father misery enough, without wrecking the happiness of his son. I am no heathen, to sacrifice to Moloch." "Come, Joe," I said; " you seem uncommonly bitter against your old love. But be a trifle more explicit; let us hear the whole of your impeachment of gymnastics. You seem to me to be as violent now in your denunciations of them, as you were formerly unreasonable in your devotion to them. Come, now; what harm have they done you?" "Well, in the first place," grunted Joe, "they have broken my wind."-I thought of the five miles an hour, but was silent.- "At the slightest exertion, or quickening of the pace, I begin to blow like a grampus. I tried to get up Mont Blanc last year; had to give it up at the Grands Mulets. If I go in for swimming, I knock up after half a mile." Well, but even if this is so, how is it due to gymnastics?" "I'll tell you. In the first place, as I said before, they put on muscle that with the least inaction becomes fat. But, besides this, only consider what fooleries we go in for when we are at it! We get into a perfect lather of perspiration; we immediately shove our heads into a basin of cold water, or get some fool like ourselves to pour a can of cold water down our backs. Of course, the perspiration is violently arrested, and the system chilled. The result is, that we thicken the bronchial tubes, we derange the action of the heart, we become asthmatic, and extremely susceptible of cold." "Well, I admit the first count, old man. You are, comparatively very comparatively speaking, brokenwinded. What next?" "Well, in the next place, you never yet knew a fellow go in heavily for athletics who did not damage himself by overstraining some part or other. You knew Dupoids of Balliol, magnificent fellow! seen him throw the hammer one hundred and twelve feet;- well, he strained his left breast, and feels it ever since. Long, the mile-runner, brought on varex, and wears an elastic stocking; Doolan, the spurt-runner, went into a consumption; my cousin Jack, who won the sculls, has to wear a truss. I sprained the right pectoral muscle when I was playing some stupid antics on the trapeze, and directly the cold weather sets in, I am never free from pain in the damaged part." "Proven!" I exclaimed, anxious to check his reminiscences of disabled heroes, which threatened to become lengthy. "You have made good your second count. You are damaged; in point of fact a screw, a broken-winded screw. What next?" "Besides all this,” continued he, "I am quite convinced that strong training makes a man heavy, somnolent, and stupid. Plato, who, to my mind, is about the only fellow who ever understood the subject of education as a system founded on reason, is quite right in saying that physical and mental training cannot go on simultaneously. Mark Pattison, too, is tolerably well on the spot in what he says about the mania for athletics. Only, you know, he is a weakling, like you; and a man does not like to be put right by a fellow that he could smash." "Well, but the Greeks," I objected, "certainly made gymnastics an integral part of their education." "True," replied Joe; "but, in the first place, the Greeks began their physical education at a time when the mind is best fallow, and brought it to an end in good time. Whereas our fellows grind on the river, or in the gymnasium, at the very crisis of the mind: they burn the candle at both ends. Besides, the gymnastics of the Greeks went on an entirely different principle from ours. Theirs were systematic, and, so to speak, generic: ours are haphazard and special. They cultivated the harmony of the whole body: we only develop particular parts; our fellows only aim at putting on lumps here and there. One fellow goes in for rowing, and puts a lump on his forearm, and another behind his shoulderblades. Another fellow goes in for dumb-bells and parallel bars, and puts a lump on his biceps. Another goes in for running or jumping, and puts a lump on his calf. But there is nothing systematic; it is all chaotic and idiotic." "Well, I suppose you must have it your own way," I said. "I will write you down an ass,' if you like. Let me see that makes a broken-winded, asinine screw. Any thing else?" "Yes: there are the moral annoyances and vexations of finding out that you are perpetually losing the faculty of doing some absurd thing or other, that no one in his senses feels the least desire to do. You saw to-day how I lost my temper, because I could not vault over a five-barred gate. It was the same thing the other day at an athletic festival at Westwich. I was fool enough to let them humbug me into going in for the hammer-'just to show the rustics how to throw it.' Well, sir, one of my own tenants' sons threw six feet further than I did. But come; we've had enough of this; pass the port. A few pounds of flesh more or less can't make much difference now. No more? Then let us go, and have coffee with Annie." "Just another minute," I pleaded. "At this rate, we ought not to take any exercise at all." "I never said that. Take exercise in plenty;- cricket, row, ride, shoot, skate, fence, box, so