The national era. [volume] (Washington [D.C.]) 1847-1860, 1855-07-05
VOL. TX.


patriotism demands at the hands of a true citi-
zen? Blood! IT'S an awkward word. Yet
did it never so occur to me before. have shed
it without remorse. In the days of July, 80;
and again the sanguinary days of June last, in
the Clos 81 Lc.a7re, hesitated not to do my
part in swelling the numbers OF the slain. This
morning. now, | feel timid as child, and my
hands and forehead are all clammy and cold,
as / think of what is to do. l think L am
grown cowardly IT'S but moments act.
Him, or me; or both. Bah The country
must be served, and tits more than weakness to
pause now, when the knell OF death Is already
ringing. But, alas! alas! my country has in
deed come to fearful pass, when upon the
existence of one man now depends the happi-
ness Of millions of his race"
He paused. A strange expression travelled
over his pallid countenance. 1t came, remain
ed an instant, disappeared. With it went the
frown from his brow, the resolution from his
closely-set lips. He stood a few seconds, as if
listening to strange sounds, or recalling faded
memories. They must have been soothing, for
tears presently began to fall down his cheeks.
With this strange influence still upon him, and
as yielding to an irresistible impulse, he slowly
left his chamber, and bent his steps to the
Church of 81. Etienne du Mont.
1t was not distant more than two hundred
yards. Early mass had just commenced. He
Joined the few who had assembled IN the chapel
dedicated to the Virgin Mary, and FRUSTRATED
himself the foot of the altar-so near to IT. that
the hem of the garments of the officiating priest
swept his head, and caused the latter TO turn
aside moment, to see who was the humble
supplant for mercy at the footstool of Eternal
Grace. Absorbed with the one idea that had
taken possession of his mind, Roussillon saw him
not. nor even heard the deep voice that cAanted
the ritual set apart for mathis. Even the ben
ediction escaped him and when the devotees
arose to quit the chapel, they left him still pros
trate on the cold stones, with his face down
wards on the steps of the altar. Suddenly
hand was placed on his shoulder, and a voice
addressed him:
"My son thou art unhappy. Dost thou
seek the succor of the Church 2"
Roussion started up, rather than rose, and
looked at the priest with bewldered express
sion. The priest gazed at him, too, appalled,
at the cleaning eyes and the ghostly face that
confronted him. But the feeling passed away
in an instant He took Roussilon by the arm,
and gently constrained him to accompany him
into the sacristy. When they were In, he
closed the door.
"we are alone my son." he said. "DOst
thou seek absolution 2"
a Deep unearthly voice.
"Thou hast confessed, thcn?" asked the
priest.
"To Him" responded the artist, raising his
hand above his head.
"Not to thy father cOnfessor!" exclaimed
the priest.
II know of none save One, who is Father Of
all, replied the artist.
"But out of the Church there is no salvation,
my son." remarked the other.
a am not in it," answered Roussillon.
"Priests do not belong to my creed. They
are to me as men,
The priest shook his head, and a cloud pass
ed over his countenance.
"Why didst thou come hither this morn
| ing?" he asked.
"An irresistible impulse forced me to come,
replied the artist. "There are times when men
who have lived without what you priests call
religion have call of conscience 1t comes
upon them Unexpectedly; a mere trihe arouses
it. | am one of those. The chimes for mathis
awakened in me memories long since departed
A mothers love hovers around one such. She
it was first taught me prayer; and on that very
spot where but few minutes since knelt,
used to kneel with her. She is dead, but heI
spirit rested on me this morning. | burst mo-
resist her appeal TO come once more and com
mune with her at the shrine at which she wor
shipped. | was not in the world when thy
hand touched me, and owe thee no thanks
priest, for dissipating the bright visions which
were shedding their glory on my troubled soul
But it is over. 60 now, for have that to do
| yet would fain not do, but which must be done
| thank thee for thy charitable intentions, bu
the Church has no solace my soul can accept
Stay, stay" exclaimed the priest, OBTAINING
the artist. '''Tis never too late for -
But Roussillon disengaged himself by gen
tie effort, and, waving his hand deprecatingly
passed out of the sacristy, and slowly retracet
his steps home. He entered the courtyard a
he had left-unseen. On reaching his cham
Der, he hung up his broad SLOUGH brimmed
black felt hat, and then sat down in his chair
laying his HAND on the letter that he had ad
dressed to Paul.
No irresolution now," he said, in low
husky whisper. "But It's fearful moment t.
pass, that which precedes the taking away of
life, deliberately, without passion, yet unre
morsefuly. 'Tis however, only a momentum
struggle, and the plunge is made into the un
seen world where spirits move"
There was drawer in the table on which hi
hand lay. He opened it, and took out a pal
of long -barreled pistols.
"They have done the country good servic
in their time," he continued, " and will save
yet, for my mission must be fulfilled"
Deliberately he loaded them both, prime
and capped them, and put away back into tn
drawer the powder and bullets that remained
The latter were in a small linen bag, the mout
of which he tied up with some care. He the
took two strips of paper, on one of which b
wrote "For him :" and on the other, "Fo
me-" He fastened each strip to the barrel G
the pistols, and deposited again upon the tabl
the one labeled, "For him." The other he re
tanned.
"My hand trembles not" he murmured, i
that same husky voice; "my soul is nc
troubled. | am happy"
he passed his hand over his brow, allowln
1t to remain there for a moment. When he re
moved it, his countenance had assumed tn
strange, almost unearthly, expression which ha
anon passed across it. He opened his vest, an
drew the linen aside from his breast
g 1t beats full and strong" he said, laying hi
: palm on his heart, sand l can see the life with
in, rise and fall. How small thing can sto
, its tidel But not forever! 1t flows on in tina
other sphere where now all is dark to me. bu
, where l behold light breaking. IT'S thou
mother l see thee drawing near in thy gal
ments of glory. Nay, look not sorrowfuily O
7 thy son. Eternity is thine. He comes to thee
+. Yes A moment, and Eternity is mine''
The last words burst from his lips in a wal
!, for they were borne on his departing breat
as the agony of death came over him. III
! ! struggle was momentary. He sank back in h
chair, his arm dropping across his knees, b,
his hand retaining its firm grasp of the wea
t on-even now smoking-which he had turne
q with such suicidal accuracy of aim against b
l. heart.
# There is great commotion in the neighbo