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GOULD &
ELWELL,
Office 80 winils, near Corner of Exchange st.
AN INDEPENDENT FAMILY JOURNAL OF LITERATURE, NEWS, 2G. he
VOLUME XV.
POETRY.
‘rom the German of Ruckert.
TRE ARTIST AND HIS PUBLIC.
ecessary to prefix for the information, of 0
renters’ that this is a satire on any people who set up Sor
arti ata an na critics without having the requisite organs or
eultare
“The dumb man asks the bung man :
Canst do a favor, pra
Could [ the harper find, man?
Ilast seen him pass, to-day ?
I take, myself, email pleasure
Played for my deaf young son. ,
The Drind man quick made answer :
w him pass my gate;
rm end my lame young man, sir,
To overtake him straight.
At one Loox from his master,
He chased the harper-man,
The harper comes, elated,
And straight to work he goes,
Lis arms were amputated,
He fingered with his toes
‘AMI hearta his playing eaptured,
The deaf man was all ear,
The blind man gazed enraptured, |»
The dumb man shouted, “Hear!”
| The lame boy fell to dancing
And leaped with all his might,
The scene was so entrancing
They stayed till late at night.
And when the concert ended,
__ The Public, justly proud,
Their Artist all commended,
“Who, deeply grateful, bowed: /
“A THRILLING STORY.
T IE: MAIMED! WAND
3d
» Reader, did you ever happen to pass a, fow days
at Dieppe? : Dear, delightful, dirty Dieppe, full of
modern amusements and old associations, of hotels
and ruins ; the last fashions from Paris elbowing
the sturdy, Polletaise, dressed as her sixth great-
grandmother dressed ,in the time of Henry IV.,
James, and Mrs. Gore, and Lady , Blessington. and
Lord knows who, have all given us something about
Dieppe; I, too, must try my hand at spinning one
of its yarns, for its narrow, inodororous streets and
lovely country are associated with some of the hap-
piest days of my life. ,, When I was last there, how-
ever, we were very far from, being comfortable.—!
There had been a kind of goal delivery throughout
France; horde of ruffians seemed to have been let
loose on us; some, let us hope, did repent, but
many were driven, perhaps in despair, to : their'old
courses, and, in our neighborhood especially, we
‘were overrun by burglars.:/« 1
The priests’ houses were the prineipal objects of,
attack, since their vows precluded self-defence § but
the more wealthy farmers did not escape, and asin
many cases these robberies were accompanied by the
foulest outrages, the snooze which Dieppe seems to
take during winter was rudely disturbed—each day’
brought fresh tales of horror. : We English got off
with the frights; in the ‘first place, it was pretty
‘certain that those who endured: the winter torpor
were so poor that it would not pay to meddle with
them; and then the robbers, whoever they were,
had a pretty shrewd guess that John Bull was like-'
ly to prove an “awkward customer! ©: Ces ‘sacres
Anglais generally left their plate at home, but ney-
or forgot their pistols: ’ It is astonishing ‘what an
idea the French peasant has of an Englishman’s *
Strength and foolhardiness. “ We were therefore
comparatively safe, though we lived some distance
from town; but still weshared in the general excite-
ment.* Punch laughs o great deal at the terrors of
“an unprotected femate.”* I should like to see him
roused up in the night by hearing his’ back-door
tried, and then watch a lantern prowling about his
grounds ! it’s my belicf that his dog's bark would
turn toa howl, and that he would not be one bit
braver than bis neighbors. O,-those were fearful
times! The cure of our village was robbed—mur-
dered—and so was his housekeeper! .She lived
long enough to‘ show that the wretches had even
sdragged‘ her tecth from her head -as part of the”
booty ! Could cruelty and rapacity Be farther?—
PORTLAND, SATURDAY, FEBRUARY 14, oe .
The sexton, Nicholas Galmiche, came as usual ear-
ly to the presbyere. Ilis little daughter was a scr-
vant there.
