" THE STORY OF OUR LIVES FROM YEAR TO YEAR."—SHAKESPEARE,

A T T TTTT? VI? A T> "D ATTATnAJLdj iilJirf IJEjAJa JtlUUlNJJ,A WEEKLY JOURNAL.

CONDUCTED BY CHARLES DICKENS.WITH WHICH IS INCORPORATED H O U S E H O L D WORDS.

19.] SATURDAY, SEPTEMBER 3, 1859. [PRICE 2«7.

A TALE OF TWO CITIES.3ln Cfirec 33oofcs.

BY CHARLES DICKENS.

iBooK THE'SECOND. THE GOLDEN THREAD.CHAPTER XXII. THE SEA STILL RISES.

HAGGARD Saint Antoine had had only oneexultant week, in which to soften his modicumof hard and'bitter bread to such extent as hecould, with the relish of fraternal embraces andcongratulations, when Madame Defarge sat ather counter, as usual, presiding over the cus-tomers. Madame Defarge wore no rose in -herhead, for the great brotherhood of Spies hadbecome, even in one short week, extremelychary of trusting themselves to the saint'smercies. - The lamps across his streets had aportentously elastic swing with them.

Madame Defarge, with her arms folded, sat inthe morning light and heat, contemplating thewine-shop and the street. In both, there wereseveral knots of loungers, squalid and miserable,but now with a manifest sense of power en-throned on their distress. The raggedest night-cap, awry on the wrctchedest head, had thiscrooked significance in it: "I know how hard ithas grown for me, the wearer of this, to supportlife in myself; but do you know how easy it hasgrown for me, the wearer of this, to destroy lifein you ?" Every lean bare arm, that had beenwithout work before, had this work always readyfor it now, that it could strike. The fingers ofthe knitting women were vicious, with the ex-perience that they could tear. There was achange in the appearance of Saint Antoine;the image had been hammering into this forhundreds of years, and the last finishing blowshad told mightily on the expression.

Madame JDefarge sat observing it, with suchsuppressed approval as was to be desired in thelender of the Saint Antoine women. One of hersisterhood knitted beside her. The short, ratherplump wife of a starved grocer, and the motherof two children withal, this lieutenant hadalready earned tho- complimentary name of TheVengeance.

" Hark !" said The Vengeance. " Listen,then! Who comes ?"

As if a train of powder laid from the outermostbound of the Saint Antoine Quarter to the wine-

shop door, had been suddenly fired, a fast-spread-ing murmur_ came rushing along.

~ " iid madame. " Sileuce,'It is Defarge," saicpatriots!"

Defarge came in breathless, pulled off ared cap he wore, and looked arouud him."Listen, everywhere!" said madame again." Listen to him!" Defarge stood, panting,against, a background of eager eyes and openmouths, formed outside the door; all thosewithin the wine-shop had sprung to their feet.

" Say then, my husband. What is it ?"" News from the other world!"" How, then ?" cried madame, contemp-

tuously. " The other world ?"" Does everybody here recal old Foulon, who

told the famished people that they might eatgrass, and who died, and went to Hell ?"

" Everybody !" from all throats." The news is of him. He is among us !"" Among us I" from the universal throat

again. " And dead ?"" Not dead ! He feared us so much—and

with reason—that he caused himself to be re-presented as dead, and had a grand mock-funeraf. But they have found him alive, hidingin the country, ana have brought him in. I haveseen him but now, on his \yay to the Hotel doVille, a prisoner. T have said that ho had reasonto fear us. Say all! Had ho reason P"

Wretched ola sinner of more than threescoreyears and ten, 'if lie had never knoun it yet,no would have known it in his heart of hearts ifhe could have heard the answering cry.

A moment of profound silence iollowed. De-farge and his wife looked steadfastly at oueanother. The Vengeance stooped^ and the jarof a drum was heard as ske moved it at her feetbehind the counter.

"Patriots!" said Defarge, in a determinedvoice, " are we ready ?"

Instantly Madame Defarge's knife was in hergirdle; the drum was beating iu the streets, asif it and a drummer had flown together bymagic; and The Vengeance, uttering terrificshrieks, and flinging her arms about her headlike all the forty Juries at once, was tearingfrom house to house, rousing the women.

The men were terrible, in the bloody-mindedanger with which they looked from windows,caught up what arms they had, and came pour-ing down into the streets; but, the women werea sight to chill the boldest. From such house-

VOL. I. 19

434 [September 3, 18S9.] ALL THE YEAR BOUND. [Conducted by

hold occupations as their bare poverty yielded,from their children, from their aged and theirsick crouching on the bare ground famishedand naked, they ran out •with streaming hair,urging one another, and themselves, to madnesswith the voidest cries and actions. VillainFoulon taken, my sister! Old Foulon taken, mymother! Miscreant Foulon taken, my daughter!Then, a score of others ran into the midst ofthese, beating their breasts, tearing their hair,and screaming, Foulon alive! Foulon who told thestarving people theymight eat grass! Foulon whotold my old father that he might eat grass, whenI hud no bread to give him! Foulon who toldmy baby it might suck grass, wheu these breastswere dry with want! 0 mother of God, thisFoulon! O Heaven, our suffering! Hear me,my dead baby and my withered father : I swearon my knees, on these stones, to avenge you onFoulon! Husbands, and brothers, and youngmen, Give us the blood of Foulon, Give us thehead of Foulon, Give us the heart of Foulon,Give us the body and soul of Foulon, Rend Fou-lon to pieces, and dig him into the ground, thatgrass may grow from him! With, these cries,numbers of the women, lashed into blind frenzy,whirled about, striking and tearing at their ownfriends until they dropped in a passionate swoon,and were only saved uy the men belonging tothem from being trampled under foot.

Nevertheless, not a moment was lost; not amoment! This Foulon was at the Hotel deVille, and might be loosed. Never, if SaintAntoine knew his own sufferings, insults, andwrongs! Armed men and women flocked outof the Quarter so fast, and drew even these lastdregs after them with such a force of suction,that within a qiiarter of an hour there was notn human creature m Saint Antoinc's bosom buta few old crones and the wailing children.

