Entire, I circle Kitty's wristsOr deck small Percy's breast,Or Annie's night-robe, or beneathMamma's soft cheek am prest.
Beheadme, and I wander free,In wood or meadow fair,Leap down the rock on mosses soft,Tall ferns, and maiden-hair;Or linger in the sedgy deep,And baby-lilies rock to sleep.
Beheadagain, and to your door,If I presume to come,I warn you, bid the porter say,"TohimI'm not at home.Heaven save me from the visitationsOf all that sort of poor relations!"
Frill-rill-ill.
In the wars of the great Napoleon, thousands of French soldiers were raised by conscription,—that is, taken by lot from the working classes.
These conscripts, though they generally made good soldiers, often went with great unwillingness and even sorrow from their humble homes and their loved ones, to endure the hardships of weary campaigns, to risk life and limb in desperate battles, for they scarcely knew what, with people against whom they had no ill-will.
On a cloudy morning in early May, a company of conscripts were marched away from a pleasant little hamlet in the South of France. For some distance on their way they were followed by loving friends, some weeping and some bravely striving to cheer them up.
At last these fell off, and the conscripts pursued their march in melancholy silence. On the brow of a hill, their road passed the gates of an old chateau, the seat of the ancient lords of the manor, the Counts De Lorme. The present Count, an old man, had lately been permitted to return from exile in England, to his half-ruined estate; but, in acknowledgment for this act of clemency, he had felt obliged to offer to the service of the Emperor his only son, who was now a captain in the grand army.
Just outside the gates, on this morning, stood Count De Lorme, evidently awaiting the conscripts. He addressed a few words to the sergeant, who brought his men to a halt, and called forward one Jean Moreau, a tall, sturdy young man, with a frank, honest face, now sadly overcast.
"Well, Jean," said the old nobleman, kindly shaking the conscript's hand, "you must go, it seems, this time. I am sorry we could not buy you off again; but you are built of too tempting soldier-stuff to remain a peaceful village blacksmith."
"Yes,Monsieur le Comte," said the sergeant, "it is n't often we find such stalwart fellows nowadays. The villagers all speak well of him, and seem to begrudge him even to the Emperor."
"Yes," replied the Count; "Jean is a good boy. I know him well; he was the foster-brother of my son. Here, Jean, is a letter to the Captain. You may meet him somewhere. You may possibly serve in the same regiment. If so, I commend him to you. He is not so strong as you are, and he is brave to rashness. Watch over him, I pray you."
"Ah,Monsieur le Comte, believe me, I would gladly give my life for dear Captain Henri."
"Idobelieve you, Jean. Adieu!"
"Adieu!"
Jean Moreau, the handsome young blacksmith, left in his native hamlet a widowed mother, a good, sensible woman, formerly nurse at the chateau, but who, since the Revolution, had adopted the calling of ablanchisseuse, or laundress. "Mother Moreau," as everybody called her, had another son than Jean, fortunately too young to be drafted as a conscript. Years before, this good woman had taken home a poor little orphan girl, who had grown up to be as a daughter to her, and more than a sister to Jean. Marie Lenoir, the pretty youngblanchisseuse, was in truth his betrothed wife. The little bouquet of May rosebuds and forget-me-nots in his button-hole was her parting gift. As on the hill by the chateau he turned for his last look at the dear little hamlet, nestled in the pleasant valley, he was not ashamed to press those flowers to his lips,—not ashamed of the tears that fell on them. He was too manly to fear being thought unmanly.
Months went by,—months of sad anxiety to Mother Moreau and Marie Lenoir, for they heard very unfrequently from Jean, and knew that he was always in danger. He did not take kindly to a soldier's life, but he tried faithfully to do his duty, so could not be altogether unhappy. After he had once seen the great Emperor, he felt the enthusiasm which that wonderful man always inspired, and longed to do something grand to merit his praise. Then, by a strange and happy chance, he found himself in the same regiment with his beloved foster-brother, Captain De Lorme.
At length there rang over France the news of the great battle of Austerlitz, where the Emperor commanded in person, and defeated his foes with fearful slaughter. After a time of painful suspense, the Count De Lorme had word that his son had been badly wounded, and set out at once for the hospital in which the young officer had been left. But many weeks went by, and no tidings, good or evil, came to the friends of the conscript. Mother Moreau, who was a brave woman, inured to trouble, kept up a hopeful heart; but Marie Lenoir rapidly lost the roses from her cheeks and the spring from her step, while the laughing light of her soft brown eyes gave place to a look of sadness and fear.
