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Starting Out with Python 4e (Gaddis)
Chapter 1 Introduction to Computers and Programming

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TRUE/FALSE

1. A software developer is the person with the training to design, create, and test computer programs.

ANS: T

2. A computer is a single device that performs different types of tasks for its users.

ANS: F

3. All programs are normally stored in ROM and are loaded into RAM as needed for processing.

ANS: F

4. The instruction set for a microprocessor is unique and is typically understood only by the
microprocessors of the same brand.

ANS: T

5. The CPU understands instructions written in a binary machine language.

ANS: T

6. A bit that is turned off is represented by the value -1.

ANS: F

7. The main reason to use secondary storage is to hold data for long periods of time, even when the
power supply to the computer is turned off.

ANS: T

8. RAM is a volatile memory used for temporary storage while a program is running.

ANS: T

9. The Python language uses a compiler which is a program that both translates and executes the
instructions in a high-level language.
 ANS: F

10. IDLE is an alternative method to using a text editor to write, execute, and test a Python program.

ANS: T

MULTIPLE CHOICE

1. Programs are commonly referred to as

a. system software
b. software
c. application software
d. utility programs
ANS: B

2. Which of the following is considered to be the world's first programmable electronic computer?
a. IBM
b. Dell
c. ENIAC
d. Gateway
ANS: C

3. Where does a computer store a program and the data that the program is working with while the
program is running?
a. in main memory
b. in the CPU
c. in secondary storage
d. in the microprocessor
ANS: A

4. What type of volatile memory is usually used only for temporary storage while running a program?
a. ROM
b. TMM
c. RAM
d. TVM
ANS: C

5. Which of the following is not a microprocessor manufacturing company?

a. Intel
b. Dell
c. AMD
d. Motorola
ANS: B

6. Which computer language uses short words known as mnemonics for writing programs?
a. Assembly
 b. Java
c. Pascal
d. Visual Basic
ANS: A

7. The process known as the __________ cycle is used by the CPU to execute instructions in a program.
a. decode-fetch-execute
b. decode-execute-fetch
c. fetch-decode-execute
d. fetch-execute-decode
ANS: C

8. Which language is referred to as a low-level language?

a. C++
b. Assembly language
c. Java
d. Python
ANS: B

9. The following is an example of an instruction written in which computer language?

10110000
a. Assembly language
b. Java
c. machine language
d. C#
ANS: C

10. The encoding technique used to store negative numbers in the computer's memory is called
a. Unicode
b. ASCII
c. floating-point notation
d. two's complement
ANS: D

11. The __________ coding scheme contains a set of 128 numeric codes that are used to represent
characters in the computer's memory.
a. Unicode
b. ASCII
c. ENIAC
d. two's complement
ANS: B

12. The smallest storage location in a computer's memory is known as a

a. byte
b. ketter
c. switch
 d. bit
ANS: D

13. What is the largest value that can be stored in one byte?
a. 255
b. 128
c. 8
d. 65535
ANS: A

14. The disk drive is a secondary storage device that stores data by __________ encoding it onto a
spinning circular disk.
a. electrically
b. magnetically
c. digitally
d. optically
ANS: B

15. A __________ has no moving parts and operates faster than a traditional disk drive.
a. DVD drive
b. solid state drive
c. jumper drive
d. hyper drive
ANS: B

16. Which of the following is not a major component of a typical computer system?
a. the CPU
b. main memory
c. the operating system
d. secondary storage devices
ANS: C

17. Which type of error prevents the program from running?

a. syntax
b. human
c. grammatical
d. logical
ANS: A

18. What is the decimal value of the following binary number?

10011101
a. 157
b. 8
c. 156
d. 28
ANS: C
MULTIPLE RESPONSE

1. Select all that apply. To create a Python program you can use
a. a text editor
b. a word processor if you save your file as a .docx
c. IDLE
d. Excel
ANS: A, C

COMPLETION

1. A(n) ___________ is a set of instructions that a computer follows to perform a task.

ANS: program

2. The term ___________ refers to all the physical devices that make up a computer.

ANS: hardware

3. The __________ is the part of the computer that actually runs programs and is the most important
component in a computer.

ANS: central processing unit, CPU

4. A disk drive stores data by __________ encoding it onto a circular disk.

ANS: magnetically

5. __________ are small central processing unit chips.

ANS: Microprocessors

6. __________ is a type of memory that can hold data for long periods of time, even when there is no
power to the computer.

ANS: Secondary storage

7. Main memory is commonly known as __________.

ANS: random-access memory, RAM

8. USB drives store data using __________ memory.

ANS: flash

9. The Python __________ is a program that can read Python programming statements and execute them.

ANS: interpreter
10. In __________ mode, the interpreter reads the contents of a file that contains Python statements and
executes each statement.

