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MEMOIRS of LOUIS XVIII.

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REVIEWS

One. 3 vols. London: Whittaker & Co. THE very general approbation with which the translations from the celebrated French work, Le Livre des Cent-et-Un, were received, as they appeared, on the publication of the several volumes, in this paper, suggested the present work. The translator is too intimately connected with us, to admit of our offering an opinion either on its merits, or the probability of its success. We shall therefore confine ourselves to an extract-to the simple statement that the three volumes contain thirty papers-and to the following explanation given in the preface:

"In the selection which the translator has made, he has been solely influenced by the consideration of what papers were most likely to interest the English reader. With the names of some so selected, the public may be already familiar, from the notices which have, from time to time, as the original volumes were published, appeared in the Athenæum. It will, however, be found, on examination, that the illustrative extracts given in that Journal, frequently did not amount to a third, a fifth, and often not to a tenth of the original paper. Of many, not one line has appeared before.

"Occasionally, and where the translator thought that others, from congeniality of taste and feeling, might better catch and transfer the peculiar spirit of the original, he requested, and has received, the support of literary friends, whose names would do honour to the publication, if he were at liberty to mention them." The following is a translation by one of the literary friends here referred to.

The Rue des Postes.

"At some time or other, quitting the living quarters and bazaars of outre-Seine, it may have been your lot to climb the narrow and filthy

streets of the ancient Rue Saint-Jacques, as far as the church of Sainte-Généviève, revolutionarily called the Panthéon.

"The Rue des Postes is hard by. In fact take two steps beyond the Panthéon,-cross the Rue de l'Estrapade, (where Diderot lived,-Diderot, whose encyclopedic head was like an emporium of all human knowledge,)-fix yourself on the place which owes its name to the ancient punishment known under the title of the estrapade,'....on the very spot, if you will, where rose the gibbet, and look straight before you. That long narrow street, which descends, gloomy and confined, towards the faubourg Saint-Marceau, that is it that is the Rue des Postes.

before a prison. The windows of the roofs, at the very highest point of the buildings, are defended by sky-lights. The street is anathematized, the day proscribed, the light accursed. You seem, in wandering through these deserts, is to be seen, and nothing heard. The silence to have got amongst a nation of owls,-nothing of the place chills you,-lays, as it were, a covering of lead upon the heart. You feel that there are near you beings who must breathe painfully, who must be stifled for want of air. Those houses, dark, lofty, silent, and gloomy, affright you. Did you ever picture yourself, when you have thought of those ancient cities destroyed by fire or sword-did you ever fancy yourself wandering, alone, through a deserted town, long and funereal—a carcass-town, whose blood is congealed, and whose breath has gone out? You look around, and behold! no one!You open your mouth, yet dare not call, for there is no echo to answer you, and the silence which is around startles you!-Even such is the impression which the Rue des Postes has often produced on me, when I have wandered, in the evenings of the long winter nights, into this street, reached by no sound,-not even that of the distant hackney-coach, or the near foot passenger. In the day-time, occasionally, the monotonous and cracked voice of the beggar, who wails in concert with the whine of his dog, breaks solitarily the stillness of the place. From time to time, a devotee, wrapped in her mantle and hood,-or a priest, with a saturnine eye and robe of black,-flings, in passing, a few sous into the hat of the mendicant,-who interwhile his dog has raised its head, as if to gaze rupts his lamentations to mutter his thanks, upon the benefactor of its master;-and then, the dog and the beggar renew their march and their melody. It is especially on Sunday that this may be seen;-for, on that day, the Rue of the tomb. Sunday is its great day,—its day of des Postes is alive,-on that day it has come out

resurrection. From all the neighbouring streets arrive, and discharge themselves into this, processions of old women who come to sing or hear their masses and their vespers in the convents;

for the Rue des Postes is the holy street, the consecrated street, the street of benediction. It is a kind of emporium of sacristies and chapels; there are enough of them for the whole neighbourhood,-enough for a whole world!-The Convent 'des Dames Saint-Augustin,' 'des Dames Saint-Thomas,' 'des Dames Ursulines,' 'des Dames de la Visitation.' 'des Dames de

'Adoration Perpétuelle du Saint Sacrement,' 'des Filles de l'Immaculée Conception,' ' de la Sainte Providence,' du Sacré Cœur de Jésus,' and 'des Filles de Bonne Volonté,' (jesting apart, and without any guilty or indecent allusion!)

the Gaîté is jealous of the Porte-Saint-Martin and the Ambigu. To every one its own perquisites, and to each its own patronage ;—it is but just!

