portion of the garrison now began to murmur and remonstrate, and at last from the summits of the towers waved white towels attached to their bayonets, as flags of truce. De Launay was in despair. He knew that the blood which had already been shed would doom him to death by the infuriated people. Almost in a state of delirium he seized a match and rushed toward the magazine. There were two hundred and thirty-five barrels of gunpowder in the vaults. The explosion would have thrown the Bastile into the air, have buried one hundred thousand people beneath its ruins, and have demolished one third of Paris. Two subaltern officers crossed their bayonets before him and prevented the accomplishment of this horrible design. Some wretches seized a young lady, whom they thought the governor's daughter, and wished, by the threat of burning her, compel the governor to surrender; but the citizens promply rescued her from their hands and convered her to a place of safety. At length through the smoke the flags of trace were seen, the firing ceased, and the cry resounded through the crowd. "The Bastile surrenders!" It can hardly be said that it was taken, for the assailants had produced no impression upon the impregnable fortress. The same popular opinion which was dominant in the General Assembly, and in the streets of Paris, was supreme also within the Bastile. exasperated by the shedding of blood, but one man in the fortress, a Swiss soldier, fell a victim to their rage. They found but six prisoners in the Bastile. The humanity of Louis XVI. had almost emptied its dungeons. The victorious populace now set out in a tumultuous procession to convey the governor and the soldiers of the garrison to the Hôtel de Ville. Those of the populace whose relatives had perished in the strife were roused to fury, and called loudly for the blood of De Launay.* Two men of extraordinary courage and strength walked by the side of De Launay to protect him from violence; but the crowd, breathing vengeance, pressed upon them. The governor in the mile lost his hat, and was thus easily recognized. M. Hullin, one of his protectors, with a magnanimity above all praise, placed his own hat upon the governor's head, and from that moment all the blows of the infuriate crowd were aimed at M. Hullin, whom the crowd supposed to be the governor. Soon the rush of the multitude became so great that the governor and his protectors were torn from each other. Hullin was struck down upon the pavement. Twice he regained his feet but to be again smitten down, when a deafening shout filled the air, and he saw the head of De Launay raised aloft upon a pike-a hideous "Some wanted to surrender; others went on firing. especially the Swiss, who for five hours pointed out, amed at, and brought down whomsoever they pleased. without sav danger or even the chance of being hurt in recara. They killed eighty-three men, and wounded eightyeight Twenty of the slain were poor fathers of families who left wives and children to die of hunger. Shame for such cardly warfare, and the horror of shedding French Nood, which but little affected the Swiss, caused the Invalides to drop their arms. At four o'clock the seatern officers begged and prayed De Lannay to The massive portals were thrown open, and the vast multitude, a living deluge, plunging headlong, rushed in. They clambered the towers, penetrated the cells, and descended into the dungeons and the oubliettes Appalled, they gazed upon the instruments of torture with which fumor victims of oppression had been torn and put an end to the massacre. He knew what he deserved basskon. Fxcited as they were by the strife and of the French Revolution by J. MICHELET, • Michele, voli pi trophy of the rage of the brutal few who ever dominate in the hour of popular tumult.* The great body of the people, aided by the French Guards, did all in their power to protect the garrison. The Swiss soldiers were par In the midst of this terrible scene two of the soldiers of the Bastile, whom the populace sup-doned, as allowances were made for their obliposed to have been particularly active in shooting their friends, were seized, notwithstanding the most strenuous efforts to save them, and hanged to a lamp-post. A rumor passed through the crowd that a letter had been found from the Mayor Flesselles to the governor of the Bastile, in which he said, "I am amusing the Parisians with cockades and promises. Hold out till the evening, and you shall be relieved." The citizens had already suspected that Flesselles was acting the part of a traitor and a spy. He was at this time in the hall of the Hôtel de Ville, presiding over the meeting of the elect ors. Loud murmurs arose from the crowd which filled and surrounded the building. It was an hour of terrible excitement. All Paris was in a state of insurrection, and it was every moment expected that resistless battalions of royal troops would come rushing upon them. The electors composed the only body to whom the populace could look for any guidance; and now it was evident that the officer presiding over that body was only plotting their ruin. gations to obey their officers.. They now, with the French soldiers who had also composed the garrison, took the oath of fidelity to the nation, and then, encircled by the French Guards, they were