"With my life!" replied the horse-dealer, again bowing low, "so soon

as I am out of the camp. Until then, I crave an escort."

The protection demanded was accorded, and its necessity was fully

proved by the savage glances cast at Hans by the Swedish soldiery, as

he and his companions passed through the camp. Once beyond its

boundary, Martin Thy conducted Christina to her home, and Hans to his

own house; and after exacting from both a solemn oath not to endanger

his life by flight, saddled a fresh horse and rode away.

The next day, the memorable 14th of November, witnessed the defeat of

the Swedes and the triumph of the Danish arms; and upon the day

afterwards, the whole Swedish army, shut up in Nyeborg, surrendered to

the victors. The Prince of Sulzbach and Count Steenbock had run the

gauntlet through the Dutch fleet, and escaped to Corsor, where they

met any thing but a flattering reception from King Charles Gustavus.

Delivered from their merciless foe, and once more under Danish

government, the inhabitants of Funen again raised their heads, and

resumed their former habits and occupations. Gradually things fell

into the old routine: vexatious losses were forgotten in the comforts

and security of peace; fugitives returned home; friends and relatives,

long severed, again met; news were received of many reported dead, and

the fate of others, whom the demon of war had really devoured, was

accurately ascertained. But of Martin Thy, the horse-dealer, not a

word was heard. Since the day that he had rescued Hans Thorsen from

the jaws of death, none of his relatives or neighbours had seen him;

no intelligence, save faint and improbable rumours, had been obtained

concerning him. Hans, when the enemy had quitted the country, (as he

and every body else fondly believed for ever,) held himself absolved

from his oath, and returned to his father's house at Vinding. There he

undertook to persuade Christina that a promise forced from her, by the

most cruel necessity, was not so binding that, under certain

circumstances, it might not be broken; and, moreover, that it could

not absolve her from her more ancient vows plighted to himself. But

all the arguments of the impatient young lover, although supported by

those of his father, who was desirous, before he died, to behold the

happiness of his children, failed for some time to convince the

maiden's sound sense and grateful heart. At last their persuasions and

representations, powerfully aided by her love for Hans, induced her to

fix a certain period, at the expiration of which, if Martin Thy did

not in the interval appear to maintain his claim, she would become the

wife of her younger suitor. Although vexed at the delay, Hans was

compelled to consent to it; and for the satisfaction of Christina's

conscience, two months were allowed to elapse. Then, the horse-dealer

not appearing, the wedding was celebrated with the customary festivity

and rejoicing.

At the marriage-feast the conversation naturally turned upon the

events of the previous year, and, amongst other names and persons

brought under discussion, Martin Thy was mentioned. Unobservant or

regardless of the confusion manifest on the faces of both bride and

bridegroom, half a score persons immediately exclaimed--"Ay, what has

become of Thy, the punchy horse-dealer?" "Whither has the scamp

betaken himself?" asked others. One of the company, an elderly man,

whose words obtained deference and attention, replied to these

questions to the following effect: Martin Thy, he said, was

unquestionably one of the many spies employed by Charles Gustavus, and

many of whom were intrusted by him with very considerable powers. For

that king, reckoning on other means than the mere force of arms for

the subjugation of the country, employed numerous agents, chosen from

all ranks and classes, to ascertain the state of feeling amongst the

people. Soldiers, pilots, pedlars, artisans, peasants, and students,

took his wages for these dishonourable services. The horse-dealer,

however,--so the speaker affirmed,--either conscience-stricken after

taking the money of the Swedish government, or finding it agreeable

and convenient to eat from two platters at one time, had also accepted

from the Danish authorities a passport and secret instructions. On the

occasion of the murder of a Swedish sergeant in the vicinity of

Nyeborg, he had come in contact with officers of high rank, some of

whom having reason, in spite of his cunning and plausibility, to

mistrust his honesty, instituted investigations which resulted in his

being sent handcuffed, with two other gentlemen of the same kidney, to

Corsor, where, without further form of trial, they were all three

hung. Other accounts said that Martin Thy had got off with the mere

fright, having succeeded, by means of a small file, concealed in his

bushy hair, in cutting his prison bars and making his escape. The

guests, however, were unanimously of opinion that this was a mere

postponement of his doom, and that to-morrow morning a tree in the

Danish woods might serve as a gallows for Martin Thy. The conversation

still ran upon this subject, when a young lad who waited at table

whispered something in the ear of the bridegroom. The latter rose from

table with an air of surprise and uneasiness, and slipped out of the

house. The messenger conducted him to the wood-store, where a

stranger, desirous of speaking with him, awaited his coming. Upon

entering the ill-lighted shed, Hans Thorsen beheld a pale thin little

man, clothed in squalid rags, and reclining, as if overcome with

fatigue and exhaustion, upon a pile of chopped wood. The stranger

arose, and with a limping step advanced to meet Hans. It was Martin

Thy. But how changed within a few short weeks! His comfortable

corpulence had disappeared, his cheeks were hollow and colourless, his

long hair hung matted and uncombed about his ears, his doublet was

travel-stained and tattered. It was scarce possible to recognise the

once jovial well-conditioned horse-dealer. Hans Thorsen lifted up his

hands in astonishment.

"Martin Thy!" he exclaimed in a tone of mingled vexation and

compassion, "whence come you, in heaven's name, and what means this

wretched plight?"

"You hardly know me again, Hans," said the horse-dealer, with somewhat

of his former gaiety in his voice. "I am not surprised at it. I look

just like an old horse who has been turned out to pass his winter in

the woods. My paunch quite gone--left behind in yonder dry hole at

Corsor," continued he with a smile, whilst with both hands he

displayed his vest, which hung about him like a sack. "You want to

know my business here?--never vex thyself about that, lad! I do not

come to trespass on your manor. There are plenty here would drive me

away, did I wish to stay. Tell your little wife (for I know this is

your wedding-day) not to fret herself, for Martin Thy releases her. I

know she will be glad to hear that. Of money I have plenty, ragged as

I look; but I crave a service of you, for old acquaintance sake--'tis

the last, perhaps. Lend me a horse, for I have not a leg to stand on.

I will leave it in your uncle's care at Aastrup, near Faaborg: I

myself shall not return. It matters little whether my fodder grows in

Germany or Funen; and there are stables every where."

The good-natured heart of Hans Thorsen melted within him, as he

contemplated the woful plight of the unlucky little man, and the

constrained indifference and joviality of manner with which he

endeavoured to carry off his misfortunes. His mind at ease about

Christina, he thought only of comforting the man to whom he owed his

life. He brought him beer and brandy, bread and beef, offered him a

complete change of clothes, and pressed him earnestly to accept a pair

of large silver buckles, which he took from his own shoes. But Martin

Thy refused every thing, smiled in reply to the condolences of Hans,

saddled the horse himself, cordially pressed the young man's hand, and

galloped out of the court. Hans gazed after him till a turn of the

road hid horse and rider from his view, and then returned into the

house, to dissipate by a whisper the last shadow of doubt and anxiety

that still clouded the happiness, and weighed upon the gentle heart,

of Christina Thorsen.

From that day no word was heard in Funen of Martin Thy the

horse-dealer.

