University of Virginia Library

THE
EMIGRANT'S DAUGHTER.

On the margin of Lake Erie, on the Canada side,
stands a neat village, every way calculated to induce
those who are perplexed with the turmoils of a city
life, to believe that there is no paradise on earth to
compare with such a place of retirement. The spire
of the church, which is reflected on the glassy surface
of the lake, seems to extend a protecting care
over the humble cottages beneath, each of which
stands in a neatly planned and fruitful garden. The
surrounding country presents a number of well cultivated
farms, some of which are tilled by the villagers,
and others by French emigrants and their descendants,
who inheriting a portion of the manners
of their ancestors, combined with the primitive simplicity
and rudeness of their native border, compose
almost an anomaly in the human race.

Among the farms in the vicinity of the village was
one cultivated by Jean Baptiste, a native, whose father
had emigrated from Normandy, and being of a family
once in affluence, he bequeathed to his son a proper
sense of his importance; but, as is too frequently the
case, neglected to bestow the means to support the
dignity. This is an awkward predicament for a
man to be in: to look upon himself and family
through a prism, by which they are decorated in the
gaudiest colours, while their associates view them

with the naked eye, or through glasses that are far
from placing their defects in a pleasing light, or magnifying
their merits.

Baptiste was finally awakened to a proper sense
of the worth of his inheritance. While beggary was
staring him in the face, he found it impossible to
obtain a single sous upon the credit of his dead
ancestors, and that a man may think of himself as
favourably as he pleases, but unless the world coincides
in opinion with him, it all amounts to less than
nothing. His pride could not support him, nor would
it suffer him to support himself, so in good time they
parted. Baptiste cast his eyes around him, and they
fell upon the pretty daughter of an emigrant to
whom the little farm then belonged, where our
worthy subsequently resided.

Baptiste was the beau of the village; a ragged one
we admit, but as he led a life of idleness, played
well on the flute, and knew the name of his great-grandfather,
no one ventured to dispute his claims
to gentility and family. He lost no time in making
the customary protestations of eternal love, and
considered it as a matter of course, that the charming
Louise would be highly flattered with the overtures
of a personage of his distinction; but he was
received with a degree of coolness calculated to
chill even those hardened by a Canadian winter.
Mortified at this discomfiture, he consoled himself
with attributing it to her rustic ideas and want of
discernment.

There was enough of the raw material about our
lover, to make, if properly worked up, a very clever
and useful man. This the father of Louise soon
discovered, and accordingly told Baptiste that the
girl should be his on two conditions, which the impatient
lover eagerly demanded, confident that in
such a cause he could readily surpass the dangers
encountered in days of old to obtain the Hesperian
fruit.

“Louise shall be your wife,” said the father, “as

soon as you have satisfied me that you can support a
wife, and that she is willing to marry you.”

The latter difficulty, thought Baptiste, may be
speedily surmounted, but the former was a stumbling
block, for she could not feed on air, and there was
nothing within his reach of a more substantial nature
to offer her. If lovers could only dispense with
that terrestrial practice of eating, no poet could present
a more glowing picture of Mahomet's paradise
than this world would be; but many a rapturous
dream of connubial bliss has been put to flight by
the obtrusive spectre of a chine of beef or a shoulder
of mutton. Baptiste, like Othello, “was perplexed
in the extreme,” and his hopes were daily approaching
despair, when at length the old farmer again
spoke to him:—

“You say you love my daughter.”

“More than life, or even meat in lent time,” exclaimed
the lover.

“What proof can you give me of your affection?”

“I will marry her to-morrow; if that is not conclusive,
I will undergo the agony of waiting a month
longer.”

“Very fine; but what assurance have I of its continuance?”

“Oh, let her alone for that, she will keep me as
true as the needle to the pole, I warrant you.”

“Keep you! but how will you keep her?”

“Now that is a pretty question,” exclaimed the
single-minded lover; “look at me and be satisfied.”

“Right! she may feast her eyes upon you, but I
am inclined to think that such a feast will not satisfy
her hunger. When poverty stalks in at the door—
you know the proverb.”

“Eh!” ejaculated Baptiste, his lower jaw falling
at least an inch from the other.

“Remember, she is no angel yet, though you fancy
her such; she must have bread and meat, man.”

“Oh, curse the realities of life! Bread and meat!
There is nothing of the kind in Cupid's calendar
from the title page to the last chapter.”

“Still Cupid has no objection to a plentiful larder,
and if you expect to marry my daughter, you must
come over to my way of thinking.”

“I am not prepared to argue against you, if that is
your manner of reasoning,” replied Baptiste. “You
have made me a convert already.”

“Then come to my farm to-morrow by sunrise,”
replied the other, “and the truth of your conversion
shall be tested.”

They parted; the old emigrant to pursue his daily
labour, and Baptiste to dream of future happiness.
Before sunrise the following morning he rose and
dressed himself in his best apparel, which had descended
like an heir-loom from the great-grandfather
already mentioned, and which, in our lover's
opinion, would have done credit to the court of Louis
le Debonnair. The suit consisted of a yellow
levantine coat, a sky-blue silk waistcoat, with enormous
flaps at the pockets, and a pair of scarlet satin
small-clothes, all of which bore conclusive testimony
to the uncommon magnitude of the aforesaid great-grandfather,
and the degeneracy of his present representative.
They hung around the slender figure of
Baptiste like a surplice on a broomstick; yet it
would have been worse than sacrilege to have made
the slightest alteration; such an act, in his imagination,
would have disturbed the endless repose of his
ancestors, for every thread in those scarlet breeches
was more highly treasured, and possessed as much
magic as that fatal handkerchief which was died with
the “conserve of maidens' hearts.” How wayward
and inexplicable are the affections of the human
heart! Here we see one entrusting his happiness
upon the uncertain existence of another; there we
behold the miser locking up his whole soul with his
gold and jewels; that fashionable fair loves nothing
on earth like a splendid equipage; this sportsman
despises the human race, when compared with his
horses and dogs; that primitive damsel dotes upon
her tabby and lap-dog, and our hero views with feelings
bordering on veneration, the old scarlet small-clothes

worn by his progenitors. But enough of
moralizing, and to resume our story.

Baptiste having made his toilet, and buckled a
rusty rapier by his side, which had descended from
the same distinguished personage, took his flute in
his hand, and sallied forth to the place of appointment.
He had ruminated for twelve hours on the
foregoing conversation, and could not by any course
of reasoning arrive at any other conclusion, than that
the old man having discovered his merits had determined
to yield his daughter without further opposition.
His heart beat wildly, and hope was on
tiptoe as he drew near the emigrant's romantic cottage.
The neatness of all about the house did not
escape his notice. Against the southern side of the
cottage was an arbour overshadowed by the rose
tree, jasmine, and honeysuckle. He drew near to
it, and the fragrance of the flowers seemed to increase,
as he reflected by what hand they had been
planted. All was silent, for the family had not yet
risen. He gazed with a wistful eye upon the small
window just above the arbour, and into which the
vines were creeping, for well he knew who sanctified
that chamber by her presence. He sighed as he
gazed, and envied the jasmine flower that was slyly
peeping through a broken pane of the window.