“Elise! Elise!” he shouted. There was no an-
swer,
Ilis cries aroused the neighbors. His coat was
torn—for he had broken into the house, failing to
arouse its inmates ; the dying woman. shrank from
him. Where was his child? In bed, calmly asleep.
She seemed confused when awoke—knew nothing
of what had taken place ; and yet there were marks
of blood on her bed and clothes. Why was she
spared?’ Was it possible she could have remained
unconscious during that dreadfaltragedy? Again
she was questioned. Yes, she faintly recollected
being disturbed ; she'was sure she had seen a man
by her bed-side. She had fancied it a dream. Yes,
the had struck her—with a hammer, she thought—
she knew no more. A hammer, clotted with the
old priest’s white hair, was produced. Pshaw ! a
blow from such an implement must have killed, or
been remembered. Father and child were commit-
ted to prison, amid the execrations of their former
friends.’ On searching them, two spoons and a
chain were found in Galmiche’s pocket, with a
heavy sum for a man in his station. The spoons
were identified as the property of the priest; the
chain, it was well known, belonged to poor Paquet-
te, the housekeeper. Galmiche owned it at once,
but said she had given him these things the previ-
ous day, that he might sell them for her; adding
that, when he had hesitated, unless authorized by
Father Menard, she became very indignant, and
they had quarreled. . No one‘ could credit this ex-
planation ; it even added to the general indignation
that the murderer should attempt to cast a slur on
his victim’s character. ,He again asserted that he
was to send the: produce of the sale, with the rest
of the money.to a soldier in the 46th Regiment,then
stationed at Amiens; but he was noteure of the ad-
dress.’ Mere Paquette had told him to call for it
that moring. . Here ended his defence... Elise was
too alarmed—too incorrigibly stupid, perhaps—to
do more than weep, and reiterate her, former con-
fused statement., Nota doubt remained of Her
father’s ‘guilt—and: we positively longed for the
assizes, which would bring bis certain. condemna-
tien, and rid the earth of such a monster, , Ile was
so hardened, too—so hypocritical—so earnest in bis
protestations of innocence ; a confession might have
enabled the authorities ‘to secure his accomplices,
and thus put a stop to their misdeeds, which. still
continued ; but,even when the proofs were so stron;
im, he obstinately refused to own bis guilt.
he assizes at length commenced, and Galmiché
and his daughter were remoyed to Rouen for their
trial, but I will not trouble the reader. to accompa-
ny them there.- Half the inhabitants of our little
commune of St. Nicholas had found some pretext
for following them, either, as witnesses, or_on pri-
yate business.. Among the wanderers were servants
of Madame Guibert, the richest fermiere about there
—her house was near the preslyere; consequently
all her household had runto the spot, on hearing
Galmiche’s cries, and had been subpeenaed to give
evidence. So the old woman and her grand-daugh-
ter, Natalie, were left quite alone. They were both
so busy all day that they had no time to fecl alarm-
ed at their defericeless position ; but when evening
drew on, and their labors ended, their courage full.
Mere Guibert hinted to Guillard,an out door labor-
er, that he might remain if he liked; but Natalie
suggested that he had a timid, ailing wife, with a
sick child, so they dfd not press it. on him. He
was a trustworthy, hardworking man, deservedly a
favorite ; though both were sorry to see him go,each
gave him some little present for his invatids, and
he went away laden with their thoughtful gifts —
Ile was voluble in his thanks, and tears stood in
Natalie's eyes as she heard him invoke countless
blessings on her grandmother's head.
“Well, poor fellew! he is grateful,” she cried —
He would have staid if he could, Iam sure. After
all, I don’t think we can be in any danger, for no
one would burt you, grandmother,”
“Any one who would harm Monsieur. le Cure—
now a saint in heaven, if there ever: was onc—and
that poor Parquette, wouldn't be particular about
an old woman, my child; but now that Galmiche is
out of the way; I think we may be safe; there can't
be such another monster.”
