The little captive king & other tales

Material Information

The little captive king & other tales
Series Title:
Chambers's juvenile library
Alternate title:
Little captive king and other tales
William and Robert Chambers
M'Farlane and Erskine ( Printer of plates )
Place of Publication:
London ;
W. and R. Chambers
Publication Date:
Physical Description:
143 p., [2] leaves of plates : ill. (some col.) ; 18 cm.


Subjects / Keywords:
Children -- Conduct of life -- Juvenile fiction ( lcsh )
Conduct of life -- Juvenile fiction ( lcsh )
Children's stories ( lcsh )
Children's stories -- 1888 ( lcsh )
Prize books (Provenance) -- 1888 ( rbprov )
Bldn -- 1888
Children's stories ( lcsh )
Prize books (Provenance) ( rbprov )
novel ( marcgt )
Spatial Coverage:
England -- London
Scotland -- Edinburgh
Target Audience:
juvenile ( marctarget )


General Note:
Date of publication from prize inscription.
General Note:
Frontispiece and title page printed in colors by McFarlane & Erskine.
Preservation and Access for American and British Children's Literature, 1870-1889 (NEH PA-50860-00).

Record Information

Source Institution:
University of Florida
Holding Location:
Baldwin Library of Historical Children's Literature in the Department of Special Collections and Area Studies, George A. Smathers Libraries, University of Florida
Rights Management:
This item is presumed to be in the public domain. The University of Florida George A. Smathers Libraries respect the intellectual property rights of others and do not claim any copyright interest in this item. Users of this work have responsibility for determining copyright status prior to reusing, publishing or reproducing this item for purposes other than what is allowed by fair use or other copyright exemptions. Any reuse of this item in excess of fair use or other copyright exemptions may require permission of the copyright holder. The Smathers Libraries would like to learn more about this item and invite individuals or organizations to contact The Department of Special and Area Studies Collections ( with any additional information they can provide.
Resource Identifier:
026848744 ( ALEPH )
ALH3511 ( NOTIS )
70046215 ( OCLC )

Full Text
.. .


::: .....


The Baldwin Library

) tli iiini t ii ( rL1uLtc XXTB t2e2an


Presented to (iM41.-
th is day o .... 88



P. .







THE LITTLE CAPTIVE KING................................... 3

W ITH ONE........................... .... ...... ................. 72

THE STOLEN FRUIT......................................... 90


THE GOOD CONSCIENCE............................................115

THE WEALTH OF CONTENTMENT..........................125

A FEARFUL SWING............ ............................133

THE TRULY GREAT...................................... ........139

S .




ONE morning in the month of August 1789, a
man and a child were walking through the
extensive and beautiful park of Rambouillet-
a royal residence, thirty-six miles south-west
of Paris. The man, though of a somewhat
bulky frame, was yet in the prime of life, and
had a mild and distinguished countenance.
His simple style of dress did not indicate the
precise rank which he held in society, yet his
aquiline nose, his majesty of air, as well as the
broad blue ribbon visible between his white
waistcoat and lace frill, marked him as one of
the royal family. As for the child, he was
remarkable for almost angelic beauty, and his
clustering curls of fair hair which hung over


his open neck and shoulders. About four years
and five months old, but, like all precocious
children, taller than usual at that age, he bore
in his features an air of bright intelligence,
shaded, however, as some would think, with a
stamp of melancholy unsuitable to his years.
Gay and lively in the extreme, his animal
spirits were at one moment in wild exuber-
ance; in the next, his mood changed to deep
depression. His bright blue eyes had the
irresistible charm of having their brilliance
softened by a pensiveness of expression, calcu-
lated to interest all who looked on his fair
The man was Louis XVI., king of France;
the child was his son, Louis-Charles, the
dauphin, which was the name given in France
to the eldest son of the king.
"Louis," said the king, "to-morrow is the
queen's birthday, and you must think of some-
thing new for her bouquet, and compose some
little compliment."
Papa," replied the young prince quickly,
"I have a beautiful everlasting in my garden,
and it will just do for my bouquet and my
compliment too. When presenting it to
mamma, I can say: 'Mamma, I wish that you
may be like this flower.'"
"Very good indeed, my child," said the
king, pressing the little hand which he held in
his. "How much I wish that your conduct



was always as satisfactory as your little sallies
are pleasing and full of heart! I grieve to
have heard that while studying your lesson
with your tutor yesterday, you began to hiss.
Was this as it ought to be, Louis ?"
"What would you have me do, papa?"
replied Louis with an arch smile; "I said my
lesson so badly, that I hissed myself."
"What was the abb6 explaining to you?"
asked the king.
"It was the use of the compass, and I own
to you, papa, that I am just now greatly
puzzled about it. I scarcely heard a word he
said. All the time he was speaking, I was
thinking how the sun would be burning up my
garden and my beautiful flowers, and I was
longing to get out to water them; so Monsieur
the Abb6 will be very angry with me to-
morrow, for I do not remember a single syllable.
If you have time, papa, could you not tell me
all about it while we are walking ?"
"With pleasure, Louis," answered the king,
"particularly as I happen to have a small
compass in my pocket. Before, however,
attempting to explain this curious instrument,
I must tell you something of the magnet, from
which its power and usefulness are derived.
The only natural magnet with which we are
acquainted is the loadstone-a mineral of a
dark iron-gray colour approaching to black,
found in great abundance in the iron mines of



Sweden, in some parts of the East, in America,
and sometimes, though rarely, among the iron
ores of England. Now, the loadstone has a
property of attracting iron, which it draws into
contact with its own mass, and holds firmly
attached by its own power of attraction. A
piece of loadstone drawn several times along a
needle or a small piece of iron, converts it into
an artificial magnet. If this magnetised needle
be then carefully balanced, so as to move
easily on its centre, one of its ends will always
turn to the north. Now, Louis, look at this
small case. You see in it the magnet, made
like the hand of a clock, with that end which
points to the north shaped like the head of an
arrow. You see that it is carefully balanced
on a steel point, and beneath it is a card
marked like a dial-plate with north, south,
east, west, such being the cardinal points; also
the intermediate points, as north-west, south-
east, &c. By merely looking at the position
of the needle when it settles to a point, the
mariner can see the direction in which his
vessel is sailing, and regulate his steering
accordingly. The case, you see, is covered with
glass, to protect the face from injury. This is
a small compass, but there are large ones which
are not so well suited for carrying about.
Whether large or small, the compass is one of
the most useful instruments in the world.
Without it, mariners dare not venture out of



sight of land, nor would the discovery of
America have been made by the great Columbus.
You will remember that the magnetic needle
always points to the north."
"Papa, tell me, is the compass as useful on
land as at sea?"
"Assuredly, my child. For example, suppose
we were to lose our way in the adjoining
forest: I know that the Chateau de Rambouillet
lies to the north of the forest, and to find out
the north I look at my compass, and take the
direction to which the needle points-so."
And the king showed his son how the needle
would act.
The boy, who had been most attentively
listening to his father, suddenly cried: "Do,
papa, lend me your compass, and let me find
my way by myself to the chateau."
"And if you lose your way?" said the king,
a little startled at the proposal.
"But the compass will guide me, papa."
"You are not afraid, then, of being alone in
the forest ?"
Was a king of France ever afraid ?" replied
Louis, proudly raising his pretty fair head.
"Well, be it so," said the king; "here is the
compass, and here, too, is my purse, for you
may want money on your way. Now let us
part; you, Mr Adventurer, may take to the
right, I will keep to the left, and I appoint you
to meet me at the chateau."



"Agreed," said Louis, kissing his father's
hand as he took from it the compass, and
then merrily plunged into the depths of the



FoR about an hour the dauphin pursued his
way, directing his course by the compass till he
arrived at the borders of the forest, without
finding himself nearer home. A large meadow
lay before him, in which some peasants were
mowing, and he advanced towards them, not to
inquire his way-the idea of seeking any other
guide but his compass did not enter his head-
no, he only wanted to know the hour. As he
approached, a little dog began barking in
rather a hostile way. His master called him
back; but the dog did not immediately obey,
and the peasant left his work, and with the
handle of his scythe gave the animal several
On hearing the cries of the dog, Louis ran to
the peasant. Will you sell that pretty dog,
friend?" said he to him.
Not so fast, my little gentleman," answered
the peasant, who did not recognize the prince;



"I would not sell my dog, do you see, for all
the gold in the king's purse. My poor Muff-
my only companion in my poverty-my only
friend !"
"Then why do you beat him ?"
"He that loves well chastises well, my little
"Here, friend," said the child, taking a piece
of gold from his purse; "I will give you this,
if you promise me not to love your dog quite so
Astonished at this munificence in so young
a child, the peasant said: "One would think
you were the son of a king, to give away so
much money at a time."
I am the son of your king," answered Louis,
Pardon, my prince; I ask pardon," said the
peasant in great confusion. "Pardon me for
having refused you the dog: it is yours, my
prince, and all that I have besides. Take Muff,
my good young prince-take Muff."
"I am much obliged to you, my good sir,"
answered the child; "but you tell me he is
your only friend. Now I have a great many
friends, so I will not deprive you of yours. I
only want you to tell me what o'clock it is."
"It is three o'clock, your highness."
But how do you know ?-where did you see
it ?" the child asked, with much surprise. "You
did not look at your watch."



If we poor peasants could not tell the hour
without a watch, I do not know what we
should do. Sure we have the sun."
"And how do you know by the sun?"
"Well, indeed, I cannot tell you that very
clearly, my young prince; it is, however,
according to its height. When as high as it
will go nearly over our heads, and when it
casts the least possible shadow anywhere, we
know it is noon precisely. According as it
comes down lower, and our shadow lengthens,
it is one o'clock, two o'clock, three o'clock, and
so on. You see we just judge by the shadows,
my good little prince."
"Thank you, friend, for all you have taught
me," said the child; and then, notwithstanding
the earnest entreaties of the peasant to be
allowed to show him the way-steady to his
resolve to consult no guide but the compass-
lie fearlessly struck again into the forest, and
at length, after several hours of wandering,
now finding, now missing the track, he arrived
at Rambouillet heated and panting, yet
insensible to the fatigue he had undergone,
from exultation at having, unassisted, reached
the end of his journey.
The moment the king saw him, he ran to
him with an eagerness that betrayed what had
been his anxiety. "I had almost begun to
think you had lost your way, Louis."
"Lost my way, indeed How could I have


lost it?" said the child, with a half-indignant
"Oh, I see your pride is up in arms; but if
it had not been for the compass "-
"Papa, if I had had no compass, my heart
would have guided me to you."



WE must say something of the parentage and
birth of our young hero, and shall commence
with his father. Louis XVI. was grandson of
Louis XV., by whom, while dauphin, or heir-
apparent to the throne of France, he was kept
in comparative seclusion and ignorance of the
knowledge required for his high destination.
In consequence of this imperfect acquaintance
with the world and of state affairs, as well as
from temperament, he was indecisive, timid,
silent, and reserved; but full of benevolence, and
of exemplary morals. In 1770, he was united
to Marie Antoinette, daughter of Francis I.
of Austria and Maria Theresa; Louis at the
time being no more than sixteen, and Marie
Antoinette fifteen years of age. Educated with
great care, this young princess was highly



accomplished, and endowed with an uncommon
share of gracefulness and beauty. In a letter
written by her mother, Maria Theresa, to her
future husband, she says, among other things:
"Your bride, dear dauphin, is separated from
me. As she has ever been my delight, so she
will be your happiness. For this purpose have
I educated her, for I have long been aware that
she was to be the companion of your life. I
have enjoined upon her, as among her highest
duties, the most tender attachment to your
person, the greatest attention to everything
that can please or make you happy. Above
all, I have recommended to her humility
towards God; because I am convinced that
it is impossible for us to contribute to the
happiness of the subjects confided to us, with-
out love to Him who breaks the sceptres and
crushes the thrones of kings according to His
own will." The departure of this young and
fascinating creature from Vienna filled all
hearts with sorrow, so much was she beloved.
Conducted with great state through Germany
to the borders of France, near Strasburg, she
was there assigned to the care of the French
nobles and ladies of honour deputed to receive
her; but not till an important ceremonial,
according to the usage of France, had been
In the midst of a pretty green meadow was
erected a superb pavilion. It consisted of a


vast saloon, connected with two apartments,
one of which was assigned to the lords and
ladies of the court of Vienna, and the other to
those of the court of France, including body-
guard and pages. The young princess being
conducted into the apartment for the Germans,
she was there undressed, in order that she
might retain nothing belonging to a foreign
court; and with the slenderest covering she
was ushered into the apartment in which her
French suite was in attendance. It was a try-
ing moment for a delicate female. On the
doors being thrown open, the young princess
came forward, looking round for her lady of
honour, the Countess de Noailles; then rushing
into her arms, she implored her, with tears in
her eyes, and with a heartfelt sincerity, to
direct her, to advise her, and to be in every
respect her guide and support. It was impos-
sible to refrain from admiring her aerial yet
august and serene deportment; her smile was
sufficient to win every heart. Dressed by her
tirewoman, the Duchess of Coss4, she became a
princess of France; and on presenting herself
to the numerous retinue, she was hailed with
loud and protracted acclamations.
The journey of Marie Antoinette through
France was like a triumphal march; and when
she arrived at Versailles, the entertainments
given on her account were remarkably splendid.
On the occasion of her marriage, the city of



