The Catholic World, Vol. 19, April 1874‐September 1874

by Various

Madame Du Deffand.

“Men have died, and worms have eaten them, but not of love,” the poet tells us. And women too have died, and worms have eaten them, but not of ennui, although Mme. du Deffand for nearly fourscore years woke the echoes of Versailles and Paris with the pitiful lament: “I am bored! I am bored! I am dying of ennui!” If she eventually did die of it—which we stoutly deny—a malady that took eighty years to kill its victim can hardly be called a very cruel one. The vivacious, gossipping, wearied old lady contrived to extract a very reasonable amount of amusement, even of excitement, out of the existence whose wearisomeness she was for ever denouncing; and it is only fair to add that she contributed a very goodly share of amusement to other people. This renowned heroine and victim of ennui, Marie de Vichy-Chamroud, was born into this wearisome world in the year of grace 1697, of a noble family of the province of Burgundy. The De Vichy-Chamrouds were richer in parchments than in lands; so it fell out that Marie, young, lovely, accomplished, and teeming with wit, was condemned to marry an old man, and, what was still more terrible, a wearisome old man, who had not a single taste in common with her. Immediately on leaving the convent where she received what in those days was considered a liberal education, the beautiful young lady was presented to her future lord. If she bored herself as a young girl, free and happy, and with life before her, what must she have done as the wife of a querulous, stingy old man? All the revenge that was in her power Marie took. She bored her husband as much as he bored her, until at last, in sheer desperation, he agreed to give her an annuity, and let her go her way without him. As Marquise du Deffand, free and comparatively wealthy, the young wife began a new era. She opened a salon which soon became the centre of the wit and fashion of Paris. All that was eminent in war, arts, sciences, literature, and folly came there, and tried to chase away her eternal ennui. Amongst her many admirers, the President Hénault occupies the most conspicuous place, both from the dignity of his own character and the enduring nature of their mutual attachment. Hénault was one of the most remarkable men of his time. He was educated by the Oratorians, and had early the inestimable advantage of enjoying the advice, and almost the intimacy, of Massillon. He counted the scarcely lesser privilege of early personal acquaintance with the great poet Racine. As soon as he had completed his studies, young Hénault was introduced at court, where he at once made a favorable impression. “This is not to be wondered at,” says a chronicler of the times; “for, in truth, he was a youth of gracious parts, gay, witty, amiable, a good musician, and gifted with the art of making light and graceful verses.” While the Duchesse de Maine held her brilliant court, Hénault was a [pg 694] constant presence there, and one of its principal ornaments. He was so universally beloved that it was popularly said of him: “There is a man who has more friends than he can count, and not a single enemy.” And this lucky man was the devoted admirer of Mme. du Deffand for over fifty years.

He attained considerable fame as an author, and not the least remarkable feature in his works is that their authorship was vehemently contested, not only during Hénault's life, but for many years after his death. Most of his books were first published anonymously—a circumstance which, in their early career, may have explained the doubts concerning their origin. But the Abrégé Chronologique, which Hénault regarded as his best, appeared with the author's name at the outset, and this, strange to say, was the one which the world refused longest to believe was his, and persevered in long attributing to the Abbé Boudot. A copy of the book was found, in the abbé's own writing, amongst his papers when he died, and this is the only piece of evidence on which Hénault's detractors built their obstinate denial that he was the author of the Abrégé. Admitting that this fact looked suspicious, the book itself from first to last bears the stamp of Hénault's composition in the most unmistakable manner; the choice of the subject, its style and treatment, all point emphatically to him as the author, while there is abundant explanation of the accidental presence of the compromising copy amongst Boudot's papers. Hénault was in the habit of employing him to copy out his compositions. Voltaire, in one of his letters to the president, recommends the abbé as a very clever copyist, and also as a useful person to make researches for him at the Royal Library; and Grimm also recommends him for the same purpose, informing Hénault that Boudot had employment at the library, and was in charge of the literary and historical department. A man who held this subaltern post, and was treated as a mere scribe by such authorities, and who never pleaded guilty to writing even a pamphlet in his life, is, to say the least, a very unlikely person to be the author of such a work as Hénault's Abrégé. Mme. du Deffand and Grimm, who both liked to sharpen their wits pretty freely at the president's expense, never for an instant doubted the reality of his authorship, or suspected that any one had had a share in his books.

Unlike so many of his distinguished literary contemporaries, Hénault was a practical Christian. “His piety,” says the Marquis de Agesson, “was as free from fanaticism or bitterness as his books were from pedantry.”

Mme. du Deffand, who spared her friend on no other points, spared him on this. She never laughed at his religion. On that score alone he was safe from her irony and sarcasm. She even openly commended him for challenging Voltaire's impious vituperation of the faith; and in her own correspondence with the infidel philosopher she speaks almost with enthusiasm of the clear intellect, the pointed wit, and irresistible goodness of his antagonist. When he was past eighty, Hénault wrote privately to Voltaire, imploring him, in the most touching terms, to retract some of his diabolical satires on religion; and this letter, which, unhappily, we know remained without effect, was found amongst Voltaire's [pg 695] papers after his death. He, on his side, strove to win over Hénault to the “enlightened school,” and with artful flattery and subtlest sophistry urged him to change certain historical passages in the Abrégé Chronologique which strongly vindicated the influence of Christianity. But the Christian writer withstood these blandishments. In a literary point Voltaire contributed in no small degree to the reputation of Hénault, whose style he praised with creditable candor. It is strange to see the lively and bored old marquise holding steadily the friendship of these widely dissimilar men. Diderot, D'Alembert, and Montesquieu were also habitués of her brilliant salon. But none of them could do more than give her momentary deliverance from her life-long enemy—ennui. She went on boring herself, in spite of the perpetual cross-fire of esprit that the brightest wits of the age kept up around her, and she bored her friends almost to exasperation by the unceasing repetition of the complaint: Que je m'ennuie! Que je m'ennuie!

At the age of fifty-four a terrible misfortune befell the marquise. She grew blind. It was soon after this that she became acquainted with Mlle. de l'Espinasse. The sprightliness and the energy of this young girl were an immense consolation to Mme. du Deffand, and cheered her for a time in that “eternal night,” as she pathetically described it, in which she now dwelt. But they did not agree for long. After living happily together for some few years, they quarrelled and separated. It is impossible to say whose fault it was. Each had violent partisans, who accused the other, but proved nothing. Mme. du Deffand was undoubtedly difficult to live with, as all people are who draw exclusively on those around them for amusement; but she was old and she was blind, and it is beyond doubt she was a kind benefactress to her young companion, and that, at the moment of separation, she wrote a most touching letter to her, asking forgiveness for all she had done inadvertently to pain her, and urging the young girl to remember how cruelly she was afflicted both by blindness and by ennui. To this Mlle. de l'Espinasse returned a curt and ungracious answer. Nor did she imitate the kindliness of speech of her quondam employer, who always spoke of her ever after their quarrel with the utmost good-nature and forbearance.

