TRUE COURAGE. feeble flutterings with its wings, remained quite stationary, crouched in a ball-like figure, close to the wall. 'Oh, Deschamp," exclaimed one of the party to a friend at his side, who was plucking the long gray moss of a peculiar species, which literally clothes the castle walls inside and out, "look yonder at Minerva's bird." "Ha! ha!" chorused the company-"a veritable owl!" Thereupon one and all began picking up bits of brick and mortar from where they stood, and threw them at the bird with various degrees of skill. One or two bits even struck it, but so far from being roused thereby, the owl merely gave one boding, long-drawn, sepulchral screech, and, contracting its ghastly outline into still smaller compass, fairly buried its broad visage between the meeting bony tips of its wings. "What a stupid creature! hoo! horoo!" shouted they, thinking by that means to induce it to fly. But the outcry only terrified the bird to such a degree, that it stuck its claws convulsively into the decayed timber, and stirred not at all. "It's the way o' them creeturs," here said the guide, who was showing the party over the castle; "they're about the stupidest things in creation, I'm a thinking!" 66 "I can say it, and I do," snappishly replied the fiery young man, his brain heated with wine; "and, at any rate, what that fellow Manners has done, I can do. So look out!” Thus speaking, he recklessly stepped on the beam, and, despite the remonstrances of his companions, was in the act of proceeding along it, when his arm was firmly grasped, and a low, deep-toned voice exclaimed, "My lord, do you court a horrible death? Do not thus risk your life for naught." The individual who thus unhesitatingly inter fered was evidently unknown to all present, beWith an imprecation, the ing a casual visitor to the castle, who had just joined the group. madcap youngster jerked his arm away, and sprang forward along the beam. Its surface was rough, rounded, and uneven; and as he ran along, swerving from side to side, every instant in danger of being precipitated downward, with the awful certainty of being dashed to pieces, his friends could hardly restrain themselves from shrieking with terror, though such a course would probably have had the immediate effect of discomposing the equilibrium of their rash companion, and so inducing the catastrophe they fully anticipated, without the power of prevention. Had the adventurer's presence of mind one moment failed-had his self-possession and confidence wavered or forsaken him-had his brain sickened, or his eyes turned dim for a sin Humph!" muttered Lord Swindon, a handsome, athletic young man of twenty, "with such an example before our eyes, we can not but ad-gle second-had he made the least false stepmit your opinion to be highly philosophic and indisputable. But I say, old fellow," added he, tapping the guide familiarly on the shoulder with the light riding switch he carried in his hand, "is that beam a rotten one?" 66 I shouldn't be over-for'ard to trust myself on it, sir," replied the man-a fat dumpy personage. "You wouldn't! No. I should rather think not," responded Lord Swindon, a smile of supreme disdain sweeping across his features, as he surveyed the "old fellow" from head to foot. "But, tell me, did you ever know any body walk upon it, eh?" "Oh, dear, yes. Only last summer, a young Oxonian ran from end to end of it, as I seed with my own eyes." 66 'Did he?" "True," put in Deschamp. "I remember now, it was young Manners of Brazennose; and didn't he brag about it!" "Him!" exclaimed Lord Swindon, with a toss of the head; that fellow, poor milksop? Not," continued he, hastily, "that it is any thing of a feat. Pooh!" "Not a feat!" murmured his companions; and, with one accord, they stretched forth their necks, and, gazing down the dim abyss, shuddered at what they beheld. Well they might. The beam in question rose at a height of about one hundred feet, and naught beneath it was there but a gloomy chasm, only broken in one or two places by crumbling beams, and not one even of these was by many feet near it. "Oh, Swindon, how can you say so?" had his footing slipped on the slimy surface of the beam-had he tripped against any of the knots projecting from the rotten wood which had mouldered away around them--at once would he have been hurled into dread eternity. But an unseen hand sustained him, and safely he reached the extremity of the beam, ruthlessly wrenched the trembling owl from its perch, waved it aloft in triumph, and then, with a proud ejaculation, began to retrace his steps, with it shrieking and fluttering in his hands. When he reached the centre of the frail beam, which creaked and bent terribly with his comparatively small weight. he paused, drew himself up to his full heightair above, air beneath, air all around, naught but air-and deliberately tore the head of the owl by main force from its body. Having perpetrated this cruel deed, he tossed the bloody head among the breathless spectators, and sharply dashed the writhing body into the void beneath his feet. He coolly watched its descent, until it lay a shape less mass on the stones below; then, with slow, bravadoing mien, he walked back to his terrified party, and boastingly demanded of them whether they thought "Manners could beat that?" 46 My lord," solemnly said the stranger, “you have not performed the act either of a brave or a sane man, and you have committed a despicable deed on one of God's helpless creatures. You ought to thank Him, my lord, from the depth of your soul, that he saved you from