long as you can do so without leading an unnatural life. But if any one wants you to go into training for any of these things, to knock off your pipe, to limit yourself to some absurd pittance of fluid per diem, with your throat as dry as the Sahara; to variegate your skin with a crop of boils, or to live at the mercy of some brutal trainer or some pigmy cox., take my advice, and do nothing of the sort. It is better to remain an abortion like you, Tom, than to break down like me. But come up stairs, and then we'll have a pipe." THOMAS BUSBY, MUS. DOC. THERE is a story of a country clergyman observing of rejected addresses, that he could not understand why they had been rejected; they seemed to him very good addresses. And a certain critic of the period is reputed to have said of "Gulliver's Travels," that he thought the narrative interesting, but rather improbable in regard to some of its details. It is plain that, in the judgment of many lookers-on, satire must often miss its mark. Indeed, when it is of a comprehensive kind, one can no more expect that its every shaft will tell, than that every shot fired from a mi'railleuse will cause destruction. In both cases, some waste of force, and some failure of plan, are almost inevitable. A great satirist invests with importance the objects of his satire. However severe may be his usage o them, he yet kicks them up stairs, as it were. Pope has really embalnied in the "Dunciad" the poetasters and witlings he sought to exterminate. But for him, we should know nothing of them. In lieu of the vitriol that destroys, he poured upon them, in truth, the spirits of wine that preserve. Fame clings to them from the fact that they were deemed worthy the furious attack of one so famous. James and Horace Smith were not satirists of the Pope school. Avowedly they designed but to raise "a harmless laugh" at the expense of the more eminent and popular writers of their time. Some of these even Rogers and Campbell, for instance were passed over from a feeling that they did not present sufficient opportunites to the caricaturists. And throughout their undertaking, the joint authors were intent upon producing inoffensive parodies, rather than acrimonious satire. As a rule, therefore, we must not look in their pages for the kind of ridicule that confers long life upon its victims. Something like this has happened, however, in two or three cases. Effusive Fitzgerald, and his benedictory verses, would perhaps long since have been forgotten, but for the burlesque of his muse by the Smiths. The Hon. William Spencer's name as a poet would scarcely have survived, if the humorous travesty of his style and sentiments, commencing with the line, "Sobriety, cease to be sober," had not been written. Spencer himself, "in comic confidence at his villa at Petersham," said to Horace Smith, "It's all very well for once, but don't do it again. I had been almost forgotten, when you revived me; and now all the newspapers and reviews ring with this fashion able and trashy author."" And a third bard, mainly remembered now by the parody of his verses in " Rejected Addresses," was a certain Thomas Busby, Mus. Doc., concerning whom we propose to make some brief mention. The arrow sped at Dr. Busby was the one failure of the satirists. He could thereafter claim fame, both on the score that he had been thought worth aiming at, and that he had been missed. But he was, in truth, too vast and too dense a butt. He had already clothed himself so completely in ridicule, that there was no room for any one to add more. What can the satirist do against a man who has more than sufficiently satirized himself? The doctor's own writings, as the Quarterly Review remarked at the time, "for extravagant folly, tumid meanness, and vulgar affectation, set all the powers of parody at utter defiance." Jeffrey, in the Edinburgh, said of the address, " Architectural Atoms," which the Smiths had ascribed to Busby, that it appeared to be "far more capable of combining into good poetry, than the few lines we were able to read of the learned doctor's genuine address." Did ever satirists before over-estimate the merits of their subject, or parody so mildly as to raise less laughter than the thing parodied? Yet this Busby, apart from his distinction as a butt, was a person of some note in his day. Absurd almost to craziness, he yet had fair title to respect on the score of his abilities and accomplishments. Born at Westminster, in 1755, he had studied music under Jonathan Battishill, at that time a famous composer of anthems, catches, and glees, who lies buried by the side of Dr. Boyce, in St. Paul's Cathedral. Busby became organist at the churches of St. Mary Woolnoth, Lombard Street, and St. Mary, Newington; produced oratorios at the Haymarket and Covent Garden Theatres; published selections of music in a serial form, such as "The Divine Harmonist" and "The Beauties of British Song." In 1800, the University of Cambridge conferred upon him his degree of Doctor of Music. He supplied the accompaniments to the