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more. I would gladly have loved you, trust*
eJ you, cherished you : hut 1 feared to let 1
you know that I had a heart, lest you should j
tear and insult it. Oh, sir, those who expect 1
love where they give none, and confidence
where there is no trust, blast the fair time of
youth, and lay up for themselves an unhon
ored old age.’ The scene terminated by j
Monsieur’s falling down in a fit and Amelie’s j
being conveyed fainting to her chamber.
‘‘That night, the castle was enveloped by
storms; they came from all points of the
compass —thunder, lightning, hail, and rain!
the master lay in his stately bed, and was
troubled; he could hardly believe that Ame
lie spoke the words he had heard; cold-heart
ed and selfish as he was, he was also a clear
seeing man, and it was their truth that struck
him. But still his heait was hardened; he
had commanded Amelie to be locked in her
chamber, and her lover seized and imprison
ed when he came to his tvyste. Monsieur, I
have said, lay in his stately bed, the lightning,
at intervals, illuminating his dark chamber.
I had cast myself on the floor outside Ame
lie’s door, but could not hear her weep, though
1 knew she was overcome of sorrow, As I
sat, my head resting against the lintel of the
door, a form passed through the solid oak
from her chamber, without the bolts being
withdrawn. I saw it as plainly as I see your
faces now, under the influence of various
emotions; nothing opened, but it passed
through —a shadowy form, dark and vapory,
but perfectly distinct. I knew it was ‘La
Femme Noir,’ and 1 trembled, for she never
came from caprice, but always for a purpose.
I did not fear for Amelie, for ‘La Femme
Noir’ never warred with the high-minded or
virtuous. She passed slowly, more slowly
than I am speaking, along the corridor, grow
ing taller and taller as she went on, until she
entered Monsieur’s chamber by the door ex
actly opposite where I stood. She paused at
the foot of the plumed bed, and the lightning,
no longer fitful, by its broad flashes kept up
a continual illumination. She stood for some
time perfectly motionless, though in a loud
tone the master demanded whence she came,
and what she wanted. At last, during a
pause in the storm, she told him that ali the
power he possessed should not prevent the
union of Amelie and Charles. I heard her
voice myself; it sounded like the night wind
among the fir-trees—cold and shrill, chilling
both the ear and heart. I turned my eyes
away while she spoke, and when I looked
again she was gone! The. storm continued
to increase in violence, and the master’s rage
kept pace with the war of elements. The
servants were trembling with undefined ter
ror; they feared they knew not what: the
dogs added to their apprehension by howling
fearfully, and then barking in the highest
possible key: the master paced about his
chamber, calling in vain on his domestics,
stamping and swearing like a maniac. At
last, amid flashes of lightning, he made his
way to the head of the great staircase, and
presently the clang of the alarm-bell, mingled
with the thunder and the roar of the moun
tain torrents: this hastened the servants to
his presence, though they seemed hardly ca
pable of understanding his words—he insist
ed on Charles being brought before him. We
all trembled, for he was mad and livid with
rage. The warden, in whose care the young
man was, dared not enter the hall that echoed
his loud words and heavy footsteps, for when
he went to seek his prisoner, he found every
bolt and bar withdrawn, and the iron door
wide open: he was gone. Monsieur seemed
to find relief by his energies being called into
action; he ordered instant pursuit, mounted
his favorite charger, despite the storm, des
pite the fury of the elements. Although ths
great gates rocked, and the castle shook like
an aspen-leaf, he set forth, his path illumina
ted by the lightning; bold and brave as was
his horse, be found it almost impossible to
get it foiward; he dug bis spurs deep into
the flanks of the noble animal, until the red
blood mingled with the rain. At last, it
rushed madly down the path to the bridge
the young man must cross; and when they
reached it, the master discerned the floating
cloak of the pursued, a few yards in advance.