‘Blise. Galmiche and Natalic had been constant
playfellows ; and if any one could believe in the in-
nocence of that unhappy family, it was her old
friend.
“Ah, poor Elise !” she sighed.
“Natalie ! don’ t let me hear you pitying that lit-
tle viper again.”
“Do you really think she was in it, grandmother?”
“Of course—father and child both. That very
night Parquette came here fora receipt to make
her some drink, as she did not think she was quite
well—the slut.”
“Bat she was ill, grandmother !”
“More shame for her, the sly. deceitful thing! I
can’t bear ingratitude; did not the old abbe make
her a present of a new gown for her first commu-
nion? I think I see him now, talking in his pleas-
ant way. Often and often heused to joke Parquette
about her white’ teeth and tell her she was too | Do
proud of them; little did we think what was to hap-
pen.” 1
Of course, after this beginning, the old woman
and child could speak of little but this dreary story
and they satdown to their supper with sinking
hearts. Bed-time was passed, but they felt afraid
to leave the room, and still found a pretext to lin-
ger. Neither spoke of fear, dreading to alarm the
other. Whohas not experienced this feeling ?—
When we outwardly seem brave, and can scarce re-
press the scream which rises to our lips—when each
noise is magnified—when all known objects assume | *# lie.
some mysterious change—when the curtains shake
beneath our gaze, till we feel we can define the form
of the assassins lurking behind them. What if, af-
ter all, it be but “a rat behind the arras ;” the suf-
fering has not been Jess great. And if we can tell
the misery of this intense fear sitting with the po-
liceman’s footfall still echoing in our ear, our doors
securely barred—every precantion that'science and
cowardice can suggest—what must have been the}.
agony of, those two Joncly watchers—an old .wo-
man and a child. _ The clay walls of their comfort-
able farm house could. afford but sorry protection
to them ; their only trust came from on High, and
their beads passed rapidly through their. fingers, as
they poured forth trembling prayers. Notasound
was to be heard in the village—every one was asleep
but themselves ; their watch-dog, too, had followed
the shepherd that morning; he had often done so
before, but now it added ‘to their terror. © Their
lamp still burned—it could be seen from the road ;
but they dared not extinguish it, darkness would
be so very terrible.
A heavy step was heard it had a slow, tired
soand., They paused—it passsed on; with a sigh
of relief their prayers were renewed. Again Madame
Guibert found some neglected task which must be
accomplished ere. they could go to bed. They
crept cantiously about. Again, that step!., They
held their breath in horror.’ It drew nearer—it di-
verged from the road—nearer and nearer still—a
man was knocking at the door. ||
“Talo, there! Are you still up, good folks 2”
cried a young and pleasant voice. , “Can't you give
shelter to a poor wayfarer for the night ?”
“Who ave you ?” asked the old woman.
“A soldier on furlough. I lost my way in the for-
est, Iam Areadfully tired, a and I want to get to
St. Nicholas.”
“Why this is St. Nicholas,”
“Better luck mine; I shall meet a friend here to-
morrow. But if you would be‘so generous’ as to
give me shelter for this night cannot wake them
at the in|
“Pere ute is euch | a gound sleeper,” Natalie
remarke
“And, sc sceing & light, I ventured to try here. I
am tired to death, and I am: not very strong—I
have been, wounded.”
“Oh, grandmother, his voice shakes fand Alexis
is a soldier, you know.”
“I don’t ask for food—only a bed—achair—any-
thing. , I can go no further.”
“Let us have him in—it is so sad!
him ?”
“If L could be sure—”
“Wait one moment.”
She noiselessly stole up stairs. ,
“I ouly ask for shelter, good folks. | Some one of
Do let us sce
TERMS: $1,50 PER YE.
One Dollar for Eight Months, in vane r
NUMBER a
by the | look of the place, 0: or rI would offer to per —
Tam no beggar.”