But where was Jean? Not dead, as his friends feared. Not buried forever out of their loving sight, in the soldier's crowded and bloody grave. He was lying at the same hospital which had received his foster-brother, very ill from several severe wounds; and when at last he rose from his bed, and staggered out into the court, one sleeve of his military coat hung limp and empty at his side. If Jean Moreau had not given his life for Captain Henri, he had laid down in his service what was almost as dear,—his good right arm. This was the story of it. In a part of the field where the battle raged most fiercely, Captain De Lorme's company, in which Jean was then enrolled, was engaged. At one time they were right under the eye of the Emperor, and fought with renewed ardor and courage.
The enemy was in great force here, and desperate charges were made on both sides. Seeing the standard-bearer of his regiment fall, and the banner in the hands of the enemy, Captain De Lorme dashed forward to recover it. This he did, and was gallantly fighting his way back to the French ranks, when he fell, pierced in the breast by a ball, and bleeding from more than one bayonet-thrust. In an instant there stood over him the tall, powerful form of the young blacksmith. Flinging down his musket, and seizing the sword which the wounded officer had dropped, he kept off all assailants, or cut them down with terrible strokes of that keen and bloody weapon, flashing about him, here, there, on every side, like red lightning. Lifting the fainting young noble, together with the standard, and bearing them on his left arm, Jean actually fought his way out of the enemy's ranks, step by step, defending both his precious charges. He received several wounds, but none that disabled him, till a musket-ball went crashing through the bones of his right arm, and it dropped helpless at his side. When at last he fell, and closed his brave eyes in a long, deep swoon, which he believed the sleep of death, he was at the foot of a little eminence on which Napoleon sat on his war-horse, surveying the terrible scene of carnage,—the surging sea of battle that raged around him. Jean wondered if the smoke of the cannon veiled from his calm eyes the agony of dying men, and if their groans came to his ears between the volleys of musketry, in the pauses of stormy battle music.
As soon as Jean was able to leave his ward, he was permitted to visit his captain, who, however, was still very low from a fever induced by his wounds. For the most time he was unconscious or delirious, and recognized no one. The old Count was with him, but evidently knew not who had saved the life that flickered faintly in the breast of his son, and Jean was not the man to inform him.
About a fortnight later, near the close of a weary day, two discharged and maimed soldiers approached the secluded hamlet of De Lorme. The elder was crippled by a shot in the knee, the younger had lost an arm,—his right arm. He was pale and thin from illness, and on one cheek was a bright red seam, from a deep sabre-cut. So Jean, the handsome young conscript, came home.
He had borne his misfortune very cheerfully at first, but now at every step he grew gloomy and lost courage. To his comrade, Jaques Paval, he frankly confided his trouble.
It was a fear that, maimed and disfigured as he was, his Marie would no longer be willing to accept him for her husband. This fear grew so strong on him, that, when they came in sight of the dear old cottage, he paused in an olive-grove, and sent his friend forward to prepare his betrothed and his mother for the sad change they must see in him.
He paused in an olive-grove.He paused in an olive-grove.
He paused in an olive-grove.He paused in an olive-grove.
Jaques found Marie leaning over the gate, looking down the street. She was always looking out for returned soldiers now. She seemed disappointed that Jaques was not Jean, but greeted him kindly, and soon drew from him all he had to tell of her doubting lover. Calling Mother Moreau, and Jean's young brother, she ran before them down the street, and soon cheered the sinking heart under the olive-trees with a glad embrace and a welcome home. Then came the young brother, laughing loud to keep from crying, and affecting not to see that dangling coat-sleeve, or to miss the grasp of the lost right hand. Then the mother, thanking God, as she fell on the breast of her son, putting the hair from his scarred forehead and blessing him. Pretty Marie had shrunk a little from that ugly red mark on his cheek, but the mother kissed that very spot most tenderly, with murmurs of pitying love.
The next day, Jean generously offered to free Marie from her engagement; but she would not be freed, reproaching him with tears for thinking so poorly of her as to suppose she would forsake him when he needed her most.
"But, Marie," he said, "we shall be so poor. My pension will be small, and I can do little with only a left arm."
"But, Jean, I am young and strong, and—"
"God and the saints will help us," interposed Mother Moreau.
