Madame Dumas, who had been much terrified by the baker's horse arriving without his rider, recommended her son not to say anything of what he had seen. There would be inquiries without end-preliminary investigations at Soissons-assizes at Laon--no end of trouble and expense. The next day the whole population was in motion. A carrier of VillersCôterèts had brought the body in his cart to the town. It was that of a young man, of from fifteen to sixteen years of age. He belonged to the labouring class, and was unknown in the neighbourhood. He had been killed by a heavy blow on the back of the head with a blunt instrument.

Two days afterwards, one of M. Picot's shepherds was brought in by the gendarmes, suspected of being the guilty party. "The type," says Dumas, "was that of the Picard peasant of the very lowest class, vulgar and cunning." This shepherd's hut was within two hundred paces of where the body had been discovered; traces of blood had been found on the straw, covered by a miserable mattress. A mallet had also been found stained with blood. This wretch, Marot by name, finding himself thus implicated, drew his master, M. Picot, to whom he owed a grudge, into the scrape. He accused him of being the murderer, and the unfortunate gentleman was arrested, and imprisoned for a month before his innocence was established. He, however, never recovered the blow of so cruel an accusation. Marot was condemned to twelve or fifteen years' imprisonment for having stolen some clothes found upon a dead man. Strange verdict, says Dumas, which states a crime without designating the criminal.

But the most curious part of the story lies in the sequel. Possibly, if the results of all crimes could be equally circumstantially followed out, this would be found to be generally the case. Marot, on his liberation from confinement, returned to the same neighbourhood, where he got employment as a butcher. Some time after his return, his wife was killed by a very singular accident. She was drawing water from a well, when, the rope breaking, she was thrown down to a depth of thirty feet, and drowned.

This death (says Dumas) was looked upon as an accident.

Some time afterwards, the body of a young carman was found buried, at a depth of only one or two feet, between Vivières and Chelles, and who appeared to have been killed by a pistol-shot, discharged right into his back.

Researches were made, but without results; the assassin or assassins were not discovered.

Lastly, some time afterwards, Marot went himself to the justice of peace, to announce an incident that had taken place. A young painter and glazier, who, not having means to go to the inn, had asked hospitality of him, had been received into the house, and had perished during the night-time, in the garret, where he slept on straw, of a colique de miserere.

The young painter was buried.

A few days afterwards, some of Marot's fowls were found dead in his yard and in the gardens of the neighbours. They appeared to have been poisoned. These various incidents were brought into connexion with one another, and suspicions began to arise. Marot was taken up, and his own child was a chief evidence against him.

The young painter had been poisoned by arsenic put by Marot into his soup-plate. The young man complained that the soup had a strange taste; Marot's son took a tablespoonful of it, and was of the same opinion.

"eat

"The soup," said Marot, "has a strange taste because it was made with a pig's head. As to you, glutton," he added, addressing himself to his son, your soup, and let this boy eat his; every one his own."

Nevertheless, the flavour of the soup was so acrid that the painter left the half of it in his plate. This was thrown on the dungheap; the fowls partook of it, and denounced the poisoning by their death.

This time the accusation against Marot was so strong that he could not conceal the truth. Seeing that he could no longer be spared the results of his last crime, he then acknowledged all the others.

He confessed that it was he who had killed the man found in the road, for the sake of six or eight francs that he had upon him. He confessed that he had cut the rope, so that his wife should fall into the well, and should be killed by the fall, or drown herself.

He acknowledged that it was he who had killed with a pistol, for the sake of thirty francs that he had just received, the young carman whose body had been found between Chelles and Vivières.

He acknowledged, lastly, that it was he who, to rob him of twelve francs that he ascertained he had about him, had poisoned the painter and glazier by putting arsenic into his soup.

Marot was condemned to death, and executed at Beauvais in 1828 or 1829.

The reader will not fail to recognise, in this fearful detail of crime, certain circumstances which have been largely made use of in "Monte Christo."

Shortly after this event, well calculated to leave a permanent impression upon so imaginative a mind, young Dumas, being then sixteen years of age, entered upon a new era in life- -a fair Spaniard awakened hitherto unknown aspirations. Dumas was not, however, according to his own account, very successful in his first amours. A blue coat and tight nankeens, remnants of the wardrobe of the old republican general, were no longer fashionable, and exposed our hero to no small amount of ridicule from the fair object of his regards, and this reached the culminating point, when, being one day anxious to exhibit his agility before the maiden, he took a desperate leap, which entailed a fatal rupture in the before-mentioned tight nankeens.

A more genial friendship with young Adolphe de Leuvers, descendant of the noble Danish family, the Earls of Ribbing, consoled Dumas for the ridicule that attended upon his first loves.

There was (says Dumas) a sad and melancholy legend in the family; it referred to two children decapitated, the one at twelve years of age, the other at three.