"In this street stands, also, the famous Collége des Irlandais, beside the Rue du Puitsqui-parle.

*

Finally, in the Rue des Postes, stood formerly the Ecole Normale, founded by the Convention,

and designed to become the cradle of the arts and sciences. There was something magnificent in this institution, where the elements of universal instruction were to work together and ripen for a whole people;-a vast focus, whose rays, diverging on all sides, would have shed light and splendour over France. The Convention had great conceptions-conceptions stamped in the mint of genius, and which soared high, when they did not dash themselves against scaffolds and carcasses. There is something sublime in all that it has imagined-in all that it has done, for all is imposing about the roar of a volcano! Founded by liberty, the Ecole Normale rose with it, and with it, afterwards declined;until, in 1822, the Jesuits drove it from the Rue des Postes, and the Pères de la Foi made a seminary of it for the education of priests. Perhaps there is scarcely any one of our monuments which has not, like the Ecole Normale, had its vicissitudes and its phases;-at one time sacred, at another profane,-impious with the republic, sacred with the restoration, glorious with the empire. Witness the SainteGénéviève-Panthéon, and the Panthéon-SainteGénéviève,—and witness a thousand others. Witness the Temple of Glory dreamt by Napoleon, and which, under the restoration, is once more the Madeleine. There is in that very building the entire summary of an era, with its scarcely an edifice, or a house of moderate ancharacter and its colouring; - and there is tiquity, in Paris, which has not a history of France written on its stones. As for the Ecole

Normale, it is now an hospital,- -a fair compromise between the school and the seminary. And, close to the ancient school, and amid the

crowd of convents which swarm in the Rue des

Postes, like emmets in an ant-hill, there is one of which I have a few words to say, because they present at once a picture and a history.

"In the year 1831, a friend proposed to me, one day, to accompany him to the Convent of the 'Dames Sainte-* ***,' where he was going to see his sister. Is your sister pretty?' said I.

She is well enough, and is in the company of those who are much better.' He lied, the brother; but he spoke of his sister like an indifferent or a blind man; which seems to be natural enough,-for I know nothing in the world which is more careless, more boorish, or more bearish, than a brother towards a young girl, with the single exception, perhaps, of a husband. Be that as it may, I went to the convent, attracted as much by the veiled and hooded faces of the recluses, as by a desire to examine the interior of a nunnery.

'On arriving at the gate, we pulled a bell, whose echoing sound rung through the air, like a duck which screams and claps its wings. We retreated a few steps, fearful of having alarmed the neighbourhood; we intended to have rung a

private bell, and we found we had got hold of a steeple one. At the noise which we made, an old woman in spectacles, and with a bent frame, half opened a little grated hole, pierced like an eye in the middle of the door, and called by the Germans was ist das,—that is, 'what is it?'— The old portress thrust her nose through it, like an old ape through the bars of its cage, and with a cracked voice, put that very questionWhat is it? what do you want?'-' My sister,' replied my companion, and the gates of the convent were opened before him; and shortly afterwards, his sister made her appearance in the parlour. She was a young girl of fifteen, lively and sportive like her age, with a playful aspect and an enchanting smile. Her little compact figure rendered her small and slender enough to be taken between a couple of fingers, while her liveliness gave her a lightness which would have escaped out of those fingers themselves. She was a little romp, with a laughing eye and fair hair; a young girl about to be a woman, and who was yet a child. The moment she saw us she sprung towards us, embraced her brother, and then paused, as if she were not quite certain whether she ought, also, to embrace me or not. I was prepared to meet the sweet girl half way, and relieve her from her embarrassment, when her brother said, presenting me, 'This gentleman is my friend. His friend!-his friend!the young girl paused, and embraced me not. The blockhead of a brother! His friend! the assassin!-His friend! That single word was a stab to me;-I bear him malice for it yet!

