University of Virginia Library

THE CONSCRIPT BROTHERS.

It was in the dark and smoky room of an alehouse,
the walls stained by the dirt of years, that three young
men were seated at a table. Their coarse and scanty
meal stood untasted before them. Their muskets rested
against the wall and their knapsacks lay on the floor.
The storm beat furiously against the window. The rain
had penetrated through the dilapidated building, and
gave a still more desolate appearance to the miserable
apartment.

It was the evening before the battle of Waterloo.
A terrible conflict was expected. Many a soldier of
Bonaparte's army was fired by the prospect, and waited
with all the impatience of military ardor for morning
to arrive.

Not so our young Conscripts. They had been torn
by the imperial mandate from the bosom of their family,
from the culture of the sunny vineyard, from the tranquil
and simple pleasures that the paysans of France
enjoy, and forced into military duty. There was no
struggle for freedom to animate them; no anticipation
of better days. Their little village had been desolated
by their own countrymen, and their father robbed of his
three sons by the most cruel despotism. They could
not join in the shout of Vive l'Empereur! for they felt
only the effects of his blasting and selfish ambition.

`Our poor father!' said Conrad, striking his hand on
the table.

`Our poor sister!' said Philip, while Edward, the
youngest, who yet retained the slight form and fair
complexion of boyhood, uttered a convulsive sob.

`Cheer up, my boy,' said Conrad, `if we must fight,
let us fight like men, and die like Christians.' At that
moment the landlord entered, conducting a soldier.

`Who talks of dying?' exclaimed he, as, full of animation
and gaiety, he seated himself at the table; then,
casting his eyes around, `for shame! landlord,' said he,
`can you give the defenders of your country no better
rations than these? Do you not boast of your generous
wines? Bring them forth! Don't stint us of Burgundy
and Champaigne. Well may these poor fellows
talk of dying, when famine and thirst stare them in the
face.'

The landlord, who had long groaned under the
heavy demands of those who had quartered upon him,
muttered his dissatisfaction.

`Away!' exclaimed the soldier, `do you not know
you have the honor of entertaining Fortunatus himself?
Now look! whenever I take off my cap and shake it

thus, wealth pours from it;' and several pieces of
money actually fell upon the table.

`God bless your honor,' exclaimed the landlord;
`may you often take it off in my house.'

`Go, then, poor devil,' said the soldier, throwing him
a few francs, `and bring us the best you can find.'

The landlord bowed low and disappeared. `I do in
my very soul pity these poor fellows,' said the soldier,
turning to his comrades; `they are oppressed by the
soldiery, and obliged to entertain and feed them without
recompense, and get nothing but curses in return, which
it must be acknowledged,' said he, again surveying the
table, `such fare deserves.'

It was not long before things wore a different aspect.
The bright and sunny hue of the stranger's mind began
to illumine even the dismal room of the alehouse. The
landlord spread a much better repast upon the table,
and, in honor of Fortunatus, placed a second smoky
lamp directly before him. As the light glared upon his
youthful and manly countenance, Edward suddenly
arose and seized his hand.

`Brothers,' said he, `this is the very soldier who
saved me from disgrace yesterday, when the dragoon
stood over me.'

`Ah! is it you, my brave fellow?' exclaimed his protector;
`it was your own mettle that saved you, for if
you had not shown that honor was dearer than life, you
might have been thrashed like a poltroon for all me.
But come!' added he, filling the glasses round, and not
forgetting the obsequious landlord, `we are all a peg
too low!'

Glass after glass exhilarated the company, and the
eyes of the young Conscripts began to sparkle.

`I wish,' said Conrad, as he felt his blood warm,
`that I went heart and hand in this cause.'

`Poh!' said the new comer, `it is not for us to reason.
We have nothing to do but fight. Let us drink Vive
l'Empereur!

`I cannot,' said Conrad; `my father is a royalist.'

`Well, then,' exlaimed the good natured soldier, `let
us drink to the girl we love best! Come!' said he to
Edward, who had filled his glass, `give us her name.'

`My sister Alice,' replied Edward, with animation.

A shout of laughter from the soldier abashed the
youth. `I don't care for any other girl,' said he, coloring
deeply.

`It is true,' said Conrad; `he is a mere boy. He has
always been brought up with his twin sister Alice.

