Part 12

“But what if most of these Frenchmen went out with us?”

“That alters the case,” cried the captain with his old grin.

And somewhere about midnight the commandant was roused by an uproar round the officers’ quarters, which shewed what willing soil the ringleaders had found to sow sedition in.

“Kill your captains! I’ll begin with mine,” the serjeant was roaring with a volley of oaths, and menacing Captain Curzon with his halbert. The fellow had found drink somewhere, and was raging like a worried bull, his prominent bloodshot eyes sustaining the resemblance.

Curzon parried the thrust and would have cut him down, when the voice of the commandant overtopped the clamor.

“What!” he exclaimed, “do you plot to follow our Portuguese allies! Go, every man of you who chooses; we want none but brave men here, and will bear with no others.”

“That may do for you to prate about, general mine,” answered Señor de Ladron scoffingly, the seditious talents of that young gentleman causing him to be chosen captain of the insurgents, “but it wont deceive men with their eyes open, hark ye! We all know you’re only waiting a chance to escape with your brave officers, and leave us to pull an oar apiece in the Spanish galleys. Ha, ha! M. de Chaste! Begone while you’re allowed, for you see you’re outwitted.”

“Insolent dog, to your quarters!” the knight cried, advancing upon the speaker and striking him with his sheathed sword.

But Hilo, instead of falling back, foaming with rage, seized a halbert with both hands, and was as promptly fastened on by a dozen embracing arms.

“No, by St. Dennis! the general shan’t be harmed!” as many more voices exclaimed. “Only we’ll be ahead of him and go first.”

“Friends,” answered De Chaste, with some indignation in his voice, “you hurt me more by your suspicions than if you ran a sword through my body; and I take Heaven to witness, I will be the last man to quit this island, and will die rather than abandon any of you to the mercy of the marquis, whose countrymen gave such instance of their treatment of the French last year in the Floridas. Let fifty or a hundred of you surround my house yonder, and insure my stay: it will be time enough to dishonor yourselves and nation when I set the example.”

Which the mutineers did for the present, despite the taunts of their leader-elect, who, struggling furiously with his captors, had all the while been calling to the others to fall upon the officers, or loose him and he would give them example. The commandant was a favorite with the troops.

“We will wait until to-morrow,” they agreed among themselves, “and general or no general, he is a dead man if he lifts a finger to betray us.”

Señor Hilo de Ladron, for his part, came to the conclusion, after this failure, that the French camp was no place for him, and communicated his views to his faithful Damon.

“I’d like to have split his head open, he hadn’t so much as a cap on to save it,” he said to Wolfang, “and then we might have done as we pleased with the rest. But, hang it, you’re such a liar, the men only half believed the story from the first, and letting him talk upset their resolution altogether. It’s his turn now, and we must get out of this hornet’s nest before daylight.”

“Where to go?” the captain asked.

“If you are born to be drowned, you can stay behind, you wont be safe otherwise,” Hilo answered indifferently. “I’m for the mountains at first, and who knows but I may find it to my interest in the end to visit the marquis with the count for sponsor.”

“Oh, if you keep such good company,” the captain returned, with a grotesque bow and grin showing his comprehension of Hilo’s plans, “I’m your excellency’s humble servant!” And in an hour’s time these fast friends had slipped through the line of sentries, scaled the breast-work, and sat down to wait for light a mile or two from camp.

The impossibility of hearing ordinary discourse at that distance will cause the finale of this story to be very different from what it might have been under more favorable circumstances. For a herald, or courier, or valet, had just then arrived from the camp of the marquis, at the intrenchments, bringing a letter to the Commandant de Chaste, who presently sent through the village to find Don Hilo, as we all know now, without success.

[_To be continued._

* * * * *

CHARLOTTE CORDAY.

BY MRS. ELIZABETH J. EAMES.

“Among the victims put to death by Marat was a young man of noble and imposing mien, renowned for virtue and bravery, and said to be the betrothed of the martyred Charlotte Corday.”

This clearly chiseled face— So full of tender beauty and meek thought— This head of classic grace, These delicate limbs, in sculptured pureness wrought, These fingers, fairy small, could _these_ belong to thee— Once merriest girl in France, the proud, the fond, the free?

