certainty. He had not been long there, when the gallop of several horses was heard. It was the Emperor with his suit. François advanced and stood motionless, in the position of a soldier without arms. Napoleon, surprised at meeting a Pupil of the Guard in this spot, paused, frowned, and inquired in a stern tone :

"What are you doing here, young man ?"

François, with both heels in line, his chest advanced, the back of his right hand to his shako, replied calmly:

Sire, I was waiting for you." "Ah!" rejoined the Emperor, who did not expect such a reply, "but why are you out of your quarters at this hour?"

"To speak to your majesty." "How did you leave them?" cried the Emperor, impatiently.

"Sire, by leaping over the wall." "Young man, said Napoleon, who now remarked the lozenge-shaped band upon the pupil's sleeve, "such an act of insubordination on the part of a subaltern officer is unpardonable! Do you not know that you should set an example of discipline to the rest?"

"I know it, sire; but it was necessary above all things that I should speak with your majesty."

'Be quick, then! what do you want?" "The honor, sire, of joining the war battalion of the Pupils of the Guard, of fighting against your majesty's enemies, and of dying, if necessary, in defense of my country.'

At these words, uttered as they were, with an accent truly heroic, the expression of the Emperor's features changed; his glance, so stern a moment before, became mild and almost affectionate.

"Your name, young man ?" he said. "François Mouscadet, nephew of Pierre Mouscadet, grenadier of the 11th regiment of the Old Guard."

"Indeed!" cried the Emperor; and turning toward the grand huntsman, he addressed a few words to him with a smile; then resuming his serious air, he added coldly:

66

François, you will at once return to

"Yes, sire."

"Begone! I will remember you." And Napoleon set off at a gallop.

François, transported with joy, retired to his quarters, and gave himself up to the adjutant of the guard, who placed him under arrest. But what was this to him? The Emperor had said to him, "I will remember you," and these words were a sufficient consolation. He remained in confinement for eight days; on the ninth he was summoned before Colonel Bardin, who embraced him, and placed in his hands a lieutenant's brevet in the corps of the Pupils, with written directions for his route to join the battalion of war.

Words can scarcely describe François happiness at first wearing an epaulette upon his shoulders. His joy approached delirium. He was an officer in the guard of the King of Rome. It was a hundred times more than he had dared to hope for. for. He wrote to Pierre Mouscadet informing him of what had passed, adding that he hoped soon to meet him upon the field of battle, and to prove to him that he was worthy of being his nephew. The old soldier showed François' letter to his whole company, swearing that he was ready to be killed for the use of the Emperor, who demeaned himself so agreeably towards a nephew who was the son of his own brother.

The campaign of 1814, during which a single army disputed every foot of ground against the combined forces of Europe, seems truly fabulous. The second battalion of the Pupils had been summoned into the field, as the first had been the preceding year, and both were embodied in the war battalion of the Guard.

One day, in the plains of Champagne, Napoleon wishing to deceive the enemy, in order to insure the success of a particular movement, directed a battalion of his Old Guard to advance, at the same time sending forward a company of its Pupils as tirailleurs. This company was François'! It was a strange sight to see those brave youths deliver their fire with such coolness against the Russians, who were twice their size and triple their age; to see them take aim with as much calmness as if they were engaged at a game of mar

upon arm, awaited with impatience the

order to advance, cheered them with their voices, all watching with paternal eye, lest they should be surprised by the enemy's cavalry.

The engagement was long and sanguinary, but the Pupils of the Guard behaved so bravely that the success of the movement was insured. Stationed in the rear upon a slight eminence, Napoleon had watched the whole affair. After the action he approached to congratulate them. As he reached the front of the battalion of his grenadiers, a young officer of the Pupils was carried by upon a litter formed of crossed muskets; he had been severely wounded in the early part of the engagement, but had refused to be carried from the field of battle until after the retreat of the Russians, and notwithstanding his painful condition had not ceased to cry, Vive l'Empereur! vive la France!"

