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He was going a beggar and a wanderer to a strange land to earn his bread by daily labor.
Is there any American gentleman staying at your house?" he asked the landlord of his hotel-"I am about to cross the water, and would like a letter to some person of influence in the New World."
The landlord hesitated for a moment, and then replied: "There is a gentleman up stairs, either from America of Britain, but whether American or Englishman I cannot tell." He pointed the way, and Talleyrand-who in his life was Bishop, Prince, Prime Minister-ascended the stairs; a venerable supplicant, he stood before the stranger's door, knocked and entered.
In the far corner of a dimly lighted room sat a gentleman of some fifty years, his arms folded and his head bowed on his breast. From a window directly opposite, a flood of light poured over his forehead. His eyes, looking from beneath the downcast brows, gazed in Talleyrand's face with a peculiar and searching expression. His face was striking in its outline; the mouth and chin indicative of an iron will. His form, vigorous even with the snows of fifty winters, was clad in a dark but rich and distinguished costume. Talleyrand advanced--stated that he was a fugitive—and, under the impression that the gentleman before him was an American, he solicited his kind offices. He poured forth his story in eloquent French and broken English.
"I am a wanderer-an exile. I am forced to fly to the New World, without a friend or a hope. You are an American? Give me, then, I beseech you, a letter of introduction to some friend of yours, so that I may be enabled to earn my bread. I am willing to toil in any manner-the scenes of Paris have filled me with such horror that a life of labor would be Paradise to a career of luxury in France-you will give me a letter to one of your friends? A gentleman, like you, has doubtless many friends."
The strange gentleman rose. With a look that Talleyrand never forgot, he retreated toward the door of the next chamber, still downcast, his eyes still looking from beneath his darkened brows. He spoke as he retreated backward: his voice was full of meaning.
I am the only man born in the New World that can raise his hand to God, and say-I HAVE NOT ONE FRIEND-NOT ONE-IN ALL AMERICA.”
Talleyrand never forgot the overwhelming sadness of the look which accompanied these words.
"Who are you?" he cried, as the strange man retreated toward the next room-" Your name?"
"My name-" with a smile that had more of mockery than joy in its convulsive expression-" My name is Benedict Arnold."
He was gone. Talleyrand sank into a chair, gasping the words " ARNOLD, THE TRAITOR."
Thus, you see, he wandered over the earth, another Cain, with the murderer's mark upon his brow. Even in the secluded room of that inn at Havre his crime found him out and forced him to tell his name-that synonym of infamy.
The last twenty years of his life are covered with a cloud from whose darkness but a few gleams of light flash out upon the page of history.
The manner of his death is not distinctly known. But we cannot doubt that he died utterly friendless, that his cold brow was unmoistened by one farewell tear, that remorse pursued him to the grave, whispering "John Andrè !" in his ears, and that the memory of his course of glory gnawed like a canker at his heart, murmuring forever, "True to your country, what might you have been, O ARNOLD, THE TRAITOR!"
A ZOOLOGICAL ROMANCE.-CHAS. F. ADAMS.
INSPIRED BY AN UNUSUAL FLOW OF ANIMAL SPIRITS.
No sweeter girl ewe ever gnu
With sable hare, small, tapir waist,
Ape pretty lass, it was avowed,
Deer girl! I loved her as my life,
Alas! a sailor, on the sly,
He said my love for her was bosh,
He'd setter round, this sailor chap,
Where once a pirate cruiser boar
The cruel captain far outdid
He oft would whale Jack with the cat,
"I'll starve you down, my sailor fine,
And, fairly horse with fiendish laughter,
Would say, "Henceforth, mind what giraffe ter !"
In short, the many risks he ran
Might well a llama braver man,
Then he was wrecked and castor shore
While feebly clinging to anoa;
Hyena cleft among the rocks
He crept, sans shoes and minus ox.
And when he fain would goat to bed,
Then Sue would say, with troubled face,
And straightway into tears would melt,
Excuse these steers *** It's over now:
Jackass'd her to be his, and she-
And now, alas! the little minks
Is bound to him with Hymen's lynx.
HOW THE OLD HORSE WON THE BET.
'Twas on the famous trotting-ground,
Here stands each youthful Jehu's dream-
Or spaniel rolls his liquid eye,
"Come on! I'll bet you two to one
Scarce noticed, back behind the rest,
Like Lazarus bid to Dives' feast,
Till something cracked and broke him down-
Ah me! I doubt if one of you
Has ever heard the name "Old Blue,"
"Bring forth the horse!" Alas! he showed Not like the one Mazeppa rode;
Scant-maned, sharp-backed, and shaky-kneed,
Led forth the horse, and as he laughed
So worn, so lean in every limb,