the penalty you incurred." "What do you say?" fiercely demanded Lord Swindon. "Do you dare to insinuate cowardice against me?" and with flashing brow, he as- | benefactors of mankind, which history has too sumed a threatening attitude. "I know not, my lord, whether you are brave or not, but what I have witnessed was certainly not an exercise of true courage," was the passionless reply. long suffered to give place to those of heroes (so called), who might be better designated as the destroyers of national prosperity, the scourges of their country. Among the names of such benefactors, that of Antoine-Augustin Parmen"And yet I'll wager a cool thousand that you tier well deserves to be handed down to the gratdaren't do it." itude of posterity. He was born in the little 66 'True, I dare not: for I am incapable of offer- town of Montdidier, in 1737, of poor but respecting a deadly insult to my Maker." able parents; and, having lost his father before Fine words!" Then; carried away by the ex- he was three years old, he was brought up altocitement of the moment, he added, with an inso-gether by his mother, a woman of considerable lent look and gesture, "You are a lying coward." intelligence, and in refinement of character far "Listen, my lord," answered the person thus beyond her station; and to her he owed much addressed, and this time his tone was even calmer of that religious feeling and steadiness of principle than before. "One year ago, you were walking which stamped such value in after-life upon the at the midnight hour on the pier at the sea-port ardent disposition and spirit of enterprise which of Hull, and but one other person was upon it, were natural to him. The good cure of the place, and he was a stranger to you. You trod too who had long known and esteemed his parents, near the edge of the pier, and fell into the sea. had an opportunity of observing the uncommon The tempest was howling, and the tide was high intelligence of the boy, and undertook to teach and running strongly; and, ere you could utter him the rudiments of Latin. At sixteen, the more than one smothered cry, it had swept you young Augustin, anxious to be no longer a burmany yards away, and you were sinking rapidly. den to his mother, placed himself with an apothExcept God, none but that stranger heard your ecary of his native town; but the following year cry of agony; and, soon as it reached his ear, he he repaired to Paris, invited thither by a relative, looked forth upon the waters, and, catching a to study under him the profession he had chosen. glimpse of your struggling form, he instantly plunged in, and, after much diving, eventually grasped you at a great depth. Long did he support your helpless body, and stoutly did he buffet the stifling waves, and loudly did he call for aid. At length help came; and at the last moment, he and you were saved just in time for life to be preserved in both. Is not this true, my lord?" "It is," emphatically responded the young nobleman; "but what have you to do with it? I don't know you-though it is not at all wonderful," added he, with a sneer, "that you should happen to know about the matter, for the news papers blazoned it quite sufficiently." "My lord, one question more. Did you ever learn who that stranger was who, under God, saved your life?" "No; when I recovered a little, he left me at the hotel, where he was unknown, and I have never seen him since." Then, my lord," was the startling rejoinder, "look well at me, for I am that stranger." ." You?" It was not long before prospects of advancement opened to the young medical student. The war of Hanover broke out, and, in 1757, Parmentier, attached to the medical staff, though in a very subordinate post, joined the army. It was not long before he had opportunity to prove his skill and zealous devotion to his duties. A dreadful epidemic appeared among the French soldiery. and tested to the utmost his unwearied activity and unceasing attention to his duties. His services were acknowledged by his being promoted to the rank of assistant-apothecary. His daunt less exposure of himself on the field of battle caused him to be five times taken prisoner-a misfortune to which he afterward often made mirthful allusion; extolling the dexterity with which the Prussian hussars had more than once stripped him, and declaring that they were the best valets de chambre he had ever met. It was while prisoner of war on one of these occasions that Parmentier first conceived the idea which was destined to give him a claim upon the gratitude of his country. The prisoners were kept in very close confinement, and fed altogether on potatoes; but Parmentier, instead of joining his companions in misfortune in their indignant abuse of a food altogether new to them, was calmly and sensibly engaged in reflecting on the utility of the vegetable, and in inquiring into its nature, and the mode of cultivating it. We shall see how he kept the resolution he then formed of not letting it escape his memory, should he ever be permitted to revisit his native country Peace being declared, he was released, and INTRODUCTION OF THE POTATO INTO came back to Paris in 1763, where he attended "Yes I whom you have branded as a liar and a coward. Little thought I that the life I saved at the imminent risk of my own would be madly, wickedly jeopardized for no price whatever, as I have seen it this hour. Mine, my lord, was true courage; yours was false. Henceforth know the difference between them. Farewell." So saying, the stranger bowed, and before another word could be uttered, had