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A FATHER'S TALES 
 
 OF THB 
 
 FRENCH REVOLUTION 
 
 COMPRISIN& 
 
 The King and Queen; The Eotal Children; 
 
 The Viscount's Family ; Tommy, the English Orphan ; 
 
 AND Marquis De Lafayette. 
 
 FIRST SERIES. 
 
 By the Author of " Confessors of Coaaught," " Grace Morton," &o 
 
 
 -^ 
 
 
 v' 
 
 y 
 
 '%-^ PHILADELPHIA : 
 
 PETER F. CUNNINGHAM, 
 
 Catholic Bookseller, No. 216 South Third Street. 
 
 1866. 
 
 9?- 
 
^BB LIBRARY 
 m9 CONGRESS 
 
 WASHINGTOJ^ 
 
 Entered according to the Act of Congress, in th« 
 year 1866, by 
 
 PETER F. CUlSNINGHAM, 
 
 Xa the Office of the Clerk of the District Court of the 
 Eastern District of Pennsylvania. 
 
 XJ 
 
 %. 
 
"N^ow father, you have time to tell us 
 those stories of the French Revolution you 
 have been so long promising us." 
 
 With these words a group of eager 
 children surrounded the sofa on which 
 their father lay, suffering with a sprained 
 ankle. A smile brightened his face as he 
 looked on his bright, intelligent boys and 
 girls. 
 
 " But, my dears," interposed the thought- 
 ful mother, " while your father is in so 
 much pain you do not expect him to 
 amuse you with stories ? It is rather 
 your place now to amuse liim." 
 
IV INTRODUCTION. 
 
 " They did so most successfullj yester- 
 day," said the kind father, " so I suppose 
 I must indulge them to-day. It is a good 
 while since I made that promise, and this 
 is a very fitting time to redeem it. While 
 dwelling on those scenes of terror and woe 
 in which so much heroic fortitude .and 
 patience were displayed, the recollection 
 will serve to curb my impatience under 
 this trifling afi'ection." 
 
 " Oh, father ! you impatient!" exclaimed 
 the children, surprised and a little in- 
 dignant that such a charge should be 
 made even by himself; for who knew 
 better than they and mother how patiently 
 he bore pain and sickness? Mr. White 
 was a Christian in spirit as well as in name, 
 and knew that to be so he must bear 
 willingly whatever cross was laid upon 
 him. 
 
 "Well, we are to begin the stories. 
 
INTEODUCTIO^. , V 
 
 Shall they be true or ficticious one, little 
 folks?" 
 
 " True ones, dear father, if you please," 
 was the general cry. 
 
 " About the poor King, and his wife 
 and little children," pleaded blue-eyed 
 Katy. " The dear, good King — I'm so 
 sorry they killed him." 
 
 " Bah 1 it served him right," said her 
 brother Charles, stoutly.' "If he had 
 acted like a man he would have saved him- 
 self and France too." 
 
 " Can you tell us, Master Charles, how 
 he should have acted to produce that happy 
 result !" queried his father, dryly. 
 
 " Why, ordered his soldiers to shoot 
 down those who wanted to raise a row," 
 was the ready answer. 
 
 " Suppose the "soldiers would rather 
 take part in raising the row — what then?" 
 
 " Then collect the people — ^the true peo- 
 
VI INTEODUCTIOK. 
 
 pie, I mean — tell them how things were 
 going, and get them to stand by him and 
 the right." 
 
 "Suppose even. these true people were 
 divided among themselves, some thiiiking 
 he ought to yield to his disaffected sub- 
 jects, others that he should put them down 
 by main force, that many among these 
 true people were luke-warm friends, caring 
 little for him or the right so they could 
 secure their own interests; and others, 
 secret foes, who, while pretending devotion 
 to the King and the nation, were covertly 
 trying every means to ruin both. What 
 then, my young statesman?" 
 
 Charles looked puzzled. " But was that 
 the case, father ?" 
 
 " That was really the case, my boy." 
 
 " I thought it was all the King's fault," 
 said Charles, doubtingly. 
 
 " So did I," chimed in his cousin James. 
 
INTRODUCTION. Vll 
 
 " You know our history of France makes 
 Louis XYI. appear a good natured sort of 
 man, ' amiable but weak-minded and 
 wholly destitute of decision of character : 
 and it intimates that a ruler like Napoleon * 
 would soon have put down the difficulty.' 
 " Perhaps so, but this is by no means 
 certain. You must take into account 
 something which your school history does 
 not mention — that the chief instigators of 
 the work that produced the Eeign of Ter- 
 ror, were animated by that spirit of hostili- 
 ty to the altar and the throne which, from 
 the days of Calvin, had disturbed the 
 peace of the nation. These enemies of the 
 Church, joining hands with the infidels, 
 had procured the suppression of the Jesuits 
 in France by order of Louis XY. Having 
 so far triumphed they were encouraged to 
 pursue their schemes for the total over- 
 throw of Catholicity in that nation which 
 
Vm INTEODUCTION. 
 
 bears tlie honored title of eldest daugliter 
 of the Church. The monarchy stood in 
 their way ; therefore it was necessary that 
 it also should be crushed. These projects, 
 if openly avowed, would have been rejected 
 with horror by the people. Hence they 
 were artfully disguised by such specious 
 pretences as securing the rights of the 
 people — putting down aristocratic oppres- 
 sion ; establishing universal liberty. The 
 people fell into the snare and the sad 
 results astonished and horrified the world. 
 But it is time to begin our stories, and 
 Katy wants to hear something of the royal 
 family." 
 
 ~«sfl'/T5 ^ o %J^' h°i'UT(?P^ /^ ^'tsst^T' 
 
CHAPTEK I. 1^ 
 
 -^^THE KING- AND THE QUEEN. ^ts>^ 
 
 .^TfO _,^-5TJ ^^-SD ^-TQ 
 
 )N a fine summer afternoon, three 
 boys stood at a window in tlie 
 palace of the Tuileries, the an- 
 ^ cient residence of the Kings of 
 France. It was a fair scene on 
 which they gazed, with the bright sun- 
 shine lighting up the magnificent gardens, 
 adding its own gorgeousness to the gay 
 masses of flowers, and making the cool 
 shadows cast by the old trees all the more 
 beautiful from the contrast. Sentinels 
 paraded to and fro, their handsome uni- 
 forms and bright weapons glittering in the 
 sunbeams. A joyous multitude thronged 
 the beautiful groves. Under the great 
 chestnut trees children played merrily; 
 iheir various costumes, as the happy little 
 
 (9) 
 
10 A father's tales. 
 
 creatures flitted back and fortli, adding 
 not a little to tlie brilliancy of the spec- 
 tacle. 
 
 The boys at the palace window looked 
 down on the charming scene with a pleasure 
 in which mingled a good deal of the pride 
 of ownership, for that stately palace was 
 their home; they were grandsons of the 
 reigning king, Louis XV. Pride and 
 vanity are the earliest developed feelings 
 in most hearts ; they are like noxious 
 weeds in the garden, which will spring up 
 spite of the gardener's vigilance, and tax 
 his patience and industry to eradicate 
 them. It was not strange that those lads, 
 piously trained as they were, had imbibed 
 high notions of the rank which was their 
 birthright. They were accustomed to see 
 themselves treated with the utmost defer- 
 ence by the proudest nobles of the Court ; 
 they saw their names written with a long 
 string of titles and orders, which could 
 not fail to fill their young minds with a 
 lively sense of their own importance. As 
 
THE KING AND THE QUEEN. 11 
 
 they looked out on the garden, they began 
 in boyish fashion to dispute whose title 
 was the prettiest, calling over the long list, 
 admiring and then rejecting each name in 
 turn ; but the eldest suddenly seemed to lose 
 his interest in the subject, and became silent 
 and thoughtful. His brothers, noticing 
 this, were the more eager to have him go 
 on, and say which of his titles he liked 
 best. 
 
 "JSTone of them," was his reply. ''I 
 like best the name that was given to me 
 this morning." Then, at the boy's urgent 
 entreaty, he continued : "I was walking 
 through the garden with General de L. 
 A woman sat on one of the benches, with 
 a little boy and girl beside her ; they were 
 crying, and the poor woman looked as if 
 she could cry too. I soon found out what 
 was their trouble. They were not beggars, 
 but they were very poor, and — " 
 
 Here the young prince stopped abruptly, 
 and turned away as if he did not wish to 
 say more, but the others would not let 
 him off. 
 
12 A father's tales. 
 
 " You gave them all the money you 
 had, of course ; that is one's duty, — well, 
 what then, Louis?" 
 
 " Then she kissed my hand and said, 
 ' My little lord, may you always be the 
 benefactor of the poor !'" 
 
 "And that's the title you like best? 
 You're such a child, Lou.is!" The two 
 little fellows laughed heartily at their 
 brother's childishness, and resumed their 
 previous subject of discussion, whose title 
 was the grandest. 
 
 While they were thus engaged, a noble 
 looking gentleman entered the room. He 
 was their father, the Dauphin, a man as 
 distinguished for his virtues as for his 
 high rank. He listened for a few mo- 
 ments to the eager dialogue of the boys, 
 who, becoming aware of his presence, 
 sprang to embrace him, and refer their 
 claims to his decision. But he, smilingly, 
 refused to act as umpire. 
 
 A few days afterwards he called his 
 three sons, and showed them the parish 
 
THE KING AND THE QUEEN. 18 
 
 registers of baptism, in wTiicli their names 
 were simply inscribed with those of other 
 children. 
 
 "You see," he then said, "that here 
 your names are mixed and confounded 
 with those of the people. This shows 
 you that the distinctions you enjoy are 
 not the gift of nature, who has made all 
 men equal. It is only virtue that makes 
 ^ any true difference between them ; and it 
 may be that the child of the poor man, 
 whose name precedes yours, will be more 
 great in the eyes of God than you will 
 ever be in the eyes of the people." 
 
 The younger boys looked down abashed 
 by this gentle rebuke of their foolish 
 fancies, but the eldest, leaning his head on 
 his father's shoulder whispered a promise 
 never to, forget the lesson. 
 
 " Oh, yes, brother intends to be a second 
 Saint Louis," and the boys gaily told of 
 the poor woman's compliment with which 
 he had been so pleased. They believed 
 
 2 
 
14: A father's tales. 
 
 ihe preferred her title even to tliat of King 
 ■of France. 
 
 I do not wish, that title — I shall never be 
 King," said the affectionate youth, putting 
 his arms closer round his idolized father, 
 who returned, the caress as he answered : 
 
 " In the providence of God you may in 
 future years enjoy that proud title, my son. 
 If so, remember that though you may not 
 be one of the greatest or most fortunate of 
 your country's monarchs, you may, if 
 you wish, be one of the best." 
 
 The young Prince always remembered 
 this conversation, and I have often thought 
 -that it exercised a lasting influence on his 
 career, for his memory is dear to all na- 
 tions as the good and virtuous, though un- 
 fortunate King, Louis, XYI. 
 
 A few years passed. Louis XY. died. 
 His son, the Dauphin, had been already 
 ■called to receive the reward of his virtues 
 in the heavenly kingdom. Our young 
 Louis, in his twentieth year found his 
 brow encircled with the kingly diadem 
 
THE KING AND THE QUEEN. 15 
 
 whicli was to prove to Mni truly a crown 
 of thorns. The first years of his reign, 
 however, were prosperous, and he enjoyed 
 the satisfaction of knowing that he pos- 
 sessed the affection of his people. In his 
 family he experienced happiness such as 
 seldom falls to the lot of monarchs. With 
 his brothers and his sister, the amiable 
 Princess Elizabeth, he ever maintained 
 the most affectionate intercourse : and his 
 marriage with Marie Antoinette, Arch- 
 duchess of Austria, secured his domestic 
 happiness. Some writers, whose preju- 
 dices warp their judgment, have repre- 
 sented this marriage as one of the chief 
 causes of the woes that afterwards befell 
 the nation. They talk of the evils of Aus- 
 trian influences, the haughtiness of the 
 young Queen, her extravagance and love • 
 of show. It was almost inevitable that 
 she should be a little spoiled by the ex- 
 eesssive adulation she received in France, 
 where her beauty and accomplishments 
 were the theme of every tongue. But 
 
16 A father's tales. 
 
 while admittiug tliis, it is only just to re- 
 member also Iier great virtues ; and that 
 her disposition was intrinsically noble and 
 generous, was proved during the trying 
 scenes that marked the last years of her 
 life. As Americans, we owe the beautiful 
 Marie Antoinette a debt of gratitude which 
 should make us lenient in judging of her 
 foibles. From the commencement of our 
 revolutionary struggle, she entered warmly 
 into Lafayette's projects for helping the 
 cause of freedom ; and her influence, which 
 was all-powerful with the King, at length 
 prevailed on him to furnish that material 
 aid — in men, ships, money, and munitions 
 of war — with out which the rebellious colo- 
 nies could never have succeeded in gain- 
 ing their independence. 
 
 The dark days of the revolution drew 
 on, and Louis XYI. saw his kingly power 
 slipping from his grasp. Yain were his 
 concessions to the clamorous populace ; the 
 more he yielded the more insolent grew 
 their demands. Had he been a despotic 
 
THE KING AND THE QUEEN. 17 
 
 sovereign, firmly intent on upholding 
 liis own power, and "anscrupnlous as to 
 the means that would accomplish this 
 purpose, he might, perhaps, have suc- 
 ceeded in putting down the spirit of revolt, 
 as had been done by two of his prede- 
 cessors, (Charles IX. and Louis XIY.) But 
 he was too humane and too deeply attached 
 to his subjects, to employ cruel or arbi- 
 trary measures against them. The lead- 
 ing principle with which he began his reign 
 animated him even to the end — his desire 
 was to be the father of his people, not the 
 oppressor of any. From the commencement 
 of the troubles his firm determination, as 
 he often declared, was "that no drop of 
 French blood should be shed by his order," 
 and how faithfully he adhered to that pur- 
 pose history tells. 
 
 The 17th of July, 178^, was a memor- 
 able day, in the King's life. Then began 
 the long series of open insults and out- 
 rages which made his life thenceforward a 
 continual martyrdom. The people of Paris 
 
 2?* 
 
IS A father's tales. 
 
 insisted on a visit from tlie King. To go 
 thither from Versailles was a perilous 
 movement, and his friends endeavored to 
 dissuade him from it. But Louis, though 
 sharing tlieir apprehensions, that death or 
 imprisonment awaited him, resolved to 
 comply with the people's request. The 
 night of the 16th was spent in preparations 
 for whatever event the morrow might wit- 
 ness. As far as he was able he arranged 
 matters which he deemed of vital import- 
 ance to the country, and nominated his 
 brother Lieutenant of France, in case of 
 his own detention at Paris. 
 
 Then the pious monarch, who in pros- 
 perity and adversity was equally faithful 
 in his service to the King of kings, gave 
 his mind to prayer and preparation for 
 receiving the blessed sacrament at the day- 
 break mass. How pure and fervent were 
 the sentiments in which he communicated ; 
 how entirely he offered himself in union 
 with the adorable sacrifice of the altar, 
 renouncing all desires save that of doing 
 
THE KING AND THE QUEEN. 19 
 
 and suffering whatever God willed or per- 
 mitted, we may jndge by liis after conduct. 
 Yery sad was tlie little congregation as- 
 sembled that morning in the palace cliapel. 
 The royal family and the members of the 
 court — ^the of&cers of the guards and the 
 servants of the palace, all were oppressed 
 with gloomy forebodings, and we can well 
 believe that from the most tepid souls 
 there as well as from the devout, earnest 
 supplications arose to heaven on behalf of 
 him who well merited their loyal regard. 
 
 At an early hour the king left Yersailles, 
 after a solemn parting with his family and 
 friends. He rode in a plain carriage, unat- 
 tended by guards, the members of the 
 National Assembly, then in session at- 
 Versailles, accompanying him on foot. At 
 three o'clock in the afternoon the proces- 
 sion reached the gates of Paris, where 
 two hundred thousand men, composing 
 the National Guard, were drawn up in 
 military array to receive the king. The 
 whole population of the city seemed in 
 
20 A father's tales. 
 
 uproar. They thronged the streets, the 
 balconies and the house-tops, filling the 
 air with tumnltuons cries of "Live the 
 Nation!" Not one voice sent np the old 
 familiar shout, " Long live the King P'' The 
 sensitive monarch mnst have keenly felt 
 the omission. In the capital of the nation, 
 which his proud race had ruled for eight 
 centuries, he seemed utterly forsaken. 
 When he looked on the members of the 
 Assembly who so closely surrounded his 
 carriage, as if to honor and protect him by 
 their presence, he could but remember 
 that he had convoked them under the old 
 title of States- General, by the desire of the 
 people, to assist him in reforming abuses, 
 But they had quickly seized the legisla- 
 tive authority, constituted themselves the 
 "National Assembly, one and indivisible," 
 and secretly undermining the old govern- 
 ment, were noAV in reality masters of king 
 and people. And the National Guard, 
 lining his way to the Hotel de Yille — 
 Louis had authorized the establishment of 
 
THE KING AND THE QUEEN. 21 
 
 this army, but it was not at his command 
 now. Thus escorted and surrounded by 
 foes and usurpers of his authority, the 
 king entered the spacious hall, which was 
 presently filled with a dense multitude. The 
 new mayor of the city commenced proceed- 
 ings by presenting him the tri-colored 
 cockade, the emblem of the new govern- 
 ment. Louis received it in silence, and 
 pinned it upon his hat, thus adopting the 
 popular cause. This act excited the en^ 
 thusiasm of the crowd, and now the old- 
 fashioned shout " Yive le Eoi!" burst from 
 all lips with an energy and fervor that 
 deeply moved the king. Turning to one 
 of his attendants he exclaimed with emo- 
 tion, " My heart stands in need of such 
 shouts from the people." Having made 
 this concession to the popular feeling, the 
 king was next required to give his sanction 
 to the various proceedings of the munici- 
 pality, which were now read ; Louis, by 
 his silence, assenting to all. What a 
 mockery was this! what inexpressible 
 
22 A father's tales. 
 
 liumiliation to the sovereign wlio, robbed 
 of bis rigbtful authority, was thus con- 
 sulted about measures which, however 
 repugnant to his views, he could not 
 oppose. 
 
