"Two hours behind time, Maitre Bertrand!" | so he rose quietly and went away, and the old exclaimed Boisdoux. "How is this?" man never saw him again. "Purdien! my friend," said the old man; "the wind is contrary, and I never knew the old coche hurry itself, even for his majesty the emperor, when I had the honour of bringing him upon his first voyage to Paris." "The wind has been rough and cold indeed," replied Mathieu; "but still the old coche is not often so lazy." "Lazy or not, I'm hungry," said the old man, "and so is Euphrasie, so let's leave the coche in charge of Jérôme, and come on shore." 66 Bon soir, mam'selle," exclaimed Boisdoux, heartily. "Bon soir, Mathieu," cried the fresh voice of the young girl; and next minute she had hold of his arm, and they were on their way to sup at the old house still sadly known as the Coche d'Auxerre. Boisdoux, as he was often wont, supped with them. Usually he was a merry and pleasant companion, but this night he was dull. Both noticed it, and Bertrand rallied him on his taciturnity. Mathieu, however, made no reply until Euphrasie had departed, and then he appeared to rouse himself up to an act of courage beyond any of those he had yet ventured on. "So you wonder why I am dull?" he asked. 'Yes, passembleu, I do. What can make a youth like you dull? Are you not free from the conscription? Have you not a respectable état? Are you not decorated with two medals, and looked upon with unusual respect? Would not any man be proud to call you a friend ?" "Monsieur Bertrand, would any man be proud to call me son?" "Hem! That depends! You are but a workman, and perhaps a bourgeois might." "Would you, Bertrand? I love your daugh ter: I have looked forward for six months with earnest hope to the hour when I might aspire to ask her hand—” What is the world come to!" exclaimed the old man, sarcastically. "Why, Mathieu, you must be mad. I have six thousand francs a year to leave my daughter, and do you think I would let her marry a workman, however good, however respected?" "I thought as much," said the young man, sadly; "and yet, having Euphrasie's leave, I could not but try. I thought that as you yourself were a workman originally, you might hope that I "Might save yourself fifty years of hard work and economy by marrying a girl with a good fortune. Mathieu Boisdoux, you are a very clever fellow, but the old man is not to be caught. Let us be good friends as ever, but my daughter, c'est trop fort." Boisdoux made no reply. He was choking, It was a week later, on the 7th November, 1840, and a dark, stormy, and terrible night. Much rain had fallen, and the river was swollen; there was scarcely enough space left for any boat to go under the arches of the bridge of Montere u. It was a night for home and home comforts, for a warm fire, and blazing lights, and a cozy supper, and a pleasant chat with pleasant people. In the streets there was no temptation. So the lights burned in vain, the shops lit up uselessly, not a soul was to be seen without. The rain fell heavily, and yet was driven along the streets in a slanting direction, falling on the rough, coarse pavement, and forming everywhere little puddles. The gutters were diminutive rivers, that rushed madly along to plunge in the great stream. And yet the lights from the river-side windows flashed pleasantly, and fell here and there on the tossed waters, along which glided now and then a boat, that soon gained moorings. And then a rattle of chains, a bustle of oars, proclaimed the eagerness of those, who had manned them, to depart; and then all was silent. The crew rapidly disappeared into some of the streets of the town, again as de serted as ever. There was one man, however, who braved the pitiless storm, at the northern extremity of the bridge. He wore a tarpaulin coat and cap, and stood leaning against an iron pillar. His attitude was one of deep attention. He which should denote that on that night there was listening for the very first cry of alarm was danger, and some fellow-creature to be saved. One or two who peeped out at windows and doors, and saw his dark shadow by shudder and re-enter their houses, saying:— the light of the lamp above his head, would "It's Boisdoux. God send his courage be not needed to night!" post. It was his habit to pass the night It was, indeed, Boisdoux, at his accustomed apart near the river on such nights, when his intrepidity and skill might suddenly be called for. Rarely had he been out in such a storm. The wind blew in fitful and terrible gusts, and Boisdoux almost wondered that no wailing cry summoned him to him to his duty. Suddenly he started. The coche was in sight. On it came at a rapid pace, evidently half-mastered by the storm. It was in the middle of the river, and Boisdoux saw that it was about to turn for shore. But just as the bow began to swerve round, the old passageboat quivered, and plunged headlong towards the bridge, against which it struck with terrific violence. A cry, the terror-struck, despairing cry of three-and-twenty perishing souls, rose wildly to the heavens. Boisdoux saw that the coche was upset, and that its two lends were pressed by the force of the stream 300 LINES BY WALLIN, THE SWEDISH POET.