No. They were all by that time choking theHull of examination where this old man, uglyami v ickcd, was, and overflowing into the aa-jnccnt open space and streets. The Dcfarges,husband and wife, The Vengeance, and JacquesThree, were in the first press, and at no greatdistance from him in the Hall.

"See!" cried madame, pointing with herknife. " See the old villain bound with ropes.That was well done to tie a bunch of grass uponhis back. Ha, ha! That was well done. Lethim eat it now!" Madame put her knife underher arm, and clapped her hands as at a play.

The people immediately behind Madame De-farge, explaining the cause of her satisfaction tothose benind them, and those again explainingto others, and those to others, the neighbouringst.ret.ts resounded with the clapping of hands.Similarly, during two or three liours of drawl,and the winnowing of many bushels of words,Madame Defarge's frequent expressions ofimpatience were taken up, with marvellousquickness, at a distance: the more readily, be-cause certain men who had by some wonderfulexercise of agility climbed up the external archi-tecture to look in from the windows, knew Ma-dame Defarge well, and acted as a telegraph

between her and the crowd outside the build-ing.

At length, the sun rose so high that it strucka kindly ray, as of hope or protection, directlydown upon" the old prisoner's head. The favourwas too much to bear; in an instant the barrierof dnst and chaff that had stood surprisinglylong, went to the winds, and Stunt Antoine hadgot him!

It was known directly, to the furthest con-fines of the crowd. Defarge had but sprungover a railing and a table, and folded the mise-rable wretch in a deadly embrace—MadameDefarge had but followed and turned her handin one of the ropes with which he was tied—The Vengeance and Jacques Three were not yetup with them, and the men at the windows hadnot yet swooped into the Hall, like birds of preyfrom their high perches—when the cry seemedto go up, all over the city, " Bring him out!Bring him to the lamp !"

Down, and up, and head foremost on thesteps of the building; now, on his knees;now, on his feet; now, on his back; dragged,and struck at, and stifled by the bunches ofgrass and straw that were thrust into hisface by hundreds of hands; torn, bruised, pant-ing, bleeding, yet always entreating and be-seecliing for mercy; now, full of vehementagony of action, with a small clear space abouthim as the people drew one another back thatthey might see; now, a log of dead wood drawnthrough a forest of legs; he was hauled to thenearest street corner where one of the fatallamps swung, and there Madame Defarge lethim go—as a cat might have done to a mouse-—and silently and composedly looked at himwhile they made ready, and while he besoughther: the women passionately screeeMng at him allthe time, and the men sternl/ calling out tohave him killed with grass in his mouth. Once,lie went aloft, and the rope broke, and theycaught him shrieking; twice, he went aloft, andthe rope broke, and they caught him shrieking;then, the rope was merciful and held him, nnd iiishead was won upon a pike, with grass enoughin the mouth for nil Saint Antoine to dauce atthe sight of.

Nor was this the end of the day's bad work, forSaint Antoine so shouted and danced his angryblood up, that it boiled again, on hearing whenthe day closed in that the son-in-law of the des-patched, another of the people's enemies andmsulters, was coming into Paris under a guardfive hundied strong, in cavalry alone. SaintAntoine wrote his crimes on flaring sheets ofpaper, seized him—would have torn him out ofthe breast of an army to bear Foulon company—set his head and heart on pikes, and carriedthe three spoils of the day, in Wolf-processionthrough the streets.

Not before dark night did the men andwomen come back to the children, wailing andbreadless. Then, the miserable bakers' shopswere beset by long files of them, patiently wait-ing to buy bad bread; and while they waited withstomachs faint and empty, they beguiled the

ALL THE YEAR HOUND. [Septembers, 18W.J 435

time by embracing one another on the triumphsof the day, and achieving them again in gossip.Gradually, these strings of ragged peopleshortened and frayed away; and then poorlights began to shine in high windows, andslender fires were made in the streets, at whichneighbours cooked in common, afterwardssupping at their doors.

Scanty and insufficient suppers those, andinnocent of meat, as of most other sauce towretched bread. Yet, human fellowship infusedsome nourishment into the flinty -viands, andstruck some sparks of cheerfulness out of them.Fathers and mothers who had had their fullshare in the worst of the day, played gentlywith their meagre children; and lovers, withsuch a world around them and before them,loved and hoped.

It was almost morning, when Defarge'swine-shop parted with its last knot of cus-tomers, and Monsieur Defarge said to madamehis wife, in husky tones, while fastening thedoor:

" At last it is come, my dear!"" Eh well!" returned madame. " Almost."Saint Antoine slept, the Defarges slept: even

The Vengeance slept with her starved grocer,and the drum was at rest. The drum's was theonly voice in Saint Antoine, that blood andhurry had not changed. The Vengeance, ascustodian of the drum, could have wakened himup and had the same speech out of him as beforethe Bastille fell, or old Foulon was seized; notso with the hoarse tones of the men and womenin Saint Antoine's bosom.

CHAPTER XXIII. HBE RISES.THEKE was a change on the village where

the fountain fell, and where the mender of roadswent forth daily to hammer out of the stones onthe highway such morsels of bread as mightserve for patches to hold his poor ignorant souland his poor reduced body, together. Theprison on the crag was not so dominant as ofyore; there vrere soldiers to guard it, but notmany; there were officers to guard the soldiers,but not one of them knew what his men woulddo—beyond this: that it would probably notbe what he was ordered.

Far and wide, lay a ruined country, yieldingnbthing but desolation. Every green leaf,every blade of grass and blade of grain, was asshrivelled and poor as the miserable people.Everything was bowed down, dejected, op-pressed, and broken. Habitations, fences, do-mesticated animals, men, women, children, andthe soil that bore them—all worn out.

Monseigneur (often a most worthy individualgentleman) was a national blessing, gave achivalrous tone to things, was a polite example ofluxurious and shining lifp, and a great deal moreto equal purpose; nevertheless, Monseigneur asa class had, somehow or other, brought things tothis. Strange that Creation, designed expresslyfor Monseigneur, should be so soon wrung dry andsqueezed out! There must be something short-sighted in the eternal arrangements, surely !