 But there was yet another trial, the 
 climax to all the sufferings of that day, 
 Mayor Bailly thought it fitting to lead 
 him to the balcony, that the gaping crowds 
 in the street might be gratified by the 
 sight of their king vjearing the tri- colored 
 cockade. The delight of the people at this 
 was unbounded. Sad and silent the king 
 stood before them. One glance at the 
 bright summer sky, and then meekly 
 accepting this crowning indignity, the 
 royal victim bowed his head, and tears 
 which told the anguish of his noble heart 
 streamed down his pale cheeks, as he 
 listened to the approving shouts of those 
 who, had they possessed one spark of 
 manly or generous feeling, would have 
 b.een shamed into silence by this touching- 
 spectacle of their sovereign's humiliation. 
 
THE KING AND THE QUEEN. 23 
 
 Meantime, to tlie court at Yersailles, 
 how wearily liad passed the honrs of that 
 long summer day. The queen, almost in 
 despair, employed herself in composing 
 an address to the Assembly, which she in- 
 tended to present in person in the event 
 of the king being detained a prisoner. One 
 of the ladies- of the court, Madame Cam- 
 pan, has recorded that it began thus : — 
 " Grentlemen, I come to place in your hands 
 the wife and family of your sovereign. 
 Do not suffer those who have been united 
 in heaven to be put asunder on earth." 
 While committing the address to memory, 
 she often gave way to tears and lamenta- 
 tions, exclaiming wildly, " They will never 
 let him return.''* 
 
 But at a late hour in the evening, the 
 joyful exclamations of the courtiers an- 
 nounced that her husband had returned in 
 safety. What a rapturous welcome awaited 
 him. Pleasure beamed on every counte- 
 nance. His devoted wife, still weeping 
 but now with joy, met him on the stairs, 
 
24 A father's tales. 
 
 and threw herself into his arms ; his fair 
 young daughter and the little dauphin 
 shared in the embrace, and all clinging 
 lovingly together, ascended to the grand 
 saloon, scarcely able to believe in the 
 reality of their happiness. Lonis had now 
 regained his usual serenity. With the 
 magnanimity which distinguished him, 
 he had buried all the bitter recollections 
 of the day, and now thought only of the 
 good feeling which seemed to be re-estab- 
 lished between himself and his subjects. 
 In a spirit of fervent gratitude to Plim in 
 whom he trusted he could rejoice that this 
 end was attained, even at such cost to 
 himself. But his sanguine hopes were 
 doomed to disappointment. That day was 
 but the type of many others which were 
 to test his patience and fortitude, and on 
 which his mental sufferings were immea- 
 sureably increased by seeing his family 
 exposed to similar indignities, while he 
 was unable to protect them. 
 
 After one of these scenes, when the mob 
 
THE KING AND THE QUEEN. 25 
 
 had forced tliemselves into tlie presence of 
 the queen, and with fierce imprecations 
 threatened to take her life, the Assembly 
 obliged the royal family to remove to 
 Paris, under the pretence that they would 
 be more safe there, but in reality to pre- 
 vent the possibility of their escape from 
 France. 
 
 At the Tuilleries they found that they 
 were in reality prisoners. So closely were 
 they guarded and watched that it was only 
 by stratagem, and in the darkness and si- 
 lence of night, the king, his sister, and 
 the queen, were able to perform their 
 Easter duties. The new rulers of France, 
 haunted by fears and suspicions, as tyrants 
 always are, dreaded that even the pious 
 chaplain would be able to rescue their 
 royal captives from the midst of armed 
 guards and watchful spies. 
 
 While the king was thus held in cap- 
 tivity, the conspirators against the throne 
 made rapid progress in their work. Al- 
 ready they had effected radical changes in 
 
 3 
 
20 A father's tales. 
 
 tlie goverument. The royal authority 
 was, in effect, annihilated ; the privileges 
 of the nobles and clergy abolished. Next 
 freedom of the press was established, — 
 that is, freedom to scoff at everything sa- 
 cred, to execrate and villify ^' the old sys- 
 tem," and laud "the new one" to the skies. 
 Religious liberty was proclaimed ; and as 
 a specimen of what this boasted liberty 
 was to be, the monasteries, peaceful abodes 
 of reliarion and learnins^ durinsc acres, were 
 suppressed, and the church lands confis- 
 cated. The next step was to form a con- 
 stitution, establishing a limited monarchy, 
 and the equality of all ranks. This con- 
 stitution was acceioted by the king. Steady 
 in his love for his misguided subjects, he 
 was willing to sacrifice, at their demand, 
 all the rights and privileges to which he 
 was legally entitled. That this compliance, 
 however, did not proceed from weakness 
 or cowardice, as some have asserted, was 
 evident from the firmness with which he 
 refused his sanction to the decree the As. 
 
THE KING AND THE QUEEN. 27 
 
 senibly had passed against the ministers 
 of religion. His own rights he was always 
 willing to yield ; the rights of the Church, 
 never. This firmness incensed the popu- 
 lace still more' against him. There was 
 no longer safety for the king's family in 
 the palace. The royal troops could not 
 be depended on; all but a few had been 
 either bribed or terrified into joining " the 
 cause of the people." 
 
 The tenth of August, 1792, dawned 
 upon a strange and terrifying spectacle. 
 The mob had gathered for a final assault 
 on royalty. An immense multitude 
 blocked up the streets in the vicinity of 
 the Toiilleries ; the banks of the Seine 
 were black with the swarming crowds; 
 far as the eye could reach throngs of in- 
 furiated men and women were to be seen. 
 In the beautiful grounds of the chateau 
 alone quietness reigned. The sentinels, 
 calm and stern as ever, paced the avenues, 
 their bright weapons and gay uniforms 
 adding to the gorgeous appearance of the 
 
28 , A father's tales. 
 
 gardens, where masses of summer's latest 
 and richest flowers were in fall bloom. 
 Eight hundred Swiss guards were loiter- 
 ing about the entrance of the palace, on 
 the staircases and landings. All the other 
 troops had proved faithless. These men 
 alone, faithful to their trust, awaited, with 
 unshaken calmness, the rude onset of the 
 populace. "Within the palace things wore 
 a new and gloomy aspect. There was all 
 the confusion of a" besieged fortress, with- 
 out its safety. Military men and gleam- 
 ing weapons met the eye at every turn. 
 Ofiicers, whose stern-set features told that 
 they were ready to meet the coming storm, 
 were constantly passing to and fro from 
 the garden to the apartments of the king. 
 A few of the nobles of the Court, too 
 brave and too generous to think of their 
 own safety while their queen was in 
 danger, gathered near her apartments, 
 the forlorn hope of royalty, ready to share 
 her fate and die in her defence. 
 
 And that queen, — who could tell what 
 
THE KIXG AND THE QUEEN. 29 
 
 slie suffered? All tlie night long, she, 
 with her sister-in-law, Madame Elizabeth, 
 went back and forth from one saddening 
 scene to another in anxiety that Avould not 
 allow them to think of rest. Now with 
 the king, cheering and inspiring him by 
 their affectionate sympathy, — now bend- 
 ing over 'the couches of the royal children, 
 for whom the fond mother and aunt were 
 oppressed with grievous fears, — again 
 gliding to the council chamber, where the 
 ministers were sitting, in hope of hearing 
 some plan proposed that would promise 
 relief. In crossing the rooms and entries 
 where their faithful defenders maintained 
 their sad vigil, how nobly they restrained 
 their tears, and by kind words and gra- 
 cious smiles inspired those heroic men 
 with fresh ardor. It was truly a touching 
 spectacle, and one that would not fail to 
 inspire manly hearts with compassion, 
 generosity and courage — those two noble 
 and beautiful women wandering through 
 a palace, filled with armed men, all night 
 . 3* 
 
80 A father's tales. 
 
 long ; both regardless of their own danger, 
 trembling only for the life of a husband 
 and brother, and for those helpless child- 
 ren who slumbered so tranquilly in the 
 midst of grief and danger. 
 
 Thus the long hours wore on and the 
 dreaded morning dawned at last. The 
 royal family came forth from the' darkness 
 of that terrible night, to find themselves 
 hemmed in by enemies a hundred thous- 
 and strong, to hear the multitude shrieking 
 and clamoring for veng'eance, while attack- 
 ing with fiendish fury the little band who 
 stood firm in their persecuted sovereign's 
 cause. In the first onset two of those 
 faithful guards were slain, and the women 
 like a throng of demons rushed into the 
 gardens, menacing the guards, and with 
 their pikes uprooting the beautiful flowers, 
 as zealously as they had already uprooted 
 every good and humane feeling from their 
 hearts. 
 
 Meantime the royal family had gathered 
 in the council chamber. The queen, pale, 
 
THE KING- AND THE QUEEN. 31 
 
 but courageous as ever, sat upon a sfool, 
 anxiously listening to the deliberations of 
 the ministers. Her children clung to her 
 in silent terror ; Madame Elizabeth was 
 by her side, and close by stood the king, 
 regarding the little group mth looks of 
 keenest anguish. 
 
 Around the hall hovered the few de 
 voted adherents of the throne asking only 
 the sad privilege of being near the objects 
 of their loyal affection, in this hour of their 
 utter sorrow and humiliation. When it 
 was decided that the royal family must 
 place themselves under the protection of 
 the Assembly, the little procession went 
 forth in silent sorrow to behold their 
 beloved sovereigns abdicate the throne. 
 Calmly though with sadness Louis pro- 
 nounced the solemn words of abdication. 
 
 Beside him stood the queen, ready to 
 share his dangers and humiliations in the 
 future, with even more courage and de- 
 votedness than she had shown in the past. 
 Never, in the most brilliant scenes of her 
 
82 A fathee's tales. 
 
 reign, had Marie Antoinette looked so 
 noble and queenlike in tlie estimation of 
 lier weeping attendants, as at that moment, 
 when renouncing all earthly dignities and 
 hopes. Though her saddened countenance 
 told how keenly she felt the trials which 
 wounded her every feeling as woman, 
 queen, wife, and mother, yet the gracious 
 dignity of manner which had always dis- 
 tinguished her, remained unaltered 
 
 Thus sorrowful, but calm and uncomplain- 
 ing, she passed with her royal husband 
 from the throne to the Temple, which was 
 to be for a time the prison of this afflicted 
 family. 
 
 One consolation attended their imprison- 
 m.ent; they were still all together; and, 
 animated by the deepest affection for one 
 another, and upheld by the spirit of reli- 
 gion, they not only bore their great reverse 
 of fortune with patience, but even con- 
 trived to spend their time usefully, as cir- 
 cumstances permitted. The education of 
 the children was not neglected. King 
 
THE KING AND THE QUEEN. 33 
 
 Louis heard their lessons, and failed not 
 to draw their attention to everything that 
 could elevate and inspire their docile minds. 
 From the queen and Madame Elizabeth 
 ihej received instructions in drawing and 
 music. At stated hours — for in this little 
 prison household all things were conducted 
 with regularity and order — the king or his 
 sister would read aloud, while the queen 
 was busy with the embroidery work of 
 which she was so fond. The two ladies 
 had also another occupation, a strange one 
 for royal fingers — mending the poor and 
 scant supply of garments which remained 
 to them. In everything they conformed 
 to their altered circumstances with the 
 graceful ease that had characterized them 
 amid far different scenes. 
 
 But this peaceful state of affairs could 
 not long continue. The enemies of the 
 dethroned monarch, thirsting for his blood, 
 soon had him separated from the objects 
 of his fond affection and thrown into a 
 lonely cell to prepare for trial. The little 
 
34 A fathee's tales. 
 
 party left in tlie Temple were now indeed 
 desolate and aiEicted. They conld no 
 longer pursue tlie employments and amuse- 
 ments which had hitherto beguiled the 
 weary days ; all other thoughts and cares 
 were lost in intense anxiety for the king. 
 By means of his faithful attendant, Clery, 
 they occasionally heard from him, but the 
 tidings of his mock trial dispelled every 
 hope they had tried to entertain. Happy 
 was it for the devoted wife and sister in 
 that time of anguish that their trust was 
 fixed on a heavenly comforter ; that true 
 piety softened in some degree the bitter- 
 ness of their affliction. And happy for 
 the king that a life spent in the practice 
 of virtue had prepared him to trust with 
 humble confidence to that great Tribunal 
 where justice and mercy — ^neither of which 
 could he expect from man — would decide 
 his lot for eternity. To him no earthly 
 hope remained. The yoimg Eepublic 
 (as France was now proclaimed,) must 
 signalize her entrance among nations by 
 the murder of the best of kings. 
 
THE KIKG AND THE QUEEN. 85 
 
 Louis was summoned to trial by tlie Na- 
 tional Convention as a tyrant and enemy 
 of his country. He appeared before them 
 Avith a firm, manly bearing, and calmly 
 listened to the monstrous charges whose 
 falsity was well known to his accusers. 
 Of the few heroic men who had the cour- 
 age to volunteer as his legal defenders he 
 had chosen Messieurs Trouchet, Malesher- 
 bes and Deseze. These gentlemen exerted 
 all their powers in his defence, Many of 
 the members of the Convention also pleaded 
 eloquently for him, but in vain. His con- 
 demnation had been decreed long before. 
 The Convention, by a majority of twenty - 
 six out of seven hundred and twenty voters, 
 sentenced him to death by the guillotine. 
 Louis was not dismayed by the dread an- 
 nouncement. Earth had lost its charms 
 for him; his zealous confessor animated 
 him to endure a painful and ignominious 
 death by the remembrance of his Saviour's 
 sufferings. His only anxiety was for his 
 family, but he was consoled by the belief 
 
86 A father's tales. 
 
 that his death would put an end to their 
 trials. He imagined, as was natural, that 
 after his execution the fickle tide of popu- 
 lar favor would turn against his murder- 
 ers, and that his son would be allowed 
 to ascend the throne of his ancestors. 
 With this impression he gave the little 
 Dauphin his last command, one which 
 fully proved the Christian nobleness of 
 his soul — it was to take no revenge for 
 his father's death. In the same spirit of 
 sublime fortitude and charity he ascended 
 the scaffold, and uttered his last words 
 in clear, firm tones: "I die innocent — 
 I forgive my enemies!" He would have 
 added a few parting words to those whom 
 he well styled his unfortunate people, 
 but the loud roll of drums interrupted 
 him. The next moment the axe fell — his 
 confessor, the intrepid Abbe Edge worth, 
 announced the end of the terrible tragedy 
 by that solemn, beautiful farewell : '■'■Son of 
 St. Louis ! ascend to Heaven^ 
 
 Thus on the memorable 21st of January, 
 
THE KING AND THE QUEEN. 37 
 
 1793, was commenced that reign of blood- 
 shed and crime in the name of "Liberty, 
 Fraternity, and Equality," which was to 
 plunge unhappy France into woe, and ren- 
 der the name of Eepublican odious to all 
 Europe. 
 
 The deluded multitude broke into wild 
 shouts of joy, and cries of " Live the Ee- 
 public," rang through the streets as the 
 frenzied crowds rushed along exulting over 
 the fall of their royal victim. Those shouts 
 penetrated the Temple and struck dismally 
 to the hearts of the weeping, trembling 
 group there, telling them the sad fate of 
 him they loved. Ah! what unutterable 
 anguish was theirs. Prostrate before her 
 crucifix the mourning sister passed that 
 ,woful day in fervent prayer for the be- 
 reaved widow and helpless orphans; in- 
 terrupting her supplication only to lavish 
 tender attentions on those dear objects of 
 her solicitude. The poor Queen was ut- 
 terly bowed down with her affliction. 
 
 4 
 
38 A father's tales. 
 
 Slie begged an account of tlie last hours 
 •of the King, but her cruel jailers refused 
 her even this sad consolation. Nor was 
 she allowed to receive the ring and lock 
 of hair which King Louis had desired to 
 he transmitted to her. Months of dreary cap- 
 tivity wore on ; the captives were treated 
 with the utmost rigor, as it was the de- 
 sign of their enemies to kill them by harsh- 
 ness and privation. They were denied all 
 communication with their friends, nor did 
 any one dare to manifest any sympathy 
 for them. To increase their woes the little 
 Prince was torn from his frantic mother, 
 and imprisoned in another part of the Tem- 
 ple. In vain the Queen and the two Prin- 
 cesses besou'ght even the poor privilege of 
 sometimes seeing him. They were harshly 
 refused, and their cup of sorrow was full 
 when they learned that he had been en- 
 trusted to the care of a drunken cobbler, 
 who abused him unmercifully, while the 
 poor child wept and pleaded to be allowed 
 to see his mother. "What tidings were 
 these for the heart-broken Queen. 
 