-PRESIDENT TAYLOR. against the two sides of an arch. The man acted calmly. He flung off all his clothes but his trowsers and shirt,-for, as he said in his subsequent examination, "I knew there would be work for me that night,"-and then vaulted over the bridge into the stream. A moment stunned by the fall, he next instant was clambering on to the coche. He found that the whole stern was under water, and the common room only above the surface. It was so dark, that Boisdoux could scarcely tell how to act. "We are all lost!" cried a wailing voice; "who will save us?" of the Legion of Honour, never more worthily earned; the Montyon prize was awarded him; men from all parts sent him tokens of their admiration; and best of all, when two years had elapsed, Euphrasie gave him her hand. The boatman retired from his ordinary labours, but, with the consent of his wife, he still devotes his whole mind to the noble task he had allotted unto himself; and if ever she feels dread or alarm, she sends him forth eagerly when, in a low and hushed voice, he breathes the name of the Coche d'Auxerre. The above narrative is familiar to all who "I, Boisdoux," replied the heroic boatman. dwell on the Seine and the Yonne. Perhaps A faint cry of satisfaction came from a the trumpet-tongued voice of history never small cabin window. He rushed to it. It recorded deeds of valour more worthy of was too narrow for him to pass. Still, break-record. ing it with his hands, he tried to force him His undaunted courage, at all events, deserve self in, for this way only could he hope to a good and noble purpose. save any of the passengers. Using his great strength with all his wonted energy, he at last WRITTEN A FEW HOURS BEFORE HIS DEATH. tore away a narrow strip of plank, and plung- LINES BY WALLIN, THE SWEDISH POET: ed into the cabin,-death in his heart, for he heard scarcely a sound. He felt near his hand, in the dark abyss, a woman. She breathed, and he at once forced her through the window, followed, laid her in a safe place, and re-entered the cabin. Another woman rewarded his efforts, and then a man. A fourth time he entered the close and now mephitic cabin, half full of water. "Speak!-is there one here more whom I can aid?" he said, in an agonized tone. He was thinking of Euphrasie. No sound came. All was silent as "Speak, in the name of Ged!" he exclaimed, "for I am choking." But no reply came. death. "Not one muttered!" Boisdoux, feeling about and clasping a man in his arms. "Can I save one more? Help! Repose, O weary soul, in peace repose: Repose, my soul, repose! Lie, weary arms, crossed meekly on my breast- Sleep, weary soul! Lo thou hast struggled sore PRESIDENT TAYLOR. Boisdoux made a desperate effort to reach the window, for he felt himself fainting from General Taylor simply made one of the confatigue and the close vapours of the cabin. He gregation, undistinguishable and unremarked. saw by flashing lights that help had come. There was something grander in this than in mere Next minute he was dragged forth by one of regal display, in so far as solid power, without the police of the town, who, with hundreds of show, impresses the mind much more strongly the inhabitants, were now on the scene of the than show without solid power. Nothing could terrible disaster. The first form that caught well be more original than the personal appear the eye of the young man was that of Eu-ance of the late president of the United States, to phrasie, whose life he had saved without knowing it. whom hiscountry mengave thesoubriquet of 'Rough and Ready.' He was dressed in a suit of plain clothes; his blue coat of any thing but the last Bond-street cut. The weather being cold, he wore coloured worsted gloves, which were something too long. His straight hair fell smoothly on his forehead; while his face, browned under many a sun-his temples furrowed with many a thought, gave token of the deeds he had performed, and of the anxieties he had suffered in his country's cause. He had a pleasing expression in his eye; and now humbly standing in the presence of his Maker, surrounded by his fellow-citizens, all within seemed tranquil and serene. THE FUNERAL PASTY. THE peasantry of Estremadura, to whose life and learning centuries have brought little change, still delight in their traditional story of Josas the muleteer, who lived 300 years ago, and was the best onion-roaster in the province. Josas was at San-Martinho, a small and ancient village lying deep among the hills beyond the Portuguese frontier. His father, who was more than suspected of being a Moor, had sought refuge there from the Spanish Inquisition; but after his death, which occurred when Josas was but thirteen, his mother, having repented of all her sins and married a true Catholic, would have nothing to do with Josas; fortunately, however, there was one that would. Old Senaro, the best muleteer and the crossest man in San Martinho, adopted him in lieu of an only son who had gone as a soldier to India and never came back. Under his tuition, Josas learned to drive mules, to