husband, whom Rip recollected for one of the urchins who used to climb upon his back. As to Rip's son and heir, who was the ditto of himself, seen leaning against a tree, he was employed to work on the farm, but evinced an hereditary disposition to attend to anything else but his business.

Rip now resumed his old walks and habits. He soon found many of his former cronies, though all rather the worse for the wear and tear of time; and he preferred making friends with the rising generation, with whom he soon grew into great favour.

Having nothing to do at home, and being arrived at that happy age when a man can do nothing with impunity, he took his place once more on the bench at the inn door, and was reverenced as one of the patriarchs of the village, and a chronicler of the old times "before the war." It was some time before he could get into the regular track of gossip, or could be made to comprehend the strange events that had taken place during his torpor. How that there had been a revolutionary war, that the country had thrown off the yoke of old England, and that instead of being a subject of his Majesty George the Third, he was now a free citizen of the United States. Rip, in fact, was no politician, the changes of states and empires made but little difference to him, but there was one species of despotism under which he had long groaned, and that was petticoat government. Happily that was at an end; he had got his neck out of the yoke of matrimony, and he could go in and out whenever he pleased, without dreading the tyranny of Dame Van Winkle. Whenever her name was mentioned, however, he shook his head, shrugged his shoulders, and cast up his eyes, which might pass either for an expression of resignation to his fate, or of joy at his deliverance.

He used to tell his story to every stranger who arrived at Mr. Doolittle's hotel. He was observed at first to vary on some points every time he told it, which was doubtless owing to his having so recently awakened. It at last settled down precisely into the tale I have related, and not a man, woman,

or child in the neighbourhood but knew it by heart. Some always pretended to doubt the reality of it, and insisted that Rip had been out of his head, and that this was one point on which he always remained flighty. The old Dutch inhabitants, however, almost universally gave it full credit. Even to this day they never have a thunder-storm of a summer afternoon on the Kaatskill, but they say Hendrick Hudson and his crew are at their game of nine-pins, and it is the common wish of all hen-pecked husbands in the neighbourhood, when life hangs heavy on their hands, that they might have a quieting draught out of Rip Van Winkle's flagon.

ESCAPE FROM A FRENCH PRISON.

CAPTAIN FREDERICK MARRYAT.

1804.

Born, 1792; Died, 1848.

Captain Marryat's chief fame is as a nautical novelist; though many have known him best in their childhood as the writer of that capital desert-island story, "Masterman Ready," and of "The Children of the New Forest." The book from which the present extract is taken was his first and best; the fun and drollery are more free and less strained, and there is not so much effort and exaggeration as in the later novels. Beginning his career in the navy before the great war with the French was entirely over, Captain Marryat learnt many of the traditions of adventures in it, and the extract here given was taken from the real adventures of some naval officers escaping from a French prison.

The hero of the scenes that follow (who tells his own story), Peter Simple, is a midshipman aged about sixteen. Ilis Irish friend, Terence O'Brien, is also a midshipman, but his senior by several years. They had been taken near the town of Cette, in the Gulf of Lyons, in an expedition on shore to silence a French battery. Peter had been wounded in the leg, and O'Brien, waiting to carry him down to the boat, was taken with him. After Peter's recovery, they were sent to the fortress of Givet (in the department of Ardennes), then the great depôt for prisoners of war. They had made some stay at Mont

pelier, where they had a good deal of liberty, and were kindly treated. We take up the narrative from the arrival at Givet, which is a very strong and regular fortification.

I. THE ESCAPE.

IF I doubted the practicability of escape when I examined. the exterior, when we were ushered into the interior of the fortress, I felt that it was impossible, and I stated my opinion to O'Brien. We were conducted into a yard surrounded by a high wall; the buildings appropriated for the prisoners were built with lean-to roofs on one side, and at each side of the square was a sentry looking down upon us. It was very much like the dens which they now build for bears, only so much larger. O'Brien answered me with a "Pish! Peter, it's the very security of the place will enable us to get out of it. But don't talk, as there are always spies about who understand English."

