Transcriber's note: The following Table of Contents has been added for the convenience of the reader.

[CHRONICLES OF THE PAST.]
[HOPE: FROM THE GERMAN.]
[AN OLD MAN'S REMINISCENCE.]
[THE INNOCENCE OF A GALLEY-SLAVE.]
[THE COUNT OF PARIS.]
[SKETCHES OF EAST-FLORIDA.]
[EPIGRAM OF PLATO TO A DECEASED FRIEND.]
[AUTUMN.]
[FIORELLO'S FIDDLE-STICK.]
[SUNSET: THE DYING CHRISTIAN.]
[SONG OF THE WESTERN STEAMBOAT-MEN.]
[THE 'EMPIRE STATE' OF NEW-YORK.]
[GREEN SPOTS IN THE CITY.]
[A DREAM OF CHILDHOOD.]
[ANECDOTE OF A BOTTLE OF WINE.]
[ON THE DEATH OF A CLASSMATE.]
[GLEANINGS FROM THE GERMAN.]
[THE QUOD CORRESPONDENCE.]
[THE SEASON OF DEATH.]
[THE MEMOIRS OF COUNT ROSTOPTCHIN.]
[ANACREONTIC.]
[INTERNATIONAL COPY-RIGHT.]
[LINES TO FITZ-GREENE HALLECK.]
[THE MAIL ROBBER.]
[LETTER FOURTH.]
[LITERARY NOTICES.]
[EDITOR'S TABLE.]
[LITERARY RECORD.]

THE KNICKERBOCKER.

Vol. XXII. OCTOBER, 1843. No. 4.

[CHRONICLES OF THE PAST.]

BY AN AMERICAN ANTIQUARY.

The old town of Ipswich, in the Bay State, exhibits many rare relics of antiquity. Purchased under the title of Agawam, in the early settlement of the colony, and granted in the year 1632 to twelve freeholders who made oath of their 'intention of settlement,' it dates back its origin among the very first townships of New-England. At that time, and for many years afterward, it was the northern frontier of Massachusetts, and was constantly exposed to the attacks of the tribes of Indians in its neighborhood. Though its population was composed mostly of tillers of the soil, the buildings, unlike all other farming towns of the commonwealth, were erected for common safety upon a single street; and even to this day its sturdy yeomanry live in town, though the farms they cultivate are many of them miles distant in the country.

The old street is still in existence, and we venture to say that it has not its parallel in all New-England. Antique domicils, exhibiting the English architectural style of the seventeenth century; sturdy block-houses, erected to defend the early settlers from the hostile incursions of the crafty foe; barns, shops, and crazy wood-sheds, leaning and trembling in extreme decrepitude; and chairs, tables, bureaus, bedsteads, and pictures, all relics of a former age, each one of which would be a gem in the cabinet of an antiquary, daily exposed for sale in the windows of the trucksters or on the counter of the auctioneer; are found in rich profusion through this old street of the Pilgrims. But better than all else is the church-yard, the original burial-place, with its green graves and gray headstones; its turf-sward running far up the hill to the tall elms and luxuriant evergreens that crown the summit; and its nameless hillocks, catching the evening sunlight as it falls in long lines athwart the green-slope, and reflecting it back upon the passer-by with peculiar brightness! I love those old grave-stones, half sunk in the church-yard mould; mid the rudely-carved cherubims with their swollen cheeks and distended wings, or the more frequent emblems of skull and cross-bones, are to my eye far more grateful and appropriate than the modern blazonry upon heavy shafts, on tall, slim marbles.

It is well worth the visit of many a long mile, to walk in that ancient cemetery, and read the rustic epitaphs that would teach us to live and die. There side by side,

'Where heaves the turf in many a mouldering heap,'

lie the old puritans, the rude forefathers of the hamlet, who fled from the father-land in search of freedom to worship God; and though they may have possessed grievous faults, yet who does not venerate their unyielding firmness and holy piety? There too sleep the early pastors of the American churches; the men of rare endowments and ripest learning, who turned their backs upon the livings of the old country, that they might plant the standard of the cross in this distant wilderness. And there too rest the loved and venerated of our own day, for whom, even now that so many long years have fled, one feels as if it were impiety so utterly to have ceased to weep, so seldom to remember! One there was, whose voice was sweet to my ear in childhood; whose eyes, bedimmed into a pathetic beauty, never restrained the glee that sparkled in the orbs of those about her; her, who had so long heard the voice that called her, whispering in her ear, that she could smile at its accents, and feel those silent words to be cheerful as angel's tones.

In one corner of the cemetery, where a low sunken fence separates it from a neighboring court-yard, is the grave of Richard Shatswell, the first deacon of Ipswich church. In his first and only place of residence until he emigrated, the city of Ipswich, England, he was a man of considerable importance, having for several successive years borne the honor of mayor of that town. But the unjust laws against the dissenters hampered him: he could not take the oaths of office; he would not make the sacrifice of principle to personal honor or private emolument: and popular dissensions bearing hard upon his refusal to recant his sentiments, he fled his country, and became one of the first freeholders of Agawam. It is remarkable, that on the very spot where the good man pitched his tent and cleared his land; on the very farm where he sowed his grain and raised his crops; lives and labors the only descendant in the sixth generation who bears the name of Shatswell. He is now an old man, and retains in his face and character strong impress of his puritanical descent, as indeed does every thing about him the mark of family antiquity. The house is one of those substantial old mansions which our ancestors delighted to rear; and though now far advanced in its second century, its stanch oak timbers, and heavy mouldings, and massive ballustrades, bid fair to last for many generations. Every article of furniture which the house contains carries you far back into olden time. The andirons in the broad fire-place, bearing the mark of 1596; the high-backed, spinster-looking chairs; the fantastic legs of the upright bureau; the ponderous bellows and painted china; all are but epistles of the habits of our sires. Better than all, however, are the family pictures ranged along the walls, where our grandmothers vie in broad hoops and stiff stomachers, with the more unassuming costume of their daughters.

I found there were connected, as usual, with these old paintings many anecdotes of the past. At the time of the war of the revolution, the lady of the manor was a descendant of Simon Bradstreet, one of the early governors of the province, whom Mather calls the 'Nestor of New-England.' Her husband was a stanch whig, a leader of one of the classes into which the town was divided; and though the good lady coincided fully in his political sentiments, she did not much like the infringement upon domestic luxuries which many of the patriotic resolutions of the meetings contemplated. In short, Madame Shatswell loved her cup of tea, and as a large store had been provided for family use before the tax, she saw no harm in using it as usual upon the table. There were in those days, as there are now, certain busy-bodies who kindly take upon themselves the oversight of their neighbors' affairs, and through them the news of the treason spread over the town. A committee from the people immediately called at the house to protest against the drinking of tea. The good lady received their visit kindly, informed them of the circumstances of the case, and dismissed them perfectly satisfied. Some months passed away, and one Sabbath Madame Shatswell's daughter, a bright-eyed, coquettish damsel, appeared at church in a new bonnet. This was a new cause of excitement, and the committee came again to administer reproof. The lady satisfied them again, however; and they, finding that the hat contained no treason to the people's cause, again departed. Two years of the war had now passed away, and mean while the daughter, Jeanette, had found a lover. It was the beginning of winter; the army had just gone into winter quarters; and the young suitor was daily expected home. Wishing to appear well in his eyes, the maiden had spun and woven with her own hands a new linen dress, from flax raised upon the homestead; and some old ribands, long laid aside, having been washed and ironed to trim it withal, the damsel appeared in it at church on the Sunday after her lover's arrival. Here was fresh cause of alarm, and forthwith on Monday morning came the officious committee, to remonstrate against the extravagance. The old lady's spirit was now aroused, and she could contain herself no longer. 'Do you come here,' was her well-remembered reply, 'do you come here to take me to task, because my daughter wore a gown she spun and wove with her own hands? Three times have you interfered with my family affairs. Three times have you come to tell me that my husband would be turned out of his office. Now mark me! There is the door! As you came in, so you may go out! But if you ever cross my threshold again, you shall find that calling Hannah Bradstreet a tory will not make her a coward!' It is needless to add that Madame Shatswell's family affairs were thereafter left to her own guidance.

But they are all gone, mother and daughter, sire and son; and the five generations of the old family sleep side by side in the church-yard.

A little farther up the hill, just under the shade of that stunted sycamore, rises the humbler grave-stone of 'Joseph Smith, a patriot in the revolution,' who is more familiarly remembered in town, however, as 'Serjeant Joe.' Mr. Smith was one of those persons whose characters are formed by the times in which they live; and as he lived in the war of the revolution, and then mostly by stealing provisions for his mess, the times may be said to have made him a thief. And yet how hard a name to give to Serjeant Joe, for a kinder heart than his never beat in any man's bosom. Indeed, his very pilfering propensities may be said to have arisen from an excess of sympathy for human wretchedness. For his own advantage he would have scorned to wrong a man of a single farthing; but for the poor or the suffering, his morals were not stern enough to resist the temptation. Indeed, he often said that he 'couldn't help it, when he know'd poor folks was suffering; and that they shouldn't suffer as long as he had any hands to provide for them!' And so it was. If the long winter had almost consumed the widow's fuel, the serjeant's hand-sled, piled with wood, helped marvellously to eke it out. If a sick child pined for a roasted apple, the serjeant's capacious pockets unloaded golden stores of russets and gilliflowers. Indeed, if poverty of any kind pinched neighbor or friend, the kind old serjeant was ever ready with relief; so that at last he began to be considered by both thrifty and needy as the almoner of the town's bounty, and his peccadilloes were regarded as the eccentricities only of a benevolent heart.

The serjeant's continuance in the army was for the whole duration of the war. At the very first exhibition of American courage which proved so fatal to the British troops in their excursion to Lexington and Concord, Serjeant Smith showed himself a skilful marksman. Learning from the rumor, which seemed to have spread that night with a speed almost miraculous, the destination of the detachment, he arose from his bed, equipped himself with cartridges and a famous rifle he had used at Lovell's fight at Fryeburgh, saddled his horse, and started for Lexington meeting-house. Meeting with a variety of hindrances, and twice escaping narrowly from some straggling parties of the red-coats, it was late when he arrived on the ground, and the troops were already on their rapid retreat toward Boston. Learning that the people were all abroad, lining the fences and woods to keep up the fire upon the enemy, he started in pursuit, and in the course of a few miles, on riding up a hill, he found the detachment just before him. Throwing the reins upon his horse and starting him to full speed, he rode within a close rifle shot, and fired at one of the leading officers. The officer fell; and the serjeant, retreating to a safe distance, loaded his rifle again, and again rode up and fired, with equal success. He pursued the same course a third time, when the leader of the retreating body ordered a platoon to fire upon him. It was unavailing, however; and a fourth, fifth, and sixth time, the old rifle had picked off its man, while its owner retreated in safety. 'D—n the man!' exclaimed the officer, 'give me a musket, and I'll see if he bears a charmed life, if he comes in sight again!' It was but a moment, and again the old white horse came over the brow of a hill. The officer fired, but in vain; and before the smoke of his charge had cleared away, he too had fallen before the unerring marksman, and was left behind by his flying troops. When the day had closed, the wounded were collected by the neighbors upon the road, and every kindness rendered to them. The officer was not dead, and on being laid upon a bed where his wounds could be examined, his first question, even under the apprehension of immediate death, was, 'Who was that old fellow on the white horse?'

