cruel. None struck the boar spear so deeply; and if he met a young fawn upon the hills, lost and crying piteously, he would plunge the rough spear in its throat, and bear it home struggling on his shoulder, and throw it upon the earth floor of his cottage, and say, 'Ho, my sisters, here is a supper for you!' and the fawn not yet dead!

"It is no wonder Otho was not loved at home; it is no wonder he was not loved of Copita. And whom Copita loved not, Adolphe did not love, Rinulph did not love, Dalmetto did not love.

"Now in those old days, where there was not love between men there was hate. So there was hate between the three brothers and the Hungarian cousin of the wild locks and the dark eye.

"What should it be, but those wild locks and that dark eye of her Hungarian cousin, that made Copita ever wake in a fright, when she dreamed of the great Illyrian Cavern? Adolphe was ever by her side to defend her, but Adolphe was young and innocent of all the wiles of manhood; the eye of Dalmetto was quick and watchful, but the eye of Otho had watched the flight of the vultures, and seen them bear away kids even from the flock over which the father of Copita was shepherd; Rinulph was strong, but Otho had struggled with the wild boar, and conquered it and was the brown-haired brother of Copita stronger than the wild boar?

"Was it strange, then, that Copita, the daughter of a Dalmatian mother, should sometimes tremble when she thought of of the passionate eyes of the cruel and determined Otho, bending fixedly on her, from out the shadows of the Cavern-for Otho loved the shadow better than the light.

"But dreams, though they be unpleasant, make not dim the happy life-time of an Illyrian peasant girl. The shuttle-it rattled merrily; the song-it rose cheerily; and the father, and the mother, and the brothers, were light hearted. Copita dreamed less of the last year's fête, and she dreamed more of the fête of the one that was coming. She dreamed less of eyes scowling with hate, and love; and she dreamed more of eyes that were full of admiration.

"Ah, Signori, it is pleasant-life-time

in the mountains! in the mountains of Illyria! The green fir trees cover them, summer and winter; the deer, wild as we, wander under them, and crop their low branches, when the snow covers the hills; and when the spring comes, the grass is green in a day!*-then what frolicking of boys and maidens!-what smiles upon old faces!" Boldo drew his coat sleeve over his eyes. For one moment-one little moment-his heart was in his mountain home.

Monsieur le Count, who was old and unmarried, drew a long breath.

Boldo thrust the end of his torch deeper in the shining sand and went on.

"May was coming; Copita sang at evehing gayer-hearted; Copita danced with the fair-haired Adolphe on the green sward before the door of the cottage. The father played upon his shepherd's pipe; the mother looked joyously on, and thanked Heaven, in her heart, for having given her such a daughter as Copita, to make glad their mountain home.

"She shed tears though, and the father almost as many, when their children set off for the festive meeting in the Cavern. Down the mountains they went singing, and the mother strained her eyes after them, till she could see nothing but a white speck-Copita's dress-gliding down, and gliding away among the fir trees. There was no singing in the cottage that night-nor the next-nor the next-nor the next

"Scusatemi, Signori!

"Two days they were coming to the Cavern. At night they stayed with friends, in a valley; and in the morning, doubled their company, and came on together. As they walked, sometimes in the valleys, sometimes over spurs of the hills, there came others to join them, who went on the pleasant pilgrimage. But of all the maidens not one was so beautiful as Copita. None walked with a statelier or freer step into the village below the mountain.

“Ah, Signori, could you but see the gathering upon such a day, of the prettiest dames of Illyria-the braided hair, dressed with mountain flowers, and sprigs of the fir tree, and the heron's plumes!— and in old days the gathering was gayer than now.

"In a street of the village, in the

throng, Copita had caught sight of the dark face of her Hungarian lover. Perhaps it was this, perhaps it was the cold, but she trembled as she came with her brother Adolphe into the Cavern. The waters roared, as they roared the year before as they are roaring now. The noise made her shudder again. “Adolphe,' said she, 'I wish I was in our cottage upon the mountain.'

"What would Rinulph say, what would Dalmetto say, what should I think, who love you better than both, if our beautiful sister were not of the festal dance?'

"Just then the noise of the music came through the corridor, and Copita felt her proud mountain blood stirred, and went on with courage.