THE KING AND THE QUEEN. 89 
 
 Six months after the death of the King, 
 the Convention decreed that Marie Antoi- 
 nette be removed to the prison of the Con- 
 ciergerie to prepare for her approaching 
 triaL At two o'clock one morning the 
 soldiers burst into the Queen's apartment, 
 and commanded her to rise from her bed 
 and follow them. The unhappy Queen 
 silently obeyed, but her anguish was over- 
 whelming when she folded her daughter 
 to her heart for the last time. Then lead- 
 ing the afilicted maiden to Madame, she 
 said, " Behold the person who will be to 
 you henceforth father and mother, obey 
 her, love her, as your mother. And you, 
 my dear sister," she added, embracing her, . 
 " I leave you to be the mother of my poor 
 orphans. Love them as you have loved 
 us in the dungeon, and even unto death." 
 With these words, unable longer to endure 
 the parting scene, she rushed from the 
 room. In passing through the low door- 
 way, she struck her head with great force 
 against it. When one of the soldiers in- 
 
40 A father's tales. 
 
 quired if she was hurt, she replied, in ac- 
 cents of despair : "0, no — nothing now 
 can harm me." 
 
 The prison of the Conciergerie was a 
 range of subterranean dungeons beneath 
 the Palace of Justice. Into one of these 
 underground cells, as-^damp and repulsive 
 as a sepulchre, was rudely thrust the daugh- 
 ter of the great Marie Therese of Austria. 
 A pine table, two old chairs, and a miser- 
 able bed with tattered and soiled bedding, 
 comprised the furniture. One small win- 
 dow admitted a few rays of light between 
 massive iron bars; water dripped down 
 the mouldy walls, and settled in pools on 
 the stone floor. The silence of this living 
 tomb was broken only by the grating of 
 rusty locks and keys, and hinges, and the 
 rumbling of carts over the pavements over- 
 head. Such was the abode furnished to 
 the once brilliant star of the Tuileries. 
 the envied bride of a powerful monarch, the 
 kind-hearted, amiable Marie Antoinette. 
 
 The cruelty of her enemies would have 
 
THE KING AND THE QUEEN. 41 
 
 deprived her even of tlie comfort of know- 
 ing that her situation excited compassion 
 in any heart. But the jailer and his wife, 
 feeling the deepest sympathy for their illus- 
 trious prisoner, contrived by stealth to ex- 
 press their feelings by kind looks and words, 
 which afforded her some alleviation of her 
 woes. They were constantly desirous to 
 gratify her as far as possible, in every wish 
 she expressed. Once the jailer's wife, Ma- 
 dame Eichard, understood that she (Jesired 
 a melon. She went immediately to the mar- 
 ket. Something in her manner, as she ex- 
 amined the fruit, conveyed her secret pur- 
 pose to the market-woman. "You want 
 it for the Queen, I know," she whispered, 
 eagerly, " Well, choose the best — No, I 
 will have no money for it — tell our unfor- 
 tunate Qaeen that there are many" who 
 weep for her." The Queen was touched 
 and gratified by this little incident. One 
 day Madame Eichard presented her a rose, 
 concealed among its petals was a scrap of 
 paper upon which a friend had inscribed a 
 
42 A father's tales. 
 
 few words of love. Tlie watchful soldiers, 
 two of whorQ were constantly in tlie cell 
 by day and night, detected the loving arti- 
 fice ; and the jailer and his wife were im- 
 mured in the d.ungeons whose horrors 
 they had charitably wished to alleviate. 
 Madame Kichard was killed soon after. Ma- 
 rie Antoinette mourned her kind-hearted 
 keeper. A new jailer was placed over her, 
 with the most stringent instructions. He 
 was strictly charged to give her no food 
 other than the coarse bread and muddy 
 water which were furnished to the most 
 worthless criminals. But Madame Bault, 
 the new jailer's wife, touched with the deep- 
 est compassion for the discrowned Queen, 
 in defiance of this order, supplied her with 
 food prepared by her own hands. She 
 also allowed her daughter to go to the cell 
 every morning to dress the captive's hair, 
 and sent by her several tokens of regard, 
 though to avoid exciting suspicion she 
 never approached the cell herself. Thus 
 the spirit of humanity, even triumphs in 
 revolutionary dungeons. 
 
 < 
 
THE KING AND THE QUEEN. 43 
 
 Still, notwithstanding these kindnesses 
 the condition of the Queen was most piti- 
 able, during the two months she passed 
 in the Conciergerie, and her miserable 
 appearance might have awakened some 
 feeling of pity in the hardest heart. Her 
 health had completely failed. Every 
 trace of her radiant beauty had disap- 
 peared ; her cheeks were hollow and 
 pallid ; her eyes sunken ; her hair white as 
 snow. She possessed but two gowns, and 
 they were in tatters ; her shoes, kept con- 
 stantly wet from the dampness of the floor, 
 were such 'as a beggar would disdain to 
 wear. But all her physical suffering was 
 nothing compared to the agony of mind 
 she endured ; grieving for her martyred 
 husband ; fearing for the fate of her child- 
 ren ; shrinking with natural rep^ignance 
 from the doom she well knew awaited her- 
 self. But all these trials were preparing 
 for her an immortal crown. To occupy 
 her time, she sometimes wrote, with a 
 needle on the walls of her cell, portions of 
 
44 A fathee's tales. 
 
 the hymns and prayers which she was 
 wont to repeat. Wishing to send some 
 memorial of her last days on earth to her 
 daughter, she pulled some threads from 
 an old counterpane, and by means of two 
 ivory tooth-picks, knitted a garter. When 
 it was finished, she watched her opportu- 
 nity, and, giving her compassionate jailer 
 a sign, dropped it near him. He, letting 
 fall his handkerchief, contrived to pick 
 up the garter along with it, imdetected by 
 the guards. What a precious memorial 
 of love was that to the affectionate heart 
 of Marie Therese. 
 
 At length, on the 14th of October, 
 Marie Antoinette was summoned to appear 
 before the tribunal which was to decide 
 her earthly fate. What a tribunal was 
 that to decide legal questions and adminis- 
 ter y^s^zce. It consisted of a public crier, 
 a surgeon, an upholsterer, a tailor, a 
 printer, a barber, and a painter. This 
 was counted a triumph of the people over 
 monarchy. The Queen was accused "of 
 
THE KING AND THE QUEEN. 45 
 
 having conspired against France," a vague 
 but terrible accusation, wbicli was suffi- 
 cient to condemn to the block any person 
 obnoxious to tbe tyrants. The Queen, 
 with an air composed and majestic as in 
 her proudest days, listened to the absurd 
 charges which they vainly strove to bring 
 against her. The mockery of a trial lasted 
 three days and night, and was in the esti- 
 mation of impartial persons a complete 
 vindication of the Queen. There were 
 perjured witnesses of course ; such wretches 
 can always be procured by any govern- 
 ment, and a court which is convened f(^ 
 the purpose of convicting will always be 
 tase enough to pretend to give credence 
 to such testimony. The Queen was unani- 
 mously condemned by this so-called tri- 
 bunal. 
 
 She heard the sentence without any 
 symptom of emotion ; it was what she had 
 long expected. Reconducted to her cell, 
 she immediately wrote a touching letter 
 of farewell to Madame Elizabeth, dated 
 
46 A fathee's tales. 
 
 from tlie Conciergerie, October 16th, 1793, 
 at half-past four o'clock in the niorning. 
 In this letter she sent to her children her 
 blessing, with some ^ood advice as to their 
 future conduct. She particularly wished 
 to impress on her son's mind the dying 
 charge of his royal father, which she " now 
 repeated emphatically — Let him never seek 
 to avenge our death P'' She expressed her 
 desire to die at peace with all the world ; 
 her tender regard for Madame Elizabeth, 
 and her few remaining friends, whose 
 pardon she besought if she had ever 
 paused them pain. She also declared her 
 purpose of dying in the holy faith of her 
 fathers, though she could not hope to ref^ 
 ceive spiritual consolation, as none but a 
 " constitutional" priest would be allowed 
 to attend her. 
 
 The barbarous cruelty of the foes of 
 royalty was shown in the smallest mat- 
 ters. This illustrious sufferer, more en- 
 nobled by her virtues and trials than 
 even by her high birth, was conveyed to 
 
THE KIXG AND THE QUEE]S^. 47 
 
 the place of execution in a common cart, 
 her hands bound, the executioner sitting 
 on one side of her, on the other the con- 
 stitutional priest, whose ministrations she, 
 of course, refused. The cart was escorted 
 by detachments of cavalry and infantry — 
 thousands of troops lined the streets ; an 
 actor, hired for the purpose, incited the 
 people to shouts and yells of derision. 
 The Queen, unmoved, showed neither dis- 
 dain nor fear. Her firmness did not de- 
 sert her on the scaffold. Fervently in- 
 voking Him in whom she trusted, she 
 met her doom calmly, and thus passed 
 from a world in which she had experi- 
 enced the extreme of good and bad for- 
 tunes. 
 
CHAPTEE II. ^s^^^^ 
 
 THE KOYAL CHILDKEN". 
 
 HAVE already, in speaking 
 of the King and Queen, al- 
 luded to the trials in which 
 their two children shared 
 Let us now enter into some 
 of the details of those young 
 lives so early clouded. 
 
 The princess, Marie Therese Charlotte, 
 was the eldest child of Louis XYI. and 
 Marie Antoinette, and was born at Ver- 
 sailles, on the 19th of December, 1778. 
 Her education was conducted with the 
 greatest care, by several governesses, of 
 whom the most important were Madame 
 de Tourzel and Madame de Polignac. 
 (48) 
 
THE EOYAL CHILDREN-. 49 
 
 Her mother and lier aunt, Madame Eliza- 
 "beth, also took pleasure in instructing 
 her. The little princess did credit to her 
 zealous and accomplished teachers : She 
 made extraordinary progress both in 
 virtue and learning. An anecdote which 
 is related of her when only eight years 
 old, shows how generous was her dispo- 
 sition, and how early she had learned the 
 patience and fortitude of Avhich her after 
 life was to prove so bright an example. 
 One morning, when she was reciting her 
 lesson, the governess, Madame de Mac- 
 kan, accidentally trod on her foot. The 
 child, without giving the least sign of the 
 pain she was sufiering, went on with her 
 task, and the teacher knew nothing of the 
 occurrence, until she was preparing her 
 pupil for bed, when to her surprise and 
 distress she found the foot much inflamed, 
 and the stocking saturated with blood. 
 To the question why did she not mention 
 the hurt at the time, Marie Therese tenderly 
 embracing her preceptress, replied, " Dear 
 
 6 
 
50 A father's tales. 
 
 Madame, if now that I have ceased to 
 suffer, the accident afflicts you so much,- 
 what would not have been your pain if 
 you had known it when I was suffering ?" 
 Thus patient and considerate of others 
 was this royal child. 
 
 In her ninth year she was affianced to 
 her cousin Louis Antoine, the Duke d'- 
 Angouleme, son of the Count d'Artoise, 
 amid scenes of festivity and rejoicing. 
 Long years afterward she used to speak 
 of this joyous time with something of 
 surprise that she had ever known such 
 happiness. The Duke was an amiable, 
 pious youth, and the King and Queen 
 rejoiced over the prospect of happiness to 
 their child from a betrothal, which true 
 affection as well as state reasons sanctioned. 
 Who could then dream of the trials await- 
 ing the child-bride — through what fearful 
 scenes she was destined to pass ere the 
 celebration of the nuptials thus fore- 
 shadowed ! 
 
 The revolution began, and, as I have 
 
THE EOYAL CHILDREN. 51 
 
 already mentioned, tlie royal family were 
 compelled to remove from Versailles to 
 Paris, where they found themselves in 
 reality prisoners in charge of watchful 
 guards. Here, under circumstances so 
 widely different from what she had once 
 anticipated, Marie Therese made her first 
 communion. Pious and sensible to a 
 degree far above her years, she prepared 
 for this solemn duty with the greatest 
 care, giving little thought to the absence 
 of all those ceremonies and festivities 
 which were wont to grace so important a 
 day in the lives of the royal children of 
 France. But her parents and aunt felt the 
 change keenly. When the King gave her 
 his blessing on that memorable morning, 
 he folded her in his arms, and lamenting 
 that he could not bestow on her the splen- 
 did gifts customary on this solemn occasion, 
 said : 
 
 " I know you are too reasonable, my 
 daughter, to think, at the time when your 
 attention should be wholly given to adorn 
 
52 A father's tales. 
 
 ing your soul and making it a fitting resi- 
 dence for the King of Heaven, of any 
 worldly gifts I could bestow upon you. 
 Besides, my dear child, the public misery 
 is very great ; the poor are in much dis- 
 tress; and I feel sure that you would 
 rather dispense v/ith rich ornaments than 
 wear them, while knowing that so many 
 want bread." Thus spoke the good King 
 whom his enemies delighted to represent 
 to deluded multitudes as the o|)pressor of 
 his people, regardless of their sufferings. 
 
 The young princess has left us a touch- 
 ing account of the afflictions and vexations 
 endured by the royal prisoners. It is 
 from her we learn how nobly all was 
 endured ; what order, regularity, and good 
 employment of time were observed, as far 
 as circumstances permitted. And most 
 affecting is her description of her little 
 brother, who, scarcely more than an 
 infant when the troubles began, shared in 
 the privations and dangers to which his 
 parents were subjected. With his mind 
 
THE KOYAL CHILDEEN. 53 
 
 prematured by woe, and his generous, 
 sensitive disposition, so like his father's, 
 the Dauphin felt most keenly every insult 
 and injury inflicted on those who were all 
 the world to him. , Once, during the early 
 days of their captivity, he was with his 
 mother when the mob filled the court of 
 Tuilleries, addressing her in the most in- 
 sulting language, and uttering fierce 
 threats and imprecations. Little Louis 
 gazed alternately at the riotous crowd, 
 and at his mother and aunt, whose calm, 
 majestic air never forsook them. Follow- 
 ing- their example he remained silent, 
 showing no symptom of grief or fear 
 during that cruel scene which lasted over 
 ^ve hours. But the next morning when 
 the shouts of the rabble again arose around 
 the palace, he evinced the impression it 
 had made on his mind by his artless ques- 
 tion, "Mamma, is'nt yesterday over yet?" 
 Poor innocent child — the scenes of yester- 
 day were to be re-enacted during weary 
 years. 
 
 6* 
 
54 A father's tales. 
 
 On another occasion, after listening: with 
 swelling heart to the brutal language with 
 which the jailers were wont to address the' 
 King, the child ran and hid himself in his 
 room to give vent to the tears he would 
 not shed in presence of his afi&icted parents. 
 When his sister followed him, trying to 
 soothe his grief, he told her with heart- 
 breaking sobs, that "he seemed to see his 
 father already killed." It seems scarcely 
 credible that even the monsters of the 
 revolution would be willing to persecute 
 so young a victim : but he was the King's 
 son — that thought was suf&cient to steel 
 their hearts against him. One day the 
 guard told his prisoners that in case the 
 enemy, (meaning the true sons of France, 
 who were now in arms for the King,) ap- 
 proached Paris, they should be put to 
 death : adding that he only felt compassion 
 for the little Louis, but still, as the son of 
 a tyrant, he must die with the others, young 
 as he was. 
 
 After the death of the King the Conven- 
 6* 
 
THE ROYAL CHILDREN. 55 
 
 tion were mucli perplexed as to what dis- 
 posal to make of the child, who was noAv 
 rightfully Louis XYII., and, therefore, the 
 object of their hatred and alarm. They 
 were unwilling to condemn him to the 
 guillotine ; such a barbarous measure might 
 be impolitic, yet they could feel no security 
 while he lived, in the enjoyment of their 
 usurped power. They finally passed a de- 
 cree ordering him to be taken from his 
 mother, and confined in the strongest room 
 in the tower. When the order was read 
 to the royal prisoners a heart-rending 
 scene took place. The Prince, with frantic 
 screams, threw himself into his mother's 
 arms, imploring her not to give him up to 
 his executioners. The poor Queen, in the 
 delirium of her grief placed him on the 
 bed, and stationing herself between him 
 and the agents of the Convention, declared 
 they should kill her before she would 
 allow them to touch her idolized boy. 
 Even those stony hearts were moved, and 
 for two hours they tried, by mingled per- 
 
56 A fathee's tales. 
 
 suasions, threats and insults, to accomplisli 
 their object without resorting to actual 
 violence. At last, the unfortunate mother 
 wholly exhausted, fell prostrate on the bed, 
 and the child, still struggling, and scream- 
 ing with grief and terror, was borne away 
 to hisnew cell. The little party thus cruelly 
 bereaved, wept and prayed, and vainly 
 strove to console each other by hopes none 
 of them could venture to entertain. Daily 
 they expected to hear that their darling's 
 life had been sacrificed ; but a more cruel 
 fate was reserved for him. 
 