roast onions, and at length (but the old man said he had no hand in that) to fall desperately in love with the vintner's daughter, Rosinda, whose equal for pride and beauty was not in the province. from their pasture; and in helping him to seek them through the burning noon and the chilly night, poor Senaro caught a fever, and died. Josas missed the old man, though his temper was bad. He could always escape the cudgel by a run; and being now left muleless and friendless, the youth resolved to leave the proud Rosinda and his native village. Who knew but he might find his mules, or better fortune, beyond the mountains? Accordingly, having filled his wallet with the largest and best onions in Senaro's garden, a few handfuls of garlic, a piece of goats' cheese, and a flask of the vintner's wine, he took leave of his neighbors, his friends, and his fair enslaver, and set forth from San Martinho with the good wishes of young and old. Josas shaped his course eastward, and soon entered the Spanish portion of the province. All the country was known to him by many a journey. The shepherds gave him shelter in their huts among the hills; the swineherds in the woods shared their meals with him; but nobody could see his mules, nor could he see any chance of a master. At length, in the noon of a sultry day, his path descended to the rich and cultivated lands that lie along the banks of the Vega. Laden vines and olives covered the slopes; corn waved on the lower grounds; castles and villages rose on all sides as far as his eye could reach; and close by the river, like a white walled town, half shaded by a chesnut grove, stood the great and wealthy convent of St. Yuste. Josas knew that convent was far too rich and grand to entertain poor travellers like himselfmoreover, it was reported that the old king of Spain had become a monk within it's walls; but hoping for a shade wherein to rest and roast his onions, the muleteer took his way among the chesnuts. This misfortune fell on Josas before he was eighteen. Afflictions of this kind come early in Estremadura. The youth's personal attractions were not numerous. It was popularly believed there was not a rat's dinner on Josas's lathy frame; and the sun and wind had so dealt on his long loose hair and brown visage, that no man could distinguish their color from the dust of the Sierra. Nevertheless, having a stock of accomplishments not to be despised in San Martinho, Josas had hopes. He could dance with any youth in the village, sing with any muleteer on the mountains, and talk down the priest himself-never stopping for stories. With this artillery he besieged The old trees grew thick, and were full of Rosinda as the mules and Senaro permitted. wood-pigeons; what a dinner Josas could have His throat grew hoarse with shouting love- made on some of them, but for the fear of sasongs all night under her window; his con- crilege! Roasted onions were safer than science groaned under a weight of fibs; half that; and having found a convenient spot in his earnings were spent in her father's wine- the heart of the wood, where the grass was shop-the rest offered at her shrine in the dry and the withered boughs abundant, Josas shape of scarlet handkerchiefs and green rib-collected a heap, kindled a fire with his flint bons. But the vintner's daughter had more and steel, and laid in the onions with all due wealthy suitors; besides, it was her glory to precaution. He had scarcely seated himself be cruel; and at the end of two years' hard service, Josas found himself exactly at the same height in his lady's favor as when his suit began. on the mossy root of an old tree, and pulled out his cheese, when a rustling sound, which had been going forward at no great distance, was followed by a deep groan, and "Alas! He had so often assured her he would die, alas!" repeated in good Castilian, of which, without executing the threat, that it now fell thanks to the mules, Josas had some knowpowerless on Rosinda's ear; and his despair ledge. Cautiously the muleteer rose, and on the last exhibition of her scorn might have peeping through the screen of leaves which gone beyond ordinary limits, if it had not separated him from the speaker, saw leaning been diverted by a series of more substantial against the trunk of a huge chesnut, a tall troubles. First, his best mule-which Josas gray-haired man with a roll of papers in his thought could walk up a church steeple-fell hand. His bones were as bare as Josas's own; over the rocks, and broke its neck one morn- his lace-band velvet hat and doublet had an ing; then the remaining two strayed away old-fashioned look, as if time had gone wearily with both them and their master-yet there his majesty. Do you know anything of was the true hidalgo air about him, and some- dressing partridges?" thing of the soldier too. "No wonder he groans with all that to read," thought Josas, in whose simple mind reading was indissolubly bound up with masses, prayers, and penitential psalms. "Alas! alas!" once more broke forth the stranger, turning over the papers in great perplexity-"what shall I do with this? O that his Majesty could