The Iliad Of Homer.

The monks, whose religious character gave them an extraordinary security, as they were the first restorers of agriculture, so they were the first improvers of our gardens. Their long pilgrimage from one holy shrine to another, through France, Germany, and Italy, made them early acquainted with a variety of culinary and medicinal herbs and various fruits, and amongst the ruins of abbeys we still find a tribe of plants that they have naturalized.

Lingard, writing of the consequences of the "Reformation," tells us that "within the realm poverty and discontent generally prevailed. The extension of inclosures, and the new practice of letting lands at rack-rents, had driven from their homes numerous families whose fathers had occupied the same farms for several generations, and the increasing multitudes of the poor began to resort to the more populous towns in search of that relief which had been formerly distributed at the gates of the monasteries. The reformation preachers of the day—Knox, Lever, Gilpin, Latimer—avow that the sufferings of the indigent were treated with indifference by the hard-heartedness of the rich; while, in the pursuit of gain, the most barefaced frauds were justified, robbers and murderers escaping punishment by the partiality of juries or corruptions of judges. They tell us that church-livings were given to laymen or converted to the use of the patrons," etc.

In dealing with that shamefulpauperism, the annual reports of which ring in the ears of the British government—"mene, mene, tekel, upharsin" which presaged the fall of Babylon—it behoves us to distinguish the victim poor and thefighting poor. The fighting poor exasperate the evils of poverty by ineffective insurrections against the organized government of the rich. Protesting against injustice and maladministration by strikes, which they cannot sustain, and which soon leave them at the mercy of the employers they have defied, they provoke the severity of the laws by disorderly conduct, by poaching, robbery, arson, etc., necessitating the maintenance of a numerous and rigorous police, and even of standing armies. These withdraw great numbers from productive industry, and double the expenses of government, which must, at last, be borne by the working classes, however indirect the methods of taxation. It is true that the aristocracy in command of armies could enrich England by the spoil of India, or Spain by that of Mexico and Peru; but these ill-gotten gains have cursed alike the robber and the robbed. No country has ever maintained a real prosperity except by home production and the contentment of its producing classes. Thefighting poor, not organized in armies under the discipline and pay of governments, but remaining an integral part of the people, are intimately leagued with thevictim poorby family ties, and even by the imminence of a common fate, since a wound, a fit of illness, a fraud, the prolonged lack of work, or other misfortune, may depress them into pauperism. This class of poor is the most dangerous element of a nation, and costs in waste and in precautions a great deal more than the sum expended in pauper relief. An administrative method which conciliates this class with the rich, with the established government and public order, is evidently master of the situation. This end has been achieved by the religious organization of labor.

What the Catholic Church once did for England, under military feudalism, she can do again, and more, because the present financial and industrial feudalism is pacific in its tendencies and susceptible of being harmonized with the interests of the church and of labor by co-operative association; whereas the former feudalism existed for war, was essentially opposed to the spirit of Christianity, to the honor of productive industry, and the prosperity of the people. Now, what is cure for Great Britain may be prevention for America, which undergoes, like England, the yoke of industrial feudalism. Allowing for the category of accidents, for relief needed by the infirm, etc., vastly the larger proportion of pauperism remains to be prevented by opportune employments, of which the soil serves as the basis. Let the religious orders reacquire everywhere, by all legitimate means, the control of large bodies of land, which they shall withhold from speculation, which they shall either administrate by leases or by direct culture, and on which they shall establish the arts of fabrication. Then they may subdue the world with its own weapons, commanding capital and labor, conciliating them in Christian action, and producing wealth without sacrificing the producer to the product. They would lease farms or hire workmen according to local and temporary expediency, but in either case they would constitute, as of old, a bulwark between the people and speculators, and they would reattach the masses by intimate household ties. This begins as of old with the voluntary assumption of social burdens, especially with the care of the sick and infirm. By organizing a high order of attractive social life at its rural institutions, where it is so much easier to find healthful work for either sex and every age, the church will counteract that destructive fascination which the city now exerts over the country-folk. In restoring and upholding an order of yeomanry, subject to its general administration of agriculture, but free in a scope of action sufficient to content them, within a predetermined plan, the Catholic Church would counterpoise the present league of the Church of England with its aristocracy, as its corporate philanthropies would counterpoise the corporate selfishness of simple business firms.

Pursuing the noble initiative which the Jesuit order took in the work of education, especially in Paraguay, it remains for the church to second the views of American legislation in the foundation of art and labor-schools, or agricultural and polytechnic institutes, for the support of which public lands were appropriated in 1842, although Minnesota alone has had the wisdom to protest against the malversation of this fund to the comparatively sterile work of our common schools.