By his side sleeps his brother soldier, Ensign Edward Ross, whose stories of 'flood and field' beguiled many a winter evening at the farmer's fireside. How well I remember those tales of 'Saratogue' with which the veteran used to surprise us, and my boyish wonder

'Stood a-tiptoe when the day was waned,'

to hear the marvellous exploits he had himself performed at the 'taking of Burg'ine.' If you would believe him, the part he had acted brought distinguished honor to the American standard, wherever he chanced to have been, through the whole war; and I doubt if an engagement or skirmish could have been named in which he had not manfully battled for our freedom. He was none of your timorous story-tellers, ever distrusting your faith and doubting how far he should go; but a bold, hearty liar, plunging at once into the very depths of your credulity. Let the turf be piled high on the fire, the hearth be swept, the women-folks be seated on one side of the capacious fire-place, and the host with mug in hand turn round and say, 'Come, uncle Edward, it's dry work talking; take a drink of our old October, and let's have a story about the revolution;' and the old man would reel off such yarns as a veteran from Cape Cod might have envied. Methinks I see him now, his staff standing in the jam, and his gray eye lighting up with the fire of youthful days, as he recounted the feats of arms, in language as clear and copious as one of his own mountain streams. Light lie the turf upon thy ashes, old soldier, and green grow the grass over thy resting-place!

But passing over these, let us come to an enclosure that contains the grave of a father and his twin daughters, sleeping side by side in the church-yard. How quiet is the spot! How beautiful the resting-place of the last of their race! The daisies grow sweetly under the scented thorns that bend over the mounds, and the moss-rose buds, jewelled with dew-drops on summer mornings, are faint emblems of the loveliness of the maidens who rest beneath.

The father, a man high in his country's estimation, and whose name is associated with more than one of her victories upon the ocean, suffering from the effects of a wound received in the engagement of the Hornet, had retired from the navy after the declaration of peace, to reside on his paternal homestead, and superintend in person the education of his daughters. He had known sorrow; for the wife and mother had died and been buried among strangers in a distant land while he was absent upon service; and the children, the only descendants of his own or the maternal race, became more than ever the objects of his fondest idolatry. They had been carefully instructed during his absence; had grown in beauty of person and mind to the maturity of womanhood; and were in every way fitted to increase and bless the affection of the father. Though years have passed away, there are many who still remember the strong love that bound together the inmates of that retired mansion, and the elegance which seemed to attach itself to every thing about them.

To a finished education and a thorough knowledge of the world, Captain A—— added a strong mind, which threw an influence over every one with whom he associated. Upon his daughters, both partaking more of the yielding disposition of the mother than of the father's firmness, it was most manifest; and never in disposition, or mind, or daily duty, were children more moulded to a parent's will. With a love of nature, and a quick perception of the beautiful in all her varieties, they would wander through the wood-lands and pastures, collecting minerals and flowers to arrange and classify and study under his direction. Guided too by him, they would scour the hills for miles around, to trace out the ruined fortifications of the early settlers, or to discover relics of the aboriginal inhabitants; and then, seated on the grass beside him, listen to his teachings. It was a beautiful group, that father and daughters; and whenever you found them, at morning or evening, by hill or brook or sea-shore, they impressed you with a loveliness that seemed too fair for earth.

Thus passed away the winter and summer of a single year. Autumn came again, with its golden hues and soft sunlight days, bringing joy and contentment to the dwellers of Oak-grove. Winter approached, but with it came the symptoms of premature decay. What meant that hectic flush on the cheek of the taller maiden, and why the suppressed cough, and the shrinking and saddened spirit? The father, keenly alive to all that affected the only objects of his life, sought the skill of the ablest physicians, and by their advice determined to try the benefit of a warmer climate. Preparations were instantly made for the voyage; and scarcely a week had elapsed before they were embarked and far away toward the sunny South. There every thing was done which skill and the affection of loving hearts could do, to drive away the approach of the insidious malady. Rides, walks, parties of pleasure, games at home and amusements abroad, every device to exhilarate the mind and fortify the courage of the fair invalid, were tried, repeated, and failed; and on the opening of another summer, the father, broken-hearted and in despair, returned home to lay his loved one in the grave.

That long summer! who of that family can ever forget it? The assiduous attention of sister and parent to the dying one; the slow ride each morning to accustomed resort of brook or tree or hill-side; the room filled with melody or fragrant with flowers; the declining strength, cutting off one by one the enjoyments of the still beautiful sufferer; the hopes, alternately encouraged or depressed, even to the last; and sweeter, better than all, the soft tones of the sister or the manly voice of the father, subdued and often broken, reading page after page of God's Holy Word to the gentle listener, and in the firmness of Christian grace bidding her

'Look to Him who trod before
The desolate paths of life;
And bear in meekness, as He gently bore,
Sorrow and pain and strife:'

and then the death-scene, too sacred to be unfolded to the eyes of strangers, but beautiful as is ever the exit of the believer; are all imprinted upon the hearts of those who witnessed them, never to be effaced.

The spirit of Captain A——, crushed by the heavy blow, clung more closely to the surviving daughter, and in her increased fondness seemed to find a support from utter wretchedness. Alas! that support was also doomed to fail him! The assiduous attention so long rendered to the deceased had proved too much; the same disease had fastened upon her; and ere a twelvemonth had elapsed, she too had sunk, quietly, gently, in the calmness of christian faith, into the same grave. Her parting words, 'I shall not leave you long behind, father!' seemed prophetic of the end; for a month had not gone when he too, borne on the arms of four of his fellow-officers, was laid beside his daughters.

That enclosure in the old burial-place is sacred to many hearts. I have seen the mother sitting beside it, and have heard her, holding the little hands of her child between her's, repeat the tale of sorrow, until it's blue eyes filled with tears at the sad recital. I have listened to the voice of the summer night-wind, as I hung over the rude paling; have watched the stars looking down with their tremulous beams upon the green graves; absorbed in the recollection of the beauty that was laid beneath; and might have listened and watched until they paled in the morning twilight, but for the deep, solemn sound of the old church-clock, warning me of the hour of midnight.

[HOPE: FROM THE GERMAN.]

Hope on the cradled infant smiles,
And plays round the frolicksome boy;
The youth with her magical enchantment beguiles,
Nor can age her power destroy;
For when in death at last he lies,
Hope sits on the grave and points to the skies.

Nor is this the fair dream, unsubstantial and vain,
Of a head with wild fancies elate;
The heart from within echoes loudly again,
'We are born for a happier state:'
And what that voice would bid us believe,
The hoping soul will never deceive!

[AN OLD MAN'S REMINISCENCE.]

'An old revolutionary officer, now living in New York at the advanced age of ninety-one, in every respect a gentleman of the old school, paid a visit, some eight years since, to a friend in Albany; and while there, was taken to the house and room in which, fifty years before, he had been married. In a letter to his grand-daughter he gave an account of this visit, and his feelings on the occasion; and she, having a rhyming propensity, threw the dear old gentleman and his reminiscence into the accompanying lines.'

An old man stood, in serious mood, within an ancient room,
And o'er his features gathered fast a shade of deeper gloom,
While to his eye, bedimmed with age, came up the gushing tears,
As Memory from her hidden cells recalled long-buried years.

What were his thoughts that hour, which thus awakened many a sigh?
What brought the shadow o'er his brow, the moisture to his eye?
What in that old familiar place had power to touch his heart,
To call that cloud of sorrow up, and bid that tear-drop start?

The past! the past! how rolled the tide of Time's swift river back,
While the bright rays of youth and love shed lustre on its track!
Full fifty summer suns had shone, since on that silent spot
Had passed a scene, while life was left could never be forgot.

There had the holiest tie been formed, the marriage vow been given,
And she who spoke it then with him was now a saint in heaven!
But long, long intervening years seemed like an idle dream,
As o'er his soul with glowing light came that bright vision-gleam.

He stood before the holy man, with her his youthful bride,
And spoke again the plighting word that bound him to her side;
Again he clasped the small fair hand that hour had made his own,
The vision faded—and he stood all desolate and lone!

His youthful brow is silvered o'er with four-score winters' snows;
The faltering step, the furrowed cheek, tell of life's certain close:
The plighted bride, the faithful wife, beloved so long, so true,
Now sleeps beneath the burial-sod where spring the wild-flowers blue.

There is no music in his home, no light around his hearth!
The childish forms that frolicked there, have passed with all their mirth;
Years have rolled by—the changing years—and now he stands alone,
Musing upon 'the past! the past!'—hopes faded, loved ones gone!

Yet, aged pilgrim! dry the tear—suppress the rising sigh;
Look upward, onward, to the scenes of immortality!
Fleet be the moments, if they bear in their resistless flight
The spirit on to that pure world of blessedness and light.

There are thy loved ones, gathered safe, in beauty side by side,
And there the partner of thy life, thy manhood's gentle bride;
Fair as she stood in that sweet hour, this day recalled to mind,
A little season gone before, a better rest to find:
And thou, when death shall close thine eye, in heaven that rest wilt share,
And find the tie once broken here, indissoluble there.

M. N. M.

New-York, August, 1843.

[THE INNOCENCE OF A GALLEY-SLAVE.]

CONCLUDED FROM OUR LAST.

For more than six weeks doctor Mallet had two patients instead of one under his charge, in the house of Monsieur Gorsay. For some days the situation of Lucia seemed more precarious than that of the old man, to whom ungratified vengeance imparted an energy which triumphed over the weakness of age, as well as the severity of his wounds. While the outraged husband thus clung desperately to life, which he would not leave unavenged, the young wife, stricken by gloomy despair, seemed hastening to meet an untimely and longed-for dissolution.

On seeing her becoming day by day more feeble and more excited, the prey of a slow fever which after exhausting the body threatened to seize upon the brain, and extinguish reason, the physician regretted more than once the rude test to which he had resorted, with the view of rendering his remedies more efficacious by disclosing the source of the malady. By degrees, however, his persevering efforts triumphed over a disease whose hold the youth of Lucia rendered less tenacious. The fever abated before it had carried its ravages into the sanctuary of the mind; as a conflagration, after destroying many meaner buildings, has its progress stayed at the threshold of a stately temple. The young wife gradually recovered her strength, and preserved her mental powers. Sad triumph of art! With loss of reason she would perhaps have lost the sense of her misfortune.

Monsieur and Madame Gorsay had not seen each other since the day of the attempted assassination. Separated from each other, but united by one common thought, equally bitter to both, during the long hours of their sad vigils they had emptied to the dregs the contents of the empoisoned chalice of an ill-assorted union. Monsieur Gorsay was first in a condition to infringe the strict rules established by the physician. One evening, taking advantage of the momentary absence of his attendant, he left his apartment, and with difficulty ascended to that of Lucia. With a gesture of command he dismissed the nurse, who, terrified by his unexpected appearance, stood for some moments motionless at the door. Lucia was sitting, or rather reclining, upon a sofa near the fire-place. At sight of her husband she made no movement, spoke not a word, but remained motionless, with eyes riveted upon him with an expression of horror. Husband and wife gazed on each other for some time in silence, marking with gloomy avidity the ravages which disease and suffering had made upon both since their separation. The old man found the young wife whom he had left full of bloom and freshness, now wan and emaciated. Lucia perceived many new furrows on the brow of her husband; but soon her whole attention was absorbed by the peculiar expression of his eyes, which glowed upon her with implacable passion.

'It seems then that I must pay you a visit, since you do not choose to descend,' said Monsieur Gorsay, seating himself at the other side of the fire-place.

'They might have told you that I was ill myself,' replied Lucia, in a feeble voice.

'And had you not been ill you would not have left me? Oh! I doubt it not!' said the old man, with a bitter smile. 'But yes; I see that you have been ill. You are so changed, that when I first entered I hardly knew you. To judge from your appearance, you must have suffered much.'

'Much!' said the young female, repressing a sigh.

