den, And east winds meet the embrace of the north, our throats to scourge and muscles to harden. Come far away from the weary fogs, those windingsheets of our London life, Away from the prowl of the burglar sneak, and the thud of the brute who has kicked his wife. I'd tell to-day of the rock-bound coast, the screaming surf, and the sea-blown sand, And drink to the men who are off to sea when the sailors shout that the lifeboat's manned. the men they hurried to save were free. Women they weep, as women will do, but never a Seizing the oar, the rocket, and rope, out they went from the sheltering land; Never again will they wake to hear their comrades shout when the lifeboat's manned. Gentlemen all, when the storms are out, the rooftree shakes, and the windows rattle, Just think a little of ships at sea, the wave's attack, and the sailor's battle. You close the shutters and bar the door, in cosy homes of the sheltered city; They talk of battles and rank and file; they call You give one sigh for the lifeboat-yes, and you the roll, count cannon and loss; offer her crew a grain of pity. And Tom he wears a corporal's stripe, and brave But, on my honour, I'd like to know if pluckier little Jim the Victoria Cross. men in the world exist They march to the front with fife and drum, and Than those who buckle the life-belt on, when wives follow the beat of the regiment's band, are left and the children kissed. They see their flag as it waves, and hear the jolly So again I ask, are your glasses charged? will you old colonel's clear command. send a cheer from the friends on shore But there's never a sound in the battle at sea but To the men who go to their death at sea, and do the howling storm and the scream afar, And it's only duty points the way when the ships break up on the harbour bar. their duty?-men can't do more. Hope departs when the land is lost; love is blown from the rocks and sand. It is dark unto death on the midnight sea, and Ready to die is the motto of men-and this is the darker still on the sleeping land; reason the lifeboat's manned. OLD-DRAGOON DROUET.* [From "The French Revolution." By THOMAS CARLYLE.] IN N this manner, however, has the day bent downwards. Wearied mor tals are creeping home from their field-labour; the village artisan eats with relish his supper of herbs, or has strolled forth to the village street for a sweet mouthful of air and human news. Still summer-eventide everywhere! The great Sun hangs flaming on the utmost Northwest; for it is his longest day this year. The hill-tops rejoicing will ere long be at their ruddiest, and blush Good-night. The thrush, in green dells, on long-shadowed leafy spray, pours gushing his glad serenade, to the babble of brooks grown audibler; silence is stealing over the Earth. Your dusty Mill of Valmy, as all other mills and drudgeries, may furl its canvas, and cease swashing and circling. The swenkt grinders in this Treadmill of an Earth have ground out another Day; and lounge there, as we say, in village-groups; movable, or ranked on social stone-seats; their children, mischievous imps, sporting about their feet. Unnotable hum of sweet human gossip rises from this village of Sainte-Menehould, as from all other villages. Gossip mostly sweet, unnotable; for the very Dragoons are French and gallant; nor as yet has the Paris-and-Verdun Diligence, with its leathern bag, rumbled in, to terrify the minds of men. One figure nevertheless we do note at the last door of the Village: that figure in loose-flowing nightgown, of Jean Baptiste Drouet, Master of the Post here. An acrid choleric man, rather dangerous-looking; still in the prime of life, though he has served, in his time, as a Condé Dragoon. This day, from an early hour Drouet got his choler stirred, and has been kept fretting. Hussar Goguelat in the morning saw good, by way of thrift, to bargain with his own Innkeeper, not with Drouet regular Maître de Poste, about some gig-horse for the sending back of his gig; which thing Drouet perceiving came over in red ire, menacing the Innkeeper, and would not be • By permission of Messrs. appeased. Wholly an unsatisfactory day. For Drouet is an acrid Patriot too, was at the Paris Feast of Pikes: and what do these Bouillé soldiers mean? Hussars,-with their gig, and a vengeance to it !-have hardly been thrust out, when Dandoins and his fresh Dragoons arrive from Clermont, and stroll. For what purpose? Choleric Drouet steps out and steps in, with longflowing nightgown; looking abroad, with that sharpness of faculty which stirred choler gives to man. On the other hand, mark Captain Dandoins on the street of that same Village; sauntering with a face of indifference, a heart eaten of black care! For no Korff Berline makes its appearance. The great Sun flames broader towards setting one's heart flutters on the verge of dread unutterabilities. : By Heaven here is the yellow Bodyguard Courier; spurring fast, in the ruddy evening light! Steady, O Dandoins, stand with inscrutable indifferent face; though the yellow blockhead spurs past the Post-house; inquires to find it; and stirs the Village, all delighted with his fine livery.