Paris also gave a magnificent fate; but greatly
to her distress and that of her husband, the
overcrowding of the streets caused a deplorable
catastrophe-fifty-three persons were pressed
or trodden to death, and about three hundred
dangerously wounded. To increase the melan-
choly recollections of the event, a fire broke out
in the Place Louis XV., by which many persons
perished, and hundreds lost their all. The
dauphin and dauphiness were so overwhelmed
with grief at this second disaster, that they
sent their whole income for the year to the
relief of the surviving sufferers. This and other
traits of good dispositions seemed to endear
Marie Antoinette to the French; but unfor-
tunately she was from the first surrounded by
mean factions, whose delight lay in misrepre-
senting all her actions, and rendering her
The dauphin and dauphiness lived chiefly at
Versailles, or in the small palace in the adjoin-
ing grounds, known by the name of the Trianon,
where the princess had an opportunity of
indulging in her love for flowers and garden-
ing, and Louis could pursue unmolested the
industrial occupations to which he was attached.
Living much apart from state affairs, four years
thus pleasantly passed away, when the current
of their lives was greatly altered by the demise
of the reigning sovereign. Any one who had
visited the palace of Versailles at the beginning


of May 1774, would have found the inmates in
a state of extreme consternation. Louis XV.
lay ill of a dangerous malady, smallpox, and a
number of the courtiers catching the infection,
died. At length, on the evening of the 10th of
the month, the king closed his mortal career.
The dauphin was at this time with the
dauphiness in one of the apartments distant
from the scene of death. A noise was suddenly
heard by them; it increased like the rushing
of a torrent. It was the crowd of courtiers who
were deserting the dead sovereign's ante-
chamber, to come and bow to the new power
of Louis XVI. This extraordinary tumult
informed Marie Antoinette and her husband
that they were to reign; and by a spontaneous
movement, which deeply affected those around
them, they threw themselves on their knees,
and both pouring forth a flood of tears,
exclaimed: "0 God! guide us, protect us; we
are too young to govern."
Marie Antoinette was now queen of France;
but the accession brought no real happiness.
For many years the court had been a scene
of demoralisation, and full of jealousies and
intrigues, which she found it impossible to
quell. The queen was likewise harassed with
perplexing ceremonies, for which, being bred
in a simple patriarchal court, she had no taste.
She was little less than a puppet in the hands
of her attendants. If she wanted a glass of



water, she was not allowed to take it herself;
it must be given by a lady of honour. At table
everything was presented on bended knees, as
if she had been a divinity. In making her
toilet, she durst not pour water on her own
hands; every movement was performed by
waiting-women, all members of the nobility.
Sometimes one trifling operation would require
six persons: one would take an article of dress
from a wardrobe and hand it to another, who
would in turn give it to another, and so on, the
last putting it on the person of the queen,
who was all the time perhaps shivering with
cold. Marie Antoinette spoke with satirical
pleasantry of these useless ceremonies, and
wished to abolish them; but this only gained
her enemies, and became the pretext for the
first reproaches levelled against her.
On the 11th December 1778, a daughter was
born to the queen; and on the 22d of October
1781, a son was born, the dauphin, and on this
occasion the hopes of all classes appeared to be
crowned with universal joy. Numerous were
the congratulations; and Versailles for some
time bore the air of a perpetual holiday. In
the society of her son and daughter the queen
now spent much of her time; and as they grew
up, she endeavoured to cultivate in them every
amiable quality. During the winter of 1783,
when the poor suffered greatly from cold, she
distributed large sums, saved from her allow-


ance, among the most necessitous families in
Versailles; nor did she fail on this occasion
to give her children a lesson in beneficence.
Having met on the New-year's Eve to arrange
about getting, as in other years, all the fashion-
able playthings, she caused them to be spread
out in her closet. Then taking her son and
daughter in her hand, she showed them all the
dolls and toys which were ranged there, and
told them that she intended to give them some
handsome New-year's gifts, but that the cold
made the poor so wretched, that all her money
was spent in blankets and clothes to protect
them from the rigour of the season, and in
supplying them with bread; so that this year
they would only have the pleasure of looking at
the new playthings. When she returned with
her children into her sitting-room, she said
there was still an unavoidable expense to be
incurred, and that was paying the toyman for
the use of his toys and the cost of his journey,
and a sum was accordingly paid to him for his
To the family of Marie Antoinette another
addition was made on the 27th of March 1785,
when Louis-Charles, the subject of our present
memoir, was born. Immediately on his birth,
which took place at Versailles, the king, his
father, conferred on him the title of Duke of
Normandy, which had not been given to the
princes of France since the time of Charles VII.



This was a happy event in the royal family,
and served to assuage the vexations in which
the king was becoming involved with his state
affairs. It was another bright moment when
the Princess Sophie was born in 1788, but she
died while still an infant; and shortly after-
wards the dauphin fell in a few months from a
florid state of health into so weak a condition,
that he could not walk without support. How
many maternal tears did his languishing frame,
the certain forerunner of death, draw from the
queen, already overwhehned with apprehensions
respecting the state of the kingdom! Her
grief was enhanced by petty intrigues and
quarrels among the persons who surrounded
her. The dauphin died in 1789; and Louis-
Charles, or Louis, as his father usually called
him, became dauphin in his stead.
To a naturally amiable disposition, Louis-
Charles united an intellect premature in its
development, with a countenance which bore
the mingled expression of the mildness of his
father, and the lofty dignity of his mother.
As he grew up in childhood, he showed a most
decided love for flowers; and the king, who
wished to cultivate tastes so simple and so
conducive in their practical exercise to his
bodily health, had given him a little plot of
ground in front of the apartments opening on
the terrace at Versailles. There was the
dauphin, day after day, to be seen with his


little spade working away; and though the
perspiration stood in large drops upon his
forehead, he would suffer no one to help him.
"No," said he; "it is because I make the
flowers grow myself that mamma is so fond
of them; so I must work hard to have them
ready for her." And every morning the young
proprietor of this little domain came to pull his
fairest roses, his most fragrant violets, to form
a bouquet to lay on his mother's bed; so that
the first thing Marie Antoinette always saw
on awaking was her boy's early offering;
while from behind the curtain he watched
her smile of pleasure, then sprang from his
hiding-place to claim his reward-that reward
a kiss-and that kiss was so sweet to him, that
no severity of weather could hinder him from
going to his little garden to pull the flowers
that won for him this prize.
And here we would pause to say, if, in
this elevated rank, it is found that when
affection is to be evinced, it is evinced in a
way common to all classes-evinced in the
daily little attentions miscalled trifling-may
not those in humble life who have perhaps
felt inclined to murmur that all power to
bestow large bounties, all opportunity to make
splendid sacrifices in proof of love, has been
denied to them, repress the vain wish that
it had been otherwise, and rest satisfied in
the recollection that, however rare may be



the occasions to save or serve, and vouchsafed
to few, yet all may please. Let such, though
they may not have even the flower in the
bud to give, rejoice that a kindly look, the
smallest office of patient love, the shrinking
from giving pain, the bitter word repressed
when rising to the lips, is no despicable offering,
either in the eyes of an earthly friend or in
the sight of that heavenly Friend who for-
gets not the cup of cold water given for His
sake, and who said of her of small power
but loving heart: "She hath done what she
The young prince was not always equally
studious or docile, and one day that he was
to be punished for some misdemeanor, the
plan devised was to take from him his dear
little dog Muff, which the grateful peasant
of the forest had brought as an offering to
his young prince; and next to his parents and
his flowers all his care was for Muff. On this
occasion, the dog was shut up in a closet where
the dauphin might hear but could not see him
-a privation apparently as great to Muff as
to his master, for he never ceased howling
and scratching at the door. The prince,
unable to bear it any longer, ran with tears
streaming down his cheeks to the queen.
"Mamma," cried he, "Muff is so unhappy,
and you know, as it was not he that was
naughty, he ought not to be punished. If


you will let him out, I promise to go into the
closet instead of him, and to stay there as
long as you wish." His petition was granted;
Muff was set at liberty, and the little dauphin
remained patiently in the dark closet till his
mother released him.
Like most children of his age, he did not
always make proper application of the maxims
which he heard. One day that, in the exuber-
ance of animal spirits, he was about to throw
himself into the midst of some rose-bushes:
"Take care," said the queen, "those thorns
might tear your eyes out, and will certainly
scratch you severely."
"But, dear mamma," answered he in a
most magnanimous tone, "thorny paths, you
know, lead to glory."
"It is a noble maxim," replied the queen,
"but I see you do not quite understand it.
What glory can there be in getting your eyes
scratched out for the mere pleasure of jumping
into a hedge? If, indeed, it were to extricate
any one from danger, there would be glory in it,
but as it is, there is only imprudence. My
child, you must not talk of glory till you are
able to read the history of true heroes who
have disinterestedly sacrificed life and fortune
for the good of others."
On one occasion, his governess, uneasy at
seeing him running at headlong speed, said to
the queen: He will surely fall."


"He must learn to fall," replied Marie
"But he may hurt himself."
He must learn to endure pain," said the
queen, who, with all her fondness, had no desire
to make her boy effeminate.



THE love of rural pursuits evinced by the
young dauphin was destined to be rudely
broken in upon. While with his parents at
Versailles in 1789, the revolution in France
broke out, and filled the royal family with
alarm. It was the misfortune of Louis XVI.
to have fallen on evil times, and, with all
his good qualities, to become the victim on
whose head the popular resentment for long-
endured injuries should be visited. It was
another of his misfortunes to be surrounded
by incompetent advisers, and to be deserted by
the classes who might have been expected to
rally round the throne.
When tumults began to take place in Paris,
it was considered necessary that the king
should proceed thither to show himself to
the people at the Hotel de Ville. He went


on the 17th of July 1789. Everybody knows
that this movement gave a trifling lull to the
storm. When the sovereign received the
tricoloured cockade from the mayor of Paris
in front of an assembled multitude, a shout of
"Long live the king !" arose on all sides. The
king breathed again freely at that moment;
he had not for a long time heard such acclama-
tions. During his absence, the queen shut
herself up in her private rooms with her
family. She sent for several persons belonging
to the court, but their doors were locked;
terror had driven them away. A deadly
silence reigned throughout the palace; fear was
at its height; the king was hardly expected to
return. He did, however, come back, and was
received with inexpressible joy by the queen,
his sister, and his children. He congratulated
himself that no accident had happened; and it
was then he repeated several times: "Happily
no blood has been shed, and I swear that never
shall a drop of French blood be shed by my
It is not our intention to relate the history
of the revolution which had already commenced,
but only to note a few particulars in the life
of our young hero and his unfortunate parents.
On various pretexts, it was resolved by the mob
of Paris, a large portion of whom were women
of the lowest habits, to march to Versailles
and bring the royal family to Paris. This



alarming movement took place on the 5th
and 6th of October. The court, deserted by
the host of nobles who might have been
expected to rally round the throne, and with
scarcely any friends left but their immediate
attendants and attached guards, were on this
momentous occasion exposed to many gross
indignities, and with some difficulty were able
to save their lives. Carriages being prepared,
they were compelled to go into them and
proceed to Paris, attended by a rabble of
many thousands. It was not the least of
the many painful circumstances accompanying
this removal, that the king was compelled
to withdraw his son from the healthy breezes
of the country to the comparative closeness
of a city atmosphere. The boy, also, was
inconsolable. To be taken away from his little
garden was a sore grief; his beautiful flowers,
the flowers reared with his own hands, would,
he said, wither and die; and he was like to
die at the thought. In order to console him,
he was told he should have much nicer
flowers at Paris, and as many as he could
wish for. "They will not be my own flowers
that I planted and watered," he answered;
"I shall never love any flowers so well as
Clinging to his mamma in terror of the
horde of wild-looking men and women who
were shouting in demoniac laughter, the