Napoleon approached to address him, when a grenadier suddenly stepped from the ranks, rushed wildly towards the wounded boy, and clasped him in his arms with the liveliest emotion. It was Pierre Mouscadet; he had recognized his nephew, but the next moment he beheld Napoleon standing near him, and casting upon him one of his flashing glances.

"Pardon, excuse me, my Emperor!" said the old soldier, in a tone trembling with fear and emotion; "I have left the ranks without permission; I ought to be punished, but it is my nephew, it is little François, my adopted son; I could not restrain myself, I was carried away."

"Silence!" said Napoleon, sternly. Then taking the hand of the wounded youth: "Captain François," he said, emphasizing the word which announced the rank which he gave to him, "this cross has been waiting for you since our interview in the forest of Sartory; receive it from my hand."

Big tears flowed from the eyes of Pierre Mouscadet, and he stammered forth:

"My Emperor, I received the same honor from you at Boulogne, but I was then a man, and François is but a child. Well, I have left the ranks without permission. I ought to be "

"Adieu, Captain François," resumed Napoleon, without listening to the words. of the grenadier, "we will meet soon again, I hope."

"Pardon me, excuse me, my Emperor; I have left the ranks, I ought

Napoleon, who wished only to recompense, interrupted the old soldier, saying in an impatient tone: "You are mistaken. Did you not see the sign I gave you to approach and embrace your nephew? Silence then, and return to the ranks!"

CHAPTER IV.

THIRTY YEARS AFTER.

Some days since, as I crossed the Square Dauphiné at Versailles, I observed a man with a wooden leg, standing as if in contemplation before the colossal statue of General Hoche; I thought I recognized him. Although attired in citizen's dress, yet he wore upon his head a policeman's cap of dark green leather, ornamented with a yellow tassel, and bordered by an edging of the same color. I approached him.

"Good day, captain," I said, cordially reaching him my hand, "do you not recognize me?"

Captain François, for it was he, gazed upon me, at first, with hesitation, then casting his arms about my neck, he embraced me.

"Parbleu!" he cried, "I remember you.

now."

"Yes," I replied, smiling, "it is I, indeed, with thirty years more upon my head."

"Oh!" cried the captain, raising his eyes sadly towards heaven, "do not let us speak of those times!"

"On the contrary, let us speak of them always."

The brave captain then informed me, that in consequence of the wound which he had received in Champagne, he had been obliged to lose his leg; that after the events of 1815, he had retired to Versailles with his uncle Pierre, who died not long after; that, finally, he had married, and had had a son.

Here the captain drooped his head sadly, and passed his hand over his eyes. "And this son ?" I asked.

"Died in Africa-the Arabs assassinated him."

In order to turn the conversation from a subject so painful, I hastened to add : "It seems as if I still saw the Pupils of the Guard, marching through the park, in winter, with their handsome green uniforms "

--

"Ma foi!" he cried, interrupting me,

"I had mine all complete, a short time ago; but as I am not rich, I tried to turn it to some use, and see!"-here the captain uncovered his head, and pointed complacently to his leathern cap-"see! this is all I could get in exchange for it."

THE air is sharp-the cloudless night
All glittering with a frosty light.
The sky above is deeply blue,

And crisp and cold the stars look through.
The sun hath had no power to-day
To melt the crusted snow away;
And on its glancing surface bright
Sparkles like gems the clear starlight.
The trees with icy beads are strung
From branch and spray unnumbered hung.

Maria, upon thy wondering sight
What vision breaks this silent night?
Her eyes, so exquisitely clear,

Are raised to heaven. It is not fear,
It is not joy; perhaps the twain-
Some wish yet undefined as vain,
Some quick, unspeakable surprise,
That fixes thus her ardent eyes.