It is not by any means an unreasonable assumption that, after a few years of experience and discipline for the teachers, art and labor-schools, embracing all the departments of rural and domestic economy with religious and social training, may be made self-supporting. From that day their popularity will be assured, and pauperism will be well-nigh eradicated, together with the vices and crimes which it engenders. The diploma of such an institution might confer either a lease of land or an appointment to some office of social use and profit. The administration of the schools and charities of the church would supply a great many such places.

We shall not ask whether it be not expedient and just to oblige every family, in so far as it may be competent, to provide for its own poor, because modern civilization has not the patriarchal basis, the family has no such collective unity or substantial existence among us, as formerly in Palestine, or still in the Arabdouar. At most can the family be held responsible for its minors, since its authority does not extend beyond this class; but we remark that the largest proportion of pauperism is due to the neglect of efficient education during the years of minority; so that with the actual population of the world, and even in the most thickly settled countries, there need be no such thing as pauperism, if the productive energies of the whole people received during childhood and youth a practical direction; while the diplomas of our labor and art-schools conferred valid titles to the use of the soil or other means of remunerative employment. If to organize such education for the children of poor families be regarded as beyond the province of our governments or secular powers, how much more extravagant must this seem for the children of the rich, who are, however, exposed every day to become poor, and whose wasteful idleness subtracts so much from the possible resources of mankind? Is it not self-evident that the influence of religious organizations has every advantage over secular authority in reforming education while rendering it universal? At once personal and corporate, they can take an initiative which is refused to governments or which governments decline. Now, as in the middle ages, in civilized as in savage or barbarous states, they can restore to labor its religious honor, they alone can successfully combat the idleness and vices of fashionable dissipation, they can substitute the arbitrament of Christian equity for that of fire and sword, and while pouring oil on our troubled waters, they can teach by example as well as by precept, those wholesome restraints which prevent the increase of a local population faster than the means of its subsistence.

If pauperism in this country is chiefly exotic, it is none the less real, and none the less afflictive or disastrous. If an obvious remedy exist in our vast tracts of unoccupied land, it is so much the more urgent to organize while directing the tide of emigration by the spirit of Christianity. By colonizing emigrants under the guidance of religious orders we obviate the twofold evils of their pauperism and their isolation.

Rendered Into English Blank VerseBy Edward, Earl Of Derby.

It is our custom, or that of our time, to decry classical education. We have a right to do so, no doubt, if our unfavorable judgment regarding it is based upon a correct and intelligent estimate of its value, as a method of training the youthful mind and of disciplining the intellect by the exercise of its nascent power upon works of model taste and unrivalled elegance. Submitting classical education to this test, we cannot glibly join in the outcry against it of those who see in it only a process for acquiring a knowledge of Greek and Latin words, of no earthly use to the possessor or to anybody else.Neither, on the other hand, would we, upon such test, accept it as the only canon of liberal education, to the exclusion of others that may serve the purpose of instruction with more practical advantage.

We would fain offer Earl Derby's translation of theIliadas an example, according to our notion, of the practical process to be followed in studying the classic authors in order to profit by their beauty, and of the gifts the mind receives from the cultivation of classic literature. Not a poet himself, the noble lord has imbibed into his own plastic mind the conceptions of the "sovereign poet" in all their poetic beauty and serene grandeur, and reproduces them for the English reader, shapely moulded, not distorted nor disfigured. We shall not enter into a comparison of his translation with that of Pope or Cowper, neither shall we discuss the fitness of the metre he has adopted. His own translation, if argument were wanted, would compel us to agree with him that he has selected that metre best suited for rendering the Homeric poem into English verse, and we give him our hearty accord in his condemnation of the English hexameter— a lumbering rhythm, not inaptly compared, by some author, to the noise of pumpkins rolling on a barn-floor. We shall merely show, by a few extracts, how he has succeeded in reproducing the conceptions of the poem, and how happily he has caught, without imparting any admixture of modern sentiment, the flowing style in which the poet pours forth, as it were, without drawing breath, his grand melodious strain. His translation is not a dead cast, but a copy, and a copy instinct with life. His task was not an easy one; and when we reflect upon his life and eminent station, we cannot help thinking that to ordinary men the difficulty would be much enhanced thereby. Still, it redounds the more to the honor of English scholarship and English statesmanship, that the foremost among its orators and statesmen, who, for more than a quarter of a century, has borne a large share of the weighty affairs of a vast empire; who by his talents has helped to solve the thousand vexed questions of modern politics and reform, could, during leisure, withdraw his mind from the absorbing interests of the political arena, and allow it to repose on the sublime naturalness of theIliad, and float in placid unison with the serene grandeur of Homer's song. Though the translation is truly Homeric, yet, wrought as it is with spirit and genius, it bears in it something of the mind it springs from. The reader will not fail to discover in the echo of theIliad, so faithfully reflected in its purity, natural freshness, and vigor, something of that splendid eloquence heard amid strife as angry and as fierce as raged between Agamemnon and Achilles.