Thus it was, however; and the last drop ofblood having been extracted from the flints, andthe last screw of the rack having been turnedso often that its purchase crumbled, and it nowturned and turned with nothing to bite, Mon-seigneur began to run away from a phenomenonso low and unaccountable.

But, this was not the change on the village,and on mauy a village like it. For scores ofyears gone by, Monseigneur had squeezed itand wrung it, and had seldom graced it withhis presence except for the pleasures of thechase — now, found in hunting the people;now, found in hunting the beasts, for whosepreservation Monseigneur made edifying spacesof barbarous and barren wilderness. No. Thechange consisted in the appearance of strangefaces of low caste, rather than in the disap-pearance of the high-caste, chiselled, and other-wise beatified and beatifying features of Mon-seigneur.

For, in these times, as the mender of roadsworked, solitary, in the dust, not often troublinghimself to reflect that dust he was and to dusthe must return, being for the most part toomuch occupied in thinking how little he hadfor supper and how much more he would eat ifhe had it—in these times, as he raised his eyesfrom his lonely labour and viewed the prospect,he would see some rough figure approaching onfoot, the like of which was once a rarity in thoseparts, but was now a frequent presence. As itadvanced, the mender of roads would discernwithout surprise, that it was a shaggy-hairedman, of almost barbarian aspect, tall, in woodenshoes that were clumsy even to the eyes of amender of roads, grim, rough, swart, steeped inthe mud and dust of many highways, dank withthe marshy moisture 01 many low grounds,sprinkled with the thorns and leaves and mossof many byways through woods.

Such a man cauie upon him, like a ffhost, atnoon in the July weather, as he s:it on his heapof stones under a bank, taking such shelter ashe could get from a shower of h;iiL

The man looked at him, looked at the villagein the hollow, at the mill, and at the prison onthe crag. "When he lind identified tuesC( objectsin what benighted mind he had, he said, in a,diidcct that was just intelligible:

" How goes it, Jacques ? '" All well, Jacques,/'" Touch then rThey joined hands, and the man sat down on

the heap of atones."No dinner?"*' Nothing but supper now," said the mender

of roads, with a hungry face." It is the fashion ," growled the man. " I

meet no dinner anywhere."He took out a blackened pipe, filled it, lighted

it with flint and steel, pulled at it until it wasin a bright glow: then, suddenly held it fromhim and dropped something into it from betweenhis finger and thumb, that blazed and went outin a puff of smoke.

"Touch then." *It was the turn of the

43G [September 3,1859.] ALL THE YEAR ROUND. [Conducted ! y

mender of roads to say it this time, after ob-serving these operations. They again joinedhands.

" To-night ?" said the mender of roads." To-night," said the man, putting the pipe

in his mouth."Where?""Here."He and the mender of roads sat on the heap

of stones looking silently at one another, withthe hail driving in between them like a pigmycharge of bayonets, until the sky began to clearover the village.

" Show me !" said the traveller then, movingto the brow of the hill.

" See I" returned the mender of roads, withextended finger. "You go down here, and.straight through the street, and past the foun-tain "

" To the Devil with all that!" interruptedthe other, rolling his eye over the landscape." / go through no streets and past no foun-tains. Well?"

"Well! About two leagues beyond thesummit of that hill above the village." -

" Good. When do you cease to work ?""At sunset."" Will you wake me, before departing ? I

have walked two nights without resting. Letme finish my pipe, and I shall sleep like a child.Will you wake me ?"

"Surely."The wayfarer smoked his pipe out, put it in

his breast, slipped off his great wooden shoes,and lay down on his back on the heap of stones.He was fast asleep directly.

As the road-mender plied his dusty labour,anil the hail-clouds, rolling away, revealed brightbars and streaks of sky which were respondedto by silver gleams upon the landscape, the littleman (who wore a red cap now, in place of hisblue one) seemed fascinated by the figure onthe heap of stones. His eyes were so oftenturned towards it, that he used his tools mecha-nically, and, one would have said, to very pooraccount. The bronze face, the shaggy blackhair and beard, the coarse woollen rea cap, thorough medley dress of homespun stuff and hairyskins of beasts, the powerful frame attenuated byspare living, and the sullen and desperate com-pression of the lips in sleep, inspired the menderof roads with awe. The traveller had travelledfar, and his feet were footsore, and his anklesehafed and bleeding; his great shoes, stuffedwith leaves and grass, had oeen heavy to dragover the many long leagues, and his clothes werechafed into holes, as he himself was into sores.Stooping down beside him, the road-mendertried to get a peep at secret weapons in hisbreast or where not; but, iu vain, for he sleptwith his arms crossed upon him, and set as re-solutely as his lips. Fortified towns with theirstockades, guard-houses, gates, trenches, anddrawbridges, seemed, to the mender of roads, tobe so much air as against this figure. And whenhe lifted his eyes from it to the horizon andlooked around, he saw in his small fancy similar

figures, stopped by no obstacle, tending tocentres all over France.

The man slept on, indifferent to showers ofhail and intervals of brightness, to sunshine onhis face and shadow, to the pattering lumps ofdull ice on his body and the diamonds intowhich the sun changed them, until the sun waslow in the west, and the sky was glowing. Then,the mender of roads having got nis tools toge-ther and all things ready to go down into thevillage, roused him.

" Good!" said the sleeper, rising on his elbow." Two leagues beyond the summit of the hill?"

"About."" About. Good!"The mender of roads went home, with the dust

going on before him according to the set of thewind, and was soon at the fountain, squeezinghimself in among the lean kine brought there todrink, and appearing even to whisper to themin his whispering to all the village. When thevillage had taken its poor supper, it did notcreep to bed, as it usually did, out came out ofdoors again, and remained there. A curiouscontagion of whispering was upon it, and also,when it gathered together at the fountain in thedark, another curious contagion of looking ex-pectantly at the sky in one direction Only.Monsieur Gabelle, chief functionary of theplace, became uneasy; went out on his house-top alone, and looked in that direction toojglanced down from behind his chimneys at thedarkening faces by the fountain below, and sentword to the sacristan who kept the keys of thechurch, that there might be need to ring thetocsin by-and-by.

