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willing to believe. Such is the empire of reason and of happiness. Madame Guizot in a fixed position, governed by an affection which united the ardor of love to the calmness of duty, was led back by study and reflection, by serious and tender advice, to those pure and firm principles which alone can appease the torments of the mind, and which formed in her the indissoluble alliance of feelings and opinions, of the wants of the heart and the requirements of reason; and without ever returning to the practical belief of the French Established Church, she raised for herself a faith no less lively and no less strict, which did not less touch her heart or govern her conscience, than the most powerful doctrines of sacred tradition.

Such was the piety of Madame Guizot, and such was the state of mind in which sickness and death overtook her. Her last work had been rapidly composed amid the sufferings of a visibly declining state of health. On finishing it, she appeared to have reached the limits of her strength. It is seldom that superior endowments are met with in a woman, without her being oppressed by the load; the most distinguished woman still remains a feeble being; and Madame Guizot was strong only in character and mind. However peaceable was her life, she enlivened it with the fire of her genius, and expended it in the midst of happiness and repose. Afflicted with a deep and slow disease, she daily became weaker, but not desponding. For nearly a year she struggled against the malady, which she strove to banish or to overcome; then, as ever, she placed her duty and her hopes in opposition, but at length she acknowledged the vanity of her efforts, and perceived that her decree had gone forth; she submitted to it without a murmur, and from that moment her resignation was complete. Surrounded by the most tender and devoted cares, affected and gratified by the love of which she was most assured, equally supported by reason and by faith, she gave herself up to the contemplation of her death. In the intervals of her pains she continued to converse upon the truths which had enlightened and guarded her life.

On the 30th July, 1827, she bid a tender and tranquil farewell to her husband, her son, and her family; she told them that she felt her end was approaching. On the 10th August, at ten in the morning, she

requested her husband to read to her. He read a letter of Fénélon's, for a sick person; he then commenced a sermon of Bossuet's, on the immortality of the soul; and in the midst of the sermon she expired. Thus was verified a prediction, or a hope, of which she had delighted to converse. Almost always harassed with cares and labors, she neglected none, and gave herself up to them with ever increasing devotedness, as if an inexhaustible reserve of happiness and peace had been insured to her. "It is," she says, on the necessity of an immutable futurity that I travel on incessantly, and that I shall end by passing from one world to the other. But I expect a light and a clearness in my latter days that will render this passage easy and certain." (Letter written in 1822.)

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There remains little more to add; I do not think I have forgotten any of the traces of that image, which time can never efface from the remembrance of Madame Guizot's friends; but in writing it is necessary to consider everything separately, and to make a person known, to analyze the whole that constitutes individuality in its full grace and freedom. In successively retracing the qualities and opinions of Madame Guizot, by incessantly comparing her destiny with her nature, we seem to be exhibiting a system; but we cannot reproduce the action and the harmony of the whole person, we cannot restore that unity of nature which, in her, reconciled so many varieties and almost contrasts. Thus, nothing was lost, nothing was indifferent, in that noble life; in it everything had an aim, a value, a rule; at the same time good principles had taken such possession of her mind, that she obeyed them without effort, and in the fulfillment of her duties she appeared to be following her own inclinations. Reason had not given her either coldness or constraint. Strong in suffering, she was tender and almost weak in happiness; she relished the real enjoyments of life; the most simple pleasures afforded her a childish delight. Almost always deprived of ease and leisure, chained to study, confined in towns, she could not breathe the country air without a kind of intoxication. The enjoyment of the arts, and those of nature, excited in her a real emotion. No one has better proved the truth of those words, I believe, of Rousseau's:

"Strict morals preserve the tender affections."

The idea of duty was ever present to her mind; she applied it with rigor to the solution of moral inquiries; injustice inspired her with indignation, immorality with a disgust which she knew not how to restrain; to cause grief to any one was to her almost an impossibility; to witness even merited pain only excited her pity; and her kindness disarmed her justice. But it was especially the sufferings of strong minds that excited her deepest compassion; in their sorrows she recognized her own, and suffered with them.

THE ARTILLERY DOG OF BREST.