Just as her home was resounding to these domestic discords, Mme. du Deffand made the acquaintance of Horace Walpole. They were spontaneously pleased with each other. Mme. du Deffand would have probably been still more so, if she could have foreseen how triumphantly this new friendship was destined to rescue her memory from oblivion. We know more of her and her salon through the voluminous correspondence that passed between her and that prince of gossips and most brilliant of scribblers than through any other source; although she comes in, it is true, for more ridicule at his hands than eulogy. He constantly reproaches her for making him the laughing-stock of Paris and London by her absurd affection, and coarsely tells her he does not want to be the hero of a novel where the heroine is a blind octogenarian.

This correspondence was published at the beginning of the century, and was hailed as a valuable addition to the French literature [pg 696] of that period. On reading it, one feels transported into the society of the fascinating women and accomplished men whom it so cleverly depicts. Mme. du Deffand passes in review the authors and actors of her time with a graphic power of delineation rarely equalled. Unsparing in her criticism, she is in some instances no doubt too severe, and occasionally even unjust; it is nevertheless acknowledged that in her literary judgments she is rarely at fault; they are marked throughout by discrimination, taste, and delicacy.

Horace Walpole made Mme. du Deffand's acquaintance when she had become quite blind; on his being presented to her, she drew her hand over his face, in order to ascertain whether he was plain or handsome, and what his age was. Her touch had acquired such sensitive delicacy in course of time that it enabled her to calculate people's ages and looks with the greatest accuracy. In quite the latter years of her life Mme. du Deffand, who had never been avowedly an unbeliever, although practically so, turned her thoughts to religion, and sought in the teaching of the faith those consolations to her ennui that wit and philosophy had failed to secure her. She announces this change of sentiment, with her usual frankness, in one of her letters to Walpole. Her biographers throw but little light on the subject. La Harpe alludes to her having had many interviews with the celebrated Jesuit, F. Lenfant—an episode which is dismissed by Mme. du Deffand herself with the remark that “the Père Lenfant was very clever, and that she was much pleased with him.”

The Père Lenfant who is thus incidentally introduced to us in the memoirs of the lively French woman was one of the countless noble and touching victims of the Revolution—that raging torrent that drowned so many gentle voices in its roar. He was gifted with an eloquence that drew around him all the lovers of rhetoric and the most able men of his day. The poet Young heard him, and was so struck by his power and pathos that he entreated a Protestant clergyman of his acquaintance to go and hear him; the latter did so, and embraced the faith. Once, on coming out from a sermon of the Père Lenfant's, preached at S. Sulpice during Lent, Diderot exclaimed to D'Alembert, who had been drinking in every word from beginning to end, with his eyes riveted on the preacher: “It would be hard to hear that man often without becoming a Christian.”

When the order of the Jesuits was disbanded in France, the Père Lenfant was thrown upon the world. He was then forty-seven years of age. The decree which despoiled him of his religious garb could not rob him of its spirit. He continued his good works and his apostolate with fervor and wisdom. Several crowned heads tried to win him to their courts, but in vain. The son of S. Ignatius held steadily aloof from the tempting snare. He preached indefatigably at all times and places, at Lunéville, Vienne, Versailles, wherever he was called; and everywhere the great and the learned flocked round his pulpit. His contemporaries describe the effects of his eloquence as electrical. He captivated his hearers, not so much by the magnificence of his language, as by the pathos of his voice and the force of his own faith. Père Lenfant preached the [pg 697] Lent of 1791 before the court; but on refusing to take the oath of the clergy to the civil constitution, he was obliged to withdraw. Shortly afterwards he was taken prisoner and condemned to death. On being brought before his judges, the people cried out that his life might be spared, and, yielding to the cries, his jailers let him go; before, however, he had got free from the crowd, a woman called out: “There goes the king's confessor!” At these words the thirst for blood, that had seemed for a moment satiated or suspended, rose up anew. The mob set upon him like tigers. The Père Lenfant uttered only words of love and forgiveness, and, raising his hands to heaven, exclaimed: “My God, I thank thee for allowing me to offer my life for thee, as thou hast offered thine for me!” And with this gracious sentence on his lips the Jesuit father fell and expired under the blows of the murderers.

This little sketch of the Marquise du Deffand would be incomplete without a passing mention of the author of the Esprit des Lois, who was one of the most distinguished of her numerous friends.

Her letters to Montesquieu have been preserved; they are, however, much less interesting than those to Walpole, and consequently much less known. Mme. du Deffand could be a staunch friend, though she was often a trying one; she proved herself such to Montesquieu. Amongst other good offices, she cleared him from the charge of avarice which was laid at his door so generally. History revoked the verdict, it is true, but only when the subject of it was gone beyond the reach of earthly rehabilitation. Montesquieu's exceeding modesty and desire to have his benefits known only to the recipients was the real, and perhaps the only, cause of his reputed avarice. One example of his delicate generosity we cannot refrain from giving.

He was in the habit of visiting Marseilles to see his sister, Mme. d'Héricourt, who resided there. During one of these visits he happened one evening to be lounging on the quay; the weather was sultry, and it occurred to Montesquieu that he would take a boat, and have a row on the sea. His attention was drawn to a young man who was looking out for a customer. He hailed him, and got in. As soon as they were out a little at sea, Montesquieu perceived that his boatman was a novice at the work, and rowed with difficulty. He questioned him, and learned that he was, in truth, a jeweller by trade, and a boatman only on Sundays and holidays, in order to gain a trifle towards helping his mother and sisters, who were working to procure 4,000 crowns to ransom his father, who was a prisoner at Tetuan. Montesquieu was deeply touched by the story. He made a resolution on the spot, but said nothing. Before landing, however, he got from the boatman his father's name and the name of his master. On parting, he handed him his purse, and walked away rapidly; great was the delight of the young man, on opening it, to find that it contained sixteen golden louis.

Six weeks after this the captive suddenly appeared in the midst of his wife and children. He saw, by the astonishment mingled with their joy, that it was not to them he owed his liberation; but the surprise and gratitude of all were increased on his telling them that not only was his ransom paid, but likewise his voyage home and his [pg 698] clothing; and, over and above this, a sum of fifty louis d'or had been handed to him on starting. The young boatman no sooner heard this fairy tale than he bethought him of the generous stranger who had presented him the purse and expressed such sympathy on hearing of his sorrow. He determined to seek him. For two years he did so, but in vain. The name of the benefactor to whom he and his owed such a sweet and magnificent debt of gratitude remained an impenetrable mystery. At last one day, while walking in the streets of Paris, he suddenly encountered Montesquieu face to face; the young man fell upon his knees, kissed the hand of his benefactor, and entreated him to come with him to the home he had blessed, and witness the joy that he had brought back to a desolate family. But Montesquieu feigned ignorance and surprise, declared he knew nothing of what the young man was talking about, and at last, wrenching his hand away abruptly, he disappeared in the crowd, nor did his pursuer succeed in finding him again.

This action would never have been discovered had not Montesquieu's executor found among his papers a memorandum in his own handwriting, stating that he had sent 7,500 francs to Mr. Main, an English banker at Cadiz; on the latter being applied to for information, he replied that he had given that sum, by the order of M. de Montesquieu, for the ransom of a man named Robert, a Marseillais, detained as a slave at Tetuan. Inquiries were set on foot, and the Robert family told the rest.