left the astounded party. FRANCE. the Abbe Mollet's course of natural philosophy, I becoming more that rational estimate of true greatness the chemical course of the Brothers Douille, and to form, names will yet rank high as those of the de Jussieu. At this time, however, his poverty naturalizing the potato in that country, Parmentier diffused plenty among thousands, once the hapless victims of privation and misery during the seasons of scarcity hitherto frequently recurring to desolate its provinces. was so great, that he had to endure the severest secured. The nobles and fine ladies, who had privations, to enable him to pay the necessary hitherto laughed at what they called “the poor fees, and to purchase such books as he required, man's monomania," now took their tone from the without interfering with the pecuniary aid which monarch, and flocked round the modest philanhe felt it alike his duty and his privilege to afford thropist with their congratulations. Guards his mother. In 1766, he became a candidate for placed round the field excited the curiosity of the a situation as medical attendant at the Hotel des people; but as this was a precaution rather against Invalides, and was almost unanimously elected. the pressure of the crowd than against its cupidIn this position, he gave the utmost satisfaction; ity, they were withdrawn at night, and soon it and not only did the skill he displayed obtain for was announced to Parmentier that his potatoes him professional reputation, but his playful, yet had been stolen. His delight at this intelligence never satirical wit, and the charm of his gentle was extreme, and he bountifully rewarded the and affectionate disposition, made him a universal bearer of the news; for he saw in this theft a favorite. He was the object of respectful attach- proof of his complete success. "There can ment to the disabled veterans, and also to the scarcely be any remaining prejudice against my good Sisters of Charity who attended the hos- poor potatoes," he said, "else they would not be pital. In 1769, he received, as the reward of stolen." A short time after he gave a dinner, his labors, the appointment of apothecary-in- every dish of which consisted of the potato dischief, which permanently fixed him in the Hotel guised in some variety of form, and even the des Invalides. With a little more leisure, and liquids used at table were extracted from it. comparative freedom from pecuniary care, came Among other celebrated persons, Franklin and back the recollection of his former plans with re- Lavoisier were present. And thus, to the pergard to the potato. This now well-known and severing efforts of one individual was France inalmost universally-used tubercle had been intro-debted for a vegetable which soon took its place duced into Europe from Peru early in the six-in the first rank of its agricultural treasures. By teenth century, and had at once been cultivated in Italy and Germany. Brought from Flanders into France, its culture was promoted in the southern provinces by the encouragement given by the great Turgot; but the dogged pertinacity with which ignorance so often resists the introduction of any thing new, had in every other part of the kingdom interfered with its propagation. Indeed, the popular prejudice against it was so high as to lead to the belief that it had a baleful effect on any soil in which it was planted, and produced in those who used it as food lep-in the political storm then raging. His moderrosy and other loathsome diseases. Such were ation was regarded as a protest against the printhe absurd and groundless prejudices which Par- ciples then in the ascendant. The man who had mentier had to encounter, but he prepared him- just rendered the most signal service to the peoself to carry on the contest with the boldness ple became an object of persecution to those calland perseverance of one who knew that, however ing themselves the friends of the people. "Talk difficult it may be to struggle with old opinions not to me of this Parmentier," said an infuriate and long-established customs, yet nothing is im- club orator; he would give us nothing to eat possible to the spirit of enterprise, guided by but potatoes. I ask you, was it not he that insound judgment, and animated by genuine phi- vented them?" His name was put into the list lanthropy. Parmentier was not unmindful that of the suspected, and he was deprived not only to attain his object he would, in the first instance, of the small pension allowed him by Louis XVI.. need high patronage; and this patronage he but also of his situation at the Hotel des Invasought and found in no less a personage than lides. However, when the coalition of all Europe Louis XVI. himself. At his earnest solicitation, forced France to avail herself to the utmost of the monarch placed at his disposal, as a field for her every resource, it was found expedient to rehis experiment, fifty acres of the Plaine des Sa- organize the medical department of the military blons. For the first time, this sterile soil was hospitals, and to improve the diet of the soldiery; tilled by Parmentier, and the plant he so ardently and Parmentier being fixed on for this difficult desired to naturalize committed to it. In due task, his success amply justified the choice. His time the long-wished-for blossoms appeared. Al- reputation for skill and talent increasing with most wondering at his success, Parmentier eager- every test to which he was put, he was succesly gathered a bouquet of the flowers, more pre- sively placed on the sanitary