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and turned back the hateful invaders with a vengeance as terrible as their own, though even now he refused to be cruel.

8. Leclerc sent word to Cristophe that he was about to land at Cape City. Cristophe said, “ Toussaint is governor of the island. I will send to him for permission. If without it a French soldier sets foot on shore, I will burn the town and fight over its ashes.”

9. Leclerc landed. Cristophe took two thousand white men, women, and children, and carried them to the mountains for safety, then with his own hands set fire to the splendid palace which French architects had just finished for him, and in forty hours the place was in ashes. The battle was fought in its streets, and the French driven back to their boats. Wherever they went they were met with fire and sword. Once, resisting an attack, the blacks, Frenchmen born, shouted the Marseilles* Hymn, and the French stood still; they could not fight the Marseillaise.* And it was not till their officers sabered them on that they advanced, and then they were beaten.

10. Beaten in the field, the French then took to lies. They issued proclamations, saying, “We do not come to make you slaves; this man Toussaint tells you lies. Join us, and you shall have the rights you claim.” They cheated every one of his officers except Cristophe and two others, and finally these also deserted him, and he was left alone. He then sent word to Leclerc, “I will submit. I could continue the struggle for years, --could prevent a single Frenchman from safely quitting your camp. But I hate bloodshed. I have fought only for the liberty of my race. Guarantee that, I will submit and come in.” He took the oath to be a faithful citizen; and on the same crucifix Leclerc swore that he should be faithfully protected, and that the island should be free.

11. As the French general glanced along the line oi his splendidly equipped troops, and saw opposite Toussaint's ragged, ill-armed followers, he said to him, "L'Ouverture,*

* Pronounced Mär-sālz. Pronounced Mär-sāl-yāz'. Loo-věr-ture'.

had you continued the war, where could you have got arms ?” "I would have taken yours," was the Spartan reply.

12. He went down to his house in peace; it was summer. Leclerc remembered that the fever months were coming, when his army would be in hospitals, and when one motion of that royal hand would sweep his troops into the sea. He was too dangerous to be left at large. So they summoned him to attend a council; he went, and the moment he entered the room the officers drew their swords and told him he was prisoner.

13. They put him on shipboard, and weighed anchor for France. As the island faded from his sight he turned to the captain and said, “You think you have rooted up the tree of liberty, but I am only a branch; I have planted the tree so deep that all France can never root it up." He was sent to the Castle of St. Joux,* to a dungeon twelve feet by twenty, built wholly of stone, with a narrow window, high up on one side, looking out on the snows of Switzerland. In this living tomb the child of the sunny tropic was left to die.

14. From the moment he was betrayed the negroes began to doubt the French, and rushed to arms. Then flashed forth that defying courage and sublime endurance which show how alike all races are when tried in the same furnace. The war went on. Napoleon sent over thirty thousand more soldiers. But disaster still followed their efforts. What the sword did not devour the fever ate up. They were chased from battle-field to battle-field, from fort to fort, and finally the French commander begged the British admiral to cover the remnant of his troops with the English flag, and the generous negroes suffered the invaders to embark undisturbed.

15. Hayti is become a civilized state, the seventh nation in the catalogue of commerce with this country, inferior in morals and education to none of the West Indian isles. Foreign merchants trust her courts as willingly as they do

* Pronounced Sax-Zhoo.

our own.

Toussaint made her what she is. In this work there was grouped around him a score of men, mostly of pure negro blood, who ably seconded his efforts. Toussaint was indisputably their chief. Courage, purpose, endurance;—these are the tests. He did plant a state so deep that all the world has not been able to root it up.

WENDELL PHILLIPS.

CVII.— WAITING BY THE GATE.

I.

B

ESIDE a massive gateway built up in years gone by,

Upon whose top the clouds in eternal shadow lie, While streams the evening sunshine on quiet wood and lea, I stand and calmly wait till the hinges turn for me.

II.

The tree-tops faintly rustle beneath the breeze's flight,
A soft and soothing sound, yet it whispers of the night;
I hear the wood-thrush piping one mellow descant more,
And scent the flowers that blow when the heat of day is o'er.

III.

Behold, the portals open, and o'er the threshold, now,
There steps a weary one with a pale and furrowed brow;
His count of years is full, his allotted task is wrought;
He passes to his rest from a place that needs him not.

IV.

In sadness then I ponder how quickly fleets the hour
Of human strength and action, man's courage and his power.
I muse while still the wood-thrush sings down the golden day.
And as I look and listen the sadness wears away.

V.

Again the hinges turn, and a youth, departing, throws
A look of longing backward, and sorrowfully goes;
A blooming maid, unbinding the roses from her hair,
Moves mournfully away from amid the young and fair.

VI.

O glory of our race that so suddenly decays !
O crimson flush of morning that darkens as we gaze!
O breath of summer blossoms that on the restless air
Scatters a moment's sweetness, and flies we know not where'

VII.

I grieve for life's bright promise, just shown and then withdrawn;
But still the sun shines round me, the evening bird sings on;
And I again am soothed, and, beside the ancient gate,
In this soft evening sunlight, I calmly stand and wait.

VIII.

Once more the gates are opened; an infant group go out,
The sweet smile quenched forever, and stilled the sprightly

shout. O frail, frail tree of Life, that upon the greensward strows Its fair young buds unopened, with every wind that blows!

IX,

So come from every region, so enter, side by side,
The strong and faint of spirit, the meek and men of pride.
Steps of earth's great and mighty, between those pillars gray,
And prints of little feet, mark the dust along the way.

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And some approach the threshold, whose looks are blank with

fear, And some whose temples brighten with joy in drawing near, As if they saw dear faces, and caught the gracious eye Of Him, the Sinless Teacher, who came for us to die.

XI.

I mark the joy, the terror; yet these, within my heart,
Can neither wake the dread nor the longing to depart;
And in the sunshine streaming on quiet wood and lea,
I stand and calmly wait till the hinges turn for me.

W. C. BRYANT.

CVIII.-TOM BROWN'S LAST VISIT TO RUGBY.

PART FIRST.

I

N the summer of 1842, Tom Brown stopped once again

at the well-known station; and leaving his bag and fishing-rod with a porter, walked slowly and sadly up towards the town. It was now July. He had rushed away from Oxford the moment that term was over, for a fishing ramble in Scotland, with two college friends, and had been for three weeks living on oatcake and mutton-hams in the wildest part of Skye.

2. They had descended one sultry evening on the little inn at Kyle Rhea ferry, and while Tom and another of the party put their tackle together and began exploring the stream for a sea-trout for supper, the third strolled into the house to arrange for their entertainment. Presently he came out in a loose blouse and slippers, a short pipe in his mouth, and an old newspaper in his hand, and threw himself on the heathery scrub which met the shingle, within easy hail of the fishermen.

3. There he lay, the picture of free-and-easy, loafing, hand-to-mouth young England, “improving his mind,” as he shouted to them, by the perusal of the fortnight-old weekly paper, the legacy of the last traveler, which he had hunted out from the kitchen of the little hostelry, and being a youth of a communicative turn of mind, began imparting the contents to the fishermen as he went on.

4. “What a bother they are making about these wretched corn laws! here are three or four columns full of nothing but sliding scales and fixed duties.—Ah, here's something better - a splendid match between Kent and England, Brown! Kent winning by three wickets. Felix fifty-six runs without a chance, and not out!”

5. Tom, intent on a fish which had risen at him twice, answered only with a grunt.

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