Again the horse rebelled against his will, the
lightning flashed in his ejes, and the torrent
seemed a mass of red fire; no sound could be
heard but its roaring waters; the attendants
clung, as they advanced, to the hand rail of
the bridge. The youth, unconscious of the
pursuit , proceeded rapidly; and again roused,
the horse plunged forward On the instant,
the form of ‘La Femme Noir’ passed with
the blast that rushed down the ravine; the
torrent followed in her track, and more than
half the bridge was swept away forever. As
Ihe master reined back the horse he had so
Trged forward, he saw the youth kneeling,
with out-stretched arms, ou the opposite bank
—kneeling in gratitude for his deliverance
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from his double peril. All were struck with
the piety of the youth, and earnestly rejoiced
at his deliverance; though they did not pre
sume to say so, or look as it they thought it.
I never saw so changed a person as the mas
ter when he entered the castle gate: his
cheek was blanched, his eye quelled; his
fierce plume hung broken over his shoulder;
his step was unequal, and in the voice of
a feeble girl, he said—‘Bring me a cup of
wine.’ I was his cup-bearer, and for the first
time in his life he thanked me graciously,
and in the warmth of his gratitude tapped my
shoulder; the caress nearly hurled me across
the hall. What passed in his retiring-room,
I know not. Some said the ‘Femme Noir’
visited him again; I cannot tell: I did not
see her: I speak of what 1 saw, not of what
I heard. The storm passed away with a clap
of thunder, to which the former sounds were
but as the rattling of pebbles beneath the
swell of a summer wave. The next morning
Monsieur sent for the pasteur. The good
man seemed terror-stricken as he entered the
hall; but Monsieur filled him a quart of gold
coins out of a leather bag, to repair his church,
and that quickly; and grasping his hand as
he departed, looked him steadily in the face.
As he did so, large drops stood like beads up
on his brow; bis stern, coarse features were
strangely moved as he gazed upon the calm,
pale minister of peace and love. ‘You,’ he
said, ‘bid God bless the poorest peasant that
passes you on the mountain : have you no
blessing to give the master of Rohean?’
“*My son, 1 answered the good man. ‘I
give you the blessing I may give : May God
bless you, anti may your heart be opened to
give and receive.’
“‘1 know l can give,’ replied the proud
man ; ‘ but what can 1 receive V
“ ‘ Love,’ lie replied. ‘ All your wealth has
not brought you happiness, because you are
unloving and unloved !’
‘•The demon returned to his brow, but it
did not remain there.
“ ‘ You shall give me lessons in this thing,’
he said ; and so the good man went his way.
“ Amelie continued a close prisoner : but a
change came over Monsieur. At first, he
shut himself up in his chamber, and no one
was suffered to enter his presence ; he took
! his food with his own hand from the only at
tendant who ventured to approach his door.
1 He was heard walking up and down the room,
day and night. When we were going to sleep,
j we heard his heavy tramp; at day-break,
I there it was again ; and those of the house
j hold who awoke at intervals during the night,
I said it was unceasing.
“Monsieur could read. Ah! you may
j smile; but in those days, and those moun
| tains, such men as the master did not trouble
I themselves or others with knowledge; but
i the master of Rohean read both Latin and
| Greek, and commanded the book he had nev
er opened since his childhood, to be brought
to him. It was taken out of its velvet case,
and carried in forthwith; and we saw his
| shadow from without, like the shadow of a
. giant, bending over tiif. book ; and he read
in it for some days; and we greatly hoped it
would soften and change his nature : and
though I cannot say much for the softening,
it certainly effected a great change ; he no
longer stalked moodily along the corridors,
and banged the doors, and swore at the ser
vants; he rather seemed possessed of a merry
devil, roaring out an old song:
“ Aux bastions de Geneve, nos cannons
i v ont branquez ;
S’il y a quelquc attaque nous less fero is ronfler,
Viva! ies cannoniers!
and then he would pause and clang his hands
together like a pair of cymbals, and laugh.
And once, as I was passing along, he ponne
ed upon me, and whirled me round in a waltz,
roaring at me when he let me down, to prac
; tice that , and break my embroidery frame,
lie formed a band of horns and trumpets, and
insisted on the goatherds and shepherds sound
ing reveilles in the mountains, and the village
children beating drums; his only idea of jov
and happiness was noise. He set all the can
ton to work to mend the bridge, paying the
workmen double wages; and he, who never
entered a church before, would go to see how*
the laborers were getting on nearly every day.
He talked and laughed a great deal to him
self ; and in his gaiety of heart he would set
the mastiffs fighting, and make excursions
from home —we knowing not where he went.