commission for the cious to him than the rarest exotic in the royal department of the Seine, and on the general comgardens, and hastened to Versailles, to present mittee of civil hospitals. Diplomas were sent to them to the king. Louis accepted the offering him by all the learned societies, and he was enmost graciously, and, notwithstanding the satir- rolled a member of the National Institute. ical smiles of some of his courtiers, wore them in his button-hole. From 1783 to 1791, Parmentier occupied himself in the publication of several works of great merit upon domestic economy and agriculture. But now came on the evil days of the Revolution. From prudence, natural inclination, and engrossment in other pursuits, Parmentier took no part Parmentier lived throughout the period of the Empire, honored and esteemed by all classes; From that hour the triumph of the potato was but, in 1813, grief for the loss of a beloved sister added to his deep dejection at the reverses of the | for a book of fashions, she embraced them; and French arms, seriously affected his health. His patriotism could not but deeply feel the evils threatening his country from foreign invasion. He became dangerously ill, and on the 13th of December the cause of social progress lost by his death one of its most zealous and enlightened promoters. In a discourse pronounced on the occasion before the Pharmaceutic Association, Cadet de Gassicour dwelt principally on the two great benefits conferred by Parmentier-the use of the potato, and the introduction of the Sirop de Raisin, thus providing, according to the benevolent boast of the philanthropist himself, "the poor man's bread, and the poor man's sugar." During his lifetime, a proposal had been made by the Minister François de Neufchateau that the potato should be called Parmentière. It is to be regretted that a proposal which would have secured a memorial as inexpensive as it was appropriate, was rejected; one which would have indissolubly linked in the minds of every Frenchman the name of the benefactor with the benefit. ΟΝ : THE ARTIST'S SACRIFICE. raising her tearful eyes toward heaven, she seemed to be thanking the Almighty, and, in the midst of her affliction, to be filled with gratitude to Him who had blessed her with such children. Soon after, a gentle ring was heard at the door, and M. Raymond, a young doctor, with a frank, pleasing countenance, entered and inquired for the invalid. "Just the same, doctor," said Madame G—— The young man went into the next room, and gazed for some moments attentively on the sleeper, while the poor wife fixed her eyes on the doctor's countenance, and seemed there to read her fate. "Is there no hope, doctor?" she asked, in a choking voice, as she conducted him to the other room. The doctor was silent, and the afflicted mother embraced her children and wept. After a pause, she said: "There is one idea which haunts me continually: I should wish so much to have my husband's likeness. Do you know of any generous and clever artist, doctor? Oh, how much this would add to the many obligations you have already laid me under!” Unfortunately, I am not acquainted with a single artist," replied the young doctor. "I must then renounce this desire," said Madame G―, sighing. go out. "Go, my child," said his mother; "go and breathe a little fresh air: your continual work is injurious to you." a cold evening in January-one of those dark and gloomy evenings which fill one with sadness-there sat watching by the bed of a sick man, in a little room on the fifth floor, a woman The next morning Henry-so the little boy was of about forty, and two pretty children-a boy of called-having assisted his mother and his sister twelve and a little girl of eight. The exquisite Marie in their household labors, dressed himself neatness of the room almost concealed its wretch-carefully, and, as it was a holiday, asked leave to edness every thing announced order and economy, but at the same time great poverty. A painted wooden bedstead, covered with coarse but clean calico sheets, blue calico curtains, four chairs, a straw arm-chair, a high desk of dark wood, with a few books and boxes placed on shelves, composed the entire furniture of the room. And yet the man who lay on that wretched bed, whose pallid cheek, and harsh, incessant cough, foretold the approach of death, was one of the brightest ornaments of our literature. His historical works had won for him a European celebrity, his writings having been translated into all the modern languages; yet he had always remained poor, because his devotion to science had prevented him from devoting a sufficient portion of his time to productive labor. An unfinished piece of costly embroidery thrown on a little stand near the bed, another piece of a less costly kind, but yet too luxurious to be intended for the use of this poor family, showed that his wife and daughter-this gentle child, whose large dark eyes were so full of sadnessendeavored by the work of their hands to make up for the unproductiveness of his efforts. The sick man slept, and the mother, taking away the lamp and the pieces of embroidery, went with her children into the adjoining room, which served both as ante-chamber and dining-room: she seated herself at the table, and took up her work with a sad and abstracted air; then observing her little daughter doing the same thing cheerfully, and her son industriously coloring some prints destined The boy kissed his father's wasted hand, embraced his mother and sister, and went out, at once sad and pleased. When he reached