-Lumbering along with its mountains of bandboxes, and Chase behind, the Korff Berline rolls in; huge Acapulco ship with its Cockboat, having got thus far. The eyes of the Villagers look enlightened, as such eyes do when a coach-transit, which is an event, occurs for them. Strolling Dragoons respectfully, so fine are the yellow liveries, bring hand to helmet; and a Lady in gypsy-hat responds with a grace peculiar to her. Dandoins stands with folded arms, and what look of indifference and disdainful garrison-air a man can, while the heart is like leaping out of him. Curled disdainful mustachio; careless glance,— which however surveys the Village-groups, and does not like them. With his eye he bespeaks the yellow Courier, Be quick, be quick! Thickheaded Yellow cannot understand the eye; comes up mumbling, to ask in words: seen of the Village! Nor is Post-master Drouet unobservant all this while but steps out and steps in, with his longflowing nightgown, in the level sunlight; prying into several things. When a man's faculties, at the right time, are sharpened by choler, it may lead to much. That Lady in slouched gypsy-hat, though sitting back in the Carriage, does she not resemble some one we have seen, some time ;-at the Feast of Pikes, or elsewhere? And this Grosse-Tête in round hat and peruke, which, Chapman and Hall (Limited). looking rearward, pokes itself out from time to time, methinks there are features in it- -- ? Quick, Sieur Guillaume, Clerk of the Directoire, bring me a new Assignat! Drouet scans the new Assignat; compares the Paper-money Picture with the Gross Head in round hat there: by Day and Night! you might say the one was an attempted Engraving of the other. And this march of Troops; this sauntering and whispering, -I see it! Drouet Post-master of this Village, hot Patriot, Old-Dragoon of Condé, consider, therefore, what thou wilt do. And fast, for behold the new Berline, expeditiously yoked, cracks whipcord, and rolls away!-Drouet dare not, on the spur of the instant, clutch the bridles in his own two hands; Dandoins, with broadsword, might hew you off. Our poor Nationals, not one of them here, have three hundred fusils, but then no powder; besides one is not sure, only morallycertain. Drouet, as an adroit Old-Dragoon of Condé, does what is advisablest; privily bespeaks Clerk Guillaume, Old-Dragoon of Condé he too; privily, while Clerk Guillaume is saddling two of the fleetest horses, slips over to the Townhall to whisper a word; then mounts with Clerk Guillaume; and the two bound eastward in pursuit, to see what can be done. They bound eastward, in sharp trot: their moral-certainty permeating the Village, from the Townhall outwards, in busy whispers. Alas Captain Dandoins orders his Dragoons to mount; but they, complaining of long fast, demand breadand-cheese first; before which brief repast can be eaten, the whole Village is permeated; not whispering now, but blustering and shrieking! National Volunteers, in hurried muster, shriek for gunpowder; Dragoons halt between Patriotism and Rule of the Service, between bread-andcheese and fixed bayonets: Dandoins hands secretly his Pocket-book, with its secret despatches, to the rigorous Quartermaster: the very Ostlers have stable-forks and flails. The rigorous Quartermaster, half-saddled, cuts out his way with the sword's edge, amid levelled bayonets, amid Patriot vociferations, adjurations, flailstrokes; and rides frantic ;-few or even none following him; the rest, so sweetly constrained, consenting to stay there. And thus the new Berline rolls; and Drouet and Guillaume gallop after it, and Dandoins' Troopers or Trooper gallops after them; and Sainte-Menehould, with some leagues of the King's Highway, is in explosion;-and your Military thunder-chain has gone off in a selfdestructive manner; one may fear, with the frightfulest issues. Berline with eleven horses: 'he that has a secret should not only hide it, but hide that he has it to hide.' Your first Military Escort has exploded self-destructive; and all Military Escorts, and a suspicious Country will now be up, explosive; comparable not to victorious thunder. Comparable, say rather, to the first stirring of an Alpine Avalanche; which, once stir it, as here at SainteMenehould, will spread,-all round, and on and on, as far as Stenai; thundering with wild ruin, till Patriot Villagers, Peasantry, Military Escorts, new Berline and Royalty are down,-jumbling in the Abyss! The thick shades of Night are falling. Postilions crack and whip: the Royal Berline is through Clermont, where Colonel Comte de Damas got a word whispered to it; is safe through, towards Varennes; rushing at the rate of double drinkmoney: an Unknown, Inconnu on horseback,' shrieks earnestly some hoarse whisper, not audible, into the rushing Carriage-window, and vanishes, left in the night. August Travellers palpitate; nevertheless overwearied nature sinks every one of them into a kind of sleep. Alas, and Drouet and Clerk Guillaume spur; taking side-roads, for shortness, for safety; scattering abroad that moral-certainty of theirs; which flies, a bird of the air carrying it! And your rigorous Quartermaster spurs; awakening hoarse trumpet-tone,-as here at Clermont, calling out Dragoons gone to bed. Brave Colonel de Damas has them mounted, in part, these Clermont men; young Cornet Remy dashes off with a few. But the Patriot Magistracy is out here at Clermont too; National Guards shrieking for ball-cartridges; and the Village ‘illuminates itself;'--deft Patriots springing out of bed; alertly, in shirt or shift, striking a light; sticking up each his farthing candle, or penurious oil-cruse, till all glitters and glimmers; so deft are they! A camisado, or shirt-tumult, everywhere: stormbell set a-ringing; village-drum beating furious générale, as here at Clermont, under illumination; distracted Patriots pleading and menacing! Brave young Colonel de Damas, in that uproar of distracted Patriotism, speaks some fire-sentences to what Troopers he has: "Comrades insulted at Sainte-Menehould: King and Country calling on the brave;" then gives the fire-word, Draw swords. Whereupon, alas, the Troopers only smite their sword-handles, driving them farther home! "To me, whoever is for the King!" cries Damas in despair; and gallops, he with some poor loyal Two, of the Subaltern sort, into the bosom of the Night. Night unexampled in the Clermontais; shortest of the year; remarkablest of the century: Night deserving to be named of Spurs! Cornet Remy, This comes of mysterious Escorts, and a new and those Few he dashed off with, has missed his |