In giving quotations, we shall omit those finer passages that are familiar to most readers, such as those well-known passages of the Third Book, with their beautiful similes, that describe the Greeks assembling and passing in review before their leaders. On these many a youthful and full-grown bard has tried his skill; but never have we seen them so beautifully rendered as in the translation before us. We select for our readers, first, that picture in the Fourth Book, in which all the raging elements of battle are thronged together—the maddening vengeance, the wrath, the fury of hostile ranks in the horror of collision—and which commences with the description of

"Discord unappeased, 504Of blood-stained Mars the sister and the friend;With humble crest at first, anon her head,While yet she treads the earth, affronts the skies.The gage of battle in the midst she threw,Strode through the crowd and woe to mortals wrought,When to their midst they came, together rushed 510Bucklers and lances, and the furious mightOf mail-clad warriors; bossy shield on shieldClattered in conflict; loud the clamor rose.Then rose two mingled shouts and groans of menSlaying and slain; the earth ran red with blood, 513As when descending from the mountain's brow,Two wintry torrents from their copious sourcePour downward to the narrow pass, where meetTheir mingled waters in some deep ravine,Their weight of flood; on the far mountain side 520The shepherd hears the roar; so loud aroseThe shouts and yells of those commingling hosts."

Nothing can give a better idea of the power of the translator than the manner in which he has compressed this passage, with its bewildering throng of elements, into the same number of lines as the original. We miss none of the simple grandeur, none of thedirectness, none of the even, rapid movement so characteristic of Homer. There is no importation of what belongs not to Homer into it, no amplification, no turning aside from the object, or indirectness in introducing and depicting every incident in the picture. It is Homer's strain; grand, rapid, and simple.

A few lines further on we have one of those beautiful images by which the poet has a fondness for describing the fall of his young heroes. Depicting the death of the stripling Simoisius, he sings:

"Prone in the dust he fell; 552As some tall poplar, grown in marshy mead,Smooth-stemmed, with boughs up-springing toward the head."

Again of young Gorgythion, in the Eighth Book:

"Down sank his head, as in a garden sinksA ripened poppy charged with vernal rains; 350So sank his head beneath his helmet's weight."

And of Asius, in the Thirteenth Book:

"He fell as falls an oak, or poplar tall,Or lofty pine."

These passages are placed together as containing some of the poet's favorite and beautiful images, and as showing how happy the translator has been in rendering them with truthfulness to their natural grace.

Earl Derby is not less successful in reproducing the deep tenderness and moving pathos that form a conspicuous feature of theIliad. We quote from the Sixth Book, from the affecting scene between Hector and Andromache; but, instead of Andromache's words, so well known through Pope's translation, we give the answer of the noble Hector, the hero of theIliad, in which, with soul-felt tenderness, he seeks to console his desponding wife: [Footnote 280]

[Footnote 280: To illustrate what we mean by the directness, simplicity, and even rapid movement of Homer's verse, we cite here from a popular English poet an extract which, though not a parallel to the above, is somewhat kindred; it is the first at hand, and will serve our purpose."Trust me, whatever fate my soul may gall,Thou at thy woman's choice shall ne'er repine.Trust me, whatever storm on me may fall,This man's true heart shall ward the bolt from thine.Hark, where the bird from yon dark ilex breathesSoul into night so be thy love to me;Look, when around the bird the ilex wreathesStill sheltering boughs, so be my love to thee!O dweller in my heart! the music thine;And the deep shelter—wilt thou scorn it? mine."It will be observed, in reading these exquisite lines, how complex is the web of thought; how the artist, as it were, lingers to work into it embroidery of words and images borrowed from foreign objects. In Homer there is nothing but the natural artless flow of feeling; the even movement, as it springs from the soul, is not crossed by shadow or image from any other object, nor does it diverge this way or that to borrow of other sources in metaphor or comparison, tone, color, or pathos. The movement in Homer is natural, direct, even, rapid; and yet this natural, simple, deep gush of feeling presents to us a most truthful, touching, and expressive picture of a soul overwhelmed with tender love and sorrow commingled, but facing the stern task of duty.]