This touching incident was made the foundation of many dramatic pieces. If it did no more than clear a noble character from the unworthy charge of heartlessness and avarice, the world would have been the better for its discovery.

Cain, What Hast Thou Done With Thy Brother?

By Ernest Hello.

From The Revue Du Monde Catholique.

By way of preface, I will relate a true story given by F. Agathon, a priest of the Monastery of Ruba, and preserved in the Lives of the Fathers of the Desert.

F. Agathon says: “One day I descended into the valley of Ruba to find the holy solitary, F. Pémeu, as I wished to consult him on a subject that weighed heavily upon my mind. We conversed until late in the evening, and then he sent me into a cavern to pass the rest of the night. Now, as it was winter, and the cold extreme, I was nearly frozen. The next morning, when the old man came in to see me, he asked: ‘How have you passed the night, my son?’

“ ‘Father,’ I answered, ‘I must say, in truth, I passed a terrible night, on account of the extraordinary severity of the cold.’

“ ‘And I did not feel it at all,’ he replied.

“These words filled me with astonishment, [pg 699] as he was nearly naked, and I said: ‘I beg of you, father, to tell me how that could have happened.’

“ ‘For the reason,’ he answered, ‘that a lion came and lay down beside me, and kept me warm. But nevertheless, my dear son, I can assure you that I shall be devoured by wild beasts.’

“ ‘Why do you say so?’ I asked.

“ ‘Because,’ he replied, ‘when I was a shepherd in our country (we were both from Galatia), I would have saved the life of a traveller, if I had accompanied him; but I did not show him that charity, and he was devoured by the dogs. Therefore I shall most certainly meet with a similar death.’

“And it really happened as he said. For three years afterwards he was torn to pieces by wild beasts.”

I.

Dear Marie, cease to think of me; all is ended; I am lost. I do not tell you what will become of me; I know nothing myself. I only know that yesterday I received the fatal blow, from which I cannot recover.

I had just finished the last picture, of which I have so often spoke to you—The First Glance. It is the portrait of a young man, who awakens and looks around him, as though he saw everything for the first time.

Some of my friends thought the picture splendid, but added that it would not sell well, as my name was unknown to the public.

After innumerable attempts, all equally unfortunate, I showed it yesterday to a very rich amateur—Baron de Brienne. He examined the picture, thought it remarkable, and then asked if I had often exhibited my pictures.

On my replying in the negative, his expression changed.

“I thought,” said he, “I did not know your name. You must make yourself known. This picture has great merit, and this sketch also,” he added, throwing a rapid glance at my other picture just commenced—you know it, Marie—Cain after his Crime—“but, in fact, you are not known,” he concluded.

“But, sir,” I replied, “I am endeavoring to make myself known.”

“Well,” continued the baron, “you have talent, that I acknowledge; but I doubt if it is the kind of talent that will be appreciated by the public. If I bought your picture, I would be asked where I found it. As it stands there, it has a certain value; but if you were dead, it would be worth a hundred times as much, and perhaps would soon find purchasers, possibly myself among the first. You see I can't change the world. So it is with men; they will pay the most ridiculous price for objects of art whose worth is guaranteed by a signature, but will not bother themselves to talk up unknown talent. I,” he added with a happy smile, “recently gave a hundred thousand francs for a picture which I do not place above yours; but it was a Murillo! I am a modest man, and always side with the majority. The majority is always right, and, for my part, I am not vain enough to think I know more than the entire human race. Make yourself known; everything is in that. Make yourself known; put your pictures in the exhibition; receive medals and decorations. But, above all, die; your pictures then will be worth so much gold. You see you are talking to a practical man, who don't believe in [pg 700] neglected genius. Au revoir, monsieur. You really have talent; more even than that, I do not hesitate to say you have genius. Au revoir.”

This, Marie, was my last adventure. All the others were similar. I will spare you any further details. I have told you in a few words what in reality was a long agony. But despair is brief; it has not the courage to dwell on separate facts; it sums up the causes, and only shows the effects.

Now, my dear Marie, you know what happened yesterday. The day before there came another gentleman, who had not the time to examine my picture as it deserved. This he explained to me for two hours without looking at the picture. He really had no time; for example, every morning he visits his stables from ten to twelve, and in the afternoon rows on the lake from four to six.

As for Baron de Brienne, when he left, he assured me he held my talent in the highest estimation; that he would like to have a gallery of pictures all painted by me, as it would probably one day be very valuable; later, my pictures would sell splendidly, and he could make money by the operation.

If there is ever to be a later day for me, I shall find him, when I will no longer need him, and he will be the first to show me honor.

Adieu, Marie. I was so sanguine, so buoyed up with hope, it needed all this time—all this precious time, of which these gentlemen had so little to waste—to bring me where I am now.

I think the baron saw despair in my face, for he used a singular expression on leaving which I had not provoked by any remark.

“My dear sir, do not look so dismal and wretched. I am not the Don Quixote of budding genius. Make yourself known, make yourself known, and you will find me! But if your courage fails, you will commit blunders and spoil your talent, for which I will not be responsible; like Pilate, I wash my hands of you!”

I listened to them going down the stairs.

“No, no,” said he to his wife; “you see for my portrait I must have a master, a signature.”

“Perhaps,” replied the baroness—“perhaps we have done wrong to discourage the young man.”

“Discourage? What are you talking about? I told him he had great talent. Do you wish to know what I think?” he added, as he stood for an instant before her. “What ruins art in the present day is that it is gorged with gold, and that too few men of genius die in the hospital—that is the reason!”

Adieu, Marie.

Something else was said, which Paul did not hear.

The baroness paused, as she was about to enter the carriage.

“Well, what is the matter with you?” said her husband.

“I am not very well,” she replied.

“So much more reason for getting in the carriage. What ails you?”

“The face of that young man haunts me. Who knows what despair may drive him to? Who knows how terrible may be his hidden suffering? Let us go back. I feel as though we had just committed a crime. Let us go back. Thirty years ago I read a story which I had long forgotten, but that now returns vaguely to my memory as a warning. I no longer remember [pg 701] the whole, but the impression comes back vague and terrible after thirty years. Ah! let us go back.”

The baron stopped, and laughed immensely.

“Ha! ha! Are you crazy? Haven't I the right to choose the pictures I wish to buy? Is there a law which compels me to buy pictures from this gentleman? I speak to you very seriously, my dear; such fancies as these will make you crazy. There is a great deal of insanity in our present day. Let us take care, let us take care!”

II.

Marie, after reading her brother's letter, was half frantic with terror, as she knew him thoroughly, and understood his bitter despair. She lost no time, but left in the first train. Arrived in Paris, she ran to the little house in the Quartier Latin where Paul lived. She was too excited to take a carriage. The rapid walk seemed to soothe her. In the cars she longed for quicker movement; in the street she wished for wings; at the door she would rather have been at the other end of the world. She dared not go up. She stopped, suffocated with the beating of her heart. If it was already too late—the thought nearly paralyzed her with horror. If she were a minute too late!

Finally, when on the stairs, she wept. Then she dared ring.