popular melodramas of "A Tale of Mystery" and "Rugantino," and the music of the opera of "The Fair Fugitives." He published a grammar of music, and a new musical dictionary. Moreover, he produced a translation of "Lucretius," which was thus cruelly announced by one of the newspapers, in the register of births: Yesterday, at his house in Queen Anne Street, Dr. Busby, of a still-born Lucretius." It was the doctor's delusion that he was a poet. He was continually pestering the newspapers with his effusions. He especially prided himself upon his prologues and occasional addresses to theatrical audiences. Elliston, who had become manager of the Surrey Theatre, humored the doctor's foible, enlisted his services, and designated him "the laureate of the Surrey stage." In evasion or in defiance of the restrictions of the licenser, and the privileges of the patent theatres, Elliston had produced Macbeth as "a grand ballet of action with music," &c. He was only entitled to perform "burlettas;" but he contrived to embrace the whole British drama in that mysterious form of entertainment. Dr. Busby provided a prologue to this ballet of Macbeth. It was a curious composition, which, reciting that "with nature and the energies of man, the reign of poesy and song began," enumerated all the great dramatists, from Eschylus to Shakspeare, and concluded with a reference to the peculiar difficulties of the Surrey management: Though not endowed with fullest powers of speech, Many other addresses were afterwards written by Busby for Elliston; the great manager and his proceedings supplying sufficient themes for the poet. "They contributed to each other's fame," writes a critic; "it was a joint policy of immortality;" and it was noted at the time that, although Kean was the first actor who talked of "his secre tary," Elliston was the first manager who, for his own greater glorification, specially retained the services of a bard. Occasionally, it would seem, however, that Elliston, unable to commit to memory the rhapsodies of Busby, or preferring his own impromptu ingenuity as a speech-maker, would pause in the middle of the doctor's address, and conclude with an oration of his own contriving. Something of this kind happened at the opening of the Surrey, in 1810. The first poetry lines of the managerial address were Busby's; but presently Elliston was found to be delivering, in his happiest manner, his own florid prose. "The poetry was conventional, the speech was special," writes Elliston's biographer; " and though the unhappy rhymester was sadly shorn on the evening in question, he had the satisfaction of viewing himself at full length in the newspaper columns of the following morning." When the committee of management of Drury Lane Theatre publicly advertised in August, 1812, for an address, to be spoken on the opening of the new building on the 10th of October, be sure that Dr. Busby availed himself of the opportunity to exercise his muse. It does not appear, from the terms of the advertisement, that any reward was offered for the most successful poem. But, no doubt, an understanding prevailed that the chosen bard would be duly recompensed. Nearly a gross of addresses was sent in, each in obedience to the provisions of the invitation, "sealed up, with a distinguishing word, number, or motto, corresponding with the inscription on a separate sealed paper, containing the name of author." These addresses, some written by men of great, some by men of little, and some by men of no, talent," were all rejected. At the last moment a prologue was supplied by Lord Byron, a member of the committee. Probably it had been from the first intended that his lordship should be the poet of the occasion. 66 Of the numerous discarded bards, Dr. Busby was the most angry and disappointed. Fully convinced of its surpassing merits, he had made sure of his address being chosen before all others. Moreover, as though expressly to aggravate the sufferings of the poets, no intimation had been afforded them of the fate of their manuscripts. It is even probable that many of them had attended the theatre on the opening night, in expectation of hearing their own verses delivered from the stage. The rejected candidates might surely have been spared this mortification. And the managers would have saved themselves from considerable inconvenience, if they had been more alert to consult the feelings of the slighted authors. Lord Byron's address was recited by Elliston, in the dress of Hamlet, on the opening night, and was repeated after the first play, on nine or ten subsequent evenings. There was a murmuring in the air, and a leaven of discontent among the audience; but there would seem to have been no serious manifestation of feeling, until the night of the 14th of October; when, immediately after the performance of "The Hypocrite" had concluded, an unknown gentleman rose in the pit, and addressed the audience with great earnestness. One of the actors appeared upon the stage, in accordance with the custom of that time, to announce the entertainments of the