The executioner had just cut off the head of the eldest, and was taking hold of the junior for the same purpose; the poor little child said to him in a plaintive tone:

"Do not, I beg of you, dirty my collar, as you have done to my brother Azel, for mamma will scold me so.

The executioner had two children of the same age as these two. He was so struck by these simple, affecting words, that he threw down his sword and ran away.

Christian sent some soldiers after him, who killed the compassionate executioner.

This and a visit to the Chateau de Villers-Hellon, where young Dumas and his friends got into disgrace for their riotous proceedings; a Diligence-story, which had much better have been, with sundry other matters, altogether omitted; and sundry detached sentences in reference to the political events of 1814-carry Dumas through his fifth volume, and up to his seventeenth year. At this rate, being now nigh fifty years of age (Dumas was born July 24, 1802), it will require sixteen volumes to bring the memoirs of the Romancist to our own times.

up

THE BARON'S REVENGE.

I.

READER, have you ever been in Cornwall? I don't mean to ask if you have passed through it on the coach road, along the bleak hills and sterile tracts which constitute, as it were, the backbone of the county; nor even if you have visited the attractions which lie in the usual track of the few tourists who venture into such a remote and out-of-the-way district. But have you ever struck out paths for yourself? Have you ever, contemning the adventitious aids of coaches, carriages, or horses, set forth on foot to explore it, with stick in hand and knapsack on shoulder? If not, you may be acquainted with some of its scenes of desolation; you may be even familiar enough with cromlechs, rockbasins, and logan-stones, but can know comparatively little of its beauties. To see these, you must wander among the beetling cliffs and spacious caverns of its north coast; the beautiful rivers and sweeping bays of its south; and the sunny nooks and lovely valleys of its interior-and many such valleys are to be found scattered about, sometimes, too, in close proximity to barren wastes and dreary moors. Often you may roam over bold wild hills, where huge masses of granite lie piled in strange fantastic forms, with no trace of vegetation around you, save the brown heath and the tall fern, or that ever-present feature in Cornish scenery, the golden-blossomed furze, whilst a roaring torrent rushes foaming and struggling in its rocky channel at your feet. You follow its course, and, sometimes by degrees, sometimes suddenly, as if transformed by the magician's wand, the naked granite and feathery fern give place to beautiful leafy woods; and the rapid torrent, as though it felt the influence of the scene, calms down into a gurgling, murmuring stream-now lingering in its course, and spreading out into a black silent pool, like a miniature lake, which the hills, still steep and abrupt, and jutting into each other on either side, seem to shut in from all the world as with a leafy wall; and then again, shutting its eyes, as it were, as if anxious to make up for the time it had loitered away, and rushing on with blind haste under the overhanging banks and against the mossy stonesstrongholds of the speckled trout and regal salmon.

In one of the loveliest of these valleys-perhaps the loveliest-the sweet Vale of Dunmeer, stand the ruins of a house, or rather cottage, for it can scarcely be called more. It has long been deserted and ruinous— long before the memory of any one at present alive in the neighbourhoodyet its decay has been slow and gradual: the hand of Time itself seems to have passed over it with a gentle and sparing touch, and even man, often the more remorseless depredator of the two, has not molested it. Though the roof and part of the walls have fallen in, not a stone has been removed; even the garden before it, though, of course, long since overgrown with weeds and briars, still remains. Situated in the most secluded part of the valley, its crumbling walls, thickly covered with ivy, can scarcely fail strongly to impress the mind of the beholder-more strongly, perhaps, than is often the case even with more majestic ruins. A strange story is related concerning the fate of the last inhabitants of this cottage: it was told me by the hostess of a little inn in the neigh

bourhood, and whether or not strictly true in all its parts, it has, even through the lapse of such a length of time, so powerfully affected with feelings of awe or pity the minds of the people around, as to prevent them from in any way altering or interfering with the place.

Many years ago, a lady came there to reside, bringing with her an only child, a daughter, then an infant a few months old. Though very young she could scarcely have seen more than two-and-twenty summers-Mrs. Atherton, for such was the lady's name, was a widow. She was beautiful— very beautiful, but it was with the beauty of the frost-nipped bud―of the blighted flower. The fair, open forehead; the rich, clustering brown hair; the soft, dark eyes were there: but the brightness of those eyes was quenched, the cheek was wan and sunken, the merry laugh seemed to have quitted the now bloodless lips for ever. Her countenance wore usually an expression of sweetness and melancholy, but ever and anon it would be distorted by a look of the most extreme terror-and this occurred most usually in the night. Often she would start up suddenly from her sleep with a shriek, clasp her infant to her breast, and wander about the house for hours, not unfrequently till daybreak. For this, her child, her fondness and care were extreme, almost painful to witness : night and day it was ever at her side; she would not part with it for an instant. Yet she was not a fidgety, or, in the general acceptation of the term, a solicitous mother: colds, damp, and illness, seemed scarcely to have a place in her fears; but some sort of vague, undefined dread, connected with her infant, appeared constantly to hang over her soul.