The night deepened. The trees environingthe old chateau, keeping its solitary state apart,moved in a rising wind, as though they threat-ened the pile of ouilding massive and dark inthe gloom. Up the two terrace flights of stepsthe rain ran wildly, and beat at the great door,like a swift messenger rousing those within;uneasy rushes of wind went through the hall,among the old spears and knives, and passedlamenting up the stairs, and shook the curtainsof the bed where the last Marquis had slept.East, West, North, and South, through thewoods, four heavy-treading, unkempt figurescrushed the high grass and cracked the branches,striding on cautiously to come together in thecourt-yard. Four lights broke out there, andmoved away in different directions, and all wasblack again.

But, not for long. Presently, the chateaubegan to make itself strangely visible by somelight of its own, as though it were growingluminous. Then, a flickering streak played be-hind the architecture of the front, picking outtransparent places, and showing- where balus-trades, arches, and windows were. Then itsoared higher, and grew broader and brighter.Soon, from a score of the great windows, namesburst forth, and the stone faces, awakened,stared out of fire.

A faint murmur arose about the house fromthe few people who were left there, and there

Chnrlrs Dickens ] ALL THE YEAR ROUND. [September 3,18590 437

was saddling of a horse and riding away. Therewas spurring and splashing through the dark-ness, and bridle was drawn in the space by thevillage fountain, and the horse in a foam stoodat Monsieur Gabelle's door. " Help, Gabelle!Help every one !" The tocsin rang impatiently,but other help (if that were any) there wasnone. The mender of roads, and two hundredand fifty particular friends, stood with foldedarms at the fountain, looking at the pillar offire in the sky. " It must be forty feet high,"said they, grimly; and never moved.

The rider from the chateau, and the horse ina foam, clattered away through the village, andgalloped up the stony steep, to the prison onthe crag. At the gate, a group of officers werelooking at the fire; removed from them, a groupof soldiers. " Help, gentlemen-officers ! Thechateau is on fire; valuable objects may besaved from the flames by timely aid! Help Ihelp !" The officers looked towards the soldierswho looked at the fire; gave no orders ; and an-swered, with shrugs and biting of lips, " Itmust bum."

As the rider rattled down the hill again andthrough the street, the village was illuminating.The mender of roads, and the two hundred andfifty particular friends, inspired as one man andwoman by the idea of lighting up, had dartedinto their houses, and were putting candles inevery dull little pane of glass. The generalscarcity of everything, occasioned candles to beborrowed in a rather peremptory manner ofMonsieur Gabelle; and in a moment of reluct-ance and hesitation on that functionary's part,the mender of roads, once so submissive toauthority, had remarked that carriages weregood to make bonfires with, and that post-horses•would roast.

The chateau was left to itself to flame andburn. In the roaring and raging of the confla-gration, a red-hot wind, driving straight fromthe infernal regions, seemed to DC blowing theedifice away. With the rising and falling of theblaze, the stone faces showed as if they were intorment. Wli&i great masses of stone and timberfell, the face with the two dints in the nosebecame obscured: anon struggled out of thesmoke again, as if it were the tace of the cruelMarquis, burning at the stake and contendingwith the fire.

The chateau burned; the nearest trees, laidhold of by the fire, scorched and shrivelled;trees at a distance, fired by the four fiercefigures, begirt the blazing edifice with a newforest of smoke. _ Molten lead and iron boiledin the marble basin of the fountain; the waterran dry; the extinguisher tops of the towersvanished like ice before the heat, and trickleddown into four rugged wells of flame. Greatrents and splits branched out in the solid walls,like crystallisation; stupified birds wheeledabout, and dropped into the furnace; four fiercefigures trudged away, East, West, North, andSouth, along the night-enshrouded roads,,guidedby the beacon they had lighted, towards theirnext destination. The illuminated village had

seized hold of the tocsin, and, abolishing the law-ful ringer, rang for joy.

Not only that; but, the village, light-headedwith famine, fire, and bell-ringing, and bethink-ing itself that Monsieur Gabelle nad to do withthe collection of rent and taxes—though it wasbut a small instalment of taxes, and no rentat all, that Gabelle had got in in those latterdays—became impatient for an interview withhim, and, surrounding his house, summonedhim to come forth for personal conference.Whereupon, Monsieur Gabelle did heavily barhis door, and retire to hold counsel with' him-self. The result of that conference was, thatGabelle again withdrew himself to his house-topbehind his stack of chimneys: this time resolredif his door were broken in (he was a smallSouthern man of retaliative temperament), topitch himself head foremost over the parapet,and crush a man or two below.

Probably, Monsieur Gabelle passed a longnight up there, with the distant chateau forfire and candle, and the beating at his door,combined with the joy-ringing, for music ; notto mention his having an ill-omened lamp slungacross the road before his posting-house gate,which the village showed a lively inclination todisplace in his favour. A trying suspense, to bepassing a whole summer night on the brinkof the black ocean, ready to take that plungeinto it upon which Monsieur Gabelle had re-solved ! But, the friendly dawn appearing atlast, and the rush-candles of the village gutter-ing out, the people happily dispersed, and Mon-sieur Gabelle came down, bringing his life withhim for that while.

Within a hundred miles, and in the light ofother fires, there were other functionaries lessfortunate, that night and other nights, whomthe rising sun found hanging across once-peace-ful streets, where they had been born and ored ;also, there were other villagers and townspeopleless fortunate than the mender of roads undhis fellows, upon whom the functionaries andsoldiery turned with success, and whom thoystrung up in their turn. But, the fierce figureswere steadily wending East, West, North, antfSouth, be that as it would; and whosoever hung,fire burned. The altitude of the gallows thatwould turn to water and qucncli it, no func-tionary, by any stretch ol mathematics, wasable to calculate successfully.

FAIRY RINGS.

FUNGUSES are everywhere. ~ Spreading fromone end of the laud to the other, they asserttheir dominion from cellar to garret: someeven preferring to leave this earth, have been,found suspended, like Mahomet's coffin, betweenit and the stars, on the highest pinnacle ofSaint Paul's. Few persons imagine that thedelicious mushroom, the poisonous toad-stool,or the puff-balls of our pastures, bear any rela-tionship to the mouldiness and mildew wliich so

' See Good and Bad Fungus, page o41.

'THE STORY OF OUR LIVES FROM YEAR TO YEAR."—SHAKESPEARE.

