A STORY FROM M. DE BALZAC.- Our readers will remember several interesting translations from the French of M. DE BALZAC, which were furnished to the KNICKERBOCKER by a valued correspondent, whom we hope soon again to encounter in its pages, and especially a masterly critique of COOPER'S Pathfinder.' The following from the same eminent author has been translated by a friend, from whom we have received several papers of kindred interest, which are in store for our new volume. We have rarely perused a more striking and spirited sketch :

STORY OF THE

CHEVALIER

DE BEAUVOIR.

A SHORT time after the 18th Brumaire, there was a rising in Brittany and La Vendée. The First Consul, anxious to restore peace to France, entered into negotiations with the principal leaders. Adopting the most vigorous military measures, and combining every thing in his plans, he put into play the Machiavellian resources of the police, at that time intrusted to FOUCHE, and finally succeeded in quelling the disturbances of the West.

About this time a young man belonging to the family of Maille was sent by the royalists of La Vendée from Brittany to Saumur, to establish communications between certain persons of the city and its environs and the chiefs of the royalist insurrection. Informed of his design, the police of Paris despatched agents to arrest the young emissary on his arrival at Saumur. He was actually arrested the very day he landed, for he came in a batteau under the disguise of a master-mariner. But he was 'a man of deeds.' He had calculated all the chances of his enterprise, and his passport and papers were so well regulated that the agents sent to seize him were in utter doubt as to his identity.

The CHEVALIER DE BEAUVOIR had well conceived his character. He quoted his borrowed family, his false place of residence, and bore his examination so well, that he would at once have been set at liberty, had not the officers placed the most implicit confidence in their instructions. They were precise; in doubt, they preferred rather to commit an arbitrary act than suffer a man to escape, to whose capture the First Consul appeared to attach great importance. In those days of liberty the agents of the national power cared very little for what we call now-a-days 'legalité.'

The chevalier was provisionally imprisoned, until the higher authorities should decide upon his case. The official sentence was soon ratified; and the police received orders to guard his person with the strictest vigilance, notwithstanding his continued declarations of innocence. He was now transferred, in conformity with the new orders, to the Escarpe.' This name was well worthy the situation of the fortress. Perched upon very high rocks, with precipices for its fosses, its only approach was by a narrow and dangerous path, leading as is always the case to the principal gate, which was defended by a fosse, over which was thrown a draw-bridge.

The commandant of the prison, charmed to have in his keeping a man of distinction and of pleasing manners, and who seemed well informed, (qualities quite rare at that time,) received the Chevalier as a boon from Providence. He proposed to him the freedom of the Escarpe' on his parole of honor, and that they should make common cause against the ennui of the place. Beauvoir asked nothing better. He was a noble gentleman; but he was unfortunately also a very handsome youth. He had an attractive face, bold air, engaging manners, and prodigious strength. He would have been an excellent chief for a party. The commandant assigned him the most commodious apartments of the chateau, and admitted him to his own table.

This commandant was a Corsican officer. He was married, and very jealous; perhaps because his pretty wife seemed to him difficult to watch. Beauvoir, it transpired, made advances to the lady. They were without doubt attracted to each other. Did they commit any imprudence? Did the feelings with which each inspired the other lead him beyond the bounds of that superficial gallantry which is almost our duty toward women? Beauvoir has never clearly explained this point in his story. At all events, the commandant thought himself warranted in exercising the strictest rigor over his prisoner. He was thrown into a cell situated immediately under the platform of the turret, and arched out of the solid rock. The walls were of desperate thickness; the turret was probably over a precipice. There was no chance for escape.

When Beauvoir became satisfied of the impossibility of gaining his liberty, he fell into one of those reveries which are the despair and consolation of prisoners. He occupied himself with those little nothings which grow into great things. He received the baptism of grief. He reflected himself, and only remembered there was a sun. After fifteen days he felt that terrible malady, the fever for liberty, which urges prisoners to desperate enterprises.

One morning the gaoler who brought food to Beauvoir, instead of leaving him, as was his custom as soon as he had set down his scanty pittance, stood with his arms folded, and gazed fixedly at him. Their conversation had never reached more than a few words, and the turnkey had never been the first to commence it. You may well imagine the astonishment of the prisoner, when the man said to him: Monsieur, you have no doubt your own object in view in calling yourself Le Brun or Citizen Le Brun. That is no business of mine. It is nothing to me whether your name is Pierre or Paul; but I know,' said he, twinkling his eye, 'that you are M. Charles-Felix Théodore, Chevalier de Beauvoir, and cousin to Madame la Duchesse de Maille.'

Knowing himself incarcerated in a strong prison, and inferring that his position could be made no worse by a confession of his real name, Beauvoir replied:

C Well, suppose I am the Chevalier de Beauvoir? — what will you gain by it?'