ONG before fame had published the

prodigies of Munito, and history recorded the great deeds of quadrupeds of his kind, there existed at Brest a dog of the spaniel breed; he was patronized by the marine artillerymen, fed on the soldiers' rations, and instructed in all the duties and customs of the barracks. The bombardier, as he was called, had no particular owner; every soldier was his master, and the whole regiment was his adopted father. What cuffs had his education cost him! But then again what rewards and caresses were lavished on him for his beauty and utility! for the bombardier was not an idle dog, consuming the food that was freely offered to him in every room, without making any return for it. No; he repaid a hundred-fold, in good military services, those kind masters who vied with each other in taking care of his person and supplying his wants.

During exercise, he placed himself in front of the battalion, and followed the movements of the men, manœuvring with his front paws the cane given to him by the sergeant-major. When a company filed off he placed himself at the head of it; no other dog could presume to share with him the honor of staying at the head of the regiment or beside the colonel; for if he was gentle with his military friends, or, as we may call them, his companions

There is so much mind in the works of Madame Guizot, that it seems superfluous to speak of what she showed in conversation. Hers was strikingly original; and she sometimes astonished to such a degree that it was necessary to be accustomed to it to find it pleasing. But, with a little experience, it was soon discovered that although her language was different from that of most people, she was quick in comprehending every one, and arrived by sure, though, perhaps, circuitous means, at the knowledge of all that was true, at sympathy for all that was good. With her everything proceeded from herself; she repeated nothing, she borrowed nothing, even from reading; no book pleased her that did not make her think; she required a new effort to make her own of even common ideas; she never yielded to an opinion until after she had herself dis-in-arms, the bombardier was very severe covered its motives, or adopted it unless stamped with her seal. The reasons which determined her mind were not always the most natural, but they were her own, like those of Montaigne. She did not always take the most simple method of arriving at the truth, but she would at length attain it, and her mind knew no rest until she did. Then all opposition was at an end; there was no struggle in her, no discord-she yielded to it implicitly; her judgment governed her will, truth reigned in her by right divine.

This excellence is rare; it is, perhaps, the highest ambition of the philosopher. This immutable harmony of the mind and the heart must in every case be loved and admired; but can it ever be more worthy of admiration and of love than when it unites the wisdom of a sage to the heart of a woman?

with his equals. In a word, no one could be more exclusive than he was in everything connected with his peculiar privileges, which he was by no means disposed to share with any other animal of his race.

When, on the clock striking twelve at the fine marine quarters, the relieving guard filed off to the sound of the drum, to take up their posts in the various parts of the vast port of Brest, Bombardier took the step, setting off with his left foot, and repaired first to the marine hospital, where the steward never failed to regale him with some good broth and the bones left by the patients. His meal over, our guard-dog took a survey of all the posts, joyful to receive a caress at one, a pat at another, and to take a few turns with the sentinel placed at the extremity of the causeway, the last of the numerous stations of the port. In the evening it was

quite another thing. No sooner had he eaten his barrack supper, than this indefatigable inspector set out on his nightly rounds.

at a league distance. Whenever he discovered a sentinel asleep at his post, he pulled him angrily by his gaiters or his trowsers, as if to reproach him for his negligence; when a sentinel had only taken shelter in his box, he compelled him to go out of it, and gave him no peace until he resumed his accustomed

It was amusing to see with what benevolent haste the keeper of the iron railing of the rue de la Filarie would partly open the corner of that lofty railing to allow the bombardier to enter the well-walks. guarded post, into which no human being could gain entrance without giving the word of command to the guard, or the pass-word to the sentinel. But he had no word of command to give; his muzzle served him for a passport, and his good intentions were too well known to cause the slightest uneasiness to the men in charge of the arsenal and magazines.

The sentinels placed at night in the most solitary parts of the port had the more need of being well looked after; for the least negligence on their part might often have cost them their life, or endangered the general safety. When, for instance, the galley-slaves on a dark night succeed in breaking their irons, those unfortunate creatures endeavor, by killing the sentinels, to pave for themselves a safe means of escape. Woe, then, to the sentinel who had sought within his box a shelter from the wind or the rain! The liberated slave, armed with an iron peg, nails to his sentry-box the negligent soldier who has been found sleeping upon his post. Often have the officers on going their rounds discovered the unfortunate men bathed in blood, having been killed by slaves, who had converted iron rings into a sort of sharp scythe. A sentinel knows not what he risks in the distant stations, by wrapping himself up in his great coat, and slumbering in that box, around which so often lurks the determined felon sighing for his liberty. The old soldiers alone know how to prepare for their reception. When a heavy rain falling around them induces the slaves to make their escape, these wily soldiers crawl about the neighborhood of their sentry-box; and when the slave thinks to rid himself of a troublesome spy by rushing into the retreat of the sentinel, the latter puts either a ball or bayonet through his body, and calls the guard.