"Trust me, whatever fate my soul may gall,Thou at thy woman's choice shall ne'er repine.Trust me, whatever storm on me may fall,This man's true heart shall ward the bolt from thine.Hark, where the bird from yon dark ilex breathesSoul into night so be thy love to me;Look, when around the bird the ilex wreathesStill sheltering boughs, so be my love to thee!O dweller in my heart! the music thine;And the deep shelter—wilt thou scorn it? mine."

It will be observed, in reading these exquisite lines, how complex is the web of thought; how the artist, as it were, lingers to work into it embroidery of words and images borrowed from foreign objects. In Homer there is nothing but the natural artless flow of feeling; the even movement, as it springs from the soul, is not crossed by shadow or image from any other object, nor does it diverge this way or that to borrow of other sources in metaphor or comparison, tone, color, or pathos. The movement in Homer is natural, direct, even, rapid; and yet this natural, simple, deep gush of feeling presents to us a most truthful, touching, and expressive picture of a soul overwhelmed with tender love and sorrow commingled, but facing the stern task of duty.]

"Think not, dear wife, that by such thoughts as these 512My heart has ne'er been wrung; but I should blushTo face the men and long-robed dames of Troy,If, like a coward, I could shun the fight.Nor could my soul the lessons of my youthSo far forget, whose boast it still has beenIn the forefront of battle to be found,Charged with my father's glory and mine own.Yet in my inmost soul too well I know 520The day must come when this our sacred Troy,And Priam's race, and Priam's royal self,Shall in one common ruin be o'erthrown.But not the thoughts of Troy's impending fate,Nor Hecuba's, nor royal Priam's woes, 525Nor loss of brethren, numerous and brave,By hostile hands laid prostrate in the dust,So deeply wring my heart as thoughts of thee,Thy days of freedom lost, and led awayA weeping captive by some brass-clad Greek. 530Haply in Argos, at a mistress' beck,Condemned to ply the loom, or water drawFrom Hypereia's or Messais' fount.Heart wrung, by stern necessity constrained,Then they who see thy tears perchance may say, 535'Lo! this was Hector's wife, who, when they foughtOn plains of Troy, was Ilium's bravest chief!'Thus may they speak, and thus thy grief renewFor loss of him who might have been thy shieldTo rescue thee from slavery's bitter hour. 540Oh! may I sleep in dust ere be condemnedTo hear thy cries and see thee dragged away."

The opinion of Lord Derby's oratory, entertained on this side of the Atlantic, may tempt those who admire it to think that in this translation his splendid eloquence and vigorous language would have their fitting scope in depicting the scenes of camp and field, in transmitting, lifelike, those angry encounters in the councils of gods and men; but, that the most tender and delicate tones of human feeling are not alien to his speech, is amply proved by the lines we have quoted. The same deep chord of feeling is struck by the words and modulations of this beautiful passage that vibrates in the pathetic language and melody of the Ionian bard.

We add another of those magnificent incidents of theIliad, where the struggle of warriors on the very brink of battle is so grandly described by the poet. In the Thirteenth Book, the Greeks, closely massed under the Ajaces,

Waited the Trojan charge, by Hector ledSpear close to spear, and shield by shield o'erlaid,Buckler to buckler pressed, and helm to helm,And man to man, the horse-hair plumes above,That nodded on the warriors' glittering crests,Each other touched, so closely matched they stood.Backward, by many a stalwart hand, were drawnThe spears, in act to hurl; their eyes and mindsTurned to the front and eager for the fray.On poured the Trojan masses; in the vanHector straight forward urged his furious course:As some huge boulder, from its rocky bedDetached, and by the wintry torrent's forceHurled down the cliff's steep face, when constant rainsThe massive rock's firm hold have undermined,With giant bounds it flies; the crashing woodResounds beneath it, still it hurries on,Until, arriving at the level plain,Its headlong impulse checked, it rolls no more;So Hector, threatening now through ships and tentsEven to the sea to force his murderous way,Anon, confronted by that phalanx firm,Halts close before it."

This truly fine passage is the perfection of Homeric poetry. We doubt if pen or brush has ever produced a picture abounding so much in life and action. The marvellous combination of objects presented to view in these lines, each heightening the effect of the other, and all blending into one tumultuous action, stirred by the fiery spirit of war, gives us a grand and terrific picture. In reading it, with almost the noise and din and the fray of warring men ringing in the words employed in the translation, we feel as if we had never before been enabled, by any English version, to enter into the full spirit of Homer himself.