At last Amelie was summoned to his pres
ence, and he shook her, and shouted, then
kissed her: and hoping she would be a good
girl, told her he had provided a husband for
her. Amelie wept and prayed: and the mas
ter capered and sung. At last she fainted;
and taking advantage of her unconscious
ness, he conveyed her to the chapel; and
there, beside the altar, stood the bridegroom
—no other than Charles le Meitre.
“ They lived many happy years together;
and when Monsieur was, in every respect, a
better, though still a strange man, the ‘Fem-j
me Noir’ appeared again to him —once. She
did so with a placid air, on a summer night,
with her arm extended towards the heavens,
“ The next day, the muffled bell told the
valley that the stormy, proud old master of
Rohean had ceased to live.”
Selected jJoctrji.
THE RETURNING PESTILENCE.
BY JOHN C. LORD I> . D .
Bv river and fountain,
By desert and plain.
Over valley and mountain
I’m coming again,
To execute judgement—an Angel of Wrath,
With Terror, and Anguish, and Death in my path.
In the East I begun.
O’er the dark jungles sweeping;
In the old Ilindostan
Was waiting and weeping ;
From the plague-smitten city e’en the Pariahs flee,
And Gunga corpse-burdened, rolls cn the sea,
On the flower-scented gale,
Is the taint of my breath,
And Pers on wives wail
For the Angel of Death —
In the land of the rose his shadow he cast,
And darkened the hopes of their heart as he pass'd.
Then Siberian snows
In my passage I crossed,
And the death-wail arose
In the regions of frost ;
In the Ice-Monarch’s mantle was there no defence,
‘Gainst the life- juelling touch of the pestilence.
By the sign of Salvation
I paused for a time ;
From each Christian nation,
Rose voices of crime.
Tho’ the symbol was there, the substance was gone,
To the harvest of death I went speedily on.
Then Russia—the cold —
In my pathway I swept,
And in Moscow, the old,
The grey-bearded have wept:
Who saw. without tears, their palaces filed.
For him whose commission at Moscow expired.
And onward advancing,
Like a strong man from wine,
Where sun browned are dancing
In the land of the vine,
With the steps of a giant, Death’s wine 1 tread,
Before me the living—behind me the dead.
Weep maids of Vienna !
Howl, Paris and Borne !
The gates of Gehenna
Are opening for doom ;
Tha plague cart shall wait at your mansion of pride,
The rich with the poor to the Dark-llouse shall ride.
At last I shall sail
For the star-bannered West,
And nn r barque shall not fail
O’er the Ocean’s broad breast,
To land me, long dreaded, tho’ my shipmate shall
sleep,
Where, o’er the sea-buried, the mer-maiden’s weep.
THE SECRET.
B Y JAMES G R E G Olt G R A N T .
In a fair lady’s heart once a Secret was lurking—
It tossed, and it tumbled—it longed to get out:
The Lips half betrayed it by smiling and smirking.
And Tongue was impatient to blab it, no doubt !
But honor looked grave on the subject, and gave it
In charge to the Teeth, (so enchantinglv white !)
Should the captive attempt an elopement, to save it
By giving the Lips au admonishing bite !
’Twas said, and ’was settled: Sir Honor departed;
Tongue quivered and trembled, but dare not rebel,
When, right to its tip, Secret suddenly started,
And half in a whisper, escaped from its cell!
Quoth the Teeth, in a pet, “we’ll be even for this!”
And they bit very hard, both above and beneath ;
But the Lips, at that moment, were bribed with a
Kiss,
And they popped out the Secret “ in spite of their
teeth /”
THE FATHERLESS.
Speak softly to the fatherless!
And check the harsh reply
Tli*:t sends the crimson to the cheek,
The tear-drop to the eye.
They have the weight of loneliness
In this rude world to bear ;
Then gently raise the fallen bud,
The drooping flowerets spare.
Speak kindly to the fatherless!
The lowliest of their band
Godkeepeth, as the waters,
In the hollow of his hand.
’Tissad to see life’s evening sun
Go down in sorrows shroud.
But sadder still when morning's dawn
Is darkened by the cloud.
Look mildly on the fatherless !