With throbbing heart he breathed a plaintive air
on his flute, while the birds flitting among the trees
and shrubbery, swelled their little throats to emulate
the serenade. It was not long before the casement
opened, and a smiling face peered among the
green foliage, with lips that might have been mistaken
for buds of the vine, and cheeks for full-blown
flowers. It was too much for a lad of Baptiste's
temperament. His flute was suddenly silenced, and
without loss of time he called in the aid of words, as
being more expressive than music. He poured forth
his feelings with ardour and eloquence, for love
works miracles, and had made even Baptiste eloquent,
and as he proceeded in his declaration, the
smiling face among the foliage became brighter; the

change did not escape the quick perception of the
lover: “the victory is gained already,” thought he,
“she can never resist a personage of my family, parts,
and figure”—on the instant the window closed, the
smiling face disappeared, and Baptiste's ears were
saluted with a sound that too nearly resembled
laughter to be agreeable at that moment. He stood
—not thunder-struck—for the morning was perfectly
clear, and there was no thunder; but an electric
shock would not have astonished him more than did
the closing of the window, and the laughter that succeeded.

“What are you doing there, dressed off like a new-fledged
popinjay?” exclaimed a hoarse voice. He
turned and beheld the old emigrant, who repeated
his question.

“Serenading Louise,” replied Baptiste.

“Serenading! very pretty, by Saint Anthony!
Henceforward, as you value my opinion, never let
me hear a tune from your lips, unless it is whistled
between the ploughshafts. And what is the meaning
of this tawdry dress? Silks and satins, and of
all the colours in the rainbow! Very well for a
clown in a playhouse, but not altogether the thing if
you intend driving my cart, or digging in my garden.”

“I came to make myself agreeable to Louise,” replied
Baptiste, “and therefore put on my best apparel.”

“Agreeable to Louise indeed! Do you think it was
for this I asked you to my cottage! No: it was to
make yourself useful to me. But in doing the one
you may possibly do the other; so begone, strip off
your fool's dress, and come in homespun, and you
will be welcome. Make haste back, or my breakfast
will grow cold.”

Baptiste bowed in acquiescence, started off with
unusual alacrity, and the farmer entered his barnyard
to attend to his stock. In the course of half an
hour Baptiste returned dressed in a more appropriate
suit, the old man met him with a smiling countenance,

and led him into the cottage, where Louise
had already spread the plain but clean and inviting
breakfast-table.

From that hour the prospects of Baptiste underwent
an entire revolution. From being the most idle
and worthless young fellow of the village, he became
the most industrious and most respected. After undergoing
a twelvemonth's probation, the farmer consented
to his marriage with Louise, who by this time
was nothing loath, and as Baptiste was a wag, the
maddest charevari ever known in Canada, before or
since, took place on this occasion. Baptiste was notorious
for playing a conspicuous part in frolics of
this kind, and accordingly many a rustic Benedict
came far and near to retaliate. A mad scene ensued,
compared to which, the sufferings of the redoubtable
lieutenant Lismahago on his wedding night were as
paradise to purgatory. Baptiste discountenanced
charevaris from that day, and it is now looked upon
as a custom “more honoured in the breach than the
observance.” We omitted to remark that on the
wedding night the splendid family dress, which had
lain perdu ever since Baptiste entered the cottage,
was again displayed, and his rusty rapier suspended
by his side. Thus equipped, he imagined the ancient
glory of the Baptistes regenerate. His flute
was again brought forth, and was often listened to
with delight by the little family circle when the labours
of the day were over.

Human affairs are but transitory. In the course
of time Baptiste buried his father-in-law, and his beloved
wife, who had brought him a daughter and a
son, of whom more will be learnt in the subsequent
narrative.

There resided in the village a wealthy advocate,
who valued himself not only upon his fortune, but
that his father before him had lived by his wits, and
not by the labour of his hands. Counsellor Martin,
as the rustics called him, had a son about twenty
years of age, who had early imbibed all the prejudices
of his father, and entertained an exalted opinion

of his own inherent importance. He made but little
progress at school, for he was too lofty a personage
to be under the control of one who had neither wealth
nor pride of ancestry to boast of. The village schoolmaster
was a preacher also, and verily Frank Martin
called into practice during six days of the week,
the precepts of moderation and forbearance duly delivered
from the pulpit on the sabbath. Frank, as he
approached the state of manhood, was seldom seen
abroad without his rifle on his shoulder, or his angle
in his hand. He was dexterous at hooking a trout,
and seldom failed to put out the eye of a squirel at
the distance of fifty paces.

Frank had from his childhood watched the growing
beauties of Claudine, the daughter of Baptiste,
as they were gradually developed, and daily became
more sensible of their influence; his pride, however,
shrunk from the suggestion that the best feelings of
his nature had been awakened by a rustic girl: he
called to his aid what casuistry he could command
to define his sentiments; he reasoned like another
Locke to satisfy himself that he was not in love; he
anatomised his mind; new-christened his feelings by
the names of regard, respect, esteem, but even under
their new titles they remained as irresistible as before,
and still were as sensibly alive in the presence
of Claudine, as though he had deigned to call them
by the name of love.

Towards the close of a day in autumn, as Frank
was returning home from a ramble through the hills,
with his gun on his shoulder, he chanced to cross a
meadow where Baptiste's little herd of cattle was at
that time grazing. He had not proceeded far before
he met a female approaching the meadow. It was
Claudine. Frank's heart throbbed, and it flew to
his lips as he accosted her—

“Good evening, pretty Claudine; which way do
you go at this hour?”

“No farther than the meadow, sir.”

“And why to the meadow, child?”

“Victor has gone to the village, and I have come
to drive the cattle to the cottage.”

“That must not be while I am with you.”

“You will not prevent me, Mr. Francis,” inquired
Claudine, half jest, half earnest.

“Certainly; I will do it for you.”

“You, sir! That indeed would be a strange sight,”
she exclaimed, laughing.

“Then we will do it together, Claudine, and the
oddity will not appear so glaring.”