write better Latin!" Maybe he is hungry," said Josas to himself, as the smell of his own now roasted onions reached him. If the muleteer had one virtue more shining than another, it was that of hospitality; and having heard of even grandees being sometimes in the above-mentioned state, he coughed to raise his courage, poked his head through the leaves, and said: "God save you, signor! do you like roasted onions ?" "Where are they?" said the stranger, looking up with avidity. "Here," said Josas, "in my fire. I have goats' cheese too, and a famous flask of wine. Noble signor, come and help me with my dinner." The noble signor made no delay. The onions were dislodged from the ashes with a stick broken into the form of tongs, the cheese and wine produced; and Josas never before imagined that a true hidalgo could make such a meal. To do him justice, he lost no time in talking till the cheese and onions were fairly finished, and the wine-flask almost empty; then there came to his eye a twinkle, and to his tongue a suppleness, which the best-born Castilian will experience in such circumstances "Friend," said he, "your wine is good, and your onions excellent. I may say, there will be no burden on my conscience, though this whole day is a solemn fast with us all, on account of his Majesty's funeral, which he is to celebrate to-morrow." "Celebrate his own funeral!" said Josas; "can kings do that?" "Thou art simple, friend," replied the stranger with a smile, the first Josas had seen on his face. "I speak of my master, the most puissant Charles, sometime Emperor of Germany, lord of the Low Country, and King of Spain and the Indies, who has lately become a brother of the order of St. Jerome in yonder convent," and he pointed to the white walls of St. Yuste. "i am his secretary; my name is Don Gulielmo de la Male; with my assistance his majesty is writing the history of his own life. (Here he glanced at the papers, and gave a half groan.) You don't understand Latin, young man ?" "Not I," said the muleteer. "But you can roast onions," continued Don Gulielmo, "and you carry magnificent wine. Give me another draught. I will make your fortune-you shall be appointed chief cook to "O yes," cried Josas; "old Senaro taught me to cook them, feathers and all, under the wood-ashes. They were good in the harvesttime." "Your fortune's secure, young man," said the don confidently, putting the flask into his hand: it was quite empty now. "Come tomorrow to the chapel of St. Yuste: you will see a splendid business; and depend on me for getting you the place. Mercy on me! there's the bell for nones;" and Don Gulielmo dashed through the wood like a hunted deer, as the boom of the convent bell proclaimed its noonday service. Josas wished the hidalgo had not found the wine so good, and had left him a little; but the promise of his fortune being made, comforted the muleteer, and he sat meditating on his future position when appointed chlef-cook to the puissant Charles. "I understand the roasting of onions anyway," thought Josas; "as to the partridges, I'm not so sure about them, but doubtless there will be somebody else in the kitchen; they will do the work, while I pocket the wages, grow a gentleman, and marry Rosinda. She cannot refuse the chicf-cook of an emperor'" With a vision of the reverence which all San Martinho, including the vintner and his daughter, would render him, Josas's head dropped back against the chesnut, and he fell fast asleep. Fortunately no adder came that way, and there wasn't a wolf in the neighbourhood; but when the western sun was sending his red rays through the foliage, old Balthazar, who had watched the wood-pigeons and hewed fuel for the brothers of St. Jerome more than thirty years, woke up the traveller with a sturdy shake, admonishing him that the dews fell heavily beside the Vega, and that there was less risk of ague or fever in his hut. Josas accepted the rough-and-ready invitation, and the woodman led the way to his dwelling. It was a log-built cabin, the roof and walls covered with a great vine, and standing in a grassy dell of the woodland. There were two olive-trees behind, and a barley-field in front. There old Balthazar and his daughter Antonia lived content and busy, with their great dog Simmo, their two cows, and a herd of halfwild hogs they kept for the convent. Prudent Spaniards, under Balthazar's circumstances, in those half-Moorish days, would have hesitated at taking home a stranger, but the woodman and his daughter were too humble and honest for the extreme proprieties. Antonia helped to till the barley-field and gather the olives, managed the cows, looked after the monks' hogs, and sat spinning at the cottage-door as they approached-a strapping damsel, in her russet kirtle and close fillet, very unlike Rosinda. Her father's guest was kindly welcomed, though his capacity, as exhibited on called a stout old signor, attired in a monk's gown lined with ermine, with a richly-illuminated psalter in his left hand; while the right, shapeless with the gout, and wrapped in Indian handkerchiefs, rested on a cushion of embroidered velvet. It was Charles