"The night had half gone, when Copita sat down where we sit. The fawn upon the mountains sometimes tires itself with its gambols; Copita was tired with dancing. Adolphe sat beside her.

"Copita had danced with Otho, for she had not dared deny him. She had danced with a blue-eyed stranger, who wore the green coat of the Cossacks, and a high heron's plume, whose home was by the Danube; for who of all the maidens would choose deny him?

"When Adolphe spoke of Otho, Copita looked thoughtful and downcast, but turned pale. And when Adolphe spoke of the stranger from the banks of the Great River, with the heron's plume in his cap, Copita looked thoughtful and downcast, but the color ran over her cheek, and temple, and brow, like fire.

"Ah! for the poor young shepherds, and the vine-dressers, who had watched her white hand as it plied the distaff, and had listened to her voice as she sang in her mountain home-Adolphe knew that their hopes were gone!

"Now it was a custom of the fête, that in the intervals of the dance, the young men and virgins should pass hand in hand around the column of fire in the middle, in token of good will between them. But if a second time a virgin went round, with her hand wedded to the same hand as before, then was the young man an accepted lover. But if a third time they went round together, it was like giving the plighted word, and young man and virgin were betrothed.

"It was the custom of old days; and all the company of the cave shouted greeting.

"Once had Copita gone round the

column with cousin Otho, of the dark locks and wild eye.

"Once had Copita gone round the column with the blue-eyed stranger, of the heron's plume.

"A second time the stern Hungarian had led forth the beautiful Copita. She hesitated, and she looked pale, and she trembled: for there were many eyes upon her. Adolphe looked upon her, and bit his lip. Rinulph looked, and he stamped with his foot upon the sand. Dalmetto looked, and his eye seemed to pierce her through;-but more piercing than all was the sad, earnest look of the stranger of the heron's plume. Copita shook the memory of her dreams came over her, and she dared not deny Otho.

Copita sat down trembling; Otho walked away with a triumphant leer. "A second time came up the blue-eyed stranger, doubting and fearful. A second time went the beautiful Copita with him round the flame. This time she trembled: for many eyes were upon her. The eyes of Adolphe, of Rinulph, of Dalmetto, looked kindly, but half reprovingly; there were eyes of many a virgin, that seemed to say, 'Is this our gentle Copita who has two lovers in a day?' There was the vengeful eye of Otho, that seemed to say, 'Two lovers in a day she shall not have.' It was no wonder Copita trembled.

"The music went on, and the dance; but the soul of the mountain girl was with her father and with her mother at home.

666

Why is that tear in your eye?' said Adolphe, as he put his arm around her.

"I wish I was in our cottage upon the mountains, with the distaff in my hand, and singing the old songs,' said Copita.

"The dance ceased. Copita trembled like an aspen leaf.

"A third time came up Otho. Copita turned pale, but Otho turned away paler.

"A third time came up the blue-eyed stranger-whose home was on the Danube-who wore in his cap a heron's plume.

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Copita blushed; Copita trembledand rose up and stood beside him. Hand in hand they stood together; hand in hand they went round the column of flame: the gentle Copita and the stranger of the heron's plume!

"A wild song of greeting-a Hungarian song-burst over the roof of the Cavern. You would be afraid, Signori, to

listen to the shaking of the Cave, when the mountain company lift up their voices to a mountain song! There is not a corner but is filled; there is not a stalactite but quivers; there is not a torch flame, but wavers to and fro, as if a strong wind were blowing!

"Now the face of the Hungarian Otho, as he looked, and as he listened, was as if it had been the face of a devil.

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Copita went with Adolphe into the cool corridor, for the night was not yet spent, and other dances were to follow. Adolphe left his sister a little time alone. Otho's eyes had followed, and he came up. "Will my pretty cousin Copita walk with me in the Cavern,' said he.

"She looked around to meet the eye of Adolphe, or Rinulph, or Dalmetto. The dance had begun, and they two were unnoticed.

"She said not no: she made no effort to rise, for the strong arm of Otho lifted her."

Boldo rose, and lit his torch, and the two old men came behind, as we went out of the Salon du Bal into the corridor.

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Along this path," said Boldo, "they went on. Copita's mind full of shadows of dreams; she dared not go backOtho's mind full of dark thoughts; his strong arm bore her on.