A vision, never seen before,
Spreads half the wide horizon o'er;
A light, like torches waved on high,
To light some herald through the sky,
Or troops of armed horsemen prancing,
With glittering spears and banners glan-
cing;

Now brightening like the coming day,
Now fading like a mist away.

New to her childish gaze the sight—
New all the glories of the night-
For ay, till now, the evening hour
Hath found her like a folded flower,
Ere yet the stars begin to peep,
Wrapped in the honey dew of sleep.
All new to her the wondrous light,
The glory of a winter night.
In mute perplexity, apart
She stands, and in her simple heart
Can find no words to speak the wonder

That holds her rosy lips asunder. What can she do?-how freely tell The doubts that in her bosom swell?

Come teeming now her memory o'er
All wondrous tales of fairy lore-
Of palaces with gold bedight,
And shining host with banners bright;
And founts and diamond waterfalls,
Enchanted groves and glittering halls-
"Tis all bewilderment. But now
A gradual calmness lights her brow-
The spirit's calmness softly shed
Like moonlight on a lily-bed.

She thinks-perhaps the gates of heaven
Are thus in glorious light unriven,
And there, to meet their angel kin,
That little children enter in.

So, touched with awe, athwart her face
There steals a softer, soberer grace:
The sweet solemnity she feels,
Dimly a mystery reveals,
And of that mystery apart,
Thought trembles at the young child's
heart.

A dawning sense, a lesson new,
Defining other mysteries too,
That evermore the earth, the air,
To her shall holier aspect wear;
And haply from that blessed hour
Shall kindle in her soul a power,
Whence, through the future's weal or woe,
Shall richer dreams and memories glow,
Emitting radiance from afar,

Like summer's bow, or evening star;
And born of that discerned to-night,
Shall come yet unrevealed light;
And future hours to this return,
That Age from Infancy may learn.

A. M. W.

FEW books, within our recollection, have been looked for with so much interest, or grasped at with so much avidity, as Mr. Macaulay's History. The reason of this is obvious:-Mr. Macaulay had written somewhat largely and acceptably on historical subjects: he was generally understood to be a man of rather liberal and popular principles: he was thought to be a writer of great talent, research and accuracy, of a remarkably discriminating and impartial judgment, and of a most original, brilliant and impressive style; and he was reported to be engaged in a work on that period of which a good history was most wanted. Two large volumes of the work, covering, exclusive of the introductory matter, a period of about three years and eleven months, have at length appeared, and we presume have, if anything, rather surpassed the public expectations. To paraphrase one of Mr. Macaulay's own sentences, he writes ten pages of history where another man writes one, and one of his pages is thought by many to contain as much excellence as another man's ten.

Lord Mahon's work, so far as we know, was not heard of by the public until it appeared, and has been little noticed in this country since its appearance. First published in 1844, it has waited five years for republication in America. At length the Messrs. Appleton, one of the best and largest publishing houses in the country, have put it forth in their best style, under the editorial supervision of the able and judicious Professor Reed, of Philadelphia, a man of extensive learning and excellent taste, and one of the fairest, clearest, calmest minds that have lately appeared in the field of American letters. The work could

1847.

not have passed to the public through better hands, and but that we dislike the mode of expression, we would add, those hands could not well have been employed on a more acceptable work. Both the editor and the publishers are the more entitled to our thanks, forasmuch as they have performed the task with the prospect of but a remote and slender advantage to themselves for it could hardly be expected that a work which had waited so long for a publisher should have a very quick or very large sale when published. This fact, however, must not be supposed to indicate a want of taste and appreciation in the public for historical literature. For if Lord Mahon has waited five years to find one publisher, Mr. Macaulay has found three publishers in as many months; and four or five large editions of the latter are likely to be disposed of before the half of

one small edition of the former shall have been sold. Nor do the two works differ more in popularity than in temper and style: Lord Mahon uniformly writes like a gentleman, a scholar, and a Christian; Mr. Macaulay writes just like himself; in their views, feelings and dispositions they are almost as unlike as Edmund Burke and Thomas Paine; in short, however much we may respect so high an authority as popular taste, we feel bound to confess, that in the most essential qualities of an historian Lord Mahon seems to us as much better than Mr. Macaulay as he is different from him. Nor is this conclusion taken up lightly and unadvisedly; it is the result of a pretty careful study and comparison of the two works: we know, moreover, that there are a few who agree with us in opinion now; and we have the confidence or the vanity

volumes.