V.. with his physician Matheo so, his confessor Borja, and his chamberlain Don Quixada. The chamber was lighted only by a great open window opposite the bed, and looking down into the choir, where the monks and the rest of the royal household still remained, though vespers were over, practising a certain chant which was to form part of the grand service next day. the barley-loaf and bacon of their supper, somewhat astonished her. Travellers were scarce in that quarter; and it was a great opportunity for the woodman and his daughter to tell their news, since Josas had none: how the convent-chapel was to be hung with black, and illuminated with 400 tapers, while the emperor's funeral-service was performed for the good of his soul; and lords and knights were coming from leagues round to see it on the morrow. Josas was about to open the budget of his hopes, and Don Gulielmo's promises for he perceived they regarded him as a rustic who knew nothing of high life when Simmo, which lay before the crackling fire, opened his jaws with a long and friendly Charles reigned at Yuste as he had never bark, as the woodman's latch was lifted, and done in Germany, Spain, and the Indies. a youth wearing a monk's hood and frock, but | There were no Protestant princes there to dislooking marvellously like a man-at-arms, pute his will, no Luther to defy, no Francis I. stepped in. to rival him. The abbot said, his example in devotion and good eating edified the whole convent. Signors from every corner in Spain vied with each other in sending him choice delicacies, which he relished in spite of the gout and Dr. Matheoso; attending, neverthe less, to both prayers and fasting, obliging his household-all but those of noble birth-to "I am he," said Josas, rising with no little wear the monastic garb, and keeping the enpride. tire convent, for at least a month, busy in The youth looked amazed, but instantly re-preparations for a funeral-service in honour of covering himself, said in a respectful tone: "Then, signor, it is the don's command that you repair with me to his presence.” "Whither so late, Jago?" said Balthazar. "I thought the convent-gate was always closed at vespers?" "So it is," said the youth. "But I have been sent to inquire after a stranger with whom Don de la Male talked to-day in the woods." himself. On the eve of this solemnity, a calamity more serious than gout or physician had overtaken the mighty Charles. His chiefBidding the astonished woodman and his cook had fallen sick that week, and his second daughter a patronising good-night, the mule- thought proper to run away-some said from teer followed his guide in judicious silence home-sickness-that very morning, an hour through a winding woodpath, an outward pos- after the arrival of a basket of partridges, fattern, and a covered-way which admitted them tened by an Andalusian grandee on dough to the kitchen-garden of the convent. It was made of ground almonds, and intended for a reckoned the best in Spain; and by a walk pasty at the commemoration supper which was bordered with garlic, whose scent made his to succeed the emperor's funeral, with its foreteeth water, Josas was conducted to the back-going herbs and fasting. door of that wing which Charles V., sometime emperor of Germany, &c., had chosen as his retreat from the pomps and vanities of the world. At the back-door he found Don Gulielmo, looking as if the vintner's wine had left him nothing but its lees. Three couriers had been despatched to as many cities in search of somebody capable of cooking such partridges; but the fear that none of them would return in time troubled the imperial mind and household, till hope was rekindled by Don de la Male. The secretary "Welcome, honest youth," said the secre- was a noble by birth and a scholar by learntary, like a man endeavouring to reassure him-ing, but no one had ever seen him talk to his self by talking. "I have spoken to his ma-imperial master with such confidential famijesty, and he desires to see you. You can liarity as after nones that day; and the result manage partridges: remember you told me so. was, a command privately given when vespers For the Virgin's sake," he continued into came on, with no sign of a returning courier, Josas's ear, "do your best, or you and I shall to seek out the cook he had met with in the be ruined!" wood. Mentally resolving to avoid the calamity if possible, though wishing himself back in San Martinho, the muleteer followed Don Gulielmo across a hall, up a stone stair, and through five rooms hung with black and tenantless, to a still more gloomy chamber, where three grave gentlemen stood each at a corner of a statebed, on which, propped up with innumerable pillows, sat one whom Josas would have "Ha, Brother Pedro!" cried Charles, stopping his chant, "that screech would mar the music of angels. Is this the young man ?" he continued, as Don Gulielmo took his place at the fourth corner; and Josas, obedient to his signal, approached, bowing every step. The muleteer knew not on how many of Europe's battle-fields and council-halls that glance had fallen; but it grew keenly earnest as, measur |