ALL THE TEAR ROUND,A WEEKLY JOURNAL.

CONDUCTED BY CHARLES DICKENS.WITH WHICH IS I N C O R P O R A T E D H O U S E H O L D WORDS.

- 20.] SATURDAY, SEPTEMBER 10, 1859. [PRICE

A TALE OF TWO CITIES.35n CCfjree Uoofes.

BY CHARLES DICKENS.

BOOK THE SECOND. THE GOLDEN THREAD.CHAPTER XXIV. DRAWN TO THE LOADSTONE ROCK.

IN such risings of fire and risings of sea—thefirm earth shaken by the rushes of an angryocean which had now no ebb but was always onthe flow, higher and higher, to the terror andwonder of the beholders on the shore—threeyears of tempest were consumed. Three morebirthdays of little Lucie had been woven by the

golden thread into the peaceful tissue of thefe of her home.Many a night and many a day Lad its inmates

listened to the echoes in the corner, with heartsthat failed them when they heard the throngingfeet. For, the footsteps had become to theirminds as the footsteps of a people, tumultuousunder a red flag and with their country declaredin danger, changed into wild beasts, by terribleenchantment long persisted in.

Monseigneur, as a class, had dissociated him-self from the phenomenon of his not being ap-preciated : of his being so little wanted in France,as to incur considerable danger of receiving hisdismissal from it, and this life together. Like thefabled rustic who raised the Devil with infinitepains, and was so terrified at the sight of him thathe could ask the Enemy 110 question, but imme-diately fled; so, Monseigneur, after boldly read-ing the Lord's Prayer oackwards for a greatnumber of years, and performing many otherpotent spells for compelling the Evil One, nosooner beheld him in his terrors than he took tohis noble heels.

The shining Bull's Eye of the Court was gone,or it would nave been the mark for a hurri-cane of national bullets. It had never been agood eye to see with—had long had the mote init of Lucifer's pride, Sardanapalus's luxury,and a mole's blindness—but it had dropped outand was gone. The Court, from that exclusiveinner circle to its outermost rotten ring of in-trigue, corruption, and dissimulation, was allgone together. Royalty was gone; had beenbesiegedin its Palace and " suspended," whenthe last tidings came over.

The August of the year one thousand

seven hundred and ninety-two was come, andMonseigneur was by this time scattered far andwide.

As was natural, the head-quarters and greatgathering-place of Monseigneur, in London, wasTellson's Bank. Spirits are supposed to hauntthe places where their bodies most resorted, andMonseigneur without a guinea haunted the spotwhere nis guineas used to be. Moreover, itwas the spot to which such French intelligenceas was most to be relied upon, came quickest.Again: Tellson's was a munificent house, andextended great liberality to old customers whohad fallen from their high estate. Again:those nobles who had seen the coming storm intime, and, anticipating plunder or confiscation,had made provident remittances to Tellson's,were always to be heard of there by their needybrethren. To which it must be added that everynew comer from France reported himself and histidings at Tellson's, almost as a matter of course.For such variety of reasons, Tellson's was at thattime, as to French intelligence, a kind of HighExchange; and this was &o well known to thepublic, and the inquiries made there were inconsequence so numerous, that Tellson's some-times wrote the latest news out in a line or soand posted it in the Bank windows, for all whoran through Temple Bar to read.

On a steaming, inisty afternoon, Mr. Lorry satat his desk, and Charles Darauy stood leaning onit, talking with him in a low voice. The peni-tential den once set apart for interviews withthe House, was now the news-Exchange, andwas filled to overflowing. It was within half anhour or so of the time of closing.

"But, although you are the youngest manthat ever lived, said Charles Darnay, ratherhesitating, "I must still suggest to you "

"I understand. That I am too old?" saidMr. Lorry.

" Unsettled weather, a long journey, uncertainmeans of travelling, a disorganised country, acity that may not even be safe for you."

"My dear Charles," said Mr. Lorry, withcheerful confidence, "you touch some of thereasons for my going: not for my staving away.It is safe enough for me; nobody will care tointerfere with an old fellow of hard upon four-score when there are so many people theremuch better worth interfering with. As to itsbeing a disorganised city, if it were not a dis-organised city there would be no occasion to

VOL. I.

45 8 [September 10,1859.] ALL THE YEAR ROUND. [Conducted by

send somebody from our House here to ourHouse there, who knows the city and the busi-ness, of old, aud is iu Tcllson's confidence. Asto the uncertain travelling, the long journey, andthe winter weathet,- if I- were not prepared- tosubmit myself to a few inconveniences for thesake of lellson's, after ail these' years, whoought to be P"

"I wish I were going myself," said CharlesDarnay, somewhat restlessly, and like one think-ing aloud.

" Indeed ! You arc a pretty fellow to objectand advise !" exclaimed Mr. Lorry. " You wishyou were going yourself P And you a French-man bom ? You arc a wise counsellor."

" My dear Mr. Lorry, it is because I am aFrenchman born, that the thought (which I didnot mean to utter here, however) has passedthrough my mind often. One cannot helpthinking, having had some sympathy for themiserable people, and having abandoned some-thing to them," he spoke here in his formerthoughtful manner, "that one might be listenedto, and might have the power to persuade tosome restraint. Only last night, after youhad left us, when I was talking to Luoie "

"When you were talking to Lucie," Mr.Lorry repeated. " Yes. I wonder you are notashamed to mention the name of Lucie!Wishing you were going to Trance at this timeof day!"

"However, I am not going," said CharlesDarnay, with a smile. " It is more to the pur-pose that you sjiy you are."

" And I am, in plain reality. The truth is,my dear Charles, Mr. Lorry glanced at thedistant House, and lowered his voice, " you canhave no conception of the difficulty with whichour business is transacted, and of the peril inwhich our books and papers over yonder are in-volved. The Lord above knows what the com-promising consequences would be to numbers ofpeople, it some of our ddcumcnts were soi/edor destroyed ; and they might be, at any time,you know, for who can say that Paris is notset afire to-day, or sacked to-morrow ! Now, ajudicious selection from these with the leastpossible delay, and tho burying of them, orotherwise getting of them out of harm's way, iswithin the power (without loss of precious time)of scarcely any one but myself, if any one. Anashall I hang back, when lellson's knows this andsays this—-Tellson's, whose bread I have eatenthese sixty years—because I am a little stiffabout the joints ? Why, I am a boy, sir, to halfa dozen old codgers here!"

