dant of their secrets and their most intimate thoughts; he magnified the most simple circumstances of their lives into guilt, and invented the frivolous crime of conspiracy. This calumniator, this false witness, I am he! The fatal sentence of death was passed upon the whole family, except the young son, an unhappy orphan, destined to weep the loss of all his kindred, and to curse his assassin, if ever he knew him. Resigned, and finding consolation in their virtues, that unfortunate family expected death in prison. A mistake took place in the order of the executions. The day appointed for theirs passed over, and if nobody had meddled with it they would have escaped the scaffold, it being the eve of the ninth of Thermidor. A man, impatient to enrich himself with their spoils, caused the error to be rectified; his zeal was rewarded with a diploma of civism. The order for their execution was delivered immediately, and on that very evening the frightful justice of those times had its course. This wicked informer-I am he! At the close of day, by torch-light, the fatal cart transported that noble family to death! The father, with the impress of profound sorrow on his brow, pressed in his arms his two youngest daughters; the mother, a heroic and christian-like woman, did the same with the two eldest; and all mingling their recollections, their tears, and their hopes, were repeating the funeral prayers. They did not even once utter the name of their assassin. As it was late, the executioner, tired of his task, had entrusted a valet with this late execution. Little accustomed to the horrible work, the valet, on the way, begged the assistance of a passer-by. The latter consented to help him in his ignoble function. This man, is myself! The reward of so many crimes was a sum of three thousand francs in gold; and the precious articles, still deposited here around me, are the witnesses of my guilt. After I had committed this crime, I tried to bury the recollection of it in debauchery; the gold obtained by my infamous conduct was hardly spent, when remorse took possession of my soul. No project, no enterprise, no labour of mine, was crowned with success. I became poor and infirm. Charity allowed me a privileged place at the gate of the church, where I have passed so many years. The remembrance of my crime was overwhelming; so poignant, that, despairing of divine goodness, I never dared im plore the consolation of religion, nor enter the church. The alms I received, yours especially, M. Abbé, aided me to hoard a sum equal to that I stole from my former masters: here it is. The objects of luxury which you remark in my room, this watch, this crucifix, this book, these veiled portraits, were all taken from my victims. Oh! how long and profound has my repentance been, but how powerless! M. Abbé, do you believe that I can hope pardon from God?" "My son," replied the Abbé, "your crime, no doubt, is frightful: the circumstances of it are atrocious. Orphans, who were deprived of their parents by the revolution, understand better than any one else, all the bitterness of the anguish suffered by your victims! A whole life passed in tears is not too much for the expiation of such a crime. Yet the treasures of divine mercy are immense. Relying on your repentance, and full of confidence in the inexhaustible goodness of God, I think I can assure you of his pardon." The priest then rose up. The beggar, as if animated by a new life, got out of bed and knelt down. The Abbé Paulin de St. C was going to pronounce the powerful words which bind or loosen the sins of men, when the beggar cried out. "Father, wait! before I receive God's pardon, let me get rid of the fruit of my crime. Take these objects, sell them, distribute the price to the poor." In his hasty movements, the beggar snatched away the crape which covered the two pictures. "Behold!" said he"behold the august images of my masters !" At this sight, the Abbé Paulin de St. C-let these words escape: "My father! my mother!" Immediately, the remembrance of that horrible catastrophe, the presence of the assassin, the sight of those objects, seized upon the soul of the priest, and yielding to an overwhelming emotion, he fell upon a chair. His head leaning on his hands, he shed abundant tears; a deep wound had opened afresh in his heart. The beggar, overpowered, not daring to lift up his looks on the son of his masters, on the terrible and angry judge, who owed him vengeance rather than pardon, rolled himself at his feet, bedewed them with tears, and repeated, in a tone of despair-" My master! my master!" The priest endeavoured, without look ing at him, to check his grief. The beggar cried out: Yes, I am an assassin, a monster, an infamous wretch! M. Abbé, dispose of my life! What must I do to avenge you?" "Avenge me!" replied the priest, recalled to himself by these words་་ avenge me-unhappy man!" "Was I not then right in saying that my crime was beyond pardon? I knew it well, that religion itself would repulse me. Repentance will avail nothing to a criminal of so deep a dye; there is no forgiveness for me-no more pardonno forgiveness ?" These last words, pronounced with a terrible accent, recalled to the mind of the priest, his mission, and his duties. The struggle between filial grief and the exercise of his sacred functions ceased immediately. Human weakness had for a moment claimed the tears of the saddened son. Religion then stirred the soul of the servant of God. The priest