conducted to the barracks, where they were received as brothers, and refreshed with the kindest hospitality. Thus terminated the eventful 14th of July, 1789. It was the inauguration-day of the French Revolution. THE PRIDE OF MOSES GRANT. T was a wild, wet December night, full of tempest. Outside the red wooden house in the hollow, where Moses Grant had lived all his respectable life, the winds blew with an eerie sound, like a lost spirit's wail, and the snow fell steadily, folding the earth in great white shrouds. Moses Grant and his wife sat before the fire. A cheerful glow came out from the blazing logs -a mug of cider was toasting unheeded on the hearth, and a few apples stood untouched on the stand between them. Every thing in this Still counsels of moderation strangely influ- peaceful family sitting-room wore a snug and enced the masses of the people. They would comfortable look, from the neat bed standing not have him condemned untried. It was pro- in a recess in the wall, with home-made blue posed that he should go to the Palais Royal, woolen spread and snowy linen, to the brightly there to account before the people for the sus-polished pewter-plates upon the dresser and the picious circumstances urged against him. To this he consented, and he left the hall surrounded by those who wished to protect him from violence. At the turning of the first street an unknown assassin approached, and with a pistol shot him dead. Infuriate wretches, whose brutality could not be restrained, cut off his head and bore it upon a pike in savage triumph through the streats. unsoiled sand on the white floor. Outside, through the snow and the storm, tottered a single female figure-wearily, painfully, as if every step must be her last. Forsaken of God and man, the very elements seemed to do battle with her—the winds blew her feeble steps backward-the snow piled up higher and higher drifts before her feet, and yet those feeble feet tottered on-over the drifts, against the wind-steadily toward the red house in the hollow. These excesses cast a shade upon the glory of the day. And yet it is surprising, and it pleads eloquently for the moderation of the peo- There was a strange shadow on the face of ple, that there should not have been more acts that meek woman, Moses Grant's wife. Her of ungovernable revenge. Nearly two hundred knitting had fallen from her busy fingers, her of the citizens had been either killed or wound-foot tapped the floor with a restless beat, and at ed by the soldiers, who had deliberately shot them from behind the walls of the Bastile. But five perished by the hands of the populace. "De Launay, now a prisoner, is conducted to the Hôtel de Ville, through a tide of enraged citizens. His conductors displayed as much courage in protecting him as they had already displayed in possessing themselves of his castle. But after an hour spent in marching and resisting, De Launay was butchered at the foot of the stair-case of the Hôtel de Ville, when he was just on the point of being in safety."-The History of the Revolution of France by M. RABAUT DE ST. ETIENNE. "Les religieux des divers convents avaient pris la cocarde aux couleurs de la nation, bleu et rouge; ils formèrent des détachments; le temps de la ligue et des croisades etait revenu. Ces guerriers, en frocs et en capuchins, attestaient l'unanimité des sentiments qui faisaient agir toute la ville. Il se trouvait là des nobles, des bourgois, des abbés, du peuple. Ils n'avaient tous qu'une volenté, qu'une âme."-Histoire des Montagnards, par ALPHONSE ESQUIROS, p. 16. last, as if she could endure the stillness no longer, she arose and began moving hurriedly about the room, giving a touch here and there to her domestic arrangements, and now and then going stealthily to the window to look forth into the night. "Oh!" she muttered, in a low voice, "God have mercy-this pitiless, pitiless storm!" "You are thinking of Margaret," said the slow, firm tones of Moses Grant. The woman started, and dropped the candlestick she held in her confusion. She turned ghastly pale and grasped the dresser, near which she stood, for support. If a grave had opened at her very feet she would have been no more overwhelmed with wonder. For many months in that household that name-Margaret-had been dead and buried-a forbidden sound. Perhaps her eyes gleamed with a wild hope, and the color came back to her cheeks; perhaps her husband had relented; perhaps he would forgive their child—their Margaret. She went toward him, that meek woman, and kneeling at his feet, lifted up her pleading voice. "What are you thinking of, Mary ?" he cried, passionately; "have you no mother's heart— will you let her die there before your eyes our child, Margaret ?" over her like a helpless child, while the mother, fully herself now, worked with wild energy, collecting and applying restoratives, chafing the thin hands and the numb, half-frozen feet. He caught the prostrate figure in his armsto his breast; he carried her in to the warmth, "Surely, father, I may speak of her, now you the light, the father's house whence she had have called her name. It may be you are will-wandered; and then the cold, iron man wept ing to forgive her to let her come back again. Five-and-twenty years I have walked patiently by your side; I have tried to