It was during the early days of the great Revolution of 1789, in the year 1792, when a young officer in delicate health took up his quarters in the city of Marseilles for the six months of his leave of absence. It seemed strange retirement for a young man, for in the town he knew no one, and in the depth of winter Marseilles was no tempting residence. The officer lived in a garret looking out upon the street, which had far its sole furniture a harpsichord, a bed, a table, and a chair. Little but paper ever entered that apartment, where food and fuel both were scarce; and yet the young man generally remained in-doors all day assiduously writing, or rather dotting something upon paper, an occupation he alternated with music.

Thus passed many months. The young man grew thinner and paler, and his leave of absence appeared likely to bring no convalescence. But he was handsome and interesting, despite his sallow hue. Long hair, full beaming eyes that spoke of intelligence, and even genius, frankness of manner, all prepossessed in his favour, and many a smile and look of kindliness came to him from beautiful eyes that he noticed not nor cared to notice. In fact he rarely went out but at night, and then to walk down by the booming sea, which made a kind of music he seemed to love. Sometimes, it is true, he would hang about the theatre door when operas were about to be played, and look with longing eye within; but he never entered: either his purse or his inclination failed him. But he always examined with care the name of the piece and its author, and then walked away to the sea-shore, to muse and meditate.

hortly after his arrival in Marseilles, he visited, one after another, all the music-sellers and publishers in the town with a bundle of manuscripts in his hand; but his reception was apparently not very favourable, for he left them all with a frowning air, and still with his bundle of manuscripts. Some had detained him a long time, as if estimating the value of the goods he offered for sale; but these were no more tempted than the others to try the saleable character of the commodity. The house he lodged in had attached to it a large garden. By permission of the landlord, the young man often selected it for his evening walks, and, despite the cold, would sometimes sit and muse in a rude and faded bower under a wall at one of the gables. Here he would occasionally even sing, in a low tone, some of his own compositions. It happened once or twice that when he did so, a female head protruded from a window above him, seeming to listen. The young man at length noticed this.

' Pardon, lady,' said he one evening; ' perhaps I disturb you?'

' Not at all," she replied: ' I am fond of music, very fond, and the airs you hum are new to me. Pray, if not a rude question, whose are they ?'

' Citoyenne,' he answered diffidently, ' they are my own.'

' Indeed!' cried the lady with animation ' and you have never published them?'

' I shall never try—again,' he murmured, uttering the last word in a low and despairing tone, which, however, reached the ears of the young woman.

' Good-night, citoyen,' said she, and she closed her window. The composer sighed, rose and went out to take his usual walk by the sea- beach; there, before the grandeur and sublimity of the ocean, and amid the murmur of its bellowing waves, to forget the cares of the world, his poverty, and his crushed visions of glory and renown—the day-dream of all superior minds—a dream far oftener a punishment than a reward; for of those who sigh for fame, few indeed are successful.

Scarcely had he left the house, than a lady, habited in cloak and hood, entered it; and after a somewhat lengthened conference with his concierge, ascended to his room, and remained there about an hour. At the end of that time she vanished. It was midnight when the composer returned. He entered with difficulty, the Cerberus of the lodge being asleep, and ascended to his wretched room. He had left it littered and dirty, without light, fire, or food. To his surprise a cheerful blaze sent its rays beneath the door. He opened it, not without alarm, and found his apartment neatly ordered, a fire burning, a lamp, and on the table a supper. The young man frowned, and looked sternly at the scene.

' Who dares thus insult my poverty ? Is it not enough that I am starving with cold and hunger, that I am rejected by the world as a useless and wretched thing, incapable of wielding either sword or pen, but I must be insulted by charity? Fire, light, and food, all sent to me by one who knows my necessity! And yet who knows? Perhaps my mother may have discovered my retreat Who else could have acted thus? My mother, I bless thee both for your action and for respecting my conceal- ment!" And the invalid officer sat down to the first hearty meal he had eaten for weeks. He had left home because his friends wholly disapproved of his making music a profession, and wished him to employ his leave of absence in learning another occupation. His mother so pressed him, that he saw no resource but a soldier's last chance — a retreat. Fur two months no trace of the fugitive had been seen — two months spent in vain efforts to make his chosen career support him; and now, doubt- less, his mother had found him out, and had taken this delicate way of respecting his secrecy and punishing his pride.

Next morning the young man awoke with an appetite unknown to him of late. The generous food of the previous night had restored his system, and brought him to a natural state. Luckily, sufficient wine and bread remained to satisfy his craving, and then he sat down to think. All his efforts to get his music sung, or played, or published, had been vain. Singers knew him not, publishers declared him unknown, and the public seemed doomed never to hear him, because they never had heard him; a logical consequence very injurious to young beginners in literature, poesy, music, and all the liberal arts. But he was determined to have one more trial. Having eaten, he dressed and went out in the direction of the shop of the Citoyen Dupont, a worthy and excellent man, who in his day had published more music, bad and good, than a musician could lave played in a lifetime.

' You have something new, then, citoyen ?' said Dupont after the usual preliminaries, and after apologising to a lady within his office for leaving her a while. ' As my time is precious, pray play it at once, and sing it if you will.' The young man sat himself at the harpsichord which adorned the shop, and began at once the ‘Song of the Army of the Rhine.' The music-publisher listened with the knowing air of one who is not to be deceived, and shook his head as the composer ended.

' Rough—crude—but clever. Young man, you will, doubt not, do something good one of these days; but at present, I am sorry to say, your efforts want polish ------’,. The singer rose, and bowing, left the shop, despair at his heart. He had not a sou in the world: his rent was in arrears, he knew not how to dine that evening,unless, indeed, his mother came again to his aid — an aid 

he was very unwilling to receive. His soul repugned from it, for he had parted from her in anger, his mother was a Royalist, he was a Republican, and she had said bitter things to him at parting. But most of all the composer felt one thing: the world would never be able to judge him, never be able to decide if he had or had not merit; and this was the bitterest grief of all.