Methinks thy slender form Seems with a proud, commanding air to rise; And wondrous power to charm Dwells in the midnight of those thoughtful eyes: While on thy curved lip, and lofty marble brow Sitteth the high resolve, that suits thy purpose now!

Did not thy woman’s heart Thrill with emotions never felt before? Didst thou not shrink, and start To stain thy fair hand with the purple gore? Hadst thou no chilling fear, O, self-devoted maid! Of the dark doom that soon must fall upon thy head?

Yes! for _one_ moment thou Didst struggle with youth’s natural dread of death! One moment didst thou bow Thy woman’s heart—then, with firm step, free breath, Didst thou approach the bath of the terrific man With whom the fearful “Reign of Terror” first began!

How deep the avenging steel, With fatal aim, pierced through his guilty breast! While ’mid the mortal chill His starting eye the demon-soul expressed!— Until it closed forever, and the blood Made dark the waters where the ruthless monster stood!

So, ’neath this fragile form Dwelt the _resolve_ that made thy country free— And this fair, feeble arm Performed a deed of immortality! But, oh! _thy_ strength, _true love_! for _him_ ’twas done— Well didst thou avenge the death of thy heart’s cherished one!

* * * * *

SONNET.

TO ARABELLA, SLEEPING.

BY R. T. CONRAD.

When the world wearieth, then the sun doth set, And the dew kisseth sweet _good-night_ to earth; When the soul fainteth, and would fain forget, Then sleep, the shadow of God’s smile, comes forth, Gently, with downy darkness, and the dew Of thoughts from Heaven, and with the quickening rest That lightly slumbers—star thoughts beaming through The dreamy dimness on the rippling breast. Soft be that dew upon thy breast to-night! Gentle thy dreams as zephyr to the flower! Pure as the prayer that riseth as I write, To hover round thee through the midnight hour! Till Morning wake—as if for thee alone— And meet a brow as bright—’tis lovelier than his own!

* * * * *

NETTLES ON THE GRAVE.

BY R. PENN SMITH.

Strolling through a cemetery, I beheld within one of the enclosures a widow who had buried her only child there, some two years before. I accosted her, and tendered my assistance. “Thank you,” she replied, “my task is done. I have been pulling up the nettles and thistles that have overgrown little Willie’s grave, and have planted mnemonies, heart’s ease, and early spring flowers in their place, as more fitting emblems of my child; and though they may fail to delight him, they will remind me that there is a spring time even in the grave, and that Willie will not be neglected by _Him_ who bids these simple flowers revive. But is it not strange how rank nettles and all offensive weeds grow over the human grave—even a child’s grave?”

“I remember you mourned grievously at losing him, but trust time has assuaged affliction.”

“Its poignancy is blunted, but memory is constantly hovering around my child. Duty and reason have taught me resignation; still I seldom behold a boy of his age, but fancy pictures to me how he would have appeared in the various stages of his progress toward manhood. And then again I see him like his father—and myself a proud and happy mother in old age. True, you may call it an idle, baseless dream; and so it is, but I cannot help indulging in it.”

“Dream on! the best of life is a dream.”

We walked a few steps, and paused before an inclosure where reposed the remains of a worthy man, with nothing more than his unobtrusive name inscribed upon a marble slab to designate his resting-place. He was respected for his integrity and energy; beloved for his utility and benevolence. Here was no lying inscription, making the grave gorgeous, as if monumental mendacity might deceive Divinity. His record was elsewhere, traced by unseen fingers.

“There are no nettles on that good man’s grave,” said the widow. “I knew him well; weeds would wither there; nothing but flowers should cover his ashes.”

A few young men at the time were idly passing. They paused, when one tearing a weed from the pathway, hurled it among the flowers, exclaiming, “Let him rot there with weeds for his covering.” The slumbering dust thus spurned had long sustained the ingrate who now voided his venom upon the benefactor who had fed him until there was no longer faith in hope. The widow sighed; “And this is on the grave of the good and just!”