the street he hesitated for a moment, then directed his steps toward the drawing-school where he attended every day: he entered, and rung at the door of the apartment belonging to the professor who directed this academy. A servant opened the door, and conducted him into an elegantlyfurnished breakfast-room; for the professor was one of the richest and most distinguished painters of the day. He was breakfasting alone with his wife when Henry entered. "There, my dear," he said to her, as he perceived Henry; "there is the cleverest pupil in the academy. This little fellow really promises to do me great credit one day. Well, my little friend, what do you wish to say to me?" "Sir, my father is very ill-the doctor fears that he may die: poor mamma, who is very fond of papa, wishes to have his portrait. Would you, sir, be kind enough to take it? O do not, pray sir, do not refuse me!" said Henry, whose tearful eyes were fixed imploringly on the artist. "Impossible, Henry-impossible !" replied the painter. "I am paid three thousand francs for every portrait I paint, and I have five or six at present to finish." 66 But, my dear," interposed his wife, "it THE ARTIST'S SACRIFICE. seems to me that this portrait would take you but | to the desire of the artist; finally, three easels, little time think of the poor mother, whose hus-on which rested some unfinished portraits, and a band will so soon be lost to her forever." "It grieves me to refuse you, my dear; but you know that my battle-piece, which is destined for Versailles, must be sent to the Louvre in a fortnight, for I tan not miss the Exposition this year. But stay, my little friend, I will give you the address of several of my pupils: tell them I sent you, and you will certainly find some one of them who will do what you wish. Good-morning, Henry!" 46 Good-by, my little friend," added the lady. "I hope you may be successful." The boy took his leave with a bursting heart. Henry wandered through the gardens of the Luxembourg, debating with himself if he should apply to the young artists whose addresses he held in his hand. Fearing that his new efforts might be equally unsuccessful, he was trying to nerve himself to encounter fresh refusals, when he was accosted by a boy of his own age, his fellow-student at the drawing-school. Jules proposed that they should walk together; then observing Henry's sadness, he asked him the cause. Henry told him of his mother's desire; their master's refusal to take the portrait; and of his own dislike to apply to those young artists, who were strangers to him. "Come with me," cried Jules, when his friend had ceased speaking. "My sister is also an artist: she has always taken care of me, for our father and mother died when we were both very young. She is so kind and so fond of me, that I am very sure she will not refuse." The two boys traversed the Avenue de l'Observatoire, the merry, joyous face of the one contrasting with the sadness and anxiety of the other. When they got to the end of the avenue they entered the Rue de l'Ouest, and went into a quietlooking house, up to the fourth story of which Jules mounted with rapid steps, dragging poor Henry with him. He tapped gayly at a little door, which a young servant opened: he passed through the ante-chamber, and the two boys found themselves in the presence of Emily d'Orbe, the sister of Jules. She appeared to be about twenty-five: she was not tall, and her face was rather pleasing than handsome; yet her whole appearance indicated cultivation and amiability. Her dress was simple, but exquisitely neat; her gown of brown stuff fitted well to her graceful figure; her linen cuffs and collar were of a snowy whiteness; her hair was parted in front, and fastened up behind à l'antique: but she wore no ribbon, no ornament-nothing but what was necessary. The furniture of the room, which served at the same time as a sitting-room and studio, was equally simple: a little divan, some chairs, and two armchairs covered with gray cloth, a round table, a black marble time-piece of the simplest form; two engravings, the "Spasimo di Sicilia" and the "Three Maries," alone ornamented the walls; green blinds were placed over the windows, not for ornament, ut to moderate the light, according large painting representing Anna Boleyn embrac When he entered, little Jules went first to Henry had been looking at the unfinished pic- "Jules," she replied, "let me paint; you know "Indeed, Emily, I am not jesting; you must Mademoiselle d'Orbe, raising her eyes to the Henry, regaining a little courage, told her In the mean time little Jules had been kissing his sister, and caressing her soft hair, entreating her not to refuse his little friend's request. Mademoiselle d'Orbe was painting Anna Boleyn : she stopped her work; a struggle seemed to arise in the depth of her heart, while she looked affectionately on the children. She, however, soon laid aside her pallet, and casting one glance of regret on her picture: "I will take your father's portrait," she said to Henry-" that man of sorrow and of genius. Your mother's wish shall be fulfilled." She had scarcely uttered these words when a She was young, pretty, lady entered the room. and richly dressed. Having announced her name, she asked Mademoiselle d'Orbe to take her portrait, on the express condition that it should be finished in time to be placed in the Exposition. "It is impossible for me to have this honor, madame," replied the artist: "I have a picture to finish, and I have just promised to do a portrait to which I must give all my spare time" |