"The young girl's name was Nina. 'Since the gentleman is your friend,' said she to her brother, 'you must bring him with you to see the ladies of our society. Madame de B-sees company on Saturday, and will be very glad to see you.' The brother promised that he would return on the Saturday, and I promised to come with him; for she was charming, that sister,quite charming enough to make one desire to see her again. Therefore, when we went out, I squeezed the hands of her brother,I called him my friend-my true friend ;-I had quite forgotten, for the time, the grudge I owed him. "On the Saturday following, we were at the convent before seven o'clock. Two parties, two tables, and two rival saloons, divided the nunnery between them. At the head of one was Madame de B-, an old dowager, intolerant and bigoted, who had her own separate society, her own horses, and her separate carriage. A Vendean by birth, she has used the musquet, carried the knapsack, and bivouacked amongst the bushes. Besides, she has received two wounds, two cherished wounds, of which she speaks unceasingly. My wound!—she is as proud of it as a trooper of his chevrons. To hear her talk of her campaigns, to look at her mustachios, and her gait, one might take her for an old grumbler of the guard, or a dragoon of the Tower. She received, that visit, the abbé the sacristan, the churchwarden of Saint-Etienne, and the vestrymen of the parish. She affected great airs, spoke of 'my valets' and 'my people,' talked about the populace and the canaille, -the heresy of the day, and the impiety of the age. She called Voltaire a wretch, Rousseau a vagabond, Béranger a scoundrel, Lafayette a sans-culotte, the Abbé Châtel and the Saint Simonians, monsters. The Abbé Châtel and the Saint Simonians were what principally excited the bile, and disturbed to its depths the indignation, of these ladies. They were not rich enough in imprecations and anathemas against these renegades and heresiarchs of their generation. The dispute was who should be most successful in lacerating them, in tearing them to pieces,-you, me, both of us, all of us! -Poor Abbé Châtel! poor Saint Simonians! I pitied you with all my heart.

"One day, the churchwarden of Saint-Etienne,

rubbing his hands, and laughing in his sleeve, announced in a whisper to the assembly, that the Prussians had entered into France, with twelve hundred thousand men, supported by fifteen hundred thousand Austrians, and eighteen hundred thousand Russians.-Thank God for the news! Where did you learn that, Mr. Churchwarden?'-'I read it in the newspaper.' Then it is true,-and we are saved!' "The other party had for its head Madame L-, an elderly lady, formerly an inhabitant of Amiens, who came to the convent for the sole purpose of being near her daughter,-her only daughter, eighteen years of age, beautiful as love, who has been educated by priests, and whom they have inspired with the determination to take the veil, and shut herself up in a cloister. Inspiration of a vampire, which whispers suicide to a child, murder to a young girl!-Barbarous Vandalism, which cuts off the flower from its stalk, removes it from the air, and from the sun, and from the dew, to hide it in a dungeon, and then bids it wither and perish in the dark!

In vain her fond mother has striven to enlighten her; in vain has she clasped her knees, implored and wept over her. The daughter remains deaf;-one sole idea enchains her, and that idea prevails with her even over the tears of a mother. And, yet, that young girl is surprisingly beautiful. There is something unspeakably sweet in her full dark eye, which looks towards heaven with the expression of an archangel. Her rich, black eyebrows are pencilled on her pale forehead with wonderful grace. There is eloquence, there is poetry, there is something religious and sublime in her whole appearance. It is the finest portrait of the Virgin that I have ever dreamt,-lovelier than the heads of Raphael or Rembrandt. I should become a fanatic, myself, with such an idol to pray to.

Such a woman ought to have been a creature of love. If her estranged heart, which has wandered towards the skies,-like all those burning spirits who mistake their way here, and, finding no fire below, seek it in the wastes of space,-if that heart had earlier met, on earth, a heart that understood it, and whose beatings harmonized with its own, there was contained in that woman, the whole treasure of some man's mortal happiness!

"One day, when we were speaking of her beautiful hair, I said to her,-And what will you do with that ornament, which of itself would make you an object of love to the world, that would cherish and adore you, and which, notwithstanding, you resolve to shun?'-'Do with it! my fingers shall cut it off, for an offering.''You are very wrong,' exclaimed little Nina; and spreading out with her hands her own bright tresses, she added, 'Mine are beautiful, too, you see. I will not cut them off, but reserve them for my husband.'-'Is she not right?' said I to the young recluse.-'No,' replied she, Nina is a child, who has yet to learn that there are for us other spouses than those of earth, and other loves than its loves. The God whom I love, I can love with all my soul, because his soul is large enough to embrace mine, and will never fail me!'-That woman was right to love a God. A heart of man could

not have sufficed her!