"She had not a voice to shout; beside the music was louder than the shouting of a frighted maiden. Otho pushed on with cruel speed. Copita's faltering step stayed him no more than the weight of a young fawn, which, time and time again, he had borne home upon his shoulder, from the wild clefts of the mountains."

The roar of the waters was beginning to sound. Bravely led Boldo on, with his broad torch flaring red. The road was rough. The rush of the waters nearer and nearer, and the damp air chilled us. Cameron was for turning back.

'No, no," said Boldo, "come and see where Otho led Copita; where he stood with her over the gulf."

And now we could hardly hear him talk for the roar; but he beckoned us from where he stood upon a jutting point of the rock, and as we came up, he waved his long torch twice below him. The red glare shone one moment upon smooth water, curling over the edge of a precipice, far below. The light was not srong enough to shed a single ray downtwhere the waters fell.

given her hand to the proud stranger of the heron's plume; will she here, upon the edge of the gulf, take again her promise?'

"The stranger is not proud,' said Copita, and my word once given, shall never be broken.' And as if the word had given life to her mountain spirit, her eye looked back contempt for the exulting smile of Otho. Like a deer, she bounded from him; but his strong arm caught her. She called loudly upon each of her brothers; but the dance was far away, and the roar of the waters was terrible.

"Her thoughts flew one moment home -her head was pillowed as in childhood, upon the bosom of her Dalmatian mother.

"With such memories, who would not have force to struggle? She sprang to the point of the rock-it is very slippery: again, the strong arm of Otho was extended toward her-another step back -poor, poor Copita !

"Look down, Signori ;" and Boldo waved his red torch below him.

"The cottage of the Illyrian shepherd -of the Dalmatian mother was desolate upon the mountains! The voice of singing was no more heard in it! "Otho heard a faint shriek mingling with the roar of the waters, and even the stern man was sorrowful. He trod back alone the corridors. None know why he made not his way to the mountains. The stones stirred under his feet, and he looked behind to see if any followed. The stalactites glistened under the taper that was fastened in his bonnet, and he started from under them, as if they were falling to crush him.

"Now in the hall of the dance, there was search for Copita, when Otho came in. There are three ways by which one can pass out of the hall, and after Otho had come in alone, Adolphe stood at one, Rinulph at one, and Dalmetto at one. The Hungarian could look the wild boar in the eyes, when they were red with rage-but his eyes had no strength in them then, to look back upon the eyes of virgins. He would escape them, by going forth; but when he came to where Rinulph stood, Rinulph said, 'Where is my sister Copita?' and Otho turned back. And when he came to where Dalmetto stood, Dalmetto said, 'Where is my sister Copita ?' And Otho was frightened

stood, Adolphe said, 'Tell us, where is our sister Copita ?'

"And Otho, that was so strong, grew pale before the blue-eyed Adolphe.

"When Otho turned back, the young stranger, with the cap of the heron's plume, walked up boldly to him, and asked, Where is the beautiful Copita ?' "And Otho trembled more and more, and the faces grew earnest and threatening around him, so he told them all; and he was like a wild boar that is wounded, among fierce dogs.

"The three brothers left not their places, but the rest spoke low together, and bound the Hungarian hand and foot. Hand and foot they bound him, and took up torches, and bore him toward the deep river of the Cavern. The brothers followed, but the virgins joined hands and sung a wild funeral chant; such as they sing by a mountain grave. Adolphe, and Rinulph, and Dalmetto, stood together in the mouth of the way, that goes over the bridge and out of the mountain. It was well the three brothers were there: for as they bore Otho on, and as they neared the gulf, he struggled, as only a man struggles who sees death looking him in the face. He broke the bands that were around him; he pushed by the foremost he rushed through those who were behind-he leaped a chasm-he clung to a cliff he ran along its edge-but, before he could pass out, the brothers met him, and he cowered before them.

"They bound him, and bore him back, and hurled him headlong, and the roar of the waters drowned his cries.

"One more dance-a solemn dance around the column of fire, and the night was ended.

"At early sunrise, Adolphe, Dalmetto, and Rinulph had set off over the moun

tains, with heavy hearts, homeward. They picked no flowers by the way for the gentle Copita! Copita sang no songs to make gay their mountain march!