“I have wept,” she thought; “he is saved.” Taught by a long and singular experience, the young girl knew that tears were for her the mysterious and certain sign that her prayer was granted. She rang. A servant-girl, without speaking, led her to a bed, and uttered a single word—“Dead”—and then added: “The funeral will take place in two hours. He threw himself into the Seine from the bridge of Austerlitz.”

“He is not dead,” said Marie.

“The registration of the death has been made,” said the woman.

Without replying, Marie looked fixedly at him, and said to herself:

“He is not dead. I have wept; he is not dead. Paul!” she called. Silence. “Paul!” Silence.

She seized a mirror, and held it to her brother's lips. At the moment she took it in her hand she burst into tears. “You will see that he is saved!” she said.

The woman thought her crazy. Marie still held the mirror before Paul's lips. Dead silence; her own poor heart nearly stopped—the mirror was tarnished!

III.

Seven years afterwards M. le Baron de Brienne was conversing in a numerous and choice circle. It was at a grand dinner. The women were crowned with flowers and sparkling with jewels. The conversation turned upon a great crime which had recently been committed, the details of which filled two columns of every paper. Suddenly the Baron de Brienne became singularly agitated, and then, in a voice which he endeavored to keep calm, but whose trembling was still further shown by the effort to subdue it, said:

“It appears that the police have not yet discovered any trace of the assassin.”

“I don't know,” replied a guest.

“I believe not,” said another.

“Excuse me,” replied a third person; “according to the latest accounts, the police, if not positively sure, had at least great hopes.”

The Baron de Brienne was as white as his napkin. He tried to [pg 702] overcome and conceal his excitement, and attempted to eat; but the effort was too great. He swooned, and fell heavily to the ground.

Every one rose and crowded around him. Water was thrown in his face, salts were held for him to inhale. The hostess neglected none of the ceremonies usual in such cases. Fortunately, there was a physician among the guests. Every attention was lavished upon M. le Baron. His carriage was called, and he was taken home.

The next day he was better; at the end of three days he was well. He made them bring any quantity of papers, and read them to him. Mme. la Baronne, who was the reader, suddenly paused, and said:

“Here is more of the horrid crime of which we were all talking when you were taken ill.”

“Well?” said the baron in a singular tone.

“Well,” continued the baroness, “the murderer has been arrested. But what a strange interest you take in the affair!”

“I?” replied the baron. “Oh! not at all; I can very truly say that. Why do you think otherwise?”

“Because you are so strangely excited whenever the subject is mentioned.”

“What do you mean, talking about my excitement?” he replied. “Can you possibly imagine, like those stupid people at dinner the other evening, that this affair interests me in the slightest degree? They were all there looking at me, looking at me ... with eyes ... with eyes.... Are you, too, going to stare at me now with those eyes ... with those eyes....”

Mme. la Baronne rose, and wrote two lines: “Dear doctor, come instantly.”

“Carry that to the telegraph office,” she said to the servant.

“She did not count the words,” muttered the man in astonishment, as he withdrew. “It must be something very serious.”

IV.

Three months had elapsed, and the baron had resumed his ordinary life, when one evening, in a salon in the faubourg Saint-Honoré, a gentleman remarked, in the course of conversation, that it was astonishing the number of crimes one daily heard of. And he related the last murder that the daily paper had brought under his eyes.

Said the baron: “Why do you make such an assertion? Never were crimes so rare as to-day; manners and customs are so much softened, we can almost say there are no longer any criminals. None can be found in the higher class of society; and when we speak of the aristocracy, it means the entire nation. Indeed, to speak the truth, I believe very little in the wonderful crimes with which the daily journals fill their columns when there is a dearth of political news.”

“You are very incredulous, M. le Baron,” replied the Comte de Sartigny. “Probably it is from kindness to the editors that the police seek the criminals, and the courts judge them.”

“You say,” answered the baron, “that the police seek the criminals. It is false, M. le Comte. In the first place, only one is guilty, and the police are not hunting him up; he is already found, and he has no accomplice. He has been found, I tell you, he has been found; and the man has no accomplice. Perhaps I don't know it. Ha! ha!”

While the baron, pale as death, [pg 703] spoke these words, with terror imprinted on his face, the count looked steadily at him, and said:

“You say that I have spoken falsely, M. le Baron? Will you repeat that remark? I think those were your words, but perhaps I was mistaken.”

“I only say one thing,” replied the baron, “which is, that the criminal has been found and arrested.”

“But a moment ago you denied the reality of the crime.”

“I only say one thing, M. le Comte: that there is no doubt about the name of the assassin.”

The master of the house took the count by the arm, and led him to the recess of a window....

“Ah! very well, very well; I did not know it,” said the count, as he left the room.

While they were conversing together, the baron made several vain efforts to rise. He experienced the supreme anguish of a man who, while still in the possession of his faculties, feels they are leaving him—of a man who has not fainted, but who is about to faint, and who feels on his brow the first drops of cold sweat.

The baroness made her excuses for leaving so early, and, when alone with her husband, asked anxiously:

“What can be the matter with you?”

“And you too, you too,” he replied, pushing her from him, as he raised his blood-shot eyes.

V.

“We must,” said the doctor, “enter into his mania, so as to endeavor to discover the cause. We must make him talk without questioning him. Do you know, madame, in the life of M. le Baron, of any fact that may have left a disagreeable remembrance?”

“Doctor, do you mean a guilty remembrance?”

“No, madame; something terrifying.”

The baroness thought a long while.

“No,” said she, “not one. Our life has always passed most tranquilly. You know how people of the world live; well, so we live, and have always lived. My husband is a quiet man, who has never had a quarrel in his life with any one, and has never done an injury that I know of.”

“You have never seen in the baron any anxiety of conscience?”

“Any anxiety of conscience? He? Why should he have any? He has never in his life done anything to reproach himself with.”

“The baron,” replied the doctor, “has the reputation of being benevolent and kind-hearted. I don't think he is naturally very imaginative; do you, madame?”

“Not at all, doctor. I think he is just the contrary. I can even say he has very little faith.”

“But when and where did you first perceive the commencement of this mania?”

“It was one day when nothing strange had happened. Some one had been speaking of a young sculptor, who now is very famous. A friend told us that he owed his success to a rich banker, who had discovered his talents by some happy accident, and had aided him with his fortune and influence. When our guests had left, and we were alone, I thought he would kill himself; as now, without the slightest reason.”

“In his daily life does he show any eccentricity of which I am yet ignorant?”

“Not precisely eccentricity,” said Mme. de Brienne. “His tastes have changed very much, but that cannot be called eccentricity. He formerly spent quite a fortune in purchasing pictures, of which he has a very fine collection, that he admired extravagantly; now he never looks at them. But he has always been rather fickle.”

“Does he talk in his sleep?”

“No; but one morning (now that you make me think of it) he awoke terribly frightened at a dream. ‘Ah! what a dream I have had,’ he said to me. His face looked worn and haggard, and, as I begged him to relate it, he turned away his eyes, and refused peremptorily. I insisted, but he kept silent, and I have never been able to make him relate it.”

The doctor reflected.