Natalie had now returned. -
“Oh, grandmother! I peeped out from ‘the cock-
loft—he i: ig quite alone—he is very young. Ido
think he is erying!. Suppose the Virgin should
have sent him to watch over us through this dreary
night? He is no beggar than Alexis.” .
‘The old woman thought of her only grandson,
Natalie’s brother, now a soldier in Algeria, and her
heart melted; besides. if his tale were not true, he
could force an entrance ; she could gain nothing by
irritating him. ee
“Listen, young man,” she cricd. “I never was
uncharitable. I don’t wish to begin now, and with
a soldier, too. I will let you in; but remember you
must go to bed at once., You must leave your
sword with me,and I shall lock youinto your room.
you agree 7”
“Willingly, ma Boni mere. Only don’t, forget to
let me out again.’
The door was opened. Dame Guibert v was c preat-
ly relieved as the poor fellow stumbled over the
threshold, his wayworn looks testifying to the truth
of his tale. 7"
“Here’s my sword,” he said, offering it at once ;
“though what you, madame, or your pretty daugh-
ter can want with it, eats } my comprehension. And
now, where may I slee;
“Oh, you must haye some supper aes cried Na}
“Well, Tm very hungry 5 but that was not in the
bargain, you know.”
“Nonsense,” said Dame Guibert. “I was ss partic]
ular, because there are some: horrid villains about.
But now that Galmiche—” ,
“Galmiche !—is that Nicholas Galmiche the sex-
ton ?” Le
“Do you know him? , a
»“Only by name. A friend of mine knows hin:
“Then your friend knows the greatest. rascal on
God's earth, I only’ hope he and his preeious
daughter will be shorter by a head soon—that's all.
And now, young man, you had better go to bed.—
If Lhad only known you were a friend’ of’ Gal-
miche's—”
“Bathe says he ft is not, grandmother; and, Ism
gure we were—'
“JIold your tongue, child. Tell me what compa-
ny you keep, and I'll tell you who you are.” That
T should ever have taken in one of Galmiche's
crew! We can’t turn him out, either.”
“Turn him out! he is almost “asleep. already,
grandmother.” :
Tt was as she said; ‘the soldier haa ‘faa into a
doze; but on being roused, walked readily off tohis
room. Even when the old woman had the key in
her pocket, and his sword in her hand, she still
grumbled and scolded ‘at the weakness which, had
induced her to admit a friend of Galmiche's within
her doors; but anger checked fear, and she was ng
sooner in bed than she fell asleep. Not so Natalie; i
fear had already excited her ; and now, the extra-
ordinary circumstance that a wounded soldier was
beneath their roof, banished all idea of sleep. , He
knew something about the Galmiches, too, .Who
could he be expecting to meet to-morrow ?. She
knew no one in St. Nicholas ° who bad relations in
the army—had never heard of, any soldier, belong-
ing to the place,save her own Alexis, and the stran-
ger to whom PereGalmiche averred Paquette meant
to have sent her money. Could that be true? Was
Galmiche indeed guilty? and’ Elise? oh, ‘no—not
Elise ; she would never believe it. Oh, mnust she
die by that dreadful guillotine, or Tive’'to be called
& murderer's daugtiter > (How dreadfal—how very
dreadful. Blessed Mary toholy St. Elizabeth,com-
fort her!’ Was it possible this stranger could know
anything of Paqucette’s connections ? she must ask
him to-morrow. , How fortunate he ‘was there !—
No one else cared for Elise—no one but her—-and
she was a child. Mark! > Surely she’ heard steps
outside the house! Gracious heaven t had the sol-
deir ‘deceived them? No—all was quiet. “She
would venture to his room- door, and listen... Oh,
had she endangered her grandmother’ life’ by het
persuasions ? ,
She crept to his door, and gladly ‘heard ihe
heavy breathing of the sleeping man}, but she dis-
yours may want it one day, You should be rich,
tinguished a dull, grating noise down: stairs, and &