ANS: script
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Alas! all earthly things have been revised
Even Learning’s careful patron and Protector,
The Inquisition, is disorganized.
The world is round, and has a Radius Vector;
There’s not a ghost on duty, nor a spectre;
Sinbad is dead, and almost any loafer
Can go, in steamers, round Cape Horn to Ophir.

Then, on the blackness of the Night’s deep chasm,

The anchored earth lay, floating, like a floor:—
Beneath, the shadow and the veiled phantasm
Their local habitation had of yore;
But each veiled shadow, and each dreadful phasm
Rose with the night, above the western shore—
When, through the void, all flame and ruddy gold
The Day-god’s cavalcade, descending, rolled.

Without the continent, old Ocean’s torrent

Extended to the earth’s remotest verge:
Both jovial Tritons, and the Powers abhorrent,
Were seized of provinces upon the surge;
And from Arcturus to the Southern gorge
Black tempests bearing old Eolus’ warrant
Patrolled the seas in search of ships or steamers
Breaking the closes of the ocean emirs.

Through the dense night, archangels of strong wing,

From heaven roving, saw the earth’s vast plane—
The kingdoms of the Pole, all glimmering—
The twisted rivers, and the enfolding main—
The shining gulfs which dent the Indian chain,
And smiled to see the hollow planets swing
Above that dim abyss within whose core
Were hooked the world’s deep sunken anchors four.
Large breakers tumbling on the Arabian shoals,
With wooded regions by the Caucasian gaps—
The town of Ebony, the land of Gholes,
(Which are omitted in the modern maps)—
All these I saw; and hills with misty caps,
Where dwell the Glactophagi—blameless souls:
The wizard spoke—I was with awe oppressed:
The words like ghosts rose from his sounding chest—

“These mountains I have watched a thousand years;

And I have writ one thousand solemn books:
Who reads them shall be wise! Hell’s fiercest Peers
Have oft essayed to burst these bolted rocks;
And, under Baal-Phaxi’s deepest blocks,
Mines they have digged, and loaded, and exploded.
Yea, Mogophur, the Lord of Babylon,
Came with his captains and a countless rabble on—

“Of spearmen, chariots, and Tartarian riders,

Whose faces were the likeness of a flame,
And elephants crept through the pass like spiders,
And the whole College of Magicians came,
Who caused sharp earthquakes and much whizzing flame
By means of diagrams, and long dividers,
And thus exclaimed each iron-harnessed savage,
‘The unseen land of Elpholen we’ll ravage.’
“I did but ope one solemn book, and say:
‘O, ye Hydraulic Goblins of the mountains,
At once your tunnels, pumps, and flooms let play;
And loose old Himmalah’s rock-bound fountains.’
Then rivers of cold foam and spouting spray,
And cataracts which broke the cliffs away,
Burst from the mountains’ inner reservoirs.
’Twas very good to see those watery Druids
Destroy that haughty host, with roaring fluids!”
. . . . . .
But now, those noisy trumpeters, the Hours,
Blew the reveillé through the camps of morn:
Now storm-girt Taurus raised his icy horn,
Like blazing silver, o’er the mists and showers;
And sunlight struck the unclouded mountain towers,
Which ranged the circuit of that snowy wall:
We then rode down a chasm from the gates,
And entered Elpholen’s enchanted states.

To a wild amphitheatre we rode,

Begirt with precipices. From an astounding
Cavern in the mountain-side, there flowed
A river deep and broad; but the surrounding
Dark hollows echoed not a single sounding;
For silently it moved—we only heard
At times the plunging of some dull cascade
Far up the tunnel, like a cannonade.
Full many other rivers cross those lands,
Some, from the eternal snows come pouring;
Some, roll around the chasms, in foaming bends;
Some, through the hills, a ragged highway boring,
Rush to the valleys, with an angry roaring,
And hurry onward to the ocean sands;
But many a cataract and runlet trickles
Down from the glaciers, making huge icicles.

We moved along by wooded peaks and crags,

Carvéd with images and hieroglyphs,
Ruffling their scales and quills like golden flags,
And, pawing their odd cubs, the hippogriffs
Rolled in their nests, upon the shady cliffs;
And in the glens, both bears and royal stags,
With lazy lions, goats, and yawning leopards
Like cattle lay, and children were their shepherds.

Along through ancient forests, vast, and slumbrous,

Roes, of the mountain, grazed beside the springs,
And often rose some bird of plumage cumbrous
Unto the branches, folding his wide wings.
There, too, were tombs of certain wizard-kings—
Antediluvians of visage sombrous—
And holy men, before their moss-grown crypts,
Studied in awful Syriac manuscripts.