We give a last quotation from the closing scene of the poem, where the cry of mourning Troy is raised over the lifeless body of its brave defender. The wail of his wife and of his mother has been heard; but there remains one other, the beauteous Helen, whose fatal charms had deluged the plains of Troy with blood, had inflicted on the lifeless hero on whom she now gazes in sadness many a day of toil and many an hour of pain, and now had crowned the heap of Ilium's sorrows with this last scene of woe. Her words of love commingled with self-reproach, are the highest tribute the poet could pay, in his closing verse, to the hero whom, throughout his song, he endows with all the noblest traits of son, of patriot, of brother, and of husband.

"Hector, of all my brethren dearest thou!True, godlike Paris claims me as his wife,Who bore me hither—would I then had died!But twenty years have passed since here I cameAnd left my native land; yet ne'er from thee 895I heard one scornful, one degrading word.And when from others I have borne reproach,Thy brothers, sisters, or thy brothers' wivesOr mother, (for thy sire was ever kindEven as a father,) thou hast checked them stillWith kindly feeling and with gentle words:For thee I weep, and for myself no less;For through the breadth of Troy, none love me now,None kindly look on me, but all abhor."

In the portions of Lord Derby's translation we have here given, we have not selected what are universally regarded as the most beautiful passages of the poem. We have selected such passages as from their crowded incidents, their bewildering throng of objects, their rapid succession of scenes or deep and tender pathos, appeared to us the most difficult for the translator to reproduce. We doubt if there be a student of Homer who will fail to find them a transcript of the poet's meaning, with almost literal exactness, as well as a copy of the genius and spirit of the poem. We had purposed selecting some passages which would give our readers a sample of his manner of rendering the Homeric epithets. The beauty of the few occurring in the above extracts will not escape them. Students of Homer are aware how constantly he appends distinctive epithets to persons, things, and places. To translate these wherever they occur would give a strange, unnatural cast to the poem. The English language, not like the plastic Greek, could not bear along the burden of them; besides, many of them would require an awkward paraphrase, which would only add words, not vividness or distinctness, to the thought of the poet. Lord Derby has wisely and discriminately dealt with these; when he renders them, he does so with so much exactitude and expressive force, that we feel rise within us, at this late hour, a sigh of regret that we had not at our hand his version of them, when we were students of Homer. In reading the translation through, we cannot say where we would have an epithet added that has been omitted, or where we would have stricken it out where it has been preserved. We said that the translation is a copy of theIliad—a copy produced with genius and spirit. It will be read with pleasure by the classical scholar, to whom it will recall in their freshness and grandeur the scenes of that poem which charmed him in years long past. It will be welcomed by the general reader, who has not before tasted the charms of Homer's song, and who will gratefully acknowledge it as a new treasure to the storehouse of English literature. In it—and in the life of the noble author, whose devotedness to classical literature could not have lived through his busy political life, did he not in his own inward consciousness ever find the great benefit and elegant pleasure he had gained from it—is furnished for the public at large the strongest argument we know against banishing classical education from our schools and colleges.

Translated From The Latin.

LinesWritten By Theodulphus, Bishop Of Orleans,A.D. 820, In A Copy Of The Holy Scriptures,Transcribed By His Own Hand.Light of God's law! divesting earth of gloom,More white than snows, more bright than starry skies,Beneath whose radiance good and virtue bloom—From whom all error flies.Blest word of God! gift of that wisdom, whenceSprings life and light! what worth exceeds thy worth?Word that excels all words in sound and senseAs heaven excels the earth.Whate'er of wonders human arts have taughtHave here their fountain—hence derive their force;Of all the grand achievements of man's thoughtHere wells the living source.By day, by night here meditate, here schoolTo holiness thy hands, and lips, and soul:Thou rulest others—be this book the ruleThat shall thyself control.This sharer of thy couch—joy of thine eyes,Clasped in thy arms and on thy knees shall rest;Thy watcher when soft slumber on thee lies—Thy earliest morning guest.Be not for knowledge only thy desire;In virtue's presence learning's light is dim:Deeds and not words the Almighty will require—Yet offer both to him.By ceaseless study learn, by actions teach,Untiring seek for Wisdom's pathway here.This meditate, a light thy heart will reach,And make all fair and clear.Who walks a tangled forest's briery wayBy frequent treading makes it broad and plain.And what the quick mind wins from day to day,Slow study doth retain.C. E. B.