dauphin entered one of the coaches; the
queen alternately trying to pacify his fears,
and to look with calmness on the terrific
throng. Already blood had been shed. The
mob, in forcing the palace, had killed two
of the guards who defended the queen's apart-
ments from outrage; and with the heads of
these unfortunate and brave men stuck on
the ends of poles, a party preceded the royal
carriages to Paris. In the rear of this band,
slowly came the procession of soldiers, citizens,
women-an indescribable crowd of the vilest
beings on earth-some riding astride on
cannons, some carrying pikes or muskets, and
numbers waving long branches of poplar. It
looked like a moving forest, amidst which
shone pike-heads and gun-barrels. After the
royal carriages came the king's faithful guards,
some on foot and some on horseback, most of
them uncovered and worn out with want of
sleep, hunger, and fatigue. Finally came a
number of carriages containing deputies of the
Assembly, followed by the bulk of the Parisian
In the course of the journey, which was
protracted to a late hour, the king and queen
were constantly reviled by the crowd of savage
women who thronged about them. There was
at the time a dearth of bread in Paris, arising
from natural causes; but it was imputed to the
king, and now that he was in the hands of the



mob, they cried out that bread would no longer
be either dear or scarce. "We shall no longer,"
they shouted at the windows of the royal
carriages, "we shall no longer want bread; we
have the baker, the baker's wife, and the
baker's boy with us." In the midst of all the
revilings, tumult, and singing, interrupted by
frequent discharges of musketry, might be seen
Marie Antoinette preserving the most coura-
geous tranquillity of soul, and an air of noble
and inexpressible dignity.
The departure of the royal family for Paris
was so hurried that no time was afforded to
make preparations at the palace of the Tuileries,
which, since the minority of Louis XV., had
not been the residence of the kings of France.
Some apartments, however, were cleared for
their reception; and from this time may be
dated the captivity of Louis XVI. in the hands
of his people.
On the day after the arrival of the court
in Paris, a noise was heard in the garden
of the Tuileries, which terrifying the dauphin,
he threw himself into the arms of the queen,
crying out: "0 mamma, is yesterday come
again?" The child in his simplicity could
not account for the revolutionary movements of
which he, with others, was the victim; and a
few days after making the above affecting
exclamation, he went up to his father to speak
to him on the subject.


"Well, Louis, what is it you wish to say ?"
asked the king.
I want to know, papa," he answered
pensively, "why the people, who formerly loved
you so well, are all at once angry with you;
what is it you have done to irritate them so
much ?"
His father, interested in the question, took
him upon his knee and spoke to him nearly as
follows: "I wished, my dear Louis, to make my
people still happier than they were. I wanted
money to pay the expenses occasioned by wars.
I asked my people for money, as the former
kings of France had done; the magistrates
composing the parliament opposed it, and said
that my people had alone a right to consent to
it. I thereupon assembled the principal inhab-
itants of every town, whether distinguished by
birth, fortune, or talents, at Versailles; and
that is what is called the States-General. When
all were assembled, they required concessions
of me which I could not make, either with
due respect for myself or with justice to you,
who will be my successor. Wicked men,
inducing the people to rise, have occasioned the
excesses of the last few days ; the people must
not be blamed for them."
The dauphin had now a more clear idea of
the position of affairs, and to please his father
and mother, he endeavoured to avoid giving
cause of offence to those about him. When he



had occasion to speak to the officers of the
National Guards, mayors of the communes, or
revolutionary leaders who visited the Tuileries,
he did so with much affability. If the queen
happened to be present, he would come and
whisper in her ear: "Is that right ?"
The royal family were not permitted to con-
sider the whole garden of the Tuileries as their
own. The chief portion was claimed by the
National Assembly. In that part appropriated
to the king's household, the dauphin was given
a small patch in which he might pursue his
love for flowers; but even this indulgence was
clogged with the regulation that he should be
attended by members of the National Guard.
At first the escort was small, and courteously
did the young prince invite his guards to enter,
and graciously did he distribute flowers amongst
them; sometimes saying to them: "I would
give you a great many more, but mamma is so
fond of them." But the guard being gradually
increased, he could no longer do the honours of
his little domain to all, and once he apologised
to those who were pressing round the palisades:
"I am sorry, gentlemen, that my garden is too
small to permit of my having the pleasure of
seeing you all in it."
One day a poor woman made her way into
the garden, and presented him a petition. "My
prince," said she, "if you can obtain this favour
for me, I shall be as happy as a queen."


The child took the paper, and with a look of
deep sadness, exclaimed: "Happy as a queen,
you say; I know one queen who does nothing
but weep all day long."



THE years 1790 and 1791 were passed by the
royal family in a state of constant apprehen-
sion. Clamoured against by all, and in con-
stant danger of assassination, the king appears
to have sunk into a state of gloomy despond-
ency, from which neither the smiles of his wife
nor the sallies of little Louis could raise him.
For some months he scarcely spoke a word.
The queen spent much of her time in tears.
Recommended by a few attached partisans, as
well as by his own fears, he made an attempt
to leave the kingdom with his family, but
as every one knows, they were stopped at
Varennes before they reached the frontiers,
and brought back to Paris. In their return
they were under the charge of Barnave, one of
the deputies appointed by the Assembly to
attend the royal prisoners. At the time it was
customary for the revolutionists to wear buttons
on which was the device: To live free, or die."



Observing words to that effect on the button of
M. Barnave, the dauphin said: Mamma, what
does that mean-to live free ?"
My child," replied the queen, "it is to go
where you please."
"Ah, mamma," replied the child quickly,
"then we are not free !"
This attempt at flight considerably aggra-
vated the condition of the royal family, who
were now more carefully watched than ever;
the king and queen living almost continually
under the eyes of sentinels, and all their corre-
spondence watched. These things preyed on
the mind of Marie Antoinette, and began to
give her the appearance of premature old age.
Mamma," said the dauphin one day shortly
after the return of the family to the Tuileries,
"how white your hair has grown!"
"Hush, my dear child," replied the queen;
'let us not think of such trifles when we have
greater sorrows, those of poor papa, to distress
us." It is true the queen's beautiful hair had
grown white from the effect of grief. In a
single night it had become as white as that of a
woman of seventy, yet she was only about half
that age. The Princess de Lamballe having
asked for a lock of her whitened hair, she
had a small quantity set in a ring and pre-
sented to her, with the inscription: "Bleached
by sorrow."
On the 20th of June 1792, a lawless Parisian


rabble forced the Tuileries, and rushed like
demoniacs from room to room in search of the
king and queen, who, though sufficiently
alarmed, did not, quail before this barbarous
torrent. Placing themselves in a recess, with two
or three attendants, they awaited what might
be their fate. The queen placed the dauphin
before her on a table. When the tumultuous
procession advanced, a person of coarse appear-
ance gave the king a red cap, which he put on
his head, and a similar emblem was drawn over
the head of little Louis, almost burying the
whole of his face. The horde passed in files
before the table, carrying symbols of the most
horrid barbarity. There was one representing
a gibbet, to which a dirty doll was suspended,
with an inscription signifying that it was Marie
Antoinette. Another was a board, to which a
bullock's heart was fastened, with the words
inscribed: Heart of Louis XVI."
By the interference of several deputies, no
bloody deed was committed on this occasion.
The result was very different on the ensuing
10th of August, when the palace of the
Tuileries was attacked and captured after a
gallant and ineffectual defence by the Swiss
guards, all of whom, to the number of eight
hundred, were barbarously put to death. It
would be too painful, even if it were necessary,
to describe this terrible massacre. The poor
son of Louis XVI., no longer heir to a throne,



for the monarchy was abolished, shared all the
perils of that day, evincing a degree of courage
beyond his age. When the wainscoting of a
secret passage in which the family had taken
refuge appeared to be giving way under the
repeated blows of the mob, and when the queen
with suspended breath was listening to each
stroke of the axe, the boy, gliding from the
terror-relaxed hold of his mother, fell on his
knees, and putting up his little hands, piously
exclaimed: 0 God, save mamma !-Thou art
able to do everything. Oh, send away these
men !-a poor child is praying for his mother!
O thou good God, wilt thou not hear him ?"
As if in answer to this artless prayer, the noise
suddenly ceased, and an announcement was
made that the people demanded to see the
queen-a fruitless interview, though affording
a respite at the moment.
The result is well known. Louis XVI., the
queen, the dauphin and his sister, with Madame
Elizabeth, the sister of the king, took refuge
in the Assembly, whence, after a lengthened
debate, they were transferred to confinement in
the Feuillans ; from this place of detention they
were soon taken to the Temple.



THE Temple owes its name to the Templars, a
military order of priests who, in the twelfth
century, devoted themselves to the recovery of
the Holy Temple at Jerusalem from the Sara-
cens. In 1250, they founded this, the principal
house of their order, and retained possession of
it for 160 years. Like the other ancient for-
tresses, it was surrounded by high and turreted
battlements, in the middle of which rose a
square tower, the walls of which were nine
feet in thickness, and which was flanked by
four other round towers. The church, of rudely
Gothic construction, was built on the model of
that of St John at Jerusalem.
Within a courtyard in this gloomy edifice, as
well as in the park at Versailles and on the
terrace of the Tuileries, Louis-Charles was
indulged with a small garden, a plot where the
flowers might indeed want the sunshine, but
still to him they were flowers-he still had a


garden to cultivate. The large square tower
was the prison of the royal family: there for
many months, to the very day of his death,
Louis XVI., whose possession of all the virtues
which constitute a good father, a good head of
a family, is not denied even by his enemies,
devoted himself to the education of his son. It
was his delight to develop and cultivate that
youthful and naturally quick and powerful
intellect. Often did his mirthful sallies, his
playful wit, beguile the anxious parents into
a smile.
Every morning the king rose at six o'clock,
and prepared the lessons he intended giving to
his son; at ten, the captives assembled in the
queen's apartment, and study began. Very
sweet were these hours to the poor prisoners,
and whilst the lesson lasted, each seemed to
forget past greatness, and ceased to anticipate
future perils; but too often, alas! these calm
domestic scenes were interrupted by clamorous
shouts, nay, even death-screams, from without,
which too plainly told the royal victims that
the forfeiture of liberty and a crown was no
security for life being spared.
It was in such hours as these that the cour-
age of Louis XVI. seemed to grow with the
danger-that courage which consists in calm
endurance. As soon as each new cause for
alarm had ceased, he endeavoured to lure his
startled little circle into forgetfulness of it by


some question to the prince-at times it might
be a riddle, an enigma; and his ingenious
guesses often succeeded in checking the tears
of the fond mother and aunt.
"Louis," asked the king on one of these
occasions, "what is that which is white and
black, weighs not an ounce, travels night and
day like the wind, and tells a thousand things
without speaking?"
"It must be a horse," answered the dauphin;
"it surely is a horse. A horse may be white
and black, and a horse runs races, and a horse
does not speak."
"So far so good, my boy; but a horse weighs
somewhat more than an ounce, and I never
heard of his telling any news."
"Ah! now papa, I have it; it is a news-
paper," and the young prince's merry peal of
laughter almost met a response from the sorrow-
ful little group.
"Another question for you," said the king.
"Who is she, the most beautiful, the best, the
noblest "-
"Who but mamma ?" quickly interrupted the
dauphin, throwing himself into the queen's
"You did not give me time to finish, Louis,"
pursued his father; I ask you who is the most
beautiful, the best, the noblest, and who yet
repels the greater part of mankind ?"
"It is Truth, papa; but to tell you the truth,


I did not guess it myself; my sister whispered
it to me."
In such little exercises of ingenuity, and at
times in playing a geographical game invented
by the king, were the boy's hours of recreation
passed. This game consisted in drawing out of
a little bag the names of towns, which were
then traced out upon the map and marked by
counters, and the game was won by whichever
player told most of the historical events occur-
ring in the places the names of which they had
Thus the autumn of 1792 passed, and winter
came on without bringing any alleviation of the
condition of the prisoners. One evening, after
the candles were lighted, when the family were
arranged round the table in their sitting apart-
ment, the dauphin, with the inquisitiveness of
youth, asked his father what book he was now
reading and studying so carefully. "It is the
history of an unfortunate king, Charles I. of
England," answered Louis. "See, here is a
book which I have sent for to amuse you, and
I think you will like it better than the very
melancholy memoirs of Charles."
"Thank you, dear papa. Oh! I see it is full
of stories ; shall I read one aloud ?"
"Certainly, if you please. Take that pretty
one near the beginning, called Arthur; it
teaches a fine lesson to boys in adversity."
The dauphin read as follows:


"A poor labourer, named Bernard, had six
young children, and found himself much at a
loss to maintain them; to add to his misfortune,
an unfavourable season much increased the
price of bread. Bernard worked day and
night, yet, in spite of his labours, could not
possibly earn enough of money to provide food
for six hungry children. He was reduced to
extremity. Calling, therefore, one day his
little family together, with tears in his eyes, he
said to them: 'My dear children, bread is
become so dear that, with all my labour, I
am not able to earn sufficient for your subsist-
ence. This piece of bread in my hand must be
paid for with the wages of my whole day's
labour, and therefore you must be content to
share with me the little that I have been able
to earn. There certainly will not be sufficient
to satisfy you all; but at least there will be
enough to prevent your perishing with hunger.'
The poor man could say no more: he lifted up
his eyes to heaven, and wept; his children
wept also, and each one said within himself:
'0 Lord, come to our assistance, unfortunate
infants that we are !-help our dear father, and
suffer us not to perish for want!' Bernard
divided the bread into seven equal shares; he
kept one for himself, and distributed the rest
amongst his children. But one of them, named
Arthur, refused his share, and said: 'I cannot
eat anything, father; I find myself sick. Do


you take my part, or divide it amongst the
rest.' 'My poor child! what is the matter
with you ?' said Bernard, taking him up in his
arms. 'I am sick,' answered Arthur, 'very
sick.' Bernard carried him to bed, and the
next morning he went to a physician, and
besought him for charity to come and see his
sick child. The physician, who was a man of
great humanity, went to Bernard's house,
though he was very sure of not being paid for
his visits. He approached Arthur's bed, felt
his pulse, but could not thereby discover
any symptoms of illness. He was going to
prescribe a cordial draught, but Arthur said:
'Do not order anything for me, sir; I could
take nothing that you should prescribe for
"The physician asked him the reason for
refusing the medicine, but the child tried to
evade the question. He then accused him of
being obstinate, and said he should inform his
father. This distressed Arthur greatly, and,
no longer able to conceal his emotions, he said
he would explain everything to him if no one
were present.
The children were now ordered to withdraw,
and then Arthur continued: 'Alas sir, in this
hard season my father can scarcely earn us
every day a loaf of coarse bread. He divides
it amongst us. Each of us can have but a
small part, and he will hardly take any for


himself. It makes me unhappy to see my little
brothers and sisters suffer hunger. I am the
eldest, and have more strength than they;
I like better, therefore, not to eat any, that
they may divide my share amongst them. This
is the reason why I pretended that I was sick;
but I entreat you not to let my father know
this !"
"The medical attendant was affected, and
said: 'But, my dear little friend, are you not
hungry?' 'Yes, sir, I am hungry; but that
does not give me so much pain as to see my
family suffer.'
"'But you will soon die if you take no
"' I am sensible of that,' replied Arthur, 'but
I shall die contented. My father will have one
mouth less to feed; and I pray God to give
bread to my little brothers and sisters when I
am gone.'
"The humane physician was melted with
pity and admiration on hearing the generous
child speak thus. Taking him up in his arms,
he clasped him to his heart, and said: 'No,
my dear little friend, you shall not die God,
who is the Father of us all, will take care of
you and of your family.' He hastened to his
own house, and ordering one of his servants to
take a quantity of provisions of all sorts,
returned with him immediately to Arthur and
his famished little brothers. He made them



all sit down at table, and eat heartily until
they were satisfied. It was a delightful sight
for the good physician to behold the joy of
those innocent creatures. On his departure,
he bid Arthur not to be under any concern,
for that he would provide for their necessities;
which promise he faithfully observed, and
furnished them every day with a plentiful
subsistence. Other charitable persons also, to
whom he related the circumstance, imitated
his generosity. Some sent them provisions,
some money, and others clothes and linen, so
that in a short time, this little family became
possessed of plenty.
"As soon as Bernard's landlord was informed
of what the generous little Arthur had suffered
for his father and brothers, he sent for Bernard,
and addressed him thus: 'You have an admir-
able son; permit me to be his father also. I
will employ you on my farm; and Arthur, with
all your other children, shall be put to school
at my expense.' Bernard returned to his house
transported with joy, and throwing himself
upon his knees, blessed God for having given
him so worthy a child."

As the winter of 1792-3 advanced, the
situation of the royal family in the Temple
became more painful. It was resolved to
suppress certain indulgences which they had
hitherto enjoyed. Their food was to be more


plain and less abundant; they were to eat off
pewter, instead of silver; tallow candles were to
be substituted for wax; and their servants were
to be reduced in number. None of these
attendants, however, were to enter their apart-
ments ; and their meals were to be introduced
to them by means of a turning-box. The
carrying of these pitiful arrangements into
execution was confided to a municipal officer
named Hebert. This man had originally been
check-taker at the door of a theatre, from
which he was expelled for having embezzled
the receipts. A ruling passion with him
seems to have been the vilifying and torment-
ing the royal family, and pursuing them indi-
vidually to destruction. Empowered by the
Convention, he repaired to the Temple; and
not satisfied with taking away the most trifling
articles to which the royal family attached a
value, he deprived Madame Elizabeth of eighty
louis which she had received from Madame
de Lamballe. No man, observes M. Thiers,
is more dangerous, more cruel, than the
man without acquirements, without education,
clothed with a recent authority; if, above all,
he possess a base nature, and leap all at once
from the mud of his condition into power, he is
as mean as he is atrocious.
Rendered in every respect uncomfortable in
circumstances by the miserable devices of this
wretch, and agitated by the rumours which


daily reached them, the royal family looked
with apprehension to the future. Never had
the dauphin seen so many tears; his most
playful sallies could not extort a solitary smile.
They did not tell him of the impending
misfortune, nor could he have suspected it
while gazing on the calm and firm countenance
of his father. The poor child in his simplicity
thought, and indeed said: They will not do
any harm to papa; for papa never did them
any harm."
The 20th of January 1793 came, and
sentence of death was passed on Louis XVI.
When it was announced to him, he asked
to see his family. This request was granted.
The interview took place at eight o'clock in
the evening. The queen, holding the dauphin
by the hand, Madame Elizabeth, and Marie
Th6rbse, rushed sobbing into the arms of
Louis. During the first moments, it was but
a scene of confusion and despair. At length,
tears ceased to flow, the conversation became
more calm, and the king tried to console his
heart-broken family. While the dauphin stood
between his father's knees gazing on his face,
scarcely conscious of the full extent of the loss
he was so soon to sustain, the public criers
suddenly proclaimed under the tower the
sentence of death, and the hour for the execution.
The half-distracted boy tore himself from
his father's arms, rushed from the apartment,


and endeavoured to force his way through the
"Where are you going so fast ?" asked one of
them, .rudely repelling the poor child.
"To speak to the people, gentlemen; to
implore them not to kill papa. Oh, do let me
pass!" All was in vain, and Louis-Charles
had to retrace his steps, crying : "Papa, papa!
oh, do not kill papa!" as if his heart were like
to burst.
The king led his family to entertain the hope
of a last interview in the morning; but on
consideration, he thought it better that such
should not take place. At an early hour, the
roll of the drums announced that the unfor-
tunate husband and father was led out to
execution. The particulars of that dreadful
event are too painful to be minutely dwelt
upon. At the scaffold, he addressed a few
words to the people, saying in a firm voice that
he died innocent of the crimes imputed to him;
that he forgave the authors of his death, and
prayed that his blood might not fall on France.
He would have continued, but the drums were
instantly ordered to beat, their rolling drowned
the voice of the king, and in a few moments
all was over.
Such was the fate of the unfortunate Louis
XVI., a man of almost unexampled benevolence
of disposition, who ever endeavoured to act on
his favourite maxim, that kings exist only to



make nations happy by their government, and
virtuous by their example." Now called on to
expiate the political errors of his dissolute
predecessors, an angry word never escaped him
in the depth of his misfortunes. In his will,
written December 25, 1792, he says: "I forgive,
from my whole heart, those who have conducted
themselves towards me as enemies, without my
giving them the least cause, and I pray God
to forgive them. And I exhort my son, if he
should ever have the misfortune to reign, to
forget all hatred and enmity, and especially my
misfortunes and sufferings. I recommend to
him always to consider that it is the duty of
man to devote himself entirely to the happiness
of his fellow-men; that he will promote the
happiness of his subjects only when he governs
according to the laws; and that the king can
make the laws respected, and attain his object,
only when he possesses the necessary authority."
In the same spirit, on the day before his
condemnation, he sent to his faithful servants,
who were ready to risk all for him, this
message: "I should never forgive you if a
single drop of blood were shed on my account.
I refused to suffer any to be shed when, perhaps,
it might have preserved to me my crown and
my life; but I do not repent: no, I do not




MARIE ANTOINETTE was now a widow, and her
children orphans. The prince was acknow-
ledged throughout Europe to be king, under the
title of Louis XVII. But, alas! this honour
only aggravated the sufferings of this unfor-
tunate child. A short time after the execution
of her husband, the queen was forcibly separated
from her son. The scene of her parting with
her dear boy, for whose sake alone she had
consented to endure the burden of existence,
was so touching, so heartrending, that the
very jailers who witnessed it could not refrain
from tears.
The revolutionary tribunal, which had no
little difficulty in finding pleas against Louis
XVI. and his queen, was greatly embarrassed
in its treatment of their infant son. Only
eight years of age, he was too young to be
either tried or guillotined. Not that the wish
was wanting to put him to death along with

the other members of his family; but the
spectacle of a child under the hands of the
executioner might have formed a somewhat
dangerous provocative to public indignation.
There was one thing, therefore, which the
monsters who assumed the character of judges
in that dreadful period durst not do: they
durst not openly put an innocent and fair-
haired child to a bloody death. Undetermined
as to what should be done with this youthful
descendant of a hundred kings, they readily
yielded to the request of Hebert, who proposed
that it would be highly expedient for the
nation to give Louis Capet, as he called him,
a sound scasculotte education; that he should
receive thorough notions of liberty and equality,
and be at the same time taught a handicraft,
whereby he might gain an honest livelihood.
The means of instruction, he said, were already
at hand. Simon, a shoemaker and a good
Jacobin, was quite the man to undertake this
weighty charge. Hebert's proposal met with
a ready assent, and the young prince was
consigned to Simon and his wife, both of whom
went to reside in the Temple, for the purpose
of conducting their new duties.
From anything which can be gathered from
history, it does not appear that Simon was to
be in any respect accountable for his treatment
of the poor boy handed over to his care; and
from his conduct, it might reasonably be


inferred, that the greater his cruelty, the
greater would be his merit in the eyes of the
Convention. The most correct mode of de-
scribing Simon would be to speak of him
as an utter blackguard, a man lost to all sense
of decency-ignorant, brutal, and habitually
intemperate. Torn from the arms of his
mother, and committed to the charge of such
a personage, the youthful king was made to
drain even to the dregs the martyr's bitter
The whole course of life of Louis-Charles
was now altered. Simon hated books, and
tore and trampled in pieces those of his
prisoner, substituting for them, as his only
recreation, the perusal of a placard entitled
The Rights of Man. Simon hated exercise,
and therefore would not permit the young
king to walk any more in the garden attached
to the prison. Simon hated birds, and there-
fore took away from his little captive two
tame canaries which his aunt, Madame
Elizabeth, had reared for him. Simon hated
religion, and therefore expressly forbade his
young charge ever to say his prayers; and
one night having surprised the child kneeling
with uplifted hands beside his flock-bed, he
flew at him, crying: "What are you about
there, Capet ? tell me or I will be the death
of you." The child confessed that he was
repeating a little prayer which his mamma



had taught him. Simon instantly seized the
child by the arm, and flung him into a dark
dungeon, where for several days he was allowed
only bread and water.
But there was one thing which Simon did
not hate, and that was-drink; and whenever
he sat down to it, he used to hold out his glass,
crying: "Here, Capet, wine here; hand me
some wine, I say." Hard was it for the child
to brook such an office to such a being; but
the slightest murmur was so severely punished,
that he was obliged to submit to be a servant
to Simon, and to learn the duties of his new
situation from the cruelties of this tyrannical
supporter of equality and the rights of man.
Nor were his merry moods less trying to the
little sufferer; for then he began to sing, and
as he would not sing alone, and knew only
those horrible choruses howled around the
guillotine, the child had to choose between
joining in them and being severely beaten;
and often did he suffer himself to be felled to
the earth sooner than comply. Not even at
night had he respite from his tormentor.
Several times he was awakened by this Simon
calling out: "Capet, are you asleep? Where
are you? Come here till I look at you." The
poor little victim used to start from his sleep,
jump out of bed, and run almost naked to his
tyrant, who suffered him to approach till near
enough to be kicked back to bed.