The bombardier took especial care to visit the most dangerous posts, and particularly when any newly-arrived soldiers were placed at them. He could smell a conscript

If in these nocturnal excursions the dog got scent of a deserting slave, the business of the fugitive was soon settled; the dog ran and gave the alarm at all the posts. His barkings called the guard, and the guard, following the steps of the bombardier, never failed to make a good capture. A whole body of officers did not cause such a sensation in the port of Brest as one bark of the bombardier.

When a conscript arrived, the old soldiers would say to him: "You see that spaniel, don't you? well, he is the artillery dog; he will awaken you to-night if you fall asleep; and I warn you not to hurt him, for if you do you will have the whole regiment upon you."

One day-a day of dire calamity-a big Lorraine came in with a set of fine young conscripts to the barracks. The turn of the new fellow to mount guard arrived, and the caution respecting the dog was forgotten to be given. Night came on, and the big Lorraine was stationed near the cooperage. Bombardier, as usual, commenced his rounds at midnight; the stillness that reigned about the sentrybox of the cooperage surprised him, and he determined to catch the sleeping sentinel and arouse him to his duty. The soldier was, in fact, in a profound sleep, leaning against his sentry-box, and his musket between his knees. At this sight Bombardier growled excessively, then flying at the conscript, he applied his vigorous teeth with great anger to the lower part of his gaiters. The soldier, who was at first frightened, on becoming aware of the cause of his disturbance, gave the importunate dog a violent kick. dier, unaccustomed to such treatment, grew angry and returned to the charge; the conscript got into a passion, and a regular battle began; the one had nothing but his teeth, the other had his bayonet and musket, and soon the unfortunate dog fell, pierced with wounds from the hand of him whom he had most probably saved from death.

Bombar

THE BITER BITTEN.

The corporal from the powder-mill came at one o'clock in the morning to relieve the sentinel; when near the sentrybox, something impeded his steps-it was the body of a dead dog. A sad presentiment induced the corporal to examine the animal that was lying lifeless close by the sentinel, who was exulting in the time having arrived for his being removed to a warm and secure guard-house.

"It is the bombardier!" exclaimed the corporal, with grief and consternation. "He has been killed! who killed him?" "It was I," replied the conscript. "You! you rascal !"

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prowess, but therewithal of small pos-
sessions and slender income, and careful
of his little patrimony. Summoned to the
defense and rescue of the Holy Sepulcher,
he looked around for one in whose hands
he might repose confidence: for he had
sold his few fields in order to raise a suffi-
cient following of armed esquires to enable
his banner to be raised with credit on the
Some little of his
fields of Palestine.
money yet remained, and Sir Felix de-

"O! but, corporal, it was because he sired to place it with some man of trust, bit me so!"

"You are on duty, and you may be thankful for it! But to-morrow you will be off guard!"

"Undoubtedly, I shall be off guard!" "Yes, you will come off guard, when the whole regiment shall have passed over your body."

The station, having been informed of the melancholy event, hastened to the spot, and the remains of the bombardier, wrapped in a military great-coat, were conveyed to the guard-house for the night, when the lamentations and reproaches of the men fell heavily on the unfortunate murderer. The conscript said not a word.

At noon the guard was relieved and returned to quarters; the conscript freed himself from his cartouch-box and musket, but the corporal whispered to him to retain his bayonet.

That word was significant. What followed is but too characteristic of the sanguinary spirit of the French soldiery. They repaired to the outskirts of the town, and there the avenger of the bombardier forced his slayer to fight, and speedily the conscript paid with his life for his slaughter of the artillery dog. The whole regiment wore mourning for a week in honor of the spaniel.

The memory of the artillery dog still lives in those barracks, where, since the death of the bombardier, war and death have often renewed that regiment over whose military duties and interests he had so carefully watched during his whole life. His death, under the circumstances referred to, was deeply to be regretted, but it was too dearly paid for by a crime.

that it might remain for him, should he ever return from his hazardous expedition.

Among all the merchants of the imperial city no one bore a higher or more extended reputation than Cautus; from east to west, from north to south, his agents were in motion, and every nation recognized the power and the energy of the great Roman merchant; the wild hordes of the deserts of the east, and the roving bands of the Scythians, were alike in his pay,—the hired guardians of the long files of camels, or the countless wagons that bore his goods from one nation to another people.