* * * * *

Nearly a century and a half had elapsed since the incidents above

narrated. It was the month of July in one of the last years of the

eighteenth century. The day had been oppressively hot, but in the

afternoon a storm and shower had cooled and lightened the air. The

minister at Vinding had a stranger stopping with him. This was a young

gentleman from Copenhagen, whose pale thoughtful countenance told of

assiduous toil in the paths of learning, and of late vigils by the

study-lamp. Notwithstanding the elegance of his attire, and the

courtly arrangement of his hair--gathered together upon his nape into

a tail, according to the fashion of the day--the thorough Danish cut

of his features, and a certain homely plainness of mien, seemed to

indicate plebeian descent, and to warrant a conjecture that his

father's hand had been more familiar with the plough-handle than with

general's baton or magistrate's wand. His speech also, notwithstanding

the advantages of an excellent education, was tinged with the accent

of the province in which he then found himself. He had journeyed from

the capital to his native place, for the purpose of examining whatever

relies of antiquity there existed, and of discovering, if possible,

some hitherto unknown. Not a Runic stone, or moss-grown font, or

battered chalice, cracked bell, or stained window, not a tombstone or

altar-piece, could escape his searching eye and investigating finger.

Besides these mute memorials of ancient days, he interested himself

greatly in the old rhymes and legends still current in Funen. To aid

him in the collection of these, and in his other antiquarian

researches, he had applied to the right man. The venerable minister

was in every way as enthusiastic an admirer as the student of the

vestiges of old days; and having besides some knowledge of music,

which his companion did not possess, he would sing with great unction,

in a voice somewhat cracked but not disagreeable, strange wild ballads

about Sivard, and Varland, and Vidrick, and of the good horse

Skimming, and of King Waldemar and his queen Dagmar; whilst the young

man stood by, his hand in his breast, and his eyes upon the ground,

listening and musing.

"The rain is quite over," said the old clergyman, turning to the

student; "let us go into the garden, for the sultry air is not yet out

of the house. See here, how dry it is beneath these chestnut trees,

notwithstanding the pelting shower we have had; and mark how the drops

patter from leaf to leaf above our heads! A severe storm this has

been. At one time, I thought our church was struck by lightning: I am

sure the thunderbolt fell very near the steeple. But see yonder, what

a splendid rainbow! It looks exactly as if it had one foot in my

meadow. Let us sit here awhile, my dear young friend: the bench is

quite dry. Ah! how fragrant smells the tobacco in the fresh open air!

But you do not appreciate it. You prefer a Danish ditty to all the

aromatic vapours of the noble Nicotian herb."

And to gratify his young guest, the minister struck up the beautiful

Danish air--"_Jeg gik mig ud en Sommerdag at höre_"--beating the time

with his long pipe-stick of Hungarian cherry. The eyes of the

sensitive student were already dim with tears, when the plaintive song

was interrupted by the clergyman's fair-haired daughter, who, came

bounding down the garden.

"Father, John has come, and wants to speak to you."

"Which John?" asked the minister.

"John Thorsen," replied the young lady. "Shall I send him to you?"

"No, child, I will go to him. I know what he wants. It is about his

son's christening. Excuse me for a moment, my friend."

In less than five minutes the clergyman returned.

"Are you disposed for a short walk?" he said: "I must visit one of my

parishioners. I may, perhaps, have an opportunity to show you

something more worthy your antiquarian attention than the legend of St

Matthew and his fountain."[17]

[17] A mineral spring in the parish of Vinding, dedicated to St

Matthew by the monks of a neighbouring convent, which existed there

previously to the Reformation.

The two men took hat and stick and followed the peasant, who led them

through the village to his little farm, across a garden and a small

meadow, till he stopped before a knoll of ground, and turned to his

companions.

"Your reverence must know," said he, "that here upon the hillock, and

round about, an oak copse formerly grew, for which reason we still

call the field 'Oak Meadow,' although no one now living remembers any

oaks here save yonder old one, cloven by this day's lightning. It was

quite hollow, but that could not be seen till now. If your reverence

will take the trouble to come up the knoll--stay, give me your hand, I

will help you."

"Thank you, my son," said the minister, "I can do without assistance."

And the worthy man gently ascended the little eminence. One half of

the huge oak still stood erect, surmounted by rich green foliage--the

other moiety had been riven away by the lightning's power--and the

whole interior of the tree was exposed to view like an open cupboard.

It was melancholy to behold this forest monarch thus rent and

overthrown, his verdant crown defaced and trailing in the dust. But

this reflection found no place in the minds of either clergyman or

student--their attention was engrossed by a variety of objects that

lay in a confused heap in the cavity of the oak. Upon near examination

these proved to consist of the remains of a human skeleton, which, to

judge from the position of the bones, must have stood upright in the

tree, its arms extended upwards. A pair of large iron spurs, several

nails and brass buckles, a long sword, nearly consumed by rust, pieces

of iron and brass belonging to a dragoon's helmet, some coins of the

reign of Charles Gustavus, and finally a broad gold finger-ring, were

also discovered. Upon the last the initials J. S. were plainly

legible; and on the hilt of the sword, as on some of the fragments of

metal, were the letters F.R.F.D., standing for First Regiment Finland

Dragoons.

Although it was at once evident that these relics had not the age

requisite to give them value in antiquarian eyes, the student and his

venerable friend did not the less examine them with strong interest.

On their way to the oak, the minister and Johann Thorsen had told

their companion the story of the Swedish sergeant, and his wonderful

disappearance. The tradition was current amongst the peasantry, and

some details of it were still in existence in an old vestry register.

That day's storm had cleared up the marvel, and explained the

mystery,--there could be no doubt that the skeleton discovered in the

oak was that of poor Svartberg. The letters upon the sabre and

buckles, and especially those upon the gold ring, sufficiently proved

this; the latter unquestionably stood for Jon Svartberg. It was

evident that the young Swede, pursued by those from whom he had little

mercy to expect, and impeded in running by the weight of his

accoutrements had climbed the oak for safety, and had slipped down

into the hollow, between whose narrow sides he got closely wedged, and

was thence unable to extricate himself. There he remained immured

alive in a living sarcophagus; and there upon every one of seven-score

succeeding springs, the deceitful oak (like Dead-Sea apples, all

freshness without and rottenness within) had put forth, above his

mouldering remains, a wreath of brilliant green.

Upon the same Sunday on which little Thor Hansen was christened in the

church of Vinding, Svartberg's remains were consigned to consecrated

ground. John Thorsen and the student stood beside his grave: the old

minister threw earth upon his ashes and wished him good rest. Some

sorry jesters in the village-tavern opined he would need it, after

being, so long upon his legs.

SKETCHES IN PARIS.

So fleeting are the scenes of revolutionary history--so phantasmagoric

are they in their character, as well from their quickly evanescent

nature as from their wild and startling effect--so rapid are the

changes that every day, and almost every hour, produce, that before

they can be well sketched they have flitted away from before the eyes,

to be replaced by others as strange and startling. Those that have

been hastily transferred to the note-book are gone as soon as traced:

those that follow upon the next leaf grow pale, however high and bold

their colouring, by the side of the still more vivid picture that is

placed in contrast the next day. The interest of the present swallows

up that of the past: that of the future will shortly devour the

interest of the present. In no country is the difficulty of seizing

the revolutionary physiognomy before it changes, and stamping it in

permanent daguerreotype, more sensible than among the easily excited,

and consequently ever-changeful French--in no place on the earth more

than in that fickle and capricious city, the capital of revolutionised

France. There, more than elsewhere, the scenes of revolution have the

attribute of dissolving views. They are before your eyes at one

moment: as you still gaze, they change--they run into other colours

and other forms,--they have given way to a complete transformation.