The wife of Simon, however, at times felt
some touch of pity for the sufferings of the
unhappy child, and tried, without the know-
ledge of her husband, to procure him some
indulgences. She once ventured to remonstrate
with his terrible jailer, representing to him the
cruelty of not giving the little Capet a single
plaything. "You are quite right," answered
Simon; "children ought to be amused; he
shall have a plaything to-morrow."
On the morrow he brought him a little model
of a guillotine: the child, in horror, hid his
face in his hands, crying: "I will die rather
than touch it." Simon rushed upon him, poker
in hand; and had it not been for the inter-
position of M. Naudin, the surgeon, who came
in at that moment to see Simon's wife, who was
ill, the helpless victim would for ever have
escaped the brutal rage of his tormentor, who,
however, when the surgeon had left, handed
to the boy, as if shamed into indulgence, two
pears in addition to his usual scanty supper.
The child took them, and laid them aside for a
purpose not to be discovered by such a mind
as that of Simon, and began to eat his bread,
which he held in one hand, while with the
other he added another story to the card-
edifice he was raising. Seeing the caution
with which the young prisoner was placing
each card, Simon bent over the table and blew
upon the castle, which instantly fell.



Eh, Capet, what do you say to my breath ?"
said he, with a savage laugh.
"I say that the breath of God is more mighty
still," answered the child.



THE next day the surgeon repeated his visit:
but let us for a moment try to realise the scene
which the prisoner's apartment presented. It
was one of two compartments, the first of
which served as an antechamber, communi-
cating with the next by an aperture in the
partition; its only furniture a stove. In the
second, which was lighted by a window secured
with thick iron bars, were a large table, a small
square one, some straw chairs, and two beds
without curtains, in one of which lay the sick
wife of Simon.
Several men were smoking and drinking
round the larger table, and were already intoxi-
cated. A poor little child, pale and haggard,
was seated near the window at the smallest
table. With his weak emaciated hands he was
building a castle of cards, but his tearful eyes
hardly followed the movement of each card as
it rose or fell. His pallid countenance had


but one expression, that of sorrow, and at times
terror. Alas! who could have recognized in
this miserable little creature the once charming
child-so gay, so mirthful, so delicately neat,
so graceful? Not only had his mourning,
which he had worn since his father's death,
been taken off him, but his hair, his beautiful
fair hair, whose clustering curls had been so
often fondly stroked and carefully arranged by
a mother's hand, had fallen under the pitiless
scissors of the woman, who deemed she was thus
depriving him of the last remaining relic of
royalty. A woollen shirt, a coat and trousers
of coarse red cloth, had replaced the silk and
velvet, the cambric and lace, of days gone by.
"Well, Citizen Naudin," said one of the
municipals, as the surgeon, with an involuntary
stolen glance towards the place where the
young king was seated, approached the sick
woman's bed: "well, Citizen Naudin, any news
to-day ?"
"You might have learned that from the
cannonading," replied the doctor.
"Ah, citizen, a republic is a fine thing-
always something stirring," said Simon, now
so drunk as to be scarcely able to stand.
"Apropos-is there any news of the ex-queen."
"She was removed from the Temple to the
prison the 2d of this month," was the answer.
The name of his mother having instantly
brought the child to Simon's side in the hope



of hearing something of her fate, he said to
him: "Do you remember your mother, Capet ?"
Remember her!" exclaimed he, tears
springing to his eyes-"remember her! I
see her now: I have her before me yet, my
poor mother. I hear her saying, as they were
tearing me from her arms: 'Forget not, my
child, forget not a mother who loves you better
than life. Be prudent, gentle, and virtuous.'
Simon," continued the child of Marie Antoinette,
the hot tears falling from his eyes-" Simon,
you may beat me, you may kick me; I will
do anything you wish; I will love you, if you
will only speak to me of my mother. You
never speak to me of her."
"I would desire nothing better, Capet,"
answered Simon; "and as a beginning I will
sing you a song that the Republicans have
just made upon her." Then, with a hoarse
discordant voice, he began to roar out a couplet,
every word of which was a vile slander upon
the unhappy queen. The poor child recoiled
with horror. But holding him fast by the coat,
Simon continued: "What! you little cub, you
ask me news of your mother, and now you
refuse to listen. You shall not only listen, but
sing too."
"Never; no, never! You shall kill me
first," said the child, struggling to escape from
his grasp.
"Well, if you will not sing, you shall join in


a toast. Citizens, fill your glasses; it must be
a bumper;" and as he spoke he filled his own
glass and those of his companions. "The
republic for ever!"
"The republic for ever!" shouted every
voice but that of the child, who was now
weeping bitterly.
Capet," said Simon, the moment he observed
his silence; "Capet, cry The republic for
ever!' Come, let us have it."
"No," said the child in a low but firm tone.
"Oh, if you please, Capet." Louis made no
I command you, Capet." The same silence
on the part of the boy.
"Will you obey ?" cried Simon, in a paroxysm
of fury. "If you do not instantly cry 'The
republic for ever!' I will knock you down,
Capet; I will knock you down."
Without appearing the least intimidated by
Simon's preparing to suit the action to the
word, the young victim dried his tears, and
gazing calmly and steadfastly upon his per-
secutor, said: "You may do what you please,
sir; but never will I utter those words."
Immediately a piercing cry re-echoed through
the vaults of the dungeon. Simon had seized
the unhappy child by the hair, and was holding
him up by it, crying: Miserable viper, I know
not what hinders me from dashing you against
the wall!"



"Scoundrel! what are you about?" cried
Monsieur Naudin, indignantly; and once more
rescuing the child from him, he placed him
gently on his chair, whispering in his ear some
little soothing and caressing words.
"Sir," said the child, "you showed yesterday
also much kind interest in me, and I was
thankful. Will you do me the favour to accept
those two pears? They were given me for my
supper last night. I have no other way of
showing that I am not ungrateful to you."
Deeply affected, Monsieur Naudin took the
fruit; and as he respectfully kissed the hand of
the little prisoner, his tears fell upon it.
The Citizen Naudin must always have his
joke," said Simon, sullenly. "I meant the
child no harm."
But neither suffering nor constant intercourse
with these rude men had as yet had power to
alter the noble disposition of the child.
If the Vend6ans were to set you at liberty,"
asked Simon one day, "what would you do ?"
"I would pardon you," was the instant reply.
Could the most determined party-spirit-that
spirit which has been well termed "a species of
mental vitriol which men keep to let fly at
others, but which, in the meantime, injures and
corrodes the mind that harbours it "-could the
most determined party-spirit behold this poor
child, and hinder its tears from falling ?



THE queen survived her husband nine months,
and they were months of the deepest sorrow.
Separated from her son in the Temple, and
afterwards conveyed to the Conciergerie, a
prison of meaner pretensions, she there was
made to endure the greatest indignities.
Lodged in an apartment unwholesome from its
dampness and impure odours, she was waited
on by a spy-a man of horrible countenance
and hollow sepulchral voice. This wretch,
whose name was Barassin, was a robber and
murderer by profession. Such was the attend-
ant chosen for the queen of France. A few
days before her trial he was removed, and a
gendarme placed in her chamber, who watched
over her night and day, and from whom she
was not separated, even when in bed, but by a
ragged curtain. In this melancholy abode
Marie Antoinette had no other dress than an
old black gown, stockings with holes, which


she was forced to mend frequently, and she was
utterly destitute of shoes.
To relieve the difficulty of substantiating
charges against the queen at her trial, Hebert
conceived the infamous idea of wringing from
her son revelations which would criminate his
mother. As the boy was too young to admit
of his appearing as a witness before the tribunal,
and as it would have been impossible to make
him charge his mother with imaginary crimes
while in possession of his senses, it was resolved
by Hebert and Simon to induce him to drink
by a show of kindness, and to effect their pur-
pose when he should become intoxicated. This
diabolical scheme was forthwith put in execu-
tion. A deposition full of the most revolting
confessions and accusations was carefully pre-
pared and brought to the Temple. All that
was necessary to complete it as an instrument
to be laid before the tribunal, was the signature
of the little captive king.
On the morning of the 5th of October 1793,
Simon and Hebert, with two municipal officers,
were breakfasting together in the prison in the
company of the prince, from whose thick and
rapid utterance, unusual loquacity, and flushed
features, it was easy to perceive they had
succeeded in intoxicating him. When it was
thought he was sufficiently stupefied by liquor,
Simon opened a large paper, and giving him a
pen dipped in ink, he said: "Come, Capet, my


boy; let us see whether you can write. Just
try if you can put your name at the bottom of
this paper."
"Let me read it first," replied the child,
speaking quite thick, and hardly able to lift his
"Sign it first, and read it after; but you
must have a little more to drink. Here, take
this one glass of Malaga."
"You make me drink too much, Simon,"
said he, putting up his hand to his burning
brow; "It disagrees with me, and besides I do
not like wine-you know I do not."
"It is well to be accustomed to everything.
Come, my boy, this one little glass of wine, and
then you can write your name."
I would rather do it than drink any more,"
replied the child, taking the pen and writing
Louis-Charles of France at the bottom of the
sheet that lay open before him; then letting
his head fall heavily on the table, he was carried
to bed by Simon, where he lay for some hours
in a heavy slumber.
Fortified by the instrument so basely fabri-
cated and subscribed, the revolutionary tribunal
proceeded to try Marie Antoinette. The accusa-
tions were so odious that the Jacobin audience,
bad as it was, was disgusted.
Urged to answer if she had not attempted to
pollute the mind of her son, the queen said with
extraordinary emotion: "I thought that human



nature would excuse me from answering such
an imputation; but I appeal from it to the
heart of every mother present." This noble
and simple reply affected all who heard it. To
the general charges of interfering in political
affairs, she showed that there was no precise
fact against her, and that, as the wife of Louis
XVI., she was not answerable for any acts of
his reign. All was unavailing; it had been
determined to put her to death, and she was
accordingly condemned.
Being taken back to prison, she there passed
in tolerable composure the night preceding her
execution, and on the morning of the following
day, October 16, she was conducted to the
scaffold. Her long hair, now white as snow,
she had cut off with her own hands. She was
dressed in white; and though depressed with a
thousand conflicting emotions, she had an air
which still commanded the admiration of all
who beheld her; and she ascended ,the scaffold
with a step as firm and dignified as if she had
been about to take her place on a throne by the
side of her husband. With the same nobility of
soul did this much injured woman submit her-
self to the hands of the executioner, and endure
the stroke which deprived her of existence.
The intelligence of the condemnation of his
mother was not communicated to Louis-Charles,
nor did he know of her death till some hours
after it had taken place. On the morning of


the execution he rose earlier than usual, for,
depressed with melancholy, he had spent a
wretched night; and dressing himself, he sat
down to wait the entrance of his keeper, who
was later than usual at his post. Simon at last
appeared with breakfast. As the door opened
to admit him; the boy perceived a Savoyard
with his back to the door, smoking; and at
the moment Simon called to the man:
"Citizen, will you help me to put this room
in order ?"
"Willingly, citizen, I was looking for a job,"
said the man with an air of affected indiffer-
ence; and taking the offered broom, he began
to sweep.
"Simon," said the prisoner to his jailer, "I
cannot eat any breakfast; I am not hungry."
There seemed to be something extraordinary
about Simon himself this day; a half-expres-
sion of remorse seemed to have taken the place
of the usually unvarying harshness of his coun-
tenance, and he carefully avoided meeting the
restless glance of his victim.
"What is the matter with you?" asked Simon
in a more softened tone than he had ever yet
been heard to use. Are you ill this morning?"
No," said the young king, "but I have had
such a horrid dream; it is the second time I
have dreamt it. The night before they took me
from my mother, I dreamt that I was in the
midst of a troop of wild beasts which wanted


to tear me to pieces. I dreamt it again last
"Oh, you must not mind dreams," replied
"That may be; but, Simon, pray listen to
me. I am so frightened-I know not why-
but I am terrified; take me to your shop, teach
me to make shoes, I will pass for your son; for
I know," continued he, in a timid faltering
voice, oh, I know they will not spare me any
more than my poor father. They will kill
Simon made no answer, but went out
abruptly, slamming the door after him.
As Simon closed the door, Louis dragged his
failing limbs to his usual seat in the window.
The poor child already felt the symptoms of the
malady which carried him off. He now per-
ceived that the man introduced by Simon,
instead of sweeping, was from time to time
gazing at him, and manifestly with tears in his
"You weep as you look at me," said he,
making an effort to go to him, but again fall-
ing back upon his seat-"you weep. Who
can you be? No one here has any pity for
"A friend," replied the man in the low tones
of caution.
And are you come to tell me of my mother?
Oh, where is she ? What is become of her ?"