following evening. He was compelled to retire, having failed to make himself heard. The attention of the audience was engrossed by the speaker in the pit, and great confusion prevailed. The gentleman was waving a paper in his hand, and was therefore invited by his neighbors to mount to the stage, and address the house from that advantageous position. This counsel the unknown followed: when in front of the footlights he was met by Mr. Raymond, the stagemanager. Both addressed the house and each other, without either making himself heard. The spectators laughed, cheered, and then hooted. Meantime, the figures upon the stage were seen gesticulating and interchanging profound bows, after the manner of Noodle and Doodle, in the burlesque of "Tom Thumb." Eventually, the stranger was somewhat violently removed from the stage by two police-officers. This arbitrary proceeding excited great disapprobation. The concluding performances of the night were subjected to grave interruption. The stage-manager was summoned, and was loudly hissed upon his entry. He endeavored to explain that he had only acted in accordance with the duties of his office; he had but removed "an unknown person," who had attempted to disturb the representation; and he appealed to the house to know if it was regular or desirable that any one should quit the pit and appear on the stage to recite an unauthorized address. A measure of peace was restored, but Mr. Raymond left many of his auditors unconvinced of the propriety of his treatment of the "unknown person," who remains unknown to this day. A more stormy episode was in store for the following evening, relative to a rejected address. The entertainments consisted of "The Rivals" and the farce of "Turn Out." Upon the termination of the comedy, Dr. Busby rose from his seat in the boxes, and, bowing repeatedly to all parts of the house, commenced a speech. For some minutes the tumult was so great, friends and foes were alike so vociferous, hisses and plaudits were so intermingled, that not a sentence could be heard. By his more immediate neighbors, however, the speaker was understood to say, "I am Dr. Busby: a lover, a member of the drama, and a friend to the theatre." (Loud cheering, hisses, and cries of, "Hear him!") "Ladies and gentlemen, by some I may be blamed for taking this method of addressing you, as being humiliating to a gentleman; but I can see no greater impropriety in speaking from the public box of a public theatre, than from a forum, or from the hustings of an election." (Cheering and disapprobation.) "Ladies and gentlemen, for the talents and qualifications of the right honorable, noble, and illustrious lord who wrote the address which you have heard this night recited to you, I have the highest respect." (Applause and hisses.) "It is well known that for several weeks the committee appointed to manage the concerns of this theatre have, by public advertisements, courted the exertions of the literary world to prepare an address, to be spoken at the opening of this truly magnificent structure. This was, on their part, noble and praiseworthy; but it must be allowed, on all hands, that, however right they have been in intention, they have most lamentably erred in judgment." The noise now became so great that the doctor was unable to proceed for some minutes. Presently, he went on to say that the number of persons who condescended to furnish addresses had exceeded one hundred, he believed; and those who thought that out of such a number a better could not have been selected, did not think so highly of the poetical talent of the country as he did. Among them it might be taken for granted that some were very fine. He himself knew of four or five answering to that description. Here arose loud cries of, "Your own and your son's were among the number." The orchestra now commenced playing, and drowned in music the voice of the speaker. Presently, he was further interrupted by the performance of the farce. Between the acts, he made an unsuccessful attempt to renew his speech. The audience was divided in opinion. Some were for hearing the doctor, some for hearing the farce. The actors ventured upon appropriate "gags." Dowton, who played "Restive," charged against a misjudging world, "which had rejected many of his works of genius, that he had sent twenty most noble addresses to Drury Lane Theatre, none of which had been accepted by the committee. He had, therefore, determined to go to the playhouse himself and recite them." This sally was received with great laughter and applause. And a verse of the song of "Turn Out," sung by Knight, in the character of Forage, also excited great amusement: have a strong, a powerful motive," he said, "for requesting your attention. I am a friend to this theatre. I wish to open the way to superexcellence; to bring forward strong and powerful talent, instead of letting it sink into oblivion. Gentlemen, I am a friend to merit, and more especially to modest merit. My son is now in this house, with an address which I had prepared for the opening of the theatre; and