" How I admire the gallantry of your youthfulspirit, Mr. Lorry."

"Tut! Nonsense, sir!—And, my dear Charles,"said Mr. Lorry, glancing at the House again,"you are to remember, that getting things outof Paris at this present time, no matter whatthings, is next to an impossibility. Papers andprecious matters were this very day brought to ushere (I speak in strict confidence; it is notbusiness-like to whisper it, even to you), by thestrangest bearers you can imagine, every one of

whom had his head hanging on by a singlehair as lie passed the Barriers. At anothertime, our parcels would come and go, a§ easilyas iu business-like Old England; but no\v, every-thing is stopped."

"And do you really go to-night ?"" I really go to-night, for the case has become

too pressing to admit of delay."" And do you take no one with you ?"" All sorts of people have been proposed to

me, but T will have nothing to say to any ofthem. I intend to take Jerry. Jerry has beenmy body-guard on Sunday nights for a long timepast, and I am used to him. Nobody will sus-pect Jerry of being anything but an Englishbulldog, or of having any design in his headbut to fly at anybody who touches his master."

" I must say again that" I heartily admireyour gallantry and youthfulness."

" I must say again, nonsense, nonsense!When I have executed this little commission, Ishall, perhaps, accept Tellson's proposal to retireand live at my ease. Time enough, then, tothink about growing old."

This dialogue had taken place at Mr. LorryVusual desk, with Monseigneur swarming withuva yard or two of it, boastful of what he woulddo to avenge himself on the rascal-people beforelong. It was too much the way of Monseigneurunder his reverses as a refugee, and it wasmuch too much the way of native British or-thodoxy, to talk of this terrible Revolution as itit were the one only harvest ever known underthe skies that had not been sown—as if nothinghad ever been done, or omitted to be done, thathad led to it-^-as if observers of the wretchedmillions in France, and of the misused and per-verted resources that should have made themprosperous, had not seen it inevitably coming,years before, and had not in plain words recordedwhat they saw. Such vapouring, combined withthe extravagant plots 01 Monseigneur for thorestoration of u state of things that had utterlyexhausted itself, and worn out Heaven andearth as well as itself, was hard to be enduredwithout some remonstrance by any sane manwho knew the truth. And it was such vapour-ing all about his cars, like a troublesome con-fusion of blood in his own head, added to alatent uneasiness in his mind, which had alreadymade Charles Darnay restless, and which stillkept him so.

Among the talkers, was Stryver, of the King'sBench Bar, far on his way to state promotion,and, therefore, loud on the theme: broaching toMonseigneur, his devices for blowing the peopleup and exterminating them from the face of theearth, and doing without them: and for accom-plishing many similar objects akin in their natureto the abolition of eagles by sprinkling salt onthe tails of the race. Him, Darnay heard witha particular feeling of objection; and Darnaystood divided between going away that he mighthear no more, and remaining to interpose uisword, when the thing that was to bn, went onto shape itself out.

The House approached Mr. Lorry, and laying

CUsrki Dickens ] ALL THE YEAH KOUND. r 10 ISM.] 459

a soiled and unopened letter before him, askedif he had yet discovered any traces of the personto whom it was addressed? The House laidthe letter down so close to Darnay that he sawthe direction—the more quickly, because it washis own right name. The address, turned intoEnglish, ran: " Very pressing. To Monsieurheretofore the Marquis St. Evreinond, of Prance,Confided to the cares of Messrs. Tellsou and Co.,Bankers, London, England."

On the marriage morning, Doctor Ma-nette had made it his one urgent and expres srequest to Charles Darnay, that the secret ofthis name should be—unless he, the Doctor, dis-solved the obligation—kept inviolate betweenthem. Nobody else knew it to be his name ;his own. Avife had no suspicion of the fact; Mr.Lorry could have none.

" No," said Mr. Lorry, in reply to the House;" I have referred it, I think, to everybody nowhere, and no one can tell me where this gen-tleman is to be found."

The hands of the clock verging upon the hourof closing the Bank, there was a general set ofthe current of talkers past Mr. Lorry's desk.He held the letter out inquiringly; and Mon-seigiieur looked at it, in the person of this plottingand indignant refugee ; and Monseigneur lookedat it, in the person of that plotting and indig-nant refugee; and This, That, and The Other,all had something disparaging to say, inFrench or in English, concerning the Marquiswho was not to be found.

" Nephew, I believe—but in any case degene-rate successor—of the polished Marquis who wasmurdered," said one. "Happy to say, I neverknew him."

" A craven who abandoned his post," saidanother—this Monseigneur had been got oatof Paris, legs uppermost and half suffocated, ina load of hay—" some years ago."

" Infected with the now doctrines," said athird, eyeing the direction through his class in

Sssiug; 'Set himself in opposition to the lasturquis, abandoned the estates when he in-

herited them, and left them to the rufliau herd.They will recompense him now, I hope, as hedeserves."

" Hey ?" cried the Hal ant Stryvcr. " Did hethough } Is that the sort of fellow P Let us lookat his infamous name. D—n the fellow!"

Darnay, unable to restrain himself any longer,touched Mr. Stryvcr on the shoulder, and said :

" I know the fellow."" Do you, by Jupiter?" said Stryver. "lam

sorry for it."" Why ?"" Why, Mr. Darnay ? D'ye hear what he did ?

Don't ask, why, in these times."" But 1 do ask why."" Then I tell you again, Mr. Darnay, I am

sorry for it. I am sorry to hear you puttingany such extraordinary questions. Here isa fellow, who, infected by the most pestilentand blasphemous codo of devilry that ever wasknown, abandoned his property to the vilest scumof the earth that ever did murder by wholesale,

and you ask me why I am sorry that a man whoinstructs youth knows him ? Well, but I'll an-swer you. 1 am sorry, because I believe thereis contamination in such a scoundrel. That'swhy."

