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page 533 we give an illustration representing
THE CHRISTIAN COMMISSION ON THE FIELD OF BATTLE. There is no feature connected
with the war which so well illustrates the peculiarity of Republican
institutions as the work performed by the Christian and Sanitary Commissions.
These are supported not by the Government, but by the people. As our Government
is of the people, so is this war the people's war. And the people have taken it
upon themselves to take care of the soldiers. This is a peculiarity which
distinguishes the North from the South in the conduct of the war. It is on this
account that the losses from sickness, and especially from wounds, have been so
few in our army as compared with that of the rebels.
Richmond Enquirer of August 3, alluding to our
advantages over the rebels in cannon and ships and otherwise : " Their dietetic
and sanitary systems have saved them thousands of soldiers who would have died
upon the coarse fare of the military hospital. Preserved fruits, dessicated
vegetables, solidified milk, the condensed nutriment of meat, the concentrated
essence of tea and coffee, wines, and pure spirits, accompany the hospital every
where. Ices and cordials refresh, patent ambulances, spring beds, and hair
mattresses solace the sick and the wounded. When the field hospitals beyond the
Appomattox suffered for water a canal was cut and steam pumps put up, and an
abundant supply was furnished."
This service likewise has its
sacrifices and its martyrs. Thousands of Christian men and women are giving up
the pleasures of home, and it often happens that they give their lives also.
Soldiers' wives work in the hospital while their husbands fight on the field.
While BARLOW is taking cannon at Deep Bottom, his wife dies in
Washington of fever contracted in the hospital.
McPherson falls before Atlanta, Professor
HADLEY dies in New York, worn out with weariness by long weeks of exposure and
fatigue suffered for the soldier's sake.
GEORGE AUGUSTUS SALA.
WHAT was she to do? Try another
pawn-shop? She had no passport. They must have papers. It was the law, it
seemed. But how did people get papers? Were they born with papers ? Should she
go back to the goldsmiths on the Quai and try them once more P Alas ! of what
avail would that be? She would receive only the same answers, the same rebuffs.
Was there no one in this enormous city of Paris who would purchase a gewgaw from
a poor child who wanted to run away ? She had heard of a place called the
Temple. She had read of it, too, and Madame de Kergolay had talked to her about
it hundreds of times as the site of that old donjon keep where the Martyr King
and his queen had lain in captivity, and where the poor little Dauphin had been
handed over to the cobbler Simon, to be slowly tortured to death. The donjon
keep was pulled down now, and the Temple was a place where they bought and sold
every thing. Should she ask her way there? But she knew that she would have to
pass close to the Marais ; mid an indefinable terror forbade her to retrace her
She came, suddenly, in the middle
of the pave-Silent, on a marchand d'habits—an old-clothes-man. No Jew was he. In
Paris Christians do not disdain to carry the bag, and wear the three hats. This
fellow was a Marseillais, swarthy and bright-eyed, with a head of tufted black
hair, dazzling white teeth, and ear-rings. He had two umbrellas beneath one arm,
and a cavalry sabre beneath the other, a cocked-hat in one hand besides the
three on his head, a pair of patent-leather boots tucked in his waistband, and
any number of loose garments flying all abroad about him: besides his bulging
"Troun de Fair !"cried the
marchand d'habits when he saw Lily, "what a pretty girl !"
" Will you buy a locket ?" said
the girl, shrinking from the man's bold gaze, and holding out the trinket in her
little trembling hand. She was desperate now. She would have had courage to ask
the statue of Henry the Fourth on the Pont Neuf if he would buy a locket.
" Carragoui de zeval," exclaimed
the Marseillais in return, "I am not a jeweler. What do you want for your little
breloque, soon anze zerie?"
" A hundred francs," replied
Lily, half choking.
"Masoulipatam!" shouted the
marchand d'habits, who seemed to possess an inexhaustible arsenal of strange
execrations. " Veux-tou mi rouiner? Ma, I will be generous. Ze souis Chretien,
moi, et pas oune Zouif. Twelve francs fifty centimes for your locket." -
"No," cried Lily, passionately.
