of the re-appearance of Napoleon, and Russian
serfs are said to talk mysteriously of the
return of Alexander from his retirement at
Taganrog. We can fancy a meeting between
uncle and nephew, and also between the
Tartaric brothers, which would be rather
embarrassing to all parties. A snug little
club of post-funereal monarchs might easily
be got up; and here is the history of a
candidate, who, we trust, runs no chance of
being black-balled by the firmest stickler for
divine right and hereditary power. An
objection, to be sure, may be raised, that by
the very terms of this account he forfeits his
qualification as a member of a society of the
deadly-lively, seeing that he is finally settled
and decently buried at last; but who knows
but that the settlement may have been as
unsubstantial, and his coffin as empty on this
occasion as on the first? If a man comes to
life once, why not twice or any number of
times? At all events, it will be agreed
that up to the year 1830 he would have
been an eligible candidate; for it was only
in that year that any well-authenticated
narrative of his (real) death was given to the
public.

A French officer, who had served with distinction
in the wars of Napoleon, found himself
and his sword growing equally rusty
in a land where golden epaulets and a silver
scabbard were more valued than the bold
heart or steel blade. Year after year passed
on, and Major Grasigny found his moustachios
getting greyer, and his purse emptier
—without a hope of a rejuvenescence of his
hair, or replenishment of his pocket. What was
he to do? He had heard from a regimental
chaplain that it was strongly recommended
to convert certain implements of warfare
into ploughshares, and he determined to
follow the advice; but, as he had no land on
which to exercise his agricultural skill, even
after the transformation had been effected,
he resolved to leave France to the most pious
and gluttonous of kings, and betake himself
to a country where a stout arm and firm
resolve might keep him, at all events, from
poverty and contempt. So Major Grasigny,
of the second battalion of the Imperial Guard,
collected the small remainder of his wealth,
shook off the dreams of fresh campaigns
that had haunted his pillow ever since he had
been borne down by the last charge at
Waterloo; left off his military strut; studied
"Books of the Farm" and the "Dairyman's
Guide," and embarked at Dieppe, to settle in
the backwoods of America.

The journey from New York to the Pacific
is now a matter of every-day occurrence;
it is so common indeed, and everybody has
heard so much about it, that everybody knows
all the stopping-places as well as his way to
church. Unfortunately, the Major was not
a great geographer, and knew nothing of
natural history; so his contribution to the
stores of our useful information was neither
extensive nor valuable. He climbed an infinite
variety of mountains; was nearly
drowned half-a-dozen times in crossing
nameless rivers; was, of course, swamped three
or four times in canoes; narowly escaped
twice from a prairie on fire; encountered
wild Indians; had a fight with forty buffaloes;
and, in short, went through the usual
adventures of an emigrant in search of a
home.

Faintly and wearily the way-worn traveller
saw the end of his journey approaching at
last: and also of his possessions. A few
dollars were all that remained to him when
he arrived at the district in which he proposed
to set up his staff. The name of it
has never been exactly discovered, the Gallic
pronunciation being unfavourable to
geographical identification; but, as nearly as it
could be made out, it was the township of
Squash-bash, beautifully situated on the
bank of the River of Salt. The Salt River,
as it is more familiarly called by Anglo-Saxon
tongues, was at that time almost the utmost
limit of what is called civilisation: the said
civilisation consisting in a superior knowledge
of rifle shooting, and large importations of
gin. The major had walked on in advance of
the humble vehicle that conveyed his goods,
and rejoiced to find himself once more
restored to the bosom of a Christian society;
for, in the course of his walk, he came upon
the body of an Indian recently shot, and
nearly stumbled over the person of a gentleman
from Kentucky who lay across the pathway,
immensely drunk. Encouraged by these
sights he hurried forward; and, on emerging
from the forest, the settlement of Squash-bash
met his eyes. In more senses than one
it was the settlement of his hopes. He didn't
know the richness of that virgin soil, the
advantages of that glorious river, the healthful
alternations of that delicious climate from
the black hole of Calcutta to the top of
Caucasus. He saw nothing but what positively
met his eyes. A primrose to him
was nothing but a primrose, whether it grew
by a river's brim, or hung from a dandy's
button-hole. It was a dull, dead, uniform
plain, overgrown with coarse reeds and
traversed by a vulgar, sullen-looking stream,
which recalled to him neither the luxuriance
of the Rhine, nor the glories of the Danube.
There was no sign of human habitation where-ever
he turned his eyes. It was not long,
however, before he discovered that he was
not the monarch of all he surveyed; for he
had not sat down many minutes to rest himself
on the trunk of a fallen tree, when he
heard the whizz of a bullet close at his ear,
and the sharp crack of a rifle at no great
distance. A thin wreath of smoke revealed
the spot whence the assault proceeded; and,
jumping to his feet, the major ferociously
placed his right hand on his left-hand pocket,
as if in instant expectation of feeling the hilt
of a sword, and advanced rapidly to where his