"His argosies with portly sail-
Like signors and rich burghers of the flood,
Or as it were the pageants of the sea-
Did over-peer the petty traffickers,
That curtsied to them, did them reverence,
As they flew by them with their woven wings."

To outward appearance no man was more calm, or less excited by good or evil fortune, than Cautus. The least part of his affections seemed placed on his many ventures; he cared little how the wind blew, whether fair or foul, and seldom consulted in his maps for the ports or tracks to or over which his vessels were sailing.

"His ventures were not in one vessel trusted,
Nor to one place; nor was his whole estate
Upon the fortune of a present year;
Therefore his merchandise made him not sad."

To this merchant Sir Felix went.
"Good Sir," said the knight, "I come
to intrust you with the little that remains
to me of my paternal fortune, after raising
my followers for the Holy Land, and
furnishing their and my equipments.
There are a thousand pieces of gold; re-
ceive them in trust for me should I ever
return. If I fall in Palestine take them to

yourself. For nor wife, nor child, nor relative have I, and of my wealth none can I take with me to the grave."

"Freely do I receive the trust, Sir knight, and honestly will I, if it so please you, employ your money until you come, that you shall receive back your own with interest."

"Nay, nay, good merchant, I am no trader; make thou what thou willest of the gold, so that I do but regain my money on my return."

With these words Sir Felix turned to leave the house of the merchant, when Cautus stayed him.

"Sir knight—stay, Sir knight, until I can give you a written acknowledgment of the trust, and a bond to return it on your demand."

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Nay, nay, Sir merchant," rejoined the knight, "no scholar am I. If I cannot believe the word of Cautus, how can his bond profit me ?"

Years passed over before the merchant and the knight met again. Mixed fortune had followed the merchant; some of his ventures had gone to wreck, but the majority had come to a good market, and the wealth and reputation of Cautus were greater than ever. Far different had been the fortune of the crusader. His life indeed had been spared to him, but sickness had borne down his frame, and death in every form had destroyed one by one the gallant and faithful band that had followed his person. Eager to regain the small sum he had deposited in the hands of Cautus, the knight made his way to the imperial city.

Meanly clothed in a pilgrim's dress, Sir Felix entered the splendid house of the merchant.

"Am not I the knight Sir Felix? and art not thou the merchant Cautus, in whose hands I placed a thousand pieces of gold when I sailed for the Holy Land?"

"Nothing know I of thee or thine, Sir knight; but come, if that thou sayest be true, show me my bond, and I will pay thee that I owe."

"I have no bond," rejoined the knight. "No bond, Sir knight-and yet wouldst persuade a merchant that thou didst intrust him with a thousand pieces of gold? Go to, ask of any man whether the merchant Cautus ever takes a pledge without giving his bond. Go to,-thou art a bold impostor."

"If thou wilt deny thy trust, Sir merchant, at least have pity on my distress, and of thy abundance give me that which thou dost deny me of my right."

"Away, sir-away, sir; to a case of real woe and misery the ears of Cautus and his wealth were ever open, but to an impostor he has nothing to give but punishment. Go, Sir pilgrim; for thy garb's sake I refrain from giving thee up to justice."

Driven from the merchant's house amid the sneers and threats of Cautus and his subordinates, Sir Felix wandered haplessly through the noisy city, and sought the silence of the fields without its walls. Wandering along a by-road, deeply grieving over his miseries, the knight met an old and feeble woman, dressed like himself in the weeds of a pilgrim. Hardly able to support herself on her staff, the old woman tottered along, stumbling over the stones that lay scattered in her path. In pity on her condition, Sir Felix moved some of her impediments out of her path, and assisted the devotee to a part of the road

"What news, Sir pilgrim ?" said whereon her shoeless feet might walk with Cautus. less pain and discomfort.

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Thanks, good father, for thy kindness. Old as I am, and sore worn with fasting, prayer, and travel, methinks my aged features bear a less mournful appearance than thine."

"Good mother," rejoined the knight, "sorely have I suffered in the Holy Land by disease and wounds; but now more grievous is my loss, for he to whom I had intrusted the little remnant of my property denies the pledge, and drives me from his house as an impostor."

When the old devotee heard the whole of the knight's story, she bade him take

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