The home journal. (Winchester, Tenn.) 1858-188?, 1872-12-05
A STRANGE REVENGE.
The Man that Never Laughs, and
Why He Never Laughed.

l. utu I'LL Olu lIleuus Ii luVC SllOItllt
ever lead you to the graveyard at
Rheims, you might read his name
on a slab that is neighborly with the
tomb of Able Castle, an amiable
poet, who has received credit for
some things which were produced
by somebody else. 1t is as much
as ten years that my old friend has
lain under the cypress that his
grandchildren planted over him.
The wind has gradually filled with
earth the inscription which was in
tended to inform the public "Here
lies M. Jean Bernard Moss has
crept over the specimen of lapidary
caligraphy until the letters of the
epitaph have become a velvet green,
OF the most picturesque appearance.
My old friend, like goodly num-
Der of those who sleep about him,
was something besides tender
spouse and excellent father, for
whose soul prayers are offered up.
He was brave and adventurous he
had travelled extensively, had been
shipwrecked u half dozen times, and
was the possessor of worldly ex-
perience we'll worth consulting. 1t
was a most singular thing, however,
that in spite of his amiable and
often jolly humor, he never laughed
M. Bernard was fond of telling
pleasant stories, but, while oil
around him was convulsed with
laughter, he alone retained his i'm
FEASIBILITY. His features would be-
come animated, his forehead wrin-
kled, his eyes were plainly visible,
but, as to his lips, they did not
seem to be able to explain even that
silent grimace that Fontenelle toll
erated-the smile.
One evening-it was on board the
English steamer Solent-a nephew
of my old friend was sitting by my
side.
"Tell me-" 1 said, suddenly, to the
young man, "why is it that your
uncle never laughs ?"
"What! have you also marked
that popularity that dates away
back to tie days of his boyhood ?"
Cant you tell me about it ?'
eyes; on condition, however,
that you will be careful never to
make any allusion to it in my uncle's
presence.
l promised, but now my old friend
is dead, can take my turn and
tell why it was that he never
laughed.
In 1914, during the great war in
France, Nj. Jean Bernard had reach
ed his fifteenth year. He was living
in Nancy with his mother. His
father had been killed in Liepsic,
and his eldest brother, a captain in
the young guards, was one Of the
10000 heroes who disputed, step by
step, the march of the allies on the
soil of France, whose success lay in
their numbers alone.
1t was q rainy day at the end of
February. The Prussians, beaten
the night before by Napoleon, fled
toward Nancy, and traversed hastily
the almost deserted streets of the
town. Worn out and covered with
mud, they formed on the public
place in front of the Hotel de Vile.
Suddenly there was heard the gallop
OF score of horses ; soldiers hurry
ing on and turning their heads to
look back, loaded their guns. They
felt that they were pursued by the
terrible cuirassiers who had passed
their lines on the night before.
"They are afraid !" cried a young
boy, who was one of the small
crowd of citizens looking on.
A burly captain, with a grizzly
moustache and an athletic form,
heard the remark, looked the boy IN
the face and advanced toward him.
My old iriend-the young boy, l
mean-turned very pale, but doubled
up his fists and awaited his coming.
The colossal Prussian stepped up,
seized the boy by the throat, slapped
his face, and threw him to the
ground. This revenge accomplish
ed, he heightened out his step to
regain his already retreating COM
pany.
The young Frenchman jumped
up quickly to his feet-livid, breath
less, mad with rage-threw himself
upon one of the retreating grena-
J;n.a ,r;kh -. ofro~t - d;oor,,, hin,