From The French Of Erckmann And Chatrian.

Jerome of Saint-Quirin had made good his retreat upon the farm-house.

"Who goes there?" cried the sentries, as the party approached.

"People of the village of Charmes," replied Marc-Dives in his voice of thunder.

They were recognized and allowed to pass.

The house was silent; a sentinel with shouldered arms paced in front of the barn, where thirty partisans were sleeping upon the straw. Catherine, at sight of the great dark roofs, the old sheds, the stables, the ancient dwelling where her youth had passed, where the peaceful and laborious lives of her father and her grandfather had tranquilly glided away, the home which she was perhaps about to leave for ever, felt a terrible pain at her heart; but she spoke not of it, and springing from the sledge, as she had often done before on her returning from market, she said:

"Come, Louise, we are home at last; thanks to God."

Old Duchene had pushed open the door, crying,

"It is Madame Lefevre!"

"Yes, it is we. Any news from Jean-Claude?"

"No, madame."

Then every one entered the huge kitchen.

A few coals yet glowed upon the hearth, and, under the immense, overhanging chimney-piece, Jerome of Saint-Quirin was seated in the shadow, in his great-coat; his long-pointed red beard hanging on his breast; his thick staff between his knees, and his rifle leaning against the wall.

"Ha! good morning, Jerome!" cried the old woman.

"Good morning, Catherine!" answered the grave and solemn chief of Grossmann. "You come from Donon?"

"Yes. Things are going ill there, my poor Jerome. The Kaiserliks attacked the farm-house when we left the plateau. We could see only white coats on every side. They began to cross the abatis—"

"Then you think Hullin will be forced to abandon the road?"

"It is possible, indeed, if Pivrette does not come to his assistance."

The partisans had neared the fire. Marc-Dives bent over the coals to light his pipe; as he rose, he cried:

"Jerome, I ask only one thing of you; I know that they fought well where you commanded—"

"They did their duty," interrupted the shoemaker; "sixty men lie stretched on the side of Grossmann, who will bear witness to it on the judgment-day."

"Yes; but who guided the Germans? They never could find of themselves the pass of Blutfeld."

"It was Yegof—the fool Yegof," replied Jerome, and his gray eyes, surrounded with deep wrinkles and thick white lashes and brows, glittered through the darkness.

"Are you very sure of it?"

"Labarbe's men saw him ascend, leading the others."

The partisans gazed at each other with angry looks.

At the same moment, Doctor Lorquin, who had remained without to unharness his horse, pushed open the door, crying:

"The battle is lost! Here are our men from Donon. I have heard Lagarmitte's horn."

It is easy to imagine the feelings with which this news was received. Every one thought of parent, friends, whom perhaps he was never more to see, and all who were in the kitchen and the barn rushed at once to the fields. Then Robin and Dubourg, posted as sentries, cried:

"Who goes there?"

"France!" replied a voice.

And despite the distance, Louise, recognizing her father's voice, would have fallen had not Catherine supported her.

Presently a great number of steps echoed upon the frozen snow, and Louise, no longer able to contain herself, cried in a trembling voice:

"Father Jean-Claude!"

"I am coming," replied Hullin; "I am coming."

"And my father?" cried Frantz, rushing to the sabot-maker.

"He is with us, Frantz."

"And Kasper?"

"He has received a little wound, but it is nothing: you will see them both."

Catherine threw herself into Hullin's arms.

"O Jean-Claude! what a happiness it is to see you again!"

"Ay," replied he in a low tone; "there are many who will never again see those they love."

"Frantz!" cried old Materne; "hallo! this way."

And on all sides, in the darkness, men sought each other, pressed each other's hands and embraced. Others called aloud for "Vielau" or "Sapheri," but no voice replied.

Then the calls grew hoarse, strangled, and finally ceased. The joy of some and the grief of others were in horrible contrast. Louise wept hot tears in Hullin's arms.

"Ah! Jean-Claude," said Mother Lefevre; "you have much to learn of your daughter. Now I will tell you nothing, but we were attacked—"

"Yes, we will talk of it by and by. Time presses," interrupted Hullin. "The Donon road is lost; the Cossacks may be here at daybreak, and we have yet many things to do."