Such scenes have all the effect of the flickering, uncertain, and

varying phantom pictures of the _mirage_ of the desert: and this

effect, so observable in the outward state of things,--in the aspect

of the streets, in the tumult, or the sulky calm, in the rapidly

rolling panorama of the day, changed in all its objects and its

colours on the morrow,--is just as remarkable in moral influences, in

the enthusiasm of one hour, which becomes execration in the next; in

the hope, the fear, the confidence, and the despair. This is true, and

perhaps even to a greater extent, in men, as well as things or deeds.

Have we not seen so lately the hero, the idol, the demigod of one

moment, become, by a sudden and almost unconnected transition, the

object of hatred, suspicion, and mistrust, at another? On such

occasions the dissolving views have scarcely time to dissolve.

Nothing, then, is a more difficult or a more thankless task, than to

sketch scenes of a revolutionary time among such a rapidly

self-revolutionising people. Scarcely is the scene sketched, but it is

superseded by one of newer, and consequently more powerful interest;

its effect has faded utterly away; it is old, _rococo_,

unsatisfactory: the new one alone claims every eye, and the tribute of

all emotions. With such fearful express-train hurry and dash does

history rush along, that the history of yesterday seems already

"ancient" history, and the tale of the last hour "a tale of other

times," no longer fit to command a thought, or excite a sensation; or,

at best, it may be said to belong only to those grubbing antiquaries

in political considerations, who live out of the whirling movement of

their age. On those who linger among such scenes, this feeling is so

powerfully impressed that they seem to themselves to grow old with

frightful rapidity, and to have lived ten years at least in as many

days.

Thus, in opening a Parisian Sketch-book, in which many a scene has

been traced during the last few months, the feeling that the sketches

therein hastily made are already too old, too "flat, stale, and

unprofitable," to please the novelty-craving public eye,--that even

the latest, while being exhibited, may be thrown into the shade by

newer and more vivid scenes, which would afford subjects for fresher

pictures,--deters from their exhibition. But still there _may be_ some

of those grubbing antiquaries in revolutionary history, who may not be

sorry to have a specimen of "old times" in the shape of a vignette or

two drawn upon the spot, although it was done yesterday, or even the

day before, placed within his hands; and so the Sketch-book shall be

opened, and turned over at hap-hazard, and a few sketches of

revolutionary Paris offered to public gaze.

See! first of all we fall upon a rapid tracing or two of scenes from

those wild abysses, in which have sunk industry, trade, confidence,

and principle--the _ateliers nationaux_. The pencil of a moral

Salvator Rosa is alone worthy to paint them! But great breadth of

light and shade, and powerful colouring, must not be sought for in a

scrap of a vignette. Perhaps we have not stumbled so utterly _malà

propos_ upon these pictures; for since the _ateliers nationaux_ were

so intimately connected with the pretexted causes, and the fearful

organisation, of the bloody insurrection in the latter end of June,

they may be supposed, as events go rattling on, to belong to the

"middle ages" of the past French revolutionary history, and not to be

so positively lost already in its "dark ages" as to have become

utterly uninteresting.

The sketch is taken in the park of Monceaux, at the western extremity

of the capital. The old trees stand there pretty nearly as they did,

although some have been cut down or torn up, no one can well say why,

unless it may have been from a spirit of devastation for devastation's

sake; the old clumps, and the grass-plots, although sadly worn, are

still there; but how different is the aspect of the spot from that

which might have been sketched last year in the same sweet

spring-tide! The calm and the make-believe rurality are gone. Where

nurse-maids and children gambolled on the greensward, or a couple of

lovers lingered so near the tumult of the capital, and yet so secluded

and unobserved, or the dreamer lounged to dream at ease, although the

roar of the great city still rang in his ears, is now a scene of

confusion and disorder. A herd of miserable, or idle and reckless men,

have been there got together; and the spot has been allotted as one of

the newly constituted revolutionary national workshops. "Workshops!"

what irony in the word! Work there is none for the wretched men to do;

profit there is none, at the very best, to expect from it. The

impoverished and harassed country is burdened with new taxes, to keep

the dangerous and disorderly in a seeming state of quiet; the fears of

a government, or even its treacherous designs, call for funds from all

the country to pay this herd of men, who prefer eating the bread of

idleness as their due--for have not they been told that they are the

masters, and that the country must support them?--to earning their

bread by the sweat of their brow, when they are enabled to do it: and

all this sacrifice shall not hereafter avert the danger anticipated by

those fears.

The first impression conveyed by the scene is that, some how or other,

we have been suddenly transported into the "back woods" of a

Transatlantic settlement. A few huts of wood are knocked up in

different parts under the trees, for the use of those paid

superintendents who have nothing to superintend, and who only aid in

fostering the passions of the wild men whom they are vainly said to

have under their command, and in organising into revolutionary bands,

to work the will of a disappointed and frantic party, a host of

half-savage beings, disorganised to every social tie. The hundreds of

half-dressed men who are grouped hither and thither, with instruments

of labour in their hands, might be supposed, were they really employed

upon any exertion, to be the settlers, occupied in effecting a

clearance. Some even might be taken, from their wild looks and wilder

gestures, for a few of the last remnants of the aboriginal savages,

who had just sold the heritage of their fathers for deep draughts of

the "fire-water." But when we look more nearly to the details in the

composition of the picture, we shall find component parts of it

perfectly exceptional, and peculiarly belonging to the circumstances

of the place and of the day. Some of the men in the groups, it is

true, bear all the air of sturdy workmen, although they are

demoralised by their position of real idleness, that "root of all

evil," and disgusted with having their energies employed upon

"make-believe" work. "Make-believe" indeed! for children could

scarcely be seduced into the fantasy that they were really doing any

labour of positive utility. Some again are strong men, capable of

bearing exertion as settlers or forest clearers; but they are not the

men of the "woods and wilds." Those hands plunged down into the deep

pockets of their full trowsers, without the least show of willingness

to work; those heads tossed back, that sharp cunning roll of the evil

eye, that leer, that sardonic grin, that mouth carelessly pursed up to

whistle, all betray the common city-thief, who knows not why he should

not share in the bounty of the country to the idle and disorderly,

particularly when his own trade thrives so ill in these days of the

patrollings and marchings, and drummings about the streets, by night

as well as day, of the national guards: among those faces, also, we

may find the dark scowl of the branded felon and the murderer. But

look at those pale puny men, with their lank hair and scanty beards!

How out of place they seem in these "backwoods" of civilisation! How

miserably they hang their heads, and look upon the earth! They are the

poor weavers, and fabricators of jewellery, and makers of all kinds of

articles of luxury, whose trade is closed to them by the ruin caused

to all wealth and luxury by the revolution, and who are out of employ.