She rallied him on his gallantry, and as her lovely
features became animated, Frank gazed with increased
delight, and doubted whether esteem or regard
was a term warm enough to describe his feelings.
Claudine was possessed of much beauty, and archness
mingled with simplicity, and Frank felt more
forcibly their influence, as he walked by her side towards
her father's cottage. The succeeding evening,
as the sun was declining, Frank unaccountably found
himself lounging near Baptiste's meadow; the herd
was still grazing there; he felt overjoyed at the
sight, but was at a loss to tell why a few cows
peaceably grazing occasioned such a throbbing at
the heart. He remained quite restless for half an
hour, with his eye constantly bent in the direction
of the farm-house, the smoke from which was seen
curling above a bill at a distance, when a shout was
heard, and winding around the hill, little Victor appeared,
running after a huge watch-dog in the direction
of the meadow. One look was enough for
Frank, for he felt little interest in the gambols of the
boy and the dog. His heart beat twenty pulsations
less in a minute, and as he slowly retraced his steps,
he had time enough to investigate philosophically his
feelings and motives.

Frank's intimacy with Baptiste increased from
that day forward, and his visits at the cottage became
so frequent, that it was a question with the curious
whether he resided there or at his father's mansion.
His field sports had given place to a love of
agriculture, and few were more active than Frank

in the hay-field or at harvest time, for on these occasions
the females left their housewifery to assist,
and it was remarked that Frank was always near
Claudine, and preferred doing her share, to his own,
of the labour.

Claudine had now completed her seventeenth year,
and the day that ushered in the eighteenth, was a
day of hilarity beneath her father's humble roof.
The affectionate old man arose in the morning earlier
than usual, and when Claudine descended, she
beheld his face dressed with smiles, and his person
in the pride of his wardrobe, the legacy of his great-grandfather.
To have started any objection to the
antiquated cut of this dress, would have been to
Baptiste conclusive proof of barbarous taste, for it
was the standard by which he tested every modern
fashion, and he looked upon it with reverence, as
the connecting link between the present humble
state of the family and its former consequence. At
times when Baptiste was riding his hobby of family
distinction, in the presence of some incredulous rustic,
the scarlet breeches and rusty rapier were produced,
and invariably closed the contest triumphantly.

The countenance of Claudine as she entered the
room was overshadowed with grief, which in vain she
endeavoured to conceal as her father rose from his
seat to greet her.

“How is this, my child, you look sad, but are not
ill, I hope?”

“I did not rest well, and my head aches in consequence.”

“The truth is you are pale, but cheer up, it will
never do for the pride of the village to be ill on this
day; your birth-day, and that of your happy old
father too, Claudine.”

Every nation has some pecular custom, which is
religiously upheld by the people as a birth-right, and
looked upon as a spot of verdure in the waste of life.
In Canada, from the earliest settlement, it has been
the practice on the birth-day of any person, for his

friends to assemble and present a bouquet to the individual,
whose birth-day is commemorated. If a
man, the present is usually a pipe decorated with
flowers; and if a female, a cake similarly adorned,
if it is the season for flowers, otherwise artificial
flowers are substituted.

At an early hour the villagers began to assemble
on the lawn in front of Baptiste's cottage. Among
them were gray heads and light hearts; dimpled
faces and elastic feet, for the companions of Baptiste's
early days were seen among the young and
gay friends of his charming daughter. The farmer
soon espied them from his window, and went out to
meet them, leading Claudine by the hand. It appeared
as if they had changed the time and condition
of life, for as they approached the crowd, they
were greeted with strains of enlivening music, to
which Baptiste's heart beat time, and his feet indicated
the same propensity, but Claudine looked as if
she were in a place of mourning, rather than of festivity.

At no time of life had Baptiste felt prouder than
on this occasion. As he approached, he frequently
cast a glance of delight upon his child, and then raising
his eyes to his old friends, gave them an inquisitive
look, which seemed to ask, is she not indeed the
pride of the village? Many a hearty greeting passed
between the old man and the villagers, among whom
were some who were conspicuous in the charevari,
on the night of his marriage, thirty years before.
Baptiste recalled that memorable event, and enjoyed
the recollection much more than he had the circumstance.

A seat intended as a sylvan throne was speedily
constructed, and Baptiste and his child were escorted
to it with no little “pomp and circumstance.”
Frank was officious on this occasion, and, though an
hour of general joy, his countenance was evidently
troubled. Little Victor was delighted, as also was
his favourite watch-dog, and in the fulness of their
joy, the one laughed and the other barked and turned

somersets on the green together. During the ceremony
a simple air was sung by the villagers. There
was one voice distinguished from the rest by the richness
and wildness of its melody. It proceeded from
a young woman, who, in spite of both mental and
bodily suffering, still possessed no ordinary share of
beauty. Her tall and slender figure was covered by
a shapeless, black gown, which descended so low
that her feet were concealed, but still the perfect
symmetry of her person was discernible. From her
stately neck was suspended, by a string of large
black beads, a little silver crucifix, with the image
of our Saviour on it. Her dark hair hung in profuse
curls around her neck, and rested in the hood of her
dress, which at that time was thrown from her head.
There was a nervous quickness in her motions; her
eyes were wandering, the expression wild, and on
her lips, which were still beautiful, an unmeaning
smile seemed to be constantly playing.

The ceremony of presenting the pipe and cake being
over, the assemblage was about to adjourn to the
cottage, when Frank inquired of the female just alluded
to, who was at the time in a state of mental
abstraction,

“Ninon, have you not your usual offering to make
to Claudine?” The sound of his voice recalled her
wandering thoughts; she hastened to Claudine, and
presented her with a small cake, and a rich bouquet,
and said—

“If you have been an apt scholar, Claudine, you
may read my regard in this bunch of flowers; it has
been carefully culled. There is the amaranth, that
crowns all, the emblem of virtue; the budding rose
will stand for constancy, and the sprig of rosemary
that peeps between, bids you remember me. Here
is a cluster of heart's-ease—” she was going on
to illustrate the flowers, when Claudine interrupted
her—

“But where is the yellow jonquil?”

“The emblem of sorrow!”

“Ninon, my bouquet should have been composed
of the jonquil alone.”

She descended; Baptiste invited his friends to
partake of an entertainment, and they moved towards
the cottage.

Ninon Leclair was the only daughter of a wealthy
merchant of Quebec, and, on arriving at marriageable
state, her father destined her to become the wife
of his partner in trade, who was at least three times
her age, and whose ruling passion was avarice. Ninon
was accomplished both in mind and person, consequently
such an unequal match could not fail to
be revolting to her feelings, even if her affections had
not been pre-engaged. The object of her passion
was well calculated to please a woman's eye, but not
to realize the golden dreams of her father, who soon
discovered the bias her sentiments had received. He
now strenuously urged a speedy marriage, with his
old friend and partner, which she as obstinately resisted,
and words losing their effect, Ninon was
finally consigned to the walls of a nunnery.