 For two days the poor child lay on the 
 floor of his gloomy cell, refusing all nour- 
 ishment, longing to die. As the vehe- 
 mence of his grief exhausted itself, he be- 
 gan to recall the pious lessons he had re- 
 ceived from his beloved parents, and with 
 his tears were now mingled supplications 
 for resignation and submission to the holy 
 will of God. It was well for him that his 
 soul had been so thoroughly imbued with 
 religious sentiments, for he was now the 
 
THE EOYAL CHILDREN. 57 
 
 victim of persecution wliicli it required 
 superhuman fortitude in a child of seven 
 years to endure. He was placed under 
 the charge of a drunken cohbler, named 
 Simon. This man, who was one of the 
 Convention's hirelings, accepted the trust 
 with fiendish delight. 
 
 " What am I to do with him?" he asked 
 the Committee. of Public Safety. " Banish 
 him from France?" 
 
 '' ISTo," was the only answer vouchsafed. 
 
 "Shall I kill him?" 
 
 ''No." 
 
 " Poison him?" 
 
 " No. Get quit of liim — now you know 
 your of&ce." 
 
 The inhuman Simon did, indeed, under- 
 stand his ofiice, and faithfully did he per- 
 form a trust which suited his inhuman 
 nature well. From that day every species 
 of cruelty which he could invent he tried 
 on the desolate child. He made him his 
 servant, exacted from him the most labo- 
 rious and menial tasks, punishing him 
 
58 A fathek's tales. 
 
 without mercy when he failed to satisfy 
 his requirements. ITot content with all 
 the physical torture he could inflict on 
 his royal victim, he strove by every 
 means to deprave his mind, and rob him 
 of those virtuous sentiments which were 
 now his only consolation. He tried to 
 teach him the most blasphemous oaths, 
 and to force him to sing wicked songs. 
 But the pure-minded child, shuddering 
 with horror, would cover his ears to keep 
 out the loathsome sounds, though he knew 
 cruel blows would punish what his perse- 
 cutor termed his obstinacy. It is heart- 
 sickening to think of the sufferings the 
 delicate, sensitive child endured at the 
 hands of this monster — the dangers of 
 soul and body to which he was exposed 
 during two weary years. Yet the grace of 
 God sustained him through all, and virtue 
 has seldom had a nobler triumph than 
 in the person of this heroic descendant of 
 kings, whose short life was one continual 
 scene of war. Nor is there on record an 
 
THE EOYAL CHILDREN. 59 
 
 « 
 
 instance of more true nobleness of soul 
 than is related of this " child of France." 
 
 " Capet," said his brntal guardian to 
 him one day, "if the friends of royalty 
 should ever succeed, and place you on 
 your father's throne, what would you do ?" 
 
 ^^ I would forgive you^'' was the instant 
 reply. 0, worthy son of a noble sire ! 
 No dazzling visions of pomp and power 
 floated before him at that glorious pros- 
 pect, his first thought was that he would 
 exercise the sovereign's best prerogative — 
 to show mercy. Think of this, children, 
 when you find it hardio forgive any trifling 
 slight or injury you receive; remember 
 little Louis XVII. and his persecutor. 
 
 Happily the other sorrowing captives 
 of the Temple did not know how cruelly 
 the child so dear to them was treated. 
 Their own fate daily became more gloomy 
 and hopeless. Soon their number was 
 again lessened; the hapless Queen was 
 borne o£R to the horrid dungeon, which was 
 the gate to the scaffold. The young prin- 
 
60 A father's tales. 
 
 cess suffered so much from grief at the 
 separation from her mother, and anxiety 
 and gloomy forebodings of what would be 
 that dear ' parent's fate, that she had a 
 severe fit of illness, during which her 
 aunt, now her only companion and guar- 
 dian, nursed her with the most devoted 
 care. But neither sickness nor sorrow 
 could shield her from the malicious de- 
 vices of the enemies of her family. Hoping 
 to extort from her some answer which 
 they could alter to suit their purpose, 
 they summoned the royal maiden before 
 them, and artfully questioned her on the 
 various accusations they intended to bring 
 against her mother. For three hours this 
 cross-examination lasted, causing incon- 
 ceivable tortures to the timid, loving child, 
 who in the bitterest anguish returned to 
 her cell, and sought consolation from her 
 beloved aunt. But she also was sum- 
 moned in her turn to go through the same 
 ordeal, and the failure of this atrocious 
 plan for gaining information against the 
 
THE EOYAL CHILDEEN". 61 
 
 Queen still more embittered their foes, 
 and added to the rigor of their captivity. 
 The trifling favors they had hitherto been 
 allowed were withdrawn; the f^w relics 
 they had of those dear to them, and of 
 happier times, were rudely taken from 
 them ; even the embroidery which the 
 Queen had worked during her imprison- 
 ment, and which the fond daughter begged 
 with tears might be left to her. The 
 tongue of slander was also employed to 
 add to their sufferings. They were ac- 
 cused of theft, of forgery; and these 
 charges afforded a pretext for searching 
 them, as often as suited their diabolical 
 jailers, who gloated over the distress and 
 humiliation which they caused. 
 
 But a heavier blow was in store for 
 Marie Therese. She must now lose her 
 only friend, her second mother — who was 
 to pass from the guillotine to that bright 
 kingdom where her virtues would be re- 
 warded with an unfading crown. On the 
 night of the 9th of May, 1794, Madame 
 
 6 
 
62 A father's tales. 
 
 Elizabeth, was forced to leave her weeping 
 neice, whom she was scarcely allowed to 
 embrace, with a murmured blessing, ere 
 she was *hurried away to the Conciergerie. 
 The next day she was summoned to what 
 was called her trial. Ko charge was made, 
 no witnesses appeared against her. Her 
 crime consisted in having dressed the 
 wounds of the soldiers who had suffered 
 in defending her royal brother on the fatal 
 " lOtb of August," 1792, and being an ac- 
 complice of the King and Queen! To 
 establish, this, the court knew they needed 
 only to put a few simple questions. The 
 president, therefore, inquired where she 
 was on those memorable days — the 6th of 
 October, 20th. of June, and 10th of Au- 
 gust — to which she replied with much dig- 
 nity and firmness, that "she was with the 
 King and Queen, having never quitted 
 them under those trying circumstances." 
 One of the counsel of Marie Antoinette, 
 M. Chauveau Lagard, also generously 
 came forward to defend Madame Eliza- 
 
THE EOYAL CHILDKEN. 63 
 
 beth, but bis efforts were unavailing. In 
 sucb courts sentence is determined on 
 before the trial takes place. 
 
 The Princess on being condemned was 
 immediately hastened to the place of exe- 
 cution. No time was given her to prepare 
 for death, but it mattered not to her whose 
 whole life had been a preparation for this 
 solemn moment. On the way she exhorted 
 her fellow-victims to contrition and re- 
 signation, and prayed fervently for them 
 as well as for herself. As a crowning act 
 of cruelty her death was put off until all 
 the others, over twenty in number, had 
 been guillotined. But the horrid specta- 
 cle did not daunt her firm soul. The in- 
 terval only afforded her a last opportunity 
 of exercising her favorite virtue, charity, 
 in -recommending each soul, as the fatal 
 knife set it free, to the mercy of God. And 
 when, at length, her own turn came, with 
 the same calm fortitude that she had main. 
 tained through life she meekly yielded to 
 her doom. Thus died, ere she had reached 
 
64 A .father's tales. 
 
 her tliirti^tli birthday, the virtuous and 
 accomplished sister of Louis XVI. Crowds 
 of people thronged the streets through 
 which she was conducted to the place of 
 execution, lamenting that the good Princess 
 who, in happy times, had devoted her time 
 and means almost wholly to the poor and 
 unfortunate, should thus be murdered ; yet 
 as in the case of the King, making not one 
 effort to release her. So worthless a thing 
 is popular favor in nearly all cases. 
 
 We must now return to the solitary oc- 
 cupant of the royal cell, to whom this last 
 deprivation was a most cruel blow. It had 
 come so suddenly that the hapless girl was 
 at first stupified by her grief. She did not 
 yet know that her mother was dead, and 
 for days she continued to importune her 
 jailers to allow her to go to whatever 
 prison her mother and aunt inhabited. At 
 last the finishing stroke was given to her 
 misery by the knowledge that she had seen 
 both for the last time on earth. She was 
 now, indeed, an orphan, and it would be 
 
THE EOYAL CHILDEEN. 65 
 
 difficult to conceive a more desolate and 
 sorrowful position than hers. Even her 
 request to be allowed a female attendant 
 was denied. The misery of the past was 
 happiness compared to her present condi- 
 tion. Prayer was her only solace in her 
 loneliness and affliction ; by degrees this 
 calmed the violence of her sorrow, and 
 obtained her the resignation she humbly 
 sought. 
 
 The next event that had an influence on 
 her destiny was the death of her little 
 brother, who, after two years of suffering 
 from his brutal guardian, expired on the 
 8th of June, 1795. As there was no one 
 now in France to aspire to the crown, the 
 people of Orleans ventured to intercede for 
 the " orphan of the Temple." Other towns 
 followed the example, obtaining for her 
 first a mitigation of the rigorous treatment 
 she had so long endured, and under which 
 her health was giving way. Finally, in 
 December of the same year, the French 
 Directory consented to exchange the daugh- 
 
 6*^ 
 
66 A father's tales. 
 
 ter of tlie martjr-king for commissioners 
 whom Dumouriez had given up to Austria, 
 and on her seventeenth birth- day she was 
 released from captivity. Before leaving 
 the scene of so many royal misfortunes 
 she traced on the wall of her prison these 
 words: " O, my God! pardon those who 
 have put my parents to death!" It was 
 the spirit of the parents still living in the 
 last of this group of martyrs. The authori- 
 ties, apprehensive of some demonstration 
 on the part of the populace which would 
 prove their attachment to the royal family, 
 took care to have the Princess liberated at 
 night, and conducted in silence and secresy 
 to the carriage which awaited her at some 
 distance from the Temple. Her journey 
 through France was performed with as 
 much concealment and speed as possible. 
 She travelled under the name of Sophia, 
 but her great resemblance to Marie An- 
 toinette caused her to be often recognized, 
 and she was much affected by the tearful 
 homage she thus received. It was balm 
 
THE EOYAL CHILDREN. 67 • 
 
 to her long-suffering spirit as she took 
 what she believed to be her last look at 
 her native land, the land which enshrined 
 the precious dust of her parents, aunt, and 
 brother. 
 
 " I wonder she was allowed to leave 
 France," said Charles, after his father had 
 concluded. "It is strange to me that the 
 Princess escaped the fate of the rest of her 
 family." 
 
 " It would probably have been otherwise 
 had their been any danger of the new 
 government being molested on her account, 
 but as females are not eligible to the throne 
 in France, they had nothing to apprehend. 
 Besides, we are to remember that death 
 can only come at the time that God ap- 
 points ; and as the suffering and death of 
 the others may serve as examples for us, 
 so from the long and eventful life of Marie 
 Therese we may derive many useful 
 lessons, particularly in those virtues of 
 which she was a model — perfect submis- 
 sion to the will of God and unalterable 
 fidelity to her religion." 
 
68 A father's tales. 
 
 "I am so glad she was'nt killed — tlie 
 dear good lady," said Katy. " Won't you 
 tell lis some more about lier, papa ?" 
 
 "Her subsequent history has no con- 
 nection with, tbe revolution," replied the 
 father, smiling, "and therefore does not 
 eriiter into our agreement. It would take 
 too long to narrate the particulars, for her 
 career was one crowded with vicissitudes, 
 dangers and misfortunes. I will allude to 
 some of these, however ; her biography will 
 be useful and interesting to you, by-and-by. 
 
 " From France the princess went directly 
 to Austria, where she was warmly welcom- 
 ed by the court. In May, 1798, she repaired 
 to Mittau, where her uncle, Louis XYIII. 
 resided. A year* afterward she was married 
 to the Duke of Angouleme to whom she 
 had been betrothed twelve years before. 
 Devotedly attached as they were to each 
 other, there were many recollections that 
 made this ceremony a mournful one, and 
 the presence of the Abbe Edgeworth, the 
 heroic priest who had attended her father 
 
THE ROYAL CHILDREN. 69 
 
 to the scaffold — wliile it was gratifying to 
 tlie grateful heart of the bride, could not 
 fail to draw forth tears of filial love and 
 regret. Napoleon's victories caused the 
 family of Louis XVIII to leave the various 
 towns in Germany in which they suc- 
 cessively sought refuge. At last driven 
 from the Continent, in 1809, they establish- 
 ed themselves in England, the only part 
 of Europe to which the power of the 
 Emperor had not extended. Here they 
 lived in seclusion for about six years, 
 during which time the wife of Louis XVIII. 
 died, and the charge of the royal house- 
 hold fell on the Duchess. This was no 
 pleasant duty, for with her uncle's limited 
 means the closest economy was necessary. 
 Marie Therese performed her task nobly, 
 and even managed to spare something 
 regularly for the relief of the poor, many 
 of whom, like herself, were exiles from 
 France. Only once did she appear at 
 court, which was on the occasion of the 
 anniversary of the birth of George III. 
 
70 A father's tales. 
 
 At length the downfall of Napoleon re- 
 stored her uncle to the throne of his 
 ancestors. Their return to France evoked 
 the wildest enthusiasm, and the amiable 
 Duchess was the object of so many touching 
 manifestations of regard, that again and 
 again she exclaimed in the fulness of her 
 heart, " How happy I am to find myself 
 surrounded by the French." She was so 
 much impressed by this enthusiastic wel- 
 come that she could not forbear an expres- 
 sion of wonder that the Bourbons should 
 ever have quitted a land which could 
 exhibit so much joy and gladness in re- 
 ceiving them again. 
 
 But she was soon to experience the 
 fickleness of popular feeling. In less than 
 a year her family were again exiles ; 
 x^apoleon having returned from his banish- 
 ment at Elba, and taken peaceable pos- 
 session of the throne of France. Then 
 there came another change — N^apoleon 
 overthrown by fhe allied powers of Water- 
 loo, the throne again reverted to Louis 
 
THE EOYAL CHILDKEN. 71 
 
 XYIII. Marie Therese found herself once 
 more in her native land, and the next 
 fifteen years were spent tranquilly at the 
 Tuilleries, in the constant practice of 
 virtue and self-denial. She rose daily at 
 five o'clock, took her breakfast, which 
 consisted only of a cup of coftee at six, 
 heard mass, and attended to the distribu- 
 tion of her charities, which were both 
 judicious and liberal. She was careful to 
 employ every moment profitably, and to 
 make herself useful to every one around 
 her. Amid the splendor of the court, the 
 object of universal love and admiration, 
 she lived the life of a saint. It would 
 seem that after so many trials, the evening 
 of her life might pass in tranquillity. But 
 this was not to be. The revolution of 
 1830 banished the royal family once more. 
 For the third and last time she was forced 
 to flee from the land of her birth. Some 
 more years were spent in wanderings, find- 
 ing temporary homes in England, Scotland 
 and Germany. She had beheld her most 
 
72 A father's tales. 
 
 tenderly loved relatives and friends one 
 after another pass away; last and most 
 deeply monrned was the good Duke, her 
 husband. But the time drew near for her 
 to depart to receive the reward of her 
 saintlike virtues — of her almost unequaled 
 trials. An attack of inflammation of the 
 lungs closed her heroic life on the 18th 
 of October, 1851. The last three days of 
 her life, notwithstanding the severity of 
 her illness, were as industriously employed 
 as if she was in perfect health. All her 
 papers were inspected and arranged, the 
 affairs of her poor pensioners regulated, 
 her friends and servants taken leave of, 
 and affectionate messages sent to those 
 whom she could not receive. Then her 
 thoughts were given wholly to the Grod 
 she had so faithfully served, and the 
 prayer, "O God! come in aid to Thy 
 humble and unworthy servant in this hour 
 of judgment," was frequently on her lips, 
 until her soul calmly passed from earth. 
 Her biographer has remarked that the 
 
THE EOYAL CHILDREN. 
 
 73 
 
 will which she herself drew up is the best 
 funeral oration that could be read over 
 her remains, so clearly does it display the 
 piety, nobleness and talent of its royal 
 author. And no higher eulogy could be 
 pronounced than is offered in the testi- 
 mony of all those who knew her, during 
 the twenty years of her last exile, that no 
 word of reproach against France ever 
 escaped her lips ; charity and forgiveness 
 characterized her to the last." 
 
CHAPTER III. 
 
 f f 
 
 THE VICOMTE'S FAMILY. 
 
 s our attention was first given to 
 the sufferings of tlie royal family 
 of France in tlie ■ Revolution," 
 beo:an Mr. White on the next 
 
 evening, 
 
 I think the next 
 
 Subject in order would be the 
 trials of certain individuals who, 
 although of no great rank or eminence at 
 that time, have been made celebrated by 
 succeeding events. If the story of Louis 
 -XYI. shows how quickly all the power 
 
 (H) 
 
THE VICOMTE'S FAMILY. 75 
 
 and gra-ndeur of earth may be torn from 
 their possessors, the history of those to 
 whom I now refer is as remarkable an 
 instance of the facility with which such 
 dignities are sometimes obtained. The 
 little family consisted of father, mother, 
 and two children ; the father was beheaded ; 
 the mother, on the eve of a similar fate, 
 was set at liberty by a fortunate change 
 in public affairs. The death of one, the 
 escape of the other, produced no emotions * 
 of grief or joy save among their few rela- 
 tions and friends. They Avere only two 
 amongst the thousands of Eobespierre's 
 victim-s, whose fate was -of no particular *• 
 interest to their country nor the world at 
 large; yet several of their descendants '^re 
 numbered among the imperial and royal 
 houses of our day. Now who can tell me 
 the name of this family ?" 
 