They are real objects of charity: and they are true objects of pity

also, as they thus stand, unable and unwilling to work at their

useless trades, and brood over their misery, and think of their wives

and babes, for whom they, who might have before earned a decent

livelihood, must now beg, from a nation's reckless charity, a scanty

subsistence. Poor woe-begone wretches! they have cursed the revolution

in the bitterness of their hearts; although by a strange but not

uncommon revulsion of feeling, they will throw themselves, perhaps,

soon into the arms of their enemy, and espouse, in despair, its

wildest, bloodiest doctrines, with the hope that any change, however

desperate, may tend to relieve them from their utter misery, but to

find out, at last, that they have plunged into a still more fearful

abyss. Look! in that corner, beneath that further clump of trees, are

some who have thrown themselves gloomily upon the ground, to dream of

a gloomy future; or lean their backs against the stems, to raise their

eyes despairingly to heaven; or see! perhaps they laugh wildly, to

affect a gaiety far from their hearts. Poor fellows! The deity they

have worshipped is thrown down from the high pedestal on which they

had put her up aloft, or one is replaced by another, wearing a

hideously coarse red cap of liberty; their fair dream, in which they

lived, has flown, with its bright rainbow colours, and left before

them nothing but a naked, rugged, hideous reality; the poetry, as well

as the necessary materialism of their lives, have been cut off at

once; the pleasant sward, on which they trod forward, "with daisies

pied," has terminated on a sudden, upon an abyss formed by the

unexpected convulsion of an earthquake. Their divinity was Art; she

has fled with a sob before the advance of coarse democracy, that

proclaims her a useless and foolish idol. Their dream was the worship

in the temple of Art; the temple has fallen to the ground, and the

rainbow coruscations of its altar have vanished. The path which was to

lead on to fame and fortune has abruptly terminated. There is no hand

to foster the neglected and degraded deity; the poor artists, who were

just commencing their career, are now reduced to penury: for the most

part, these poor orphan children of art are penniless--almost

houseless; they have been forced to lay aside the brush for the spade

or pick-axe--the brightly-coloured pallet for the dull earth; and now

they brood here, in the _ateliers nationaux_, over their fantasies

flown and their real misery--happy even that they can receive the

national pittance to prevent them from starving. Look to those young

men, sprinkled here and there in the groups--boys, they are almost

sometimes--with their thin delicate mustaches, and their hair arranged

with some coquetry of curl, even in the midst of their disorder, and

in spite of the _blouse_ with which their attire is covered. Look at

their hands! they are white and delicate--they are not used to handle

the implements of labour. If they work, the drops of perspiration

trickle over their pale faces like tears which _will_ find a passage,

even if the eyes refuse to let them go. They have been evidently used,

the weak boys, to a certain degree of luxury, and their harsh

occupation is repugnant to their feelings. They are young lads from

the many shops of the luxuries of manufacture of every kind in

formerly flourishing Paris, which have now closed in consequence of

the ruin and desolation that has fallen upon trade. Those who have not

shut up entirely, have discharged the greater part of their former

servitors, who now are turned adrift in hundreds upon the _pavé_ of

Paris, and know not how or where to seek their bread. Those hands have

been accustomed to handle the velvet, the satin, and the lace, and

shrink back from the contact of the rough wood and cutting stone: but

starve they cannot, and they add to the wild motley crew of the

_ateliers nationaux_. Those discontented affected faces are those of

young actors, and singers also, improvident to a proverb, who have

been left exposed to the rude buffetings of the world by the failure

of several of the theatres, which have not been able to meet the

necessities of revolutionary times, when even Parisians--even

theatrical Parisians--desert the theatres for the club-rooms, and

which have closed their bankrupt doors. What a change, again, from the

illusion of the glittering dress, and the lighted scene, and the

heart-fluttering applause, to the stern realities of poverty and

labour. Among such men as these are young rising authors also, who

have thrown aside the uncertain resource of the pen for the scanty but

sure return of public charity, with a pretence of labour. The

_ateliers nationaux_ have become the only salvation, in the suspension

of literature as well as art, of the poor poet or novelist who does

not dip his pen in the black gall of ultra-republican democracy, and

earn a scanty subsistence as journalist in one of the "thousand and

one" new violent republican journals of the day--for such a one alone

can find his reader and his profit. But such figures as these among

the groups are the bright lights, sad as they may be, of the picture.

The greatest mass of the herd of so-called workmen consists of those

accustomed to labour and to hardship, or of those who have been inured

to play all parts, and fill all situations, by long acquaintance with

all the necessities of crime.

What a strange scene these pensioners of the republican government

form!--stranger still when the nature of the supposed work upon which

they are believed to be engaged is considered. It is not by any means

the half of the assembled herd, however, that makes any show of

working at all. See! several hundreds of men are moving backwards and

forwards, with wheelbarrows, over the more vacant spaces of the now

desolate-looking park; they move from a hole to a heap, from a heap to

a hole. At the one, men are lazily making a pretext of digging up the

earth--at the other, of shovelling it upon a mound. To what purpose?

To none whatever. When the heap begins to grow too big not to be added

to without exertion, it is again demolished; the earth is wheeled off

elsewhere; another heap of earth is made upon another spot, or the

hole that has been made is again filled. It is the endless task of the

Danaïdes, condemned to fill a bottomless tun, on which they are

engaged; or it is that of the web of Penelope, undone as soon as done:

but it is without the advantage of the punishment of the one, or of

the purpose of the other. But see, in the back-ground, a party have

grown ashamed of the futile absurdity of the employment upon which

they are vainly engaged. In order to give a faint and frivolous

colouring to their acceptation of their wages of idleness, they have

thrown down their misused implements, and, like a party of

school-boys, they have put their so-called superintendents into their

wheelbarrows, and are wheeling them up and down amidst shouts and

cries, and yells of the hideous Ca Ira. This, however, is but poor

sport in comparison with the recreation that many of the national

workmen permit themselves, for the good of the nation.