She bore her seclusion from the world with resignation,
for she looked upon herself as a martyr in the
cause of virtuous love, and was consoled with the
hope that the day would arrive when her constancy
would be rewarded. Her swain belonged to that
numerous class, who care not at what shrine they
bend, or in what creed they worship, and Ninon being
out of sight, she was soon out of mind also, and
he married a friend of the lovely creature he had forsaken.
She bitterly mourned his faithlessness, and
as afflictions usually crowd upon the stricken, her
father died shortly after, without forgiving her disobedience.
The bulk of his property was bequeathed
to his partner, and a certain sum to his daughter, on
condition she married him, otherwise she was left
destitute. The old man made an offer of his hand,
which was rejected with scorn, and he left the heart-broken
novice to console himself with his legacy.

Ninon still continued in the nunnery, and as her
earthly affections had been blighted, she devoted her

whole heart to heaven, but doubts constantly arose
whether the offering would be accepted, as she had
not made it until this world had lost all charms for
her. She dwelt upon the fearful trials undergone by
the several saints in her calendar, and felt her own
unworthiness when compared with their purity, fortitude,
and resignation. Her doubts increased with
study, and her distempered imagination clothed her
God in terrors. He appeared a jealous God, who
created but to punish, and weighed not the frailties
that his own hand had implanted in the bosom of his
creature. The stability of her mind was shaken,
and as she had not taken the veil, she left the nunnery
to lead the life of a mendicant, and encounter
suffering, for she felt assured that our joys hereafter
will be in proportion to the severity of our trials
here. Since her arrival at the village, by her amiability,
piety, and sorrow, she had acquired the respect
and compassion of all, and to none was she
dearer than to Claudine, who profited much by her
instruction.

During the entertainment, which Baptiste had prepared
for the villagers in his garden, Frank, who sat
beside Claudine, urged her to taste of the present of
her favourite, Ninon, as her feelings might be wounded
by apparent neglect. She replied—

“Ninon knows that I too highly value the giver to
slight the gift.”

Ninon bowed her head in acknowledgment. Claudine
broke the cake, and added, in a tone which only
reached Frank's ear—

“And as a proof of the value I set on it, I give one
half to him whom most I value.”

Frank slightly recoiled as she presented it, and replied
in a hurried low tone, accompanied with a
forced smile—

“True, the evil and good we should share alike,
Claudine, but the good be wholly thine.”

She sighed in a voice scarcely above her breath—

“The evil we have shared indeed, and it is right
we also share this token of unmerited regard.”

Frank remained silent; received one half of the
cake, and Claudine ate the other. Frank's countenance
became distorted; his eyes were kindling with
fierceness, and his mind was evidently racked with
contending passions. Claudine perceived the change
without surprise, for she had of late been accustomed
to these sudden and violent transitions in his moody
disposition, from one extreme to the other.

“What is it ails you?” she inquired tenderly.

“Nothing.”

“I fear you are ill.”

“Slightly; but what troubles me will speedily be
removed.” He smiled, and Claudine would have
shuddered, had she not been accustomed to his smile.
She again pressed him to partake of Ninon's present.

“No!” he replied, “it would but increase my illness.
But farewell, Claudine.” He rose and left
the table: she followed him.

“Do not leave me yet. Remember it is my birth-day,
and it rests with you to say whether I should
bless it or curse it.”

“Bless it, Claudine, bless it; though it has cursed
my earthly prospects, bless it.”

“That thought is a curse heavy enough to outweigh
every blessing this world could bestow,” she
replied, and wept.

“Forgive me, Claudine, I am a selfish wretch, unworthy
of your love. But the next time we meet
your mind shall be at rest.”

“You have promised me that so often!”

“I now swear it: I will place it beyond your power
ever to reproach me again.”

“And have I ever reproached you! If so, it was
not intended, and I ask your forgiveness. True, I
have troubled you with my griefs, but if I may not unburthen
my heart to you, in whom else on earth may
I confide?”

“In none; for if our secret were divulged you
would be cut off from all the world but me.”

“I acknowledge the dreadful truth, but at times

when you are kind to me, I feel, that great as my
loss is, you are even more than all the world to me.”

She fell on Frank's neck, and the plaintive tone
of her voice touched a chord that had seldom been
awakened. Tears stood in his eyes, which he hastily
wiped off, and said in a hurried voice—

“Farewell, Claudine, for the present, and look forward
to happier hours.”

“I do, I do—in the grave.”

The last words, though scarcely audible, did not
escape Frank's ear, and he echoed them in the same
tone; “Yes, in the grave.” He pressed her to his
bosom and hurried away. Claudine stood gazing
after him until out of sight, then returned dejectedly
to the company, and resumed her seat at the table.
She had not been long seated before she became as
pale as death, and trembled violently. Ninon observed
the change in her countenance, and inquired—

“Are you ill, Claudine?”

“Deadly sick,” she faintly replied, and supported
herself on the shoulder of the other who sat beside
her.

“What has occasioned it?”

“I know not: something I have eaten, I fear. I
arose with a headache this morning, and now it feels
as if it would burst. My sight fails me, and I tremble.
Water, or I shall faint.”

She drank, and Ninon bathed her temples.

“I fell revived,” continued Claudine, “but still
deadly sick. While I have strength, pray assist me
to my chamber.”

They retired from the table, and the company dispersed
in consequence of Claudine's sudden illness.
Joy was an inmate in Baptiste's cottage in the morning,
but sorrow had driven her thence before the
close of the day. Claudine's illness increased, and
the fears of her doting father were wrought to the
highest pitch. Medical assistance was resorted to.
Days and weeks passed away, still she was confined
to her bed, and her recovery was doubtful. Ninon

seldom left her bedside, and by the most assiduous
attentions proved the affection she entertained for
the invalid. She read to her, and was the most tender
and watchful nurse. Frank visited the cottage
but twice during the illness of Claudine. Finally,
her constitution surmounted the ravages of disease,
and she again rose from her bed, but was now little
else than the shadow of the beautiful creature, once
admitted to be the pride of the village. She had
not smiled since the commencement of her illness,
or in such sort as indicated more forcibly the utter
hopelessness of her affliction. She became fond of
solitary walks, and seclusion in some rustic bower.

Shortly after her recovery she went on an errand
to the village. Night closed in, and yet she returned
not. As the darkness increased, her father's impatience
changed to alarm, for he could not assign any
satisfactory cause for her absence. It was not probable
she was detained at any of the neighbours, for
she had not expressed such an intention, and knowing
her father's affection, she was too considerate to
occasion him unnecessary anxiety.