be a help-meet to you. God has given us seven children, and we have made their graves-all but one-behind the church on the hill-top. And now she is gone-the last-my one child-Margaret. Oh husband, will you forgive her? Will you let her come back? What would even shame be to the loss of her? And perhaps she has not sinned as we have thought. She was a good child always, our Margaret. She loved the church and the Bible, and you used to say no one else learned their lessons in the catechism so well as she. We are getting old, father-¦ I know; you are crying about poor Margaret. may I have my one girl back again?" The old man's face had worked convulsively while she poured forth her pleading prayer, but it settled back now into stony, immovable calm. He looked sternly at the woman crouching at his knees, as if she, too, had some share in Margaret's sin. He said, in his cold, resolved tones, "It is of no use. If we would take the child back we do not even know where to seek her. She is dead to us, now and forever. Hear me, Mary; if she lay at this moment outside that door, with this storm falling on her bare, unsheltered head, I would not open it one inch to let her in. She has made her bed; she shall lie in it. We have lived here many years-I, and my father, and my father's father, elders, one after another, in the church, and when did disgrace ever come to our humble, honest name till she brought it? She chose that bad young man and his unholy love, and father and moth-, er she has none. Hear me, Mary; we are childless. Let her name never pass your lips or mine." The woman rose and groped blindly to her chair. She sat there with half-closed eyes, swaying herself to and fro, muttering now and then, “Oh, this pitiless storm!" Outside, the figure tottered on. Suddenly there was a cry borne upon the blast-a wild, wailing, human cry, rising high above the wind, piercing into the red house, piercing Moses Grant's firm, stony heart, as he sat before the fire. A weight seemed to fall helplessly against the outside door, and then, there was silence. The mother sprang up and mechanically threw open the door, and the snow tumbled in, and the wailing wind rushed in. What was it lying there, stiff and helpless, upon the stone step, lifting up, whiter than the snow, its ghastly human face? The old man sprang to his wife's side. He had overrated his own stoicism. He shook her arm, almost harshly. Her efforts were successful in so far that the girl, for she was not more than eighteen, opened her eyes and came back to life with a gasping shudder. She did not seem quite restored, however, to the full use of her faculties. She spoke by snatches, in a strange, wandering fashion. "I thought I was dead," she said, “but I'm not. This is home, isn't it, and there's father. What do you cry so for, father? You never used to. I never saw you do so before. Oh! You think now that she wasn't so bad, after all. “Margaret,” broke in her mother's voice, "were you deceived? Did you think you were married to that man—that Gilbert Trumbull ?” It was pitiful to see such fierce passion in one so gentle as Margaret Grant, who, from childhood, had never known a thought save of loving submission to her parents' will, until that stronger love came and compelled her obedience in another direction. The blood mantled her pale cheek, and burned there in one round, red spot. She rose up in the bed and shrieked out, with her eyes gleaming, her frame trembling, "You shall not, I say you shall not speak his name-you who hate him so. You shall not drive me into betraying his secret. Tura me out again into the storm, if you will. I can die there as well as here; but you shall not make me answer your questions." "Hush, darling, darling, darling," murmured Mary Grant; the mother-love, the mother-tenderness, stronger than life, choking in her voice, thrilling in her touch, raining in tears from her eyes—“you shall not tell me if you do not wish to. Be satisfied. You shall never go out into the cold world again-you shall never suffer any more." And Moses Grant wept on, the while, his proud, stony heart melted, for the time, quite into childishness; saying nothing, only looking now and then at the girl whom his anger had driven forth, and who had come back to himalas! he knew it now, to die. That night a babe was born in the red house in the hollow. She came in the storm: was it a token of the life that awaited her? Outside were the snow, the darkness, the pitiless, wailing blast; within, only the girl, so young, so fair even in her ruin, and the two old people, tearless now and silent, keeping breathless watch ever their one child. The baby came into the world with a wail. Mary Grant brought forth from an old bureau, where they had lain for almost eighteen years, the tiny garments, soft and delicate in fabric, antique and simple in make, which her own fingers had fashioned, joyfully, hopefully, for her youngest-born, Margaret; and in them she robed Margaret's child. But death was written on the young mother's brow, and the parents could not choose but read. She drew her little one to her arms, and, holding her on her bosom, she blessed her. "She shall be called Elinor Trumbull, after the mother of her father." When she had said these words in a firm, quiet tone of command, she seemed