He entered the farm-house. All followed. Duchene had just thrown a fagot upon the fire. Those faces, black with powder, but still breathing the fire of battle; those garments, torn by bayonet-thrusts, some of them bloody, advancing from darkness into the full light, offered a strange spectacle. Kasper, whose handkerchief was bound around his forehead, had received a sabre-cut; his bayonet, blouse, and high blue cloth gaiters were stained with blood. Old Materne, thanks to his imperturbable presence of mind, came safe and sound from the fray. The remnants of the two troops of Jerome and Hullin were thus united. They showed the same fierce countenances, animated by the same energy and desire for vengeance, save that the last, worn-out with weariness, sat wherever they might find room—on the fagots, the hearth—with their heads bowed upon their hands, and their elbows resting on their knees. The others looked around, unable to realize that Hans, Juson, Daniel, had disappeared for ever, and exchanging questions followed by long periods of silence. Materne's two sons held each other by the arms, as if each feared he would lose his brother, and their father, behind them, leaning against the wall, gazed on with looks of delight.

"They are there; I see them," he seemed to say. "And they are famous fellows, and both have escaped." The good man coughed, and when some one came to speak to him about Pierre, or Jacques, or Nicolas—of a son or a brother—he replied at random, "Ay, ay, there are a good many stretched out yonder; but what would you have? War is war. Your Nicolas did his duty. Be consoled." And then he thought, "My boys are out of the scrape, and that is the principal thing."

Catherine set the table with Louise. Soon Duchene, returning from the cellar with a cask of wine upon his shoulder, placed it on the sideboard. He opened it, and each of the partisans presented his glass, or cup, or pitcher, to the purple fountain, which gave back the leaping flames on the hearth in a thousand reflections.

"Eat and drink!" cried the old mistress of the house. "All is not yet ended; you will yet need strength. Frantz, hand me down those hams. Here are bread and knives. Be seated, my children."

Frantz, with his bayonet, roasted the hams at the fire.

Benches were brought forward; the men sat down, and ate with that keen appetite which neither present grief nor thought of future evil can make mountaineers forget. But all this did not keep sorrow from the hearts of these brave fellows, and sometimes one, sometimes another, would stop, drop his fork, and leave the table, saying,

"I have had enough."

While the partisans thus recruited their strength, their chiefs met in the neighboring hall to make their last determinations relative to the defence. There were seated round the table, lighted by a tin lamp, Doctor Lorquin—his great dog Pluto near him, watching with uplifted muzzle; Jerome in the recess of a window to the right; Hullin at the left, very pale. Marc-Dives, with his elbow on the table and cheek resting in his hand, sat with his back to the door, and showed only his brown profile and one of the ends of his long moustache. Materne alone was standing, as was his habit, leaning against the wall behind Lorquin's chair, his rifle resting upon his foot. A murmur of voices came from the kitchen.

When Catherine, who was called by Jean-Claude, entered, she heard a sort of groan which made her tremble. It was Hullin speaking.

"Do you think," he cried, in a burst of wild grief, "that the fate of those brave sons, those white-haired fathers, moved not my heart? Would I not gladly have died a thousand times that they might live? You know not the woes with which this night has overwhelmed me. To lose life is but little; but to bear alone the burden of such a trust!"

He was silent, but his trembling lip, the tear that coursed slowly down his cheek, showed how heavily that trust weighed upon him, in a position where conscience itself hesitates and seeks support. Catherine noiselessly seated herself in the large arm-chair on his left. After a few moments' pause, Hullin proceeded more calmly:

"Between eleven o'clock and midnight, Zimmer came crying that we were turned; that the Germans were coming down from Grossmann; Labarbe was crushed; Jerome could hold out no longer. He said no more. What was to be done? Could I retreat—abandon a position which had cost us so much blood—the Donon road, the way to Paris? I were a wretch indeed to do so; but I had only three hundred against the four thousand at Grandfontaine, and I know not how many descending the mountain.But cost what it might, I determined to hold out; it was our duty to do so. I thought that life is nothing void of honor; we might all die, but never would it be said that we yielded the road to France! Never, never, never!"

His voice again trembled, and his eyes filled with tears as he added:

"We held it—for more than two hours—my brave boys held it. I saw them fall; they died crying, 'God save France!' When the battle began, I sent word to Pivrette. He, with fifty men, came up—too late! too late! The enemy flanked us right and left; they held three fourths of the plateau, and we were driven among the firs toward Blanru, their fire crashing into our bosoms. All that I could do was to collect the wounded who could yet drag themselves along, and place them under the escort of Pivrette; a hundred men joined him. I kept only fifty to occupy Falkenstein. We cut through the Germans, who tried to cut off our retreat. Happily the night was dark, otherwise not one of us would have escaped. We are here, and all is lost. Falkenstein alone remains, and we are reduced to three hundred. Now we must try who will dare the bitter end. I tell you that my burden presses heavily upon me. While the Donon road was to be defended, our duty was clear; every man's life belonged to his country: but that road is lost; ten thousand men would be needed to regain it, and even now the enemy are entering Lorraine. What is to be done?"