`But come, Philip,' said he, turning with an arch expression
to his second brother, `you can help us out.'

The blushes of Philip were of a still deeper hue than
Edward's. At length, however, in a low voice he said,
`Lucile.'

The soldier had narrowly observed him. `By my
soul,' exclaimed he, `I believe you have all lived upon
mother's milk, and just escaped from the nursery.'

`I hope,' said Conrad, proudly, `you will see that we
do not shrink from our duty tomorrow.'

`In the mean time,' said the soldier, `let us all drink
a bumper to our sister Alice.'

The brothers smiled. There was something in the
light hearted, fearless gaiety of the new comer that animated
their own spirits. They soon lost the reserve
and awkwardness of strangers, and conversed with ease
and freedom.

The father of the Conscripts, Jean de Castellon, inhabited
a cottage that had descended from sire to son
on the mother's side. It was one of those luxuriant
spots cultured by the breath of heaven. Yet Jean's
labor was not spared. All that patient industry requires

to give affluence and utility to natural beauty, he had
done. His barns opened their vast folding doors to receive
the harvest of autumn; his agricultural utensils
were of the best kind, and in the finest order, and no
traveller passed without remarking on the taste and
neatness of his dwelling.

The death of Jean's wife was the first calamity he
had experienced. He was several years older than she,
and had been a husband rather after the patriarchal order
than that of modern French gallantry. But though
he required great deference, it was willingly paid, and
nothing disturbed the harmony of their union. At her
death Jean had exercised the paternal care of father
and mother in an exemplary manner. His two oldest
boys were already able to assist his labors, and Edward
and Alice were his constant companions.

Years had passed in this tranquil state, and the
father daily felt his cares lightened by the aid of his
sons. It was at this period that a detachment of soldiers
entered the village for Conscripts. Their short
stay was marked by plunder, and they bore away in
triumph Jean's eldest born, Conrad. The succeeding
year Philip was marked out and enlisted as a soldier.
Edward still remained, nor did it enter the old man's
head that they could rob him of all; but when the decisive
battle was to be fought, when the best blood of
France was to be spilt like water, and Napoleon gleaned,
for the last desperate effort of his ambition, the hope
of the nation, then the father was deprived of all. Yet
still some form was preserved. No youth under sixteen
was to be forced into the service—Edward had
passed that age a few days before. The kind hearted
villagers exhorted Jean to make use of evasion. They
promised to stand by him; but when he was put upon
oath, he not only told the day, but the very hour of his

son's birth, and the only favor he could obtain, was,
that his two boys might fight side by side.

Such was the history of the Conscripts, nor was it uncommon.
A late historian says, `No distinction was
made. The son of the widow, the child of the decrepit
and helpless, had no right to claim exemption. Three
sons might be carried off in three successive years from
the same desolated parents. There was no allowance
made for having already supplied a recruit.'[2]

Fortunatus, now the companion of the brothers, was
no Conscript. He had voluntarily enlisted in the French
army, and he believed their arms invincible. He was
full of amusing anecdote, and assured them that he had
fought in several battles.

`I don't know how it is,' said he, `I don't love to fight
in cool blood; but when I heard the sound of the trumpet
and the drum, and the music of the cannon, it is a different
thing. I have never yet lost life or limb. From
my childhood I was called Fortunatus, because I have
been remarkable for my good luck; but my real name
is Frederic de Lancey.'

`I wish,' said Philip, thoughtfully, `I felt as secure
as you do, that only one of us would escape tomorrow
with life; but when I think of our poor father and sister
Alice, my heart dies within me.'

`If that is all, my dear boy,' said the soldier, `give
yourself no uneasiness. I never knew more than two
of a family shot in one battle; and the other may return
to comfort his father.'

A sudden thought seemed to strike Conrad. `Have
you a father?' said he to the soldier.

`No,' replied he, the expression of his countenance
suddenly changing; `my father died in my arms, and
left me without a relative in the world.'

`And yet you call yourself Fortunatus?' said Edward.

`And why not?' replied he; `was I not happy to
have been on the spot when my dear father breathed
his last? Oh, it was the most fortunate moment of my
life. I have no one now to mourn for me, and if I die
tomorrow I shall not draw a tear from a human eye.
I am without kindred, a citizen of the world, and may,
possibly, as I pass along, administer to the enjoyment
of my fellow beings, but I cannot diminish their happiness.'

