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rock. Of the punishment of the reprobate captain and the deep repentance of the colonel of the converters, they have long since forgotten the tradition; and FANCY may therefore be allowed to erect her light and airy castle upon the granite foundation of history; to picture forth to those now living the savage contests for opinion, of former times,-and to warn them against the evils of an exclusive and intolerant spirit, into which we are in constant danger of relapsing.
Oft Memory turns to vanished days,
And in their 'sunshine fancy plays
With friends sincerely prized.
With joyous heart and innocent,
Before we jostled with the crowd
When every thought we spoke aloud,
For then, unlearned in worldly art,
As honest as he seemed.
But Time hath in his ceaseless tread
And we have lived to doubt and dread,
We once had friends, but now must weep
They sleep were we at last shall sleep,
The gentle and the beautiful,
The manly and the brave,
Are mouldering cow within the dull,
A chill hath o'er our feelings come,
Unblessed and cheerless is the home
For they are gone, the cherished pride
How happy were we by their side,
And sorrow oft, with poignant sting,
As we behold each treasured thing
When twilight, herald of repose,
We dedicate that solemn hour
To those love could not save,
And yeilding to affliction's power,
The sod hath felt our deep distress,
THE BEGGAR OF PARIS.
TRANSLATED FROM THE FRENCH.
Nor long since, an old beggar, named James, was in the daily habit of placing himself at the principal gate of a church in Paris. His manners, tone and language, showed that he had received an education far superior to that which is the ordinary lot of poverty. Under his rags, which were worn with a certain dignity, shone a still living recollection of a more elevated condition. This beggar also enjoyed great authority among the paupers belonging to the parish. His kindness, his impartiality in distributing alms among his fellow-paupers, his zeal in appeasing their quarrels, had earned for him wellmerited respect. Yet his life and misfortunes were a complete mystery to his most intimate comrades, as well as to the persons attacked to the parish. Every morning, for twenty-five years, he regularly came and sat down at the same place. People were so accustomed to see him there, that he made, as it were, part of the furniture of the porch; yet, none of his fellowbeggars could relate the least particular of his life. Only one thing was known: James never set his foot in the church, and yet he was a catholic. At the time of the religious services, when the sacred dome resounded with hymns of devotion, when the incense, ascending above the altar, rose with the vows of the faithful towards heaven, when the grave and melodious sound of the organ swelled the solemn chorus of the assembled christians, the beggar felt himself compelled to mingle his prayers with those of the church: with no eager and contented eye, he contemplated from without the solemnity which the house of God presented. The sparkling reflection of the light through the gothic windows, the shade of the pillars, which had stood there for ages, like a symbol of the eternity of religion, the profound charm attached to the gloomy aspect of the church everything inspired the beggar with involuntary admiration. Tears were sometimes perceived to trickle down his wrinkled face; some great misfortune, or some profound remorse seemed to agitate his soul. In the primitive times of the church, he might have been taken for a great criminal, condemned to banish himself from the assembly of the faithful, and to pass, llke a silent shade, through the midst of the living.
A clergyman repaired every day to that church to celebrate Descended from one of the most ancient families in
France, possessed of an immense fortune, he found a joy in bestowing abundant alms. The old beggar had become the object of a sort of affection, and every morning the Abbé Paulin de Saint C, accompanied with benevolent words his charity, which had become a daily income.
One day James did not appear at the usual hour. The Abbé Paulin, desirous of not losing this opportunity for his charity, sought the dwelling of the beggar, and found the old man lying sick on a couch. The eyes of the clergyman were smitten with the luxury and the misery which appeared in the furniture of that habitation. A magnificent gold watch was suspended over the miserable bolster; two pictures, richly framed, and covered with crape, were placed on a white-washed wall; a crucifix in ivory, of beautiful workmanship, was hanging at the feet of the sick man; an antiquated chair, with gothic carvings, and among a few worn-out books lay a mass book with silver clasps; all the remainder of the furniture announced frightful misery. The presence of the priest revived the old man, and with an accent full of gratitude, the latter cried out
"M. Abbé, you are then kind enough to remember an unhappy man?"
"My friend," replied M. Paulin, "a priest forgets none but the happy ones. I come to inquire whether you want any assistance."
"I want nothing," answered the beggar," my death is approaching; my conscience alone is not quiet."
"Your conscience! have you any great fault to expiate!" "A crime, an enormous crime; a crime for which my whole life has been a cruel and useless expiation; a crime beyond pardon !"
"A crime beyond pardon! there does not exist any! The divine mercy is greater than all the crimes of man."
"But a criminal, polluted with the most horrible crime, what has he to hope for? Pardon? There is none for me." "Yes, there is," cried out the priest with enthusiasm; to doubt it would be a more horrible blasphemy than your very crimes itself. Religion stretches out her arms to repentance. James, if your repentance is sincere, implore the divine good. ness, it will not abandon you. Make your confession."
Thereupon the priest uncovered himself, and after pronouncing the sublime words, which open to the penitent the gates of heaven, he listened to the beggar.
"The son of a poor farmer, honoured with the affection of a family of high rank, whose lands my father cultivated, I was
from my infancy welcomed at the castle of my masters. Destined to be valet-de-chambre to the heir of the family, the education they gave me, my rapid progress in study, and the benevolence of my masters, changed my condition: I was raised to the rank of a secretary. I was just turned of twentyfive years of age, when the revolution first broke out in France; my mind was easily seduced by reading the newspapers of that period; my ambition made me tired of my precarious situation. I conceived the project of abandoning for the camp the castle which had been the asylum of my youth. Had I followed that first impulse, ingratitude would have saved me from a crime ! The fury of the revolutionists soon spread through the provinces; my masters, fearing to be arrested in their castle, dismissed all their servants. A sum of money was realized in haste, and selecting from among their rich furniture a few articles, precious for family recollections, they went to Paris to seek an asylum in the crowd, and find repose in the obscurity of their dwelling. I followed them, as a child of the house. Terror reigned uncontrolled throughout France, and nobody knew the place of concealment of my masters. scribed on the list of emigrants, confiscation had soon devoured their property; but it was nothing to them, for they were together tranquil and unknown. Animated by a lively faith in Providence, they lived in the expectation of better times. Vain hope! the only person who could reveal their retreat, and snatch them from their asylum, had the baseness to denounce them. This informer is myself. The father, the mother, four daughters, angels in beauty and innocence, and a young boy, of ten years of age, were thrown together into a dungeon, and delivered up to the horrors of captivity. Their trial commenced. The most frivolous pretences were then sufficient to condemn the innocent! yet the public accuser could hardly find one motive for prosecution against that noble and virtuous family. A man was found, who was the confidant 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 he ever 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, repaired to the revolutionary tribunal, caused the error to be rectified; his zeal was regarded with a diploma of civism. The order for the 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 the day, by torch-light, the fatal cart transported the 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 privilege place at the gate of the church, where I passed so many years. The remembrance of my crime was overwhelming; so poignant, that, despairing of divine goodness, I never dared implore 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 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 suf