We were shown into a room allotted to six of us; our baggage was examined, and then delivered over to us. "Better and better, Peter," observed O'Brien. "They've not found it out!"

"What?" inquired I.

Oh, only a selection of articles, which might be useful to us by-and-bye."

He then showed me what I never before was aware of; that he had a false bottom to his trunk, but it was papered over like the rest, and very ingeniously concealed. what is there, O'Brien ?" inquired I.

"And

"Never mind; I had them made at Montpelier. You'll see by-and-bye."

The others, who were lodged in the same room, then came in, and after staying a quarter of an hour, went away at the sound of the dinner-bell. "Now, Peter," said O'Brien, "I must get rid of my load. Turn the key."

O'Brien then undressed himself, and when he threw off his shirt and drawers, showed me a rope of silk, with a knot at every two feet, about half an inch in size, wound round

and round his body. There was about sixty feet of it all together. As I unwound it, he, turning round and round, observed, "Peter, I've worn this rope ever since I left Montpelier, and you've no idea of the pain I have suffered; but we must go to England, that's decided upon."

When I looked at O'Brien, as the rope was wound off, I could easily imagine that he had really been in great pain; in several places his flesh was quite raw from the continual friction, and after it was all unwound, and he had put on his clothes, he fainted away. I was very much alarmed, but I recollected to put the rope into the trunk and take out the key, before I called for assistance. He soon came to, and on being asked what was the matter, said that he was subject to fits from his infancy. He looked earnestly at me, and I showed him the key, which was sufficient.

For some days O'Brien, who really was not very well, kept to his room. During this time, he often examined the map given him by the gendarme. One day he said to me,

"No," replied I; "but never mind that."

"But I must mind it, Peter! for observe, we shall have to cross the river Meuse, and boats are not always to be had. You observe, that this fortress is washed by the river on one side and as it is the strongest side, it is the least guarded- -we must escape by it. I can see my way clear enough till we get to the second rampart on the river, but when we drop into the river, if you cannot swim, I must contrive to hold you up, somehow or another."

"Are you then determined to escape, O'Brien? I cannot perceive how we are even to get up this wall, with four sentries staring us in the face."

"Never do you mind that, Peter; mind your own business; and first tell me, do you intend to try your luck with me?"

"Yes," replied I, "most certainly; if you have sufficient confidence in me to take me as your companion."

"To tell you the truth, Peter, I would not give a farthing

to escape without you.

We were taken together, and please God we'll take ourselves off together; but that must not be for this month; our greatest help will be the dark nights and foul weather."

The prison was by all accounts very different from Verdun and some others. We had no parole, and but little communication with the townspeople. Some were permitted to come in and supply us with various articles; but their baskets were searched, to see that they contained nothing that might lead to an escape on the part of the prisoners. Without the precautions that O'Brien had taken, any attempt would have been useless. Still, O'Brien, as soon as he left his room, did obtain several little articles-especially balls of twine-for one of the amusements of the prisoners was flying kites. This, however, was put a stop to, in consequence of one of the strings, whether purposely or not I cannot say, catching the lock of the musket carried by one of the sentries, who looked down upon us, and twitching it out of his hand; after which an order was given by the commandant for no kites to be permitted. This was fortunate for us, as O'Brien, by degrees, purchased all the twine belonging to the other prisoners; and, as we were more than three hundred in number, it amounted to sufficient to enable him, by stealth, to lay it up into very strong cord, or rather into a sort of square plait, known only to sailors. "Now, Peter," said he one day, "I want nothing more than an umbrella for you."

"Why an umbrella for me?"

"To keep you from being drowned with too much water, that's all."

"Rain won't drown me."

"No, no, Peter; but buy a new one as soon as you can." I did so. O'Brien boiled up a quantity of bees' wax and oil, and gave it several coats of this preparation. He then put it carefully away in the ticking of his bed. I asked him whether he intended to make known his plan to any of the other prisoners; he replied in the negative, saying, that there