Mindful of the secret, Darnay with great dif-ficulty checked himself, and said: " You maynot understand the gentleman."

" I understand how to put yon in a corner,Mr. Darnay," said Bully Stryvcr, "mid I'll do it." If this fellow is a gentleman, I don't under-stand him. You may tell him so, with my com-pliments. You may also tell him, from me, thatafter abandoning his worldly goods and positionto this butcherly mob, I wonder he is not at thehead of them. But, no, gentlemen," said Stryver,looking all round, and snapping his fingers, " Iknow something of human nature, and I tellyou that you'll never find a fellow like this fel-low, trusting himself to the mercies of suchprecious proteges. No, gentlemen; he'll alwaysshow 'em a clean pair of heels very early in thescuffle, and sneak away."

With those words, and a final snap of hisfingers, Mr. Stryver shouldered himself intoFleet-street, amidst the general approbation ofhis hearers. Mr. Lorry and Charles Darnaywere left alone at the desk, ill the general de-parture from, the Bank.

" Will you take charge of the letter ?" saidMr. Lorry. " You know where to deliver it ?"

"I do.""Will you undertake to explain that we

suppose it to have been addressed here, on thechance of our knowing where to forward it, andthat it has been here some time?"

" I will do so. Do you start for Paris from,here?"

" Froni here, at eight."" I will come back, to see you oft'."Very ill at ease with himself, and with Stryvcr

and most other raeii, Daruay made the best ofhi.s way into the quiet of the Temple, opened theletter, and read it. These were its contents :

" Prison of tho Abbnyo, Paris."Juno 21, 1792.

"MONSIEUK UMll-TOfORr,, THE MA l(C,) f l l , s ." After having long been iu danger of nij life at

the hands of the village, I have been seized, w ithgreat violence aud indignity, and brought a longjourney on foot to Paris. On the road I havesuffered a great deal. Nor is that all; myhouse has been destroyed—razed to the ground.

"The crime for which I am imprisoned,Monsieur heretofore the Marquis, and forwluch I shall be summoned before the tribunal,nud shall lose my life (without your so gene-rous help), is, they tell me, treason against themajesty of the people, in that I have actedagainst them for an emigrant. It is in vain1 represent that I have acted for them, and notagainst, according to your commands. It is in,vain I represent that, before the sequestrationof emigrant property, I had remitted the im-posts they had ceased to pay; that I hadcollected no rent; that I had had recourseto no process. The only response is, that I

460 [September 10,1859.] ALL THE YEAR ROUND.

have acted for an emigrant, and where is thatemigrant ?

" Ah ! most gracious Monsieur heretofore theMarquis, where is that emigrant! I cry in mysleep where is he ! I demand of Heaven, willhe not come to deliver me ! No answer. AhMonsieur heretofore the Marquis, I send mydesolate cry across the sea, hoping it may per-haps reach your ears through the great bank ofTiison known at Paris !

" For the love of Heaven, of justice, ofgenerosity, of the honour of your noble name, Isupplicate you, Monsieur heretofore the Mar-quis, to succour and release me. My fault is,that I have been true to you. O Monsieurheretofore the Marquis, I pray you be you trueto me!

" From this prison here of horror, whence Ievery hour tend nearer and nearer to destruc-tion, I send you, Monsieur heretofore theMarquis, the assurance of my dolorous and un-happy service.

" Your afflicted," GABELLE."

The latent uneasiness in Darnay's mind wasroused to vigorous life by this letter. The perilof an. old servant and a good one, whose onlycrime was fidelity to himself and his family,stared him so reproachfully in the face, that, ashe walked to and fro in the Temple consideringwhat to do, he almost hid his face from thepassers-by.

He knew very well, that in his horror of thedeed which had culminated the bad deeds andbad reputation of the old family house, in hisresentful suspicions of his uncle, and in the aver-sion with which his conscience regarded thecrumbling fabric that he was supposed to up-hold, he had acted imperfectly. He knew verywell, that in his love lor Lucie, his renunciationof his social place, though by no means new tohis own mind, hud been uurried and incomplete.He knew that he ought to have systematicallyworked it out and sunervihcd it, and that hehud meant to do it, ana that it had never beendone.

The happiness of his own choscnEnglish home,the necessity of being always actively employed,the swift changes and troubles of the time whichhad followed on one another so fast, that theeventsof this week annihilated theimmaturc plansof last week, and the events of the week fol-lowing made all new again; he knew very well,that to the force of these circumstances he hadyielded:—not without disquiet, but still withoutcontinuous and accumulating resistance. Thathe had watched the times for a time of action, andthat they had shifted and struggled until the timehad gone by, and the nobibty were troopingfrom France by every highway and by-way, anatheir property was in course of confiscation anddestruction, and their very names were blottingout, was as well known to himself as it could beto any new authority in France that might im-peach him for it.

But, he had oppressed no man, he had im-prisoned no man; he was so far from having

harshly exacted payment of his dues, that he hadrelinquished them of his own will, thrown him-self on a world with no favour in it, won hisown private place there, and earned his ownbread. Monsieur Gabclle had held the impo-verished and involved estate on written instruc-tions to spare the people, to give them whatlittle there was to give—such fuel as the heavycreditors would let them have in the winter,and such produce as could be saved from thesame grip in the summer—and no doubt he ha$put the fact in plea and proof, for his ownsafety, so that it could not but appear now.

This favoured the desperate resolution CharlesDarnay had begun to make, that he would go to-Paris.

Yes. Likethe mariner in the old story, the windsand streams had driven him within the influenceof the Loadstone Rock, and it was drawing himto itself, and he must go. Everything thatarose before his mind drifted him on, faster andfaster, more and more steadily, to the terribleattraction. His latent uneasiness had been, thatbad aims were being worked out in his own un-happy land by bad instruments, and that he whocould not fail to know that he was better thanthey, was not there, trying to do something tostay bloodshed, and assert the claims of mercyand humanity. With this uneasiness half stifled,and half reproaching him, he had been brought tothepointed comparison of himself with thebraveoldgentleman in whom duty was so strong; upon thatcomparison (injurious to himself), had instantlyfollowed the sneers of Monseigneur, which hadstung him bitterly, and those of Stryver, whichabove all were coarse and galling, for old reasonsUpon those, had followed Gabelle's letter : theappeal of an innocent prisoner, in danger ofdeath, to his justice, honour, and good name.

