screen himself from his enemies, he throws himself into a neighbouring plantation. The cry which he uttered, drew his principal secretary to the spot where he had been, which he reaches in the same moment as the robbers; he is taken by them for Lucien, and they seize and carry him away to the mountains. This faithful servant knows well that he is taken for his master, and leaves them in their error, to give Lucien and his family time to escape.

The next day all Rome knew the fact. At the end of a few days more, a man delivers a letter to Lucien. The letter sets an enormous price, as a ransom for him whom the robbers still took for Lucien. The police of Rome knew all this, and remained quiet: the ransom was paid, and the generous friend of Lucien set at liberty; and still the police of Rome remained neutral and quiet. Lucien never more set foot on this estate: and the most frightful misery at present weighs down the country.


In the year 1811, the house of Sir John Purcell, of Highfort, in Dublin, was attacked by a desperate gang of robbers, who forced the windows of the parlour adjoining to the room in which he had just retired to rest. They appeared to him to be about fourteen in number. He immediately got out of bed and his first determination being to make resistance, it was with no small mortification that he reflected upon the unarmed condition in which he was placed, being destitute of a single weapon of the ordinary sort. It happily occurred to him, that having supped in the bed-chamber on the night, a knife had been left behind by accident, and he instantly proceeded to grope in the dark for this weapon, which fortunately he found, before the door, leading from the parlour into the bed-chamber, had been broken open.

While he stood in calm but resolute expectation that the progress of the robbers would soon lead them to his bed-chamber, he heard the furniture which had been placed against a nailed up door expeditiously displaced, and immediately afterwards the door was burst open. The moon shone with great brightness, and when this door was thrown open, the light, streaming in through three large windows in the parlour, afforded Sir John a view that might have made an intrepid spirit not a little apprehensive. His bedroom was darkened to excess, in consequence of the shutters of the windows, as well as the curtains, being closed; and thus, while he stood enveloped in darkness, he saw standing before him, by the brightness of the moonlight, a body of men, all armed, and of those who were in the van of the gang, he observed that a few were blackened. Armed only with this caseknife, and aided only by a dauntless heart, he took his station by the side of the door, and in a moment after, one of the villains entered from the parlour into the dark room. Instantly upon advancing, Sir John plunged the knife into the robber's body, who upon receiving this thrust, reeled back into the parlour, crying out blasphemously that he was killed; shortly after another advanced, who was received in a similar manner, and who also staggered back into the parlour, crying out that he was wounded. A voice from the outside gave orders to fire into the dark room, upon which a roan stept forward with a short gun in his hand. As this fellow stood in the act to fire, Sir John had the amazing coolness to look at his intended murderer, and, without betraying any audible emotion whatever, that might point out the exact spot where he was standing, he calmly calculated his own safety, from the shot which was preparing for him: and in this state he stood, without flinching, until the piece was fired, and its contents harmlessly lodged in the wall.

As soon as the robber fired, Sir John made a pass at him with his knife, and wounded him in the arm, which he repeated again in a moment with similar effect; and, as the others had done, the villain, upon being wounded, retired, exclaiming that he was wounded. The robbers immediately rushed forward from the parlour into the dark room, and then it was that Sir John's mind recognized the deepest sense of danger, not to be oppressed by it, however, but to surmount it. He thought all chance of preserving his life was over, and he resolved to sell that life still dearer to his intended murderers, than even what they had already paid for the attempt to deprive him of it. He did not lose a moment after the villains had entered the room, to act with the determination he had adopted; he struck at the fourth fellow with his knife, and wounded him, at the same instant he received a blow on the head, and found himself grappled with. He shortened his hold of the knife, and stabbed at the fellow with whom he found himself engaged. The floor being slippery, Sir John and his adversary both fell, and while they were down, Sir John thinking that his thrusts with the knife, though made with all his force, did not seem to produce the decisive effect which they had in the beginning of the conflict, he examined the point of his weapon with his finger, and found that the blade of it had been bent near its point. As he lay struggling on the floor, he endeavoured, but unsuccessfully, to straighten the curvature in the knife; but while one hand was employed in this attempt, he perceived that the grasp of his

adversary was losing its constraint and pressure, and in a moment or tiro he found himself wholly released from it; the limbs of the robber were, in fact, underved by death. Sir John found that this fellow had a sword in his hand, and this he immediately seized, and gave him several blows with it. At length, the robbers finding so many of their party had been killed or wounded, employed themselves in removing the bodies, and Sir John took this opportunity of retiring into a place a little apart from the house, where he remained for a short time. They dragged their companions into the parlour, and having placed chairs, with the backs upwards, by means of those, they lifted the bodies out of the windows and afterwards took them away. When the robbers retired, Sir John returned to the house, and called up a man-servant from his bed, who, during this long and bloody conflict had not appeared, and consequently received from his master warm and lood upbraidings for his cowardice. Sir John then placed his daughter-in-law and grand-child, who were his only inmates, in places of safety, and took such precautions as circumstances pointed out till the daylight appeared. It appeared in evidence on the trial of one of the robbers, that they were nine in number, all of whom were armed, and that two of them were killed and three severely wounded in the conflict.