took hold of the crucifix, his paternal inheritance, which had fallen into the hands of this unhappy man, and presenting it to the beggar, he said, in the strong accents of emotion : "Christian, is your repentance sin cere?" "Yes." it was early in the day, he began his ascent leisurely and carelessly; and, as it might be expected, it was not long before he entirely missed the way. He had gained a considerable height, when, at last, he began to find himself involved in difficulties, and surrounded with precipices, among which he saw no way either of advancing or retreating without danger. His attempts to extricate himself and gain a place of safety, only made bad worse, till, at last, he found himself in a spot where all chance of escape seemed utterly hopeless: a narrow ledge of rock a few inches broad, was all he had to stand upon below was a frightful precipice-above, the rock sloped upward so steep and smooth, that he despaired of being able to clamber to the top of it. Desperate, however, as the attempt appeared to be, it seemed to offer the only way by which he could extricate himself; and being endowed with a very cool head, and great strength of nerve, he resolutely began to scale the rock, clinging to every little crevice in its smooth surface, as in a matter of life and death. By painful and fatiguing exertion, he gained a height of about ten feet from the ledge; but here he found that all farther progress was utterly impracticable. While in this perplexity, his stick (a baton ferre, an iron-shod staff or "Is your crime the object of profound pole, generally used by travellers among the Alps) slipped from him; and rolling down, struck against a ledge, and bounded over, and he was doomed to listen, with feelings which cannot be described, to the sounds it made as it descended from crag to crag, warning him of the depth and ruggedness of the precipice over which he had the awful prospect of being immediately hurled. He found he could no longer hold by the rock; and when he thought of the narrowness of the ledge, and the force with which he must come down upon it, it seemed to him almost impossible that it could avail to stop his further descent. He was forced, however, to make the trial, and, by a merciful interposition of Providence, which filled his mind with wonder, gratitude, and encouragement, his feet caught the ledge and saved him. Such was the force with which he had clung to the rock, when sliding down towards the ledge, that the points of his fingers were almost rubbed bare to the bone. Placed as he now stood, he was, after all, in no better situation than before he made his last desperate effort. He contrived, however, to advance beyond the ledge, and he continued climbing and scrambling, till at last he fairly got himself into a position where he could move neither one way nor another. He was fixed more than midway up the front of a precipice, with his back to the rock; a small projecting point of granite, not four inches broad, supporting one foot, and the other resting on a still narrower prop; but, fortunately, his hands were comparatively disengaged. The rock rose about thirty feet perpendicular over his head; and below, the precipice was so high, that, had he fallen, he must instantly have perished. To add to the horrors of his situation, the sun was now setting, and he was far too distant from the convent to be within hearing, but, fortunately, he was within sight of it. He began, therefore, as soon as he saw the hopelessness of any attempts of his own to escape, to wave his handkerchief, and make every effort to catch, if possible, some wandering eye at the convent; and again Providence interposed for his relief. It happened that a Capuchin monk arrived at the convent the night before; and as he was looking about the next day, on the surrounding scene, his sight was arrested by something he descried on a distant rock; and on applying a telescope, Mr. Young's situation was ascertained, and his signal of distress understood. He had now the satisfaction of seeing two monks leave the convent, and make towards the foot of the rock; upon which, with astonishing de liberation, which has gained him a great name in that quarter, he took out his pencil and a piece of paper, wrote a few words in English and French, describing the extreme peril of his situation, picked a stone out of the rock, and tying up the whole in a corner of his handkerchief, threw it down towards the monks. It escaped, however, their notice; but finding, when they reached the bottom of the rock, that they were still beyond hearing of Mr. Young, they ascended, by ways known only to themselves, and with a dexterity and readiness peculiar to the good monks of St. Bernard, to the top of the rock, from whence they spoke down to him, and learned the necessity of having recourse to ropes to extricate him from his critical situation. They instantly descended to the convent; and soon after, six of the monks, accompanied by two chamois hunters, set out on their benevolent and perilous errand. The company at the hospice, particularly some gentlemen, who had been Mr. Young's travelling companions, were now left in a state of the most painful anxiety and suspense, which increased with the increasing coldness and darkness of the night. They stood in groups at the convent door, tracing the glimmering light of the lantern, as it slowly and irregularly ascended the mountain, till at last it came to a stand; and it was hoped that the