For instance, those knots of men which stand here and there, in thick

encircling masses, whence issues the sound of many voices of

declamation, of shouts, or of murmurs--and where now and then heads

may be seen of eager and wildly-gesticulating orators, who have

mounted upon the bottoms of upturned wheel-barrows in order to

spout--have formed themselves into _al fresco_ clubs, in which they,

the masters and arbiters of the destinies of the country, as they have

been taught to believe themselves, are settling the affairs of the

nation according to their own views, or rather according to the

frantic opinions instilled into them as a poisonous draught, rushing

like fire through their veins, and disturbing and corrupting the whole

system, by the violent demagogic orators of a furious disappointed

party, whom they imitate second-hand, and naturally caricature, if

possible, to a still greater excess of anarchist doctrine. Listen to

them! under the hot-bed fostering influence of the _ateliers

nationaux_, or rather of their instigators and supporters, they have

got far beyond Louis Blanc, the high-priest of the one deity of the

Republican trinity, _Egalité_, and his utopian talent-levelling

theories for the organisation of labour. Listen to the declamations

that come rolling forth from these crowds. They are illustrative of

communistic doctrines to the utmost limits of communism. The

declaration that all property in land is a spoliation of the people,

and a crying iniquity--that the soil of the earth belongs to the

community, to the nation at large; that it must all be confiscated,

seized, and placed in the hands of the _Res publica_, to be

administered for the public good; that the profits of its culture must

be distributed equally amongst all--is but the A B C of the long

alphabet of communistic principles, which they proclaim in the name of

humanity, and to the advantage of themselves. It is needless to run

through every letter. The omega--the great O--which is to prove the

result of all their declamations, is, that if the National Assembly

does not decree this general confiscation, they will take up arms

against it; that they have once made the stones of the street rise at

their command, and that they will make them rise again, when the time

shall come, to do once more their bidding. And how have they kept

their word? The blood-red standard of that fantastic vision of blood,

the _République Sociale et Démocratique_, the Republic of spoliation

and destruction, is raised aloft in the _ateliers nationaux_, to be

planted hereafter upon the deadly barricades of June. And round these

open conspiracies, under the sky of heaven, and in the face of men,

see, there stand the brigadiers, and superintendents and masters put

over them by the government, with their hands in their pockets; and

they listen and applaud. Look, also, at the furious frown of the

orator on the wheel-barrow, in the midst of his yelling companions of

the national workshops. How he knits his brows, and rolls his eyes,

with a tiger aspect! This is all "make-believe" again; for he thinks

it necessary for an "only true and pure" republican to make a terrible

face, to the alarm and terror of all supposed aristocrats. Republicans

did it, and were painted so in former days; and, to be a real

republican, he must do the same: and his associates follow his

example, and frown, and roar, and denounce like himself. All this is

playing a part. But when they have learned by heart the part that they

are rehearsing now, under yon trees, in the transmogrified park of

Monceaux, they will play it as their own to the life--nay, to the

death! If we were to approach that fellow in the _blouse_ there, who

is lying on his back on a hillock, reposing from his fatigues of doing

nothing, and _jerking_ lazy puffs of blue-white smoke into the pure

spring air from the short clay-pipe that almost seems to grow out of

his mass of beard, we may get perhaps to some comprehension of the

tenets of the _braves ouvriers_ of the _ateliers nationaux_; for,

after all, although we are gentlemen, and he weens himself our lord

and master, he looks like a _bon homme_, and he may condescend to

expound to us his principles of "liberty, equality, and fraternity,"

upon the best-avowed communist, socialist, and ultra-republican

system. Let us ask him who are the people? It is we--we who have

nothing, and are not rascally thievish proprietors--we are the people;

and the sovereignty of the people belongs to us, he will tell you. If

you insinuate to him that, according to the laws of equality, you

ought to have your own little share of this sovereignty, he will

reply--No such thing--you are not of the people, you are, a

_bourgeois_, a _mange-tout_, an _accapareur_, a _riche_, a _fainéant_

(what is _he_ doing?) an _aristocrate_: this last word is the climax

of the terms of objurgation. Endeavour to explain to him, or to convey

by inuendo, that "aristocrats," in all languages, mean those who

pretend alone and exclusively to the exercise of the sovereignty of a

country, he will scowl upon you with contempt, and, without deigning

to analyse your definition, will again declare that you lie if you

pretend to be of the people, which is sovereign, and not you.

The picture is a fanciful, and not an unpicturesque one. There is a

wildness about the bearded haggard faces, and the disconsolate looks;

there is colour enough in the blue _blouses_, the red cravats, the

blood-red scarfs of the brigadiers, and the uniforms of the young men

of the schools, who superintend: the background of the old trees, with

the log-huts peeping out from among them, is well disposed. The

greensward is below--the clear blue spring sky above. There is

brightness enough about the picture; but dark and gloomy are the

passions smouldering within the hearts of those men--passions that

find vent now in short hasty ebullitions, like puffs of steam let off

from a safety-valve, in their political declamations, but that shortly

will burst out in terrific explosion, and cover Paris with devastation

and destruction.

Let us open the Sketch-book once more, at a picture again representing

one of these same _ateliers nationaux_, after a change in the

government of the country. The National Assembly has met. Several of

the more experienced and far-seeing members of that confused body have

seen the misery of this filthy sore upon the body of the commonwealth;

they have probed the ulcering wound; they have foreseen, like good

political doctors, that gangrene and mortification of the whole social

state of France, and death, to all its last chances of life in

prosperity, must result from such a state of things. They have

denounced the whole corrupted system with energy. The government has

confessed the misery and the danger of the national workshops, as they

were constituted: it has promised that they shall be entirely

reorganised, that the tares of evil men shall be sundered from the

wheat of good and honest, but suffering workmen; that some shall be

draughted off, that the works shall be made useful and productive,

that the superintendents shall be replaced; the chiefs, suspected of

encouraging sedition and insurrectionary tendencies, removed; the

abuses in the administration of the funds rectified. Much has been

promised: and, until the needy workmen can be removed into the

provinces, in order to be employed upon railroads and canals, and

other great public works, or, where it is possible, upon labours

congenial to their education, the Assembly has consented to close its

eyes, and hope that the dangerous _ateliers nationaux_ are gradually

acquiring a healthier and more prosperous aspect.

Let us turn, then, to a sketch of the workshops in their reorganised

state. We seek it out with more cheerful hopes; and, in order to

change the background of our picture, let us look in the direction of

the eastern outskirts of Paris, and investigate the scene presented by

the national workshops upon the little plain of St Maur. Before we

arrive there, however, we shall fall upon another sketch, which is not

without its characteristic traits, as illustrative of the history of

revolutionising Paris. Those masses of towers that rise from the midst

of walls surrounded by moats, not far from the roadside, and are

flanked and backed by the low trees of thick woods at a little

distance, belong to the fortress of Vincennes. Within these towers,

connected with many a dark page of French history, are confined those

frantic and disappointed demagogues, who on the 15th of May

endeavoured to overthrow the Assembly, constituted by universal

suffrage as the sovereign power of the country, and to substitute

their own regime of tyranny and terror in its place. There sit the

moody Barbés, whose ideas of republicanism go no further than constant

subversion of "what _is_;" and the cold-blooded and cunning, but

ferocious Blanqui, that strange mixture in character, as well as in

physiognomy, of the fox and the wolf; there mourns Albert, so lately

one of the autocratic rulers of the country--the workman who, not

content with his temporary power, helped to plot its return under

bloody auspices. There are many others of those furious

ultra-republicans, who dreamed of founding a government upon pillage,

and supporting it by the guillotine. Those towers, in fact, contain

the leaders upon whom a furious party counts, as the master-spirits

who are to lead it on to power. Their liberation from confinement is

the dream of the party: in every _émeute_ with which the streets of

Paris has been almost daily, or rather nightly, animated, the cry has

been, "_Vive Barbés!_" in the fearful insurrection and the civil

conflicts of June, the name of Barbés was the rallying cry. Long

before that period of terrific memory, the government knew that plots

were constantly being laid for the surprise of the fortress, and the

liberation of the prisoners. When, led on by the chiefs of the ultra

clubs, a band of so-called _ouvriers_ waited upon the minister of the

interior, to inform him that an immense monster fraternity banquet was

to be held in the forest of Vincennes on a certain day,--they were met

by the reply of the minister, that no day could be better chosen,

inasmuch as he had appointed that very day for a grand review, on the

same spot, of all the troops of Paris, who would thus have an

opportunity of fraternising with their "brethren of the workshops."

The monster banquet was, consequently, never held,--or rather it was

held in the streets of Paris; and the people banquetted upon carnage,

and blood, and the still quivering limbs of the unhappy _Gardes

Mobiles_. But that dread hour is not yet come, at the time the sketch

is taken. Aware of the designs of the conspirators, the government has

sent reinforcements to protect the fortress of Vincennes. The whole

forest around is now a camp. In the midst looms the donjon, with its

towers and walls, a dark and gloomy prison house: the cannon is on the

battlements; the garrison is on duty, as if the fortress were at that

moment in a state of siege; and, strikingly contrasting with this

stern spectre of stone, is the scene presented by the wooded environs.