“Perhaps that is the whole secret,” said he. “But if we were to ask him about it now, probably to-morrow we would be obliged to confine him.”

“Confine him?” cried the baroness. “Do you think him so seriously affected?”

“Very seriously, madame, and more so as he is perfectly sane in relation to other affairs. His mania is confined to one point, and is what we call hallucination. My duty compels me to tell you, madame, that it is a case where science up to the present time has been very unsuccessful.”

“But, doctor, never was there a man less crazy. As for the pictures, which was the only passion I ever knew him to have, he prided himself on never having done a foolish thing; he only bought pictures of known value, with the signatures of the artists fully guaranteed. I, for instance, who am speaking to you, would have sometimes acted more unwisely than he. I remember once he even refused....”

“Nevertheless,” interrupted the doctor, “the case is very serious.”

The baron was alone in his room. His wife listened attentively at the door, and watched him through the key-hole. He raised the curtains, shook the cushions on the sofa, searched around, and, when convinced that he was alone, spoke in a low voice; but his wife caught his words.

“No one suspects me. No one, not even she; and yet everything should warn them, everything.... The circumstances that accompanied the act are reproduced every instant. For example, the clouds in the sky have nearly always the same form as at that moment.... The clouds do it purposely; they have assumed since that day certain positions always the same. What do they resemble? What I do not wish to say, but I know well since my dream. Oh! that dream.... I am cold, frozen. Why is it no one ever speaks to me of that dream; that no one in this house remembers it? And yet they were all there ... in the dream.... My wife was there, and the other one also,” he added, lowering his voice.

And after a silence, occasionally broken by unintelligible words, and joined to a strange pantomime, he continued:

“It was frightful. How that man struggled for his life!”

And speaking always lower and lower, the baron gasped out:

“He clung to me, and, when I pushed him into the water, an expression passed over his face such as was never seen but then in this world. It was near the bridge of Austerlitz. How he glared at me [pg 705] as he disappeared the last time! How is it that in the street the passers-by do not say on seeing me, ‘There is the man, there he is—the man who had the dream’? But was it a dream or reality? Men often pass me quickly in the street. Who knows but that they know or see something?”

The baron walked around the room, greatly excited, and then, pausing, he sighed, and said in a mournful tone:

“How do other men act—those who are not followed? They can take a step without hearing behind them another step that goes quicker or slower, according as they walk. Then there are men who do not hear steps behind them as they walk. Yet I always seek the noisiest places; but no noise ever deadens the sound of that step, so faint but so invincible. The noise of carriages, the roar of cannon—I have tried everything.... If possible I would live amidst thunder; but the lightning might fall near me, and cover me with ruins; still should I hear that faint, almost imperceptible noise, a foot that just touches the ground. I am cold! How cold it is! Fire no longer warms me! How lightly that foot touches the ground. It does not press heavily like ours. No, decidedly not; it was no dream—it was reality. That foot never is tired; but when I stop, it stops. It has a certain manner of stopping that makes me always feel that it is there, and that it will resume its walk when I do mine. Sometimes I would rather hear it, and I walk to make it walk; when it is silent, its menace is to me more terrible than the sound of the step.... If it would only change place!... But, no; always at an equal distance from me. Ah! how cruel. If I could but see some one, I think the most horrible spectacle would be less terrifying than this dreary void. To hear and not see!”

Here the baron rapidly jumped backwards, and put out his hand as though to grasp something in the air, then exclaimed:

“Gone! He has escaped—escaped, as ever!”

VI.

The course of the baron's ordinary life flowed on as smoothly as ever. Nothing was changed, and those who were not much with him perceived no difference; to them he was the same as heretofore.

The following summer he wished to go to the sea-shore.

They left for Brittany. They spoke of the pleasant walks and drives, and the baron, in an absent manner, asked on which part of the coast was the most sand. He would not hear of the cliffs; he wanted sand—only sand. Gâvre was recommended by a gentleman who was seated near them at the table d'hôte.

The baron instantly decided upon going to Gâvre.

“At what hour shall we leave?” asked the baroness.

The we evidently displeased the baron. He wished to go alone. He gave a thousand pretexts to prevent his wife accompanying him. As she would not admit them, he said, contrary to his usual custom, “I will” ... “I wish to go alone,” said he. “Am I in prison? Do you take me for a criminal?”

The baron left Port Louis in the steamboat. His wife followed him, without being seen, on another boat, and watched his movements through a spy-glass, as he paced up and down the shore at Gâvre.

First, according to his usual custom, he assured himself that he was alone. Then he would take several steps, and return quickly, seeing nothing; he searched in the sand, and, finding his own footsteps, he sought a little further on the trace of the other one. All in vain. Disappointed, he went to another spot, and recommenced his weary walk, always seeing his own footprints, never the other. He had hoped in the sand; the sand had proved false, as everything else.

VII.

Meanwhile, the doctor was in Paris, and one evening in a salon in the faubourg Saint Germain. The conversation was on madness; and the doctor, who was a celebrated alieniste, was asked many questions as to the causes of insanity.

“The causes of insanity,” said he, “are so profound and mysterious that to know them one must make the tour of the invisible world.”

“I have known,” said one gentleman, “insane persons who thought themselves guilty of crimes which they had never committed—innocent men, intelligent and good, incapable of harming a bird, and who thought themselves assassins.”

Among the guests that evening was a famous artist, M. Paul Bayard, whose most admired works, The First Glance, and Cain after his Crime, ranked with the chefs-d'œuvre of the greatest masters of the day.

Said M. Bayard: “I have not studied, like you, doctor, from life. I don't know any insane persons, and what I am going to tell you is not founded on fact. But this is what I think about this strange remorse felt by innocent people: who knows if they may not have committed spiritually the crime of which they think themselves guilty materially? In this hypothesis they have completely forgotten the real and spiritual crime, which they committed really and spiritually; they did not even know or feel it at the instant they committed it. But this crime real, spiritual, and forgotten is transformed, by virtue of madness, into a material crime, of which they are innocent, but of which they believe themselves guilty. Perhaps a man has betrayed his friend; instead of accusing himself of this treason, he accuses himself of another fault which resembles that one, as the body resembles the soul. I repeat, I cannot cite an example. It is purely hypothetical; but something which I cannot define makes me think it possible, nay, even probable. The guilty person deceived his conscience; conscience in turn deceives him. To make a child understand, we give examples of sensible things. Perhaps justice thus acts with these men, and, finding them insensible in the sphere of the mind, transports their crime into the sphere of the body.

“Perhaps it is a real crime, but too subtle to be understood by them, that descends to their level, and pursues them under the appearance of an external and sensible crime, the only one which they can understand. There are whimsical scruples which resemble madness, as exaggeration resembles falsehood. Who knows if these scruples are not the wanderings, or, if you prefer it, the transpositions of remorse? I say remorse. I do not say repentance, for repentance enlightens, and remorse blinds. Between repentance and remorse there is an abyss: the first gives peace, the second destroys [pg 707] it. Perhaps conscience, not being able to make itself felt by the guilty person on its own ground, speaks to him, by way of revenge, in language as coarse as himself, on his own domain. Through a terrible justice, it makes him reproach himself with what appears unjust on the surface, but which is a thousand times just at the bottom. Conscience, which spoke in vain at the moment of the crime, now arms itself against the criminal as a phantom. We are men here to-night, as we appear to each other; but who knows if we are not for some one somewhere, at this moment, phantoms?”