monks had reached the top of the rock, from which they were to let down the ropes to Mr. Young, in order to pull him up to where they stood. In the meantime, supper was announced in the convent, and the party sat down little disposed to enjoy the good cheer set before them, but encouraged to hope the best, by the assurance and example of the brethren at the table, who tried to dissipate their alarms about their friend, though it proved, afterwards, that they were under the greatest apprehension themselves. Supper passed, and still no tidings from the mountain. It was found that the light had, for some time disappeared, and the imagination was left to conjecture, either that it had fallen, and been extinguished, in which case, the whole party would have been exposed to great danger, or, that the monks had succeeded in their object, and that they were bringing down Mr. Young by a safer, but more circuitous road than the one by which they had ascended. last, after more than three hours' dreadful suspense, the glad sight of the lantern re-appeared at a short distance from the convent; and, in a few minutes, Mr. Young was restored to his friends, with lacerated fingers, and torn clothes, but otherwise unhurt. At EXTRAORDINARY INSTANCE WHILE Murat was in Madrid, he was. anxious to communicate with Junot in Portugal; but all the roads to Lisbon swarmed with guerillas, and with the troops composing Castanos' army. Murat mentioned his embarrassment to Baron Strogonoff, the Russian ambassador to Spain. Russia, it is well known, was at that time not only the ally, but the friend of France. M. de Strogonoff told Murat that it was the easiest thing in the world. "The Russian Admiral Siniavin," said he, "is in the port of Lisbon; give me the most intelligent of your Polish lancers; I will dress him up in a Russian uniform, and entrust him with despatches for the admiral-you will give him your instructions verbally, and all will go well, even if he should be taken prisoner a dozen times between this and Lisbon, for the insurgent army is so anxious to obtain our neutrality, that it will be careful not to furnish a pretext for a rupture." Murat was delighted with this ingenious scheme. He asked Krasinski, the commandant of the lancers, to find him a brave and intelligent young man. Two days afterward, the commandant brought the prince a young man of his corps, for whom he pledged his life; his name was Leckinski, and he was but eighteen years old. Murat was moved at seeing so young a man court so imminent a danger; for, if he were detected, his doom was sealed. Murat could not help remarking to the Pole, the risk he was about to run. The youth smiled. "Let your imperial highness give me my instructions," answered he, respectfully, "and I will give a good account of the mission I have been honoured with. I thank his highness for having chosen me from among my comrades, for all of them would have courted this distinction." The prince augured favourably from the young man's modest resolution. The Russian ambassador gave him his despatches; he put on a Russian uniform, and set out for Portugal. The first two days passed over quietly, but on the afternoon of the third, Leckinski was surrounded by a body of Spaniards, who disarmed him, and dragged him before their commanding officer. Luckily for the gallant youth, it was Castanos himself. Leckinski was aware that he was lost, if he were discovered to be a Frenchman, consequently he determined, on the instant, not to let a single word of French escape him, and to speak nothing but Russian or German, which he spoke with equal fluency. The cries of rage of his captors announced the fate which awaited him, and the horrible murder of General Réné, who perished in the most dreadful tortures but a few weeks before, as he was going to join Junot, was sufficient to freeze the very blood. "Who are you?" said Castanos, in French; which language he spoke perfectly well, having been educated in France. Leckinski looked at the questioner, made a sign, and answered in German, "I do not understand you." not wish to appear personally in the matter, and summoned one of the officers of his staff, who went on with the examination. The young Pole answered in Russian or German, but never let a single syllable of French escape him. He might, however, easily have forgotten himself, surrounded, as he was, by a crowd eager for his blood, and who waited with savage impatience to have him declared guilty, that is, a Frenchman, to fall upon him and murder him. But their fury was raised to a height which the general himself could not control, by an incident, which seemed to cut off the unhappy prisoner from every hope of escape. One of Castanos' aid-de-camps, one of the fanatically patriotic, who were so numerous in this war, and who from the first had denounced Leckinski as a French spy, burst into the room, dragging with him a man wearing the brown jacket, tall hat, and red plume of a Spanish peasant. The officer confronted him with the Pole, and said, "Look at this man, and then say if it is true that he is a German or a Russian. He is a spy, I swear by my soul." The peasant, meanwhile, was eyeing the prisoner closely. Presently his dark eye lighted up with the fire of hatred. And "Es Frances, he is a Frenchman !" exclaimed he, clapping his hands. he stated, that having been to Madrid a few weeks before, he had been put in requisition to carry forage to the French barracks; and, said he, "I recollect