"The blue-eyed stranger had torn the plume of the heron from his cap, and with a slow step, and sad, was going by the early light, down the mountains, to his home upon the banks of the mighty Danube.

"They say that in quiet evenings, in the gulf," and Boldo swayed the red torch below him-"may be seen a light form, that angels bear up. And when it is black without, and the waters high, may be seen a swart form, struggling far down"-and again Boldo swung his torch-this time too rapidly, for the wind and the spray put it out. We were on the edge of the precipice. "Santa Maria defend us!"

The two old men were groping in the distance two specks of light in the darkness. Boldo shouted, but the waters drowned the voice.

Thrice we shouted together, and at length the old men came toward us. After the torch was lit, we followed Boldo over the bridge, and through the corridor, out into the starlight. Four hours we had been in the mountain, and it was past midnight when we were back at the

inn.

I am not going to say-because I cannot-whether the story that Boldo told us was a true story.

Cameron said "it was a devilish good story."

And story or no story-the Cavern is huge and wild. And many a time since, have I waked in the middle of the night, and found myself dreaming of the pretty Copita, or the cap with the heron's plume.

WE now arrive at a point of our narrative in which an incident occurs in the life of M. Thiers which has remained unexplained by him until almost the moment at which we write, and even now the explanation comes in an indirect

manner.

M. Thiers, as we have seen, was the most active of all the public men connected with the press in exciting the people to resistance. He wrote the protest of the Journalists. From his Bureaux it was circulated. It might therefore have been expected, and it undoubtedly was expected, that this chief instigator of the movement would have continued on the spot to give it the benefit of his direction and superintendence, and to share its dangers. Grant that his physical character would have rendered his active aid in the street of little avail, his sagacity and intelligence would not have been the less valuable, though he did not issue from his bureaux. Yet as soon as the movement assumed a really serious aspect; as soon as it became evident that it was going to be something more than a mere emeute of the faubourgs but before its successful issue seemed probable-M. Thiers disappeared from the scene! This fact is undenied, and it remains now only to state the circumstances with which it was attended, the impression it left upon the liberal party, and the explanation which has been lately offered by the friends of M. Thiers. "Behold at last," says a writer in the Revue des deux Mondes, "the tocsin has sounded, the people are roused, and rush to the conflict! Blood already flows! The artillery rolls over the pavement! M. Thiers has been heard. His anathemas have taken effect. The monarchy which has broken its compact is already overturned. A leading voice-a head alone is waited for. But where then is M. Thiers? Where has that boldness concealed itself which promised victory to its party, and which awaited with so much impatience the event which has now arrived? What has become of the popular orator who traced so proudly a circle round power, and defied it to pass

beyond its limits? Alas! like Archilochus and Horace, M. Thiers, little used to the tumult of battles, has felt his courage give way; the feebleness of his physical organization has prevailed against the force of his will, and he has departed to seek refuge from the affray in the shades of Montmorenci, to shelter himself at once from the dangers which precede victory, and from the proscriptions which follow defeat. But do not charge M. Thiers with want of courage. His heart failed him, it is true, on that emergency, but the same charge may be made against many others on the same occasion. M. Thiers has since proved, in rushing with ostentation to the barricades of June, that, when necessary, he has enough of military courage. But what would you have? On this particular occasion he was not provided with a supply of courage: possibly, also, he may reply that there was no room for the exercise of genius in a street fight; perhaps the long study which he had made of our victories, and the admiration he entertained for our armies, rendered it impossible for him to conceive how a successful struggle against our disciplined soldiers could be made by a mob of printers' boys and shop-clerks, led on by editors of newspapers; that in short, the rabble of Paris must necessarily have been crushed by the regular forces. M. Thiers mingled boldly enough in the struggle, so long as the question was one of legal and peaceful resistance. He remained firm at his post in the bureaux of the NATIONAL to the last moment; he did not take his departure until the moment that old Benjamin Constant arrived; the moment at which the beat of the drum calling to arms, and the sound of the musketry, gave him the signal to retire. The first day of this sudden revolution, M. Thiers wrote the celebrated protest of the press, while in another quarter, M. Guizot wrote the protest of the Chamber; there were assemblies held of every class where deliberations were held on the means best calculated to produce the recall of the ordonnances. M. Thiers advised at these meetings that all civil proceedings should