'To suffer! and at your age! this seems very unjust, does it not?' continued Monsieur Gorsay with ironical compassion; 'for me now, who have lived so long, and am only fit for the grave, suffering is very suitable. But for you, a child, a flower, to suffer! Yes indeed, I can imagine how so strange a destiny surprises you, and makes you murmur. It was my part to suffer all the pains, yours to enjoy all the pleasures. What are a few drops of useless blood in comparison with those bitter pearls, the traces of which I see in your eyes? I have been a great egotist, no doubt; I ought to have shed your tears as well as my own, so that the lustre of your beauty might not have been dimmed; and I would have had but a sorrow the more!'

The old man dropped his head upon his breast, and remained silent for some time.

'You do not answer me,' continued he, steadily regarding his wife.

'You have asked me nothing,' answered Lucia, with a mournful air.

'You are right; my head is so weak that I cannot remember what I have been saying the minute previous; or rather, I think I said what was not in my thoughts. What was it I wished to ask you? Ah! here it is!' continued he, after having appeared to tax his memory; 'do you think yourself strong enough to bear a short journey?'

'What journey?' said the wife, with secret disquietude.

'The journey to Bordeaux. You know it is but a short distance.'

'And what have we to do at Bordeaux?' replied she, in an altered tone.

'We must be there at the opening of the assizes,' answered Monsieur Gorsay, with affected sang froid. 'I received a summons a few days since, inclosing one for you. They are going to try this man, and it is necessary that we should give our testimony.'

Lucia arose, and fell at the knees of her husband, grasping convulsively both his hands.

'I am guilty!' exclaimed she, in an accent to which despair gave inexpressible poignancy; 'I have broken my vows; I have forgotten my duties; I have deceived and betrayed you; I am a miserable wretch, unworthy of forgiveness! I expect neither favor, nor pity, nor mercy. Trample me under your feet; I will not utter a complaint! Kill me; I will make no resistance! I ask nothing for myself—I desire nothing.'

'For whom then do you ask any thing? and what do you desire?' replied the old man, sternly.

'What do I desire!' exclaimed she, with redoubled energy; 'I desire, I implore, that you will not cause another, much less guilty than myself, to bear the punishment of my crime. I desire you to retract a declaration more cruel than a murder—for the dagger only deprives of life, the scaffold bears away honor likewise. If you wish for blood, why not accuse me? There are women who kill their husbands; why might I not be one of these? Denounce me; I will avow every thing. You will be free from a crime which ought to fill you with horror; and an innocent man will not be made to suffer death.'

'All this is very heroic,' said Monsieur Gorsay, with imperturbable raillery; 'but I have too good an opinion of our friend to believe that he would be willing to save his life at the expense of yours. It is his duty, as a devoted lover, to suffer himself to be condemned to death without saying a word; and I am sure that he will do so.'

'He will do so, most assuredly,' repeated Lucia, gazing fiercely at her husband; 'but will you, so near your own death, commit murder? Do you believe in God?'

'Was it Monsieur d'Aubian who taught you to believe in him?' said the old man.

'You are right—you are right! Choose the most cruel words; pierce my heart and avenge yourself; but let it be upon me alone.'

'And where would be the justice of that? By what rule should the most guilty go unpunished? No! for you, tears!—for him, death!'

'Death!'

'Perhaps only the galleys; we must not always look on the darkest side of the picture.'

'But he is innocent.'

'Innocent!' repeated Monsieur Gorsay, rising, and dragging his wife from the suppliant attitude she had assumed. 'In your estimation it is only the murderer, who plunges a dagger in your bosom, who is criminal. But do you think that the soul has no blood as well as the body? It is the price of this blood of my soul that he must pay, for he has shed it even to the last drop! Ah, Lucia! you do not comprehend that I love you!—that upon this wide earth you are my last, my only treasure! And you wish that I should pardon him! Never! never!'

He repulsed with an inexorable gesture the young female, who remained standing a few paces from him in an attitude of the deepest sadness and dejection. At this moment Doctor Mallet entered the room.

'It is a good sign when the patient begins to disobey the orders of his physician,' said he, with affected pleasantry; 'however, Monsieur Gorsay, let me tell you that there is some imprudence in leaving your chamber.'

'I must accustom myself to it, however,' replied the old man. 'In about a fortnight I shall be obliged to take a journey, for reasons which admit of no excuse.'

'Ah! yes,' said the doctor, glancing furtively at Lucia, 'the trial at Bordeaux. We shall take the journey together; for I have also received a citation, although there is little that I can tell. Will Madame Gorsay accompany us?'

'In her present situation,' replied Monsieur Gorsay, composedly, I fear it would be imprudent, and perhaps dangerous. You, who are her physician, will doubtless not refuse a certificate which I can produce before the president of the assizes.'

'We will see about it,' said Monsieur Mallet, with an evasive smile. 'Thank God! Madame Gorsay is now completely convalescent, and a little excursion, far from being attended with danger, would probably be of service to her. But we will decide this matter when the time arrives. In the meanwhile, my good patient, will you please descend to your own apartment? Here is my arm. Madame has been up too long to-day; she is fatigued, and must be left to repose herself a little.'

Offering no remark, Monsieur Gorsay accepted the proffered arm of the physician, and took leave of his wife with hypocritical tenderness. The two men left the room, to which, in about half an hour, Monsieur Mallet returned alone.

'Doctor, I will go to Bordeaux,' said Lucia, abruptly, who seemed to have expected his return.

'I have my doubts of it, but should like to be certain,' replied the physician, with a mournful smile.

'You will not give the certificate which is asked of you?' continued she, with an air at once of command and entreaty.

'I cannot give it conscientiously. You are in fact sufficiently strong to bear the fatigue of so short a journey; but it is not the journey that I dread; it is the sojourn there.'

Lucia briskly approached the doctor, and laid her hand upon his mouth. 'In the name of Heaven, not a word more!' said she; 'whatever you may have seen, heard, or suspected, (for during my fever I doubtless have spoken,) whatever you may now know, say nothing to me. Pity an unfortunate woman; serve me, but spare my feelings! May I rely upon you?'

'As on a father,' replied Monsieur Mallet, with tenderness; and he pressed to his lips the hand she had laid upon them.

The attempt made upon the person of Monsieur Gorsay produced through all the department of the Gironde a sensation exceeding any thing that had been known for many years previously. The age and wealth of the victim; the respect in which he was generally held in the country; the strange contrast between the two individuals apprehended on suspicion; the one a man of the world, connected with the best families of Guienne, and already somewhat noted for the follies of a dissipated youth; the other a convict just released from the galleys, as was stated on the first examination; and lastly, the illness of Madame Gorsay, which was generally attributed to conjugal attachment, the more meritorious, considering the age of its object; all these circumstances, over which there still hovered a mysterious uncertainty, had excited public curiosity to the highest pitch. Every one was impatient to solve the bloody enigma. The two accused individuals especially became the daily subjects of a multitude of conjectures, of explanations, of discussions, of wagers even, which were sustained with equal obstinacy by each party. Some refused to give credence to the guilt of Arthur. Of this party were in the first place all the women; who could believe the possibility that a man worthy of their regard might commit a poetical crime, but not that he could be guilty of a petty offence.

'Shocking!' exclaimed the fashionable fair ones of Bordeaux: 'Monsieur d'Aubian, with whom we used to dance last winter, he assassinate an old man! A young man of such polished manners! so agreeable, so witty, and with such a true Spanish air! He attempt to kill an old man to steal his purse! Preposterous!'

Had Arthur been accused of stabbing Monsieur Gorsay with some romantic intent, to run away with his wife for instance, the thing, however dreadful, might have had an air of probability. Sentimental spirits would not have refused pity for a crime thus ennobled by passion; but to stick a knife in a man for the purpose of afterward emptying his pockets—this was the act of a galley-slave, and not that of a gentleman. Thus reasoned female good sense; which, as is generally the case, reasoned with tolerable correctness.

On the other side, Bonnemain did not lack officious defenders. And first, he had on his side the lower orders, naturally hostile to the aristocracy, and who, between two suspected individuals, naturally lean toward the one in the lowest station. Then came the friends of humanity, philanthropists by profession, emancipators of negroes, and all those individuals who busy themselves with the future prospects of nations, and the progress of society; a race abounding in compassionate souls, in whose estimation a man of the meanest nature, provided he is guiltless of actual crime, and especially if he has just been released from the galleys, becomes a prodigiously estimable character. These persons did not content themselves with treating as a frivolous, and even a barbarous prejudice, the opinion which sought to vindicate d'Aubian, by recalling the former suspicious circumstances of the life of his fellow-accused: they awaited more impatiently than the others the result of the trial, fully expecting to find in the acquittal of Bonnemain a new text for their sermons against the prejudices which dare to hold in legitimate suspicion those unfortunates whose moral education the galleys have just completed.

Between these two opinions a third sentiment prevailed: it was that of those impartial men, who, to reconcile all differences, maintained that both the accused were equally guilty, and anticipated the verdict of the jury, by proclaiming their confederation to be beyond a doubt. This third party, which it was whispered had good reasons for its existence, succeeded in making the difficulty more complicated instead of clearing it up.

While the crime and the approaching trial were thus the general topic of conversation, on both sides of the Garonne, for twenty leagues around, the investigation was pursued with the activity which the importance of the case and the near approach of the assizes demanded. The details of the inquiry seemed to add weight to the opinion of those who were for acquitting the galley-slave at the expense of the lover. To the reiterated questions put to them, the prisoners both persisted in the system of absolute denial behind which they had, in the first instance, entrenched themselves; but in proportion as the new facts brought to light during the procedure appeared favorable to Bonnemain, so much the more overwhelming did they seem for Arthur. Except this latter, who was unwilling to make any disclosures, no one at the time of the attempt had seen the galley-slave. Arrested at break of day on the road to Bordeaux, it was no difficult matter for him to explain the cause of his early peregrination. His story was, that suspecting his companions had discovered his real condition, he was fearful of being denounced by them to the officers of justice, and of being pursued for having broken his sentence of banishment. That he might not be arrested, he had resolved to quit the country, and had set out in the middle of the night that his departure might not be noticed. The pieces of gold found upon him were the fruits of economy, and the amount was not sufficient to render this assertion improbable. Beside, no traces of blood had been discovered upon his dress, either in consequence of his having changed his clothes between the commission of the crime and his arrest, or of his having, in the very perpetration of the deed, preserved sufficient coolness to avoid all tell-tale stains. In fact his hands, which were carefully examined, seemed clean, without the appearance of having been recently washed; for the adroit villain, to avoid giving a pretext for suspicions which might have been excited by a neatness seldom practised by country laborers, a race of men in general very guiltless of ablutions, had with ingenious refinement worn gloves when he committed the deed. As for the knife which was used, no one had ever seen it in the possession of the culprit; and were it not for the circumstance of his former condemnation, he would probably have at once been set at liberty for want of proofs.

But while the innocence of Bonnemain, at each new step in the investigation, appeared more evident, proofs more and more weighty accumulated around Arthur; proofs sufficient to have established his guilt, even without the damning declaration of Monsieur Gorsay. The knife, it is true, could not be proved as belonging to him; but other evidence was brought forward, not less conclusive. The rope-ladder was identified by a rope-maker, who declared that he had sold it to Monsieur d'Aubian some months previously. It was evident from this fact that the entry of Arthur into the park was not accidental but premeditated; the instruments used for scaling walls being found in his possession. It was farther proved that during the summer Monsieur Gorsay had received at Bordeaux a payment of twenty thousand francs, which he had immediately converted into gold, and that d'Aubian, who was the fellow traveller of the old man on the occasion, had knowledge of these two facts. On an investigation of the previous life of the accused, it appeared that for several years past, he had lost at play large sums of money, and had contracted debts, for the discharge of which his patrimony seemed insufficient; and when the domiciliary visit was made to his house, very little money was found there. From all these circumstances, skilfully grouped, and made to throw light upon each other by their juxtaposition, the gentlemen of the law, practised in the subtle deductions of judicial logic, found little difficulty in arriving at a decisive conclusion. In their eyes, Arthur d'Aubian, ruined by play, and unable to borrow more money, had determined to commit a robbery, which chance had nearly converted into a murder. Indeed, it was only those who were most lenient in their judgment, who admitted this last supposition. The Dracos of the bar considered the premeditation of the murder, as well as of the lesser crime, fully established.