It partakes of the camp and the fair. The whole place is beleaguered

with troops. But if you look among the trees, you will see the tents

gleaming forth from among the green. Pickets are scattered here and

there; now you see a body of troops of the line drawn up under arms;

there again they are reposing upon the grass, or playing among

themselves. At intervals comes up the white smoke of a fire, at which

the mid-day meal of the soldiers is being cooked, from among the

trees; then _improviso al fresco_ kitchens are glimmering, and

crackling, and smoking heavily in all directions. The jaunty

_vivandières_, in their short blue petticoats, their tight red jacket

boddices, and their little boots, with hats, bearing tricolor-cockades,

stuck jauntily on the sides of their heads, are serving out wine to

red-epauletted and red-breeched soldiers under the green branches,

from their little painted barrels; and booths there are in every

direction, with canvass coverings, gleaming out from the low forest,

where there are wine and cider venders, and where sausages and other

savoury dainties are being fired by little hand-stoves upon the

ground. Venders of pamphlets and newspapers, all for one sou, are

there also in herds, to tempt the young soldiers to buy their

ultra-republican literary wares; and there may be a deeper purpose

than mere speculation in the movements of some of the herd. Petty

merchants there are also moving about, with every imaginable article

of petty merchandise; ragged men with cracked voices, old women, and

children of both sexes, are among these speculators upon the scanty

purses of the military. The scene is gay and diversified, but it is

sadly confused; and above all, when its component parts, and their

various details be considered, it tells a sad tale of a city close by,

given up to all the miseries of opposition, hatred, suspicion,

mistrust, and active conspiracy.

Pass we on, then, to the picture of the reorganised national

workshops,--of the reorganisation of which so much boast has been made

by members of the government: we come to it at last, having only

turned over, on our way, a leaf containing another sketch, which

caught our eye in passing.

The scene is devoid of all the picturesque accessories of the park of

Monceaux. It represents one of those desert, chalky, open space, that

so violently offend the eye in the environs of Paris. In the distance

are suburb houses, and scaffoldings of unfinished buildings, and heaps

of stone, and mounds of earth,--all is dry, harsh, barren, desolate;

it is glaring and painful to the sense in the bright sunlight; it is

dreary, muddy, more desolate and offensive still in the time of rain.

The sun, however, is bright and hot enough now, when the sketch is

taken, about the middle of June. The brains of the thousand and nine

workmen, who have been collected in the middle space of the picture,

are seething probably beneath that hot sun, and fermenting to

desperate schemes. What a pandemonium is represented by this desolate

little plain, occupied by the reorganised national workmen. If they

have been reorganised, it is only to worse confusion. They are more

reckless, more lazy, more noisy, more insubordinate than ever. Those

alone are quiet who lie snoring on their bulks in the sunshine; but

they will wake ere long, and to active and bloody work, I trow. Yonder

is a group employed, as if the welfare of the nation depended upon it,

in the interesting and instructive game of _bouchon_, or of throwing

_sous_ at a cork; all their energies and their activity, engaged to

earn their pay, are occupied in this work. They are merry and

thoughtless, however; but wait! their merriment is but for the moment,

and bloody thoughts will be awakened in them before long, under the

pernicious influence of those who are allowed to wander among them,

and instil poison in their ears. Look! there are jovial fellows

reeling about under the influence of strong drink,--they have already

thrown away all disguise--they cry "_Vive Barbés! Vive la République

Démocratique et Sociale! A bas tout le monde!_" They at least show

that they are ripe for revolt. Some brandish their spades in their

hands--for here again is the same pretence of work, and of wheeling

earth from one heap to another--and shout the Marseillaise in hideous

chorus, or the "_Mourir pour la patrie_;" and anon they change their

song to the Ca Ira of fearful memory; for the other republican ditties

are not advanced enough for the bold would-be heroes of the "Red

Republic." Here is one squatting under a bare hillock of earth, and

piping all alone, in melancholy tone, upon a clarionet; but his

musical efforts are as miserably out of time and tune, as are his

seeming bucolics under the circumstances. Another has got upon a

mound, and is fiddling to a set of fellows who are dancing the horrid

Carmagnole, with gestures and faces that need only the pikes, with

trunkless heads on them, of the old revolution, to make the scene

complete. But the scene _will be completed soon_; bayonets shall bear

heads upon their points, and the Carmagnole shall be danced behind

barricades around mutilated bodies. "_Vivent les Ateliers Nationaux!_"

Look at that group who are lowering darkly among themselves, and hold

on to each others' _blouses_ in the energy of their suppressed and

whispered converse. See! there is another there upon the plain, and

there again another such a crowd. They look like conspirators,--and in

truth conspirators they are, communicating to each other the plans for

the approaching insurrection. And this passes in open day, and we may

be there to witness and even to hear; and the whole city shakes its

head, and in vague apprehension expects the crisis that is about to

come. And yet it will be said by ministers, and ministerial agents,

that the national workshops are reorganised,--yes, reorganised to

bloodshed and revolt! And no means will be taken by the government to

control or suppress--it will not even attempt to stem--the torrent it

has wilfully dammed up in these organised clubs of sedition. None now

even deign to make a show of working, or, if the overseers come by and

shake their heads, they take up their spades, and digging up a little

earth, fling it, laughing in confident impunity, upon the back of the

superintendent as he turns away. In the hands of such men as these,

the pickaxes and spades have the air of the weapons of a murderous

crew; and how soon will they not be used to aid them to purposes of

murder! And this scene of confusion, and reckless effrontery, is

sketched from the life at one of the national workshops in their

_reorganised_ state. Bright it is not, but it might shame one of

Callot's most wild and turbulent pictures, such as he alone has shown

how to etch.

Connected with such scenes as these, in as far as they tended to

produce the last stirring sketches with which the Parisian Sketch-book

was filled in the month of June, are others, which can only be

fleetingly turned over. There is the large dingily lighted club-room,

with its dark tribune, its president and secretaries and accolytes,

dressed in blue smocks, with blood-red scarfs and cravats--its fiery

orators denouncing the _bourgeois_ to the hatred of the working

classes, and instilling division, rancour, battle to the death between

classes, with violent gesture and frowning brow; and its benches and

galleries filled with a fermenting crowd, that yells and clamours, and

applauds the sentiment of "hatred and death" to the _bourgeois_. It is

no uninteresting, although a heart-wearying _chiaro-oscuro_ scene,

with its strong lights and dark shades--albeit, in its moral as well

as its material aspect, the lights are few, the shades many, and dark

to utter blackness. Connected with the same _suite_ of subjects, also,

is the nature of the small room in the crooked streets of the _Cité_,

or the suburb, with a table spread with papers, around which sit

bearded full-faced men, discussing sternly, as may be seen by the

scanty lamplight that illumines those haggard physiognomies; it is the

room of the conspirators of the "Red Republic," or of the

revolutionary agents to be despatched throughout the country, and into

other lands, to propagandise the doctrine of destruction to all that

_is_. But this scene must surely be a fancy sketch. Connected, also,

is that black sketch of a cellar, in which are concealed arms, guns,

pistols, lead, cartridges, barrels of powder, that have evidently

fallen into the hands of subversive anarchist conspirators, by means

of the connivance, treachery, or at least culpable negligence of those

placed in power by the sovereign Assembly, and that have been conveyed

thither hidden in wood, in bales, in sacks, amidst provisions.