 The older portion of the "young 
 folks" looked from one to another in silence ; 
 the little ones awaited the answer with 
 curiosity and interest. Mr. White enjoyed 
 the perplexity of the group. 
 
76 A father's tales. 
 
 " Study the problem out, lads and lasses," 
 said he, pleasantly. " I will give an ex- 
 planation that may help to make it more 
 easy-^-one of said descendants, a grand- 
 child, is the reigning sovereign of one of 
 the principal nations of Europe." 
 
 "What, nowT^ asked Eichard, eagerly. 
 ^^ Now — at least was so at the date of 
 our last intelligence from Europe. As the 
 perverse cable refused to be laid I cannot 
 9 vouch for what may have taken place 
 among our foreign relations during the last 
 twelve days." 
 
 " One of the principal nations of Europe, 
 ' you said, uncle i" 
 
 " Aye, Eichard, a ve?^ principal nation," 
 was the laughing reply. 
 
 " Oh, I know !" cried the oldest girl, 
 triumphantly. 
 
 "Who is it, Maggie?" "Do tell us." 
 "Now, that isn't fair," were the general 
 exclamations, as Maggie shook her head in 
 merry defiance. 
 
 " Father wishes each one to study it out. 
 
THE vicomte's family. 77 
 
 Come, don't take all night — there are not 
 so many principal nations in Europe." 
 
 " "Well, /can't make it out," said Charles, 
 who had been pondering the matter very 
 thoughtfully. " There is England— —I am * 
 sure Victoria's grandfather wasn't mur- 
 dered by Eobespierre. And there is Aus- 
 tria — and Bussia — and Spain — ^yes, and 
 Grermany — none of their royal families 
 had anything to do with the French Eevo- 
 lution, except that some of them were re- 
 lated to Louis and Marie Antoinette." 
 
 ''You didn't count France, Charles," 
 said Katy, who was an attentive listener. 
 
 hush, child — you don't know what 
 we are talking about." 
 
 ''Never mind, Katy," said her eldest^ 
 sister, as the child looked abashed at the 
 boyish tone of superiority. " There has 
 been many a poorer guess than that of 
 yours. Maybe Master Charles had better 
 take another thought before he dismisses 
 France so hastily." 
 
 " Now what are you talking about, Mag- 
 
78 A father's tales. 
 
 gie ? Everybody knows who the Emperor 
 Napoleon III. is," rejoined Charles. 
 
 " Perhaps you will have no objection to 
 tell us what you have learned of his gene- 
 alogy," said Mr. White, with an arch 
 smile. 
 
 " Why, he is the youngest son of King 
 Louis Bonaparte and Queen Hortense," 
 replied Charles, confidently, "and surely, 
 none of the Bonapartes was killed in the 
 Ee volution. — 0, stop, I have it now ! How 
 stupid in me not to remember that Hor- 
 tense's father was among the last that Eobe- 
 spierre sent to the guillotine, and that her 
 mother was to lose her head also, but lived 
 to marry Napoleon I., and so became Em- 
 press of France. Pshaw, why didn't I think 
 of that at first I" 
 
 " Well, now that you have solved the 
 problem I will commence my narration." 
 
 The Yicomte Alexander de Beauharnais 
 was one of those gallant young French- 
 men who hastened with Lafayette to the 
 assistance of the American colonies in the 
 
 6* 
 
THE VICOMTE'S FAMILY.* 79 
 
 early days of our revolution. He was an 
 enthusiastic lover of liberty, and when the 
 Revolution in his own country began he im- 
 mediately adopted its principles, deluded, 
 as -were many other well-meaning men, by 
 the hope of thus procuring for France re- 
 publican institutions similar to those of 
 the New World. He represented the no- 
 bles of Blois in the Constitutional Assem- 
 bly, where his sentiments accorded with 
 those of the moderate republicans. When 
 the Assembly was dissolved, he regained 
 the rank he had formerly held in the army, 
 and was among the brave oflB.cers who ral- 
 lied under the command of Lafayette as a 
 body guard for the royal family, whose 
 perils wer^ daily increasing. He was after- 
 wards elected to the National Convention, 
 of which body he was for a time president. 
 When the murder of the King, rousing all 
 Europe to just indignation, led to a general 
 coalition agains the Republic, the revolu- 
 tionary leaders, having in their own party 
 no officers of military knowledge or expe- 
 
80* A fathee's tales. 
 
 rience, were obliged to intrast important 
 commands to the few nobles who still ad- 
 hered to the republican canse. Among 
 these De Beauharnais held a conspicuous 
 position. He was appointed to the com- 
 mand of the army on the German fron- 
 tier, where he proved himself a brare and 
 ef&cient general. But the arrest of the 
 Girondists, or moderate members of the 
 Convention, and their total destruction as 
 a governing class by the murder of twenty 
 of their number, threw the whole power 
 of the government into the hands of the 
 Jacobins, a mob the most bru.tal, cowardly 
 and ferocious in the annals of crime. One 
 of their first acts was to dismiss from the 
 civil and military service of the Eepublic, 
 all who had a claim to noble birth or per- 
 sonal distinction, and to fill their places 
 with their own miserable creatures. De 
 Beauharnais was, of course, among those 
 discharged from the army. Most of the 
 disgraced oflScers fled to foreign lands, 
 aware that there was no longer safety for 
 
THE VICOMTE's FAMILY. 81 
 
 them in their own. The Yicomte, trusting 
 to the zealous services he had rendered 
 the Eepublic, returned to Paris, and took 
 up his residence in the family mansion. 
 His "wife, the amiable Josephine, gladly 
 welcomed him back to private life ; the 
 children, Eugene and Hortense, by their 
 sprightly, affectionate ways, contributed 
 to the happiness of their parents. A few 
 weeks thus passed ; then the little family 
 circle was broken, never to be reunited 
 on earth. 
 
 The Yicomte was arrested by order of 
 the Eevolutionary Committee, and conduct- 
 ed to the prison of the Luxembourg. No 
 charge was r^ade against him ; none was 
 needed: under the plea of the necessity 
 of securing the safety of the Eepublic, any 
 man, woman, or child could be dragged 
 from home, consigned to a gloomy dungeon, 
 and beheaded whenever it was the will of 
 the tyrants who now governed unhappy 
 France. And .the fiendlike character of 
 these men is vividly portrayed in Jose 
 
82 A father's tales. 
 
 pTiine's letters to her aunt derailing the 
 various proceedings against her husband. 
 One of the Committee assured her that the 
 Kevolution would only be brought to a 
 happy conclusion when it should have 
 succeeded in reducing all its enemies to 
 the condition of African savages ; and that 
 to accomplish this end, bethought "the 
 whole race of priests, nobles, landed pro- 
 prietors, in short all the aristocratic classes 
 ought to be dispatched to St. Domingo, to 
 replace the negro slaves," whom these 
 champions of freedom had recently emanci- 
 pated. " Thus," he added, glancing feroci- 
 ously at the Avife of his prisoner, " thus the 
 true republicans secure the* grand moral 
 triumph, by measures of profound and 
 elevated policy." 
 
 Josephine might well shudder at the 
 thought of her husband being in the power 
 of such monsters as this man and others 
 whom she describes, judges, deputies, com- 
 mitteemen — some surly and morose; others 
 full of jests, blending with their brutality 
 
THE vicomte's family. 83 
 
 an affectation of good nature that rendered 
 them still more revolting. From such a 
 government the Vicomte could expect 
 neither justice nor mercy. Faithfully as 
 he had served them in his mistaken zeal, 
 he was too honorable, upright and humane, 
 to escape suspicion, and to be "suspected" 
 was to be ruined. His connection with 
 the moderate republicans during his politi- 
 cal career, his noble efforts in behalf of 
 the King in the Convention which doomed 
 the monarch to death, were sufficient to 
 stamp him as an enemy of " the Republic, 
 
 one and indivisible." Besides he was of 
 
 « 
 
 noble birth, an unpardonable crime in 
 their eyes ; and his brother, the Marquis 
 de Beauharnais, had joined the royal 
 army under Conde, at the commencement 
 of the struggle, and had demanded the 
 right of appearing at the mock trial of the 
 King as his defender. 
 
 It was evident, therefore, from the first 
 that the Yicomte could not escape condem- 
 nation. However, his situation was more 
 
84 A father's tales. 
 
 tolerable tlian that of most of his fellow 
 captives. A voung shoemaker who belong- 
 .ed to the Eevolutionarj Committee had a 
 great esteem for Monsieur de Beauhar- 
 nais, who was by his means enabled to 
 correspond frequently with his wife. 
 Young IN'evil also exerted his influence 
 with the Committee to obtain permission 
 for Josephine and the children to visit the 
 prisoner. The children were overjoyed 
 when they learned that they were to see 
 their beloved father. They had been told 
 that he, being sick, was under the care of 
 a celebrated physician who resided in the 
 Luxembourg, but Hortense, who, though 
 only eleven years old, was remarkably in- 
 telligent and sensible, soon 'began to sus- 
 pect the true state of affairs. On the 
 other hand Eugene, who was three years 
 her senior, suspected nothing, and en- 
 deavored to console his parents whose 
 emotion during this interview could not 
 be concealed, by insisting that his papa's 
 illness was not very dangerous, as he was 
 
THE VICOMTE'S FAMILY. 85 
 
 able to walk about, and they would soon 
 have him at home again. Hortense listen- 
 ed to her brother in silent incredulity for 
 some time. 
 
 "Do you believe that papa is ill?" she 
 asked at last. " If so, it is not sickness 
 which the doctor cures." 
 
 " What do you mean, my dear girl ?" 
 said her mother; "can you suppose that 
 papa and I would contrive between us to 
 deceive you?" 
 
 " Pardon, mamma, but I do think so." 
 
 "Oh! sister/' interrupted Eugene," that 
 is a very singular speech of yours." 
 
 " On the contrary, it is quite simple and 
 natural," said Hortense, readily. " Good 
 parents are permitted to deceive their 
 children, when they wish to spare them 
 uneasiness; is it not so mamma?" And 
 she threw herself into her mother's arms, 
 atoning by her loving caresses for the 
 boldness of her suspicion. 
 
 The children were indignant as well as 
 grieved when they learned the truth. 
 
 8 
 
86 A father's tales, 
 
 ''Oh," cried tlie spirited Hortense, " wBen 
 we are able we will punish your ac- 
 cusers." 
 
 "Hush, my child," interrupted her 
 father, "were you to be overheard speak- 
 ing thus, we should all be ruined; while 
 we would not then have the consolation 
 of being persecuted altogether unjustly." 
 
 "But, papa," said Eugene, " have you 
 not often explained to us that it is lawful 
 to resist oppression?" 
 
 "Yes, my son, and I repeat the same 
 sentiment now ; but resistance must be ac- 
 companied by prudence: he who would 
 overcome tyranny must be careful , not to 
 put the tyrant on his guard. But enough 
 of this — let us converse on more pleasant 
 themes." 
 
 Then all endeavored to speak cheerfully, 
 and make the most of this brief interview 
 — the last the father was to have with his 
 children, and as it turned out, a most un- 
 fortunate one. For his conversation with 
 them being overheard, (how or by whom 
 
THE VICOMTE'S FAMILY 87 
 
 never transpired,) was reported to the "ty- 
 rant," and led to fresh suspicions against 
 the Yicomte, and to more rigid measures 
 against all the inmates of the prison. The 
 government newspaper announced that a 
 grand conspiracy had been discovered 
 in the Luxembourg, the principal leader 
 being the Vicomte de Beauharnais ; but 
 added, that " the conspiracy against lih- 
 erty had been dissipated ; the eye of Gov- 
 ernment would soon unravel its darkest 
 intricacies ; and the hands armed for the 
 consolidating of the Republic, would not 
 be slack to punish those who seemed to 
 live only for its overthrow." A safe prom- 
 ise, that, for " punishing" seemed to be the 
 only business of this charming republican 
 government. To unravel the conspiracy, 
 a member of the Committee was appointed 
 to question Eugene and Hortense, sepe- 
 rately and in secret, as to any conversa- 
 tions they had heard on public affairs, the 
 visits and letters their parents had been in 
 the habit of receiving, the opinions they 
 
88 A father's tales. 
 
 liad expressed, &c. The monsters hoped 
 thus to obtain some information they could 
 use against their prisoner, but as in the 
 case of the examination of the royal chil- 
 dren, their schemes failed. 
 
 Soon after this Madame De Beauharnais 
 received an anonymous note, informing 
 her that she was to be arrested within a 
 few hours. A mode of escape was afforded, 
 but she could not consent to abandon her 
 children, and increase the peril of her hus- 
 band, in order to secure her own safety. 
 As calmly as possible she made such ar- 
 rangements as time permitted of her house- 
 hold affairs, and then sat down with her 
 son and daughter to await the dreaded 
 summons. As evening wore one she be- 
 gan to hope that the information was in- 
 correct. Sleep at last overcame the chil- 
 dren spite of their efforts, and having dis- 
 missed them to rest, she remained alone, 
 tortured with the thoughts to which her 
 position naturally gave rise. At length a 
 loud knocking announced that her hour 
 
THE VICOMTE's FAMILY. 89 
 
 had come. Nerving herself to endurance, 
 she beheld without shrinking, a band of 
 armed men enter her sitting-room, seal np 
 drawers and cabinets, and then range them- 
 selves in order to conduct her to prison. 
 Without entreaty or remonstrance, where 
 both were useless, the captive delayed only 
 to take a farewell — her last^ she feared — 
 of her sleeping children. As she kissed 
 her daughter's forehead a tear fell upon it. 
 The child, half-rousing from a deep slum- 
 ber, clasped her arms around her mother's 
 neck, and murmured in her slumber — 
 " Come to bed, mamma; fear nothing, they 
 shall not take you away. I have prayed 
 to God for you." "With a breaking heart 
 the mother gently unclasped those little 
 clinging arms, and went with her captors 
 to the Carmelite prison, so called from 
 having been a convent of the Carmelites 
 before the evil days. 
 
 When morning broke upon the chil- 
 dren's peaceful slumbers, they found them- 
 selves alone and friendless in the great 
 
 8^ 
 
90 A fathee's tales. 
 
 tumultuous city. One parent in a dun- 
 geon to which they could not gain access, 
 the other they knew not where; their 
 other relatives exiled or distant from the 
 city ; no one to look to for comfort or pro- 
 tection, but a faithful domestic, Yictorine, 
 who was too much distressed and alarmed 
 at the arrest of her mistress to be of any 
 use. After the first burst of grief had 
 subsided, they began seriously to consider 
 what was to be done. 
 
 " Let us go at once to the Luxembourg, 
 and demand admittance to papa's cell," 
 exclaimed Hortense, with the same energy 
 and fearless spirit that she displayed 
 through an eventful life. 
 
 Eugene, always calm and cautious, ob- 
 jected. "We could not gain admittance, 
 sister, and, perhaps such an attempt would 
 compromise our parents. We must be 
 careful what we do, for their sakes." 
 
 " What then shall we do ?" 
 
 " Suppose WQ send word to aunt Fanny 
 she will know what is best to be done." 
 
THE VICOMTE'S FAMILY. 91 
 
 Hortense agreed to this, and citizen 
 ISTevil's mother conveyed the desired mes- 
 sage to Madame Fanny Beanharnais, who 
 speedily removed the children to her home 
 at Yersailles. Intelligence of this being 
 soon imparted to the parents by the kind- 
 hearted 3^oung Nevil relieved their great 
 anxiety. 
 
 Our little Hortense could not remain 
 tranquil at Yersailles without making an 
 effort to be reunited to her parents, whose 
 perilous situation she realized more keenly 
 when she found herself so far separated 
 from them. She tried to induce her aunt 
 to remove to Paris, that they might at 
 least be near the objects of her filial solici- 
 tude, and failing in this she would fain 
 persuade Eugene to go back with her to 
 the great city ; she reminded him that 
 Yictorine was still there, in charge of their 
 dear home, and that if they were there 
 they could often hear from papa and 
 mamma, by means of citizen N"evil and his 
 mother. But her brother, though as 
 
92 A fathee's tales. 
 
 affectionate as herself, was of a different 
 disposition, and conld not be persuaded 
 into any sucli useless and dangerous enter- 
 prises. The little girl did not abandon 
 her purpose ; she formed a plan to do by 
 herself what others refused to do, and then, 
 to use her own expression, prayed to Grod 
 to help her out. I am afraid she was 
 thinking more of her project than of her 
 prayers, or she might have recollected 
 that it was an odd thing to ask for help 
 from heaven in an act of disobedience and 
 deception. But probably she thought her 
 little scheme altogether praiseworthy. At 
 daybreak, on a fine June morning, she 
 slipped quietly out of the house, and, 
 obtaining a seat in the market wagon of a 
 neighboring farmer, who usually passed 
 her aunt's house at that hour, was soon 
 jogging along the road to Paris. Arrived 
 there, she' presented herself before the 
 astonished Yictorine, who soon convinced 
 her that she had travelled thirty miles on 
 a very foolish errand. Poor child! she 
 
THE VICOMTE'S FAMILY. 98 
 
 had felt so sure that once in Paris she 
 would overcome all difficulties, and insist 
 on gaining admission to either her father 
 or mother. The disappointment was terri- 
 ble, and a more subdued and disconsolate 
 child could not be imagined than Hor- 
 tense Beauharnais, as she tearfully travel- 
 led back that road to Yersailles. 
 