`I am thinking,' said Conrad, `if we three should
fall, you might be a son to our father.'

`And a brother to Alice,' added Edward.

`Most willingly would I,' said the soldier; `but would
they receive me? Who will vouch for my character?'

`I will,' said Edward, with animation; `you stood my
friend because I was oppressed. I had no other claim
upon you. I will write an account of the whole affair
to my father. He is generous, and will confide in you.'

`And I,' said Conrad, `have a commission that will
prove you are no imposter. Look,' said he, `it is the
picture of my mother. I always wear it next my heart.
She was as good as an angel, and I feel as if no evil
could come where she is. You shall deliver this to
Alice, and tell her I sent it.'

`Be it so!' exclaimed De Lancey. `If I survive
you, I will seek out your father and offer my services.
If I die, I bequeath to the survivors my knapsack and
its contents. You will find a hundred Napoleons in it.
It is all I am worth, and now let us to bed and sleep
till morning.'

`Not yet,' said Conrad; `we must do all that is to be
done this evening. Good landlord! bring me pen and
ink, and you shall be our witness.' He then wrote—

The letter was sealed and directed to the father.
Then Conrad, taking the miniature, which was fastened
to his neck by a black ribbon, pressed it to his lips, and
his brothers did the same.

De Lancey was lodged in the room with the Conscripts.
In a few moments his breathing denoted that
he had sunk into that calm and tranquil sleep that belongs
to health of body and mind. Philip and Edward,
too, forgot for a while their gloomy presentiments, and
slept quietly. But not so Conrad. He felt a responsibleness

pressing upon him that he could neither avert nor
control. The rain continued to pour in torrents, and
the wind shook the miserable dwelling to its foundation.
Amid the tumult of the elements, the clattering of
horses' hoofs, the shrill notes of the trumpet, and the
heavy roll of the drum, might be distinguished. New
companies were entering the village, and the shouts of
Vive l'Empereur! still resounded in his ear. Conrad
gazed upon his sleeping brothers, and his soul
melted as he thought of them on the field of battle.

The morning dawned upon his unclosed eyes, when,
with that weariness, which seems almost like perverseness,
nature could resist no longer, and he fell into a
slumber. He was awakened by the voice of his brothers,
and, starting up, found De Lancey already gone. The
brothers gave each other a long and close embrace, and
hastened to their ranks.

The weather was yet unsettled. A thick mist enveloped
the country around, and as the armies approached
each other, neither friends nor foes could be
distinguished. It was not till late in the morning that
the clouds dispersed, and the sun broke forth in all its
splendor. The dense and heavy vapors separated, and
the clear blue sky was seen in distant perspective. At
length even the fleecy clouds rolled away, and all was
calm and tranquil in the heavens, forming a striking
contrast to the scene below. The two armies were engaged
in desperate contest. The once fertile valley
and vine covered hills lay blended by the smoke of the
cannon, and confused shouts rent the air.

How many mothers, widows, and orphans, have wept
for that day! How many beheld the `brave and beautiful'
go forth to battle! Years have passed away, and
memory still asks, `Where are they?' Amidst the tumult
of war one scene of private distress was passing.

Seated on a little hillock, and supporting his youngest
brother's head upon his lap, sat Conrad de Castellon.
His pale countenance and knit brow, discovered the
agony of his feelings. Nor was it wholly mental. His
leg had been shattered by a cannon ball, but it was
only of Edward he thought. `Oh! for a drop of water,'
he exclaimed, `one draught might save him!' But who
would stop in the full career of victory to administer
to the wants of one dying man, when thousands lay
around? The French army were in the full career of
victory. `On, on, to Brussels!' rung on every side.

`Is there no human aid?' said Conrad, and he rested
his brother's head against a prostrate soldier and strove
to rise; but it was impossible, and he fell back with a
groan and fainted. He was roused by the voice of De
Lancey. `Up, comrade!' said he, `the horse are advancing;
you will be trampled under foot.' Conrad
pointed to his disabled leg, and the lifeless boy that lay
before him. He was, indeed, lifeless. The spirit had
passed away, and the stiffness of death had succeeded to
the last pressure of his brother's hand.