"Resist to the last!" replied Jerome.

"To the last!" repeated the others.

"Is this your counsel, Catherine?" asked Hullin.

"Ay!" cried the old woman, with a glance of unconquerable determination.

Then Hullin, in firmer tones, laid his plan before them:

"Falkenstein is our point of retreat. There is our arsenal; there are our munitions; the enemy knows this, and will attempt to storm it. We must all be there to defend it; the eyes of all our countrymen must see us; they will say that Catherine Lefevre, Jerome, Materne and his sons, Hullin, Doctor Lorquin, are there; that they will not lay down their arms. This will revive the drooping courage of all who have hearts to feel for their country. Pivrette will remain in the woods; his force increasing day by day. The land will be covered with Cossacks, with robbers of every kind; and when the enemy's army has entered Lorraine, at my signal Pivrette will fling himself between Donon and the road, and the laggards scattered through the mountains will be caught as in a net. We can also watch our chance to carry off their wagons, harass their reserves; and if fortune favors, as we hope, when those Kaiserliks are beaten by our troops in Lorraine, we can cut off their retreat."

All rose, and Hullin, entering the kitchen, made this simple speech to the mountaineers:

"My friends, we have determined to resist to the last. Nevertheless each one is free to do as he pleases, to lay down his arms and return to his village; but those who seek vengeance will join us! They will share our last morsel of bread and divide our last cartridge."

The old wood-cutter, Colon, rose and replied:

"Hullin, we are all with you; we began the fight together, and together we will end it."

"Ay, ay!" cried every voice.

"This is your resolution? Then listen! Jerome's brother will take command."

"My brother is dead," interrupted Jerome; "he lies on the side of Grossmann."

There was a moment's silence, and then Hullin continued:

"Colon, you will take command of all who remain, except those who formed the escort of Catherine Lefevre. I retain them with me. You will rejoin Pivrette in the valley of Blanru."

"And our munitions?" cried Marc-Dives.

"I have brought my wagon with me," said Jerome. "Colon can supply himself from it."

"Let them take the sledge too," cried Catherine. "The Cossacks are coming, and they will steal everything. Our people must not go away empty-handed; let them take with them oxen, cows, and goats—everything; for whatever they take is so much won from the enemy."

Five minutes after, the farm-house was a scene of pillage. The sledge was loaded with hams, smoked meats, and bread; the cattle driven from the stables; the horses harnessed to the great wagon, and soon the train began its march, Robin at the head, blowing his horn, and the partisans behind pushing at the wheels. When they had disappeared in the woods, and silence suddenly succeeded the tumult, Catherine, turning round, saw Hullin behind her as pale as a corpse.

"Well, Catherine," he said; "all is finished. We will begin the ascent."

Frantz, Kasper, and the men of the escort, Marc-Dives and Materne, awaited them in the kitchen, resting on their arms.

"Duchene," said the good old woman, "go down to the village; they must not ill-treat you on my account."

The old servant, shaking his white head, replied with eyes full of tears:

"I might as well die here, Madame Lefevre. It is fifty years since I came to this house. Do not force me away; that would kill me."

"As you will, my poor Duchene," answered Catherine, much affected. "Here are the keys of the house."

The old man seated himself on a stool by the hearth, with eyes fixed and lips parted like one in some sad dream.

The others started for Falkenstein. Marc-Dives, on horseback, his long blade hanging from his wrist, formed the rear-guard. Frantz and Hullin, on the left, reconnoitered the plateau, and Jerome, on the right, the valley; Materne and the men of the escort surrounded the women. Strange! At every threshold, at every window of the village of Charmes appeared faces, young and old, gazing with curious eyes at the flight of Mother Lefevre, and evil tongues were not wanting. "Ah! driven from your nest at last," they cried. "You would meddle with what did not concern you!"

Others muttered aloud that Catherine had been rich long enough, and that all had their turn. As for the labor, the wisdom, the kindness of heart, the thousand virtues of the old mistress of Bois-de-Chênes, the patriotism of Jean-Claude, the courage of Jerome and the three Maternes, the unselfishness of Doctor Lorquin, the devotion of Marc-Dives—about all these things no one had a word to say: their owners were beaten!

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