'Every thing,' replied the gaoler, in a whisper. 'Listen. I have received money to aid your escape. As I shall be shot if I am suspected of having had any thing to do with the affair, I will only assist you so far as to gain my money. Look Monsieur!'-and he drew from his pocket a small file; 'with this you can cut through one of the bars;' and he pointed to a narrow loop-hole with two bars across it, through which the light entered the cell. 'Monsieur, you must cut through before you can pass out.'

"You may rest quiet. I will pass.'

"You must leave the lower part of the bar to fasten your cord to.' "Where is it?'

'Here,' replied the turnkey, throwing him a knotted cord; it is made of coarse linen, to lead to the belief that you made it yourself. It is of sufficient strength; and when you reach the last knot, step quietly to the ground. The rest is your own affair. You will probably find in the neighborhood a carriage and friends awaiting you. Of that I wish to know nothing. I have no need to tell you that there is a sentinel posted in the street. You will risk perhaps a ball from his carbine ; but'

Very well, very well,' said the Chevalier; 'I will not rot here.'

That might be best for you, after all,' sullenly replied the turnkey.

The hope of once more gaining his freedom produced in his mind such an excitement that he could spare no more time in discourse. He immediately addressed himself to the work; and the day was just sufficient for him to saw through the bar. Fearing a visit from the commandant, he filled the crevice with crums of bread rolled in the filings, to give them the color of iron: he waited until he judged the garrison to be asleep, when he fastened his cord to the lower part of the bar, which he had left, agreeable to the instructions of the turnkey, and crept to the outer edge of the loop-hole, grasping with one hand the end of the bar which remained in the stone. Here he awaited the darkest hour toward morning, when he judged the sentinels would be the least watchful.

Acquainted with all those details of his place of confinement, with which prisoners occupy themselves, even involuntarily, he awaited the moment when the sentinel who guarded his quarter of the building should have performed two-thirds of his duty, and retire to his box to avoid the fog. Then he began to descend knot by knot; suspended between heaven and earth, but grasping his cord with the strength of a giant.

Every thing went well. He had reached the last knot, and was about to slip to the ground, when he bethought himself to try if he could reach the earth with his feet. He found none! His case was really embarrassing. Covered with perspiration, fatigued, perplexed, he was in a situation in which it might truly be said his life hung upon a thread. By a lucky accident his hat fell off. He listened for the noise of its fall, but hearing nothing, he began to entertain some vague suspicions of a snare. But whence the motive? A prey to conflicting doubts, he resolved to defer his escape until another night, or at least until the uncertain twilight of day-break, an hour which might not be unfavorable for his flight. His great strength enabled him to clamber back toward the tower, but he was almost exhausted when he reached the outer edge of the loop-hole, where he remained watching like a cat on an eave-gutter.

Presently, by the feeble light of early dawn, he saw there was the trifling space of about one hundred feet between the end of the cord and the pointed rocks of a precipice!

Thank you, Monsieur Commandant!' said he to himself, with the sang froid which characterized him. After reflecting a moment on a fitting revenge, he judged it best to reenter his prison. He threw all his little articles of dress on the bed, and left the the cord hanging without, to induce the belief that he had fallen; and taking in his hand the iron bar which he had broken off, he stepped behind the door, and awaited the arrival of the perfidious gaoler.

The commandant did not fail to come, and earlier than usual, to gather up what had been left behind. He softly opened the door; but as soon as he was sufficiently near, Beauvoir struck him a powerful

564

Editor's Table.

blow over the head, and the traitor fell dead at his feet, without even uttering a cry. ken his skull.

The bar had bro

The chevalier quickly disrobed the dead body; put on the clothes and imitated the walk of the gaoler; and, thanks to the early hour and the fancied security of the guards at the principal gate, made good his escape.

The quiet GOSSIP WITH READERS AND CORRESPONDENTS.-We have often admired the bearing of BAALAM'S ass on that interesting and solemn occasion when he was chosen to rebuke his master. manner of the beast is a lesson. His modest consciousness that he was nothing but an ass, after discharging his mission, is above all praise. Am not I thine ass, upon whom thou hast ridden these three Now what we years?' Our correspondent Crito,' who takes us to task for our remarks upon Criticism' in a subsection of a late 'Gossip,' has imitated the above-cited example in two particulars. He has thought He has failed only to copy the ass's modesty. like an ass and spoken like an ass. endorsed and we abide by our position was, that a merely adroit sentence-monger, by the help of a few notes from competent critics, a shallow display of borrowed authorities, and an affectation of learning, which a scholar could not fail to detect; that such a man, with very small ideas might succeed in playing off upon the public a large game of words. Such instances may be found in all large communities. The time gives it proof' continually. Mr. IRVING has finely satirized this class of critics, and their imposing assumption of superior acumen and the plural pronoun. The reader pictures to himself a learned man, deliberating gravely and scrupulously on the merits of a book; whereas the criticism is often the crude production of one who writes solemn common-places in short oracular sentences, in order to acquire a reputation for profundity which he assumes, thoughts which he borrows, and a style which he apes. No wonder that in view of these things GEOFFREY CRAYON should come to the conclusion that neither author nor reader is benefitted by what is now-a-days too often praised A correspondent, in a as criticism; and that if every one were to judge for himself, and maintain his opinion frankly and fearlessly, we should have more true literary judgments than at present. 'Modern Pattern Criticism,' which we thought to have published, has hit off the critical manner to which we have alluded very felicitously. We give his opening merely, but that we think will be suffegance.' The reader will perceive that our contributor treats his author with great familiarity; omitting his titles of respect and dignity, and taking him patronizingly by the hand:

WRITINGS

OF

BISHOP

WHITE.

WHITE

MIND unopposed by mind fashions false opinions, and degenerates from its original rectitude. The It is replete with activity-the true life. His pen stagnant pool resolves into putridity. It is the conflict of waters which keeps them pure. felt this, when he wrote the volume before us. scatters pearls, but they shine not with a pale light. They do not flash; they burn. This is a great But he has great merit and a rare; and WHITE seldom fails to exhibit it. He has, it is true, neither HEBER'S smoothness, nor the pathos of SIR THOMAS BROWNE; neither the eloquence of ROBERT HALL, nor the grace of JEREMY TAYLOR, and several others of the old Fathers, EVELYN and the rest. cleverness. WHITE never offends. An author who has judgment enough to write well, should have judgment enough to prevent him from writing ill. This volume is composed with great plainness. WHITE never seeks to hide his meaning; never covets an obfuscate and obscure sight,' etc., etc.

...

But something too much of this,' says the reader; and we acquiesce in his judgment. Is the We have substituted the lines of H. W. R.,' as amiable and courteous Crito' satisfied? requested, which bide their time' the early spring-time; yet we cannot consent to destroy' The Old Bridge,' without preserving one or two of its 'timbers.' The two closing stanzas are very natural, and are evidently lines from under a bridge.'

Amid the grass the green reeds shook
Along the water's edge,

And the gray field-rat to his nook

Scampered among the sedge,
While the still current, dark and slow,
All bright with bubbles, moved below.

'But now, alack! thou art waxed old,
And under thee no more

Are childhood's fairy legends told,
For my best days are o'er:
And they are passed away, who played
With ine beneath thy grateful shade !'

We shall be well pleased to hear from STANNARD BARRET, the Second.' He is the Man in the Moon,' and is to keep us advised of matters and things in that quarter. He says that that planet is the abode of the shades of bodies that every seven years, according to our philosophers, wear off from

us poor humans, like the concentric rings of an onion. He has encountered the shapes of several of our living authors, and is to render us accounts of divers interviews with some of the most eminent among them. Our Man' closes his epistle after the manner of a patriotic Moon te: And now, illustrious Earthite! adieu till next you hear from me! Day begins to decline; and your globe, which never sets to us, will soon shed her pale earth-shine over the landscape. O how serene are these regions! Here are no hurricanes, nor clouds, nor vapors. Here in our great pits, poetically called valleys, I shall retire from all moonly cares, luxuriate in the coolness of the Conical Penumbra, and prepare to enlighten the benighted inhabitants of the shining patches of earth which we see with our glasses below us, and which constitute your little hemisphere. Farewell!'. . . We are indebted to an old and valued contributor for the ensuing Sonnet. The writer has many a time won the smiles and tears of our readers in his prose, but we were not before aware that he courted the Muses with success :

ARIADNE.

SWEET Symphony! whose dying, dying strain
Is ne'er forgotten-hark! it comes again.
"T is sphere-like music-oh! 't is not of earth;
My soul declares it of celestial birth.
Watchful, I turn my eager eyes above,
To gaze with rapture on the Heaven of Love:

And there methinks I have discerned afar
The etherial lustre of my natal star.

Some love to gaze on Mars, with armor bright;
Some bask in Venus' more voluptuous light:
Not these though beautiful can numbered be
In the deep book of my astrology:
Star of the stars which glimmer on my sight,
And gem with glory all the vault of night,
O peerless star-O ARIADNE! rise,
And glow revealed to these delighted eyes!
"T is inidnight in my soul; thy radiant crown
Shall scatter darkness where it beams adown;
Shine with a lustre purer than the day,

And be my star, my guiding-star, for aye!