Such was the situation of affairs, and the state of public opinion, when the court at length opened at the principal city of the department. The prisoners had been removed a few days previously from the house of detention at Reole to the central prison of Bordeaux. The witnesses, among whom were Monsieur Gorsay and his wife, arrived at that city shortly afterward. At the approach of the last scene of a drama, with which all minds had been occupied for more than two months, public curiosity was raised to a pitch of extreme excitement. The disclosures of the inquest had thinned the ranks of the defenders of Arthur: the women alone generally remained true to him; and the stronger the presumptive proofs appeared against him, the more ardent they became in his defence.

'What signify all these quibbles of the law?' said the most zealous of his fair partizans; 'he has been known to lose money at cards; this only proves that he is not lucky at play. He has debts; how could it be otherwise, when a young man goes into society without a fortune? And above all, it seems he sometimes made use of a rope-ladder. This is the grand crime! Poor young man!'

The rope-ladder, indeed, had contributed to strengthen in the hearts of many of the defenders of Arthur the interest which he had at first excited. Even in the bosom of the court itself a party had declared in his favor.

'If you convict him I will never forgive you!' said the wife of the judge-advocate to her husband, who was charged with the support of the prosecution.

'I shall certainly convict him,' replied the magistrate, 'for I am as well convinced of his guilt as if I had seen him commit the crime.'

'And I would not believe it,' said Arthur's fair champion, 'even if I had seen it.'

'It is a fortunate thing for society that women cannot serve on juries,' replied the advocate-general, shrugging his shoulders; 'it would be out of the question for them to convict a criminal, provided he was five-and-twenty, well made, with bright eyes and curling hair.'

In accordance with that law of gradation which seems so natural that it is observed even in affairs of the greatest moment, the case of Gorsay had been reserved for the last of the session. The petty larcenies, misdemeanors, forgeries, murders without premeditation, and other ordinary crimes, punishable at most with the galleys, were first hurried over, exciting but little interest except in members of the bar, and the habitual attendants upon the assizes: but when the day came for the trial of the prisoners, whose names were in all mouths, the court room was not large enough to contain the crowds which early in the morning besieged its doors. Almost the whole space allotted to the public on ordinary occasions was now reserved for the more favored amateurs of justice. Many young men, who had been on terms of intimacy with Arthur, exhibited great curiosity to see how he would look when placed upon the culprit's stand. These excellent friends, introduced within the privileged inclosure, some by favor, others under the robes of members of the bar, settled themselves clamorously on the seats of the lawyers, behind the tribune, wherever in short they could find a seat or foot-hold. By a gallant attention on the part of the president of the assizes, the interior of the judgment-hall had been exclusively reserved for ladies of condition, who were there crowded together, bustling and buzzing like a swarm of bees in their hive. On the previous evening, the greater part of these butterflies of fashion had cast with dramatic effect their bouquets at the feet of Mademoiselle Taglioni, who was then performing at Bordeaux; and now, with the person half hid by a large veil, (at the court of assizes the veil is etiquette, as the bouquet is at the theatre,) with pockets well supplied with scent-bottles, and handkerchief in hand ready for the expected tear, they were awaiting, but not in silence, the dénouement of a drama more piquant than that of the theatre, and emotions more touching than the enchantments of the Sylphide.

The simultaneous entrance of the court and prisoners produced in this brilliant audience one of those sudden movements which resemble the phenomena of electricity. The whole assemblage rose with one movement; and soon it appeared that the women had the advantage over the men; for all of them, even the most timid, in the excitement of the moment, had sprung upon their chairs. The plebeians in the hindmost ranks, protested with indignant outcries against this screen of hats and shawls, which at such an interesting moment hid from their gaze the spectacle so long and anxiously waited for. Some time elapsed before the constables could restore order and obtain silence: at length the female part of the audience consented to be seated, and the plumed bevy settled down, as the waves of the ocean subside when the tempest which excited them has passed away.

All eyes, however, remained intently fixed upon the two accused, who, in obedience to that principle of equality with which the law regards all its victims, were placed side by side, the gentleman and the galley-slave on the ignominious bench alloted to the prisoners. Two months of captivity, the termination of which might be the scaffold, had impressed upon the features of Arthur deep and visible traces. The elegant young man, who during the preceding winter had obtained in the most brilliant saloons of Bordeaux a success which was due at least as much to his good looks as to his wit, now presented himself to the companions of his happy days, pale, wan, emaciated, and bearing on his countenance the impress of a destiny, the horror of which, while he bowed before its sway, he seemed fully to comprehend. But if his brow appeared colorless, and his eye deprived of the fire which his fair admirers had not unfrequently remarked in them, his countenance had at least lost none of its firmness and noble aspect. Without deigning to cast a look upon the man with whom he found himself coupled, nor upon the audience which, with greedy eyes and ears, he heard murmuring around him, like a pack of hounds yelping over their prey, he exchanged a few words with his counsel, whose friendship and devotion had been of long standing, and seated himself with a composed air, and remained in a fixed attitude, apparently indifferent to what was going on around him.

''Pon honor! the handsome d'Aubian is just now badly named,' said a youngster with no small pretensions to good looks himself, to one of his companions.

'The poor fellow cannot feel very much at his ease,' replied the other, who had been on terms of the greatest intimacy with d'Aubian; 'guilty or not, I should be sorry to have him convicted. But what an idea, to assassinate this poor old man! There were a thousand other means to get money.'

'What means?'

'Why, not one of these women here would have refused to lend him some.'

'Bah! women give, but do not lend,' said a third speaker, in a sententious tone.

'And is not that the same thing?'

'Either plan is bad enough,' said the dandy, with a prudish air; 'for my part, I would as soon take to stealing.'

'Is Madame Chamesson here?' asked Arthur's friend, who by thus naming a rich and superannuated old woman, from whom the young coxcomb was more than suspected of receiving supplies, effectually closed his mouth.

In order to make a favorable impression upon the jury, Bonnemain, who knew well the influence that the appearance of a prisoner often makes upon them, had employed all the little arts of the toilet which his person and situation would allow. Clad in a new suit, (thanks to the ten louis' of Monsieur Gorsay,) newly shaven, with modest and humble aspect, hands placed upon his knees, he held himself in an attitude so benign and reverential, that at the sight of this second Ambrose de Lamela, more than one spectator could not help whispering to his neighbor, 'Is it possible that this can be a liberated galley-slave? From his appearance, one would give him absolution without confession.'

The empanneling of the jury, the reading of the decree of reference and accusation, the interrogation of the accused, and the deposition of a number of witnesses, took up the whole of the first sitting; nor did the interest of the audience flag for a moment; but the mysterious and tragic character of the drama did not develope itself in all its deep import, until the second day, when from the witness chamber came forth an old man whose white hair, imposing features, and countenance calm in its severity, excited among all ranks of spectators a murmur of pity and respect. It was Monsieur Gorsay.

During two months, the sanguinary resentment in which the last energies of a man on the verge of the tomb had been concentrated had suffered no abatement; but it had by degrees undergone those modifications which time and reflection always bring with them. To the furious rage, the insatiable thirst for revenge, the blind frenzy, which in the first instance had caused him to regard the slightest delay in his vengeance as a mark of base imbecility, had succeeded a determination cold, patient, implacable, and the more terrible, inasmuch as instead of finding vent, it was restrained within the recesses of his own bosom. By long boiling in the heart, that crucible of flesh hotter than a brazen furnace, the disordered passions came at length to cast off the scoriæ which changed the nature of their temper. The last stage in this refining process is hypocrisy, that wondrous power, which gains in depth what it hides upon the surface, and whose burst, when it breaks forth, is like the explosion of a volcano.

Monsieur Gorsay had thus comprehended the necessity of curbing his vengeance in order to render it more effective. When he entered the court-room, his countenance and deportment would have done credit to a consummate actor. Far from betraying the deadly hate which was gnawing at his heart, his eyes, as they rested for a moment upon Arthur, only expressed a mournful compassion, by which the audience were sensibly affected. At this look, in which he had expected to have found rage but not deceitful pity, d'Aubian felt that his doom was fixed; and replied by a bitter smile to the magnanimous forgiveness with which the old man seemed to overwhelm him. The eyes of Monsieur Gorsay then glanced over the convict without resting on him; but in spite of the rapidity of the movement, the expression was so significant, that to hide the impression produced, Bonnemain turned away his head, and for some time kept his eyes fixed steadily on the ground.

'What a fine old cock it is!' said he to himself; 'I was sure that he would not send me to the gallows. A great comfort it will be to him to have this tall fellow's neck stretched! Egad! had I been married to such a pretty wife, I would have acted just so myself. A bad fellow, that d'Aubian. When I think of the damage I was going to do this respectable old gentleman, I feel quite ashamed of myself. But what a devil of an idea to say to me, 'Bonnemain, rid me of this man and you shall have ten thousand francs,' and then to show me, at the same time, twenty thousand in that cursed secretary, which wouldn't be opened! Who could hesitate between ten thousand and twenty thousand?'

The most profound silence prevailed while Monsieur Gorsay replied to the questions of form which the presiding judge of the assizes put to him. This formality being finished, the old man sat down in front of the bench and turned toward the jury; then in a deep voice, the faltering tones of which seemed the effect of the regret which a generous mind feels at being compelled to turn accuser, he repeated word for word the declaration which he had made on the day of the attempted assassination. This recital stated in substance, that being asleep at the moment when he received the first blow, Monsieur Gorsay, before losing entirely his consciousness, had recognized the features of the murderer, who had lit a taper to enable him to force the secretary.

'Look at the accused,' said the president to the witness; 'are you quite sure that he whom you recognized was Arthur d'Aubian?'

The old man turned toward the prisoner, and cast upon the lover of Lucia a look in which triumph was admirably veiled by the semblance of pity. 'It was he indeed!' said he, with a sigh; 'in vain do I wish not to recognize him.'

A general and prolonged sensation throughout the crowded audience followed this declaration. Arthur alone remained apparently unmoved, and contented himself with a scornful smile.

'Monsieur President,' said one of the jurors, when silence was reestablished, 'I should like the witness to tell us whether prior to this attempt there was any subject of enmity between the accused and himself.'

This question excited a lively interest, particularly among the females, who though constrained to believe in the guilt of Arthur, could not admit that a robbery was the end in view. The prisoner himself slightly colored, and seemed to experience a secret disquietude. Monsieur Gorsay, however, was prepared for every interrogatory, and this one gave him neither surprise nor trouble.

'Monsieur d'Aubian and myself,' replied he, 'have been for a long time neighbors; and our intercourse has always been that of confidence, of cordiality, and I may say of friendship; and on my part at least, spite of the blood that has been spilt, these sentiments are not yet annihilated. I feel this in the deep grief I have experienced these two months past; and I assure you that this unhappy event has caused me more anguish of mind than bodily suffering.'

The altered voice and sad expression of countenance of the old man excited in the audience a new murmur of pity.

'So then,' continued the president, 'you know of no cause to which the attempt, of which you have been the victim, may be attributed?'