to think the number will increase. The book has nothing savoring of "a nine-days' wonder;" without any of the qualities that ordinarily make men mad, it has come forth silently, and, we venture to predict, will silently make its way. Though but little if any longer than Mr. Macaulay's two volumes, it covers a period of nearly fifty years; and that, too, without any appearance of incompleteness or want, or a sacrifice of any matter that would add to the real interest or value of the work. But though about the same length as Macaulay's two volumes, it is a book which one would naturally be much longer in reading, because it never puts one in a hurry; abounding in inculcations to linger and contemplate and reflect, it seldom if ever leaves on the mind that sense of positivenesss which men are more apt to crave than to be the better or wiser for having.

But Mr. Macaulay's popularity and Lord Mahon's merit entitle them to a pretty thorough examination at our hands; and such an examination we shall now proceed to give them, as far as our time and space and ability will permit. We shall endeavor to discuss their respective qualities with tolerable candor and moderation; though we freely acknowledge an aversion to the one and an attachment to the other, which may more or less bias and disqualify our judgment concerning them; and we shall deeply regret, if, through prejudice or prepossession, we should lay ourselves open to any such impeachment of temper or of statement as we shall feel obliged to urge against one of them. We have thus taken care to indicate in the outset, "the gross and scope of our opinion," to the end that if any determined admirers of Mr. Macaulay should chance upon this article, they may know from the beginning what they have to expect.

Attention was first drawn to Mr. Macaulay in this country, by an article on Milton, published in the Edinburgh Review in 1825. Most of the author's admirers whom we have met with, dated their admiration from the reading of this article; to this they commonly appealed in justification of the high praise which it became fashionable to bestow upon him. It cannot be denied that there is much in the article well adapted to produce such a

result. A very small logic wielded with surprising agility, that master-weapon of special pleading, whereby readers are easily made to think they understand the things they do not; a fearless leaning to his own understanding, and scorning of all who do otherwise, which is often mistaken for the confidence of certain truth; a cheap and ostentatious mannerism of style, which keeps the author always in view, and the reader always thinking, "what a splendid writer he is!" a dashing, off-hand, superficial ingenuity of phrase, which it requires little culture, less time, and no thought to appreciate; a skillful puppet-show of illustrations which is sometimes called poetry, and which, from its rapidity of movement, leaves on the mind a half-impression of life; and an habitual settling of long-disputed questions, as if there were, and could be, no dispute about them, which naturally encourages some readers in mistaking their own wishes and prejudices for wise and just conclusions; these things, together with a remarkable absence of those moral and intellectual qualities which invite the reader to linger and reflect, and pause and suspend his judgment, and remeasure his ground, and question his premises, and distrust his opinions, and moderate his censures; all these things sufficiently explain why the article on Milton should have won for its author so quick and wide a popularity. That college boys and boarding-school misses, and sophomores of all ages and sexes should rise from such a piece of reading fully convinced that they knew far more of English history than Clarendon and Hume, was to be expected. And it was equally natural that they should entertain pretty tall notions of the writer who had given them so much knowledge at so little cost. When, for example, the critic informs us, with characteristic modesty, that "Hume hated religion so much that he hated liberty for having been allied with religion;" many would, of course, think there could no longer be any doubt why the historian "had presumed to shed a generous tear for the fate of Charles I. and the Earl of Strafford." By the way, Mr. Hume informs us, in the life of himself, prefixed to his history, that at one time he almost despaired of the success of his work, the publisher having