that this is the man who took my load of forage, and gave me a receipt. I was near him an hour, and I recollect him. When we caught him, I told my comrade, this is the French officer I delivered my forage to." This was correct. Castanos probably discerned the true state of the case: but he was a generous foe. He proposed to let him pursue his journey, for Leckinski still insisted that he was a Russian, and could not be made to understand a word of French. But the moment he ventured a hint of the kind, a thousand threatening voices were raised against him, and he saw that clemency was impossible. "But," said he, "will you then risk a quarrel with Russia, whose neutrality we are so anxiously asking for?" "No," said the officer, "but let us try this man. Leckinski understood all, for he was acquainted with Spanish. He was reCastanos spoke German, but he did moved, and thrown into a room worthy to have been one of the dungeons of the inquisition in its best days. When the Spaniards took him prisoner, he had eaten nothing since the previous evening, and when his dungeon-door was closed on him he had fasted eighteen hours; no wonder, then, what with exhaustion, fatigue, anxiety, and the agony of his dreadful situation, that the unhappy prisoner fell almost senseless on his hard couch. Night soon closed in, and left him to realize in its gloom, the full horror of his hopeless situation. He was brave, of course; but to die at eighteen ;--'t is sudden. But youth and fatigue finally yielded to the approach of sleep, and he was soon buried in profound slumber. ready made to our hands, and they prevent us from thinking for ourselves. Of old, when there were no books, men could not maintain opinions through successive generations, they could only transmit the incidents of their history, and the exploits of their warriors,—hence it is that a simple and uneducated man is most commonly the profoundest and correctest thinker; as that which he ventures to utter, is that which he has tried, proved true, and tested by his own experience. Books preserve opinion, and as opinion perpetually changes its shape, and daily puts on new and contradictory forms, it follows, as a necessary consequence, that they must perpetuate error, and misrepresent continually, while they He had slept perhaps two hours, when continue to defeat the purposes of nature. the door of his dungeon opened slowly, This is the true reason of human disand some one entered with cautious content and misery. And what, in steps, hiding with his hand the light of another point of view, must be the evil a lamp; the visitor bent over the pri- fruit of this tree of knowledge, in the soner's couch, the hand that shaded the abridgment of social enjoyment, in the lamp touched him on the shoulder, and diminution of converse between the sexes a sweet and silvery voice, a woman's in the general curtailment of popular voice, asked him, "Do you want to sports, without which, no people can be moral, and scarce any condition innocent The young Pole, awakened suddenly in the fettering of manners—in the by the glare of the lamp, by the touch and the words of the female, rose up on his couch, and with eyes only halfopened, said in German, "What do you want!" eat!" "Give the man something to eat at once," said Castanos, when he heard the result of the first experiment, "and let him go. He is not a Frenchman. How could he have been so far master of himself? the thing is impossible." NOTES OF A READER. THE EVILS OF LITERATURE. WE copy the following half-jesting, halfserious, but very beautiful thoughts, from the American Monthly Magazine for June, in which they form the conclusion of an admirable article, entitled "The Sins of Typography :" it is written by Mr. Simms, the author of Martin Faber. "Could the Evil one have devised a better mode for making the innocent unhappy, than by making them independent of one another, in this way defeating the natural tendency of man, which is to society? The machine for casting darts was said by a savage warrior, long before our time, to be the grave of valour : now books, to my mind, are the burial places of thought; since they furnish opinions inculcation of a habit of indifference to the claims of one another-in the habitual solitude-the sour melancholy— the eating sickness-the questioning and critical analysis of each other's language -and in the generation of that most grotesque monstrosity of all-a woman who chops logic, and presumes to be independent of her own petticoats. These evils are the evils springing out of books, and books only. Nor are these all. The dance ceases to go on under the old tree -the minstrel no longer gathers around him the wondering circle, made happy by his legends,--we learn to neglect the ancient grand-dam, whose stories of an evening chained us to the fire-side, and kept us from wandering away into forbidden places. Books are the substitute for all these they make us wise, and they make us unhappy. They teach a thousand evil lessons. They instruct one to claim a higher seat than anotherthey beget pride, ambition, and a downlooking jealousy. They take from us our simplicity and leave pretension in its place. Nor are the satanics who first brought them into exercise, content even with this extended measure of human affliction. They bring with them a fearful and subtle demon, whom they call Science. This is the coldest monster of them all; and is the same, I am perfectly satisfied, whom the Germans call Me |