The old man went to the village in search of her;
he called at every house she was in the habit of
visiting, but could gain no tidings of the stray one.
Some had seen her the day preceding, others a week
before, and others on that morning. This was all
he learnt, and he hastened towards his cottage with
a heavy heart, trusting, however, that she had returned
during his absence. He opened the door
with a tremulous hand, entered, and looked anxiously
around the room.

“Has she not returned?”

“Not yet,” replied Victor, who was there awaiting
the result of his father's search. Baptiste sunk
into a chair, and said, in a tone mingled with grief
and despair—

“Light the lantern, my son—sorrow has overtaken
me in my old days.”

The lantern was speedily brought; the boy whistled
for his dog, who slowly crawled from his kennel,

and they directed their course towards the margin
of the lake, for the fears of Baptiste suggested the
worst. The boy hurried on with the light, and the
father followed in silence, which was only broken
by his sighs. They walked near a mile along the
beach, the boy stopping at intervals, and raising the
lamp above his head to throw a light upon the surface
of the water. The anxious father looked and
strained his eyeballs, until the intensity of his gaze
gave to every obscure object the outline of the image
that engrossed his mind. He remained for some
moments silent in this attitude, and at length cried—

“She is not here!” and turned away with feelings
partaking of disappointment; for dreadful as even
such a discovery would have been, it could scarcely
have surpassed his agony of suspense. As the enjoyment
of pleasure seldom equals the anticipation,
so the pang of dreaded sorrow, when endured, is
often found to be less acute than the apprehension.
They again moved on in silence; again paused and
raised the lantern. Baptiste gazed and trembled.

“Father of mercies, what is that! Raise the light,
my son; higher yet; my old eyes are dim.”

“What is it you see, father?”

“Look there. Your eyes are young. Tell me, is
it my child; my dear Claudine?”

“Oh! no, father; your eyes deceive you again. It
is but the white surge. Cheer up, I soon will satisfy
you.”

He called the dog to his side, at the same time
throwing a stick into the lake. The dog plunged
in and swam through the froth which had there accumulated.

“Thank God! she is not here,” exclaimed Baptiste.
“We will search the meadow next.”

They turned to execute this determination, when
a figure was indistinctly seen receding at a distance.
They hailed it, but no answer was returned. Baptiste
conjured the person to stay and assist their
search, but he hurried on, and soon disappeared in
the obscurity of the night. The mastiff growled

and darted off in pursuit. He seized hold of the
fugitive, who fled with increased speed. The dog
became furious, and as the person fled he in vain
strove to beat the animal from him. He was now
closely beset, and, in his fear, called several times
to the dog by name. The dog then desisted; the
man patted him, made himself known, and hurried
away.

“Whose voice is that?” inquired Baptiste; “I
know that voice as well as the voice of my own
child.”

“As I live, father, it was Frank Martin.”

“I thought so. But why should he avoid us, and
what does he out at this time of night?”

“You know, father, he is abroad at all hours, trapping
and hunting; which I would not be if I were
rich as he is.”

“I now remember he was absent when I called at
his father's house in search of my poor Claudine,”
said Baptiste. “But why did he not answer when I
hailed him? Impossible it could have been he!”

“I know his voice well,” replied Victor, “and do
not think I am mistaken now.”

Baptiste's heart felt like lead in his bosom; his
fears were increased, but the cause was undefined.
The fact that Frank had not answered them, if it were
he, was inexplicable; it wrought his apprehension
to the most fearful pitch; he knew not why he feared
or what he dreaded, but he knew enough of human
nature, and the course of human events, to pronounce
the depression of his mind the infallible precursor
of approaching sorrow. Baptiste implicitly
believed, as many others believe, that there are
times when the mind is permitted slightly to raise
the dark curtain which conceals the future, and
ascertain whether light or shade is to prevail. His
feelings on this occasion, proved truer to him than
the weird sisters to the thane of Cawdor.

The dog, with his nose alternately close to the
earth, and raised in the air, made a wide and rapid
circuit as if he were on the scent of some object.

He frequently gave tongue, and after traversing
the ground for some time, came to Baptiste, howled
piteously, appeared restless and darted off again in
the direction of the meadow.

“Father, what ails Rover?—he is on some strong
scent.”

“He scent's blood!” exclaimed the father, in an
agony of fear.

The yelping of the dog continued at a distance:—
“Hark! the scent becomes stronger; he is on the
trail. Come, my son, let us follow him.”

“Do not give way to your fears, father. A fox or
a rackoon may have occasioned all this.”

“True, boy, true; but see, the dog is already back
again.”

The dog came to his feet, looked up into his face,
howled, made a short and hurried circuit around
them, and darted off again.

“He would have us follow him: come on, Victor.”

They moved rapidly in the direction of the meadow;
the dog kept far ahead, but at intervals gave a short
bark, which served to guide them. They crossed the
meadow, and paused in their progress; for the dog
had not been heard for some time, and they knew
not which direction to take. A few moments of
doubt elapsed, when several short, hurried yelps
were given by the dog, as if he were close upon a
fresh scent.

“Where is he now, my son?”

“As I judge from the echo, in the cypress hollow,
near the falls of the creek.”

“A wild and dreary place,” sighed the father;
and the obtrusive thought flashed across his mind—
“a place fit for murder.”

A piteous and protracted howl from the dog now
reached them: the sound was in unison with Baptiste's
feelings.

“His search is done,” said Baptiste. “Whatever
it is, the faithful brute has found it. Listen, Victor.
Do you know the spot?”

“He cannot be more than a quarter of a mile from
us. Hasten, father, and we will soon be there.”

“Your limbs are young and light, but mine are
old, and my heart is heavy. But move on, my son,
I will keep pace with you.”

They hurried forward; the plaintive moan of the
dog continued, and as they entered the mouth of the
deeply overshadowed ravine, the faithful creature
appeared, and crouching at his master's feet, whined
and licked the hand extended to caress him.

“Lead on Rover, and we will follow you,” said
Baptiste. The dog continued to whine, but stirred
not. Victor urged him on the scent, but he was
spiritless.

“Why Rover, do you not know me, Rover? See,
father, how he looks. What is it ails the dog?”

“I fear the worst; move on, Victor, this is the
path he came.”

“A little higher up, father, and we can cross the
stream more easily.”

They followed the margin of the creek a short
distance, and having crossed it, entered into the
depths of the ravine. The dog preceded them,
slowly and dejectedly. The aged pines towered loftily,
and added their shade to the almost impenetrable
darkness of the night. The lantern carried by
Victor, served to discover the intricate path. Having
walked some distance in silence, Baptiste inquired,
in a voice scarcely articulate, and hollow
with anxiety, “Do you know where we now are, my
son?”

“Oh yes, sir, and Rover knows right well too; we
are on the way to the deer-lick.”