nothing would bring greater pride and satisfaction to me, than that he should be allowed by the managers to rehearse it on the stage, if you will give him leave." This proposition was greeted with prolonged applause. But suddenly the speaker was roughly seized by two Bowstreet officers, and dragged from the boxes. The doctor fought gallantly, and by sitting down on the stairs, and grasping the banisters with all his force, he greatly hindered the efforts of the constables. A crowd was collected, and chivalrously took the part of the oppressed. The officers were hustled down the stairs, while their victim was borne in triumph upon the shoulders of his friends round the corridors, and reinstated in the boxes. Smoothing his ruffled plumage, and gaining breath, while the house cheered him again and again, the doctor resumed his speech. He was understood to state that he was now the champion of the rights of play-goers; as much a freeman as a conqueror; and he should now give the house an opportunity of hearing such a monologue as they had seldom heard. (Cries of, "Bravo!" and, "Go on!") He acknowledged their kind partiality with more than common gratitude, for more than common compliment to his muse; but he had now to mention that if they were as sincere as he was, in their desire to hear his verses, they must hear them from his son, who was sitting in the pit, and who knew the monologue by heart. Mr. George Frederick Busby, the doctor's son, now mounted to the stage. At the same moment, Mr. Raymond reappeared. In obedience to the wish of the house, he withdrew, however, intimating that the management had no wish to interfere with the efforts of the reciter. Mr. Busby, jr., then began the address. But his voice was small, and the uproar was still great. With difficulty could the opening lines be heard: : When energizing objects men pursue, What are the prodigies they cannot do? A magic edifice you here survey, Shot from the ruins of the other day. Then came interruptions, hisses, cries of, "Silence!” and laughter. The speaker was inaudible, but he persisted with his task. Thereupon he was, in his turn, addressed by a loud-toned gentleman in the boxes. Mr. Busby, I would advise you to go home, if you cannot make use of a stronger voice. You ought not to presume to get on that stage to detain the company, if you cannot speak so that we may distinctly hear; and I must tell you, that not a word of what you say can be understood here, from the smallness of your voice, however large and elegant your ideas may be.” The young gentleman claimed further indulgence, and for some little time longer he was permitted to proceed with his monologue. But still be could not make himself heard. The house now took to groaning and crying, "Go home!" At length he desisted, and retired from the stage, leaving his address still in part unheard. So terminated a scene that was wonderfully absurd, and must have been also irresistibly laughable. The doctor published his address in the newspapers. He was not to be convinced of its inferiority. At his own house, he gave private recitations of it, with readings from his translation of "Lucretius," refreshing his audience with tea and bread and butter. Satire was powerless against such a poet. The Smiths' parody fell flat. Even the parenthetical address, by "Dr. Plagiary," which Lord Byron hastened to publish, was felt as somewhat superfluous, - a thrice slaying of the slain. The opening lines ran thus: : "When energizing objects men pursue," The Lord knows what is writ by Lord knows who. "A modest monologue you here survey," The address was directed to be spoken "in an inarticulate voice, by Master P., at the opening of the next new theatre. Stolen parts marked with inverted commas.' But it was hardly worth while to accuse the doctor of plagiarism, or to consider him with any degree of gravity. He was not a foeman worthy of Lord Byron's steel, or of any one's steel; or, indeed, of steel at all, employed aggressively. He could be safely trusted to make himself more than sufficiently ridiculous. THE PRINCE OF TARENTE'S LOVE-STORY. AMONG the least known, but certainly not the least interesting, of the many memoirs left us by the contemporaries of Mazarin, are those of Henri-Charles, Prince of Tarente. The writer was the heir of the great house of Tremouille, than which there was not a wealthier or a nobler in old France. The head of the family was duke and peer. He had even some pretensions to royalty, through his descent from Frederick of Naples, a monarch who had died deposed towards the beginning of the sixteenth century. These pretensions were of value, inasmuch as they enabled the Tremouilles to assume the addition, Highness, which placed them on a level with the multitudinous sovereign princes of Germany; and, therefore, above all that was merely noble in France, or elsewhere. Thanks to this addition, the Tremouilles mingled blood with royalty, until they were akin to every crown in Europe. But their proudest alliances, or, at least, those in which they ought to have taken