She could have strangled the man.
" Quesaco ! crrricuicoui !"
continued the Marseillais. " Don't fly into a temper. I don't buy jewelry on
fete-days. Come and breakfast with me. Allons manzer, allons boire!" And the
eyes of the old-clothesman sparkled like unto live coals. -
Lily drew her shawl about her,
and, spurning his offer, walked indignantly away.
"Pif de Pilate !" the Marseillais
muttered, looking after her, "z'est oune zentille petite fillette za. Never
mind. I shall dance at the Barriere du Trone to-night. Marchand d'habi-i-i-i-ts."
And with his lugubrious and long-drawn-out chant, his bag and his bright eyes,
the old-clothesman went on his way. They were magnificent eyes, only he had
spoiled them by a habit of squinting, contracted through the
endeavor to glance at the first
floor windows on both sides of the street at once, to see whether the occupants
had any old clothes to sell.
Twelve francs fifty for her
locket ! The villains. The wicked, wicked, hard-hearted people, she thought. Had
she had time she could have sat down on a door-step, covered her face with her
shawl, and cried her eyes out. But it was with her as with the Wandering Jew, "
On-ward ! Onward !"
She remembered that she was not
yet quite destitute. Her breakfast paid for, she was still the possessor of
between eighteen and nineteen francs. That would carry her some distance to-ward
her destination—support her for some days, she thought. And then she would beg.
She beg ! Perhaps there were cottages on the road where the people were kind and
would give her bread and milk, and allow her to sleep on the straw in their
barns. She would have nothing more to do with this cruel and pitiless Paris. She
would begin her journey at once. How it was to be prosecuted she had not the
slightest idea. She knew she had to reach the coast and to cross the sea : that
The Marseillais marchand d'habits
had told her, the rascal! that he never bought jewelry on fete-days. Once or
twice before in the course of that weary morning's travel she had heard about
the festivals. At the pawnbroker's they had bidden her to be quick, for they
were about to close. The poor, it seems, must pawn even on the morning of a
holiday, so the commissaire-priseur opened his doors for an hour or two before
the business of pleasure began.
Lily saw that there were a great
many more people about this morning than on ordinary days; that many of the
shops, and nearly all those of a superior class, were closed ; that the humbler
sort of-people mostly wore clean blouses, and the grisettes clean caps ; that
the students of the School of St. Cyr were abroad in their holiday clothes; that
the soldiers of the garrison looked unusually spruce and burnished up ; and that
the very sergents de Addle had waxed their mustaches and given their sword-hilts
an extra polish. There were a good many flowers about ; from many of the windows
hung banners and streamers ; and in front of every public building rose great
black triangular stages, like monstrous but truncated ladders, supporting on
their many rungs pipkins full of oil and tallow, in which were huge cotton
wicks. These were the lampions for the illuminations at night.
Then Lily all at once remembered
that this was the twenty-seventh of July, and that Madame de Kergolay had told
her that on the twenty-seventh, the twenty-eighth, and the twenty-ninth of that
month, in every year, the ,official gala-days known as the Fetes of July were
held. "They are to celebrate the democratic revolution of July, 1830," the old
lady would say, disdainfully ; " the revolution so adroitly discounted in their
own favor by M. le Due d'Orleans and the banker Lafitte. It is an official
celebration, strictly a government affair, my child, and the maskings and
mummeries and tight-rope dancing are all paid for out of the public treasury.
The people have nothing to do with it—absolutely nothing. The only holiday which
lives in their memories and in their hearts is the Fete de St. Louis."
Thus Madame de Kergolay; and Lily
had, of course, implicitly believed her. But she could not help thinking now, as
she watched the gayly dressed and laughing throngs hurrying past, that, if the
Fete of St. Louis were in their hearts, the lights of the Fetes of July shone
uncommonly bright in their faces. Every one looked happy; every body must be
happy, thought the poor little outcast runaway, her sad heart sinking with-in
her at the sight of the smiles and the joyous faces. She little knew that among
that laughing concourse there were numbers upon numbers ten thousand times more
miserable than she.