'The cause,' replied Monsieur Gorsay, in a melancholy tone, 'is in my opinion that deplorable passion for play, which has already ruined so many young men worthy of a better fate. Monsieur d'Aubian played deeply and unsuccessfully: my advice could not withdraw him from this abyss, which every day became deeper. In a moment of despair he must have thought of the money which he had seen me receive some time before. Why did not the unfortunate man ask me for it, instead of seeking to gain possession of it in such a deplorable manner? If he had only placed confidence in me; if he had considered that the purse of an old friend was at his service; this fatal event could never have happened, and we should not have been both here; I in despair at being his accuser, and he——'

The old man here paused, as if intense grief had cut short his words; and his outstretched arm, which he had raised to designate Arthur by a gesture of affection, dropped heavily to his side.

This touching discourse, this mock appearance of paternal grief, produced among the spectators, and even on the benches of the judges and jury, one of those thrilling emotions which honest hearts always feel at the sight of an heroic action. Monsieur Gorsay, pitying instead of heaping curses upon his assassin, appeared to the pious part of the audience a most virtuous observer of the precepts of the gospel; the men of letters compared him to Don Gusman bestowing forgiveness upon Zamora; the women even, seduced by a greatness of soul, set off by the long white hair, studied accent, eyes expressive in spite of age; in a word, by all the dramatic accessories which are so effective, suddenly transferred to the magnanimous old man the interest which most of them until then had preserved for the young accused.

'How handsome he must have been forty years ago!' cried one of them, in an artless transport.

'He is so still,' replied her neighbor, outdoing her in this admiration; 'moral beauty has no age. What generosity! What nobleness! I can now comprehend how Madame Gorsay should have fallen dangerously ill at the prospect of losing him.'

'It is King Lear!' observed a romantic Philaminta, devoted to the study of Shakspeare.

This epithet passed from mouth to mouth, and was sententiously pronounced by those who scarcely understood its meaning.

'Have you any remarks to make upon the deposition of the witness?' asked the president, addressing d'Aubian.

The accused arose, and seemed for a moment to be struggling with a violent temptation, which he succeeded in conquering.

'For the sake of my memory,' said he, 'for it is not my life which I would now defend, I must repeat that I am innocent of the crime of which I am accused. As for the declaration of Monsieur Gorsay, it is not for me to dispute it. Let your justice pronounce sentence; I shall know how to submit to it.'

This protestation seemed as cold as it was constrained, and was unfavorably received.

'Innocence does not express itself thus,' said to themselves the greater part of the spectators; 'one does not submit passively to an unjust sentence, but rather expresses indignation at it.'

A submission so extraordinary strengthened instead of destroying the proofs. 'This man is guilty,' was the general impression; 'it is written in his countenance.'

Monsieur Gorsay, having finished his testimony, took his seat among the witnesses, overwhelmed on his passage with unequivocal proofs of the deep interest he had excited.

For a few moments the audience were occupied in private converse; but suddenly this confused murmur was changed to a death-like silence, on the president's saying, in a voice which was heard throughout all the assemblage, 'Introduce Madame Gorsay.'

An officer left the hall, and almost immediately returned, preceding the young wife, who at once became the object of general curiosity. With head erect, countenance glowing with a hectic flush, and the inspired air of a Sybil, she advanced with firm step to the edge of the stand on which the witnesses are placed when they give testimony. There she stopped, apparently deaf to the words which the president addressed to her. Her gaze, in which gleamed forth wildness, ran over the crowded audience beneath her, with unnatural boldness. Quickly catching the prisoners' seat, she fixed her eyes upon d'Aubian with an unutterable look of eagerness, of love, and of despair; then, with a gesture frenzied but not involuntary, Lucia stretched out her arms toward her lover, and with a thrilling voice, 'Arthur!' exclaimed she, 'I am here!'

This cry of succor, fierce as the roar of a wounded lioness, sent an electric shudder through the thousand veins of that crowded multitude, greedy of emotions, and now supplied with them beyond their most sanguine hopes. In the midst of the general confusion two men arose, the husband and the lover; the one trembling with rage, the other with pity.

'This is a trait of madness!' exclaimed Monsieur Gorsay; 'the evidence of a mad woman cannot be received.'

'Mad!' said Lucia, casting a look of defiance toward her husband; then turning to the president of the court, 'Question me, Sir; you will see whether I am mad or not; whether I cannot comprehend your questions, and answer them in a rational manner. Mad! I may soon become so; but at this moment I have full possession of my reason. I know perfectly well what I am doing, and what I am saying.'

'Compose yourself, Madame, I pray you; I am about to put some questions to you,' said the president, who thought he saw in the eyes of Lucia the threatening gleams of insanity, which contradiction might exasperate.

'Monsieur President, I object to this examination;' repeated Monsieur Gorsay, in a half-choked voice; 'I shall prove that for some time past the reason of my unhappy wife has been disturbed. Monsieur Mallet, her physician, and one of the witnesses here present, if he is willing to tell the truth, can testify to this fact.'

'Monsieur Mallet,' said the president, 'will you approach and judge for yourself whether Madame is in a fit condition to undergo an examination?'

Lucia smiled on the physician as he ascended the steps of the stand, and stretched out her hand to him when he drew near, with a gesture full of confidence. The possessor of a secret discovered by his penetration, the physician would have suffered Arthur to have been condemned, rather than have ruined a woman for whom he had long felt an attachment almost paternal; but he did not carry his chivalric refinement so far as to be willing to save her in spite of herself, by keeping his mouth closed. 'A man's life is at stake,' thought he; 'if she loves him well enough to sacrifice her happiness for him, what right have I to prevent her?'

He took the arm of the young woman, to feel her pulse; a superfluous formality, for it could teach him nothing which he knew not already. 'Madame has a high fever,' said he, in the midst of silence so profound that it seemed as if every breath was suspended; 'for two months this has been her habitual state. One of the features of this malady, which the efforts of art have not yet been able to subdue, is an irregular exacerbation, which the slightest emotion increases; but between this irritation of the nervous system and a disturbance of the mental faculties, there is, thank God! a wide difference. Madame Gorsay, as she herself has just affirmed, is in full possession of her reason; and I am convinced that she will understand perfectly well the questions that may be put to her, and also the import of her own answers.'

The audience received this declaration of the physician with a murmur of satisfaction; and in its frivolous cruelty prepared to devour the scandal, of which for a few moments it feared it would have been deprived. Transported with rage, Monsieur Gorsay would have clambered up the steps of the stand to drag down his wife, but the gen d'armes prevented his passing, and he fell back upon a bench, where he remained with face hid in his hands, apparently insensible. Arthur, upon whom Lucia kept her eyes ardently fixed, besought her by a look not to betray any farther a love, the avowal of which must cover her with disgrace. In reply to this mute prayer, he only obtained an impassioned gesture, which expressed her unshaken resolution to save him or perish with him.

Meanwhile, a lively discussion was going on among the judges, whose sagacity had not foreseen this romantic incident. For the sake of public morals, the president wished to suppress the interrogation of Madame Gorsay, who could throw no light on the main fact of the assassination. He succeeded in bringing his colleagues over to this opinion; but the public prosecutor, whose consent was necessary, was not a man to give up, from motives of humanity, the prospect of a development of additional crime, which being ingrafted by him upon an accusation already capital, promised to make it one of the most interesting criminal trials which the court of Bordeaux had ever known. On being consulted by the president of the court, the red-gowned accuser therefore briefly declared that the testimony of the witness appeared to him to be indispensable.

During this discussion, Madame Gorsay remained upright and motionless, earnestly gazing upon Arthur. The proudness of her bearing at this moment might have seemed the effect of a masculine, or rather a super-human energy, were it not for a tremor, almost imperceptible, which forced her to lean her hand for support upon the chair which had been placed for her.

To the questions of form which were addressed her by the president, she replied in a clear and it might be said a composed manner; but when he requested her to tell the jury what she knew relating to the attempt made upon the person of her husband, she paused for a few moments; not that vulgar timidity caused the heroic determination of her heart to falter, but as if to collect at this decisive moment her physical energies, which seemed almost ready to abandon her.

'I have entered this place respected; I shall leave it disgraced!' said she at length, in an altered but thrilling voice. 'It matters little. Between my honor and his life I cannot hesitate. For ten months Arthur d'Aubian has been my lover; Arthur d'Aubian is my lover!' repeated she, with incredible energy, repressing with a commanding gesture the murmuring which these words produced; 'for ten months I have received his visits in my apartment, frequently at night. At the moment the crime was committed, I was awaiting him; if he was found in the park, it was because there was no other way to come to me. Arthur, I repeat, is my lover; who will dare say that he is an assassin?'

'I will!' exclaimed Monsieur Gorsay, rising in a transport of ungovernable fury.

'Then do you lie!' cried Lucia, whose look seemed to wither the old man. 'This man lies!' continued she, pointing with her finger to her husband. 'I have betrayed him; he knows it; and to revenge himself, he accuses Arthur of a crime. I have myself proposed to him to accuse me of the deed. I should not have denied it; but he would not. The blood of a woman would not suffice him; he must have that of Arthur; of Arthur whom I love, I do not say more than my life—that would be but little—but more than my honor!'

Lucia here interrupted herself, and cast her sparkling eyes toward that part of the hall occupied by the female part of the audience, among whom a lively agitation was manifested, and whose whisperings clearly condemned an avowal so contrary to all received usages.

'You speak of immodesty,' said she to them, with a bitter smile. 'Spite of your want of pity, I would not wish any one of you to become so wretched as to learn that there is yet one thing more powerful than shame; and that is, despair. Think you, if the scaffold were not in view, I should thus hold up my disgrace for your contempt? They are about to kill him, I tell you; and must I let him die, that your blushes for me may be spared?'

As she pronounced these last words, Lucia reeled and closed her eyes, while a death-like paleness took the place of the burning hue with which fever had colored her cheeks. The supernatural energy which had thus far sustained her, suddenly gave way, as the flame of a torch is extinguished by a blast of wind. Doctor Mallet, who stood at the foot of the stand, watching with vigilant anxiety the slightest movement of the young woman, threw himself forward and received her in his arms the moment she fell. Others ran to his assistance, and Lucia was speedily carried into the witnesses' hall. She remained there for some time, apparently lifeless; but soon there followed this swoon a succession of convulsions more dreadful than any she had ever before experienced.

'The court is adjourned for half an hour,' said the president, despairing of obtaining immediate silence or attention.

These words completely let loose the storm; and the audience-chamber suddenly assumed the appearance of a tempestuous sea. A hundred conversations, equally lively, took place at once. The conduct of Madame Gorsay became the inexhaustible text for comments the most violent and contradictory. Some thought her crazy, others frightful, while a third class pronounced her sublime. In general, the old men were of the first opinion, the women of the second, and the young men of the third.

'How happy must this d'Aubian be!' exclaimed one of these latter, in an extatic tone.

'Happy! to be on the culprit's seat!' replied with a sneer a man of more mature years.

'And what matters that? Is there a humiliation which may not be effaced, or a grief which cannot be consoled, by the happiness of inspiring such a passion? Spite of its ignominy, even the culprit's seat becomes a throne for him who reigns over such a noble heart. Oh! to be loved thus—and die!'

The kindling eyes of the young enthusiast addressed this sentimental exclamation to a pretty blonde, whose coquetry had kept him for six months on the culprit's seat, while waiting for the throne of love.

'To be loved is no doubt vastly agreeable,' replied the matter-of-fact man; 'but to die! and upon the scaffold! Rather you than I, my fine fellow!'

On resuming the sittings, the president gave notice that the very critical situation of Madame Gorsay having rendered it necessary that she should be removed home, both the accusation and the defence might have the benefit of her deposition, and that it would remain for the jury to decide upon its value. 'The list of witnesses is exhausted,' added he; 'Monsieur the Public Prosecutor has the floor.'