Beyond, there dwelleth an immortal folk,

About a stream, which to a lake enlarges:
Pine hills curve greenly round, and groves of oak,
Sometimes they rested on the river marges,
Sometimes they plowed the lake in hollow barges,
And sometimes, on the altars made sweet smoke,
Some painted pictures in their pleasant tents,
And many played on all stringed instruments.
But some rode up unto the gorgeous clouds
Around the necks of monstrous eagles clinging.
The people which do there have their abodes
Welcoméd them with flags, and wild bell-ringing;
With musical cannon from th’ embrasures flinging
Puffs of white vapor, bombs, and rattling grape:—
The Goblin-populace of Cloud-land we
Could well behold:—Ah, they a brisk folk be!

And caravans continually crossed the plains.

Camels and elephants innumerable—
With carriages, and pigmy oxen trains,
And scampering knights, in armor of black shell,
Lords, bearded patriarchs, and gay rabble,
And baggage-wagons full of chattering dames,
And mounted archers, shooting slender arrows,
Wound slowly round the curving river narrows.

But some came down the rivers on broad rafts;

With shells, and bells, and crooked bugles, waking
Numberless echoes on the rocks. The shafts
Of the forests stood, like champions unquaking,
Though many clamors, the old silence breaking,
Startled the musing Hermits. Now arose
The stars, and moon, and all the hosts of night:
We stood above a plain upon a height.
Three noble rivers, in the moonlight shining,
Sparkled from three defiles in East, and West,
And North—in silence to a blue gulf winding,
Which, by the distant mountains, lay at rest;
And there a city with a massive crest
Of turrets, overlooked that rock-bound sheet.
The rivers round it, in broad girdles pressed;
Bridges there were, and groves, and gardens meet;
And in the bay lay moored an idle fleet.

Unto that city did all people flow:

In the deep plain we saw their circular camps,
Like islands of an archipelago;
And as we looked, a belt of fiery lamps
Was wound around the crowning citadel;
Whereat each watching pilgrim said: “Full well
I know, that now within yon distant dell
The Lord of blessed Elpholen doth dwell.

“To him we will present our offering

Of fruits, and herds, and many precious ores,
Which rivers from the mountain-summits bring:—
Upon the gulf’s cool strand, and shady shores
Our ancient games we will perform long hours:
Then we will go again to our dear tribes,
And to our cattle in the pleasant meadows,
And dappled deer browsing in mountain shadows.”
That night we camped upon the sandy margent
Of an unknown sea; and when, behind sharp peaks,
The moon retired in her skiff of argent,
Then certain meteors filled the sky with streaks,
And diving, from the zenith-ridge divergent,
Through the purple heavens fell in flakes,
Which, as they struck the water, lost their light,
And grew a portion of its night.

Meanwhile we saw a corps of sentry ghosts,

Standing erect the farthest Eastern shore on,
And many thousand stars, above those coasts,
Flashed like the Arabic of a fiery Koran;
Then those great captains of the heavenly hosts,
Orion, Sirius, and Aldebóran,
On the dark field of Heaven took their stations;
And calmly wheeled the close-ranked constellations.

No outposts of the Morn marked the approach

Of the Hœlios’ chariot; no gleams, or tinges
Upon the tent of Darkness dared encroach;
But sudden brilliance pierced its dusky fringes;
Wide swung the Morning’s gates upon their hinges;
Those burning horses, and that flaming coach
Sprang out upon the ocean, through the gateway:
Night struck her tattered tent, and vanished straightway.
 A LIFE OF VICISSITUDES.
———
BY G. P. R. JAMES, ESQ.
———

[Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1852,

by George Payne Rainsford James, in the Clerk’s Office of the
District Court of the United States for the District of
Massachusetts.]

(Continued from page 147.)