It was good that she should not
know it. It would not have consoled her. She had not yet arrived at that age
when "there is something not absolutely disagreeable to us in the misfortunes of
our dearest friends." The wretcheder she was herself—being, as you know, young
and silly, and not at all a woman of the world—the readier she was to sympathize
with sorrow. She was but a little fool at the best, but she never grew out of
So it was a grand holiday, a very
grand holiday. The government liked to encourage holidays ; it made the people
feel light and pleasant, and saved them from getting the headache over those
stupid newspapers. On the third, and grandest clay of the fetes, the newspapers
were not published at all: another thing which the government liked dearly. A
good government, a paternal government, a light-hearted government ; it rejoiced
to see the hard-worked editors and reporters strolling in the Elysian Fields,
dining at the Cafe Anglais, or dancing at the Chaumiere--even if they danced
that naughty cancan—instead of muddling their brains in the composition of prosy
leading articles, or wearing their fingers to the bone in taking crabbed
short-hand notes of the long-winded debates of the Chambers. " Enjoy yourselves,
my children," cried this good government. "In these last days of July let us
sing a Te Deum for fine weather, an abundant crop of strawberries, and the
possession of so beneficent a sovereign as that dear old gentleman with the
umbrella at the Tuileries yonder. See : he wears a tricolored cockade, the
emblem of Liberty, in his hat. Is that not good of him? Let us celebrate the
feast of the Patriots of July. What glorious fellows they were ! Shout ! How
nobly they fought. Fire the cannon ! How heroically they died. Drub the double
drums ! How very soundly they sleep in the vaults under the column in the Place
de la Bastille. Let us drink all their healths, and inscribe all their names,
even to the humblest blouse-wearer, in golden
letters on the marble plinth. As
for the patriots of to-day, they are a pack of sulky disagree-able grumblers,
mere spoil-sports and trouble-fetes, and, lest they should mar the bright
sun-shine of our holiday, we have put them away in the casemates of Belle Isle,
and Mont St. Michel, and Doullens, and turned a big key on them. Soldiers! bring
your muskets to the `ready,' and, bombardiers, keep your matches lighted. This
is a fete-day. Every body is to enjoy him-self under pain of immediate arrest.
Eat, drink, and be merry, my children. Go to the play for nothing. See the
illuminations, and the fire-works, and the water-jousts, for nothing ;
mean-while we, who are your parents and best friends, will govern you, and look
after all your little affairs at home and abroad. Tiens ! that birchen rod of
ours is getting a little limp. Excuse us if we use one of iron."
So spoke the Government of July,
thinking it was to last forever ; but it, and its dynasty, and its festivals,
and all its pretty little winning ways, are dead and gone, and well-nigh effaced
from the memory of man.
For aught Lily knew the gay
doings might be in honor of the birthday of King Louis Philippe, or the birthday
of Monsieur Lafitte the banker. To her mind the revolution of 1830 conveyed but
a very dim and meagre impression. Once, when Mademoiselle Espremenil, who was an
Orleanist, told her that three hundred patriots were killed on the Place the
Carrousel fighting against the Swiss guard, she exclaimed, " How very wicked of
them to fight against the king's soldiers !" and was called nigaude, and made to
copy out the third chapter of Telemaque for her pains. She had never gone
outside the doors of the Pension Marcassin at the time of the celebration of the
fetes during the whole of her incarceration in that penitentiary. The other
girls had given her, from time to time, glowing accounts of what they had seen
during the three glorious days ; but to Lily those were only fairy tales and
fables, as beautiful but as unreal as any in the Arabian Nights.