Jean and Marie responded by silently crossing themselves; and the marriage was fixed for the first Sunday of the next month.
On the evening before the wedding the Count De Lorme, who had lately returned to the chateau, sent word to Mother Moreau, that, with the permission of the wedding-party, he would be present at the church, to give away the bride.
With that perfect punctuality which is a part of true politeness, he came at the exact time appointed; and, leaning on his arm, there came a slight, pale young officer, Captain Henri, now Colonel De Lorme. With respectful eagerness Jean stepped forward to greet him, and, in his joy and faithful devotion, would have kissed the hand held forth, but that De Lorme, with a sudden impulse of affection, extended his arms, and the brothers in heart embraced. This is a custom in France with men, but only when they are equal in rank. At this moment the young noble caught sight of that mournful empty sleeve. A look of pain crossed his face; he gently lifted the sleeve and pressed it to his lips.
"Jean," he said at last, in a soft, unsteady voice, "I bring you good news! The Emperor himself witnessed your gallant conduct in rescuing me and our colors, and if you had not been disabled, you would have been promoted. As it is, you will receive the pension of a lieutenant. And, Jean, I give you joy,mon frère(my brother),hesends youthis, the highest reward of a brave soldier of France, the best wedding present for a hero."
With these words the young Colonel placed on the breast of the poor conscript a shining ornament,—the grand cross of the Legion of Honor!
So the wedding of Jean and Marie was a merry one after all. The good old Count not only gave away the bride, but gave with her a nice littledot, or portion. All the villagers who were rich enough gave them presents, and the poor gave blessings, which doubtless turned into good things in time.
Marie Moreau proved such an energetic, devoted wife, that Jean felt that he had more than got his right arm back again; yet he was no idler, for he found that with practice he could do many things with his left arm, and at length adopted the business of a vine-grower.
As he grew older, his beard grew heavier, so that in a few years little Henri, his son, had to part, with his chubby fingers, the thick, crisp hair, to get at that sabre-scar, when he wanted to hear the story of the hard fight for the young captain and the banner, and of the great Emperor on the hill overlooking everything with his keen, gray, unflinching eyes.
Myfirstis often caught in church,Is dear to dog and cat,Oft shuns the couch of kings, to blessThe slave upon his mat;And like the "willow," in the song,Is "all around my hat."
Mysecondan exclamation is,A single, simple sound,That tells of fear, surprise, or joy,For friends, or treasures found;And sometimes holds a world of woeWithin its little round.
Mythird'sa lordly name, a landFor which the GenoeseWent forth upon his god-like quest,And ploughed through unknown seas,And gave to Europe old a worldOf golden mysteries.
Mywhole, a mighty conqueror,Filled earth with his renown;His life-bark rode on Fortune's flood;Till the heavens began to frown,And it struck upon a rock at last,In storm and night went down.
Nap-o-leon
A scene very similar to those we so often witnessed during the sad days of our war, occurred one sweet June morning, about sixty years ago, in a quaint little village in Switzerland, on the borders of France. A company of recruits were about departing to join a regiment in a neighboring town, from whence they were to march to Italy, where Napoleon, then First Consul, was conducting one of his great campaigns. Around these recruits, all of them young, gathered their friends and relatives, with tears and embraces and touching words of farewell.
About a young drummer-boy, named Leopold Koerner, gathered a little group on whose grief few could look without tears. First, around the lad's neck clung his pretty blue-eyed sister, Madeline; then his younger brother Heinrich, ever till this day a merry, light-hearted little fellow. Then came their sturdy old grandmother, trying to put a brave face on the matter, and winking vigorously to keep back the tears. Leopold's father had been killed in the great French Revolution,—his widow had died soon after, "of a decline," it was said; but doubtless sorrow helped her on toward the great, sweet rest. The children were left to the sole care of their grandmother. She was poor and old, but she had a stout, faithful heart,—she was devout and determined, and battled with want and poverty like a true soldier of the Lord. She kept the children together, and brought them up "in the way they should go."
It was for the sake of relieving this noble old friend of some of her heavy care, more than from any love of a soldier's life, that Leopold, at the age of fourteen, enlisted as a drummer.
At parting with her darling, the good woman said little, but to charge him to remember his father's honesty and bravery, his mother's goodness, and the love of the true hearts left behind him. "Make all thy noise with thy drum, lad; neither boast nor swear, and remember, the better man the better soldier."