“Had Willie lived, he might have been such a man, and such would have been his harvest.”

In the next tomb a brave soldier mingled his ashes with the red earth of Adam. In his early career he was placed in a position where daring energies alone could command success. He succeeded, and was rewarded by a nation’s approbation. No subsequent opportunity occurred to acquire peculiar distinction; and when he died, a shaft was erected commemorating the most remarkable action of his life. His tomb attracted the attention of some visiters who read his epitaph. “Characteristic of the age!” exclaimed one, throwing a pebble at the inscription, “to swell a corporal to the dimensions of a Cæsar. It was the only action of a protracted life, worthy of record, and here it is emblazoned for the pride of posterity.” Had the thoughtless scoffer of the unconscious dead occupied his position, which gained renown, history possibly might have perpetuated disgrace, instead of a tombstone record of gallant services—the patriot’s sole reward.

“You knew the soldier?”

“For years, and well. A brave and worthy man. The current of his useful life flowed smoothly on, without being ruffled by the breath of calumny.”

“And yet nettles cover his grave already!”

“Such might have been your child’s destiny—but that matters little; praise or scorn are now alike to the old soldier.”

We passed to a spot where a gay party was leaning on a railing. A young woman had plucked some of the gayest flowers from the enclosure, and was laughing with her merry companions. As we approached, she threw the bouquet already soiled and torn, on the grave; and they went their way with some idle jest upon their lips. The widow paused, and struggled to suppress her emotion.

“Did you know the tenant of this grave?”

“From his childhood. He loved that woman, and struggled to acquire wealth to make her happy. He succeeded, and when she discovered that he was completely within her toils, she deceived and left him hopeless. There are men whose hearts retain the simplicity of childhood through life; and such was his. Without reproaching her, or breathing her name to any one, he suddenly shrunk as a blighted plant, and withered day by day, until he died. Like the fabled statuary, he was enamored of the creature his own mind had fashioned, and in the credulity of his nature, he made her wealthy, trusting that time would infuse truth and vitality into the unreal vision of his youthful imagination. The world of love is a paradise of shadows! The man beside her is now her husband; the wealth they revel in, this grave bequeathed them.”

“The fool! to die heart-broken—for a dream. But great men have at times died broken-hearted. I should not call him fool. It is a common death among good men.”

“Great men! But women, sir, have pined away to death.”

“In poetry, the bill of mortality is a long one; in real life the patients seldom die, unless they chance to be both vain and poor. Did a rich widow ever grieve to death for the loss of the noblest husband? Wealth is a potent antidote to the malady, and teaches resignation; while poverty, with the first blow of his iron sledge, will make his cold anvil smoke with the heart’s blood, for he is buried who for years had withstood the blow.”

“That woman did not cast nettles on his grave.”

“No nettles, but faded roses which she tore from it—blooming when she came there. Better cast stones and nettles than those withered flowers. Your boy has escaped this poor man’s destiny—the worst of deaths! His was the happiest! he died—smiling—on his fond mother’s bosom! But there is a grave around which weeds grow more luxuriantly, than about the sepulchre where mortal dust reposes. Daily watchfulness is required to prevent the bright creations therein buried, from being so over-run until nothing is seen to designate the beautiful tomb, where we had carefully embalmed them, as if in amber.”

“What grave, sir, do you refer to?”

“The human mind. A mighty grave wherein we daily bury crushed hopes and brilliant ephemerons, too fragile to survive the chill atmosphere of a solitary day. Keep the weeds from growing there and smothering their memories. They are the progeny of the soul, and should not be allowed to perish. Shall the joyous and beautiful creations of childhood be forgotten in age; must the noble aspirations of the vigor of manhood pass away without even an epitaph, because crushed in their vigor! Rather contemplate them hourly; plant flowers beside them, though they bloom but briefly and fade, they will send forth perfume even in decay, and inevitably revive in due season, bearing refreshing fruit; and old age, with palsied hand, will readily gather up the long account of his stewardship, and as he glances over the lengthened scroll that must become a record in the archives of eternity, may rejoice that he hath not been an ingrate and idler in the heat of the harvest-field, but hath diligently labored to make the entrusted talent yield the expected usage. Tear up the weeds that are incessantly growing there, ere he who was placed little lower than the angels, becomes an empty cenotaph—a stranger’s grave—mouldering and mingling with his mother earth unheeded and unknown.”