Now she was privileged—by her own
act and deed at least—to see the grand sight, for a momentary peep at which,
even, she had often thirsted, and to wander at will among the merry-makers. But
she fled from it all as though it had been a pestilence. She was afraid. While
the day lasted, she thought, it would be folly, it would be madness, to venture
into the Elysian Fields, where all the world of Paris would be out walking. No,
no : that place was to be avoided at all hazards. Still she had an irresistible
craving to see something of the brave show before she commenced her flight to
En-gland in good earnest. She would wait until sunset, she thought—until nearly
dusk. Then the crowd would be denser, and the quieter sort of folks gone home,
and she might mingle with the throng unnoticed and unrecognized.
Now lagging, now hurrying through
a tortuous maze of streets, she came all at once into the great garish Rue de
Rivoli, and saw the Tuileries Gardens and the Place de la Concorde one vast Lake
of Pleasure, covered with Islands of Delight, blazing in the sun. She turned
from the dangerous open and fled. Ascending the Rue St. Honore she ventured to
cross it before she reached the Palais Royal, and even got safe over the upper
part of the Rue de Rivoli into the dismal little labyrinth of by-lanes, full of
sellers of old prints, and older curiosities, technically known as the Pate du
Louvre, and which had grown up, a fungus, between the palaces of the Louvre and
the Tuileries. To her relief she managed to gain the Quai : not that where the
old gold-dealers live, but that which fronts the Long Gallery. She crossed the
Pont Royal as timorously as a little mouse seeking a fresh hole, and, diving
down the Rue du Bac, was glad to lose herself in a fresh labyrinth of little
She found out, perhaps, the
dimmest little cabinet de lecture, or reading-room, that ever was groped for,
and at last discovered, in the dimmest portion of old Paris. It seemed to Lily
not much bigger in size than the cage of a good-sized- macaw, and was very dark
and gloomy, and so suited her admirably. The old maiden lady who kept this abode
of literature had read herself more than three parts blind with bad novels, and
was so deeply immersed in one of the admired works of Monsieur Horace St. Aubin,
that, when Lily entered, she could barely find time to extend her hand for five
sous—the regulation price of admission to the Cabinet of the Muses.
All the people who frequented the
reading-room were old—as old as the visitors whom Ma-dame de Kergolay received,
but of a shabbier and more dilapidated type. They seemed to be tumbling to
pieces with sheer antiquity, both in their bodies and their garments, and to be
only kept together by means of stays, and braces, and pins, and buttons, and
hooks, the horns of spectacles, the springs of false teeth, and the elastic
bands of wigs. There never was such a rickety congregation. Ague, paralysis,
neuralgia, and sciatica, seemed to have gotten hold of the furniture as well as
the patrons of the establishment; and every thing tottered and shook and
trembled and creaked. As Lily walked up the room, and chose the darkest corner,
the very boards yielded beneath her tread and sent up little clouds of dust,
giving to her ankles a wreathed appearance, as though she had been a young
There was a tall old gentleman
who came to the Cabinet, not to read, but to sleep. It could not be said
precisely that he snored, but the air about him seemed to be haunted by the
spirit of a defunct trombone. And it was a spirit seemingly in pain.
There was a little old lady who
represented a prodigious cap, a large pair of green goggles, a red plaid shawl,
and nothing else. Her face. seemed to have gone out of town, and to have
left a P.P.C.. card over the
spectacles, on which some one had sketched the lineaments of a death's head ;
but sketched them very faintly. And most of the time even this was a fact which
you were not enabled to ascertain with any degree of certainty, as the little
old lady usually kept a copy of the Gazette de France before her, never turning
over the pages ; and under those circumstances she was only so much newspaper,
and so much shawl.
Over against Lily there sat an
ancient personage of the male sex, lean and long as Don Quixote, and wearing a
night-cap under his hat. Ile had a long green cloak with a rabbit's skin collar
; and under this cloak he fondled and cherished a diminutive dog of, apparently,
the turnspit breed. There was a very strict prohibition against the introduction
of dogs to the Cabinet in a notice hung up at the entrance. But the. old
gentleman had very probably been of-fending against the regulations for the last
fifty years. He was the senior, the doyen of the customers. Those who surrounded
him were too old and feeble to resent his malfeasance, and the lady at the
counter was too much engrossed by Monsieur Horace St. Aubin to take notice of
any thing outside her book. Still the old man in the cloak was not exempt from
occasional twinges of conscience. The little dog was generally very quiet, but,
from time to time, feeling bored probably, he would poke his nose from beneath
the folds of the mantle with a sharp yap, or a plaintive whine. And then Lily
would hear the lean old man whispering in great trepidation to the refractory
Hush, for Heaven's sake, Lindor !