"To return to her mother.-She was a kindhearted lady, not very devout, and perhaps the least in the world sceptical. Free from ceremony and restraint, she was of a laughing temperament, which gave great scandal to the stiffnecks of the convent. That did not prevent the good lady from giving full scope to her joyousness;-sometimes she even went the length of keen sarcasm and bitter irony, when she thought upon her daughter and those who had robbed her of her child! As often, therefore, as she could speak privately to any little novice, hesitating to change her robe of youth

and life for a shroud of decrepitude and death, she said to her quietly, Do it not, my girl! my child, do it not! They will entice you, but be resolute, you understand me-say, No!Then she rubbed her hands, and smiled in satisfaction. Poor mother! it was her little vengeance;-these were her reprisals.

"You will readily suppose, after all this, that there was open war between Madame de Band Madame L-. It was as if two hostile camps had divided the convent under their respective banners. The abbé, the sacristan, the bell-ringer, and the beadle, the old women and the devotees, were for Madame de B-; the young girls and the good folks generally, for Madame L-. There was discord in Paradise, the saints were at war,-there was ri valry, there was schism. For my own share, I was of the party of Nina; in my quality of in truder, I found it at once the gayest and wisest.

"But Christmas-day was at hand, and that was a great day for the convent. There was great anxiety to celebrate worthily the birth of our Saviour;-there was great anxiety, above all, to have a manger and an infant richer and handsomer than all the others of the neighbourhood. That was the grand object-the supreme interest. In pursuance of which, for a fortnight previously, all quarters were ransacked for embroideries, toys, tinsel, and finery. The convent was a complete clothes-warehouse-the nuns were milliners and dress-makers. The holy place might have been mistaken for a shop in the Rue Vivienne. Everybody was busy about the crib;-a new surplice was made for the curate, and fresh hangings for the chapel. I offered, as representative of the infant, a little gentleman in wax, that one of my friends, an anatomist and medical student, had kept in his chamber for the last two years; and my offer was accepted with rapture and with hope-for it was pretty certain that the Ladies of the Visitation' would have nothing similar. Oh! the coquetry of nuns !-The great day, or rather the great night, being come, a piano was taken down into the chapel, and we were all engaged to sing in the choir. For myself, who have never been a chorister, I left my friend to luxuriate in the choral treat; and at the moment when the assembly was thundering forth 'Il est pauvre aujourd'hui,' I stopped my ears, and departed. A minute before, I had remarked that Nina-the pretty Nina-was absent.

"I strayed into the garden. It was nearly one o'clock, and the moon shed over the convent a pale and doubtful light,-which, broken by the leafless branches of the trees in its gardens, spread itself over the soil in a thousand fantastic shapes, forming grotesque shadows that looked like skeletons lengthened by the night, and stretching on all sides their shapeless limbs. At the turn of an alley, and across this phantasma goria of shadows, I thought I beheld a female form. I listened and my ear was distinctly touched by that slight rustling which is pro duced by the crushed leaf and the waving gown,

I

quickened my pace, and beheld before me a young girl, pensive, solitary, and walking with a melancholy tread. She appeared to me to be in sorrow,-to proceed with difficulty; and her colourless face was turned towards the earth, like the head of a dying lily. Wishing not to disturb her retreat, I had stopped, and turned back, in the hope of escaping her observation,— when she caught a glimpse of me, and exclaimed, in a feeble tone, Edward!'-I was not Edward, and I continued on my way for the pur pose of undeceiving her. Scarcely had I quitted that pale and sorrowing girl, ere I caught sight of Nina-nimble, lively, and joyous. She darted into the alley, with the speed of a fawn, and glided along the trees, like one of those airy sylphids which we seem to see pass stealthily along, with the evening shadow, at the

foot of a wall. I sought to embrace her, but she escaped me; and ere my eye could follow her, she was in the chapel. Nina! I must have had wings to catch that butterfly!