In legislative and judicial discussions, those incidents which sometimes turn up in a manner completely unexpected, are the rocks on which ordinary speakers, whose presence of mind is disturbed as soon as they are taken unawares, usually make shipwreck; but which master minds, practised in debate, have the power of adroitly turning to their own advantage. On the present occasion, the public prosecutor, a native of Bordeaux, although in other respects a superficial lawyer, possessed in common with many of his countrymen the faculty of improvisation, which seems, by one act of the mind, to combine thought and its expression. The reverse of the Abbe de Verlot, he would have recommenced the siege, and taken Malta, watch in hand, in ten different ways. Without the least appearance of embarrassment at an event which seemed to have changed the whole aspect of the proceedings, this able tactician gradually developed the plan of the accusation, as he had prepared it in the silence of his chamber. With the unwearied patience of the ant, adding little by little, grain of sand upon grain of sand, he heaped upon d'Aubian a mountain of proofs, under which the strength of Hercules would have given way; and then, when the mass seemed already sufficiently weighty, overwhelming, and unmovable, he suddenly added, as a terrible and unexpected crowning of the work, the deposition of Madame Gorsay.

'In an excess of despair,' exclaimed he, in a pathetic tone, 'a respectable old man, a husband cruelly outraged, tells you, 'This woman is deranged.' A noble and a mournful untruth, which I cannot blame, but which is still a falsehood! No, gentlemen; this woman is not deranged; her physician tells you she is not. She is not mad, unless you term madness the unbridled phrenzy of an adulterous passion, which, with bold front and audacious eye, unveils itself in the very sanctuary of justice, there to enact the deplorable scene with which all hearts seem yet filled. By trampling under foot all reserve, all modesty, Madame Gorsay thought that she could save him whom she dares to call her lover. Unhappy woman! Who did not see, that far from being a justification, her disclosure only adds another proof to the accusation; a proof perhaps the most overwhelming of all! What, in fact, does this unheard of declaration prove? It proves this; that before carrying murder into the house of Monsieur Gorsay, the accused had commenced by the dishonor of his wife; thus making one crime the prelude of another. And so it always happens: 'Nemo repente turpissimus.' And what! is it pretended that this disgraceful stain which has just been brought to the glare of day, can cover over the shed blood? No, gentlemen; the blood still remains beneath the mire, and nothing shall prevent our tracking it from the victim directly to the assassin!'

The public prosecutor continued a long time in this strain, adding weight to his words by impassioned gestures, and fervent declamation. Proceeding from inductions to oratorical displays, from arguments to appeals to the passions, he succeeded in making the guilt of the accused a sort of luminous and baleful star, the existence of which none but a blind man or an idiot could deny. At the close of the peroration, Arthur stood convicted of having attempted to assassinate Monsieur Gorsay, not only for the purpose of getting possession of his money, but also that he might espouse the unfaithful wife, who by her widowhood would become a desirable object for a ruined gambler.

This eloquent piece of pleading produced upon the assemblage an overwhelming and decided impression, which the advocate of d'Aubian in vain endeavored to counteract. In vain he urged in favor of his client the confession of Lucia, which explained so naturally the circumstances metamorphosed by his opponent into additional proofs of guilt. In vain he essayed to prove that the deposition of Monsieur Gorsay was but a calumny inspired by vengeance. In his rejoinder, more withering even than his first speech, the prosecutor prostrated irrevocably in the dust every position and argument of the defence.

The jury, who counted among their number but two unmarried men, finding in the accused the seducer of a married woman, were not on that account disposed to be more lenient. In their eyes the offence against conjugal rights, instead of a palliation seemed an increase of crime. After a long and serious deliberation, they declared, by a majority of nine out of twelve, that Arthur d'Aubian was guilty of a premeditated attempt to murder, followed by an attempt at robbery. Bonnemain, against whom the prosecutor had abandoned proceedings, was unanimously acquitted.

In spite of the lateness of the hour, almost all the audience had remained in their places, that they might be present at the dénouement of the drama. The two prisoners, who had been removed from the hall while the foreman of the jury read their verdict, were presently brought back, and listened with a sort of impassive silence to the reading of the verdict, the requisition of the public prosecutor for the pronouncing of sentence, and finally the double decree pronounced by the judge. The only sign of joy manifested by the galley-slave on being acquitted, was a guttural sound produced by the eagerness with which he once more resumed the free use of his respiration.

'I should like devilish well to have a cup of water, or even of wine,' said he to the gen d'arme at his right.

Arthur received the verdict of the jury with firmness; but when the president pronounced the sentence of the court, which condemned him to twenty years hard labor in the galleys, his head sunk upon his breast, and he remained for some time apparently stupefied.

'Alphonse,' said he at length, in a low voice to his defender, who was sitting in front of him, 'you have done what you could for me, and I thank you; but the moment has come: remember your promise.'

'It is not a decree of death!' replied the young advocate, turning deadly pale.

'It is the decree of a thousand deaths!' replied the condemned, with energy; 'would you have me go to the galleys? Remember your oath; you could not save my life—at least preserve my honor.'

He bent forward toward his friend; their hands met and interchanged a long and mysterious embrace. On resuming his position, Arthur saw, rising from the midst of the dense crowd, a lean and sinister figure, whose devouring eyes were fastened upon him with an expression of ferocious triumph. He replied to the fury of this look with the calm and disdainful smile of a man who rises superior to his fate.

'Monsieur Gorsay,' said he, in a firm tone, 'look at me well, that you may not forget me at your hour of death!'

With these words, Arthur applied to his breast the point of the dagger which his friend had just given him, and with a firm hand buried it in his heart. He remained for a moment upright, his eyes wide open and fixed upon the old man, whom their terrible fascination filled with involuntary dread, and then suddenly fell like a tree severed by the axe.

A cry of horror arose on all sides. 'Dead!' exclaimed Doctor Mallet, who was among the first to hasten to him. 'She mad, and he dead! My God! may Thy judgment be more merciful for them than that of men!'

'Dead! very dead indeed!' said Bonnemain, in his turn leaning over the body of the young man stretched at his feet. 'To stick himself in that fashion because he was sentenced for twenty years! What a fool!'

Three months after the trial, on a gloomy winter's evening, Doctor Mallet entered the house of Monsieur Gorsay, to which, since their return from Bordeaux, he had been a daily visitant. Without asking for the old man, he ascended immediately to the apartment of Lucia, whose alarming situation required the assiduous attentions which the physician bestowed upon her with untiring devotion. He gently opened the door of her chamber, and approached the bed of the young woman, who seemed lying in a lethargic slumber. Without awaking her, he placed his finger on her throbbing pulse, and then with anxious hand gently pressed her forehead, which he found to be burning like the alabaster of an ever-lighted lamp.

'The fever increases, and the brain is becoming more and more affected,' said he to himself, shaking his head with a care-worn aspect. He then stood for some time, contemplating with mournful compassion the sufferer whose life he still hoped to save, but of whose reason he despaired.

'I am sure that something has happened here since yesterday,' said he at length, in a low voice, to a female somewhat advanced in years, and of a masculine exterior, who stood before the fire-place awaiting the doctor's orders.

'I have taken care of many sick persons,' replied the nurse, with uplifted hands and eyes, 'but have never seen such things as are going on here. In the first place, last night Madame gets up fast asleep, as she often does, but this time she tried to throw herself out of the window. She had got herself half over the balcony before I could get her in again.'

'You have been asleep then?' said Monsieur Mallet, in a tone of anger.

'Why I might have had a little sand in my eyes; one is not made of iron. But it was lucky I had a strong arm; if it hadn't been for that, this poor lady would not now have had any need of a doctor. But this is nothing to what took place here this morning.'

'Has Monsieur Gorsay been up here?' asked the doctor quickly.

'You have hit it. And Madame, as soon as she saw him, fell into convulsions which lasted more than two hours. It took four of us to hold her; and then we could hardly do it. When her strength was all gone she fell asleep from weakness; but I have an idea that this sleep bodes nothing good.'

The recital of the nurse was here interrupted by a slight noise which the door made as it was partly opened. The physician briskly turned his head, and saw Monsieur Gorsay, who had stopped at the threshold. Hastening toward him, he thrust him back into the other apartment.

'You must not enter here!' said he to him in a tone of command. 'This morning you took advantage of my absence; but now you must obey me. What is it that you wish? Would you complete your work by killing her?'

'She is asleep,' replied the old man, in a submissive voice. I beseech you, doctor, let me enter. What do you fear? she sleeps; she will not see me.'

'Do you not know the strange lucidness of her slumbers? Even though sleeping, she will be aware of your presence.'

'Let me but look at her for a single moment,' said Monsieur Gorsay. 'This morning I had scarcely a glimpse of her; and you have kept me so long from her! Am I condemned never to see her again?'

'Your presence would kill her,' replied the doctor; 'as long as I am her physician, I shall oppose an interview for which there is no good object, and which cannot be other than injurious. In her present deplorable condition, the least increase of excitement would prove fatal. Spare her then, for Heaven's sake! Does not the blood of Arthur d'Aubian suffice you? Must you also have that of this unhappy woman?'

The old man bowed his head with a mournful air, and remained some moments before replying. Then turning toward Monsieur Mallet a look of the deepest despair:

'Doctor,' said he, in a tremulous voice, 'could my death save her, most willingly would I die this moment. But what can I, a miserable old man, do upon the earth? An object of horror and affright, without family, without friends, without children! She was all these to me; she was my joy, my happiness, my treasure. Ah! why was she not my daughter? Perhaps she then would have loved me!'

'But of what use are regrets, when the evil is past remedy?'

'Past remedy! I know of one, but it requires a courage which I no longer possess; for old age has weakened my spirit, and leaves it only the strength to suffer. Do you believe me, doctor? I have never been a coward; but now—I dare not kill myself. Think not that it is religion that restrains me; it is fear. I have the desire for suicide, but not the courage. He had it. He! young and beloved—he knew how to die. And I, so near the tomb that I have but to raise the stone to descend into it, I hesitate, and tremble! Weakness and cowardice—these are man's last companions!'

Monsieur Gorsay seemed to forget the presence of the physician, and re-descended to his apartment with slow and painful steps. He there passed the remainder of the evening motionless in his arm-chair, with head sunk upon his breast, eyes fixed, and draining drop by drop the inexhaustible sadness in which for many months his heart had been steeped. At eleven o'clock a domestic entering the room, he arose and permitted himself to be undressed with the passiveness of a machine: then, after swallowing a narcotic draught, which his sleeplessness had rendered necessary, he got into bed.

The most profound silence reigned throughout the house; the domestics had long since retired to their apartments. The lethargic sleep of Lucia still continued; and despite the occurrence of the preceding night, the nurse, according to her custom, was slumbering in the arm-chair. At length Monsieur Gorsay fell asleep. Suddenly the old man was aroused by the sound of the window-blind turning upon itself. Opening his eyes, he perceived with amazement, mingled with terror, a large band of silver which the moon projected through the shutters of the Venetian blinds upon the carpet. In a moment this was obscured by the figure of a man, who leaped into the room, and proceeded directly toward the bed with the rapid and stealthy tread of a tiger. Monsieur Gorsay endeavored to rise, but before he could utter a cry, or seize the bell-rope, he was assailed and thrown down by the robber, who with one hand grasped him by the throat, and with the other brandished a long knife, which he had carried open between his teeth.

'Mercy!—Bonnemain!' murmured the old, man, who by the light of the moon had just recognized the murderer.

'Not a word! or I strike!' replied the galley-slave, in a low voice. 'Listen to me: you must get up, open the secretary, and give me the money. If you hold your tongue I will do you no harm; but if you attempt to speak a single word, I will let out your blood like that of a fowl! Do you understand me?'