De la sagesse, mon ami—de la sagesse, Lindor ; re-member what a risk I am
running for thee. Je t'implore, Lindor, de ne pas me compromettre, I entreat
thee, Lindor, not to compromise me." Once the lean old man caught Lily looking
at him. The turnspit had been very restless. The old man covered its tiny muzzle
with both his white trembling hands, and cast toward Lily a look at once so
piteous and so supplicating that the girl felt half inclined to laugh and half
She staid here, reading
newspapers out of date and dog's-eared romances, which excited, for two reasons,
her special wonder : first, as to whoever could have written them ; and next,
whoever could have read them before her. That they had been diligently conned,
however, and to some purpose, was evident; for the edges were yellow and shiny
with much thumbing, and many pages were blistered with long dried-up tears.
They were all full of love; but
it was not the kind of love that Lily could comprehend, with which she could
sympathize, or from which she could derive any consolation. Silly girl, she was
quite raw and ignorant. She had not yet learned to take her heart to pieces and
put it together again, like a map puzzle. She had not acquired the art of
preserving her passion, and boiling it down, and putting plenty of sugar to it,
and spreading it on paper, as jam is spread upon bread. Lamentable little dunce
! She was yet at the A B C of the great alphabet, which, being learned, after
infinite wailings and canings, only teaches us to spell the words Disappointment
and Despair. She was quite a novice in the cosmography of the Pays du Tendre.
Had Lily been asked to write a love-letter it would have begun with "I love,"
and it would have ended with "I love," and there would have been nothing else,
except blots, which are the blushes of manuscript. I have known people who
punctuated their protestations of affection. They must have been very much in
Here she lingered until the day
was declining. She went out at last (the mistress of the place never heeding
her), and she left the old folks there, doddering and coughing feebly in their
chairs. Those who are alive, and the oldest folks always seem to last the
longest, may be there, doddering and choking to this day.
Into the broad streets, and on to
the broader quay, and over another bridge ; but this time it was the Pont de la
Concorde, and they were be-ginning to light up the lampions in front of the
Chamber of Deputies. Then she was in the vast Place, by the side of the Luxor
obelisk. She could resist it no longer. She was beyond the control of reason.
She was bewildered—fascinated. Come what may, she must see the sight.
So she sped by the spouting
fountains, and entered upon the enormous avenue of the Elysian Fields. The sight
almost took away her breath. It was wonderful. Two huge open-air theatres,
within whose vast prosceniums whole regiments of red-legged soldiers were
engaged in deadly combat with white-burnoused Arabs. They fired off r. al guns
and real howitzers. Real horses galloped on to the stage, not at all alarmed by
the noise, whereas the very smell of the powder almost frightened Lily out of
But the theatres were only a drop
of water in the sea. There were Punches by the score. There were Marionettes.
There were greasy poles up which adventurous gymnasts climbed, intent on
reaching the silver watches, spoons, and mugs—no vulgar legs of mutton here
!—suspended to a hoop at the summit. What shouting and clapping of hands when a
climber, his strained fingers within an inch of the coveted prize, found the
treacherous surface beneath at length too much for him, and so slid down to the
bottom again, defeated and fat-begrimed.
There were merry-go-rounds. There
were targets at which you could fire au blanc, and if you struck the bull's-eve
found a plaster figure of the Emperor Napoleon arise, like a jack-in-a-box.
Ninepins; spring top; roulette playing for macaroons; jugglers; acrobats;
rope-dancers; dancing dogs and monkeys; a camel ; a bear that beat a tambourine
a goat that danced