“Raise the lantern; the path is nearly overgrown
with laurel bushes.”

“The walking will become better when we pass
this rising, and draw near the basin of the creek.”

“What a wild and frightful place it is!”

“Even in day time, for seldom a single ray of the
sun reaches it, and at night it is indeed a fearful

place. They must love venison who venture here
at night to watch the licking.”

They proceeded some distance farther, and having
crossed a slightly elevated piece of ground, entered
a dell where the creek had extended into a basin.
This spot was free from the underwood which had
heretofore obstructed the path of Baptiste and his
son. The old man paused: “Hark! do I not hear
music, or have my senses already become distempered?”

“I hear nothing but the raven and her young on
the pine tree.”

“Again! It sounds like a hymn for the rest of
the departed.”

“Father, you frighten me.”

“Listen, boy. I hear it yet. What can it mean?
Are there spirits in the air, or does it proceed from
a human voice?”

Victor trembled, and drew close to his father; the
dog did the same, and they observed a profound
silence until the voice ceased, when Baptiste hurried
towards the spot whence it proceeded. It came
from the margin of the basin, and as he drew near,
he indistinctly beheld a human figure seated on the
earth; he heard it sob; and when he called to it, a
shriek of terror was returned. The figure stood
erect; the light of the lamp fell upon it, and discovered
a female form, which glided rapidly forward,
and disappeared in the intricacies of the wilderness.

“What does all this mean?” exclaimed the father.

“I think,” said Victor, “it was Ninon Leclair.”

“I think so too, but she vanished from the glare
of the lantern before my old eyes could distinctly
see. The dog has left us.”

“He has not gone far: I hear his moan.”

They were guided by the sound to the spot where
the dog stood, mourning over the object of their
search. The light of the lamp fell full upon the
pale features of the lovely Claudine, prostrate on
the earth.

“God of mercy, my child!” exclaimed Baptiste,
and sunk beside her.

“My sister Claudine dead! Oh, father, who has
done this?”

“Her cheek is cold as ice; her limbs are stiff.
See how her glossy hair is entangled, and her clothes
are bloody. Oh! my child, my child!” He groaned
as if his heart were breaking, and sunk upon the
corpse and kissed it repeatedly.

“Raise her, father, from the cold earth; something
may yet be done to save her.”

“Not in this world! From the cold earth! to that
she must soon return, for she is as cold as the earth
upon which she lies.”

His voice was lost: his son knelt beside him, and
their tears mingled together on the body. The dog
whined, as if he participated in their affliction.

“See here where the murderous wretch has stabbed
her,” exclaimed Baptiste, pointing to a rent in
the left side of her garment, which was stained with
blood as it spouted from the wound. “And see, her
right hand is all cut! God! what a fearful struggle
she has had! My child, my child, why was I not
near you in your time of need!”

Baptiste raised the body in his arms, Victor preceded
with the light, and the dog followed dejectedly
as they retraced their steps to the cottage. The
stricken father did not quit the body for an instant
during the night. The human heart will cling to
the excess of grief with even greater tenacity than
to the excess of joy. The following morning, Ninon
Leclair was arrested on suspicion of having committed
the murder.

The day of burial having arrived, the mourners
slowly ascended the hill where were deposited the
remains of the first settlers of the village. Their
narrow abodes were designated by rough slate
stones, on which the names of the tenants were
rudely chiseled, while here and there might be
seen a polished marble slab, with a fulsome epitaph
upon it, as if the grave admitted of distinction, and

pride might be gratified even after the portals of
death had closed.

The mourners drew near to the newly-dug grave,
and the bier was placed beside it. The preacher
commenced his functions; the father listened to his
voice, and strove to subdue his feelings, but consolation
administered at the grave, by those whose
affections have not been equally bruised, rather aggravates
than allays the poignancy of grief.

At Baptiste's feet stood his dog, a mute but not
unconcerned spectator of what was passing. The
discourse being over, preparations were made to deposit
the coffin. Baptiste and his son sobbed aloud.
Until the moment when the body is about to be taken
from the sight of the mourner for ever, he is unconscious
of the full extent of his heart's desolation.

Baptiste bent forward and rested his hand upon
the coffin; Victor did the same, while the severest
pang they had yet experienced rent the heart of each.
A half-subdued groan indicated their deep mental
suffering. It was audibly responded by one of the
crowd, at some distance, who hurried towards the
grave. His looks were pale and haggard; his dress
neglected; his eyes inflamed and rolling wildly, and
the muscles of his face were in motion. He was the
picture of despair. As he approached, Baptiste
shrunk instinctively; the dog gave a warning growl,
and Frank, for it was he, looked at the dog, and hesitated
whether to proceed or not. He paused but for
a moment; the dog kept his eyes fixed on him, and
continued to growl. Frank was sensible of his danger,
yet advanced and stretched out his right hand
to touch the coffin. The dog seized him; a struggle
ensued, and Frank fell to the ground. The dog
continued the attack, and it was with difficulty that
he was torn from the affrighted youth. During the
contest, a wild laugh was heard to proceed from one
of the spectators, which was followed by an exclamation—

“Old Rover knows him well, I know him, and the
world shall know him too!” The words were uttered

by Ninon Leclair, who stood near the grave in
the custody of the jailer. She continued to laugh,
and as the dog worried the prostrate youth, she burst
forth in a shout of triumph—

“Well done, old friend! you are the true and sure
avenger! You wait not on the dull perception of
man, nor the tedious ceremonies of his courts of justice,
but act by never-failing instinct, and punish
on the spot. Well done! well done!”

She still laughed and pointed at Frank, who writhed
beneath the wild glare of her eye, more than he
had while under the fangs of the mastiff. Silence
prevailed in the assemblage, and he felt that all eyes
were fixed on him. He heard nothing but the triumphant
laugh of Ninon, and the silence was dreadful;
every moment seemed an age. Ninon called
the dog to her, and patted him; he fondled on her:
she looked him full in the face, laughed, and pointed
at Frank. The dog growled and darted towards him,
but was driven back by those present.

“He knows him, and justice will yet be satisfied,
and the guilty punished.”

“What does the idiot mean?” exclaimed Frank.

“That Claudine's murderer is known; that he will
be condemned before God and man; be punished in
this world and in the world to come.”

The young man trembled like an aspen leaf, as he
said.

“True, Claudine's murderer is known; you are
accused of the inhuman deed, and if not guilty,
where is the wretch?”

“There!” exclaimed the other, deliberately pointing
her finger at Frank, at the same time erecting
her tall and slender form. “There,” she repeated,
“stands the trembling, conscience-stricken, merciless
murderer!”

Frank averted his face, tottered, and his limbs
could scarcely support him.