"Unhappy prince! said the pretended
Savoyard with gasping sobs.
"Oh speak, sir, speak! Is she ill ?"
They have killed her," said the man.
"'My mother!-killed her!" repeated the
child with a cry of agony.
Hush, hush, sir. This morning at half-past
"As they did my father upon the guillotine
-as they did my father ?"
And as the tears of the man prevented his
reply, the poor child went on: She, so good,
so good! 0 my God, have pity on me But
of what did they accuse her ?-what could they
lay to her charge? She who did nothing but
good to every one. Mother! mother !"
They condemned her partly upon your testi-
mony, sir; upon what you told of her."
"I-I-accuse my mother!-I who would lay
down my life sooner than a hair of her head
should be touched. Believe me, sir, you are
Calm yourself and listen to me," replied the
stranger. Some members of your family yet
remain, and you may ruin them as you did
your mother; nay, you may destroy yourself.
Doubtless some insidious questions have been
answered by you imprudently; and upon words
uttered by you, it may be at random, they have
founded a charge against the queen of having
plotted with some of the municipal officers



against the constitution, and of carrying on a
correspondence with foreign states. On this
charge she was condemned, sir."
The young king, who had almost held his
breath as if the more distinctly to hear these
killing words, now said, in a tone which despair
rendered calm: "I am a wretch: I have mur-
dered my mother. Never again shall a single
word pass these guilty lips." So saying, he
seated himself in his usual place at the little
table under the window, and from that time
till the end of eighteen months, and then only
a few hours before his death, opened not his
lips to utter a word.



WHEN Marie Antoinette had been conducted
from the Temple to the Conciergerie, she left
in that prison, beside her son, her sister-in-law
Madame Elizabeth, and her daughter Marie
Th6rbse. Before proceeding further with the
history of the little captive king, let us say a
few words of these ladies his relations.
Madame Elizabeth, whose whole life was an
example of the tenderest affection, gentleness,
and female dignity, remained in a cell in the


Temple till the 9th of May 1794. On the
evening of that day, she was transferred to the
Conciergerie, charged with the offence of corre-
sponding with her brothers. The next evening,
she was carried before the revolutionary tribunal,
and when asked her name and rank, she replied
with dignity: "I am Elizabeth of France, and
the aunt of your king." This bold answer
filled the judges with astonishment, and inter-
rupted the trial. Twenty-four other victims
were sentenced with her; but she was reduced
to the horrible necessity of witnessing the
execution of all her companions. She met
death with calmness and submission; not
a complaint escaped her against her judges
and executioners. Without being handsome,
Elizabeth was pleasing and lively. Her hair
was of a chestnut colour, her blue eyes bore a
trace of melancholy, her mouth was delicate,
her teeth beautiful, and her complexion of a
dazzling whiteness. She was modest, and
almost timid in the midst of splendour and
greatness, but courageous in adversity, pious
and virtuous, and her character was spot-
The fate of Marie The6rse, the,daughter of
Louis XVI., was less cruel than that of her
parents, her aunt, or her brother. She
remained in confinement in the Temple till
December 1795; never, however, being allowed
to share the sorrows of poor Louis-Charles,


and remaining in a state of constant apprehen-
sion. Undetermined what to do with the
princess, the revolutionary government at
length, at the above period, consented to
exchange her for certain deputies whom General
Dumouriez had surrendered to the Austrians.
She was accordingly sent out of France,
and was carried to Vienna, where she resided
with her uncle (afterwards Louis XVIII.),
by whom she was married to the Duke
d'Angouleme. She lived to return to France
at the Restoration.
The revolutionary tribunals, which destroyed
every one claiming relationship with royalty
that fell within their grasp, did not even
refrain from taking the lives of servants and
instructors of royal personages. Among the
number of blameless and defenceless women
who perished in this dreadful storm, was
Madame de Soulanges, the abbess of Royal
Lieu, who had been an instructress to the
aunts of Louis XVI. This excellent woman
and her numerous sisterhood were led to
the scaffold on the same day. While leaving
the prison, they all chanted a hymn upon
the fatal car. When they arrived at the
place of execution, they did not interrupt
their strains. One head fell, and ceased to
join its voice with the celestial chorus; but
the strain continued. The abbess suffered last;
and her single voice, with increased tone,


still raised the devout versicle. It ceased at
once-it was the silence of death!



FROM some cause not recorded in the history
of the revolution, Simon was dismissed by
the municipal authorities from his office of
tutor to the young king; but the change
does not seem to have led to any improved
treatment of the little prisoner. Hebert, like-
wise, was no more seen in the Temple: he
had, like most of the revolutionary leaders,
taken his turn under the guillotine, and
received the punishment due to his manifold
outrages on society.
About thirteen months after the visit of
the Savoyard, three persons presented them-
selves at the Temple prison, as visitors from
the committee of public health, to verify
statements which the municipal officers had
deemed it their duty to make to it of the
rapid progress of the disease of Louis XVII.
The boy was in his usual place, at his usual
employment of building card-houses, his once
expressive countenance now one dull blank.



Even the heavy tread of the gentlemen as
they approached him did not seem to excite
his attention; nor did the sight of such
unusual visitors arouse him from his apathy.
Monsieur Harmand, advancing before his
companions, approached the prisoner. "Sir,"
said he, taking off his hat as he stood before
the innocent victim, "the government, informed
of the bad state of your health, of your refusal
to take exercise, to use any remedies, or
receive the visits of a physician, and to answer
any questions, nay, even to speak, has
commissioned us to ascertain whether this is
really the case. In the name of the govern-
ment, we now renew the offer of a physician.
We are authorised to permit your extending
your walks, to allow you any amusement or
relaxation you desire. Allow me to press upon
you the acceptance of these indulgences. I
await respectfully your reply."
At the commencement. of this address, the
unhappy child raised his eyes to the speaker,
and seemed to listen with great attention;
but this was all-Monsieur Harmand did not
obtain a single word in reply.
"Perhaps I have not sufficiently explained
myself, sir-have not made myself understood
by you ? I have the honour of asking you if
you would like playthings of any description
-birds, a dog, a horse, one or two companions
of your own age, to be first submitted to you


for approval? Perhaps you would like to go
now and then into the garden or on the
ramparts? Do you care to have sweetmeats or
cakes, a new dress, a watch and chain? You
have only to say what you wish."
The enumeration of all these things, usually
the objects of childish desire, did not excite
the slightest sensation. The prince's counten-
ance wore a look of utter indifference to all that
was offered, and when the speaker ceased,
there succeeded an expression of such sad,
such melancholy resignation, that Monsieur
Harmand turned away to hide his emotion.
"I believe, sir," said one of the jailers,
that it is useless for you to talk to the child.
I have now been nearly thirteen months here,
and I have not yet heard him utter a word.
Simon the cobbler, whose place I took, told me
that he had never spoken since he made him
sign some paper against his mother."
This account, so simple yet so touching,
went to the very hearts of the deputies of the
commune. A child not yet nine years old
forming and keeping a resolution of never
again speaking, because a word of his had
given a pretext to the murderers of his mother !
At this moment the young prince's dinner was
brought up, and on its appearance the visitors
could scarcely repress an exclamation of indig-
nant surprise. For the delicately-reared son
of Louis XVI. and Marie Antoinette, for the


child of royalty, the heir of France, was served
up for dinner "a brown earthenware porringer,
containing a black broth covered with lentils;
a dish of the same ware, with a small piece of
black, coarse salt beef; and a second dish, on
which were six half-burned chestnuts; one
plate and no knife completed the dinner-
Involuntarily they turned to look at the
child; his face expressed : "What matters it?
Take your victim." Was this resignation, or
was it utter hopelessness ? How could he have
hoped for anything from the murderers of his
mother? Alas had he hoped for anything at
their hands, he would have been disappointed.
The representations of the visitors were disre-
garded. His allowance of fresh air was dimin-
ished, his window was narrowed, the iron bars
were made closer, and washing, both of his
person and his clothes, was thrown altogether
upon himself. The door of his prison was,
as it were, sealed, and it was through a narrow
wicket that the pitcher of water, too heavy for
his weak arms, was handed to him, with the
sordid provision, barely sufficient for the day.
Not having strength enough to move his bed,
having no one to look after his sheets and
blankets, now nearly in rags, he at length
was reduced to the extreme of wretched-
Condemned to solitude-for though two


guards kept watch at the door, yet they never
spoke to him-his intellect was at last impaired,
and his body bent as if under the burden of
life; all moral sense became obtuse, and so
rapidly did his disorder now gain ground, that
the tardy aid of two physicians, sent by the
municipal authorities, was utterly ineffectual to
arrest its progress. One of them could not
restrain his indignation when he saw the state
of the poor victim, and as he was audibly and
in no measured terms giving vent to it, the
prince beckoned him to approach his bed.
"Speak low, sir," said he, breaking a silence
which he had persevered in for eighteen
months; "I pray, speak low, lest my sister
should hear you, and I should be so sorry that
she should know I am ill; it would grieve her so





WE have been telling no imaginary tale. The
sufferings of Louis XVII. in his foul prison
require no picturesque embellishment. Yet
the mind of the compassionate reader may
well be excused for doubting the truthfulness
of these melancholy details, and will naturally
inquire if no efforts were made to rescue the
unfortunate prisoner from his oppressors-if no
humane hand interfered to point out his
condition to the people. Nothing of this kind
appears to have been done. A nation assuming
itself to be the greatest, the most civilised, and
the most polite, quailed under the despotism of
a set of wretches elevated to a power which
they disgraced. As M. Thiers forcibly observes:
"People dared no longer express any opinion.
A hundred thousand arrests and some hundreds
of condemnations rendered imprisonment and
the scaffold ever present to the minds of twenty-
five millions of French." And thus the fate of
poor Louis-Charles, if it did not escape notice, at
least encountered no censure.