 A few weeks later she had only one 
 parent. Her father suffered death on the 
 24th of July, 1794. He died as become a 
 soldier and a Christian, contrite for his 
 sins, resigned to the will of God. " Love 
 each other ; speak of me" — -thus concluded 
 his farewell letter to his wife and children. 
 "And never forget that the glory of dying 
 the victim of tyrants, the martyr of free- 
 dom, ennobles the scaffold." 
 
 To Madame de Beauharnais the bereav- 
 ment was an unexpected calamity. Her 
 husband had not been tried, and she was 
 awaiting with mingled hopes and fears 
 the day of his trial, when she learned that 
 he had been already guillotined. On the 
 
94 A father's tales. 
 
 same day that she received this sad intelli- 
 gence she was told that on the morrow 
 she was to be removed to the Conciergerie, 
 and thence to the guillotine. But that 
 very night the tyrant fell a victim to the 
 spirit of vengeance he had aroused against 
 thousands of the noble and virtuous. The 
 oppressors now trembled in their turn. 
 They became the objects of popular ven- 
 geance, while those whom they had des- 
 tined for the guillotine were restored to 
 liberty. Josephine was among the first 
 liberated. Hortense and Eugene had read 
 and wept over the affecting letter of con- 
 solation and good advice which their 
 mother had written to them on receiving 
 the intimation of her sentence. How great 
 then was their happiness on learning that 
 that dear parent was alive and at liberty, 
 and joylully they obeyed her summons to 
 Paris. After some time her late husband's 
 property (which had been confiscated to 
 the Eepublic) was restored ; and in a few 
 years we find her Empress of France; 
 
THE VICOMTE's FAMILY. 95 
 
 Eugene, Yiceroy of Italy; and Hortense, 
 Queen of Holland." 
 
 " It seems almost like a novel," remark- 
 ed Maggie. "One can scarcely understand 
 how such wonderful changes can take 
 place in people's fortunes." 
 
 "And so near our time, too," said Charles. 
 " To think that that Hortense should be 
 the mother of an Emperor, whom we are 
 hearing about almost every day." 
 
 "It is, indeed, a remarkable history," 
 added Mr. White, " and has peculiar inter- 
 est for us from having transpired so 
 recently. It is on this account I have 
 drawn your attention to it, for there are 
 few examples better calculated to incul- 
 cate a spirit of unshaken confidence and 
 hope in God under the most trying circum- 
 stances. No condition could be apparently 
 more hopeless and miserable than that of 
 ■ Josephine and her children, during the 
 reign of terror; the wildest dream of 
 imagination could not picture the destiny 
 in store for them. Thus we are taught 
 
96 
 
 A father's tales. 
 
 how vain are all speculations as to our 
 future lot, and tliat under all circumstances 
 we should abandon ourselves unreservedly 
 to the Omnipotent Grod, who can overrule 
 all for our good, either in time or eternity, 
 as He sees best." 
 
 ^r-» 
 
6^1 CHAPTEE lY. |s 
 
 TOMMY; THE ENGLISH ORPHAN. 
 
 isssr- 
 
 His evening I shall devote to 
 the story of a poor orphan 
 boy — another victim of the 
 revolution — who has given 
 the world a touching example 
 of affection and gratitude. 
 
 One morning as a priest belonging to 
 the Semiifary of St. Sulpice, at Paris, was 
 proceeding through a by-street on his 
 customary labors of religion and charity 
 among the poor, he saw at some distance 
 9 (97) 
 
98 A father's tales. 
 
 a child lying on the ground in an attitude 
 so motionless that he seemed tb be either 
 dead or dying. A cold, drizzling rain was 
 falling, and it was not likely that he would 
 compose himself to sleep in that exposed 
 situation. The reverend gentleman, always 
 ready to hasten to the relief of suffering 
 humanity, quickened his p^ce. He feared 
 that the child had met with some fatal ac- 
 cident, yet this supposition was contra- 
 dicted by the absence of any crowd, or 
 appearance of excitement in the neighbor- 
 hood. On reaching the spot he discovered 
 to his surprise and relief, that the object 
 of his solicitude was neither dead nor in- 
 jured; but as he raised him from the 
 ground he thought he had never beheld a 
 more forlorn, pitiable sight. The poor boy 
 was evidently perishing from hunger ; his 
 garments were both ragged and dirty ; and 
 when he turned his large bro^ eyes on 
 the person who was evincing so much com- 
 passion for him, there was a depth of wretch- 
 edness in their expression that fairly star- 
 
tommy; the ENGLISH OEPHAlSr. 99 
 
 tied the good father. That look of wild^ 
 despairing misery he had seen in hapless 
 creatures whom a long and hopeless con- 
 flict with want had driven to the verge 
 of madness or snicide — a look he could 
 never see without horror, but how appall- 
 ing it was in a child ! To his softly spoken 
 questions the boy gave no answer; the 
 wild eyes were fixed upon his interro- 
 gator with a staring intensity of gaze, the 
 pale, dry lips were pressed tightly together ; 
 but when the question was put at last, 
 " Have you no home, my child ?" he shook 
 his head slowly. 
 
 " Poor child ! I fear you are almost fam- 
 ished," said the good priest. " The first 
 thing to be done is to get you some food." 
 
 With these words he led the child to a 
 little shop near at hand, where, having 
 seen him eat some bread and soup with 
 much satisfaction, he left him to rest, prom- 
 ising to return in the course of the day. 
 The child had not spoken a word, but he 
 steadily watched every motion of his bene- 
 
100 A father's tales. 
 
 factor, and from his little pallet on the 
 floor, he gazed sorrowfully as the clergy- 
 man departed, nntil he glanced back with 
 a smile that at once set his doubts and 
 fears to rest, for he laid back on his pillow 
 and closed his eyes, as if in obedience to 
 the parting injunction to go to sleep. 
 
 The priest, as he left the shop, mildly 
 expressed his astonishment and grief that 
 a little child should be found in such a 
 destitute condition, and no one in the neigh- 
 borhood have the charity to give him even 
 a temporary shelter. But when the wo- 
 man roughly answered, they "all had 
 enough to do to provide for their own 
 children, and could not afibrd to be char- 
 itable," he turned away in silence. He had 
 seen of late such evidences of the selfish- 
 ness and inhumanity which the spirit of 
 infidelity was developing in the popula- 
 tion of the metropolis. In obedience to its 
 teaching, thousands had abandoned the 
 belief and practice of religion, and in thus 
 throwing off what they called the shackles 
 
TOMIMY: THE ENGLISH OEPHAN. 101 
 
 of superstition and priestcraft, they had 
 also parted with every virtuous and noble 
 quality. Among J:he higher classes, this 
 selfishness which was now becoming a pre- 
 vailing characteristic, was glossed over by 
 an appearance of elegance and refinement. 
 In the humble ranks of life it was leading 
 to that brutal, ungovernable ferocity which 
 a few years later was displayed to a horri- 
 fied world by the scenes of the reign of 
 terror. The Abbe Capdeville, therefore, 
 did not wonder at the woman's unfeeling 
 and impertinent reply. It was but one 
 more instance of the rapid growth of evils 
 which he with his brother priests deplored, 
 but could not check. 
 
 On- revisiting his protege he found his 
 appearance much improved in every re- 
 spect. The child was eagerly watching 
 for his return, and greeted him with a joy- 
 ous animation that surprised and delighted 
 his benefactor. He was willing to talk now, 
 but his language was a strange jargon of 
 French and English, and the account he 
 
 7* 
 
102 A father's tales. 
 
 could give of himself was very brief and 
 unsatisfactorj. His name was Tommy; 
 knew nothing of parents, kindred or home ; 
 but had lived with different persons, by 
 whom, the priest conjectured, he was neg- 
 lected and ill-treated ; for he seemed to 
 have no pleasant recollection of any, and 
 that he was not ungrateful in disposition 
 was proved by the confidiug affection he 
 manifested to his new friend. It further 
 seemed that he had been turned out of 
 doors by his last protectors, and had wan- 
 dered about the streets until quite ex- 
 hausted by hunger and fatigue, he had 
 lain down to die where the clergyman 
 found him. All he knew of death was 
 that " he knew a little boy once who staid 
 a long time asleep, he thought, and when 
 he asked if he should not wake Pierre to 
 get his supper they said, no — Pierre would 
 never want supper any more, for he was 
 dead; so he thought it wag a good thing 
 to be dead and want no supper.^'' The 
 charitable priest could not refrain from 
 
TOMMY; THE ENGLISH ORPHAN. 103 
 
 tears at the artlessly told story, which, 
 brief as it was, showed sufficiently how he 
 had suffered — poor little waif, cast adrift 
 on the great ocean of Parisian life, help- 
 less and forlorn. 
 
 But he had fallen into good hands now, 
 for the Abbe Capdeville was known to all 
 Paris as the most tender-hearted and be- 
 nevolent of men. By many he was always 
 spoken of as "the good priest," or "onr 
 good father." He reserved nothing for 
 himself beyond the merest necessaries; 
 though advanced in years and somewhat 
 feeble in health, he denied himself every 
 little indulgence which many would con- 
 sider indispensable, in order to relieve 
 the wants of the poor. Severe only to- 
 wards himself, he was a model of charity 
 and gentleness towards others. In the 
 Seminary he was beloved alike by pro- 
 fessors and students, and, though as re- 
 nowned for his talents and learning as for 
 his virtues, was meek and unassuming. 
 His calm, benevolent countenance indi- 
 
104 A father's tales. 
 
 'cated his goodness, and the peace of mind 
 which he preserved under the most trying 
 circnmstances. 
 
 Such was the worthy priest, to whose 
 heart the forlorn condition of little Tom- 
 my appealed with irresistible force. He 
 took him to the Seminary, and made every 
 effort to discover some one on whose love 
 and protection the poor child might have 
 a claim, but no clue was ever obtained to 
 his parentage. His looks and accents 
 indicated that he was English, and he 
 had some confused recollection of once 
 "travelling on water, with a man whom 
 he called father, and who called him 
 Tommy, and who used to take him on his 
 knee and kiss him, but after a while he never 
 saw the man any more." So he came 
 to be generally called, in the Seminary, 
 " Tommy, the English Orphan," and great 
 pity was felt for the forlorn little stranger. 
 He was for a long time shy and distrust- 
 ful of every one but his benefactor, whom 
 lie loved with the strong, ardent affection 
 
tommy: the ENGLISH OEPHAN. 105 
 
 of a child's heart that had never before 
 known any one on whom to lavish its 
 love. By degrees he began to manifest 
 some attachment for others in return for 
 the kindness with which he was uniformly 
 tl'eated, but none was ever elevated to the 
 place which his first patron had in his 
 regard. In disposition he proved to be 
 very gentle and docile, and when, by the 
 comfort and happiness he enjoyed in his . 
 new home, he lost the wild, haggard, starv- 
 ing look that had rendered him such a for- 
 lorn-looking little object, he was found to 
 be quite a handsome and attractive child. 
 His countenance denoted intelligence, also, 
 and yet his mind was almost a blank. 
 Though apparently eight or nine years 
 old, he did not know the alphabet, and 
 had none of the " smartness" possessed by , 
 most children of half his age. But in that 
 abode of piety and learning, in which he 
 had happily found to be his home, this 
 want was soon supplied. When he had 
 acquired the rudiments of knowledge, 
 
106 A fathee's tales. 
 
 wMcli was a matter of some difficulty, lie 
 evinced an ardent inclination for study; and 
 having so many kind friends, all willing to 
 give him instruction in turn, his progress in 
 learning was both rapid and thorough. 
 
 For music Tommy had a superior talent. 
 His voice, though not very powerful, was 
 remarkably clear and sweet, and he soon 
 became a member of the choir. Of instru- 
 ments, the harp was his favorite. He 
 never wearied of practising, and being a 
 most attentive and pains-taking pupil, 
 gave great satisfaction to his master, who 
 frequently predicted that he would in 
 time become a distinguished performer. 
 In fact, the English orphan was a general 
 favorite in the Seminary, his amiable dis- 
 position and quiet studious habits accorded 
 with the place. But his judicious patrons 
 would have liked sometimes to find him 
 more inclined to the active, noisy sports 
 of boyhood ; for it was only in obedience 
 to the rules laid down for him that he 
 ever left his books to take amusement or 
 
tommy; the ENGLISH OEPHAN. 107 
 
 exercise, and, thoiigli lie obeyed in sucli 
 cases with his customary readiness, it was 
 plain that he thought every moment lost 
 which was not devoted to his various 
 studies. He was of a peculiarly tranquil 
 disposition, always cheerful, and easily 
 satisfied. His only trouble seemed to be 
 the fear of displeasing the Abbe Capde- 
 ville, to please whom was his constant 
 care. A chat or walk with his beloved 
 benefactor, or an opportunity of doing 
 him any service, was Tommy's greatest 
 enjoyment; and probably much of the 
 assiduity he displayed in mastering what- 
 ever he undertook, arose from his extreme 
 solicitude to give full satisfaction to him, 
 whose gentle smile or word of approval 
 more than repaid his exertions. The 
 good priest on his part was every day 
 more satisfied with his protege, and more 
 thankful that he had been the agent in 
 rescuing this promising lad from the sad 
 fate which had seemed to threaten him. 
 It was his delight, after a day spent in 
 
108 A fathek's tales. 
 
 the arduous duties of his sacred office, to 
 sit awhile in the gathering twilight, while 
 Tommy performed on the harp, sacred or 
 melancholy airs, which accorded with the 
 taste of both. Thus more than seven 
 years had passed happily, but those peace- 
 ful times were soon to end. 
 
 After that fatal 10th of August, 1792, 
 when the last hopes of the King were 
 rudely dispelled, persecution became the 
 lot of the Church as well as of royalty. 
 The priests were constantly menaced 
 and insulted ; they performed their sacred 
 functions amid difficulties and dangers; 
 still the heroic spirit of the priesthood 
 carried them dauntlessly through all. 
 But when the revolutionary constitution 
 came to be enforced, to their other trials 
 was added that greatest grief the priest 
 can experience — to be unable to bestow 
 on his afflicted and terrified flock the conso- 
 lation of religion — to be debarred from 
 administering those holy sacraments which 
 would strengthen and sustain them in the 
 
TOMMY; THE ENGLISH OEPHAN. 109 
 
 time of peril. Some of tlie clergy took 
 the constitutional oaths — a portion from a 
 transient weakness or cowardly feeling, of 
 which they afterwards repented through 
 the grace of God — others deliberately sacri- 
 ficed their duty to God to what they chose 
 to consider their duty to the Government. 
 But by far the larger number remained 
 faithful, resisting alike the bribes and 
 threats that were employed to induce 
 them to swear to that wicked constitution. 
 Then commenced an active persecution of 
 those intrepid soldiers of Christ. Every 
 one that could be discovered was thrown 
 into a dungeon or brutally murdered by 
 a mob. 
 
 The clergy and seminarians of St. Sul- 
 pice, of course, shared the dangers of their 
 brethren. Some of their number, con- 
 vinced that they could no longer be of use 
 in France, made their escape with others 
 to more peaceful countries, especially to 
 the United States, whicb had the happi- 
 ness of receiving many of those holy exiles, 
 
110 A father's tales. 
 
 whose zealous labors contributed greatly 
 :to the spread of Catholicity in the land of 
 their adoption. Among those who remained 
 in Paris and were soon dragged to prison 
 was the Abbe Capdeville. The place of 
 ,his captivity was the Carmelite Convent. 
 Tommy, almost distracted at the loss of 
 his benefactor, ardently begged of the 
 .authorities the privilege of sharing his 
 captivity. The heartless men, who were 
 ready to condemn thousands to a dungeon 
 on the merest suspicion of sympathy for 
 their victims, refused the poor lad's request 
 under the pretence of compassion. But 
 Tommy was indefatigable in his exertions 
 to procure this boon, the only one he 
 craved on earth. He appealed to one 
 after another of the Convention, and at 
 length had the good fortune to meet with 
 one who had formerly been under obli- 
 gations to the Abbe Capdeville. He, 
 touched by the devotedness of the grateful 
 boy, procured him the coveted order, and 
 Tommy to his inexpressible joy found 
 
TOMMY; THE ENGLISH ORPHAN. Ill 
 
 himself immured in ttie dungeon with his 
 reverend friend. As a further favor 
 towards the lad, whose history was well 
 known to him, this humane member also 
 allowed him to keep his harp, which was 
 his greatest treasure. The Abbe, so resign- 
 ed to his own fate, regretted deeply the 
 imprisonment of Tommy, whose joyous 
 exclamation, "Ah, my father, Grbd has 
 permitted me to be with you again?" 
 touched him deeply. 
 