Connected, also, are many other gloomy vignettes. The scribbler in the

small room, writing with a sneer of bitterness upon his lip, and the

stamp of overflowing bile on his pale face, writing with the red cap

of liberty on his head, as if to inspire his brains with visions of

all the horrors of a past revolution, glancing now and then, for a

hint, at the portraits of Marat and Robespierre, which decorate his

room, and grasping, now and then, the pistols on the table by his

side, as if to instil the smell of powder and the breath of murder

into the very lines he writes;-and again, the printing press worked by

the light of the dying candle;--and again, in the hazy morning, the

figure of the newspaper vender, swaggering down the boulevard, and

skreeching out, with hoarse voice, the "True Republic," or the

"People's Friend;" and of the deluded workman, who leans, after his

morning dram, against a post, and sucks in the revolutionary poison of

those prints, more deadly and damning to his mind, and more fatal to

his future existence, than the dram is deleterious to his health, and

pernicious to his future life; and prepares his mind for the bayonet

and the gun-barrel, by which he means to destroy all those detested,

and, his paper tells him, detestable beings, who have toiled to

possess any wealth, while he possesses nothing;--and again, by night,

the meeting of the man in power and the discontented conspirator, in

the well-appointed apartment, where a hideous deed of treachery is to

be plotted; or of the wavering workman--who fears he is about to

plunge into greater misery, and yet hopes the realisation of the false

promises made him--standing, still uncertain, to listen to the voice

of the tempting instigator to rebellion under the gas lamp at the

obscure street corner, on a drizzling night. All these are sketches

connected with the past ones of the national workshops, and with those

to come; they lead on to the last in the dark series, irresistibly,

inevitably: but as most of them must necessarily be fancy sketches,

and not "taken from the life," let them be turned over hurriedly with

but a glance.

And those that follow--what a confused mass of startling subjects they

offer! See here! the bands of united men assembling by night, and

marching silently through the sleeping streets; then shouting and

tossing up their arms in open defiance; then the rising barricades,

all bristling with bayonets; then the national guards and troops

pouring through the streets; the smoke of the firing; the mass of

uniforms mounting the barricades; the tottering falling men; the

confusion; the bodies strewn hither and thither, of wounded and dead;

the struggle, hand to hand upon the barricades, of the _blouse_ with

the uniform of the national guard,--fury and hatred between fellow

countrymen in each face; the cavalry dashing down the boulevards; the

cannon rapidly dragged along; the tottering houses battered down; and

then the biers slowly borne upon sad men's shoulders, supporting the

dying or the dead; the carts filled with corpses; the wounded, upon

straw littered down on the pavement, attended by the doctor in his

common black attire, contrasting with the pure white cap and pinners

of the _sœur de charité_; the uniforms, now smeared with blood and

blackened by smoke, mingling with the long dark dress and falling

white collar of the administering priest. See! now again, in the midst

of the carnage and uproar and smoke, the young soldier of the day, the

_Garde Mobile_, borne on the shoulders of his comrades, and waving in

his hand the banner which he has wrested with valour from the hands of

the insurgents on the barricade; and women, even in the midst of the

terror and dismay, fling down flowers from the windows upon the heads

of these young defenders of their country--the perfume of the flower

mingling with the scent of stifling powder-smoke and the rank taint of

blood. See again! there is a cessation of the combat for a time; the

weary national guards are returning from the place of action. What a

picture does the vista of the boulevards present! Those who have any

knowledge of others passing by, stop them to fall upon the neck of a

familiar face, and embrace it in grateful thankfulness that even a

scarcely known acquaintance is saved from the frightful carnage that

has taken place; and men ask for their friends, and heads are shaken;

some have fallen, others return not; and in all the windows and the

doors are agonised female faces; and women rush out to scream for

husbands, fathers, and brothers, and follow those who they think can

tell them of their fate in frantic entreaty along the pavement; and

others sit more calmly at doorways, and watch, picking lint, in sad

apprehension for the future, and silently moistening, with their tears

of agonising uncertainty, that work which but too soon may be

moistened with blood. How dark, and yet how stirring, how exciting,

and yet how heart-rending, are these scenes! Then comes a sketch of a

subject that may hereafter be used for many a historical picture. See!

that fine old prelate, with his honest and firm face, and his white

hair contrasting with his dark brow: he is borne along, first in the

arms of confused and mingled men, insurgents and defenders of order

mixing in one common cause; then, upon a hastily constructed litter.

He lies in his episcopal robes: his face is mild and calm, although he

suffers pain; his words are words of Christian forgiveness and

heavenly hope, although he has been treacherously assassinated with

the words of peace and Christian charity in his venerable mouth; and

tears stream from the eyes of armed men, and trickle down their

beards; and fellows with fierce faces and gloomy brows kneel to kiss

his hand, that now grows colder and colder as he is borne, a victim

and a martyr, over the barricades of death, and sobs of remorse and

grief are heard among the infernal and battle-stained masses that line

his path. Is there then still a feeling of noble generosity among the

savages who form the great herd of the city which boasts itself to be

the most civilised in the world,--as if civilisation were indeed at so

low an ebb of retrograde tide? So there is still a sentiment of

religion among the mass of France? Or is this but the theatrical

display of men who live only in theatrical emotions, and will act a

part before the eyes of their fellow actors, even if it be to the

death? It might almost be supposed so--for now the dying prelate is

carried by, and gone--the moment for the display of emotions is past:

it is gone with that form. See! they are again with the musket on

their shoulder--the knife in the hand of women and children! The

scene is again, once more, one of smoke and carnage, and yells of

execration and blood.

And now again come other scenes of men scouring along the outskirt

plains of Paris. The insurgents are vanquished: the people of the Red

Republic fly, and leave traces of the colour of their appalling banner

in trails of blood; and there are pictures of soldiers and national

guards running to the chase, and shooting down the hunted men like

rabbits in an affrighted warren.--God have mercy on them all!

We turn over the leaves of the Sketch-book. It is over! The cannon no

longer fills the streets with the smoke of the battle-field. Ruined

houses compose a scene of hideous desolation in all the further

eastern and northern streets of Paris. Affrighted inhabitants begin to

crawl out of their houses. Windows are reopened. There is the air of

relief from terror upon many a face--and yet how sad an air of grief

and consternation pervades every scene in the vast city. The sun is

shining brightly and hotly over the capital: there is a flood of light

and heavenly love and brightness poured down upon the streets; but it

only calls up still more reekingly to heaven the vapour of the blood,

that goes up like an accusing spirit. How sadly, too, the bright

summer air, and its broad cheering lights upon the white houses and

the gilded balconies, contrast with the pale forms of the wearied and

wounded men who crawl about, and with the weeping women who sit

beneath the porchways, and with the coffins incessantly borne

along--not one, or two, or three, but twenty or thirty each hour--and

with the crape upon the arms of the men in uniform, or upon the hats,

and with the convulsed faces of the wounded and dying, who lie upon

their beds of down in the richly furnished apartment, or on the

pallets of the hospital, as they shine into the windows of the wounded

and dying. Bright as is the day of June, never was sadder scene

witnessed in any capital: civil war has never raged more furiously

within a city's walls since men conglomerated together in cities for

mutual advantage and protection. How many hearts have ached! how many

tears have been shed! how many wives are widows! how many children

fatherless! how many affianced girls, with fondly beating hearts, will

see the face of him they love in life no more! Oh, splendid sun of

June! what a mockery thou seemest to be in these pictures of this dark

Parisian scrap-book!

But the sun is shining still, and the little birds are twittering

merrily upon the house-tops, and the caged canaries chirp at windows,

and perchance there is the merry laugh of children. All these things

heed not the terror and desolation of the city. It is shining

still--into huge churches also, where thick masses of straw are

littered down, and the wounded lie in hundreds to overflowing--into

courts, where again is scattered straw, and again groan wounded and

dying--upon street-side pavements, where again are strewn these sad

beds of the victims of civil contention, excited by the most frantic

of delusions--and through narrow windows, into prison vaults and

palace cellars, where are crowded together masses of prisoners, who,

for the most part, regret not the part they have played in the scenes

of blood, and sit gloomily upon the damp stone, brooding over schemes

of vengeance upon the detested _bourgeois_, should they escape, and

the Red Republic ever be triumphant! It is shining still; and every

where it shines, it smiles upon misery: it seems to mock the doomed

unhappy city.