The visit of the physician, to which we have
alluded, took place only after the Reign of
Terror had subsided, and the nation had
resumed something like its senses. But this
resumption of order came too late to save the
little captive king. The physician, on seeing
his deplorable condition, had him instantly
removed into an apartment, the windows of
which opened on the garden; and observing
that the free current of air seemed to revive
him for the moment, he said in a cheerful tone:
"You will soon be able to walk and play about
the garden."
"I!" said the prince, raising his head a
little; "I shall never go anywhere but to
my mother, and she is not on earth."
"You must hope the best, sir," said the
physician soothingly.
The child's only answer was a smile; but
what a tale of withered hopes, of buried joys,
of protracted suffering, was in that smile !
On the 8th of June 1795, about two o'clock,
he made signs to those about him to open the
window. They obeyed, and with a last effort
he raised his eyes to heaven, as if seeking
some one there, softly whispered, "Mother!"
and died.
Thus expired Louis XVII. at the early age of
ten years and two months. He was buried in
a grave so obscure that it has never been





ROAST-BEEF-turkey and tongue Capital
fare for the last day of the year, and the first,
too, for that matter. But, my friends, they
give you but little notion of the flavour of beef
obtained by single combat with the living
animal on the wild prairie. You shall hear
how a dinner of the kind was achieved; but
before commencing my story, I must tell you
something about the customer I had to deal
The range of the bison, or, as it is errone-
ously called by American hunters, buffalo, was
extensive at the period of which we write,
although it is every year becoming confined
within narrower limits. The number of the
animals is also annually on the decrease.
Their woolly skins, when dressed, are of great


value as an article of commerce. Among the
Canadians they are in general use; they
constitute the favourite wrappers of the
traveller in that cold climate: they line the
cariole, the carriage, and the sleigh. Thou-
sands of them are used in the northern parts of
the United States for a similar purpose. They
are known as buffalo-robes, and are often
prettily trimmed and ornamented, so as to
command a good price. They are even exported
to Europe in large quantities.
Of course, this extensive demand for the
robes causes a proportionate destruction among
the buffaloes. But this is not all. Whole
tribes of Indians, amounting to many thousands
of individuals, subsist upon these animals,
as the Laplander upon the reindeer. Their
blankets are buffalo-robes, part of their clothing
buffalo-leather, their tents are buffalo-hide,
and buffalo-beef is their sole food for three
parts of the year.
The appearance of the buffalo is well known:
pictorial illustration has rendered him familiar
to the eyes of every one. The enormous head,
with its broad triangular front; the conical
hump on the shoulders; the small piercing
eyes; the short black horns of crescent shape;
the great profusion of shaggy hair about the
neck and fore-parts-are all characteristics.
Upon the hind-quarters, the coat is shorter and
smoother; and this gives somewhat of a lion-



shape to the animal. Some of these peculi-
arities belong only to the bull. The cow is less
shaggy, has a smaller head, and is altogether
more like the common black-cattle of our
The buffalo is of a dark brown or livid
colour. The hue changes with the season.
In autumn, it is darker and more lustrous;
during the winter and early summer, it acquires
a bleached, yellowish-brown look. A full-
grown buffalo-bull is six feet high at the
shoulders, eight feet from the snout to the base
of the tail, and weighs fifteen hundredweights.
Individuals exist of 2000 poundweights. The
cows are much smaller.
The flesh of the buffalo is juicy and delicious,
equal to well-fed beef. Hunters prefer it to
any beef. The flesh of the cow is more
savoury than that of the bull; and in a hunt,
the former is selected from the herd, unless it
be a hunt for the hide alone. The parts most
esteemed are the tongue, the hump-ribs, and
the marrow of the shank-bones.
The hunt of the buffalo is a profession rather
than a sport. Those who practise it in the
latter sense are few indeed, as it is a sport to
enjoy which entails the necessity of a long
and toilsome journey.
But buffalo-hunting is not all sport without
peril: the hunter frequently risks his life;
and numerous have been the fatal results of



encounters with these animals. The bulls,
when wounded, cannot be approached, even
on horseback, without considerable risk, while
a dismounted hunter has but slight chance of
escaping. The buffalo runs with a gait appar-
ently heavy and lumbering-first heaving to
one side, then to the other, like a ship at sea;
but this gait, although not equal in speed to
that of a horse, is far too fast for a man on
foot, and the swiftest runner, unless favoured
by a tree or some other object, will be surely
overtaken, and either gored to death by the
animal's horns, or pounded to a jelly under its
heavy hoofs.
I was travelling with Bent's train from Inde-
pendence to Santa F6. One evening after the
wagons had halted, and my animal had got
some rest and a bite of corn, I leaped into the
saddle, and set out to see if I could find some-
thing fresh for my own supper. It was a rolling
prairie, and the camp was soon hidden from my
sight-as it lay in a hollow between two swells.
Trusting to the sky for my direction, therefore,
I continued on. After riding about a mile, I
should think, I came upon buffalo signs. It was
not the first time for me, and I saw at a glance
that the sign was fresh.
I had ridden full five miles from camp, when
my attention was attracted by an odd noise
ahead of me. There was a ridge in front that
prevented me from seeing what produced the



noise; but I knew what it was-it was the
bellowing of a buffalo-bull. At intervals, there
were quick shocks, as of two hard substances
coming in violent contact with each other. I
mounted the ridge with caution, and looked
over its crest. There was a valley beyond; a
cloud of dust was rising out of its bottom, and
in the midst of this I could distinguish two
huge forms-dark and hirsute. I saw at once
that they were a pair of buffalo bulls engaged
in a fierce fight. They were alone; there were
no others in sight, either in the valley or on the
prairie beyond.
I did not halt longer than to see that the cap
was on my rifle, and to cock the piece. Occu-
pied as the animals were, I did not imagine
they would heed me; or, if they should attempt
flight, I knew I could easily overtake one or
other; so, without further hesitation or pre-
caution, I rode towards them. Contrary to my
expectation, they both winded me, and started
off. The wind was blowing freshly towards
them, and the sun had thrown my shadow
between them, so as to draw their attention.
They did not run, however, as if badly scared;
on the contrary, they went off, apparently
indignant at being disturbed in their fight;
and every now and then both came round with
short turnings, snorted, and struck the prairie
with their hoofs in a violent and angry manner.
Once or twice, I fancied they were going to



charge back upon me; and had I been other-
wise than well mounted, I should have been
very chary of risking such an encounter. A
more formidable pair of antagonists, as far as
appearance went, could not have been well con-
ceived. Their huge size, their shaggy fronts,
and fierce glaring eyeballs, gave them a wild
and malicious seeming, which was heightened
by their bellowing, and the threatening atti-
tudes in which they continually placed them-
Feeling quite safe in my saddle, I galloped
up to the nearest, and sent my bullet into his
ribs. It did the work. He fell to his knees-
rose again-spread out his legs, as if to prevent
a second fall-rocked from side to side like a
cradle-again came to his knees; and, after
remaining in this position for some minutes,
with the blood running from his nostrils, rolled
quietly over on his shoulder, and lay dead.
I had watched these manoeuvres with
interest, and permitted the second bull to
make his escape; a side-glance had shown
me the latter disappearing over the crest of
the swell. I did not care to follow him, as
my horse was somewhat jaded, and I knew
it would cost me a sharp gallop to come up
with him again; so I thought no more of him
at the time, but alighted, and prepared to deal
with the one already slain. There stood a
solitary tree near the spot-it was a stunted



one. There were others upon the prairie, but
they were distant; this one was not twenty
yards from the carcass. I led my horse up to
it, and taking the trail-rope from the horn of
the saddle, made one end fast to the bit-ring,
and the other to the tree. I then went back,
drew my knife, and proceeded to cut the
I had hardly wetted my blade, when a noise
from behind caused me to leap to an upright
attitude, and look round; at the first glance, I
comprehended all. A huge dark object was
passing the crest of the ridge, and rushing down
the hill towards the spot where I stood. It
was the buffalo bull, the same that had just
left me. The sight, at first thought, rather
pleased me than otherwise. Although I did
not want any more meat, I should have the
triumph of carrying two tongues instead of one
to the camp. I therefore hurriedly sheathed
my knife, and laid hold of my rifle, which,
according to custom, I had taken the precau-
tion to reload. I hesitated a moment whether
to run to my horse and mount him, or to fire
from where I stood; that question, however,
was settled by the buffalo. The tree and the
horse were to one side of the direction in which
he was running, but being attracted by the
loud snorting of the latter, which had begun
to pitch and plunge violently, and deeming it
perhaps a challenge, he suddenly swerved from



his course, and ran full tilt upon the horse.
The latter shot out instantly to the full length
of the trail-rope-a heavy pluck sounded in
my ears, and the next instant I saw my horse
part from the tree, and scour off over the
prairie, as if there had been a thistle under his
tail. I had knotted the rope negligently upon
the bit-ring, and the knot had come undone.
I was chagrined but not alarmed as yet. My
horse would no doubt follow back his own trail,
and at the worst I should only have to walk to
the camp. I should have the satisfaction of
punishing the buffalo for the trick he had
served me and with this design, I turned
towards him. I saw that he had not followed
the horse, but was again heading himself in
my direction. Now, for the first time, it
occurred to me that I was in something of a
scrape. The bull was coming furiously on.
Should my shot miss, or even should it only
wound him, how was I to escape ? I knew that
he could overtake me in three minutes' stretch;
I knew that well.
I had not much time for reflection-not a
moment, in fact: the infuriated animal was
within ten paces of me; I raised my rifle, aimed
at his fore-shoulder, and fired. I saw that I
had hit him; but, to my dismay, he neither
fell nor stumbled, but continued to charge for-
ward more furiously than ever. To reload was
impossible. My pistols had gone off with my



horse and holsters. Even to reach the tree was
impossible: the bull was between it and me.
Right in the opposite direction was the only
thing that held out the prospect of five minutes'
safety: I turned and ran. I can run as fast as
most men; and upon that occasion I did my
best. It would have put "Gildersleeve" into
a white sweat to have distanced me; but I had
not been two minutes at it, when I felt con-
scious that the buffalo gained upon me, and was
almost treading upon my heels. I knew it only
by my ears-I dared not spare time to look
At this moment, an object appeared before
me, that promised, one way or another, to
interrupt the chase; it was a ditch or gully,
that intersected my path at right angles. It
was several feet in depth, dry at the bottom,
and with perpendicular sides. I was almost
upon its edge before I noticed it, but the
moment it came under my eye, I saw that it
offered the means of a temporary safety at
least. If I could only leap this gully, I felt
satisfied that the buffalo could not. It was a
sharp leap-at least seventeen feet from cheek
to cheek; but I had done more than that in
my time; and, without halting in my gait, I
ran forward to the edge, and sprang over I
alighted cleverly upon the opposite bank, where
I stopped, and turned round to watch my pur-
suer. I now ascertained how near my end I had



been: the bull was already up to the gully.
Had I not made my leap at the instant I did,
I should have been by that time dancing upon
his horns. He himself had balked at the leap;
the deep chasm-like cleft had cowed him. He
saw that he could not clear it; and now stood
upon the opposite bank with head lowered, and
spread nostrils, his tail lashing his smooth
flanks, while his glaring black eyes expressed
the full measure of his baffled rage. I remarked
that my shot had taken effect in his shoulder,
as the blood trickled from his long hair. I had
almost begun to congratulate myself on having
escaped, when a hurried glance to the right,
and another to the left, cut short my happiness.
I saw that on both sides, at a distance of less
than fifty paces, the gully shallowed out into
the plain, where it ended; at either end it was,
of course, passable. The bull observed this
almost at the same time as myself; and,
suddenly turning away from the brink, he
ran along the edge of the chasm, evidently
with the intention of turning it. In less than.
a minute's time we were once more on the
same side, and my situation appeared as
terrible as ever; but, stepping back for a short
run; I released the chasm, and again we stood
on opposite sides.
During all these manoeuvres I had held on to
my rifle; and, seeing now that I might have
time to load it, I commenced feeling for my



powder-horn. To my astonishment, I could
not lay my hands upon it: I looked down to
my breast for the sling-it was not there; belt
and bullet-pouch too-all were gone! I
remembered lifting them over my head, when
I set about cutting the dead bull. They were
lying by the carcass. This discovery was a new
source of chagrin; but for my negligence, I
could now have mastered my antagonist. To
reach the ammunition would be impossible; I
should be overtaken before I had got half-way
to it. I was not allowed much time to indulge
in my regrets; the bull had again turned the
ditch, and was once more upon the same side
with me, and I was compelled to take another
leap. I really do not remember how often I
sprang backwards and forwards across that
chasm; I should think a score of times at least:
I became wearied with the exercise. The leap
was just as much as I could do at my best; and
as I was growing weaker at each fresh spring,
I became satisfied that I should soon leap short,
and crush myself against the steep rocky sides
of the chasm. Should I fall to the bottom, my
pursuer could easily reach me by entering at
either end, and I began to dread such a finale.
The vengeful brute showed no symptoms of
retiring; on the contrary, the numerous dis-
appointments seemed only to render him more
determined in his resentment.
An idea now suggested itself to my mind. I



had looked all round to see if there might not
be something that offered a better security.
There were trees, but they were too distant:
the only one near was that to which my
horse had been tied. It was a small cotton-
wood, and, like all of its species there were
no branches near the root. I knew that I
could clamber up it by embracing the trunk,
which was not over ten inches in diameter.
Could I only succeed in reaching it, it would
at least shelter me better than the ditch, of
which I was getting heartily tired. But the
question was, could I reach it before the bull ?
It was about three hundred yards off. By proper
manceuvring, I should have a start of fifty.
Even with that, it would be a "close shave;"
and it proved so. I arrived at the tree, and
sprang up it like a mountebank; but the hot
breath of the buffalo steamed after me as I
ascended, and the concussion of his heavy skull
against the trunk almost shook me back upon
his horns. After a severe effort, I succeeded
in lodging myself among the branches.
I was now safe from all immediate danger,
but how was the affair to end ? I knew from
the experience of others, that my enemy might
stay for hours by the tree-perhaps for days.
Hours would be enough. I could not stand it
long. I hungered, but a worse appetite tortured
me: thirst. The hot sun, the dust, the violent
exercise of the past hour, all contributed to