"Keep up good heart, brother," said Heinrich, with a quivering lip, "thou wilt come back to us some day, safe and sound, a grand officer,—the General of all the drummers."
"Adieu, dear Leopold," sobbed Madeline; "O, what can I do without thee? I pray the holy saints and angels to turn the bullets away from thee. Take with thee our mother's prayer-book. TheForget-me-notspressed in it are from her grave. I shall cry my prayers now; but they will all be for thee. Adieu! adieu!"
Just then came the command, "Forward, march!" Leopold hastily thrust his sister's gift into his bosom, kissed her for the last time, and with a sad wave of the hand to his old friends, moved on in his place, sturdily beating his drum, a tear-drop falling at every stroke.
Leopold first saw real hard fighting in Italy, at the great battle of Marengo. In the early part of the engagement, as his regiment was marching past a little hill, on which were a group of mounted officers, Leopold's boyish eye was caught by the figure of a tall, handsome young general, mounted on a magnificent white horse. He was very singularly and splendidly dressed, in a rich Eastern-looking uniform, of scarlet, azure, and gold. At his side hung a diamond-hilted sword, suspended by a girdle of gold brocade. On his head he wore a three-cornered chapeau, from which rose a long, white ostrich plume, and a superb heron feather. The band that held these was clasped with brilliants of great value.
"Ah, there is the great General Bonaparte!" cried Leopold, to a comrade. "I knew him at a glance."
"Which, my lad?"
"Why, that splendid officer, talking to the pale little man, in a gray surtout and leather breeches."
"Ah, no, my little comrade," replied the other drummer, laughing, "that is Murat, General of Cavalry,—the little man in the gray surtout is General Bonaparte. However, you need not blush for your hero; he is a wonderful fellow at the head of a charge. Wherever his white plume goes, victory follows. You should see Bonaparte watch it, gleaming above the fight, as the French cavalry goes thundering up against Austrian bayonets or batteries. They say the mad general sometimes shouts to the Austrian dragoons, 'Ho! who of you wants Murat's jewels? Let him come and take them!' And they come one after another, to go down under his sword, which falls upon them swift and sure as the lightning. Ah! he is a terrible fellow."
Leopold found a battle to be something yet more awful than he had imagined. The roar of artillery, the rattle of musketry, the clang of swords and bayonets, the stormy gallop of cavalry, the groans and shrieks of wounded and dying men, appalled his very soul. But though his cheeks grew deathly white, and his eyes large and wild, he had not one cowardly impulse to fly from his duty. Again and again, he gave the quick drum-beat for the advance.
In the height of the battle, Murat dashed forward in one of his overpowering cavalry charges. Leopold, in the midst of the horrors of the fight, gazed with wonder and admiration at the plumed and jewelled officer, on his magnificent white horse, with its trappings of gold and azure. It was like a beautiful vision in that awful place, and a wild huzza broke from the boy's lips. Just then a cannon-ball rushed before him, like a small whirlwind, and carried away his drum, in a thousand fragments. He saw the same ball pass harmlessly between the legs of the white horse of Murat, who was then engaged in a hand-to-hand combat with a tall Austrian dragoon. Relieved from duty, the boy stood watching the fiery general, forgetful of danger, scarcely hearing the horrible singing of the bullets through the air. He saw the tall dragoon go down, and another dash forward to fill his place. While General Murat was dealing with him, Leopold saw an Austrian officer spur forward, and wheel sharply a powerful black horse, with the intent to attack the rash French hero from behind. While his followers were engaging those of Murat, he plunged forward, with his gleaming sword lifted high in air. Leopold never know how he did it, but he broke frantically through the ranks of infantry, in among the furious, trampling cavalry, at the last moment, seized the Austrian's black horse by the bit, and throwing his whole weight upon it, brought him to his knees. As he did so, he screamed at the top of his voice, "This way, General Murat!" The consequence was, that the sword that would have struck down his general, fell on his own presumptuous arm, nearly severing it from his shoulder. But on the instant, the white-plumed hero wheeled, with his avenging sword uplifted, and the next thing the drummer-boy saw, as he lay bleeding on the ground, was a great black horse dashing riderless away.
General Murat saw at once the great service Leopold had done him, and all that the daring act had cost the poor lad. He paused there, and stood guard over the boy, till he had seen him carefully removed to the rear. Then with his sword in one hand, a pistol in the other, and the bridle in his teeth, he dashed forward again in a last wild, tremendous charge, which carried the day for the French.