`We can do nothing for him,' said De Lancey; `he
is gone. But I may save you,' and, taking the soldier
in his arms, he bore him to a place of safety, and laid
him on the turf.

`My brother! my poor Edward!' exclaimed Conrad,
`must he be trampled under foot?' Once more De
Lancey rushed back, seized the slight form of the Conscript,
and placed it by the side of his brother, then,
joining in the shout of `On, to Brussels! Vive l'Empereur!
mingled in the battle.

It was late at night when the soldier cautiously
sought the spot where he had left Conrad. He found
him still watching by his brother.

`I have secured a place for you in a wagon,' said
De Lancey. `You must go to the Hospital of St Catharine.
You will be taken good care of.'

`I cannot leave him,' said Conrad, still clinging to
his brother; `my poor Edward!'

`He is better off than we are,' said the soldier, `for
he does not live to see the disgrace of our army. All is
lost! And well it might be,' continued he, indignantly,
`when they forced boys like this from the arms of their
mothers;' and he parted the curls of his hair, and the
moon shone on his white forehead. `I pledge you my
honor,' continued he, `that I will see him buried where
vultures cannot reach him. I will convey you to the
wagon, and return to this spot again. Tomorrow I
will see you at the Hospital, where I hope to find you
doing well.'

Faithful to his promise, De Lancey joined him in the
morning. The surgeon had already passed judgment
on the wounded soldier. A violent fever had set in,
and amputation of the limb, which would have been his
only chance, would now hasten his end—he must die.

`Let it be so,' said Conrad, `my father will yet have
a staff for his age if Philip lives; if not, remember your
promise.'

De Lancey staid by his friend till he breathed his last,
and then took every means to ascertain whether Philip
had survived the battle. His inquiries proved fruitless,
but from several circumstances he felt sanguine in the
belief that he was not among the slain, and naturally
concluded he must have returned to his father. He regretted
that he could not have restored the picture to
him. `It will cost me a journey, now,' said he, `but I
will wait till Philip has been at home a few weeks.'
As time weakened his impressions his resolution grew
fainter; for, it must be confessed, Fortunatus was not

one of those that thought it good to go to `the house of
mourning.' He had, from his youth upward, been the
subject of perpetual change, and had seen death in too
many forms to be startled at it—but the tears of a father
and a sister he knew not how to encounter. A cloud
had obscured his brow for a few days after this event,
but it was soon dissipated, and he again became the
happy, light hearted Fortunatus.

With the gay and thoughtless, time passes unmarked.
It was nearly a year after the battle of Waterloo, when
De Lancey was travelling through the little village in
which he had been introduced to the Landlord of
`The Plucked Hen.' He stopped to pay him a visit,
but the host was changed. The room, the table, the
seats, all remained the same, and so forcibly called up
the recollection of his promise to the brothers, that his
conscience smote him for the delay. He went immediately
to visit Edward's grave. He had taken the precaution
to identify it by two Lombardy poplars, which
he had planted opposite, and twisted into an arch over
the grave. They were twigs that he had cut from a
neighbouring tree, but they had taken root, and were
now covered with foliage. The grass had grown over
the grave with a luxuriance that made the spot striking
from the desolation that still remained around it.

By sunrise De Lancey had proceeded many miles on
his way to Patière, where Jean de Castellon resided.
It would have been a long and weary foot journey for
one with less health and muscular strength; but it was
his favorite way of travelling, and, he was fully of opinion,
much less fatiguing than riding. And then, too, he
could stop when he pleased and converse with all the
good humored pleasant people he met, and make acquaintances
where he thought they were worth making.
Nothing, in fact, could be pleasanter than De Lancey's

mode of travelling. He was too much accustomed to
his knapsack to find it any burden, and he had provident
virtue enough to secure himself means for every
comfort a foot traveller could desire. His little modicum
had increased during the past year, and, though
in the thoughtless benevolence of his heart, he sometimes
gave a few francs injudiciously, yet he always
said, in some way or other, they brought back their full
interest.

When he entered Patière he inquired for the house
of Castellon, and was directed to a whitewashed cottage
surrounded by venerable trees. It was in the
month of June, and every shrub and flower was in its
first fragrance. An old man was sitting on a bench before
the door. De Lancey approached him with a
respectful air, and, taking off his hat, said, `Monsieur
de Castellon?'