most pride, were contracted a little lower. For instance, the Prince of Tarente's grandmother was the daughter of William the Silent; his mother was the sister of Marshal Turenne; his grandfather's sister was the grandmother of the great Condé; and his aunt was the noble lady who defended Latham House. Thus, wherever he looked for a near relative, he found a heroine or a hero. Nor were his ancestors less distinguished. They were all full of valor and loyalty, and most of them warriors and " die-hards." One of them fell, under sixtytwo wounds, at the battle of giants (Marignan). Another was "the great cavalier without reproach;" the man who won more victories, and uttered more brilliant epigrams, than any of his time; he who coined the glorious phrase, "A field of battle in a just cause is the bed of honor; and who, closing his career as a soldier should, died at the age of sixty-five, while interposing his breast between his king and the German lances on the field, where France lost every thing but reputation. It was natural that the child of such a race should manifest the aspirations of a warrior at an early age. But the Prince of Tarente was a youth of feeble constitution, and an only son besides. Instead, then, of acceding to his wishes, his parents retained him in leading-strings much longer than was customary. At the age of eighteen, when court and camp were thronged with youths no older than himself, some of whom had already begun to play a brilliant part, he was still under the control of a tutor, and treated in all respects like a school-boy. Wearied of this thraldom, which to him seemed positively ignominious, he determined to abscond; and early in 1638 he found an opportunity. Both parents were absent, the duke in one of his governments, and the duchess in attendance on the queen; while he was left with his tutor in Paris. Money however, was necessary; and he, the heir of countless millions, had not a sou. But from this difficulty he was extricated by his valet, Roussel, whom he had taken into his confidence, and who contrived to scrape together one hundred crowns. With this small sum in their pockets, and a bundle on each of their shoulders, they stole out at nightfall, and afoot, looking not unlike a couple of travelling artisans. Two leagues from Paris they took post for Dieppe, which they reached next morning; and almost as a soon as themselves arrived one of the numerous couriers which the duchess had despatched in all directions in pursuit; for their flight had been discovered immediately. The governor of Dieppe dared not arrest such a personage as the heir of Tremouille without a formal warrant, document which had been quite overlooked in the hurry. It was not likely to be long delayed; but meanwhile something had to be done; and the governor did that something in the style of a born official. Rightly surmising that the prince was bound for Holland, he issued an order forbidding any shipmaster of that country to give him a passage. This was effectual, so far as it went; but it did not go far enough. There were other routes to Holland beside the direct one, a fact which the worthy governor does not seem to have suspected until it was thrust rather disagreeably under his notice. While his men kept sharp watch over all the Dutch vessels in the harbor, the prince went quietly on board an English one that happened to be getting under weigh, and in twenty-four hours more was landed safely in Devonshire. From thence he hurried to his aunt, the Countess of Derby, in London, where his unusual exertions threw him into a fever that confined him for two months. On his recovery he resumed his journey, reaching the Hague without further accident. From the Hague he communicated with his parents, who very wisely made the best of the matter. It was clear that he was resolved to be a soldier. It was equally clear that, if not allowed to fight under his great relative, he would seek another and probably more dangerous service. So, instead of complaining, or taking measures likely to render him uncomfortable in Holland, they did their utmost to fix him there. The duchess undertook to allow him thirty thousand livres a year; and, in concert with her, the duke requested the Prince of Orange to give their son an office that would establish him in the country: which the prince did. De Tarente, however, was soon fettered to the Low Countries, by a tie far stronger than any twined by interest or glory. Military enthusiast as he was, he contrived to lose his heart long before he won his spurs, the object of his attachment being the eldest daughter of the Prince of Orange. - By this time the campaign of 1638 was over, and De Tarente had no chance of getting his head broken that year. But, in return för his disappointment, he was included in the brilliant company that escorted Prince William of Orange to be married in England. "We set out to embark at Hoelvoetsluys," writes he; "but the contrary winds compelled us to pause at the Brille. After lingering there for two weary days, I could not refrain from returning