The next morning, Leopold found himself an inmate of the crowded hospital, surrounded with the wounded and the maimed, the fevered and the dying. But he was especially well cared for, at the command of General Murat, to whose interest perhaps it was owing that his arm was saved, as at first the surgeons were for taking it off, and so making an end of a troublesome job. But with skilful treatment, aided by the lad's youth, good habits, and patience, the great wound healed at last.
One day, while Leopold yet lay on his cot, forbidden to stir, and feeling very lonely and homesick, the dreary hospital was illuminated by the entrance of General Murat, accompanied by his beautiful young wife, who was a sister of General Bonaparte. After bowing graciously to the other patients, they came to the little drummer-boy. The General inquired kindly after his wound, and Madame Murat thanked him in the sweetest manner for saving the life of her husband.
"Glory gives you a rough hand-shake at first, eh, my lad? But, never mind; it is a brusque way she has," said the General, smiling.
"I am thankful that she did not shake my hand off altogether, my General," replied Leopold. "I fear as it is, 't will be long ere I can hope to help drum the way to another victory."
"Ah, well, my child, when you get strong enough to handle the drum-sticks, we may find better work for you. We shall see. Adieu!"
"Adieu, my General! Adieu, Madame!"
Well, when Leopold applied for his old position in his regiment, he was informed by his Colonel that he was to be sent to the Polytechnic, a military school in Paris, to be educated for a cavalry officer, under the patronage of General Murat. This was a great up-lift in life for a poor peasant-boy; but he received the news with modest gratitude and joy, unmingled with the faintest trace of pride or conceit.
He obtained leave to visit his home on his way to Paris, and never forgot that humble home or its inmates, as he got on in his profession. He proved to be a good student, and grew up into a fine, soldier-like, honorable man.
General Murat and his wife continued to befriend him, even after they became king and queen of Naples.
In the battles of the Empire, the young lieutenant of cavalry so distinguished himself that he rose to a high rank. So one day, before his brown hair was turned gray, and before his good grandmother's white head had been hidden in the grave, Leopold Koerner entered his native village a General,—though not as his brother Heinrich had prophesied, "the General of all the drummers."
This was not his first visit home after leaving the Polytechnic. Once he had returned to purchase, with his well-saved pay, a small property for his brother, who had chosen the peaceful calling of a miller; and once again, to give away in marriage his sweet sister Madeline, who became the wife of the village Notary.
At this time Leopold offered to return to the bride her mother's prayer-book, which he had always worn, he said, over his heart, on weary marches, and into battle.
"No, my brother," said Madeline, "I will not take it. Wear it still, to remind thee of our mother and of Heaven. Prayer is a soldier's best breastplate."
Entire, at an army's head I stand,Marches and sieges I command,The foremost fighter of the time:Behead me, on the mimic stageI pass for fine, poetic rage,Passion and agony sublime.
Behead again, complete the fall,From a mighty Major-GeneralTo an insect most exceedingly small.'T is marvellous, yet we have seenSuch magic changes before, I ween.
Grant-rant-ant.
"Come in!" shouted together the host and hostess of a little German wayside inn, near the banks of the Rhine, and not far below the city of Basle, and the borders of Switzerland. It was Christmas-eve, and a tempestuous night. The wind was raving round the little inn, and tearing away at windows and doors, as though mad to get at the brave little light within, and extinguish it without mercy. The snow was falling fast, drifting and driving, obstructing the highway, blinding the eyes of man and beast.
The "come in" of the host and hostess was in answer to a loud, hurried rap at the door, by which there immediately entered two travellers. One, by his military dress, seemed a soldier, and the other appeared to be his servant. This was the case. General Wallenstein was on his way from Carlsruhe, to his home in Basle. He had been delayed several hours by an accident to his post-carriage and by the storm, and now found himself obliged to stop for the night at this lonely and comfortless little inn.
When the officer threw aside his plumed hat and military cloak of rich fur, and strode up to the fire, with his epaulettes flashing in the light, and his sword knocking against his heels, cling, clang, the gruff host was greatly impressed with his importance, and willingly went out to assist the postilion in the care of the horses. As for the old hostess, she bustled about with wonderful activity to prepare supper for the great man.