`The same,' he replied.

`I would ask,' said the soldier, hesitatingly, `for
Philip.'

`And why for Philip?' said the old man, sternly,
`why not for Conrad, my eldest born, and Edward, my
youngest?' De Lancey made no reply. `Come,' said
he, `with me, and I will show you all I know of them.'

He arose from his seat and walked slowly to a little
wicker gate. He entered it and proceeded by a foot
path to a hillock planted with trees. The soldier followed
in silence. It was the family burying ground.
Three simple gravestones, with the names of the brothers
inscribed on each, were placed side by side. De
Lancey's question was answered. Philip had never
returned from the battle of Waterloo.

`I knew,' said he, with emotion, `the fate of Conrad
and Edward; but I had hoped Philip had escaped.'

`Not one,' said the father, clasping his hands, `not a
remnant was left.'

`I was a fellow soldier,' said De Lancey. `I was
quartered with them the evening before the battle.'

`A soldier in Bonaparte's army?' said the old man,
extending his hand. `Then you too are a Conscript?'

`No,' said De Lancey, `I was no Conscript. I enlisted
voluntarily.' The father withdrew his hand and
turned coldly away.

`I have a commission from your son Conrad,' said
De Lancey, `but it is for your daughter, and I must deliver
it to her.'

As they approached the house Alice met them at the
door. The sight of a soldier revived painful recollections,
and a cloud came over her bright and blooming
countenance.

De Lancey started at the strong resemblance she
bore to her twin brother. There was the same tranquil
expression of sweetness and innocence that had lingered
on his face, even after his death.

He put his hand into his bosom and withdrew the
miniature. `This,' said he, `I promised your brother
Conrad to deliver to you if I was the survivor.' Alice
took it, gazed upon it for a moment, and rushed into
the house.

The Father, with an air of authority, desired De
Lancey to come in. The soldier proceeded to inform
him of all the circumstances which related to the deaths
of his two sons. `Of Philip,' said he, `I know nothing.
When I last saw him he had received no injury, but
was in the heat of battle, and fighting with a bravery
worthy of Napoleon himself.'

`No more of that,' said the old man, with bitterness.
`You say,' continued he, `Conrad died in your arms.'

`He did,' replied the soldier, `and he had every comfort,
and the best of medical advice; and as for attendance,
it would not be becoming for me to say much
about that, but I never left him, night nor day, as long
as he lived. I could not have done more for him had it
have been the Emperor himself.'

The last words were uttered in a low voice, and
seemed to have escaped him without his consent. The
father, however, did not remark them.

`I hope,' said he `my son died like a good Protestant.'

`I don't know anything about that,' replied De Lancey,
`but I am sure he died like a Christian.'

`This is a Popish country,' said the old man; `I hope
he had no father confessors about his bed.'

`Not one—not a limb of them,' said the soldier.

De Castellon was a Swiss, and entertained a horror
of the Roman Catholic religion.

`You say,' said he, `that my poor Conrad died like
a Christian. Then he confessed his sins to his Maker,
and died in the fear of God.'

`I don't know,' said De Lancey, `what he might
confess, for that was an affair between his Maker and
himself; but as to fear, I saw nothing that looked like
it, for when he was dying he said, “I did not expect to
meet my dear Edward so soon, but I am going home,
after all.”'

`You must stay with us a few days,' said the old
man, his heart melting of the thoughts of his sons.

`Most willingly,' said De Lancey, `if you will give
me some employment. I do not love idleness, and
about a place like this, a pair of hands can't come
amiss.'

It was amusing to see with what facility the soldier
adopted the habits and employments of the farmer.
His services grew every day more and more important

to De Castellon. A treaty of amity seemed to be formed
between them, and Bonaparte was never alluded to
on either side. A sentiment of delicacy had prevented
De Lancey from delivering the letter of the brothers,
for he knew the contents, and that they related wholly
to himself.