The doctor rose, and, taking the artist's hand, said: “I do not know how much truth there may be in your theory. I only know one thing: that you are a man of genius, and, if I had doubted it before, I am now convinced of it. I will reflect on your words; they open to me a new horizon.”

“I have always been pursued by the thought,” said the artist, “that there is a moment when a man understands for the first time what he has seen since his infancy. It is the day when the eyes of the mind open. It is this I have attempted to show in my picture—The First Glance. But as the horizon is constantly enlarging, I endeavor to throw upon everything, each time, a look which I may call The First Glance. In the other composition, Cain after his Crime, I wished to show in Cain, not the melodramatic assassin, but a vulgar, common man. The stigmata of anger, of which he received the visible mark, opens to him the eyes of the soul. He throws upon his crime a first glance. There are spiritual Cains whose arms are innocent. Perhaps there may be some among the insane, of whom we have spoken; and in that case there is more truth in their madness than in their previous security. Their insanity only deceives them about the nature of the crime; their security deceived them about the crime itself.”

The doctor was thoughtful. He took the artist aside, and in a low tone said: “Shall we leave together?” And they left.

After their departure the conversation turned on what had just been said.

“Were you always a materialist?” asked one person of his neighbor.

“It is scarcely fair or generous to choose this moment for such a question,” was the reply.

“As for me,” said a young lady, “I don't like to hear M. Bayard talk. He is a great artist—that I admit; but when he commences in that style, he worries me!”

“Would it be indiscreet, madame, to ask you why?” timidly inquired a young man with a badly-tied cravat.

“Because I am afraid he is right in his opinions. I wish to pass gaily through life; and if we believe what he says, life would be such a serious affair, we should have to think. Really, to hear him, we can imagine ourselves surrounded with mysteries.”

VIII.

“I wish to see and study your picture of Cain. I was going to say your portrait of Cain,” said the doctor to the painter; “for it seems to me that you must have known him personally, from the manner in which you have spoken to me of him.”

“Perhaps I have known him,” [pg 708] said Paul. “At any rate, come!” And they entered the studio.

Arrived before the picture, the doctor started back in surprise.

The portrait of Cain was that of the baron, horrible in the resemblance.

There was on that face the coldness of the criminal and the horror of the cursed. The coldness did not impair the horror, nor the horror the coldness; and from the mouth of Cain the spectator might expect to hear the words that S. Bridget heard from the mouth of Satan when he said to God:

“O Judge! I am coldness itself.”

Indifference and despair were in those eyes, on those lips, and on that brow. But the despair was not heartrending, for repentance was wanting, and this despair even appeared expiatory, like justice eating its bread.

The doctor remained a long while motionless. The horizon opened before his eyes. His science sought new depths. He did not precisely reflect, but he remembered, and, perhaps for the first time in his life, passed an hour in profound contemplation.

“So you know him?” said he at last to Paul.

“Whom do you mean?”

“Why, my patient!”

“I don't know any of your patients.”

Professional discretion arrested the name before it passed the doctor's lips.

“But, really,” said he, “this head is a portrait. You could not have drawn it by chance.”

“Neither one nor the other,” replied Paul. “No one sat for me, and I did not draw it by chance. It appears to me, when I work, certain faces are offered to me without forcing themselves upon me. I perceive them interiorly; for my eyes are closed and I see nothing. Perceive is not the proper word, for the sense of sight is not needed. If I perceive them, it is with an unknown sense which is not that of sight, and in a peculiar condition, in comparison with which wakefulness is profound sleep. I think these perceptions correspond with some reality, either distant or future, whose photographic likeness at that moment passes before the eyes of the mind.

“This faculty, which may be called natural inspiration, has never abandoned me. The aptitude to surmise what I do not know is the highest form of the activity of my mind, and not only do I surmise what I do not know, but very often I do it, I realize it, without intention and without knowledge. It is as though I were an actor in a drama of which I was ignorant. I recite a part in a play that I do not know, and whose title and plot are equally unknown.

“Yet I feel myself free, and the profound sentiment of my liberty bursts forth, above all, in the remembrance of my faults. I wished to die, but death did not want me. I have sometimes asked myself if, having wished to lose my life, I might not lose inspiration, which would be for me a subtle and cruel manner of death. It has seemed to me that the question has been agitated somewhere, and that inspiration, which has compassion on the weak, came back to me gratuitously. If I had been criminal from malice, it would have abandoned me, perhaps, or have become in me the auxiliary of a future crime. It might have refused to help me, or have assisted me in doing wrong.”

IX.

Shortly after this interview the baron returned to Paris, apparently calmer than usual.

“He is much better,” said Mme. la Baronne. “The doctor alarmed me terribly; but I knew very well in reality there was no danger. My husband is a cold man, and I have nothing to fear for his reason.”

The following night the baron waited until the house was quiet, and then went on tiptoe, as though afraid of being surprised or disturbed. Once safely in his picture gallery, he cut each of the pictures with a penknife, and then one by one burst them open by placing his knee against the canvas; and, that accomplished, left the house toward morning. The porter saw him pass, but did not recognize him.

“Who is that old man,” said he to his wife, “who passed the night in the house?”

The baron's hair, black the night before, was white as snow.

They waited for him at breakfast, they waited for him at dinner; he did not return. In searching his papers his wife found a note containing these words:

“This time I will not escape; the police are on my track.”

Said madame: “I always feared some misfortune would happen to me.”

The next day the baron's body was found in the Seine under the bridge of Austerlitz.

“I am much distressed, but not astonished,” said the doctor to madame. “I always thought his madness absolutely incurable.”

“Ah! doctor, he destroyed all the pictures. I have not even his portrait.”

“You shall have it, madame,” said the doctor.

Eight days afterwards the doctor kept his promise. He brought the baroness a photograph.

Madame de Brienne was profoundly agitated, and nearly fainted.

“Oh! what a resemblance,” she gasped, “what a resemblance! Doctor, how was it done? This is not natural. It is not his portrait, it is himself. He is going to speak. I am afraid!”

There was horror in the astonishment of the poor woman. She threw upon her husband and herself a first glance.

“But tell me, doctor, where did you find it?”

“Allow me to keep the secret, madame.”

In reality, the thing was very simple: they had only photographed the picture of the great artist—Cain after his Crime.

The Legend Of Vallambrosa.

An ancient myth like ivied vesture clings

About fair Vallambrosa's cloistered walls,

Telling that 'neath the roof sweet charity

Has spread her soft, warm draperies within

What time eight circling centuries have traced,

In memories gray and green, her blessedness.

Of the fair, nestling valley here to sing,

With sweet-strung choice of cadenced synonymes,

Could better music hold the ear, to note

Its silver-dropping streams and shadowy dells

Than that wherewith Italia christened it,

Calling it Aqua-Bella, or the Val-Ambrosa, liquid-toned and clear? No ripple,

Methinks, of happier tones or tenderer hues

Could voice its lapsing falls and verdant vales

Than lives within such naming!