* * * * *

FAMILIAR QUOTATIONS FROM UNFAMILIAR SOURCES.

BY A STUDENT.

Many of our readers have undoubtedly been asked during the past month for information touching the whereabouts of some trite quotation, the locality of which the whole neighborhood has not been able accurately to decide. We have often thought it would be a commendable service if some industrious student would make a complete collection of the every day sayings, and print them side by side with the author’s names. As no one, however, has seen fit to pioneer in the attempt, we here make a beginning, confident that the plan is worthy to be carried out more fully. At some future period, if no one else seems willing to continue the undertaking, we hope to find leisure and opportunity for other specimens in “Graham.” Meantime, here are a few of the more common _lines_ in “everybody’s _mouth_.”

No line which dying he could wish to blot.

It stands thus in the original:

Not one immoral, one corrupted thought, One line which dying he could wish to blot. LORD LYTTLETON. _Prologue to Thomson’s Coriolanus._

To err is human, to forgive divine. POPE. _Essay on Criticism._

The perilous edge of battle. MILTON. _Paradise Lost, Book First._

God made the country and man made the town. COWPER. _The Task._

No pent up Utica contracts your powers, But the whole boundless continent is yours. J. M. SEWALL. _Epilogue to Cato, 1778._

And thereby hangs a tale. SHAKSPEARE. _As You Like It._

And man the hermit sighed till woman smiled. CAMPBELL. _Pleasures of Hope._

And snatch a grace beyond the reach of art. POPE. _Essay on Criticism._

He whistled as he went for want of thought. DRYDEN. _Cymon and Iphigenia._

The feast of reason and the flow of soul. POPE. _Satires. To Mr. Fortescue._

Woman, last at the cross and earliest at the grave. E. S. BARRETT. _Woman: A Poem._

When Greek meets Greek then comes the tug of war. NAT LEE. _Play of Alexander the Great._

Music has charms to soothe a savage breast. CONGREVE. _The Mourning Bride._

The old man eloquent. MILTON. _Tenth Sonnet._

One touch of nature makes the whole world kin. SHAKSPEARE. _Troilus and Cressida._

Great wits to madness surely are allied, DRYDEN. _Absalom and Achitophel._

Even in our ashes live their wonted fires. GRAY. _The Elegy._

God tempers the wind to the shorn lamb. STERNE. _Sentimental Journey._

The devil may cite scripture for his purpose. SHAKSPEARE. _The Merchant of Venice._

She walks the waters like a thing of life. BYRON. _The Island._

Thoughts that breathe and words that burn. GRAY. _The Progress of Poesy._

On the light fantastic toe. MILTON. _l’Allegro._

Give ample room and verge enough. GRAY. _The Bard._

A little learning is a dangerous thing. POPE. _Essay on Criticism._

And even his failings leaned to virtue’s side. GOLDSMITH. _The Deserted Village._

O wad some power the giftie gie us To see oursel’ as others see us. BURNS. _Address to a Louse._

Brevity is the soul of wit. SHAKSPEARE. _Hamlet._

Westward the course of empire takes its way. BISHOP BERKLEY.

Hills peep o’er hills and Alps on Alps arise. POPE. _Essay on Criticism._

The observed of all observers. SHAKSPEARE. _Hamlet._

And made a sunshine in a shady place. SPENSER. _Fairy Queen._

A breath can make them as a breath has made. GOLDSMITH. _The Deserted Village._

Heaven lies about us in our infancy. WORDSWORTH. _Ode on Immortality._

Man wants but little here below, Nor wants that little long. GOLDSMITH. _Edwin and Angelina._

Just as the twig is bent the tree’s inclined. POPE. _Moral Essays._

Throw physic to the dogs. SHAKSPEARE. _Macbeth._

Canst thou not minister to a mind diseased. _Ditto._

My way of life is fallen into the sere, the yellow leaf. _Ditto._

I’ll make assurance doubly sure. _Ditto._

Shouldered his crutch and showed how fields were won. GOLDSMITH. _Deserted Village._

Domestic happiness, the only bliss Of Paradise that has survived the fall. COWPER. _The Task._

Let who may make the laws of a people, allow me to write their ballads, and I’ll guide them at my will. SIR PHILIP SIDNEY.