Favelle, an amiable young man, went from Montauban to Paris, to apply himself to the study of the physical sciences, especially anatomy, to which he was extremely partial. In that city he lived a regular life, was very assiduous, and gained the esteem of the most celebrated naturalists. A letter of recommendation procured him access to the family of Madame de Vineuil. The kindness with which that lady received him, and his love of society, caused him to cultivate very diligently the intercourse with this respectable family.

Madame de Vineuil was a widow of forty-eight. She had two daughters, one of whom was twenty, and the other eight years of age. Their fortune was inconsiderable, and all the mother's hopes of provision for her daughters centered in an only son who had been placed in a commercial house at Nantes, and had expectations of being soon admitted to a partnership in it. The young man's flattering prospects, which his good conduct, industry, and talents amply merited, tended to remove in a great measure the anxiety of the mother. Her way of life was simple and tranquil. The young Favelle became the bosom friend of this good family : he received a general invitation to their table, and frequently walked out

with the two sisters in the Thuilleries; the mother considered him as her son who supplied the place of her absent child.

Favelle had, contrary to custom, been several days without visiting Madame de Vineuil, and went one morning with some young men of his acquaintance to the theatre, to see a new play. The public was divided in opinion on the subject'; some thought the piece an execrable production, while oihers were as loud in its praise. Here they hissed, and there they clapped applause. The hissers cried that the clappers were paid ; and the latter complained that a cabal was formed against the author. Favelle was against the play. A young man called out to him" Silence, silence ! I beg you would be quiet.” The noise grew louder; high words passed on either side, and the actors were almost compelled to drop the curtain.

When the play was over, the contending parties renewed the dispute in the lobby. Favelle's companions instigated him to resent the supposed affront, while others were using the same persuasions with his opponent. At last, after a long altercation, the latter declared that he was ready to fight.

Favelle was the most moderate. With more temper than a hundred others would have shown in his place, he turned to his antagonist and said to him :-- “ If we fight it will be of no advantage to any body. You assert that I have insulted you; it is possible that an unguarded word may have escaped me; but we were both in a passion, and both at least equally in

“ Ha! he retracts his words, he preaches, he is afraid,

,'_resounded from all sides. “ No gentlemen,” said Favelle, “ I am not afraid ; and as little as I deem it a disgrace to be fond of life, so little do I tremble at the thought of death. Now, gentlemen, we must fight.”—“ Bravo !" cried the by-standers, “ To-morrow then, at eight o'clock."

The seconds agreed that the two combatants should meet at a coffee-house in the Champs Elysees, and that they should fight wish pistols. Favelle arrived first at the appointed place, firmly resolved not to fight. “ Shall I,” thought he, “ for a mere trifle, in order to escape the ridicule of a few coxcombs, run the risk of being killed myself, or of murdering one who appears to be a well bred man. This resolution was višible in his countenance, when the seconds (not two, as had been agreed upon, but ten) arrived. He attempted to speak; they whispered each other, and even said loud enough to be heard :—66 He will not fight.” This roused his resentment. He seized the pistol ; the ground was measured, and they fired. Favelle remained unhurt, but his antagonist reeled


think you


aside, and fell dead, without uttering a word, in the ditch of one of the alleys; the ball had pierced his heart.

With a loud shriek, Favelle threw away his pistol; and, notwithstanding the gentleness of his disposition, he bestowed the most vehement execrations on all the by-standers. The latter had some difficulty to prevail upon him to depart, promising not to leave his antagonist, but to try every possible means for his recovery. At length he quitted the fatal spot, and proceeded to the Bois de Boulogne ; guilt and murder seemed to be stamped upon his features.

Here he met his landlord, M. Durand. The honest man had heard of the intended meeting.

« God be thanked that I have met you,” said he," I may perhaps prevent an accident.”—“ Who speaks to me ?” _“Your friend, who wishes to advise you for your good. Young man, listen to reason ; would you fight for such a trifle ; can a person of such a gentle, generous disposition as you, be guilty of such a folly ? Perhaps I may prevent a great misfortune.'_“


you Perhaps ; be not carried away by a false point of honour, and risk not your life so wantonly.”_" My life ? by no means.”_"Well, supposing you to be more dexternus and more fortunate than your antagonist, supposing he falls; would you, who deem it a happiness to save the life of a man, would you wish to kill him ? would not your soul

be for ever burdened with the guilt of murder ?”_" O God! yes."

Well, then, do not fight. Rather say to your opponent-I acknowledge that I was in the wrong." - It is too late.". “ Not yet; your antagonist- _. 66 I have killed him." With these words the young man sunk senseless to the ground.

With difficulty Durand brought him again to himself; and after he had at length administered some consolation, he gave him to understand that it was necessary to employ precaution to avoid the consequences of this rencounter. It was agreed that Durand should go back alone ; and that when it began to be dark, the young man should repair to Paris, to the house of Madame de Vineuil, and keep himself concealed till his landlord should send word that he might return without danger to his own lodgings.

Accordingly he wandered till late in the evening in the most unfrequented part of the Bois de Boulogne, but solitude afforded no alleviation of his sorrows. Ten times was he tempted to throw himself into the Seine ; and when at night, with faultering step, he proceeded towards the city, how he dreaded the observation of every person he passed! He shuddered at every watch-house, and was fearful of discovering in every man he met, one of the officious friends who had taken so

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