Frozen with terror, Monsieur Gorsay made a sign of assent. He then arose, with the assistance of Bonnemain, who by way of precaution kept fast hold of his arm, took a key from the pocket of his riding-coat, opened the secretary and drew from the secret cavity the casket filled with gold, upon which, for the last five months, the galley-slave, by night and by day, had not ceased thinking.

'Is this the whole?' said he, as his eyes gloated over the prey.

'It is all that I have here,' replied Monsieur Gorsay, in a half articulate voice; 'but I have some silver in the library; must I go and bring it?'

'Thank you; you might alarm the servants, which would not be so pleasant. Too much appetite is hurtful. I must be content with the rouleaus.'

'Take them then; I give them to you; and I swear never to betray you.'

'I believe you; before an hour the beaks will be on my haunches, as the other time; not such a fool!'

With these words, the galley-slave, by a movement as rapid as unforeseen, passed behind Monsieur Gorsay, grasped him tightly, closed his mouth with his left hand, while with the other he stabbed him in the side with anatomical precision. Stricken to the heart, the old man bit convulsively the fingers of the assassin, uttered a stifled groan, and expired. Bonnemain laid him upon the floor in silence, and assured himself that no pulse beat any longer. Certain then of never being denounced by his victim, he arose and plunged his hand into the casket which stood upon the secretary. At this instant, the noise of a door opening sent an icy chill through his veins. He turned in confusion, and by the light of the moon, which alone illuminated the scene of murder, he discerned at the entrance of the chamber a figure in white, which to a superstitious mind might have seemed the avenging spirit of the murdered man. This apparition moved directly up to the assassin, who in his fright dropped both the dagger and the rouleaus of gold. Crawling on his hands and knees, he succeeded in regaining the window, through which he sprung with a desperate effort. He traversed the garden, scaled the wall of the inclosure, and fled across the country, bearing on his hands, as on the former occasion, blood but no gold.

Two hours after this, the attendant of Madame Gorsay awoke, and perceived that the bed of her charge was empty. Alarmed, she ran to the window but found it closed; she then saw that the door was partly open. Lighting a taper, she followed from chamber to chamber the tracks of the somnambulist, who in her progress had not closed any of the doors behind her. She at length came to the threshold of the chamber of Monsieur Gorsay, where she suddenly stopped, uttering a shriek of horror, which aroused and terrified the whole household.

In the full moonlight which illuminated part of the room, Lucia, with dishevelled hair and closed eyes, was sitting by the dead body of her husband. The childish amusement in which she seemed to be seriously engaged told that the wanderings of madness were joined to those of somnambulism. She held the casket on her knees, turned out the rouleaus, one after the other, and scattered the pieces of gold upon the carpet, arranging them in symmetrical figures. The blood which flowed profusely from the old man's wound was mingled with this sport, and the fingers of the smiling idiot were dabbled in the purple gore.

Lucia, dragged from the fatal chamber, awoke only to fall into terrible convulsions, during which the last rays of reason seemed to be extinguished. The scene which had been enacted five months before on this spot was now repeated in a more fatal manner. The judicial inquest established in a positive manner that Madame Gorsay, in a fit of somnambulism, had assassinated her husband, against whom, since the death of Arthur d'Aubian, she had cherished an implacable hatred. It also appeared clearly demonstrated that she had only perpetrated during sleep a murder which had been long contemplated during her waking hours. Among the parties who held the inquest there were more than one who thought that even sleep was not a sufficient excuse for the deed, and that the matter ought to be brought before a jury; but the insanity of the accused having been legally proven, took away all pretext for a criminal procedure. Instead, therefore, of being incarcerated in a prison, the wretched widow was placed in a lunatic asylum; a step which to many seemed too lenient.

One day in the year 1838, among the persons whom curiosity had brought to the Institution at Charenton, might be seen a citizen of some fifty years of age, fat, well-conditioned, ruddy, and with clothes very well brushed. He gave his arm to a buxom female bedecked in full suit of holiday attire, and a finger to a child of about four years of age, whom maternal vanity had equipped in the martial uniform of an artillery officer. This group, a type of city felicity, the last reflex of patriarchal manners, was one which might have brought a smile of malice to the lip of an artist, or have furnished food for more serious reflection to a philosopher.

The head of this interesting family, who was about taking his son in his arms to give him a better view of the inmates of the establishment, suddenly stopped at sight of a female patient, still young and beautiful, who, without paying attention to any one, was walking up and down the small inclosure, repeating in a plaintive tone the name of 'Arthur.'

'What on earth ails you, Monsieur Bonnemain?' said the tawdry lady to her spouse. 'Why, you are as white as a sheet, and are all in a tremble!'

'It is from hunger then,' replied the old galley slave, as he recovered his sang froid, who, thanks to the dowry of his wife, had become the head of a flourishing commercial establishment; 'let us go to dinner. Achille is sleepy. These fools amuse me no longer. We have had enough of this stuff!'

[THE COUNT OF PARIS.]

THIS BEAUTIFUL REPLY WAS MADE DURING THE RECENT DEBATES CONCERNING THE REGENCY OF FRANCE.

I.

Within the palace walls they wept,
The mother and her son;
She, the young widow of a prince,
And he, her first-born one:
The stamp of royalty was set
Upon his broad, fair brow;
He was the kingdom's pride and boast—
Heir of its glory now.

II.

Wo for the doom of Orleans' line!
Wo for the loved one dead:
Wo for the king whose hope lies low—
The land whose peace has fled!
Already are dark threats breathed forth,
And others claim the place
That should be his, that princely boy's,
The noblest of his race!

III.

They come to ask his mother's rights,
His mother's and his own;
The widow and the fatherless,
They stand in grief alone!
It was in honied tones they spoke,
Yet 'twas a bitter word:
'The Regent of our France must know
To wear and wield a sword!'

IV.

The spirit of a line of kings,
The Bourbon's race of pride,
Flashed from the boy's bright eye, and thus
His fearless voice replied:
'I have a sword; my mother's hand
Can wave a banner bright,
And France will fight for both of us,
And for our holy right!'

V.

God shield thee on thy doubtful path,
Heir of a fickle throne!
A bloody race, an early doom
Its noblest ones have known;
The hand that should have guarded thee,
Hath mouldered to decay;
God save thee in thy peril's hour,
And guide thine onward way!

A. R.

New-York, July, 1843.

[SKETCHES OF EAST-FLORIDA.]

NUMBER ONE.

'OFFICER OF THE NIGHT.'

I have few antipathies, but there are some that I do battle with at sight or smell. Whether persons or things, I appreciate them at once; as some persons of keen perceptions will tell immediately when a cat is near them. You will hear people talk of what they call a 'presentiment of evil.' This is all humbug. If they would look about them, they would find, each one, his respective cat; or, to speak magnetically, his 'opposite pole.'

Corporal F—— was my antipathy, my 'opposite pole,' my cat; and for that matter, a Tom-cat, and a very saucy one. We had never spoken, and knew nothing of each other; our eyes had never met, but we had stolen glances, each way, giving strong confirmation of what the mere presence of each sufficiently indicated; to wit, a decided hostility. I had felt uncomfortable some mornings before, and knew perfectly well that I had a cat to find; but I did not know, till afterward, that Corporal F—— had reached town that very day. It was a common fancy with me, subsequently, that I knew what part of the town he was in at any given time; and this may have been fancy only, or it may have been a fact magnetical.

Our first meeting was in ——, East Florida. I had been in that warm-bath of a climate just long enough to get well soaked through, and was beginning to act out that dreamy languor of body and soul that fits one so exactly for the cigar-life—the lounging, easy nonchalance of that sunny land; in short, without that excess of high spirits which is an irritation, I was superlatively happy—till I met Corporal F——. He was to me immediately a large spot on the sun; and although I couldn't always see the spot, I knew it was there, and keeping off so much sunshine. His arrival, as I viewed it, was impertinent, and not at all in aid of the object I had in coming a thousand miles to that delicious climate. With a generous ingenuity, I thought at first of proposing to him to draw cuts, to decide which of us should leave town. He had not the look of being cared for, and I could not imagine his absence would be missed at all, except by me; while as to myself, to say nothing of the party I was with, I rather thought that the girls who had taken so much pains to teach me their waltzes and Spanish dances——But that's no matter. The risk to me would be an unrighteous one, and the project was abandoned.

We were a party of half a dozen, who had left New-York as the severe winter of '35 and '36 was setting in, and reached —— by way of Picolata, making the last safe passage over that road. The Indian war had just broken out, and the whole country was in arms. Shortly after our arrival, the north part of the town was picketed off at about half a mile from the outskirts, with a guard, here and there; and a cordon of military posts stretched along the western side, around to the sea. A large gun was then placed in the middle of H——'s bridge, pointing into the pine barrens; the usual night patrol of southern cities was doubled, and the place declared under 'martial law.' Every able-bodied man was expected to do service; and if that expectation failed to be met by any one, that 'individual' was assisted by a corporal and guard. I was an 'able-bodied man;' sound in every particular. The hot sun had already browned my face so that there were no delicate indices of ill health; and if I had been a shade darker, I might have been knocked off at the market for at least seven hundred dollars. I was full of 'tusymusy,' and ready for any thing, but wished to be myself the master of the 'how and when' of any enterprise that I was to engage in.

I was anticipated. Happening to criticise the appearance of the different companies about town, in too public a manner, the sovereigns were offended, and it was resolved that I should be victimized. I was ordered to appear at the Fort, armed and equipped for immediate service, as one of a small guard of Minorcans and Spaniards, posted a mile and a half out of town; of which guard, Bravo was corporal, and —— captain; precisely as I should like to have put them in a shipping-bill for the East-Indies. Well, I declined the invitation. I was from the 'mountain-land,' and for some days, my blood had been going up with the thermometer, at the strange goings-on about town. There appeared to me a quite unnecessary preparation of powder for mere home consumption. Beside, what did I know about war, that they should select me, when the streets were full of Uncle Sam's men, and hardly room enough for them at the outskirts to spread their tents? I did not call at the Fort. I didn't even send my card, or my regret. Of course I was not surprised the next morning, at parade hours, to see Corporal Bravo and guard coming down the street with apparently hostile intentions. It might be accident that they approached so near the house; but people in that climate never move without an object; and I accordingly passed through a gate in the rear, merely to air myself in a different direction. Bravo enquired for me very particularly at the house, breathed a few moments his men, who were in a high excitement; made a rapid revolution, and marched back to the Fort, a mile distant, to report that I was not to be found. At afternoon parade, the same military movement was repeated, and I had again the same charming view of the H—— turkey-buzzards and small snipes on the beach, with fiddlers innumerable, and in the back-ground the pine woods of the wilderness.

After a few days, I was trapped by mere civility; a very forcible thing, by the way, as all women know very well, but there are men who never can learn it. A polite note came from the captain, asking me to call at his quarters; and I was very soon ushered into a room that was lined with muskets and swords and men to use them. The captain received me pleasantly, complimenting me upon my 'esprit du corps' in being master of my own company, etc; but I saw the game at once; and bursting into a laugh at the savage looks of the guard, surrendered at once, merely asking the courtesies of a prisoner of war. I was immediately gratified—with three muskets, one for myself, the others to protect me on either wing, carried by friends who insisted on an arm each side; and so with a strong support in the rear by the rest of the guard, and Bravo in front, cutting the way with a drawn sword, we marched to the Fort. When we entered the walls, and came in sight of the commandant, I expected to be 'cut in sunder at the waist,' but was merely noticed with a careless severity, and told to look on, and be ready at the next parade. We then assumed the form of a rhomboid, in which I was at equal distances from the respective angles, and marched a mile and a half to the camp. After showing me 'the fortifications,' which consisted of a pine-board enclosure of about ten feet by twelve, I was taken into the hot sun to be drilled privately. This was a very short operation. I handled the musket with a kind of desperation, which very soon convinced the corporal that I had the 'real stuff' in me; especially in my last manœuvre, which consisted in cocking the piece suddenly, and lowering the muzzle to his breast; upon which, with military abruptness, he declared the drill over, and myself perfectly au fait at all military operations.