Hither came

Long years agone—long years before the years

That gave the legend birth—a prayerful priest,

Bearing the cross where untamed beast and bird,

Alone frequenting, poured in wildest notes

The praise for life which lowest life uplifts!

And here, as ever, man's triumphant voice

Leaped up above the brute's, beseeching heaven

To consecrate with holy dews, and bless,

The heights which, cycles later, cradling held

The hermitage of one so famed; and grew,

As seed luxuriant in rich soil will grow,

Because all teeming life must needs expand,

These walls of generous hospice that outstretch

Their sheltering arms to weary travellers.

If it be true, as we have often heard,

That lukewarm sinners make but lukewarm saints,

Perhaps the converse proof we hold in hand;

For, mark! once lived in Florence, of the proud

Gualberto house, one heir to all its pride,

Giovanni named—he this same sinner-saint.

Quickened by summers of some eighteen years,

And flushed by southern suns to fervid warmth

Of life impetuous, his youthful form

Bore stamp already of the venturous will

Of a gay, dashing cavalier outgiven

To heedless coursings in the round of sense.

And yet there dwelt adeep within his breast

A living well of tenderness that flowed

In gentle care for Hubert, his beloved

And only brother.

Hubert (a twelvemonth

Scarce younger) stood between his tempted soul

And much that might have swayed it past recall

Over the margin of sin's dread abyss.

'Twas not that Hubert was a chastened saint,

But love within the brother's ardent soul

Invested him with raiment pure and white—

Love holding from assoil the fabric fine

Itself had wove, and still will choose to weave

So long as life is life, or love is love.

Thus, when unto Giovanni came a dawn

That kindled to a conscious glow of health

His own quick pulse, yet, warming, failed to melt

The frozen current in pale Hubert's veins,

Because those veins had felt the frigid touch

Of steel in duelling combat, there arose

Within his anguished heart a stern demand

Against the murderer of life for life—

An unrelenting thirst of blood, to quell

The ghostly phantoms of his fevered brain,

And satisfy with feast of sweet revenge

His brother's manes.

On one Good-Friday morn,

Followed by armed retainers, and slow bent

Unto San Miniato to attend

High Mass, in faithfulness to Hubert's soul,

He met unwittingly within a pass

That leads to the Basilica this man,

Of all men hated most. Close, face to face,

Spell-bound they stood a moment's span; then flashed

From out Giovanni's sheath his gleaming sword,

And by its glittering sign with one will rose

From every trusty scabbard near at hand

Sharp kindred swords that gleamed defiant fire

Into the bright'ning day, and in his face

Who stood unarmed, alone.

The unsheathed sword

Of pitiless Giovanni had well-nigh

Its rueful deed of deadly wrath made sure

When he, the helpless foe confronted thus

By certain death, saw in death's pallid light

The spectre of his sin as it must seem

To disembodied spirits, and he fell

Prone, horror-stricken, at the avenger's feet.

There, graving on the ground with level arms

The crucial sign, he prayed for pardoning grace,

And grace of lengthened days for penitence,

And all in name of Him whose agony

Upon the cross he thus in dust recalled!

The sword is stayed, and in the tremulous pause

Great waves of varying passions meet

And battle in Giovanni's breast. Through all

A voice, as of faint music o'er the din

Of tumult, whispers: “Who loveth brother more

Than me, or any loved one more than me,

Is all unworthy of me.” Quick, with ever

Conquering motions of the Spirit's power,

As winds of peace the passionate waters calm,

His sword is dropped, and, offering helpful hands,

He cries: “Thou who hast slain my brother be

As Christ doth will—a brother unto me.”

O'erwhelmed with gratitude, and filled with deep

Contrition for his sin, the uplifted foe

Lets fall his head upon Giovanni's neck,

And there with loosened torrent of remorse

He pours the unguent of his tears, as once

Another penitent poured costly balm

Upon the Holiest One, growing therefrom

Through mercy's twofold grace to peace and joy.

While yet the day was young, the legend tells

How both these humbled, contrite cavaliers

Offered their thanks for comfort at the shrine

Whither their steps together now were led;

And how, while kneeling at the crucifix,

Broke from the Saviour's parted lips a smile

Upon Giovanni, while the sacred head

In gracious token bowed.

O crowning joy!

Too much to halo one poor human brow,

And not the radiance divine extend

To others all unconscious, even as once

Himself had been of its illumining might!

Henceforth no other smile was aught to him

If for a passing moment it could hide

The memory of that glory from his eyes.

Henceforth the impulse of his life was one

Deep, passionate desire to shadow forth,

In the best shadowy way a mortal can,

The glowing flame of beatific fire

That hallowed smile had kindled in his soul.

And thence so perfect was his Godward walk

That scarce five summers of devoted life

Were added to his eighteen worldly years

Before San Miniato's brotherhood

Decreed him to its abbacy. But, no!

Nor stole nor triple crown had charm for one

Too wholly Christ's to care for stole or crown,

Save for that lustrous crown of ransomed souls

His earnest life might win to shine as stars.

For this to Vallambrosa's lonely height

In rapt and silent vigil he withdrew;

But even as sweetness bursts the seedling's cell,

So holiness from him exhaled in light

That drew, to seek his counsel, devotees

Led faithfully by his unswerving faith

To live with him a life of prayer and praise.

Or, if they came not cowled as lowly monks,

Still hither fared the noble of the land,

Even kings whose purple paled beside his gray,

And royal ladies and most knightly knights,

To pour their wealth of treasure at the feet

Of one all saintly.

Thus the order grew

Of world-famed Vallambrosa, where to-day

The weary find repose and welcoming cheer,

And benison of heavenly graciousness.

And thus of one soul's overflow of light

The Saviour's smile is seen in saving love

To stream adown the ever-widening years

That close and closer bring us to the day

Of promised joy, when all our utmost need

Shall in that glorious smile be satisfied.

Odd Stories. VIII. Snifkin.

There certainly was a time when dogs were more respected than now. Such a period in particular must have been the reign of Gigag, when the Odomites, who had once kicked, maimed, and starved their poor curs in a manner inhuman, now fed and fondled them with an affection that was almost canine. This revolution in sentiment was entirely due to what may be called a genius of instinct possessed by one extraordinary dog. His owner, who was none other than the goblin Gigag, had, in one of those journeys which he sometimes took through his underground thoroughfare, named his four-footed companion, with a fond conceit, Snifkin; and when they emerged into the atmosphere of the king's grounds, the latter was allowed the chief place at supper among the royal dogs. Some of this many-colored pack were wont to bark, as others were to bite. Some were renowned for scent and vigilance, and others for speed and courage; still others for motley skins, lapping lips, great ears, and yelling, yelping, and howling. But the dog Snifkin united their best qualities with a sagacity that was almost diplomatic. He never barked till he was prepared to bite, and he sometimes bit without barking. He had a scent and sight which are only acquired by dogs who have seen a great deal of human nature. So various and cabalistic seemed the marks and colors upon him, that the vulgar ascribed them to the science of Gigag rather than to natural revelation. To crown all, the dog Snifkin showed his ivory teeth at times, sneezing, snorting, and laughing in a way next to human for its friendliness.