"Ho, Carl!" she cried, "thou young Rhine-sprite, thou water-imp, run to the wood for another bundle of fagots! Away, haste thee, or I 'll give thee back to thy elfin kinsfolk, who are ever howling for thee!"
At these strange, sharp words, a wild-looking little boy started up from a dusky corner of the room, where he had been lying with his head pillowed on a great tawny Swiss dog, and darted out of the door. He was coarsely dressed and bare-footed; yet there was something uncommon about him,—something grand, yet familiar in his look, which struck the traveller strangely.
"Is that your child?" he asked.
"No indeed," said the old dame; "I am a poor woman, and have seen trouble in my time, but, blessed be the saints! I 'm not the mother of water-imps."
"Why do you call the boy a water-imp?"
"I call him so, your excellency," said the woman, sinking her shrill voice into an awe-struck tone, "because he came from the water, and belongs to the water. He floated down the Rhine in the great flood, four years ago come spring, a mere baby, that could barely tell his name, perched on the roof of a little chalet, in the night, amid thunder, lightning, and rain! Now, it is plain that no human child could have lived through that. My good man spied him in the morning early, and took him off in his boat. I took him in for pity; but I have always been afraid of him, and every flood-time I think the Rhine is coming for his own again."
The traveller seemed deeply interested, and well he might be; for in the very flood of which the superstitious old dame spoke his only child, an infant boy, had been lost, with his nurse, whose cottage on the river-bank below Basle had been swept away by night.
"Was the child quite alone on the roof of the chalet?" he asked in an agitated tone.
"Yes," said the hostess, "all but an old dog, who seemed to belong to him."
"That dog must have dragged him up on to the roof, and saved him!" exclaimed the general; "is he yet alive?"
"Yes, just alive. He must be very old, for he is almost stone blind and deaf. My good man would have put him out of the way long ago, but for Carl; and as he shares his meals, and makes his bed with him, I suppose it is no loss to keep the brute."
"Show me the dog!" said the officer, with authority.
"Here he lies, your excellency," said the dame. "We call himElfen-hund" (elf-dog).
General Wallenstein bent over the dog, touched him gently, and shouted in his ear his old name of "Leon." The dog had not forgotten it; he knew that voice, the touch of that hand. With a plaintive, joyful cry, he sprang up to the breast of his old master, nestled about blindly for his hands, and licked them unreproved; then sunk down, as though faint with joy, to his master's feet. The brave soldier was overcome with emotion; tears fell fast from his eyes. "Faithful creature," he exclaimed, "you have saved my child, and given him back to me." And kneeling down, he laid his hand on the head of the poor old dog and blessed him.
Just at this moment the door opened and little Carl appeared, toiling up the steps with his arms full of fagots, his cheerful face smiling brave defiance to winter winds, and night and snow.
"Come hither, Carl," said the soldier. The boy flung down his fagots and drew near.
"Dost thou know who I am?"
"Ah no,—the good Christmas King, perhaps," said the little lad, looking full of innocent wonderment.
"Alas, poor child, how shouldst thou remember me!" exclaimed General Wallenstein, sadly. Then clasping him in his arms, he said, "But I remember thee; thou art my boy, my dear, long-lost boy! Look in my face; embrace me; I am thy father!"
"No, surely," said the child, sorely bewildered, "that cannot be, for they tell me the Rhine is my father."
The soldier smiled through his tears, and soon was able to convince his little son that he had a better father than the old river that had carried him away from his tender parents. He told him of a loving mother who yet sorrowed for him, and of a little blue-eyed sister, who would rejoice when he came. Carl listened, and wondered, and laughed, and when he comprehended it all, slid from his father's arms and ran to embrace old Leon.
The next morning early General Wallenstein, after having generously rewarded the innkeeper and his wife for having given a home, though a poor one, to his little son, departed for Basle. In his arms he carried Carl, carefully wrapped in his warm fur cloak, and if sometimes the little bare feet of the child were thrust out from their covering, it was only to bury themselves in the shaggy coat of old Leon, who lay snugly curled up in the bottom of the carriage.
I will not attempt to tell you of the deep joy of Carl's mother, nor of the wild delight of his little sister, for I think such things are quite beyond any one's telling; but altogether it was to the Wallensteins a Christmas-time to thank God for, and they did thank him.
Myfirstthe softest, loveliest graceNature to beauty gives;While love and truth and modestyStay in the heart, it lives.
