rise to the major from the past, like fragments
of wreck from the depths of the sea.
He touched the motionless hands with more
respect as he crossed them upon the breast. A
sacred something had filled him with reverence
when first he had heard the tones of the voice;
and now, when he lay before him in that
wild solitude—so far from France, so unknown
to all the world—he felt that he had only
renewed an acquaintance with the noble spirit
whom he had admired and followed so long;
and again and again he knelt beside the
bed, and wondered if it indeed could be.
Doubt took possession of him from time to
time, till a glance at the grand features and
sublime repose of the departed restored his
belief. The few preparations were soon
made.

In a deep dell near the river, under a clump
of wild magnolias, the body was committed to
its rest; and Grasigny devoted himself to the
fulfilment of his benefactor's command.

In the year 1848 there was a grand review
in the Champ de Mars, in Paris. A glittering
escort accompanied the Chief of the State,
who was still the unperjured governor of a free
and gallant people. Near his side rode an
officer without any decorations, to whom,
however, more respect was paid than his
military rank required. His name was shouted
out with expressions of admiration as he rode
along the Boulevards, gracefully reining in the
fiery Arab he rode, and bowing graciously on
either hand. A grey-haired man, who stood
at a corner where he could see the whole
procession close at hand, as he approached,
examined him minutely. There was something
in his air that struck him. There was
a high and noble brow, firm manly lips and
eyes that told of the proud spirit within.
There was a military look in the grey-haired
man which commanded attention; a cross of
the Legion of Honour was on his breast.

"Monseigneur," he said, as the cavalcade
passed, "I desire a word with you."

The fiery Arab was checked in a moment,
and the rider stooped to his saddle-bow.

"My name is Grasigny, major—second
battalion, Old Guard."

The horseman touched his hat and smiled.

"May I call on you to-night at six. I
think I have a communication to make to you
with which you will be pleased."

"To see a soldier of the Old Guard will
please me at all times," said the courteous
cavalier, and galloped off.

Grasigny was true to his appointment. The
officer received him graciously. With chisel
and hammer the major undid the lid of the
wooden case, lifted from it a sword, carefully
enveloped in a brilliant sash—held it to the
light, and read a few words inscribed upon
the gold plate of the handle.

"Monseigneur, my suspicions are
confirmed," he said, and handed the sword to
the officer, who started on seeing the inscription,
and then covered the blade with kisses,
alternating with tears. The words of the inscription
were these:—

NAPOLEON TO JOACHIM MURAT,
AUSTERLITZ,
2ND DECEMBER, 1805.

THE GUANO DIGGINGS.

THREE rocks, without a blade of grass upon
them—their brown surface cracked by a hot
sun, whose beams are rarely intercepted by
a cloud—rocks upon which no rain has fallen
since the Deluge—yield at present the chief
riches of Peru. They are the Chincha Islands.
Ships are ever gathering about them to bear
off the fatness covering their ribs; that is to
say, the guano, which shall fertilise the over-taxed
and wasted fields of distant countries.
To this guano district may now be added that
of the Lobos Islands, to which Peru lays a disputed
claim; but, I believe that the deposit
of guano in the Lobos Islands falls far short,
both in quantity and in quality, of that on the
Chinchas, from which all the Peruvian guano
brought into Great Britain has been taken.

My starting point for the guano diggings
was Port Philip, or Victoria, as it is now
called; but we are now going gently, if you
please, before the south-east trade wind, just
opening out the bay of Callao, the sea-port
of Lima. For the last few hours we have
been gliding slowly along the coast, gazing
upon scenery which I should like to describe,
but dare not; for though, like most sailors,
a pretty good hand at painting a lower mast-head
or a topsail yard, I can make nothing of
a sketch in pen and ink. Paint for yourself,
therefore, the huge masses of rugged brown,
mountains, rising in steps from the green sea,
and the white surf at their base, until the
pure blue sky seems to be resting on their
distant peaks, where the harsh contrast
between earth and air is softened, less by
distance than by the dim glitter of the everlasting
snow, A fleecy bank of cloud ascending
from some unseen valley belongs also to
the picture.

Though we are bound only for the Chincha
Islands, yet we come to an anchor at Callao;
we have already passed the islands once.
Here I may say a word on what is a great
annoyance to all masters of ships visiting Peru,
and a source of additional expense to English
ship-owners and charterers. Every guano
ship is compelled to enter inwards and out-wards
at Callao; thus, in the first place,
sailing about a hundred and fifty miles beyond
the islands to reach the port; then,—always
against a head wind—beating the hundred
and fifty miles back again to Pisco—a small
port close to the Chinchas. Here she anchors,
and goes through some formal performance
or other, remaining sometimes two or three
days. Then she sails back again nine or ten
miles to the islands, where she loads and