Ye may have power to wile
Their hearts from sadden’d memory
By the magic of a smilo.
Deal gently with these little ones
. Be pitiful, and He,
‘The friend and father of us all.
Shall gently deal with thee !”
(Eclectic of iUit.
O’CONNELL IN THE COMMITTEE
ROOM.
“The stranger who visited it saw a W
low apartment, rather narrow for its length -
of which the centre was occupied, from end
to end, by a table and benches. By the light
of three or four gas-burners, he discerned -
numerous assemblage, who were seated on
both sides of the long central table, earnestly
discussing the various matters submitted foY
their consideration. At the upper end of the
apartment might be seen a man of massive
figure, weaving a broad-brimmed hat, and a
dark fur tippet. He is evidently ‘ wide
awake’ to all that passes. Observe how his
keen blue eye brightens up at any promising
proposition, or at any indication of increasing
strength—how impatiently he pshaws away
any bttise intruded on the Repeal Councils
Difficult questions are submitted for his o- u j<E
ance ; disputes in remote localities are refer
red to his adjudication; reports are confided
to his care to be drawn up. He glides
through all these duties with an ease that
seems absolutely magical. He originates
rules and regulations. He creates a working
staff’ throughout the country; he renders the
movement systematic. He cautiously guards
it from infringing, in ihe smallest particular,
upon the law. No man is jealous of him.
for his intellectual supremacy places him en
tirely beyond the reach of competition. And
as he discharges his multifarious task, the
hilarity of his disposition occasionally breaks
out in some quaint jest, or playful anecdote.
“Ray was the ordinary mouth-piece of all
matters submitted to O'Connell in committee
for his decision or his advice.
‘Here’s an application. Liberator, from Mr.
cuniary aid to go on a Repeal mission.’
‘ Does any body here support that applica
tion, Ray? I will oppose it, because I saw
the reverend gentleman as drunk as Bacchus
at the dinner at .’
‘ But he is quite reformed, Liberator, and
has taken the pledge.’
‘ No matter —after such a public expose of
himself, we ought to have nothing to do with
him. The case is the worse for his being a
clergyman.’
‘ Very well, sir. Here’s a letter from the
Ballinakill Repealers, wanting Mr. Daunt to
go down to address a meeting there.’
• I’m glad of it. 1 suppose Daunt will have
no objection V
‘ Not the least,’ said I. ‘And here's a let
ter from the people of Kells, wanting Mr.
John O’Connell to attend their meeting next
week.’
‘My son John will go—won’t you, John
‘ Yes, lather.’
‘ Then write and tell ’em so.’
‘Counsellor Clements,’ resumed Ray, ‘ha?
made an objection to the words, “We pledge
ourselves,” in the Irish manufacture declara
tion : he’s afraid of their being illegal.’
‘ Then alter the passage thus—“ We pledge
ourselves, as individuals." —if there be anv
difficulty, that will obviate it. What's that
large document before you ?’
‘That, sir, is a report sent up by Mr. •
It came by this day's post. He wishes us to
print it.’
‘ Umph! Let us see what sort of affair it
is.’
Ray then unfolds and peruses the report.
When he has done. O’Connell exclaims.
‘ What a waste of industry! There is ab
solutely nothing in that voluminous paper
that it would be of the smallest utility to la;,
before the public.’
4 think,’ said I, ‘the last two pages con
tain a few good facts.’
‘Then print the last two pages, and throw
away the rest.’
Some remark being made on the mortifica
tion of a disappointed author, O'Connell hall
mutters the quizzical compliment paid to a
pamphleteer by a waggish friend —•
‘1 saw an excellent thing in your pamph
let.’
‘ What was it ?’ cries the author.
•’ A penny bun P says his friend.
O’Connell would then apply himself to tnc
dictation of a report, or of answers to letters
of importance, until half-past four or fivt
o’clock, the hour at which the committee
usually broke up.”
REPETITION IN A PUBLIC MAN.
‘“There are many men who shrink from
repeating themselves, and who actually fee ,l
repugnance to deliver a good sentiment or a
good argument, just because they have deliv
ered that sentiment or lhat argument befort.
This is very foolish. It is not by advancing
a political truth once, or twice, or ten times,
that the public will take it up and firm V