"Still, however, if I could but stumble upon some little nun, with whom I might have a moment's chat; at night, alone, in the shadethere is something so charming in that!-And, thereupon, I set about ferreting and searching through the garden, like a wolf in a skeep-fold. I thought of Nina,-I thought of the beautiful recluse who was to be a nun,-I thought of the pale girl who had called me Edward!—and I was straying along the walks, in their most deserted part, when I saw something hanging from the wall, and moving in the shade. Lapproached and touched it. It proved to be cords skilfully knit and tied together;-in a word, it was a rope-ladder. I pulled at it, but found it was fastened at the top of the wall. Good;'said I-'this is escalading made easy, and reduced to the capacity of all the world! Have we stumbled upon marauders here? It will be as well to ascertain; and I will do so.'-And, forgetting all at once the mass and the chapel, I crouched against the wall, like the game-keeper who, in the night, squatted among the bushes, waylays the poacher, and waits for him at the gap.

"The mass had been long over, the convent was sunk in repose, and all was still,-when I saw some one approach. I looked;—it was a young man like me, clothed in black, like me, and weeping,-which was not like me. I kept my eyes upon him without stirring. He planted his foot upon the ladder, mounted, drew after him the rope; then, casting a last look, dimmed by tears, upon the convent, he disappeared on the other side. The affair began to interest me. The wall was covered with trellises. Without a moment's hesitation-for trellis-work is a ladder, -I followed the unknown, and, at one bound, was by his side. He uttered an exclamation of surprise. 'Be not alarmed,' I said, and, if you are not a robber, fear nothing from me. You have some adventure in hand, here,-confide it to me; perhaps I can be of service to you. Take my arm, and let us go forward.' My frank address relieved the poor young gentleman from the apprehension which he had suffered at my abrupt appearance; and behold us, arm in arm, descending the Rue de l'Estrapade, and approaching the Pantheon. The morning air was keen, sharp, and penetrating. A thick mist soaked through our garments, and crept to our bones, seeming to weep over us. 'Come home with me,' said I to my companion;-and there, a clear fire, crackling and sparkling on the hearth, soon warmed and dried us. Then, my unknown friend, whose sadness I could not dispel, told me his story.

It was short and touching. He loved a young lady of family, and was beloved. She was richhe was poor; and when he sought her hand, he was rejected by her father with disdain. His heart rose against this treatment,-for he had a heart that beat with high and noble sentiments;-and in his anger, he said to the father of his mistress, 'Your daughter belongs to me,--she is already mine.' It was true; and the young girl confessed it, and implored her father's forgiveness. Her father put her into a convent-as if the heart could be made the tenant of a cloister, as if the soul could be imprisoned! That very night, the young man had designed to carry off the poor girl,-for the poor girl was-a mother! But she had refused. I prefer death,' said she; and he had been compelled to quit her alone,alore and senseless!-Poor young creatures! "He was called Edward.-Edward! At that name I at once remembered the pale young girl in the dark alley, and I exclaimed, 'I have seen her; I know her.'-You!'-Yes! but I must see her again, and we will prevail upon

The

her;-I promise you, we will see her together.' | are interwoven with those of Dalton the Oh! when?'-To-morrow.'-To-morrow! Buccaneer, and what is worse for him, with and he clasped my hand,-he embraced me. those of Sir Willmott Burrell, a thorough out He was wild, danced round my chamber, and and out scoundrel, without one point about flung the things about, in his re-action of hope. him to connect him with salvation. I was gay with his gaiety,-happy in his hapsecret of the tale may now be told in a few piness. words: in other days, Sir Robert Cecil desired to destroy his brother for the sake of his lands: the Buccaneer took him to sea, and pretended that he had drowned him: Burrell contrived to discover that Sir Robert had obtained his estate by removing his brother, and, taking advantage of the dreadful secret, compelled Constance to consent to marry him, though her heart was bestowed on another. Fortunately, the man she loves is her own cousin, the son of her injured uncle, though unknown under the name of Walter du Guerre; and luckily too, these secret matters come to the knowledge of Cromwell, who proceeds to set all to rights by the strong hand-there is a little pistoling-a little sword and dagger work-and finally, a splendid explosion of gunpowder, which clears the earth of some of the scoundrels who infest its surface. The course of true love then runs smooth,

"The next day, at seven, when the night had fallen, we returned to the convent, and I asked for Madame L-. I had determined to tell her all: for I knew her heart, and her natural hatred of cloisters. 'You cannot see her, gentlemen,' replied the portress, unless you can wait: for Madame L is in church,-there is a funeral.'-'Then we will wait.'-Scarcely had we reached the garden, ere we heard the toll of a bell;-it was the knell for the dead! The sullen and startling sounds of the passing bell, followed each other, like a mournful tocsin. My heart beat thick in spite of me. Edward held my hand, and grasped it convulsively. Suddenly, a file of women issued from the chapel, and, with slow and solemn step, went forward and spread themselves through the gloom. In their hands, they carried torches, whose red flame shed a livid hue over the night. After them came young girls, clothed in white; and in the midst of them was a coffin, covered, also with a white pall. On the coffin was placed a bright virginal crown. The procession chaunted the hymn for the dead, and the voices of the young virgins died away in the distance of space, like the voices of archangels.