to sink in unconsciousness. After a time she roused herself with wild energy. "Let no one defraud my child of her name," she cried out. "It is hers-she has a right to it. Father, mother, promise me that you will call her by this name, Elinor Trumbull ?" The two old people, with one consent, faltered the required promise, and then she said, in a humble tone, "Before I die, forgive me, my parents. God knows I have loved you, in spite of all I have done to make you suffer. Tell me that you forgive me." They forgave her without reproach or question. They blessed her with tender tears, and, sitting at her bed's head, they watched her as she sank again into a sort of drowse, still holding her babe on her breast. After that she never opened her eyes, but she murmured dreamily of green fields and fragrant blossoms, and the babblings of summer brooks, blent now and then with loving words or tender memories about her baby's father. Then all was very still and they thought her sleeping, but, somehow, I know not how, unseen and silently, from that calm her soul stole forth and was translated to the great endless calm lying beyond. Margaret was dead! For the next two days the storm raged with unabated violence. The snow, swept by the fierce wind from the mountain tops, was piled high in the valleys, and Moses Grant and his wife were all alone with their dead child and the living babe she had left them. In the interim much of his old sternness had come back to the elder's heart, the self-command and reticence to his outward life. I think he remembered his promise, that the little one should be called by the name of her father's family, with a kind of grim satisfaction in keeping with the silent pride of his character. The village where he lived was in the western part of Connecticut, under the shadows of the mountains, and Trumbull was an old and proud name in the far eastern portion. Gilbert Trumbull had won Margaret Grant's love during a shooting season among the hills, and, a few months after he left Mayfield, driven forth by her father's harshness and scorn, she had followed him. Trumbull was a name any woman might be proud to wear worthily, and Moses Grant was well resolved the world should never know, through him, that it did not legitimately belong to his infant grandchild. For two days the elements did battle, but the third morning of Elinor Trumbull's life rose calm, and bright, and fair. Early in the day Moses Grant went forth to seek the pastor of the old Presbyterian Church, in which he had been an elder so many years, and arrange for his daughter's burial. That afternoon, where the snow had been scooped away behind the church on the hill-top, they laid the elder's last child, beside her six brothers and sisters, in her narrow grave; and she, the youngest, the fairest, slept best, perhaps, of all, for the calm is most precious that comes after the wildest storms. Very dear she was to the gray-haired pastor who had baptized her in infancy, and had always accounted her the gentlest and sweetest among the lambs of his flock-very dear to every heart among the many which beat around her grave that winter day. But they asked few questions concerning her death or her life. She had been the elder's favorite child, they all knew, but no one had ever heard him mention her name since the summer night when she went away from Mayfield - no one knew whether alone or in company. So they respected the old man's sorrow and silence. It was not many months before over Margaret's grave there rose a simple head-stone, but no one's curiosity was gratified by the inscription. It only said, "MARGARET-AGED EIGHTEEN YEARS." The child was duly christened. The country folk understood what an old and respectable name she bore; and at length the wonder died away, and she was left to grow up in the quiet stillness of the old red house. Indeed very few were brought into any near connection with her, for Moses Grant and his wife neither made nor received any visits now. Her only regular education was imparted by her grandparents, who taught her the three needfuls of an old-fashioned New England woman-to read, and write, and cipher. In addition, when she grew older, Parson Blake gave her a few books and a chance lesson now and then; and she learned early to form shrewd, self-reliant theories and opinions, which no one mistrusted, however, that she possessed. She had Mary Grant often remarked that the little Elinor was her mother's own child. the same fair hair; the same clear, blue eyes; the same slight figure; but beyond these was a difference rather to be felt than explained. About her mouth was a graver, more saint-like smile. A tenderer light shone in her blue eyes, and her voice did not ring out with quite such joyous music as made Margaret's tones in her early years such a cheery sound to hear. Elinor's were lower, quieter-she spoke more slowly, as if, even in childhood, to address others, she had to come out of an inner world where she oftenest dwelt-the world of thought and of dreams. Gentle, quiet child as she was, her name, her stately name, borne once by the proudest belle in Norwich, seemed not unsuited to the simple dignity of her nature. Sunday after Sunday she sat by Moses Grant's side in the old-fashioned Presbyterian church, bowing her graceful