G. S.

We have received several brief communications, taking the affirmative and negative of the questions started by our correspondent who placed Old Put.' at the Bar' in a late issue, and citing proofs and examples in defence of the writer's positions; but we shall reserve these for a final summing up, when the promised rejoinder, which was not completed in season for the present number, shall have been laid before us. In the mean time we are glad to learn that our purpose to continue full faith in thewolf-story' is sanctioned by such authority as our correspondent below, who although eighty-five years of age, preserves his intellectual faculties unimpaired. Mr. PAINE, who addresses us the annexed note, is well known in Vermont, of which State he has been for forty years the United States' District Judge:

SIR:

TO THE EDITOR OF THE KNICKERBOCKER.

I have seen in the KNICKERBOCKER for August, an article in relation to Gen. PUTNAM. I propose to make some remarks upon that article.

I am now more than eighty-four years old. My father, SETH PAINE, and Gen. ISRAEL PUTNAM were contemporaries and neighbors in Pomfret. I, from my earliest recollection until I was twentyfive years old, often heard my father tell the wolf story. It was exactly as follows:

'A wolf had made depredations on the sheep-folds in their neighborhood. At length General, then Mr. PUTNAM, my father, and one or two other neighbors, and a negro of Mr. PUTNAM's, with a large dog, went in pursuit of the wolf, and chased him into a horizontal cavern in a ledge of rocks.

"The dog was put into the mouth of the cavern, and the negro followed, to crowd him forward, but did not succeed. Mr. PUTNAM then, with a rope round his legs, crawled in on his hands and knees, and came in sight of the wolf, whose head and fierce eyes were toward him. Upon a signal agreed upon, he was drawn out by the rope. After he came out, he appeared furious, and determined to go in again with his gun. His companions remonstrated against this, as dangerous. The discharge of the gun might bring the rocks upon him and crush him. But he persisted; and the rope was again fastened to his legs.

He went in, with his gun and a torch; and when near the wolf, he fired; and upon the report of the gun, he was drawn out again upon his belly. When he came out he was perfectly calm. He went in again with the rope round his legs, took the dead wolf by the ears, and in this manner was dragged out on his belly the third time, with the addition of the wolf.

• From my childhood until his death, I was well acquainted with PUTNAM. He was a modest, unassuming man, and had nothing of the braggadocio about him. I never heard him tell the wolf story, nor ever heard that he did. He was universally considered by all his neighbors a man of the strictest truth and veracity.'

The wolf story, as above related, was universally believed in Pomfret. His courage was there always admitted; and some of his early deeds, which were thought to discover a great degree of courage, were thought by many to amount to rashness.

I am aware that the credibility of this statement must depend upon the character of two persons for truth and veracity-my father and myself. My father has been dead nearly forty-eight years; but there must yet be living in Pomfret and Brooklyn, and that vicinity, in Connecticut, persons who can vouch for his good character in this respect, as well as in all other respects.

There are persons in New-York who know me personally, and many more who know me by reputation. ELIJAH PAINE.

Williamstown, (Vermont,) September 15, 1841.

If 'JR.' is to be believed, we of Gotham may claim the honor of being the Literary Emporium' over our eastern sister, who now bears the title. We think our neighbors should concede it, after reading the annexed; for the writer has wrought out by dint of evident hard labor several very difficult rhymes to establish his position:

In reply to 'C. P. F.,' whose favor he tells us is not quite in his style,' he not being exactly in the vein,' we would say, as a friend observed in answer to the remark of a third, 'I am not myself to-day,' 'Well, whoever you are, you are a gainer by the change!' C. P. F.' will recognize the applicacation... The editor of the Boston Morning Post,' one of the most entertaining journals that reaches our table, speaking of our popular Magazine novel-series or continuous narratives, remarks, that among the high and the low, the intelligent and the ignorant, these periodical romances find their way. So prosperous, adds the editor, has been this system, that is now really hazardous to print a two-volume novel in a decent form; and those which do make their appearance among us are not to be compared, in their externals of paper and printing, with the periodicals among which they are nearly overlooked. This is literally true. An American novel in two volumes' is now a somewhat rare article; and three-quarters of those which have swarmed upon the public within the last six or seven years are seldom read or already forgotten. Our friend at Pittsburgh will find in the above a sufficient though not perhaps a satisfactory answer to his recent inquiry. Many and many a time, we beg

the writer of Nature and Myself' to believe, have we felt what he describes (we are sorry to add) in language quite inadequate to the thoughts. The loss of a dear friend more than all is calculated thus to make us long to 'spurn the clay-cold bonds that round our being cling.' An autumnal eve; the brave o'erhanging firmament at midnight; the blue line of a distant mountain; a bank of clouds above

Tax editor stepped ont for a moment, just as a man withdraws from a convivial board when informed by a guest that he is to be toasted while absent, during which time a friend read the proof of this stanza, which would not otherwise have been suffered to remain. Oh! by no means certainly not!' This excuse it is hoped may please.'