 But Tommy was once more the happiest 
 of the happy. He was with his benefactor, 
 he was surrounded by holy priests of God, 
 to whom he was able to render many 
 little serviced; again he joined in the 
 prayers and devotional exercises he had 
 been accustomed to from childhood, and 
 the soft, rich tones of his harp often sound- 
 ed through those consecrated haJls, which 
 revolutionary vandalism had plundered 
 and then converted to their own wicked 
 uses. In making this convent the princi- 
 pal scene of the imprisonment and torture 
 
112 A FATirKTl's TALES. 
 
 of the clorgy tlioy tliouglit to servo their 
 irn]in,ll()vv^(;d eiiuse by turning the abodes 
 ol' nilif^ion and cliarity into Uieatres of 
 bloodHhful and liorror ; l)ut it was meet 
 tliaL frr>rti tliat deneerated spot the souls of 
 hundreds oi' holy martyrs should go irp 
 to th(; thron(5 of Ilirn for whose faith they 
 eh(!(;rfidly gave U[) their lives. 
 
 'IMie* month of September, 1793, opened 
 with the most horrible massaere i-eeorded 
 even of that fearful era. On the 2nd, 3rd, 
 4ih and iA.li " days of agony," as a historian 
 has termed tli(;rn, a mob, liired by the 
 Convention, broke into the various prisons 
 of Varis, and murdered between seven 
 and eigliL lliousand persons; Yes, it is a 
 matter of liistory, my ehihiren, though you 
 may well (ixelaim in incredulous horror. 
 Sucli a (b'e:i,dful event could not be credi- 
 ted were it not that it is established 
 ])y indispiilabhi authority, '^rhe govern- 
 ment liircid tliis mob of executioners at the 
 rate of about four dollars a day. Both 
 men and women wore engaged in the 
 
tommy; TUK KI^aiJBIl OI'JMIAN. 1 13 
 
 liorrihhi LuHineKH, and llicy Hlau^liUtnrd 
 the priHonerHindiHcrimina,tcly- the pririHt- 
 hood, th(5 diiTforcnl, vcliinoiin or<J(;rH .'uid 
 communities, iho nohilily, ;i,ll li;uJ r(;prc- 
 Ront«'iiiv(;H arnori^ l;li(;H(i vic'liiriHol' wwpurn]- 
 l(;l(;d liruUlity; v(!fi(;rablo old ag<; and 
 ir)no(;f;nt <:liil(Jli(jod alike wonj Hacri/iccd. 
 On IIm; l\r::i day (;(' UiIh droadful hulchcry 
 the li"ly iiirnal/;;-! of l,li(; \i<)HA(; of ('.'ifiric- 
 litcH e,'i,rri<;d iJic ^'j-own of m.-utyrdorri.-— 
 W1j<;h ill'; mob, c/.v/cv io l>r;,"in Ijic work 
 of d(;al[i, Hur roiindcjd iJic huihiirj^, the 
 f)riHon('TH W(;r(} in the eliapnl, (^ircrin;,^ t}i(;ir 
 last tribut(i of praiHe and [iri\,y<-v U> Ilirri 
 in wlios(5 preKcnee t})(;y werv; kooh to ;i[)pr;ar. 
 ^^he f-Ii;),[K',l, deHpoik;d }>y rc-volutionary 
 lury of its altar, fuj'iiitur*;, and it;-} ofx;!) 
 tah';rn.'j/:K'. nlKjwing that no longc;r wan 
 the adorabk} wacrifiee oiiered witliin ita 
 walls, presented a monrnrul ;sj')f!(;tafJe to 
 thoKe holy prieHtn; one rjljjeet alone had 
 esca[)erj the naerilegiouH plund(;r(;rH, a 
 erucihx ntill hun^^ abovo th(; altar, and on 
 the dear ernl>l(;mor redemption and f'orgiv- 
 
114 A fathee's tales. 
 
 ing love the gaze of all was fixed as they 
 knelt there, unmoved by the wild tumult 
 outside. The Abbe Capdeville recited 
 the litany of the Saints and other prayers 
 in his deep solemn tones; the responses 
 were given as from a choir of martyrs, 
 while above those sweet sounds rose the 
 terrible cries and maledictions of the fierce 
 multitude without, clamoring for the death 
 of those calm, undaunted servants of the 
 the Most High. 
 
 But there was One person in the chapel 
 who trembled at every repetition of the 
 threatening outcries; his heart was rent 
 with grief and fear, not for himself, but 
 for another life a thousand times dearer to 
 him than his own. Poor Tommy, in 
 dreadful agitation, traversed the building, 
 stopping at each window to listen, or run- 
 ning into the vestibule, where he tossed 
 his arms wildly about, uttering the most 
 mournful cries, and sobbing convulsively. 
 Some persons who had ventured in, looked 
 compassionately at the youth, and said 
 to one another, that his senses were leaving 
 
TOMMY; THE ENGLISH OKPHAN. 115 
 
 hiin, his great grief had turned his brain. 
 They wished to spare him the dreadful 
 spectacle about to take place, and urged 
 him to leave the chapel ; but he resolutely 
 refined, and at last returning to his 
 reverend friend, took his station by his 
 side as if resolved not to be separated 
 from him. Just then the doors were 
 forced open, windows were broken, and 
 the murderers, entering at several points 
 simultaneously, began their work. In a 
 few moments the steps of the altar, the 
 floor of the sanctuary and the chapel were 
 inundated with blood. Some of the holy 
 martyrs were poniarded as they knelt, 
 others were thrown against the stone floor or 
 walls with such force, that their brains 
 were dashed out. To this day the place 
 of martyrdom retains the fearful crimson 
 stains that tell of the scene there enacted ; 
 and in the library is still preserved a copy 
 of the New Testament, which was taken 
 from the pocket of one of the martyrs, 
 pierced with twenty -two dagger thrusts, 
 its every page marked with gore. 
 
116 A fathee's taxes. 
 
 The work of deatli was soon accomplislfcd 
 on the unresisting victims. The perse- 
 cutors hurried away to another scene of 
 slaughter. What a scene they left behind 
 them. The bright sun of September 
 beamed in through the broken windows, 
 and lingered like a glory around those 
 precious forms which had yielded the im- 
 mortal spirit, to join "that crimson choir" 
 who chant the song of victory around the 
 throne of the "Captain of salvation." "Many, 
 like the venerable Arch-bishop of Aries had 
 fallen like ripened grain beneath the stroke ; 
 numbers were cast off in the prime of their 
 useful, holy lives; and there were some 
 whose golden bowl had been broken at 
 the fountain," bright youths whose course 
 of theology was suddenly finished, and 
 who, instead of the tonsure had won the 
 jnartyr's crown. And on all the holy 
 calm of heaven rested ; no sign of a .violent 
 death on those tranquil brows, on those 
 lips whose last accents had breathed love 
 to God^forgiveness to man. 
 
TOMMY; THE ENGLISH ORPHAN. 117 
 
 The Abbe Capdeville had fallen across 
 the steps of the altar, his last impulse one 
 of tender, self-forgetful charity, to extend 
 his mangled hand to Tommy as he fell, 
 with a smile that was^a parting benedic- 
 tion. That smile remained on his placid 
 countenance. He looked as if enjoying a 
 tranquil slumber, and the poor boy, who 
 was now really insane, becoming convinced 
 that his dear master slept, knelt quietly be- 
 side the lifeless form to watch for its awaken- 
 ing. He seemed to behold no longer the 
 fearful scene of slaughter, but knelt there 
 in patient hope, never once moving his 
 eyes from the beloved countenance, until 
 the last rays of the sun had disappeared, 
 leaving the chapel wrapped in twilight 
 gloom. Then, as if with a sudden recol- 
 lection, he brought his harp and sitting 
 down beside the corpse,played the sweet airs 
 the good Abbe used to like to hear at that 
 hour. And at the conclusion of each strain 
 he would stoop softly down to see if his bene- 
 factor had not yet awakened, and finding 
 
118 A father's tales. 
 
 tlie tranquil sleep still continued, renew 
 his soothing melodies. Those whom Chris- 
 tian zeal had led to the chapel to remove 
 the precious remains of the martyrs from 
 the possession of #he persecutors, beheld 
 with tears the poor boy's occupation. — 
 They would not disturb him in his happy 
 unconsciousness of what had taken place. 
 At last the soft tones of the harp melted 
 into silence. Slumber had fallen on the 
 watching eyes, and poor Tommy was 
 carried away to his bed. That lethargic 
 sleep lasted for two days and nights ; he 
 awoke, apparently refreshed and vigorous, 
 but it was soon found that reason had 
 fled forever. 
 
 Every day he passed in perfect silence, 
 to all appearance unconscious of every- 
 thing around him, until the clock struck 
 three — the hour of the martyrdom. The 
 moment that hour struck. Tommy, for- 
 getting his listlessness, would run to seek 
 his harp, and leaning against the ruins of 
 the altar, on the very spot where he had 
 
tommy: the en-glish okphan. 119 
 
 been bereaved of all lie loved, play the 
 old accustomed airs. While thus employed 
 his features, so vacant during the previous 
 hours, became again animated and expres- 
 sive. He paused sometimes as if expect- 
 ing to hear the gentle words of approval 
 that formerly rewarded his efforts; then 
 resuming his employment continued till 
 the clock struck six, when leaving off ab- 
 ruptly, he would say, with a sigh of gentle 
 submission — "iVb^ yet! — hut to-morrow he 
 will speak to his child T^ Then, kneeling 
 down, he would pray fervently for a while, 
 rise with a smothered sigh of disappoint- 
 ment, and steal away on tiptoe, fearing to 
 disturb the slumbers of his benefactor. 
 Day after day for months the same affect- 
 ing scene took place. Having no home, 
 and being an object of general commise- 
 ration, Tommy was allowed to remain in 
 the prison, and hi§ peculiar form of in- 
 sanity was so touching and harmless that 
 no one interfered with him. He was per- 
 mitted to continue the melancholy occu- 
 
120 A father's tales. 
 
 pation wliicli for three hours eacli day 
 gave him hope and interest. 
 
 Other prisoners took the place of the 
 martyred priests within the house of Car- 
 melites. Among others the amiable Ma- 
 dame de Beauharnais was here imprisoned, 
 (as I have already related,) during the 
 succeeding summer. " With shudderings," 
 as she described to her aunt, she crossed 
 " that threshold still humid with blood," 
 and sadly reflected, "for what outrages 
 are not those men prepared who did not 
 punish the execrable crimes committed 
 here !" In prison, as afterwards upon the 
 throne, devoted to benevolence, the amia- 
 ble Josephine regretted that she " was now 
 without the power of doing good, since 
 she could not move among those who were 
 more comfortless than herself." But in 
 this she was mistaken. Her unvarying 
 kindness and cheerfulness comforted those 
 of the prisoners with whom she was al- 
 lowed to associate, and she found in the 
 friendless Tommy an object on whom to 
 
TOMMY; THE ENGLISH OEPHAN. 121 
 
 expend her active sympatliy. It is from 
 her correspondence that we learn the chief 
 particulars of his touching story. Before 
 she saw him, her gentle heart was moved 
 by the recital of the scene which took 
 place day after day ; for it was a frequent 
 subject of conversation among those who 
 noticed how the youth, apparently dead 
 to all other cares and feelings, watched 
 daily the recurrence of that hour indelibly 
 stamped on his heart rather than on his 
 memory, which awakened ever the same 
 loving hope, destined to be ever disap- 
 pointed. When at length Josephine was 
 permitted to see the object of her gentle 
 pity, at the sight of that boyish counte- 
 nance on which to use her own expression, 
 " were depicted so many griefs and virtues," 
 her interest was so much increased in the 
 friendless orphan, that she wrote a full ac- 
 count of his mournful history to her hus- 
 band, to beguile him for a few moments from 
 his own sorrows by occupying his benevo- 
 lent mind with the sorrows of others. The 
 
 11 
 
122 A father's tales. 
 
 Vicomte's reply gives us a pleasing exem- 
 plification of his goodness of heart. He 
 informed his wife that having read her 
 letter more than once privately, he then 
 read it to his fellow-prisoners, who each, 
 like himself, shed tears over little Tommy's 
 misfortunes, and resolved that such a 
 touching example of gratitude and virtue, 
 in an epoch marked by the greatest crimes, 
 must not remain in obscurity. Hence 
 one proposed to paint the portrait of Tom- 
 my as soon as opportunity offered; another 
 would employ his literary talents in bring- 
 ing the narrative prominently before the 
 public, and it was hoped that t^ese offer- 
 ings would lay the foundation of the or- 
 phan's fortune. Monsieur de Beauharnais 
 himself had a plan for still more befriend- 
 ing the object of all this admiring solici- 
 tude. He proposed to adopt him as a 
 member of his family, when it should 
 please God to reunite them once more, 
 attaching the forsaken youth to the for- 
 tunes of his son, Eugene, who could 
 
tommy; the ENGLISH OEPHAN. 123 
 
 not fail to derive benefit from the com- 
 panionship of one so virtuous and unfor- 
 tunate. He urged his wife not to lose 
 sight of this idea, which, if it could be 
 realized, would enable them to gain the 
 most affecting of recollections from the 
 most painful occurrences of their lives. 
 
 Josephine, delighted Avith this project, 
 lost no time in imparting it to Tommy, 
 who listened at first ^Yith the listless air 
 now^ habitual to him. By degrees, how- 
 ever, the kindness and gentleness of Ma- 
 dame de Beauhafnais won upon him, and 
 he consented to the plan, but on one ex- 
 press condition, that upon the second day 
 of every month he should be permitted to 
 come to the prison, and charm the dreams 
 of his sleeping friend and father, from 
 three to six o'clock, by the music of his 
 harp. The kind-hearted lady, moved to 
 tears by so affecting a delirium, willingly 
 assented to the condition. Thus benevo- 
 lent friendship seemed about to bless the 
 forlorn boy once more. But alas, those 
 
124 A father's tales. 
 
 kind intentions were not to be realized. 
 The vicomte perished on the scaffold ; his 
 wife, barely escaping a similar fate, was 
 suddenly released with some of the other 
 prisoners, and in the confusion following 
 the death of the tyrant and the unexpected 
 change of affairs, all traces of the hapless* 
 Tommy was lost. Madame de Beauhar- 
 nais, more than ever anxious to carry out 
 the benevolent plan which was almost the 
 last desire of her husband, had inquiries 
 inade as soon as opportunity was afforded, 
 but no clue to his fate could be obtained. 
 Most probably the poor lad perished of 
 grief and want, when his sudden discharge 
 from prison sent him bewildered and utter- 
 ly helpless out on the great city, which 
 had no care for an uncomplaining sufferer, 
 when hardship and privation were the 
 common lot of all. 
 
 " Poor Tommy ! Perhaps he was killed 
 in some out-of-the-way place," said Maggie. 
 
 " I think it more likely that he died of 
 starvation," rejoined her father. "All 
 
TOMMY; THE ENGLISH OKPHAN. 125 
 
 France was at that time suffering from 
 famine ; how, indeed, conld it be other- 
 wise in the distracted state of the country ? 
 In Paris, such was the scarcity that breafl 
 was subjected to legal restrictions, two 
 ounces only, and that of an inferior quality, 
 being allowed to each person. Then was 
 seen the strange sight of guests invited to 
 the tables of even the most opulent, bring- 
 ing their own allowance of bread. At such 
 a time there could be little chance of one 
 so poor and friendless as Tommy escaping 
 starvation. Madame de Beauharnais her- 
 self would have suffered, but for the kind- 
 ness of one of her friends, for until the 
 restoration of a portion of her husband's 
 confiscated property, she had no resources. 
 Madame Dumoulin, knowing this, daily 
 invited her to her table, and exempted her 
 from the necessity of bringing her own 
 bread, so that as the grateful Josephine 
 often said, pleasantly, when Empress — 
 'to Madame Dumoulin I was actually 
 indebted for my daily hreadJ " 
 11* 
 
CHAPTEK Y. f 
 
 THE MARQUIS DE LAFAYETTE. 
 
 9!^ 
 
 iNCLE," said Eichard, "I think 
 you mentioned in one of your 
 stories that Lafayette was 
 among those brave officers who 
 j tried to protect the King from 
 injury and insult. Our school history 
 represents him as an ardent friend of the 
 French Eepublic and Commander of the 
 National Guard. Is this incorrect ? I hope 
 it is, for I shouldn't like our Lafayette to 
 have anything to do with those horrid 
 republicans." 
 (126) 
 
THE MAEQUIS DE LAFAYETTE. 127 
 
 " Your history is correct," replied Mr. 
 White, " but in neglecting to state that he 
 afterwards abandoned the cause of the 
 Republic, it leaves you under a wrong im- 
 pression. In abridging histories and bio- 
 graphies for general use, however, many 
 material points have to be omitted or 
 very briefly alluded to. There is, besides, 
 among some American writers of late, a 
 strange disposition shown to laud the 
 French revolutionists, and gloss over their 
 atrocities as springing naturally from the 
 circumstances in which they were placed. 
 We are asked to believe that their inten- 
 tions were at first simply to free their 
 country from the arbitrary rule of kings 
 and priests — which these writers represent 
 as having been oppressive beyond endur- 
 ance ; and that the extravagant excesses 
 into which they afterwards fell, were 
 caused by the war which was made on the 
 infant Republic, by other nations of Europe 
 in behalf of the Bourbons. Indeed one of 
 these popular histories of the day, goes so 
 
128 A father's tales. 
 
 far as to assert tliat it is probable that the * 
 royal party instigated tlie outrages com- 
 mitted against religion and humanity, in 
 order tliat tbe republican cause might be 
 rendered odious, and the people induced 
 to submit again to the monarchy for the 
 sake of protection. The atrocity of this 
 slander is equaled only by its absurdity, 
 for how can any rational being imagine 
 that the royalists would instigate the 
 populace to commit such barbarities on 
 themselves, their families and friends? 
 Be on your guard against such books, my 
 children. Sometimes they are written in 
 very attractive style, the better to insinu- 
 ate their poison into the unsuspecting or 
 youthful mind. Their authors, while 
 affecting to be most liberal and impartial, 
 lose no opportunity of villifying, either 
 openly, or by inference, the Church and 
 her faithfal members, and strive to exalt 
 her basest enemies — men, who have proved 
 themselves to be devoid of every religious 
 or moral sentiment — as patriots, heroes,. 
 