For winter lingering chills the lap of May. GOLDSMITH. _The Traveler._

Rolled darkling down the torrent of his fate. DR. JOHNSON. _Vanity of Human Wishes._

The man forget not, though in rags he lies, And know the mortal through a crown’s disguise. AKENSIDE. _Epistle to Curio._

Whatever is, is right. POPE. _Essay on Man._

The proper study of mankind is man. _Ditto._

Man never is but always to be blest. _Ditto._

Pleased with a rattle, tickled with a straw. _Ditto._

And to party gave up what was meant for mankind. GOLDSMITH. _Retaliation._

Superfluous lags the veteran on the stage. JOHNSON. _Vanity of Human Wishes._

Rides in the whirlwind and directs the storm. ADDISON. _Lines to the Duke of Marlboro._ Also POPE. _The Dunciad._

To teach the young idea how to shoot. THOMSON. _The Seasons. Spring._

’Tis distance lends enchantment to the view. CAMPBELL. _Pleasures of Hope._

Or like the snow-fall in the river, A moment white, then melts forever. BURNS. _Tam O’Shanter._

Nothing extenuate, nor set down ought in malice. SHAKSPEARE. _Othello._

Exhausted worlds and then imagined new. DR. JOHNSON. _Prologue at the opening of the_ _Drury-Lane Theatre, 1747._

Assume a virtue though you have it not. SHAKSPEARE. _Hamlet._

Nursing her wrath to keep it warm. BURNS. _Tam O’Shanter._

Curses not loud but deep. SHAKSPEARE. _Macbeth._

Who shall decide when doctors disagree. POPE. _Epistle to Bathurst._

By strangers honored and by strangers mourned. POPE. _Elegy on an Unfortunate Lady._

Where ignorance is bliss ’Tis folly to be wise. GRAY. _Ode on Eton College._

And swift expires a driveller and show. DR. JOHNSON. _Vanity of Human Wishes._

Order is Heaven’s first law. POPE. _Essay on Man._

Honor and shame from no condition rise. _Ditto._

An honest man’s the noblest work of God. _Ditto._

Plays round the head but comes not to the heart. _Ditto._

But looks through nature up to nature’s God. _Ditto._

With all my imperfections on my head. SHAKSPEARE. _Hamlet._

The undiscovered country, from whose bourn No traveler returns. _Ditto._

Lay not that flattering unction to your soul. _Ditto._

The time is out of joint. _Ditto._

A saint in crape is twice a saint in lawn. POPE. _Moral Essays._

Who never mentions hell to ears polite. POPE. _The Epistles._

From seeming evil still educing good. THOMSON. _Hymn._

There’s a divinity that shapes our ends, Rough hew them how we will. SHAKSPEARE. _Hamlet._

On her white breast a cross of gold she wore, Which Jews might kiss and infidels adore. POPE. _Rape of the Lock._

At every word a reputation dies. _Ditto._

And wretches hang that jurymen may dine. _Ditto._

In wit a man; simplicity a child. POPE. _Epitaph on Gay._

The mob of gentlemen who write with ease. POPE. _Imitations of Horace._

Even Palinurus nodded at the helm. POPE. _The Dunciad._

I lisped in numbers, for the numbers came. POPE. _Prologue to the Satires._

Wit that can creep and pride that licks the dust. _Ditto._

Bear, like the Turk, no brother near the throne. _Ditto._

Damns with faint praise. _Ditto._

To point a moral or adorn a tale. DR. JOHNSON. _Vanity of Human Wishes._

Good wine needs no bush. SHAKSPEARE. _As You Like It._

A little round fat oily man of God. THOMSON. _The Castle of Indolence._