'Poor

"We stood there alone, silent and motionless. At the sound of the funereal hymn, the portress and some other females drew near us. young girl!' said the portress, 'Poor Mademoiselle Fanny,--she was only twenty!' Fanny! -At that name, a fearful cry burst from the lips of Edward. Fanny!-It is she!' he exclaimed, as he sunk helplessly into my arms.

"The memory of that evening will never pass from me. I lifted my friend,-I carried him away, a dying man; and, as I stepped over the threshold of the convent, with my senseless burden, the latest strain of the hymn was wafted to my ears. It was the last farewell of the virgins to her whom he had loved!"

The Buccaneer. A Tale. 3 vols. London: Bentley.

THERE are many natural and touching passages, and much truth and ease of delineation in these volumes: there is also no little life and energy; and though the characters are numerous, and the incidents thick, the narrative seldom grows perplexed, but flows clearly on, and concludes in a way to please the most anxious moralist. Some of the characters are new, those not quite new are striking, while others, which resemble standard heroes or heroines, perform their parts in a natural way. The scene of the story is on the coast of Kent, in that portion called the Isle of Sheppy, and at Hampton Court; the time is during the protectorate of Cromwell; and the persons who triumph or suffer, are Oliver and his daughter Frances, Sir Robert Cecil and his daughter Constance, the Buccaneer and his daughter Barbara; a certain Sir Willmott Burrell, a wandering cavalier called Walter du Guerre, and above all, Robin Hays. The three ladies, as our readers may imagine, bring wooers good store. Frances Cromwell is lively and outspoken as her father was before he sought the Lord, as he himself averred: the daughter of the Buccaneer is all simplicity and faithfulness: while the daughter of Sir Robert Cecil is somewhat given to melancholy musings, accompanied by sighs and tears. The fortunes of Cecil

And all ends merry as a marriage bell. The tale has some faults: the arrival of the Buccaneer with his little smuggling craft on the coast of Kent should not have moved Cromwell to risk his life in personal encounters with desperate cavaliers: when Lord Protector he had enow of hands to call into action without employing his own; nor are we sure that his long conversations with seaboys and dwarfs are altogether in character: there are also too many encounters in the dark, and discussions which lead to nothing. But the faults are few, compared to the beauties of the work: all is fresh and life-like : the conversations are very natural, sometimes touching-often mirthful, and frequently tragic. Much of the charm which keeps the reader's eyes on the pages, abides with poor Robin Hays and the Buccaneer's daughter; he is little and something deformed, but his wit, his courage, and activity, make him more than a match for the boldest, and gain him the love of the beautiful Barbara, and the notice of Cromwell.

The character of the Buccaneer is well imagined and cleverly supported throughout: here is his picture at full length.

"

Hugh Dalton rose from his seat, and laid his enormous pipe on a pile of ebony logs that answered the purpose of a table, when Sir Willmott Burrell saluted him with more civility than he usually bestowed upon inferiors: but, despite his outlawry, and the wild course his life had taken, there was a firm, bold, and manly bearing about the Buccaneer which might have

overawed far stouter hearts than the heart of the Master of Burrell. His vest was open, and his shirt-collar thrown back, so as to display to advantage the fine proportions of his chest and neck. His strongly-marked features had at all times an expression of fierceness which was barely redeemed from utter ferocity by a pleasant smile that usually played around a well-formed mouth; but when anger was uppermost, or passion was subdued by contempt, those who came within reach of his influence, more dreaded the rapid motion or the sarcastic curl of his lip, than the terrible flashing of eyes that were proverbial, even among the reckless and desperate men of whom he was the chief, in name, in courage, and in skill. His forehead was unusually broad; thick and bushy brows overhung the long lashes of his deeply-set eyes, around which