THE MARQUIS DE LAFAYETTE. 129 
 
 Christians. How easily this can be -done 
 we have evidence in our own times. Victor 
 Emanuel is lauded by almost the entire 
 religious and secular press as the noblest, 
 most exalted of characters, simply because 
 he has plundered and oppressed the Church 
 of Grod, and because his deluded champions 
 imagine he wiH succeed in overthrowing 
 Popery. We thus see*for ourselves that 
 even some really good persons, candid and 
 sensible in other matters, quite lose the 
 ability to judge sensibly of any subject in 
 which Catholicity is concerned. 
 
 The French Revolution was character- 
 ized by deeds of violence and horrors 
 from its very commencement. That a few 
 illustrious men like Lafayette, Beauhar- 
 nais and Bailly, w^ere misled into joining 
 its ranks proves nothing in its favor, for 
 a bad cause always assumes a fair appear- 
 ance that deludes some at the outset, who 
 upon learning its true character shrink 
 from it with abhorrence. It was thus 
 with Lafayette. Scarcely had he been ap- 
 
130 A FATHEPw'S TALES. 
 
 pointed Commander of tlie National Guard 
 tlian he resigned on account of the ferocious 
 disposition manifested by the rioters of, 
 Paris. He was persuaded to resume com- 
 mand, and the most solemn pledges given 
 that such scenes should not be repeated ; 
 pledges which were of course violated; 
 and, at length, heart- sick and despairing, 
 he abandoned a party which he could not 
 influence for good, and became a voluntary 
 exile from the land of his birth. He had 
 scarcely left France when -he was taken 
 prisoner, by the Austrians, and incarcerated 
 in the fortress at Olmutz. For five years 
 he was retained in captivity, though peti- 
 tions from many quarters for his release 
 were presented to the Emperor of Austria. 
 His imprisonment was, perhaps, fortunate ; 
 for otherwise he would in all probability 
 have fallen into the hands of the revolution- 
 ists, who would have quickly sent him to 
 the guillotine as a traitor to the Eepublic. 
 During his imprisonment an incident 
 occurred which will interest you, as an 
 American was particularly concerned in it. 
 
THE MAEQUIS DE LAFAYETTE. 131 
 
 • 
 
 Finding that there was no chance of the 
 Marquis being released, t\w) young men, 
 both strangers to him, undertook to rescue 
 him from his dungeon. Thej were Dr. 
 Bolman, a medical student at Hanover, 
 and Colonel Huger, an American, then 
 travelling in Europe. These young gentle- 
 men had conceived an ardent friendship 
 for each other; they were enthusiastic 
 admirers of the gallant Frenchman, and 
 from sympathizing in his misfortune, soon 
 resolved, with the generous impulses of 
 youth, to effect his deliverance. After 
 much consultation with each other a plan 
 was adopted that seemed likely to be suc- 
 cessful. Colonel Huger feigned sickness, 
 and Dr. Bolman, in the character of his 
 physician, recommended travel and change 
 of air, and to insure the success of his 
 prescription accompanied the pretended 
 invalid on his journey. Having visited 
 several Grerman towns they came in due 
 course to Olmutz. They soon managed 
 to become acquainted with Lafayette's 
 jailer, a kind-hearted man, who taking a 
 
132 A father's tales. 
 
 liking to the polite, sociable young stran- 
 gers, and suspecting no danger, allowed 
 them to lend books to his distinguished 
 prisoner, of course stipulating that he 
 should first examine them. To this they 
 willingly agreed, and in his presence wrote 
 a complimentary , message to accompany 
 the first books. The jailer turned over 
 the leaves, and satisfied himself that there 
 was no letter or writing of any kind con- 
 cealed within. He did not look closely 
 enough, however. On the margin of differ- 
 ent pages the young men had written some 
 words which seemed, to the jailer, to refer 
 only to the reading matter, but which 
 when put together, explained who they 
 were and their object in coming to Austria. 
 Lafayette easily comprehended the secret, 
 and in a note of thanks informed his friends 
 that he had read their books with miich 
 attention, and was quite charmed with 
 their contents. The unsuspicious jailer, 
 seeing no harm in this polite message, 
 made no difficulty about delivering it, 
 and conveying a suitable reply. Thus he 
 
THE MAEQUIS DE LAFAYETTE. 133 
 
 became the medium of a correspondence 
 Avliich seemed compose^ of pretty compli- 
 ments and learned criticisms, bnt the 
 prisoner's eye saw a great deal that never 
 riiet his keeper's. Among those marginal 
 notes he had read, " Hold the paper before 
 the fire." He did so with each successive 
 note, when words, written in lemon juice, 
 became visible, and he thus learned the 
 arrangements by which his unknown 
 friends hoped to effect his rescue. Their 
 plan was so simple that they were quite 
 sanguine of success. Colonel Huger had 
 learned from the jailer that the prisoner 
 was permitted occasionally to ride beyond 
 the walls of the town in an open carriage, 
 attended only by an officer who sat beside 
 him, and a mounted soldier who followed 
 the vehicle. As no one dreamed of an 
 attempt on his part to escape, or of others 
 to rescue him, no precaution was used. 
 The two friends laid their plan accordingly. 
 On an appointed day, well armed and 
 mounted on spirited horses, they left the 
 city, Bolman leading an extra horse which 
 
134 A father's tales. 
 
 was intended for Lafayette. They halted 
 at a spot which seemed favorable for their 
 purpose, and as the carriage approached, 
 they dashed up to it, disarmed the of&cer, 
 put the soldier to flight, and liberated the 
 illustrious captive. Unfortunately the 
 third horse, alarmed by the sudden con- 
 flict, broke loose, and fled across the plain. 
 Dr. Bolman rode off in pursuit. The 
 colonel, dismounting, forced Lafayette to 
 take his horse, gave him the weapons 
 taken from the Austrian of&cer, and point- 
 ing out the road he was to take, had the 
 satisfaction of seeing him dash away, and 
 in a few minutes enter a wood which con- 
 cealed his flight. At the same moment 
 Bolman returned from his useless pursuit ; 
 the horse, purposely selected for his spirit 
 and swiftness, had brought both into plajjr, 
 and was gone beyond the possibility of 
 being overtaken. This mishap increased 
 the danger of the adventurers. Resolv- 
 ing to do the best they could, however, 
 they both mounted on Bolman's horse, but 
 had only proceeded a short distance when 
 
THE MARQUIS DE LAFAYETTE. 135 
 
 beliold ! anotlier miscliance — the animal 
 fell, throwing Bolman to the ground 
 and injuring him severely. Thej had 
 now a friendly dispute, each insisting that 
 the other should mount and endeavor to 
 save himself Huger gained the point, 
 and assisting his friend to the saddle, put 
 an end to the argument by darting off to 
 secure his own safety on foot. 
 
 Meanwhile it is not to be supposed that 
 the Austrians remained ignorant of their 
 captive's rescue, or indifferent to recover- 
 ing him. Already the cavalry had started 
 in eager chase. The generous Huger was 
 soon captured ; Bolman, when they over- 
 took him, pretended to be in pursuit, and 
 being a German, was not suspected of 
 having anything to do in the rescue. 
 Lafayette, well mounted and having con- 
 siderable start of his pursuers, had every 
 prospect of escape, but coming to a place 
 where the roads forked, he unfortunately 
 chose the wrong one. After proceeding- 
 some distance, being uncertain of his where- 
 abouts, he made inqairies of a peasant, 
 
186 A father's tales. 
 
 who observing him closely, suspected liini 
 to be a fugitive, and gave him a wrong 
 direction. In a short time he was recap- 
 tured, and sent back under a strong guard 
 to Olmutz. Two days afterwards, Bolman 
 also was taken. Thus the plan which had 
 seemed to promise entire success, had 
 failed through a succession of untoward 
 circumstances, and not only was Lafayette 
 once more in duress, but his enthusiastic 
 champions also were placed in peril. This 
 was a source of keen sorrow to the Mar- 
 quis, who deeply regretted not having 
 dissuaded the gallant youths from their 
 enterprise; while they, on their part, 
 would not have minded their ill-luck had 
 he escaped. 
 
 Huger was now also an inmate of the 
 fortress, fettered and closely guarded. On 
 the third day of his imprisonment he was 
 summoned to undergo an examination be- 
 fore the chief officers, civil and military, 
 of Olmutz. Standing there in chains be- 
 fore his frowning enemies, young Huger 
 looked less a culprit than a hero. He was 
 
THE MAEQUIS DE LAFAYETTE. 137 
 
 tlireatened with death "anless lie revealed 
 the names of his fellow-conspirators, and 
 all the details of his bold attempt against 
 the Austrian empire; but his intrepid, 
 bearing told that whatever might be his 
 doom he would meet it so as to add fresh 
 lustre to the name he bore — a name 
 so distinguished in the annals of Maryland 
 and South Carolina. Carefully refraining 
 from the utterance of a word that could 
 implicate the jailer, Bolman, or Lafayette 
 himself, in his enterprise, he yet boldly 
 avowed what his object had been, and re- 
 gretted only its failure. Briefly, but with 
 impassioned eloquence he recounted the 
 services Lafayette had rendered to Amer- 
 ica, and asked if he, an American, could 
 know of his unjust and rigorous captivity, 
 and make no effort to effect his deliverance. 
 This noble sentiment, and the question with 
 which he abruptly closed, "Is there one 
 of you, gentlemen, who would not have 
 done the same?" — thrilled one at least of 
 his judges with admiration and sympathy. 
 12^ 
 
188 A father's tales. 
 
 Count Otlio, the commandant of tlie for- 
 tress, answered impulsively : 
 . " I judge of others by my own feelings. 
 The attempt to injure me, by rescuing my 
 prisoner, I freely forgive, and if ever I 
 shall need a friend, I wish that friend may 
 be an American.^'' 
 
 How the heart of the gallant Southerner, 
 so sensitive to the honor of his far-away 
 home, must have swelled at that generous 
 compliment. Others were not partakers 
 of Count Otho's magnanimity, and Huger 
 was kept for a long time in rigorous con- 
 finement. Eventually, however, both he 
 and his fellow-conspirator were restored to 
 liberty. 
 
 Another passage from the history of 
 that time I will mention as also character- 
 istic of the lively gratitude with which 
 the heroic Marquis was regarded by the 
 ■people on whose struggling land he had 
 conferred incalculable benefits. 
 
 At the time that Lafayette was thus 
 
 -imprisoned at Olmutz, his wife was thrown 
 
 into prison in Paris, by the revolutionary 
 
THE MARQUIS DE LAFAYETTE. 139 
 
 authorities. Her mother and grandmother 
 had already been sacrificed "to the popular 
 fury against the aristocrats^ and there was no 
 doubt that in a few days she also would be 
 led to the guillotine. Mr. Monroe (after- 
 wards President,) was then Minister from 
 the United States to France. When he 
 learned of Madame Lafayette's imprison- 
 ment, his keenest sympathies were at once 
 aroused. Of all men he alone could do 
 any thing in her behalf, for the Bepuhlic 
 of France, then professed great friendship 
 for the American Eepublic, and aware of 
 the regard entertained by the latter for 
 Lafayette and his family, might listen to 
 an appeal from Mr. Monroe. But it was 
 necessary to proceed with caution, for the 
 populace ruled as well as the Convention, 
 and would have little scruple in taking 
 the Ambassador's life if he incurred their 
 displeasure. Mr. Monroe consulted his 
 wife, who quickly convinced him that her 
 intervention in the matter would be more 
 ef&cacious with the mob than his, and 
 obtained, though with difficulty, his con- 
 
140 A father's tales. 
 
 sent to try a plan wliicli just occurred to 
 lier mind. 
 
 At tliat unfortunate era, tlie least ap- 
 peaTance of splendor was almost certain 
 to doom to destruction its possessor. In- 
 deed, instances are on record of persons 
 being brought to the guillotine for pre- 
 suming to wear a better dress than the 
 republican rabble approved. To avoid 
 certain death, therefore, all appearance of 
 wealth and luxury was carefully avoided. 
 No private carriage was to be seen on the 
 streets; the most opulent citizens either 
 walked, or rode in the republican vehicles. 
 So it could not fail to create a general sensa- 
 tion when the splendid equipage of the 
 American Minister appeared at the gate of 
 the prison, and Mrs. Monroe calmly inform- 
 ed the keeper that she had come to see the 
 wife of General Lafayette. The news 
 spread in all directions, and soon a dense 
 crowd collected around the carriage. It 
 was not a noisy, frenzied multitude, such 
 as daily assembled in those thoroughfares. 
 The utmost quiet prevailed; men and 
 
THE MARQUIS DE* LAFAYETTE. 141 
 
 t 
 
 women looked at eacli otlier, at tlie elegant 
 carriage, and the high-mettled horses, 
 which, impatient at the delay, pawed the 
 ground and tossed their heads proudly, as 
 if conscious of being the object of general 
 attention ; then all eyes "were directed to 
 the prison, and still entire silence pre- 
 vailed — one word would have wrought the 
 crowd np to its customary ferocious ex- 
 citement, but happily no word was spoken. 
 In the meantime Mrs. Monroe had 
 obtained admission to Madame Lafayette's 
 cell; she had the distracted lady in her 
 arms, caressing and soothing her with 
 sisterly affection. Madame Lafayette's 
 situation was indeed distressing. From 
 that gloomy prison her idolized mother 
 and venerable grandmother had been led 
 to execution a few days previous : her 
 family were scattered and all in danger ; 
 for her two fair daughters especially her 
 maternal solicitude was most agonizing ; 
 their father in an Austrian prison ; herself 
 every hour expecting a summons to the 
 dreaded guillotine. Alas ! at that dismal 
 
142 A fath.er's tales. 
 
 « 
 
 epocTi how overwhelming were the trials 
 to which noble, virtuous women were 
 subjected — superhuman courage alone 
 could have sustained them. The hapless 
 lady, when she heard her prison bolts 
 withdrawn, imagined she was to be led to 
 execution : she was in a state bordering on 
 distraction, and it was long ere her visitor's 
 gentle, loving ministrations could soothe 
 and reassure her. Mrs. Monroe remained 
 with her as long as she was permitted, 
 weeping and sympathizing in her grief as 
 wife and mother, and encouraging her by 
 assurances that she should be saved ; that 
 Mr. Monroe had determined to risk all if 
 it became necessary, to effect her release. ' 
 This promise she repeated again and 
 again, and with additional solemnity when 
 she embraced the sad prisoner at parting. 
 When Madame Lafayette, clingiilg fondly 
 to her warm-hearted friend, warned her 
 of the danger her husband might incur in 
 his generous undertaking, she answered 
 with energy: "I would not say a word 
 to hold him back — it is his duty — what 
 
THE MAEQUIS DE LAFAYETTE. 143 
 
 would OUT country be if your brave husband 
 bad not risked everytbing in its defence !" 
 These words, repeated by one of the 
 keepers, were circulated among the crowd 
 and deepened the feeling of compassionate 
 interest which the meeting of two such 
 women under such circumstances was 
 calculated to awaken. Even a revolution- 
 ary mob was sometimes accessible to a 
 touch of feeling, and perhaps the natural 
 vanity of Frenchmen was gratified by being 
 reminded how. much the great Eepublic 
 across the ocean was indebted to their 
 countryman. At any rate the work was 
 done. Loud and enthusiastic "Yivas" for 
 America and for France broke from the 
 assembled thousands, and became almost 
 terrific when Mrs. Monroe, still in tears, 
 was handed into her carriage, and grace- 
 fully bowed her acknowledgment of the 
 compliment paid to her country. The 
 whole multitude attended her home, for 
 the double purpose of honoring the repre- 
 sentative of the United States, and of 
 opposing any of their compatriots whose 
 
144 , A father's tales. 
 
 ire miglit break forth at sight of the splen- 
 did equipage. The feelings of Mr. Monroe 
 during all this time no language could 
 describe. He dared not accompany his 
 wife to the prison ; that would counteract 
 the feeling which must be awakened in 
 order to save the prisoner. His heroic 
 wife had accurately counted on the effect 
 of such an uncommon scene, as well as of 
 thus venturing alone and defenceless 
 among the hrave people^ as they liked to 
 be called. But she often said afterwards 
 that in all the scenes of her life she never 
 experienced such a variety of intense 
 emotions as during that hour, calm as she. 
 seemed to her admiring escort. . Happily 
 her generous stratagem was crowned with 
 success. Mr. Monroe, relieved of anxiety 
 by her safe return, followed up the im- 
 pression she had made, and so finally 
 obtained Madame Lafayette's release as a 
 personal favor. 
 
 ^O^v^ THE END. ^^W[ 
 
LIBRARY OF CONGRESS 
 
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