The intercourse between Alice and the soldier was
friendly and confiding. He learned from her how he
could best assist her father in his labors, and how he
could be most useful to herself; and they soon ceased
to regard each other as strangers. His present mode
of life was to the soldier like a new existence. To exchange
the noise and bustle of a camp for the serenity
and stillness of the country; to feel his time and his
mind occupied without the feverish excitement of contest,
was alone delightful. But when, added to this, he
felt for the first time the power of woman, her innocent
and affectionate smile, the sanctity of her virtue, her
habitual sacrifices in the arrangements of domestic life,
and her habits of temperance, of order, and of purity,
he shrunk from the recollection of past scenes. This
feeling he expressed to Alice, whom he sportively called
his pet lamb, with his usual frankness.

`What a forlorn creature,' said he, `have I hitherto
been! I have had nothing to love or to watch over—I
can but just remember my mother—and yet, when my
head has been throbbing with pain, I have sometimes
wished I could lay it in her lap as I used to when I was a
child. But this was only the thought of a moment, and
I banished it as unmanly, for I only considered myself
ennobled by the ferociousness with which I fought for
my country.'

`Well,' said Alice, smiling, `I suppose you would
fight again if you could find a leader.'

`No,' he replied, `not if I can find employment any
other way. My views are changed. I have a thousand
associations which are new to me. I think I am going
back to childhood again. The flowers have the same
fragrance that they used to have when I was a boy,
and the world seems to me to be just created. I desire
no greater happiness than to live with you and your
father as I do now, and you have only to say the word,
and I will turn my sword into a pruning knife.'

It was by such language, uttered almost without
thought, that the young couple began to promise endless
faith to each other.

`But I am afraid,' said Alice, after an impassioned
burst of feeling from her lover, `that my father will
never consent to our being married.'

`And why not?' said the sanguine Fortunatus.
`Where can he find a more devoted son-in-law—one that
will do a harder day's work or raise a finer crop of wheat?
Besides, Alice,' said he, smiling affectionately, `you
have been bequeathed to me. I never would have told
you about the thing if you had not voluntarily given me
your heart, but now you shall know the whole.'

It was the first time he had alluded to the letter.
Alice listened to the explanation, without participating
in his sanguine expectations. She knew her father
was tenacious of his projects, and that he favored the
suit of her cousin Pierre.

With the confidence of a warm and generous heart,
De Lancey repaired to De Castellon with the sealed
letter in his hand. He took it and read it through, then
turned a steady eye on the soldier.

`Why have you not delivered it before?' said he.

`My motives,' replied De Lancey, `may not have
justified this delay; but I knew the contents of the letter,
and I knew, also, that I had no right to expect from

you the same confidence in a stranger that your sons
had felt.'

`And what has now altered the case?' said the father.

The soldier blushed deeply; `I don't know why I
should hesitate to speak,' said he. `It is the confidence
your daughter has placed in me. She has permitted me
to ask your consent to our union. I have something to
begin the world with. I have health and activity. I
will serve you with the fidelity and affection of a son,
and if, as it may be in the common course of nature,
Alice should be left alone with me, I will shield her
from every evil.'

The eagerness with which he spoke had prevented
his attending to the emotions that were struggling in
the old man's countenance.

At length he exclaimed, `I see it all. I am no longer
a dupe. My poor boys were victims to this fatal
legacy. Out of my sight! Away, wretch!'

`What does all this mean?' exclaimed the soldier,
with astonishment.

`Ask your own vile heart!' replied De Castellon.
`It seemed to me beyond the usual chances of war that
three sons should fall in one battle. But you could tell
us how it was; you could describe their last agonies,
and have now come to reap the reward of your treachery!'

De Lancey for a moment stood petrified. It was but
a moment.

`Old man,' said he, `were you my equal in age, or
were you any other than you are—but I do wrong to
reply. Farewell! we meet no more.'

Alice had repaired to a little arbor that her lover
had reared for her, and that was already covered with
the quick springing vines of a luxuriant climate, to
await the success of his communication. Many a foreboding

doubt assailed her mind when she cast her eye
upon his agitated countenance.

`I come,' said he, `to take leave of you forever.'

It was in vain that Alice intreated him to delay his
departure from the village.

`My father may relent,' said she. But he was resolute.

`Had it been common reluctance,' he replied, `I
would have borne with it. I would have crouched like
a slave for your sake; but to be suspected of the basest
of crimes! Alice, I wish not to shock you by repeating
what has passed. If your father tells you, I shall be
justified in your opinion. Farewell! dearest and best;
henceforth this world is a wilderness to me. I care not
which way I steer my course. With anguish I speak
it—we can meet no more.'