Mysecondis so like my first,My first its shadow seems;It sweetens all the sunny day,All night in fragrance dreams.
Mywhole, sweet one, I love to trace,Soft glowing in that tell-tale face,When Arthur whispers in your earThose "nothings" I must never hear:Ah! then it comes, all warm and clear,Your answering blush, Rose, my dear.
Blush-rose.
In a little mountain town not far from the beautiful lake of Como, in the North of Italy, in the early part of the last war between the Austrians and the Italians, a poor peasant-woman lay dying. Beside her bed stood a fine, sturdy-looking lad, some fourteen years of age, listening reverently to the last words of his mother. On the bed, with her face hidden against that dear mother's breast, lay a little girl of six or seven, trying to keep down her sobs, and to take into her half-broken little heart the fond farewells, the tender and solemn advice of the beloved one who was going home to God.
The dying mother grieved to leave her poor children alone in the world, for they were fatherless, and had no near relatives; but she believed that the same Heavenly Father who was calling her from them would care for them and bring them home to her at last. To the tender love of that Father, and to the protection of the holy saints, she commended them, kissed them and blessed them, and went softly to sleep, to awake in Heaven.
After the burial of their mother, Giuseppe and Lucia found themselves nearly penniless. They had no friends except among the poor, so they must help themselves, or suffer extreme poverty. The boy possessed a great deal of musical talent, and played well upon several instruments. He resolved that somehow he would make this talent serve for the support of himself and his little sister. He could have enlisted as a drummer, but he regarded the Austrians, who then held that part of Italy, as the cruel oppressors of his country. He had an especial horror of them, from the fact that his father had been shot several years before, for joining an unsuccessful rising against them in Milan.
At last, Giuseppe Benedetti fixed upon a calling. With the small sum of money which a sale of the cottage furniture brought he purchased a set of puppets, ormarionettes,—quaint little figures, that would dance very nimbly if not gracefully to the notes of the pipes, which he played like a master. This is a rather rude, but quite an inspiring musical instrument, belonging mostly to the mountain regions of Italy. Those who play it are calledpifferari, or pipers.
When all was ready, Giuseppe and Lucia took an affectionate leave of their kind neighbors, and set bravely out on their travels, to seek their fortune. They tramped from town to town, sometimes getting very weary and discouraged, but often having very pleasant times together, and never suffering from actual want. One day they found themselves within a few hours' walk of Mancini, the little village in which their mother had died, and concluded to revisit it. At noon, they stopped to rest in an olive-grove by the wayside. After eating their simple dinner of brown bread and fresh figs, and drinking from a cool spring near by, Lucia, who never tired of the wonderful performances of the marionettes, asked her brother to play for them, and sat watching the dancing of the miniature men and women with true childish delight.
In the midst of their enjoyment, they were startled by the tramp of horses and men coming up the road. Giuseppe ran forwards, and looked down on a band of some two hundred Italian soldiers, led by a noble-looking man, mounted on a fiery white horse; but wearing, instead of a showy uniform, a red-flannel shirt, gray trousers, and a slouched felt hat. As this officer saw Giuseppe standing on the high bank, with little Lucia behind him, peering timidly between his legs, he reined up horse, and asked in a voice sweet and sad, yet grand and commanding, if there was a spring of water near by. Giuseppe replied by offering to show him the one he had found, and soon conducted him and his men to a little green nook, where the water gushed up sweet and fresh. The lad noticed that the noble-looking leader waited till all his soldiers had quenched their thirst before he drank.
When he was ready to resume the march, he thanked the peasant-boy, and kindly asked his name.
"Giuseppe Benedetti."
"Ah,Giuseppe! that is my name also," said the officer.
"Yes, General, GiuseppeGaribaldi," said the lad, smiling.
The General started, and asked how he knew him.
"My father served under you at the siege of Rome, and he had a picture of you."
"Ah, your father, I remember him; where is he now?"
"He was shot at Milan, General."
The noble face of Garibaldi grew stern, but softened again as he looked pityingly on the orphans. After giving them a little money—he was himself too poor to give them much—he turned away and began consulting with one of his officers in regard to their march. Giuseppe understood that their plan was to go on to Mancini, where they expected to raise some more men, and to camp for the night near the village. After a few energetic words away he dashed, followed by his brave, devoted band.