His resolution was made. He must go toParis.

Yes. The Loadstone Rock was drawing him,and he must sail on, until he struck. He knew ofno rock; he saw hardly any danger. The in-tention with which he had done what he haddone, even although he had left it incomplete,presented it before him in an aspect that wouldbe gratefully acknowledged in France on hispresenting himself to assert it. Then, thatglorious vision of doing good, which is so oftenthe sanguine mirage of so many good minds,arose before him, and he even saw himself inthe illusion with some influence to guide thisraging Revolution that was running so fearfullywild.

As he walked to and fro with his resolutionmade, he considered that neither Lucie nor herfather must know of it until he was gone.Lucie should be spared the pain of separation;and her father, always reluctant to turn histhoughts towards the dangerous ground of old,should come to the knowledge of the step, as astep taken, and not in the balance of suspenseand doubt. How much of the incompletenessof his situation was referable to her father,through the painful anxiety to avoid revivingold associations of France m his mind, he did

Charles Dickens.] ALL THE YEAR HOUND. [September 10,1 Si'l.] 461

not discuss with himself. But, that circum-stance too, had had its influence iu his course.

He walked to and fro, with thoughts verytusy, until it was time to return to Tellson's,and take leave of Mr. Lorry. As soon as hearrived in Paris he would present himself to thisold friend, but he must say nothing of his inten-tion now.

A carriage with post-horses was ready at theBank door, and Jerry was booted and equipped.

" I have delivered that letter," said CharlesDarnay to Mr. Lorry. " I would not consentto your being charged with any written answer,but perhaps you will take a verbal one ?"

" That I will, and readily," said Mr. Lorry," if it is not dangerous."

" Not at all. Though it is to a prisoner inthe Abbaye."

" What is his name ?" said Mr. Lorry, withhis open pocket-book in his hand.

" Gabelle."" Gabelle. And what is the message to the

unfortunate Gabelle in prison ?"" Simply, ' that he has received the letter, and

will come.'"" Any time mentioned ?""He will start upon his journey to-morrow

night.""Any person mentioned?""No."He helped Mr. Lorry to wrap himself in a

number of coats and cloaks, and went out withhim from the warm atmosphere of the old bank,into the misty air of Fleet-street. "My loveto Lucie, and to little Lucie," said Mr. Lorryat parting, " and take precious care of them tillI come back." Charles Darnay shook his headand doubtfully smiled, as the carriage rolledaway.

That night — it was the fourteenth of Au-gust— he sat up late, and wrote two ferventletters; one was to Lucie, explaining thestrong obligation he was under to go to Paris,and showing her, at length, the reasons that hehad, for feeling confident that he could becomeinvolved in no personal danger there ; the otherwas to the Doctor, confiding Lucie and theirdear child to his care, and dwelling on the sametopics with the strongest assurances. To both,he wrote that he would despatch letters in proofof his safety, immediately after his arrival.

It was a hard day, that day of being amongthem, with the first reservation of their jointlives on his mind. It was a hard matter to pre-serve the innocent deceit of which they wereprofoundly unsuspicious. But, an affectionate

fiance at his wife, so happy and busy, madeim resolute, not to tell her what impended (lie

had been half moved to do it, so strange it wasto him to act in anything without her quiet aid),and the day passed quickly. Eady in theevening he embraced her, and her scarcely lessdear namesake, pretending that he would re-turn by-and-by (an imaginary engagement tookhim out, and he had secreted a Aralise of clothesready), and so he emerged into the heavy mist ofthe heavy streets, with a heavier heart.

The unseen force was drawing him fast to itself,now, and all the tides and winds were settingstraight and strong towards it. He left his twoletters with a trusty porter, to be delivered halfan hour before midnight, and no sooner; tookhorse for Dover ; and began his journey. " Forthe love of Heaven, of justice, of generosity, ofthe honour of your noble name!" was the poorprisoner's cry with which he strengthened hissinking heart, as he left all that was dear onearth behind him, and floated away for the Load-stone Rock.

THE END or THE SECOND BOOK.

NORTH-ITALIAN CHARACTER.

Now that there appears to be a chance oftesting by experiment the possibility of North-Italian independence, a looker-on will becurious to know what promise is afforded bythe character and habits of the people themselves.For men can observe what is going on in theworld, or can reflect on the chapters of historythey have read, without coming to the conclu-sion that each distinct nation is specially suited tolive under some one special form of government.

Of what are the North-Italians capable ? Eng-land, and her numerous progeny, must and willhave self-government. The Trench, on the con-trary, neverdo so well aswhen theirvessel of stateis steered by a firm, a capable, and even a severepilot. They are too explosive, too deficient insang-froid and self-restraint, to bear, withoutdanger, the excitements of parliamentary debateand of an unfettered press; they are too vain,too ambitious individually, too fond of distinc-tion, and, at the same time, too richly gifted withpersonal talent, to work out fairly the theoreticalequality implied by a republic. Under a LouisXIV., or a Bonaparte, they flourish and thrive.They bear blossoms and fruit. If the history ofthe modern Italians indicates anything, it wouldseem to show that an oligarchy is their mostcongenial political clement. Tho republic* ofGenoa ana Venice, with ihcir Councils of Ten,were always Jealous and exclusive aristocra-cies. The Popedom was, and is, an aris-tocracy of Prelates and Cardinals. The Popehimself may, by chance, bo a man of ability:more frequently he has been a man of tatte, anaof good intentions. But what sort of headwas required by the princes of the Church, as ageneral rule, is evident from the fact that it waspossible for a candidate for the Papal throne tosecure his election by assuming crutches, de-crepitude, and the stoop of extreme old age,casting them off afterwards with the sarcastic re-mark that he had been long looking for the keysof St. Peter, and that now he had found them!

We therefore watch with considerable in-terest what course liberated Italy is likely toadopt in the management of her own domesticaffairs. To enable us to spell her horoscope, weagain recur, with fuller reference, to the strikingsketch which we owe to Mr. Antonio Gallenga,a gentleman of Piedmontese parentage, but so