I was now instructed in other arts and mysteries of war; and was told, among other things, that an officer from town generally visited each camp during the night, and that then every man was to be belted and ready for inspection. When the sentry received, in answer to his challenge, 'Officer of the Night,' his duty was to cry out, for timely notice at the camp: 'Corporal of the Guard—Grand Rounds—Officer of the Night.' This, in Bravo's opinion, was the grandest of all military affairs that were executed without waste of powder. The officer of the night had not been round, for a week, but he was always to be expected. Bravo and myself were very soon on excellent terms. I rather liked him, in spite of the burlesque of his name; for as such men generally do, he had contrived to assume something so like his translation, that it passed very well for the real article. If he did not fulfill his full meaning, his efforts were at least well-meant, and he had a saucy good humor that was quite companionable. That night we had two sentries out, stationed some hundred yards each side of the camp; and somewhere about the 'small hours' I took my first 'stand at arms' on the northern pass, and challenging noises all night, without reply, acquitted myself very much to the corporal's satisfaction. A few days passed very pleasantly away, and I was enjoying my military life so much that I had entirely forgotten Corporal F——. It should be premised, that I knew nothing of his being a corporal, and cared as little. I had no objection to his being a perfect Nabob, if he would only keep out of my way. I now learned that he had command of the next post north of us, and only about half a mile distant.

One charming morning, after an 'off night,' when I was allowed to stay in town, I sallied into the street, en route to the parade-ground, humming to myself in mocking-bird style, my belt snug and faultlessly white, and musket leaning with an off-duty obliquity that was not pardonable merely, but quite the thing, when I suddenly felt that Corporal F—— was in the street! He was not to be seen, but I knew perfectly well that he was standing in a shop-door, only a short distance ahead. The streets in that old town are very narrow, so that on meeting a cart, the safest way is to post yourself flatwise against the wall, and admire the prospect in the opposite direction till the cart is cleverly by. Of course the foot-paths, such as they are, are close to the wall, and give no room for steps to houses, where, as in most cases, they are built directly on the street. I was on the same side with Corporal F——. If in passing, the corporal should attempt the street, there would be a collision. These mathematical problems suggested that I could cross over, as it was only a long straddle, but I had no desire to do so. Almost unconsciously, however, my musket went to the perpendicular, my eyes fixed where I thought the north star ought to be, (magnetic coincidence!) and my marching-foot was coming down with extra emphasis, at a point just abreast of him, when I thought—it might be imagination—but I thought his foot moved out slightly from the threshold. Quick as the thought, which was lightning in my then state of the brain, I wheeled, brought my musket with a ring upon the lime-stone, and looked Corporal F—— dead in the face! He returned the look with less interest than I expected, but he didn't waver a hair, and our eyes fixed upon each other as steadily as though we had been playing at small-swords. There was barely breathing room between us; and at one time his lips moved as about to speak, but he said nothing. Of course, I had nothing to say, but if he had any explanation to make, I was then ready to hear it; and if not——I was going on in this manner to myself, when it occurred to me that he was unarmed, and I had a musket, with a tremendous bore, (especially a great bore of a hot day) and a ball then in it, that I would not have dared to have sent within three points of the most distant vessel in the offing. Without taking my eye from him, I resumed my up-street facing; the accenting foot forward, musket to shoulder, and immediately marched up street.

If Bravo had seen this evolution, and my march up the street, how smoothly he would have rolled out his Spanish braggadocia upon my military training! As I passed under balconies loaded down with gay girls, fingers may have been kissed at me; quite likely; I never knew, for I went 'right on' with set teeth to the Fort.

And now, would Corporal F—— challenge? I certainly had given him a chance, and I was in a perfect fever to bring matters to a crisis. I am not a fighting man. I never eat veal, or any thing that's killed young; preferring to wait till I am convinced that from wet days and cold winters the beast must have become indifferent to a knock on the head: but who could refuse his antipathy? Who could live in the same air with his tom-cat?

The day passed—and I was not challenged.

That night, as we lay about the camp-fire, I was possessed of a sudden inspiration, and immediately gave a loud shout. Bravo looked up enquiringly, and Boag, who was privy to my antipathy, sprang to his feet, ready for any emergency. Boag knew that something was in the wind. I paid no attention to either of them, but called up Tom, my errand-boy, and gave him the requisites, with a pass, for a gallon of Santa Cruz, sugar, etc; and all the eggs he could find in town, and then despatched a few men with a boat, for a load of oysters.

Boag was the only other American in our camp. He happened in Florida, in what manner I don't know, from Charleston, South-Carolina, and fell an easy victim, having been captured before I had that pleasure. He was the happiest man I ever knew; happy in every thing he undertook, and careful not to undertake too much. His sagacity upon that point alone would have made a character of any ordinary man. The mere motion of the man seemed to be a high enjoyment, and his bowling at nine-pins was the very perfection of carelessness. He was never guilty of a 'spare,' and would have shuddered at the nicety and precision of hitting any particular pin. But Boag's highest happiness, literally and technically, was in his composition of egg-nogg. Egg-nogg from Boag was irresistible; a smooth, and chaste production: the white of a pullet's egg, deliciously flavored, was all you could think of, until—some time after taking it.

About nine o'clock, the roast and 'nogg were ready; and then, as we grouped about the fire you should have looked in upon us, to have seen happy faces. The Spaniards in a perfect sputter of talk and gesticulation as though every oyster burnt to the stomach; Boag presiding every where with his stick; and myself, the Mephistophiles of the occasion, lying on a board, the windward side of the group, taking just enough of the 'nogg to digest each particular oyster, and no more. Toward midnight, they had worried themselves sleepy, and crept off to their berths. Bravo bringing up the rear, and laying himself out in a very grand manner, his legs and arms indicating all points of the compass, to signify, I suppose, that he ruled in all directions. After waiting a suitable time for the sentries to become careless, I beckoned to Boag, whose intuition was as perfect as a woman's, and he followed me stealthily into the long salt grass bordering the beach. The sentries were ordered to fire immediately upon any one who refused to answer their challenge; and knowing that the sentry we had to pass was only half-drunk, I had a painful apprehension that the egg-nogg was after all a questionable fore-thought. We had gained but a short distance, when the quick challenge sent us headlong in the grass. The sentry couldn't leave his post, and probably concluded that some wild fowl had risen between him and the sky, and settled down again. Emerging again, at about the same distance on the other side of the sentry, we were again challenged, and made our salaam, as before, in the same unhesitating manner. Presently the challenge was repeated, and we thought we heard the click of his musket. The night was painfully still, and it might be the sharp cry of a disturbed snipe, or the snapping of a brand at the camp-fire. We were breathless 'for a space,' and the musketoes seemed to know perfectly well that we durst not raise a finger to brush them off. Then creeping along till we were sure of being within the shade of the forest, we came to the perpendicular again, and walked on rapidly to the camp of Corporal F——. I hinted to Boag to keep calm, and ready for any thing that might turn up; at which he looked amazed, but said nothing; no doubt wondering that I had not yet learned to appreciate him. At this moment, we received an abrupt challenge from the advanced guard of Corporal F——. I shouted back, with all the strength of egg-nogg, the magic words, 'Officer of the Night!' And oh! what a relief to that sentry, as he made the pine woods ring with 'Corporal of the Guard—Grand Rounds—Officer of the Night!'

Turkey-buzzards flew about on the tree-tops, and the whole family of wild fowl, coughed and wheezed out their disturbance upon the still night. Then arose the hum of the camp. A dozen sleepy Spaniards sprang from their berths, swearing vociferously; lights waved, swords clattered to the hip, and down came Corporal F——, with his men superbly belted, their heads leaning back to the north star, and muskets flashing in the torch-light of three negroes coming on before.

At a short distance from us, Corporal F—— gave a tremendous 'Halt!' upon which, I made two steps forward, and waving off the little niggers to the right and left, stood in bold relief—the Officer of the Night.

'Well, of course Corporal F—— drew his sword, and 'cut you in sunder at the waist?'

Not at all; but if that column of men, together with Corporal F——, had immediately fallen over backward, I could not have been better satisfied of their astonishment. The short silence was so terrible to Boag, that feeling he must say something, he suggested a want of candles, in a feeble way; and then, with a hurried 'Right about face—march!' the Corporal and guard vanished in the darkness.

Reader, I am sorry to hoax you, but there was no catastrophe. An antipathy looked dead in the face is always pointless. I was not challenged by Corporal F——; and as corporal, I never saw him after that night. I never knew his name; and it is quite probable that five years afterward I passed my wine to him in that same old antiquated town. There was a face at our hotel that reminded me very much of Corporal F——; but with five years, my antipathy had gone, and my tom-cat was a very clever companion.

[EPIGRAM OF PLATO TO A DECEASED FRIEND.]

As once thou shon'st, a morning star,
With life's young glory round thy head,
So now thou deck'st the western sky,
Soft gleaming from among the dead.

W. H. H.

[AUTUMN.]

On woodland and on mountain side
Rich, varied tints appear;
By mossy stone and wandering wave
Pale leaves are falling sere;
The garden flowers all scattered lie,
In sorrowful decay,
And the greenness of the valley slope
Is fading fast away!

And are the verdure and the bloom
In their fresh prime so dear,
That thus the spirit mourneth o'er
The ruin of the year?
No! 'tis because true types are they
Of lovelier, dearer things;
Hopes, joys, and transports, unto which
The soul so fondly clings.

There is a moral in each leaf
That droppeth from the tree;
In each lone, barren bough that points
To heaven so mournfully:
Mute Nature, in her silent way,
A mystic lesson tells,
And they who watch the Sybil well
May profit by her spells.

Bon-Rosni.

Richmond, Virginia.

[FIORELLO'S FIDDLE-STICK.]

BY A NEW CONTRIBUTOR.

Among the men of rank in London, who were distinguished during the last century for their love of music, the Baron Baygo held a prominent place. This worthy man found music in every thing. Did a door creak upon its hinges, did a chair make a shrill sound in gliding over the floor, presto! in an instant our melomaniac seizes his tablets and marks down the corresponding musical inflections. There was not, in short, an itinerant merchant of the streets of London whose favorite cry had not been reproduced in the collection of Baron Baygo. To speak truth, however, it must be confessed that the musical education of our Baron had not been of the most thorough character, being rather superficial than solid. He was consequently obliged to have recourse to an amanuensis to note down for him, in a proper and artist-like manner, all the noises, good, bad, or indifferent, which figured in his musical agenda.

To procure a person of sufficient tact and patience to understand and humor all the Baron's whims, it may readily be imagined was no easy task. Having changed a score of times his musical secretaries, he succeeded however at length in attaching to him the celebrated Fiorello, an Italian violinist of rare talent, and as simple and candid in character as the majority of his countrymen are crafty and astute.

Still the Baron, in spite of the three hours which he devoted every day to the practice of the violin, could never attain the faculty of playing with correctness; and his harmonicidal hand was continually entangled in difficulties, and made sad havoc with the doleful-sounding flats.

Fiorello was almost in despair. At length, the Baron, one day throwing his violin on the floor, cried out in a rage: 'Yes! I have already restrained myself too long; but patience! I am determined that these cursed flats shall bother me no longer!'

'What is it you mean, my Lord?' said Fiorello, in astonishment.