Bitter, indeed, was the parting. For the first time the
hitherto happy Fortunatus felt the true pang of sorrow.
The tenderness of friendship had refined and softened
his heart, and given it an unwonted susceptibility. Till
now he had met the evils of life with an unsubdued
spirit. He had faced danger and death in every form;
but the tears that he drew from Alice, and the affection
he had awakened in her bosom, were spells that changed
the life current of his heart.

With slow and lingering steps he quitted the village,
wholly unlike the being that had entered it three months
before, and inquired for the house of De Castellon.
Where was now his new born enthusiasm for every object
in nature? With a listless step he trod on the
sweet scented wildflowers as if they were the dry and
worthless leaves of autumn. He realized, as many have
done before, that it is the light of the mind that throws
over nature her verdant and prismatic hues; that gives
to the music of the birds its sound of gladness; to the

lofty cataract its thunder of eloquence, and to the murmuring
waterfall its sweet, low notes of sympathy.

It was not, however, in the constitution of the soldier
to cherish melancholy. When he first quitted the village,
with his heart swelling with anguish, and his head
throbbing with indignation, he felt as if all ties were
broken with the human race; but, as he walked slowly
on, his pulse beat more temperately. By degrees he
answered with something like gaiety to the greeting of
the peasants, who accosted him as he passed. The
feeling of mortification, which the horrible suspicions of
De Castellon had engendered, began to dissipate.

`He is an old man,' said he, `blasted and withered
by the breath of heaven; I will think of him no more.
But Alice! may I perish if I forget thee!'

For his future lot he had no anxiety. With his sword
he knew he could carve out a living, but the same sentiment
came over him that had operated with so many
of Napoleon's soldiers—`Wherefore should we fight?
We have no Emperor to fight for!' and he resolved to
quit France and seek his fortune elsewhere. There is
an energy, a feeling of resource, of mental power, that
is invincible. He who is born with the determination
to succeed, will realize that `nothing is impossible.'

Love, with men, is a recreation and a passion. With
women, it becomes a part of their existence. Let not
her, who has once given herself up to its reveries, hope
to break the spell that is wound around her. Sickness,
poverty, and age, may, to the eyes of others, render the
object worthless; but the sensibility of woman possesses
an alchemy that turns all to gold. It is in vain for
friends to reason, for the world to scoff—her destiny is
to love on.

Years had passed away. The head of the old De
Castellon was white with time. The youthful and girlish

figure of Alice had assumed the serious and maidenly
deportment of maturer life. Yet any one might
have seen that the rose on her cheek had withered before
its time. A paleness had settled there, but it
was the complexion of sentiment and thought; there
was nothing of the sickly hue of melancholy. Her
cousin Pierre had many times renewed his suit, and at
last had consoled himself with a less cruel fair one. All
Alice had asked of her father was to take care of him,
to be the comfort of his old age, and when that was
past to lay down beside her mother's grave, and have
strewed on her own, as was the custom of the village,
a few emblematic flowers as a token that the lowly tenant
had died in `single blessedness.'

The internal arrangements of the cottage retained all
their comfort and neatness; for though Alice had lost
some of the superfluous activity of youth, enough remained
for all the useful purposes of life; but the external
appearance had gradually changed. The hedges
were untrimmed, and implements of agriculture lay unsheltered
on the greensward before the door. The
hills and pastures were no longer crowned with luxuriance.
All looked as if the master's hand was wanting.

It was a cold evening in November that Alice and
her father were seated by the fire. There was an air
of comfort in the little apartment that female ingenuity
knows well how to give. The floor was covered with a
carpet of her own manufacture; and her father's arm
chair had been stuffed and rendered commodious by her
own contrivance. There was the debility of age and
sickness in his appearance, and a crutch lay beside him.
Alice read aloud or worked, alternately, as best suited
her father. She had just taken her book when the
sound of wheels stopping at the door arrested their attention.
A man hastily entered, and stood for a moment

gazing at the inhabitants;—then rushing forward,
he knelt before the old man, exclaiming, `My father!
my father!'