“She raves!” exclaimed several voices at the same
time. Frank's love for Claudine was known to all
the village, and his deep affiction, occasioned by her

death, was plainly indicated by his haggard and woe-worn
countenance.

“No, no, I am not mad,” continued Ninon,
“though I have experienced enough to make me so,
and he and the rest will pronounce me mad, yet I am
not mad.”

After a pause, Frank said, in a faltering voice—

“Who is my accuser?”

“Ninon Leclair.”

“The accused the accuser!”

He endeavoured to assume a smile of contempt,
but the woman fixed her penetrating eye upon him,
and the conflicting passions which rent his bosom
were partially depicted in his countenance, but nothing
fully expressed; combined they presented an
object painful to look upon. Frank was conscious
of this, and averted his face. Ninon appealed to the
bystanders, and deliberately said,

“Look there and judge; innocent or guilty?”

“Enough of this, neighbours,” exclaimed one of
the villagers; “it is not for us to listen to such a
shocking charge against one of the wealthiest, made
by one of the humblest among us.”

“True, I am the lowliest among ye, yet God
makes no such distinction, though man in his wisdom
permits it to influence every thought and action.”

“She is crazed,” said another, “and knows not
what she says.”

“Those who obstinately close their eyes, and those
who were born blind,” replied Ninon, “possess
equally the powers of perception.”

“Jailer, lead her to her prison,” said the man who
first spoke.

“I return to my prison with a light heart. My
limbs are shackled for a time, but my soul is free;”
then casting a look at Frank, she exclaimed, “Thy
limbs are free, but thy soul is shackled with bonds
which time cannot eat away—they last for ever.”
She then moved towards the coffin, and bending
over it, murmured,

“Unhappy, murdered Claudine! the grateful tears
of her you cherished are shed over you; receive
them, for they will shine more brilliantly than diamonds
or pearls on your garment, in that world
where we shall soon meet again.”

Ninon was taken back to the prison, the coffin
was deposited, the grave was closed, and the villagers
returned to their homes. How changed was the
home of Baptiste! She who had made it all sunshine,
was shrouded in the gloom of the grave; her gentle
voice was hushed, and the cheering light of her eye
extinguished for ever; but she still retained her influence
over the little circle of which she was the
centre, though that influence partook of her altered
condition.

At the next assizes Ninon Leclair was arraigned
and tried for the murder of Claudine, it having been
decided that she was of sufficiently sound mind to
be placed on her trial. Old Martin conducted the
prosecution. The evidence against her was strong,
both circumstantial and positive. Frank testified to
frequent evidences of marked dislike betrayed by
the prisoner towards the deceased; recalled to mind
the circumstance that Claudine was taken deadly
sick, and continued so, immediately after eating the
cake presented by Ninon on the birth-day of the
former, and suggested that the effect might have been
occasioned by poison.

“Oh! monstrous!” exclaimed the prisoner; “he
knows that the cake was made at his father's house;
that his mother gave me the ingredients; nay, assisted
in the making. But I know not—” she paused;
“if poison was in it, he can best tell who placed it
there.”

Frank shrunk at the implication, and proceeded in
his testimony with a faltering voice. He stated that
he was out on the night of the murder; that about a
mile from the village he had met the prisoner; that
sometime after he had heard a violent scream, but
sought in vain to ascertain whence it proceeded.

“It is false,” cried Ninon, “you did not meet me,

though I had a faint glimpse of your figure. True,
you heard a scream, but well you knew the cause,
and from whom it proceeded. You heard a second
shriek, which you could not account for, and it
frightened you from your victim. I hastened to the
spot you had left, and found Claudine bleeding; she
was speechless; I raised her; her head reclined upon
my shoulder, and she breathed her last. My situation
was fearful; my mind became a hurricane; the
rush and vividness of thought were too much for my
brain; a light suddenly flashed upon me, figures appeared,
and I instinctively fled from the scene of horror.
But mark, he confesses he was out at the hour
the murder was doing, and now let him state what it
was took him from the village at that hour.”

“I went to the licking,” said Frank, “to kill a
deer.”

“To kill a deer! true, and you did so, but one
more innocent than the spotted fawn.”

Frank's father arose and asked the protection of
the court for the witness.

Baptiste inquired of Frank why he returned no
answer when called to, the night the dog pursued
him.

“The question is irrelevant to the matter before
the court,” replied his father, “nor do we admit that
the individual pursued by the dog was the witness.”

They proceeded in the examination. Baptiste and
his son testified as to their having found the prisoner
alone, with the dead body, and while it was still
bleeding, and that her garments were stained with
blood when apprehended.”

“The old man's voice against me, and the boy's
too,” exclaimed Ninon, and laughed; it was the unmeaning
laugh of an idiot. She sank upon the bench
in the prisoner's bar; and from that moment took no
note of what was passing. The elder Martin argued
the cause, and gave to the testimony such a colouring,
that an immediate conviction was the consequence.
The verdict being rendered, Ninon was

called to stand up. She looked about vacantly, and
the command was repeated.

“Oh! I had forgot; I crave your pardon. I am in
a court of justice to answer to a charge of murder.
I now remember well.”

“Ninon Leclair,” said the judge, “after a patient
and impartial trial, you have been convicted of the
crime of murder.”

“What, is it all over? I did not think they would
have been so speedy. Murder! I that would not
harm an insect knowingly!”

“Due weight has been given,” continued the judge,
“to all advanced in your defence by your learned
counsel; and after mature deliberation your crime is
manifest, and so says the jury.”

“Then so it needs must be,” said the prisoner,
without appearing conscious of what she was saying.
“If they insist on it that I am guilty, be it so, for it
will only anger them in me to deny it.”

“Have you any thing to offer why sentence should
not be passed upon you?”

“Nothing—but let me think.”

“Take time to reflect, for after this hour we may
not hear you.”

“I have nothing. The meekest and the purest
that ever was on earth, suffered by the blindness and
iniquity of man, without complaint and without resistance;
and I am ready and willing to suffer too.”

Sentence of death was passed upon her, and as the
words coldly fell from the lips of the judge, she appeared
unconscious of their import. He concluded
with the pious wish, expressed for all criminals, but
frequently in such a manner, as if it were nothing
more than a mere legal form—

“God have mercy on your sinful soul, for there is
no hope for you in this world.”

“Amen!” responded the stricken woman. “God
have mercy on me, for there is none among men.”

Her countenance was placid and she was resigned
to her fate. The court broke up, and as the prisoner
was led from the bar, she passed near Frank Martin.

He was absorbed in thought. She touched
him, and he shrunk as if he had been stung by a
viper.