From a number of the faculties described arose two incidents which increased the fame and worth of all dogs, and which no man can sufficiently admire. A miser, in whom the sagacious Snifkin recognized a former oppressor of his kind, came to plead his cause at court, alleging his ownership of four hundred and ninety-five thriving estates, and prosecuting his poor nephew for about as many cents. At a contrast so preposterous the knowing dog could not contain himself, and sniffed, snorted, and showed his teeth to such a degree that even his royal master, at whose side he sat during the hearing of the plea, was forced to join in the general guffaw which greeted the miser.

Another incident related chiefly to one of four malcontent noblemen, who, with bows and smiles, came to the royal presence. With no more ado the dog Snifkin jumped at his throat, bringing him to the foot of the king, when a concealed bodkin fell out of his bosom, and a number of poisons, which Gigag recognized as badly prepared, were strewn upon the floor. Without a word the king understood why it was that his dumb counsellor had not taken soup that day. While [pg 715] irons were being placed on the limbs of the malcontents, a collar made of the finest cloth of gold, adorned with precious stones, was put upon the neck of the loyal dog. By sovereign order it was decreed that, taking with him all the dogs in the kennels of the palace, the crown crier should go out and cry to all the people the patriotism of Snifkin, and the fidelity of dogs generally.

But it would require a million miracles to convince those whose unreason has placed them nearest to the brutes, that dogs and other animals, human and inhuman, exist for the trying and proving of the souls of men. As Snifkin was one day seated in the high easy-chair of the barber who clipped and shaved for the king's dogs, a commotion in the street provoked him to bark loudly, hazarding thereby the loss of his nose at the hands of the barber. Arrived in the street, what was his surprise to see fifty of the royal hounds yelping in the most distressful manner over the loss of his tail by the chief hound, who had provoked by impudent barking a slashing cut from the sword of a cavalier, who, it came to be known, was a conspirator against the life of King Gigag. Not being able to contend with swordsmen, Snifkin quickly seized upon the largest and finest specimen of the breed of curs who barked against the king's hounds, and made short work of him.

This act, loyal though it was, became the signal for that factious state of feeling among the Odomites which eventuated in the famous war of tails. Most of the best dogs belonging to the houses which barked against the king having had their tails cut off, it grew to be a fashion with the malcontents of the realm to reject everything with a tail to it, even were it a shirt, or an entailed estate not already owned and occupied by one of their number, or a story which was not to be continued. In fact, it became a question whether they would give ear to any tale whatever, and hence it was truly said of the malcontent faction that their ears were longer than their tails. Of course the scientific king lost no time in improving the situation; indeed, of putting an end to it. He trained a pack of dogs, under the teaching of Snifkin, to scent out treason, and, when that was done, he managed to give the hydrophobia to a large number of rebellious curs, who afterwards bit their masters. The dog Snifkin barked against this measure in vain.

A war now broke out, assisted by the prince of a neighboring country, who had conceived a great hatred of the goblin Gigag. It was the habit of the royal dogs to discover supplies to their masters, and guard their camp at night, and, besides, to indicate in what direction were the princely headquarters and trains of the enemy, which they knew by the smell of many viands.

The same, perhaps, would have been the practice of those dogs without tails who barked for the malcontents and their ally, were it not that the poor fare they received compelled their flight to the better provisions of the enemy. Nevertheless, it would have gone hard with King Gigag if his rival's device of drawing off the dogs by a concentration of savory meats in an ambushed ravine had succeeded; for the king, had it not been for the sagacity of Snifkin, would certainly have gone to the dogs. Despairing now of being able to foil their antagonists, the allies heard with [pg 716] growing dismay the general bark and howl in the king's camp at night ere his warriors slept upon their arms. Only a low growl here and there, or perhaps the voice of some lonely hound who had strayed out of camp to bay the moon, broke the silence of the sleep of war.

While thus the silent avalanche was prepared that was to overwhelm the allies in the carnage of civil strife, a most unforeseen accident occurred. King Gigag was on his rounds through the camp when a dog taken with hydrophobia bit him in the leg. Returning mad to his headquarters, he saw the dog Snifkin laughing and wagging his tail, and, frenzied by the sight, he drew his sword, and at once cut off the whole of that pleasant appendage. Immediately the dog Snifkin became the most beautiful young prince you ever saw. Seizing an enchanted blade that hung up in the tent of the goblin, he defended himself with fury, and by an artful stroke put the unlucky Gigag out of his pains. When it became known throughout both camps that King Gigag had cut off the tail of the dog Snifkin, a reconciliation grew apace between those dogs who had tails and those dogs who had none; and, indeed, the royal hounds especially were anxious to have their tails cut off, so that they might turn at once into princes; but, unfortunately, this result never happened, two of these dogs at least having been curtailed, to their great shame and mortification, without so much as becoming scullions, or anything but unlucky dogs. It was then seen by the Odomites that the dog Snifkin was none other than their long-lost Prince Gudood, who would have been devoured by the giant Googloom, had not the goblins got hold of him and changed him into a dog; in which character he served the excellent goblin Gigag, who, however, was not made aware of his identity by the evil goblins from whom he had escaped. By means of a birthmark on his right arm the allied lords were speedily brought to understand that this, indeed, was the long-lost prince who had been affianced to the daughter of the neighboring king. And now with one heart and soul they hastened the marriage of the prince and princess, who ever afterwards lived happily in the joy and glory and union of both kingdoms. In the magnificent bridal procession nothing was more astonishing than the thousand trained dogs of all kinds, large and small, who marched in order, clad sometimes in variegated suits, and wearing rich collars. First came the royal hounds and mastiffs; second, a fine breed of mountaineer dogs as large as wolves; third, two or three hundred pointers, spotted all colors; fourth, as many setters, their backs streaked with colors like gold and snow; fifth, a battalion of mixed red, white, and blue dogs; sixth, a body of sky-terriers, followed by the finest array of black-and-tan dogs that was ever known; sixth, a large number of dogs who looked like nothing so much as walking hearth-rugs; seventh, a noble lot of shaggy water-dogs as large as men; then a great many shepherd-dogs, spaniels, poodles, pups; after these a battalion of dogs shaved to look like lions; and finally a rear-guard of bull-dogs with their tails cut off, walking as steadily as firemen on parade. A loud and harmonious barking at intervals interrupted the sound of the wedding bells, and five hundred terrier dogs at least [pg 717] stood up on their hind legs when the marriage ceremony was performed.

Thus the reign of humanity and utility succeeded to the reign of science and pelf. Only dogs were allowed to do the fighting, and they were treated so well that they did nothing worse than bark. The following conversation was one time overhead among them in a street near the king's palace:

Royal Mastiff.—Bowoghowow! Bowgh!

Hound without tail.—Boowoogh! Boohoo! Wowoo!

Terrier dog.—Gr-r-r-r-row, r-row!

Bull-dog.—Hr-r-r-um-g-r-r-u-m. Bowowgh!

From these syllables it was conjectured by the knowing that the new King Gudood had no enemies, and that peace abode in the land.