De Castellon was bewildered, but not so Alice. `It
is my brother!' she exclaimed, and hung upon his neck.
When the father began to comprehend the scene, that
it was, indeed, Philip restored to him, he inquired for
Conrad and Edward.

The countenance of Philip changed, and he said,
`I only am left to tell you.' In the same expressive
language the father replied, `Now then, let me die,
since I have seen the face of my son!'

Providence has wisely decreed that the sensibilities
of life should be blunted by age, and the effervescence
of feeling pass away. The old man became calm, and
at his usual hour desired Alice to read a chapter in the
Bible. Amid tears and sobs she read aloud, but every
word called forth the bursting emotions of her heart,
and her soul was kindled by living fire from the altar.
When she ceased, a low, fervent prayer from the lips of
the father followed, and then Alice performed her usual
office of putting him to bed, and was again at liberty to
throw herself into the arms of her brother. Their conversation
was long and deeply interesting. He told her
that after the battle of Waterloo he was conveyed
among the wounded to a small farm house, and found
that his life was considered worth preserving by the
English, among whom he now was; that when sufficiently
recovered he was put on board a small vessel
bound for the West Indies; that they were taken by
Spanish pirates, and himself with three others put on
shore on the coast of South America; that he had earned
by daily labor a pittance that kept him from starving,
but he had still to contend with weakness and depression.
`But now,' continued he, `Alice, comes the best

part of my story. I was one day working on the wharf,
when a vessel arrived and a young man sprung on
shore that I immediately recognized as a fellow soldier
at the battle of Waterloo.'

He stopped and looked earnestly at her; the blood
rushed to her cheeks.

`Yes, sister,' said he, fully comprehending her emotion,
`it was our friend Fortunatus. I learnt from him
all that had passed. From this moment I felt new energy;
my whole nature was changed. He loaded me with
kindness. You know his happy faculty of making
friends. Several of the officers, who had quitted France
and repaired to this country, recognised the brave and
warm hearted soldier. Fortune showered her gifts upon
him, and at the end of three years after our first meeting
we have returned once more; I, with little more
than I carried with me; but my companion rich enough
to purchase our whole estate, which, as it proved, we
unfortunately bequeathed to him.'

`Then he is in France?' said Alice, faintly.

`He is,' replied Philip, `and he loves you as well as
I can see you do him; but he will not come here. He
cannot forgive my father for his horrible suspicion.'

`Then he does not love as I do,' said Alice, ingenuously,
`or all would be forgiven.'

`No, Alice,' replied Philip, `men never love as women
do. They have various motives which operate; but next
to his country and his honor, a man may love his mistress.'

`I am afraid you have forgotten poor Lucile,' said
Alice, reproachfully.

`Perhaps she has forgotten me,' replied Philip.

`Oh! no,' said Alice, `it was but the other day she
came up here and sat down by your grave stone, and
wept bitterly, and said she never should forget you.'

`Well,' replied Philip, `I have returned the visit, for
I called to see her on my way here, and informed her
that I was alive and well.'

`I see,' said Alice, smiling, `you were right. A man
may love his mistress next to his country, and his honor
before father or sister. But tell me, my dear brother,
how could you remain so long in a strange country,
away from us, and not send us word you were living.'

`As to remaining there,' said Philip, `there was not
much choice in the business. I was taken up on suspicion,
and had to work with a chain round my leg; and
what good would it have done you to know the miserable
condition of your brother? After the arrival of De
Lancey, his plan was best, that we should return together
as soon as he had accomplished the object of his
voyage.'

It was not difficult for the young people to persuade
the father, humbled as he was by years, infirmities, and
sorrows, how much he had mistaken the character of
the soldier. An acknowledgement was all that De
Lancey asked, and it was no sooner sent than he hastened
to the spot. There is little more to add. He
purchased a neat cottage about half a mile from the
family mansion. It was arranged with simplicity and
good taste. The same marriage ceremony united Lucile
and Philip, and De Lancey and Alice; but their residence
was changed. Alice resigned her station to
Lucile, and removed to the home her husband had prepared
for her.

The two cottages may yet be seen embowered in
honeysuckle and grape vines. Before the doors are
often sporting rosy faced children, and Alice has given
to her two eldest boys, Conrad and Edward, the names
of her Conscript Brothers.