Chamberss Edinburgh Journal, No. 443 | Page 5

me as a plain, common-place

seaman, who had been to the luxurious metropolis for his pleasure or
on business. My presence, it seemed, did not incommode them, for they
talked on as if I had not been there. Two of them were gay, merry, but
rather coarse boon-companions; the third, an elegant youth, blooming
and tall, with luxuriant black curling hair, and dark soft eyes. In the
hotel where we dined, and where I sat a little distance off, smoking my
cigar, the conversation turned on various love-adventures, and the
young man, whom they called Alfred, shewed his comrades a packet of
delicately perfumed letters, and a superb lock of beautiful fair hair.
He told them, that in the days of July he had been slightly wounded,
and that his only fear, while he lay on the ground, was that if he died,
some mischance might prevent Clotilde from weeping over his grave.
'But now all is well,' he continued. 'I am going to fetch a nice little sum
from my uncle at Marseilles, who is just at this moment in
good-humour, on account of the discomfiture of the Jesuits and the
Bourbons. In my character of one of the heroes of July, he will forgive
me all my present and past follies: I shall pass an examination at Paris,
and then settle down in quiet, and live happily with my Clotilde.' Thus
they talked together; and by and by we parted in the court-yard of the
coach-office.
Close by was a brilliantly illumined coffee-house. I entered, and seated
myself at a little table, in a distant corner of the room. Two persons
only were still in the saloon, in an opposite corner, and before them
stood two glasses of brandy. One was an elderly, stately, and portly
gentleman, with dark-red face, and dressed in a quiet coloured suit; it
was easy to perceive that he was a clergyman. But the appearance of
the other was very striking. He could not be far from sixty years of age,
was tall and thin, and his gray, indeed almost white hair, which,
however, rose from his head in luxurious fulness, gave to his pale
countenance a peculiar expression that made one feel uncomfortable.
The brawny neck was almost bare; a simple, carelessly-knotted black
kerchief alone encircled it; thick, silver-gray whiskers met together at
his chin; a blue frock-coat, pantaloons of the same colour, silk
stockings, shoes with thick soles, and a dazzlingly-white waistcoat and
linen, completed his equipment. A thick stick leant in one corner, and

his broad-brimmed hat hung against the wall. There was a certain
convulsive twitching of the thin lips of this person, which was very
remarkable; and there seemed, when he looked fixedly, to be a
smouldering fire in his large, glassy, grayish-blue eyes. He was, it was
evident, a seaman like myself--a strong oak that fate had shaped into a
mast, over which many a storm had blustered, but which had been too
tough to be shivered, and still defied the tempest and the lightning.
There lay a gloomy resignation as well as a wild fanaticism in those
features. The large bony hand, with its immense fingers, was spread out
or clenched, according to the turn which the conversation with the
clergyman took. Suddenly he stepped up to me. I was reading a royalist
newspaper. He lighted his cigar.
'You are right, sir; you are quite right not to read those infamous
Jacobin journals.' I looked up, and gave no answer. He continued: 'A
sailor?'
'Yes, sir.'
'And have seen service?'
'Yes.'
'You are still in active service?'
'No.' And then, to my great satisfaction, for my patience was well-nigh
exhausted, the examination was brought to a conclusion.
Just then, an evil destiny led my three young fellow-travellers into the
room. They soon seated themselves at a table, and drank some glasses
of champagne to Clotilde's health. All went on well; but when they
began to sing the Marseillaise and the Parisienne, the face of the gray
man began to twitch, and it was evident a storm was brewing. Calling
to the waiter, he said with a loud voice: 'Tell those blackguards yonder
not to annoy me with their low songs!'
The young men sprang up in a fury, and asked if it was to them he
alluded.

'Whom else should I mean?' said the gray man with a contemptuous
sneer.
'But we may drink and sing if we like, and to whom we like,' said the
young man. 'Vive la République et vive Clotilde!'
'One as blackguardly as the other!' cried the gray-beard tauntingly; and
a wine-glass, that flew at his head from the hand of the dark-haired
youth, was the immediate rejoinder. Slowly wiping his forehead, which
bled and dripped with the spilled wine, the old man said