“Fear not, young man,” she said, “I have not the
power to harm you. You have triumphed before this
tribunal, where wealth is conclusive evidence of innocence
and poverty of guilt: but remember, we shall
again be heard before a court, where the dross of
this world may not enter, and every thought is read
by the searching eye of the Eternal Judge. Remember!”

She was led away, and Frank leaned on his father
for support, as they retired from the court-house.

The day fixed for the public execution of Ninon
at length arrived. The crowd assembled early to
witness the fearful exhibition. Ninon was conducted
to the gallows, and while beneath it she asserted her
innocence, but expressed no regret at leaving a
world, which for years had been one unbroken scene
of sorrow, and entertained but little fear as to her
future destiny. There was not an eye to shed a tear
for her, though there was not a more deserving and
less harmless being in the whole concourse present.
The executioner was about to perform his last office,
and the crowd was in breathless suspense, when a
horseman at a distance was seen riding at full speed
towards the spot. He shouted, and the executioner
paused. The horseman rode up to the gallows, and
cried aloud—

“She is pardoned, she is innocent, and here is the
governor's warrant to set her at liberty.”

Ninon fainted at the shock occasioned by this
sudden change. Her mind was prepared to meet
death, but not to encounter again the ills of a life of
hopelessness. She was removed to Baptiste's cottage,
amidst the fruitless conjectures of the crowd, at the
manner in which the fact of her innocence came to
his knowledge who had never heard of her existence
until he signed her death warrant. The mystery
increased on returning to the village, and seeing
placards offering a reward for the apprehension of

Frank Martin, as the murderer of Claudine. Search
was made for him, but he had fled the country, and
no trace could be found of the course he had taken.

Baptiste lived to see his son Victor arrive at manhood,
but seldom smiled after the death of his
daughter. Among the best and purest feelings which
nature has implanted in the human breast, there is
not one so sublimated, partaking so exclusively of
heaven, as that which a fond father entertains for a
lovely and deserving daughter. He looks upon her
as the very essence of all that is good in him; even
more lovely than her who won his early affections,
when romance threw the richest colouring upon the
things of this world.

Ninon continued an inmate of Baptiste's cottage
until her death, which occurred about two years
after the events just related. The pride of the
Martin family was humbled by the public disgrace
of Frank, for like a baneful disease, disgrace, if it
touch but one member, extends to the whole body.
They removed to a remote part of the province,
where it was not probable the name of the fugitive
would ever be heard.

Thirty years after these events, on a fine summer
evening, while the village boys were playing among
the tombs in the grave yard, an old man suddenly
appeared, and approached the spot where Claudine
was buried. His figure was covered with a black
cloak, and his beard was gray and fell over his
bosom. He supported himself with a staff, and
trembled and wept as he bent over the grave. The
boys suspended their sports and timidly drew nigh
to him. One bolder than the rest, approached and
accosted him.

“You appear tired, old man, and in sorrow.”

“Indeed I am both, my son, for I have travelled
far to-day.”

“Then come with me to my father's house, where
you may rest for the night and be comforted.”

“Bless you, my child, the poor man's blessing be
on you. Where is your father's house?”

“Not far from this. At the foot of yon hill on
which the cattle are grazing.”

“Ah!”—the old man trembled. “Your name?”

“Victor Baptiste.”

“God of heaven!” His agitation increased as he
asked, “Know you whose grave this is?”

“Who in the village does not know! It is the
grave of my aunt Claudine, who was murdered by
Frank Martin, many years ago, in the cypress hollow;
and this beside it is the grave of my grandfather,
who, I am told, never smiled after her
death.”

“Generations may pass away,” sighed the old
man, “but crime is never forgotten. It is perpetuated
from father to son, and tradition proves as immutable
as recorded history.” He turned to the
boy—“Your father is still alive?”

“Oh, yes: come with me and you shall see him in
a few minutes.”

“Not for the wealth of the world!—Look at me;
describe me to him as I am; feeble, broken down in
body and in spirit—tell him where you found me
mourning, then give him this.” He extended a
paper to the boy. “God bless you, my child!—I
leave you in a state of things where a pebble may
turn the whole current of your life awry, but as for
myself, old as I am, I return to the wilderness to
find my grave.”

After a mental struggle which agitated his feeble
frame, he tottered from the yard and struck into the
most unfrequented path that led to the forest. In a
few moments he disappeared, and the boys returned
to the village. The paper on being opened, was to
this effect:—

“Providence has implanted in the human breast
passions which the weakness of our nature cannot
subdue, and which it is eternal death to the soul to
indulge; and as if our earthly career had not been
sufficiently prescribed and straitened by the divine
law, society has created distinctions, which, if observed,
literally verify the poet's dream, and render

the path to heaven through purgatory, even before
we have passed the confines of this world.

“Why should man make distinctions which God
will not acknowledge! If intrinsic worth alone
were the standard of the human race, what a multitude
of evils should we escape, since all would study
to become more worthy; but as it is, the best feelings
of our nature are debased to acquire that which
alone elevates man in the estimation of the world.
But it is not for the guilty to arraign the decrees
of Providence, or call in question the justice of
human laws.

“I was the victim of false pride. Having inflicted
a lasting injury on one of the best of God's creatures,
I feared to redress it, for the eyes of the world
were on me, and rather than encounter the judgment
of man, and be humbled in his sight, I trampled on
the laws of God, and became a devil.—Oh, Claudine!—I
attempted to poison her who loved me
most, and failing in this, inhumanly murdered her.
To screen my guilt, another was convicted through
my instrumentality. I calculated much on the prejudice
created by the absurd distinctions among
men, and matters terminated as I foresaw. I had
the mind to plot and the hand to execute, but my
load of guilt already weighed like a mountain on
my soul. I dreaded an increase of the weight.

“My brain became wild, and as the day appointed
for the death of my second victim approached, the
fever of my mind increased. I had already sacrificed
every hope of happiness in this world, and
every hope in the next. The thought pursued me
night and day. The suffering and injured Ninon
was constantly before my sight. I resolved to save
her, but wavered, and when the time had nearly
elapsed, I wrote to the governor, confessing my
crime, and fled from justice—but let it not be supposed
from punishment;—an outcast on the face of
the earth, the never-dying worm was in my bosom:
death on the instant had been mercy, for cut off
from communion with my race, I held it with my

offended God alone in the wilderness. What punishment
so appalling could be inflicted on a wretch so
guilty as I had been! But I trust a life of sincere
contrition may have atoned for an act, the recollection
of which, even at this distant day, sinks my
soul in despair. Thus much I have written that you
may know I am still in existence, and to beseech
that your curse may be recalled before I die. Let
me quit the world reconciled, at least, with those
who are still living. I shall visit Claudine's grave
once more, that my slumbering feelings may be
roused to agony, and then in the wilderness await
the fearful day, which I feel is not far distant.”