make me thirsty. Even then, I would have
risked life for a draught of water. What would
it come to should I not be relieved ? I had but
one hope-that my companions would come to
my relief; but I knew that that would not be
before morning. They would miss me of course.
Perhaps my horse would return to camp-that
would send them out in search of me, but not
before night had fallen. In the darkness, they
could not follow my trail. Could they do so in
the light? This last question, which I had put
to myself, startled me. I was just in a condition
to look upon the dark side of everything, and it
now occurred to me that they might not be able
to find me! There were many possibilities that
they might not. There were numerous horse-
trails on the prairie, where Indians had passed.
I saw this when tracking the buffalo. Besides,
it might rain in the night, and obliterate them
all-my own with the rest. They were not
likely to find me by chance. A circle of ten
miles diameter is a large tract. It was a roll-
*ing prairie, full of inequalities, ridges with
valleys between. The tree upon which I was
perched stood in the bottom of one of the
valleys-it could not be seen from any point
over three hundred yards distant. Those
searching for me might pass within hail, with-
out perceiving either the tree or the valley.
I remained for a long time busied with such
gloomy thoughts and forebodings. Night was



coming on, but the fierce and obstinate brute
showed no disposition to raise the siege. He
remained watchful as ever, walking round and
round at intervals, lashing his tail, and utter-
ing that snorting sound so well known to the
prairie-hunter, and which so much resembles
the snuffings of hogs when suddenly alarmed.
While watching his various manceuvres, an
object on the ground drew my attention-it
was the trail-rope left by my horse. One end
of it was fastened round the trunk by a firm
knot-the other lay far out upon the prairie,
where it had been dragged. My attention had
been drawn to it by the bull himself, which in
crossing had noticed it, and now and then
pawed it with his hoofs.
All at once a bright idea flashed upon me-
a sudden hope arose within me-a plan of
escape presented itself, so feasible and possible,
that I leaped in my perch as the thought struck
The first step was to get possession of the
rope. This was not such an easy matter. The
rope was fastened around the tree, but the knot
had slipped down the trunk and lay upon the
ground. I dared not descend for it.
Necessity soon suggested a plan. My "picker"
-a piece of straight wire with a ring-end-
hung from one of my breast buttons. This I
took hold of, and bent into the shape of a
grappling-hook. I had no cord, but my knife



was still safe in its sheath; and, drawing this,
I cut several thongs from the skirt of my buck-
skin shirt, and knotted them together until
they formed a string long enough to reach the
ground. To one end, I attached the picker;
and then letting, it down, I commenced angling
for the rope. After a few transverse drags, the
hook caught the latter, and I pulled it up into
the tree, taking the whole of it in until I held
the loose end in my hands. The other end I
permitted to remain as it was; I saw it was
securely knotted around the trunk, and that
was just what I wanted. It was my intention
to lasso the bull; and for the purpose I pro-
ceeded to make a running-noose on the end of
the trail-rope. This I executed with great care,
and with all my skill. I could depend upon the
rope; it was raw hide, and a better was never
twisted; but I knew that if anything should
chance to slip at a critical moment, it might
cost me my life. With this knowledge, there-
fore, I spliced the eye, and made the knot as
firm as possible, and then the loop was reeved
through, and the thing was ready.
I could throw a lasso tolerably well, but the
branches prevented me from winding it. It was
necessary, therefore, to get the animal in a
certain position under the tree, which, by shouts
and other demonstrations, I at length succeeded
in effecting. The moment of success had arrived.
He stood almost directly below me. The noose



was shot down-I had the gratification to see
it settle around his neck; and with a quick
jerk I tightened it. The rope ran beautifully
through the eye, until both eye and loop were
buried beneath the shaggy hair of the animal's
neck. It embraced his throat in the right
place, and I felt confident it would hold.
The moment the bull felt the jerk upon his
throat, he dashed madly out from the tree, and
then commenced running in circles around it.
Contrary to my intention, the rope had slipped
from my hands at the first drag upon it. My
position was rather an unsteady one, for the
branches were slefider, and I could not manage
matters as well as I could have wished. But
I now felt confident enough. The bull was
tethered, and it only remained for me to get
out beyond the length of his tether, and take
to my heels. My gun lay on one side, near the
tree, where I had dropped it in my race: this,
of course, I meant to carry off with me. I
waited, therefore, until the animal, in one of his
circles, had got round to the opposite side, and
then slipping down the trunk, I sprang out,
picked up my rifle, and ran. I knew the trail-
rope to be about twenty yards in length, but I
ran a hundred at least before making halt. I
had even thoughts of continuing on, as I still
could not help some misgivings about the rope.
The bull was one of the largest and strongest I
had ever seen. The rope might break, the knot



upon the tree might give way, or the noose
might slip over his head. Curiosity, however,
or rather a desire to be assured of my safety,
prompted me to look around, when, to my joy,
I beheld the huge monster stretched upon the
plain, and I could see the rope was strangling
At the sight, the idea of buffalo-tongue for
supper returned in all its vigour; and it now
occurred to me that I should eat that very
tongue, and no other. I immediately turned
in my tracks, ran towards my powder and balls
-which, in my eagerness to escape, I had for-
gotten all about-seized the horn and pouch,
poured in a charge, rammed down a bullet,
and then stealing nimbly up behind the still
struggling bull, I placed the muzzle within
three feet of his brisket, and fired. He gave a
death-kick or two, and then lay quiet: it was
all over with him.
I had the tongue from between his teeth in a
twinkling; and proceeding to the other bull, I
finished the operations I had commenced upon
him. I was too tired to think of carrying a very
heavy load; so I contented myself with the
tongues, and slinging these over the barrel
of my rifle, I shouldered it, and commenced
groping my way back to camp. The moon had
risen, and I had no difficulty in following my
own trail; but before I had got half-way, I met
several of my companions. My horse had got


back a little before sunset. His appearance
had of course produced alarm, and half the
camp had turned out in search of me. Several,
who had a relish for fresh meat, galloped back
to strip the two bulls of the remaining titbits;
but before midnight all had returned; and to
the accompaniment of the hump-ribs spurting
in the cheerful blaze, I recounted to my com-
panions the details of my adventure.

I,- .I_,, = i _


On the 15th of August 1777, two little girls of
seven or eight years old were playing in a
garden near Ajaccio, in Corsica. After running
up and down among the trees and flowers, one
of them stopped the other at the entrance to a
dark grotto under a rock.
"Eliza," she said, "don't go any farther:
it frightens me to look into that black
"Nonsense It is only Napoleon's Grotto."
"This garden belongs to your uncle Fesch:
has he given this dark hole to Napoleon ?"
No, Panoria ; my great uncle has not given
him this grotto. But as he often comes and
spends hours in it by himself, we all call it
.apoleon's Grotto."
And what can he be doing there ?"
"Talking to himself."


"What about ?"
"Oh, I don't know: a variety of things.
But come, help me to gather a large bunch of
"Just now, when we were on the lower walk,
you told me not to pull any, although there was
abundance of sweet ones."
"Yes; but that was in my uncle the canon's
"And are his flowers more sacred than those
of Uncle Fesch ?"
"They are indeed, Panoria."
"And why ?"
"I'm sure I don't know; but when any one
wants to prevent our playing, they say, 'That
will give your uncle the canon a headache!'
When we are not to touch something, it is
always, 'That belongs to the canon!' If we
want to eat some fine fruit, 'Don't touch that;
it is for your uncle the canon!' And even
when we are praised or rewarded, it is always
because the canon is pleased with us !"
"Is it because he is archdeacon of Ajaceio
that people are so much afraid of him ?"
"Oh no, Panoria; but because he is our
tutor. Papa is not rich enough to pay for
masters to teach us, and he has not time to
look after our education himself; so our uncle
the canon teaches us everything. He is not
unkind, but he is very strict. If we don't know
our lessons, he slaps us smartly."



And don't you call that unkind, Eliza ?"
"Not exactly. Do you never get a whipping
yourself, Panoria ?"
"No indeed, Eliza. It is the Corsican
fashion to beat children; but our family is
Greek, and mamma says Greeks must not be
"Then I'm sure, Panoria, I wish I were
a Greek; for it is very unpleasant to be
slapped !"
"I daresay your brother Napoleon does not
like it either."
"He is the only one of my brothers who
does not cry or complain when he is punished.
If you heard what a noise Joseph and Lucien
make, you would fancy that uncle was flaying
them alive!"
"But about Napoleon. What can he be
talking about alone in the grotto ?"
"Hush Here he is! Let us hide ourselves
behind this lilac-tree, and you'll hear."
"I see Severia coming to call us."
"Ah it will take her an hour to gather
ripe fruit for uncle the canon. We shall have
time enough. Come!"
And the little girls, gliding between the rock
and the overhanging shrubs, took up their
position in perfect concealment.
The boy who advanced towards the grotto
differed from the generality of children of his
age in the size of his head, the massive form of



his noble brow, and the fixed examining
expression of his eyes. He walked slowly-
looking at the bright blue sea-and unconscious
that his proceedings were closely watched
by two pair of little bright black eyes.
"Here I am my own master!" he said,
as he entered the grotto. "No one commands
me here !" And seating himself royally on a
bench within the dark entrance, he continued
-"This is my birthday. I am eight years
old to-day. I wish I lived among the Spartans,
then I should be beyond the control of women;
but now I have to obey such a number of people
-old Severia among the rest. Ah, if I were
the master!"
"Well, and if you were the master, what
would you do ?" cried Eliza, thrusting forward
her pretty little head.
"First of all, I'd teach you not to come
listening at doors," replied Napoleon, discon-
certed at being overheard.
"But, brother, there's no door that I can
"No matter, you have been eaves-dropping
all the same."
"Eliza !-Panoria !" cried a loud voice.
"Where can these children have gone to ?"
The young ladies came out of their leafy
lurking-place in time to meet the little
Bonapartes' nurse, Severia-a tall old woman,
who carried on her arm a basket filled with



the most luscious tempting pears, grapes, and
"A pear, Severia!" cried Napoleon, darting
forwards, and thrusting his hand into the
"You cannot have them, child!" exclaimed
Severia. "They are for your uncle the
"Ah !" said Napoleon, drawing back his
hand as quickly as if a wasp had stung
Panoria burst out laughing.
"I never saw such people!" she said, as
soon as her mirth allowed her to speak. My
uncle the canon seems the bugbear of the
whole family. Is Severia afraid of him too ?"
"Not more than I am," said Napoleon
"And yet you were afraid to take a pear ?"
Because I did not wish to do it, Panoria."
Did not dare to do it, Napoleon !"
"Did not wish to do it, Panoria."
And if you wished it, would you do it ?"
"Certainly I would."
"I think you are a boaster, Napoleon; and
in your uncle's presence would be just as great
a coward as Eliza or Pauline."
Come, children, follow me," said Severia,
walking on.
"You think I am a coward?" whispered
Eliza to her little friend. "Come into the



house, and see if I don't eat as much of uncle's
fruit as I please. Mamma is gone out to pay a
visit, and will not be home until to-morrow."
"Then I'll help you," said Panoria. And
the little girls, fixing their wistful eyes on the
tempting fruit, followed Severia to the house.
Napoleon remained some time longer in his
grotto; and when supper-time approached, he
went into the house. Feeling very thirsty, he
entered the dining-room, in which was a large
cupboard, where fresh water was usually kept.
Just as he was going in, he heard a noise:
the cupboard doors were quickly shut, and
he caught a glimpse of a white frock disappear-
ing through the open window. Instead, how-
ever, of looking after the fugitive, he went
quietly to get a glass of water in the cupboard.
Then, to his dismay, he saw his uncle's basket
of fruit half empty! While, forgetting his
thirst, he looked with astonishment at the fruit,
considering who could have been the hardy
thief, a voice behind him roused him from his
"What are you doing there, Napoleon ? You
know you are not permitted to help yourself to
This was uncle the canon himself-a short,
stout old man with a bald head, whose
otherwise ordinary features were lighted up
with the eagle glance which afterwards dis-
tinguished his grand-nephew.