When they were gone, Giuseppe and Lucia lay down on the soft turf, and talked of all they had seen and heard, till, overcome by the heat and lulled by the murmur of the brook, they fell asleep. They slept till late in the afternoon, when they were awakened by the tramp of soldiers again coming up the road.
"Here comes more of our brave Italians," exclaimed Lucia.
"No, these are Austrians," said Giuseppe, looking down upon them from the olive-grove. "I know them by their hateful colors, black and yellow. I 'm afraid they are after Garibaldi. If they overtake him they will cut his little band to pieces, for here is a whole regiment of the bloodthirsty tyrants."
Just then an Austrian officer caught sight of the lad, and leaped his horse up the bank, followed by a file of soldiers. "Tell me, my boy," he said, with a terrible scowl, "have you seen anything of Garibaldi and his men?"
Giuseppe stood quite still, but replied not a word. The officer drew his sword and threatened him with instant death, yet still he would not speak. But poor Lucia could not see her brother murdered; she flung herself between him and the officer, crying out, "Yes, wedidsee him; but please don't hurt him, or any of his brave soldiers."
Giuseppe and LuciaGiuseppe and Lucia
Giuseppe and LuciaGiuseppe and Lucia
The Austrian laughed a cruel sort of a laugh, and asked, "Which way did they go?"
Poor Lucia could not say any more for sobbing, but pointed with her hand up the road,—never in her innocence thinking of misleading him. It was enough; in another moment he was leading on his men, with the hope of soon surprising and destroying the Italians.
When they were out of hearing, Giuseppe flung himself on the ground, crying bitterly. "Ah, little Lucia," he said, "how could you betray our General, the hope of Italy? Why did you not let the Austrian kill me?"
"O brother, brother," replied the child, weeping, "howcouldI let him? I loveyoubetter even than Garibaldi; besides, he is such a great fighter, may be he will kill them all."
"No, no," groaned the poor lad, "they are too many for him, if they take him by surprise."
Suddenly he sprang up, his face looking all bright and eager, and said, "Little sister, now you have done our General so much mischief, are you brave enough to try to save him?"
"Why, what can such a little thing as I do?"
"I will tell you. You can stay here with the pipes and marionettes, while I run over the mountain by a little path,—a cross-cut I know,—and warn Garibaldi that the Austrians are after him. I will be back by midnight, I hope, but you must stay here till I come; there will be moonlight, and it will not be cold. Dare you stay alone?"
"Yes," answered Lucia, firmly, though turning quite pale; "the blessed Mother of our Lord will watch over me, and may be our mother will come with her. I think she 's a saint; I am sure she ought to be made one."
With a tender kiss on the lips of his heroic little sister, Giuseppe sprang away and soon disappeared over a ridge of the mountain. After some narrow escapes in pursuing his perilous path along precipices and over torrents, he reached Mancini in time not only to warn Garibaldi, but to allow him to march back through a deep ravine and intercept the Austrians. Taken by surprise, and in the dim evening light mistaking Garibaldi's dashing little band for a large force, they made little resistance, but such as were not killed in the first charge, fled or surrendered. After sending his prisoners to one of his secret mountain strongholds, Garibaldi despatched a trooper with Giuseppe to the olive-grove, whore Lucia had been left alone. They found her safe, quietly sleeping, with her sweet little face upturned in the soft moonlight. The trooper took her up before him, on his strong, black horse, and the three returned to Garibaldi's camp.
Giuseppe and his little sister remained with the brave mountain men for several weeks. The little girl became a great pet with the rough but kindly soldiers, and many a night she sat with them beside the camp-fire, sometimes on Garibaldi's knee, and sung sweet, wild songs, while Giuseppe played on his pipes, and the funny little marionettes danced right merrily.
But at last, General Garibaldi found for the good little girl a home with a kind lady, who promised to bring her up as her own child. That home was in a pretty villa, on the lovely shore of Lake Como. Giuseppe remained with Garibaldi, and became a soldier.
After the Austrians had been driven from Milan, he entered that city in the suite of his beloved general. One day, he went to the spot just outside the walls, where a few years before his poor father was shot. He picked a wild poppy, and put it in his bosom, thinking that it might be it had received its rich red color from the life-blood of that brave father. Then, as he looked over the beautiful city, and saw waving from every public building the banner of the gallant King of Sardinia, instead of the ugly flag of Austria, he thanked God for Victor Emanuel, Garibaldi, and liberty.