These

For a long time after her arrival she never left the house; and, with the exception of Betsy, the only servant she had engaged—a good, simple, faithful creature, whose heart her mistress's sweetness of disposition had completely won-never, as far as possible, admitted any one into it. Not that she was much troubled with visitors, but she seemed suspicious and afraid even of the wood-cutters and their families, who principally inhabited the few houses scattered through the valley. At length, her child's health almost gave way under so much confinement; its little cheek began to get pale, and its temper fretful; and Mrs. Atherton, though at first with fear and trembling, found it necessary to take it more into the fresh air. Her first walks did not reach beyond the garden and the little meadow adjoining; but, getting gradually more bold, she soon began to extend them along the woodland paths, or by the river's sidesometimes even to the nearest cottages of her poor neighbours. rambles, which quickly brought back the roses to her little daughter's cheek, were not less beneficial to her own health and spirits. Years rolled on, and-whether from the gloomy dread on her mind having been caused by painful recollections which the lapse of time served to deaden, or from the non-arrival of some actual evil which she had feared-her sleep became more peaceful, her waking hours less anxious and suspicious, and those dread moments of terror rarer and more rare. Her cheek still remained white as the plain widow's cap which surrounded it, but its hollowness passed away; her eyes began once more to be lit up by some mild rays of hope, and a sweet quiet smile would now and then stray back to revisit her lips. Her love for her daughter, though it lost in a great measure its painful, anxious watching, seemed, if possible, to become even more tender; and she, on her part, returned it with equal affection. Seldom did a tear stand in Mary's bright blue eye but when she saw her

mother looking more than usually sad; and never did Mrs. Atherton so sweetly smile as when she watched her daughter's joyous, springing step, and her face beaming with health and happiness.

All through Mary's prattling childhood, and merry, happy girlhood, her supreme delight was to sit by her mother's side, or to walk with her through the tangled greenwood paths that surrounded their home, now running on before to clear the briars from her way, now loitering behind to pick her a handful of wild strawberries, or a bunch of honeysuckles or violets, and now holding her by the hand, and looking earnestly up into her face, as her mother told her about the birds, and the flowers, and the insects, and the mosses, or related some little tale, short and simple, but to the hearer of thrilling interest. But these stories seldom spoke of the great world, and of its pleasures and attractions; and when they did, they were intended, under a guise adapted to Mary's age and comprehension, to create a dread and fear of it. One of the most intensely interesting of these tales was about a little bird, called Chirpy, who lived with her father and mother, in a nest that was built in an old cherry-tree; and how the cherry-tree stood in a garden, where she had everything that the heart of little bird could desire-nice strawberries, and raspberries, and cherries, and currants, and clear pure water. And the garden was surrounded by a high wall, which Chirpy's father and mother told her she must never on any account go over. And how curious and anxious she was to know what could be on the other side. And how she thought one day that, at all events, it could be no harm just to fly to the top of the wall, and peep over, as that could not be doing anything wrong. And how she did fly up and peep, and saw on the other side-oh! such a beautiful garden, ten thousand times more beautiful-looking than her own; and there were fountains and streams in it, not of pure clear water, but red, and purple, and golden-coloured; and there were fruits, which looked so luscious and tempting, that she thought she would rather have one of them than all the cherries or currants she had ever seen in her life. And the garden was full of such beautiful birds! not with plain brown feathers, like hers, but dressed in magnificent plumage-scarlet, and green, and blue, and purple, and all the colours of the rainbow, and looking so merry and happy! And how one bird, more splendid than all the rest, and with the most beautiful eyes Chirpy had ever beheld, saw her as she peeped over, and begged her to come down, and said what a pity it was that she should stay in such an old humdrum place as that was on the other side of the wall; and what a handsome creature she would be if she would come down and drink their water, and eat their fruits, and have bright gay feathers like they had. And how Chirpy said, that her father and mother had told her she must not, and she did not like to disobey them. And how the beautiful bird laughed at her, and said that now she was a great bird and had wings of her own, she must have a will of her own, too, and not always be doing what her mother told her. And how Chirpy thought it could be no harm to go down for five minutes, but she wouldn't stay longer-no, not for the world! And she flew down, and the gay birds all came around her, and gave her the fruits and the coloured water, and she ate and drank, and thought they were so nice that she could never have enough; and she was merry and happy, and wished she had not stayed so long in that ugly old place on the other side of the wall; and she May-VOL. XCV. NO. CCCLXXVII.

G

sang,