to bid a second farewell to Mademoiselle d'Orange. Hardly, however, had I reached the Hague, than the wind changed, and I was obliged to retrace my path at full speed. Setting out at daybreak, I soon reached Maaslandsluys, a place separated from the Brille by an arm of the sea, which, at ordinary times, may be crossed in about three-quarters of an hour. Here I found only one small boat, which was manned by a single seaman. The sea was rough, and the craft crazy; but, having no choice, I embarked with Beaugendre, my sole attendant on that occasion. A short distance from the shore the waves ran so high that the boatman, though accustomed to these waters from infancy, grew apprehensive, and proposed to return. But, being anxious to reach Hoelvoetsluys before the fleet put to sea, I would not hear of this, and we continued our course. The wind increased every instant, until it blew a violent storm; the boat became altogether unmanageable, and we were in great danger. Giving us up for lost, our Dutchman began to howl with all his might, and continued to do so until he could howl no longer. He then very calmly lowered the sail, and allowed the skiff to drift. How we kept afloat in that tumult of winds and waters is more than I can conceive. Myself and my attendant fell on our knees, and our howling companion, who hardly knew what he did, followed our example. Having finished my prayer, I made use of the little Flemish I knew to remind the boatman, who was nearly helpless with fright, that Providence prefers to aid those who do something for themselves. As a practical comment, I ordered him to spread the sail again, while I took the helm. This manœuvre was not a happy one. I was far from being an accomplished pilot, and the boat under my direction bobbed about in the most extraordinary manner. The wind, however, soon put a period to my nautical display, by snapping the mast in two, and dashing the sail down on us. The catastrophe soon followed. While we were floundering under the sail, the boat upset, and pitched us into the water. What happened during the next few minutes is a mystery to me. All was dash, splash, darkness, and confusion. At last I shook my head clear of the spray, and found that we were all three clinging to the same side of the boat. Here we floated about, up to the neck in water, and expecting every moment to be our last. Beaugendre unclasped his mantle, and proposed that we should try to save ourselves by swimming. It was some time before I could make out what he meant, for the wind blew one-half of his words out of hearing, and the billows swallowed up the rest. When I did understand him, I showed him the futility of such a scheme in the midst of a tempest, and so far, not less than two leagues from the shore. Indeed, it was only when lifted on the crest of the waves that we could catch a glimpse of the buildings. A sudden gust now righted the boat; but before we could get in, another overturned it again. This happened three times over. At length, it resumed and retained its proper position; the wind gradually subsided, and in three hours more we reached the Brille." The escape was a narrow one. Still it was an escape, and De Tarente was rather pleased than otherwise that his romantic impulse had led him into so much peril. Three or four days afterwards he found himself in London, not at all the worse for his ducking. During his stay in the British capital, he involved himself in a quarrel which was far too characteristic of the period to be omitted. The Dutch company was distributed all over the city, the young Frenchman being assigned a lodging in Arundel House with his principal, while another near relative, Count Henry of Nassau, was quartered elsewhere. The latter, however, not liking his billet, transferred himself to Arundel House, where he appropriated an apartment intended for De Tarente. The latter thus describes what followed: "I remonstrated with Count Henry, who replied with haughtiness. A quarrel ensued, and we drew our swords, but were immediately separated. Monsieur de Brederode carried off my antagonist, and I retired to my chamber. No sooner had Prince William heard of the dispute than he sent for us both, and made us promise to forget the past. I, however, had no wish that the matter should end thus. I consulted my friend D'Harcour, who was captain in the regiment of cavalry which Prince Frederick Henry had bestowed on me. This,' said I, is my first affair of honor; and I had rather be blamed therein for rashness, than praised for circumspection.' D'Harcour replied that he would be very willing to bear my challenge to Count Henry; but that to do so with effect it would be necessary to await the termination of the festivities, and to find another pretext. As to the original subject of quarrel, he showed me that it would be a mistake to revive it, since I would thus compel Prince William, who had attempted to reconcile us, to take part against me; and in that case I must inevitably be excluded from the rejoicings. I thanked my friend for his advice, and promised to