head through the long prayers, lifting up her clear voice to join in the well-known hymns. Sunday after Sundayfirst as child, then as maiden, and the old pastor watched her lovingly-lovingly for her own sake-lovingly for the sake of a grave under the willow-trees; and all the while, Sunday after Sunday, his own hair grew whiter and his step more feeble. II. Parson Blake was dead. His life, his kindly life, seventy summers and no winter, was ended. In the little church-yard on the hill-top they laid him gently and reverently to his long sleep-the little church-yard where he had faltered the last prayer over so many of his flock, where, sixteen years before, he had stood tearfully beside the bier of Margaret Grant. Wife and children he had none. He had lived alone all his blameless life, and his people had been to him instead of kindred. Like his children they all mourned for him. Not a heart beat in Mayfield to which he was not dear—not an eye but was dim with tears at the pastor's burial. He had married the old folk, he had baptized their children, he had buried their dead, and now he was gone to receive the reward of his labors. More than forty years had he been in and out before them, and broken bread in their midst. Was it strange that his death left a great void, which never, hereafter, could be filled? It was with saddened mien the elders met together to consult on the choice of his successor. No one could ever be to them in his stead, and perhaps it could hardly be expected of human nature that they should award due credit to the honest endeavors of a younger man. Thus Walter Fairfield came to them under a disadvantage. They were kind-hearted folk naturally, but the new pastor must stand in a place which none but the dead could fill worthily to their minds; and, moreover, he was a young man, just fresh from his studies, not more than twenty-five. On the first morning after his installation, Elder Moses Grant called Elinor to his side, and charged her to be ready in season for church-the young man wouldn't be Parson Blake, to be sure, but they must show his preaching due respect. Elinor had grown, at sixteen, into a tall, graceful girl, promoted to a seat in the village choir now, and remarkable to all eyes but the accustomed ones of her grandparents for her rare beauty. There had never been much outward demonstration of tenderness from Moses Grant to this girl, the child of shame, the seal of disgrace, as he sometimes called her in his accusing thoughts; and yet, almost unknown to him self, he did love her tenderly. Much of the love which had been Margaret's had come out of her grave and folded itself round her child, though in all her life the girl could never remember that he had kissed her or lifted her upon his knee. One night his wife, alarmed for Elinor's health during the prevalence of an epidemic in the quiet town, had called him to look upon her while she slept. It was wonderful the resemblance which she bore in her slumbers to her dead mother. Waking, the play of her features, the different expression of her eyes was all her own; but sleeping, he could almost have thought Margaret was before him-Margaret, whom he loved more in death than in life, because he forgave her in dying. Oh! how often the wave of death comes like a blessed baptismal, washing away all memories of wrong and strife-a new birth, making those born again into the world of spirits seem to us fair, and pure, and blameless as the infant just laid for the first time upon its mother's loving bosom! Many times after that night Moses Grant, hard, stern man as he was, stole into his grandchild's room and watched her as she slept, thinking tender, softened thoughts of her dead young mother—always a girl, young and fair, in the old man's memory-and bitter, scornful, murderous thoughts, which, in a nature less restrained by rules of outward holiness, would have shaped themselves into curses on that Gilbert Trumbull, hated with an unforgiving, unresting hatred all these years. It needs not to be told with what ceaseless, caressing tenderness Mary Grant loved her grandchild; and yet, woman-like, Elinor, dear as both were to her, loved most the old man, whose calm reserve seemed kindred with her own quiet, deep, inherited nature. Going up the hill to church on this first morning of the new pastor's ministry, she walked by her grandfather's side, feeling with most tender sympathy the trial it would be to him to see a new face in the old pulpit. When the hymn was sung that morning, Walter Fairfield, sitting back in his pulpit, screened by the high desk, leaning his head on his hands, was striving to compose his thoughts for his first sermon among his first parishioners. He heard, as one in a dream, above and apart from all other tones, one clear, rich, soprano voice, flooding the old-fashioned church with its melody. It strengthened him; bore up his soul to the very gates of heaven; and yet he scarcely knew, scarcely thought, whether the voice were mortal or angelic. He was contented to accept, unquestioningly, the help it brought. Elinor Trumbull little knew what influence her singing had on the sermon which followed. It was such a discourse as had never before electrified the simple villagers of Mayfield-full of earnest thought, glowing with imagery, ut |