But there are still stirring, striking, unaccustomed scenes limned in

the Parisian Sketch-book. Paris has been declared in a state of siege

by the military autocrat, into whose hands the salvation of the

capital and the country from utter anarchy has been given. The scenes

of marching men and torrents of bayonets coming down the broad

boulevards, and sentinels at street corners, and patrols, and military

manœuvres, and galloping dragoons, and of drums beaten from

daybreak until late into the night, are nothing new to Paris: such

scenes have been traced upon its Sketch-book again and again, for the

last four disastrous months. But Paris has gone further now. See! in

these sketches it represents one vast camp. All along the broad vast

vista of the boulevards are whole regiments bivouacking: the horses

of the cavalry are stabled upon straw along the pavements, or around

the triumphal arches; arms are piled together at street corners: some

sleep upon the straw, while others watch as if in battle array. The

shops are still shut, although pale faces look from windows; and the

grateful inhabitants shower blessings upon those who have saved the

terrified people from the horrors of the Red Republic, the pillage,

and the guillotine; and ladies bring out food and wine from the

houses; and none think that they can find words enough to express

their gratitude, and praise the heroism of their defenders. Alas!

those who fought in that evil desperate cause showed equal heroism,

equal courage, still more reckless rage! What a strange scene it is,

this scene sketched in the streets! The closing scene of a

battle-field of unexampled carnage amidst a peaceful population--the

soldier and the tenderly nurtured lady placed side by side amidst the

wounded and the weary! the mourning of the bereaved family upon the

same spot with the first emotion of victory! Since the agitated and

disturbed city of Paris has existed, it has witnessed many wild and

strange scenes in its bloody and tormented history, but none perhaps

so glaring in their strange contrasts as these which have been last

painted in its Sketch-book. All over Paris similar pictures may be

limned. In the Place de la Concorde is again a camp, again piled arms

and cannon, and littered beds of straw, and cooking fires, and groups

of men in uniform, in all the various attitudes of the camp and

battle-field; and in the glittering Champs Elysées are tents and

temporary stabling, and horses, and assembled troops; and beneath the

fine trees of the garden of the Tuileries are grouped, in similar

fashion, battalions of the national guards of the departments, who

have hurried up to the defence of Paris, and who bivouac, night as

well as day, beneath the summer sky, in the once royal gardens. All

these scenes are strange and most picturesque, and would be even

pleasant ones, could the heart forget its terror and its grief--could

the sight of the uniforms, the muskets, and the bayonets be severed

from the sorrow and the despair, the bloodshed and the crime. In all

these scenes Paris has lost its usual aspect, to become a fortress and

a camp. The civil dress is rarely visible--the uniform is on almost

every back. The carriage and the public vehicle are rare in these

sketches; the dashing officer on horseback, the mounted ordnance, the

galloping squadrons, take their place. That thin man, with his slim

military waist, his long thin bronzed face, his thick mustaches and

tufted beard, and his dark, somewhat heavy, eyes gleaming forth from

beneath a calm but stern brow, who is riding at the head of a

brilliant staff, is General Cavaignac, the military commander of the

hour, the autocrat into whose hands the National Assembly of France

has confided its destinies. Although, when he removes his plumed hat

to salute those who receive him now with enthusiastic acclamations, he

exhibits a head partially bald, yet his general air is that of a man

in the full vigour of his best years, in the full active use of his

lithy form. See! at the head of another mounted group is a still

younger man of military command. His face is fuller and handsomer; and

his thick mustaches give him a rough bold look, which does not,

however, detract from his prepossessing appearance. This is the young

General de Lamoricière, also of African fame. He is now minister at

war. There are others, also, of the heroes of Algeria, who have not

fallen in the street combat, in which so many, who had earned a

reputation upon the open battle-field, received death by the hands of

their fellow-countrymen. In every sketch are to be seen, as prominent

figures, these military rulers of the destinies of France, which a few

days have again changed so rapidly. We cannot look upon their striking

portraits in these sketches, without asking ourselves how long Cæsar

and Anthony may be content to rule the country hand-in-hand, or how

soon the jealousy of the young generals may not be turned against each

other, and they may not leave the country once more a prey to the

dangers of a bloody faction; or which, if not more than one, may not

fall a victim to the treachery of a vanquished party's vengeance by

assassination? The leaves of the book are blank as regards the future.

No one can venture to trace even the slightest outline upon them, with

the assurance that it may hereafter be filled up as it has been drawn:

and yet that those blank leaves must and will be filled with startling

pictures once again, no one can doubt. How far will these young

generals supply the most prominent figures in them? together, or

sundered in opposition? The hand of fate is ready to trace those

sketches; but never was that hand more hidden in the dark cloud of

unfathomable mystery. The blank leaves of the album, in which the

observing and self-regulating man keeps a daily journal of his doings

and his thoughts, are always awful to contemplate: no thinking man can

look upon them without asking himself what words, for good or for ill,

may be recorded on them. But how far more awful still is the book of

fate, upon the leaves of which are to be sketched the stirring scenes

of a revolutionary city's history, so intimately connected with a

country's destiny! and no one can tell what they may be.

The last sketch in the Parisian Sketch-book, as it is now filled

up--now in the middle of the month of July (for others may be painting

even as these lines are traced)--is the dark monster hearse containing

the bodies of those who have fallen in the cause of order--the

black-behung altar in that _Place_, which has lost its name of Concord

and Peace, to take the more suitable one of "Revolution"--the

catafalk--the burning candelabras--the black-caparisoned horses that

drag the funeral-car--the black draperied columns of the

Madeleine--the authorities in mourning attire--the long

procession--the sprinkled clouds of burning incense from the waved

censers--and the widow's tears.

Such a picture of mocking pomp in desolate sorrow closes well the long

suite of sketches with which the Parisian Sketch-book has been filled

during the _first phase_ of the French revolution. The curtain has

fallen at the end of the first act, upon a _tableau_ befitting the

dark scenes which have been so fearfully enacted in it. The curtain

will rise again--again will bloody scenes, probably, be enacted upon

that troubled stage of history,--again will harrowing sketches,

probably, be drawn in the Parisian Sketch-book. Those which we have

now recorded have been selected from among thousands, because they

form a suite, as natural in their course, as fatally inevitable, as

any suite of pictures in which the satirising artist painted the

natural course of a whole life. From the fallacious promises, and the

foolish or culpable designs, that occasioned the establishment of

those nurseries of discontent, disorder, and conspiracy, the _ateliers

nationaux_,--the steps through the club-room, the rendezvous of the

conspirators, the furious journalist's office, to the sedition, the

insurrection, the carnage, the civil war, the murder, the terror, and

the mourning catafalk, have followed as they could not but follow. It

is only the first series, however, that is closed here. There can be

little doubt but that similar consequences will again follow, as

similar causes still exist; and that the red banner of the so-called

"social and democratic republic" will again wave,--and perhaps before

long,--a prominent object in the scenes of the _Parisian Sketch-book_.

_Printed by William Blackwood and Sons, Edinburgh._