follow it very exactly. On the evening of the wedding-day, I happened to meet Count Henry at the house of a lady of quality. There were many guests present, and a great rush followed when the party broke up. Expecting this, I designedly placed myself behind the count. The pressure compelled him to push me rather roughly, but of course quite unintentionally. It was, however, precisely what I desired. Telling D'Harcour that I had now the requisite pretext, I described my conduct. He approved of it, and the moment the ceremonies were over, bore my challenge to the count. The latter excused himself, declared that he had not the slightest wish to insult me, and flatly refused to fight. He added that he was ready to explain the cause of his refusal, which he afterwards did in the presence of many. I was waiting his reply, in the house of the Marquis Vauville (the French ambassador), where D'Harcour repeated it before a large company. Next morning we were both placed under arrest, and some censure was passed on my youthful heat." So terminated our autobiographer's first essay in the art of duelling made easy. The second, as we shall see, he found a little sharper. Family matters drew De Tarente a second time to England, in 1639. There he was again attacked by fever; and before he could recover, the campaigning season was over. On his return to Holland, he embraced Protestantism, which had been the creed of his childhood, and was still that of his mother, and from which, indeed, his father had but recently seceded. We do not, for a moment, question his sincerity on taking this step. Men, however, are easily persuaded when inclination seconds argument. And Mademoiselle d'Orange was a Protestant of the Protestants. He made his debut in war in 1640, much like his Uncle Turenne; that is, carrying a pike in the ranks. It was the good old custom of the Orange princes thus to train their relatives for command by first teaching them to obey; and the result was many excellent captains. Nothing of impor tance occurred that year. During the next, the young Frenchman commanded a regiment of cavalry, and did good service at the siege of Genep. He particularly distinguished himself by his strict attention to details; conduct as unfashionable with young soldiers then, as it is now. He, however, had no reason to be dissatisfied with it. After the capture of Genep, his regiment occupied an advanced, and therefore dangerous, post. For this was peculiarly the era of great partisan feats, and an isolated corps was always liable to surprise. The prince was fully aware of his risk. and for four days and nights was unsleeping. Not a straw could move in his vicinity without attracting his attention. Fatigue at length brought on a serious illness; and he retired to Bergues, leaving his major, who was much less vig lant, in command. Two days afterwards, the Spaniards swooped down on this officer and carried him off, with the greater portion of his regiment. The next campaign was opened by De Tarente with a duel, which we shall allow himself to relate: "We were et camped at Rhimberg, when I was challenged by Princ Radzival, whom I had occasionally seen in my visits to the queen of Bohemia. The prince was remarkably assiduos in paying court to that royal lady, whom he affected t regard as his mistress (Elizabeth Stuart was then fortyseven). One day he thought it right to be offended, because I had taken a place near her which he wished to occupy. He requested me to surrender it, but with a tone and masner so overbearing that I could not comply. Our dispute alarmed the queen, who sought to reconcile us, and eves made us embrace in her presence. I was persuaded tha the affair would go no further; but, unfortunately, so mischievous people spread a report that my countrymen. who were numerous at the Hague, would twist the occur rence, if it remained as it stood, to the glorification of the country, and to the detriment of Prince Radzival. N sooner had this report reached the prince than he hastene to the camp. I accepted his defiance, and it was agreed that the encounter should take place with swords, about a quarter of a league from where we lay. We met, as appoitt D'Harcour, my second, measured the weapons, found that my antagonist's blade was the longer, by at least half a foot. The prince immediately offered to exchange for mine. As I would not agree to this, the question was decided by lot, which gave each of us his own weapon. fought on horseback, and the combat was soon over. Ideat Prince Radzival a thrust which merely pierced his shir He replied with another, that would have been as harmless had I been better armed. A guard would have arrestes. and turned his stroke; but my sword had none. His point therefore, pierced my wrist, and, running along my ar ripped it open right up to the shoulder. I dropped my sword and fell. Some of the prince's people raised me, an tied up the wound, while others hurried in search of a s geon. Fortunately for me, they had not far to seek. O named La Sage happened to be at hand, and saved my ed. and |