That day was spent in moody thought The evening came, and no sign again of his secret friend, whether mother or unknown sympathiser. Towards night the pangs of hunger became intolerable, and after numerous parleys with himself, the young man ascended to his room with a heavy parcel. His eye was wild, his cheek pale, his whole mien unearthly. As he passed the door of his lodge the concierge gave him a ticket for the Opera, signed Dupont, who was co-manager of the theatre.

' Go thyself,' said the composer in a low husky voice, and he went up stairs.

Having gained the room, the unhappy and misguided young man sat silent and motionless for some hours, until at length hunger, despair, and his dreamy visions had driven every calm and good thought from his head, and then he dared quietly proceed to carry out his dreadful and desperate intent. He closed carefully the window, stuffed his mattress up the chimney, and with paper stopped every aperture where air could enter. Then he drew forth from his parcel charcoal and a burner, and lit it. Thus had this wretched man determined to end his sufferings. He had made one last effort, and now in that solitary, dismal garret, he laid him down to die; and poverty and misery, genius and death, were huddled close together.

Meanwhile, amid a blaze of light, the evening's amusement had begun at the theatre. A new opera from Paris was to be played, and the prima donna was the young, lovely, and worshipped Claudine, the Jenny Lind of that time and place. The house was crowded, and the first act succeeding beyond all expectation, the audience were in ecstasy.

' She is a jewel!' said M. Dupont, who, from a private box, admired the great supporter of his theatre. A roar of applause from the pit delighted at this instant the good man's ears. Claudine, called before the curtain, was bowing to the audience. But what is this ? Instead of going off, she has just signed to the orchestra to play. She is about to show her gratitude to the audience in verse. M. Dupont rubs his hands, and repeats twice between his teeth 'She is a jewel!' But with ease and rapidity the band has commenced playing an unknown air, and the next instant M. Dupont is standing up with a strange and wild look. Hushed and still was every breath: the audience look at each other: not a word of communication takes place: men shudder, or rather tremble with emotion. But the first stanza is ended; and then a frantic shout, a starting of all to their feet, a wild shriek of delight, a cry of a thousand voices thundering the chorus, shows how the song has electrified them.

M. Dupont frowned, for the air and the song were not new to him: it was the ' Song of the Army of the Rhine' he had refused that morning! But Claudine proceeds : again the audience is hushed in death-like silence; while the musicians, roused to an unusual degree of enthusiasm, played admirably; and Claudine, still singing with all the purity, feeling, and energy of her admirable voice, plunged her eyes into every corner of the house—in vain. At each couplet the enthusiasm of the people became greater, the anxiety of the singer more intense. At length she concluded, and never did applause more hearty, more tremendous, more uproarious, greet the voice of a public songstress. The excitable population of Marseilles seemed mad.

When silence was restored, Claudine spoke:' Citoyens and citoyennes!' she exclaimed,' this song is both written and composed by a young and unknown man, who has in vain sought to put his compositions before the public. Everybody has refused them. For myself, I thought this the greatest musical effort of modern times; and as such I practised it today; and, unknown to manager or author, I and the band prepared this surprise. But the author is not here. Poor and despairing, he is at home lamenting his unappreciated efforts! Let us awake him; let him learn that the generous people of Marseilles can understand and feel great music. Come, let all who have hearts follow me, and chant the mighty song as we go.' And Claudine, stepping across the orchestra, landed in the pit, and, bareheaded, light-dressed as she was,rushed towards the door, followed by every spectator and by the musicians, who, however, put on their hats, and even threw a cloak and cap on the excited and generous young songstress.

Meanwhile the composer's dreadful resolve was being carried out The horrid fumes of the charcoal filled the room : soon they began to consume and exhaust the pure air, and the wretched youth felt all the pangs of coming death. Hunger, exhaustion, and despair kindled a kind of madness in his brain: wild shapes danced around him : his many songs seemed sung altogether by coarse, husky voices, that made their sound a punishment: and then the blasted atmosphere oppressing his chest, darkening his vision, his room seemed tenanted by myriads of infernal and deformed beings. Then again he closed his eyes, and soft memory stealing in upon him, showed him happy visions of his youth, of his mother, of love, and hope, and joy; of green fields, and the murmuring brooks which had first revealed melody unto his soul; and the young man thought that death must be come, and that he was on the threshold of a better world.

But an awful shout, a tremendous clamour, burst on his ear: a thousand voices roar beneath his window. The young man starts from his dream : what is this he hears ?

' What is this ?' he cries. ' My Song of the Rhine!'

He listens. A beautiful and clear voice is singing: it is still his song, and then the terrible chorus is taken up by the people; and the poor composer's first wish is gained he feels that he is famous.

But he is dying, choked, stifled with charcoal. He lies senseless, fainting on his bed; but hope and joy give him strength. He rises, falls rather, then darts across the room, his sword in hand. One blow shivers the panes of his window to atoms; the broken glass lets in the cool sea- breeze and the splendid song. Both give life to the young man; and when Claudine entered the room, the composer was able to stand. In ten minutes he hail supped in the porter's lodge, dressed, and come out, to be borne in triumph back to the theatre, where that night he heard, amid renewed applause, his glorious song sung between every act, and each time gaining renewed laurels.

Ten days later, Rouget de L'Isle was married to Claudine, the prima donna of Marseilles; and the young composer, in gratitude to her and her countrymen, changed the name of his song, and called it by the name it is still known by —' The Marseillaise!'