still without mentioning the name of the very
quiet, inoffensive guest who had taken so small
a part in the conversation at table, called upon
Dupont to sing. He did so, choosing, as may
be supposed, such of his songs as were least
calculated to offend the loyal ears of the
company, and having succeeded in charming
those of the maréchal, Gudin revealed the
obnoxious name of the singer, begging the great
man to exert his influence in his favour. This
the maréchal promised to do, but as his master
was strongly prejudiced against the rebellious
bard, the friends of the latter counselled his
leaving Paris, and keeping altogether out of
reach till his security should, in one way or
another, be established. But this he neglected
to do, whether out of defiance or a too great
confidence in the maréchal's intercession, or its
results, does not appear. The consequence
was, that before long he was arrested, and
lodged in the Conciergerie, the prison from
which Louis Napoleon himself had, but a few
years previously, been transported to Ham.
After spending some time in this incarceration,
he was released through the influence of the late
Prince Jérome, since which period he seems
quite to have kept out of public sight.

Pierre Dupont was married to a woman in
his own class of life, to whom, it is said, he was
much attached; but she kept entirely in the
background, and except that the heroines of all
his Peasant Songs are called Jeanne, which, let
us hope, was the name of Madame Dupont, we
have no clue at all to her identity or history.

It is hard to think that at thirty-nine the
poet's career should be finished; that any man
possessing the gifts and the feelings he undoubtedly
possesses, should, in the force of age and
strength, finally cast aside his arms, give up the
struggle, and resign himself to fall into an
apathetic indifference to the things that made his
blood boil, that stirred all the pulses of his
heart, that inspired him to raise his single voice
in songs to which the nation sang a passionate
and soul-felt chorus. Perhaps, seeing that, at
present, any attempt to raise that voice again
would be mere Quixotism, that its first accents
would be stifled, and the singer sacrificed at a
time when the sacrifice could render no service
to the nation he loves so well, he bides his time,
seeing, or deeming he sees, in the horizon the
dawn of a happier day.

             UNCLE'S SALVAGE.

                 A TRUE STORY.

MY uncle Sam was a man to be proud of. He
stood six feet three in his stockings, and could
jump a wall, ride a horse across country, or
wrestle with any man in Cornwall. There are
few of your fox-hunters throughout England
who would care to put a horse on his mettle up
and down our Cornish hills. Uncle's horse
seemed made to his measure, "foaled to order,"
as our people said; and daring riders as Cornishmen
are, no friend borrowed the beast twice.
Uncle Sam bought him at Bodmin; they
could do nothing with him there, and were
only too glad to get rid of him. His
previous owner hailed from the metropolis of the
west, but the horse did not long remain at
Plymouth, owing to an unfortunate habit of
returning home without his rider. The
Americans had not yet invented Mr. Rarey, and,
but for my uncle purchasing Rambumptious, I
do believe he must have been cut up into cat's-
meat. Uncle Sam's "breaking-in" was unlike
Mr. Rarey's, but equally efficacious. Rambumptious
stared at him, he stared at Rambumptious;
then, leaping upon his back, uncle rode him to
his house, eight-and-twenty miles off.

Uncle Sam's favourite amusement was swimming.
He lived on the northern coast of the
county, where the great Atlantic rolls in its
mighty billows unchecked; the shore shelved
out gradually for a long distance, and to gain
the deep blue water he had to beat his way
through a mile of breakers. We often watched
him plunging through the white-crested waves
and manfully surmounting the "rollers," looking
like Neptune in his own element. Sometimes
he was away so long that folks said he was
gone to Lundy Island, or to the Welsh coast, or
Ireland. Nearly everybody in our little out-of-
the-way town could swim, many having taken
their first lessons from him, and he laid it down
as a rule that no person's education was complete
who could not undress and dress and support
himself any number of hours in the water. I
do think, if it had not been for the pigs and the
poultry and the cows and Rambumptious and
myself, Uncle Sam would have lived in the sea
altogether. When anybody wanted him, he was
generally to be found somewhere off the coast;
reminding one of Vice-Chancellor Shadwell, who,
if not on the Bench or in Chambers, was sure to
be in the Thames between Kew and Richmond.
Lawyers tell us that he once granted an injunction
in the water.

When I was ten years old (I recollect the
time well, for it was just before I was sent to
Winchester), uncle went to London, and I did
not see him for three weeks. Wasn't I glad to
welcome him back again? He told me he was
sea-sick, pining for the salt-water, the surf and
the billows, and that London smoke and fog
made him feel as though he had not washed
himself for a month. So down we trudged
towards the beach, and soon were in the water.
Uncle told me he meant to make up for lost
time, and that if he did not return within the
hour, I could walk home and await his coming.
At other times, he would take me a long way
through the surf on his back, then throw me
in and watch me regain the shore, for I was a
capital swimmer for my age, having been quite
at home in the water before I reached my sixth
birthday. But this day uncle was ravenous, and
I really think he ran through the breakers, like
Atalanta over the standing corn, until he plunged
into the deep blue water. I watched him out
to sea as far as the breakers would permit, and
then tried conclusions with the waves until my
young strength was exhausted. I dressed
myself, and sat down on the beach to read a funny