A YOUNG DREAM.
Memory is certainly a very strange gift, or quality of the mind—or
whatever else it may be rightly termed; for I am no philosopher, and
but little acquainted with the technology of metaphysics. It seems
often a capricious faculty, selecting its own objects, and amusing
itself with them to the rejection of others. But I am not quite sure
that this imputation upon memory is justified. I must admit that with
myself, as I suppose is the case with others, when I try to recall the
past, the lady often proves restive with me, and without any
apparent cause, recalls all the particulars of certain scenes, and
omits other passages of life close by them. Nor is this to be
attributed always to the particular interest of the scenes she recalls;
for some of them are quite unimportant, light, and even ludicrous,
while things affecting one’s whole destiny, if not utterly forgotten,
are brought back but indistinctly. I suspect, however, that the fact is,
memory is like a sentinel who will not let any one enter the treasury
she guards without the countersign, even though it be the master of
the treasure himself.
 The objects and events that we remember best are, in fact, those
for which we have learned the countersign by heart, and the
moment that any accidental circumstance furnishes us with the
pass-word, apparently forgotten, the door is thrown open, and we
behold them again, somewhat dusty perhaps, but plain and distinct.
Acts never die. They at least are immortal; and I do not think they
ever die to memory either. They sleep within, and it only requires to
have the key to waken them. The time will come when all shall be
awakened: when every door of the heart shall be thrown open, and
when the spirits of man’s deeds and thoughts will stand revealed to
his own eyes at least—perhaps to be his bright companions in
everlasting joy—perhaps his tormentors in the hell which he has dug
for himself.
Often, often, as I look back in life, I see a cloud hanging over a
particular spot in the prospect, which for days, sometimes for years,
will hide all beyond. Then suddenly the lightest trifle—a casual word
—a peculiar odor—the carol of a bird—the notes of some old melody,
will, as with a charm, dispel that cloud—sometimes dissolving it in
rain-drops—sometimes absorbing it in sunshine—and all that it
concealed will burst upon the sight in horror or in loveliness. Even
while I have been writing these few pages many things have thus
been brought back to remembrance by the connection of one event
with another, which seemed to have altogether passed away from
memory when first I sat down to write. Now what is the next thing I
remember; for the rest of our journey, after we left Juliers, has
passed away from me?
I find myself on looking back, in a small, neat house, with a
garden, and a little fountain in the garden, upon a sandy soil, and
with a forest of long needle-leaved fir-trees stretching out to the
westward. To the east there is a city of no very great extent, but still
a capital, with a range of high hills running in a wavy line behind,
and here and there an old ruined castle upon the lower points.
Before the city lies a wide plain, rich and smiling, full of corn-
fields and vineyards, with here and there a curious-looking spire or a
couple of dome-topped towers marking the place of a village or
small town, and beyond the plain, glistening in a long, long wavy
line of silver, glides a broad river—the mighty Rhine.
Oh! what sweet sunny lapses come cheering and softening the
rapid course of life’s troubled stream. There are several of those
green spots of memory, as the poet calls it—these oases in the midst
of the desert, even within my own remembrance. But on few, if any
of them can my heart rest with as much pleasure as on the months
we passed in that little cottage. There were no events—there was no
excitement—for me and Mariette, at least. I remember wandering
with her about that sunny garden, playing with her in the cool, airy
pleasure-house which stood in one corner, helping her to gather
flowers to deck her mother’s table, wandering with her through the
forest beneath the green shade, with the dry, brown filaments of the
fir crackling under our young feet. Here and there we would come to
a place where oaks and beeches mingled with the pine and a thick
growth of underwood narrowed our path; but as compensation, we
were there sure to find a rich treasure of wild-flowers, more
beautiful in our eyes than all the garden bestowed. Very often, too,
in the clear May evenings we would sit under the little shabby porch
of the house—Mariette upon my knee, with her arms clasped round
my neck—and as the sky grew gray, and the stars began to peer and
glimmer up above, would listen to the notes of the nightingale as he
prolonged his song after all the forest choir had fallen into silence;
and when some of those peculiar notes were coming which we love
the best to hear, and Mariette knew that the delicious cadence was
nigh at hand, she would raise her beautiful liquid eyes to my face,
and whisper “hark” and gaze at me still as if to share my enjoyment,
and to make me share hers.
Oh! how that child twined herself round my boy’s heart. Dear,
dear, dear Mariette. In all that I have seen in life, and strange and
varied has that life been, I have never seen any thing that I loved as
much as you. The first freshness of my thoughts—the first—the
tenderest—the purest of my affections, were all yours!
But I took other tasks in hand. Good Father Bonneville resumed
his lessons to me; but they were not very burdensome, and I began
to teach Mariette. How this came about I must explain. Madame de
Salins, who had borne up so well in times of danger and active
exertion, became languid, inactive, sorrowful in the time of repose.
She was evidently exceedingly anxious about something—often in
tears—and often returned from the neighboring city where she went
almost every day to seek for letters, with a look of gloom and
disappointment. She began to teach Mariette something herself,
however; for from various circumstances the dear child’s instruction
had been neglected. It was always a task to her, however, and her
mind seemed wandering away to other things, till at length good
Father Bonneville suggested that I would teach Mariette, and
Mariette was delighted, and I rejoiced; and Madame de Salins, too,
was very well satisfied at heart, I believe. Every thing was speedily
arranged, but Mariette and I set to work formally and in good order.
The books, and the slate, and the pen and ink were produced at a
fixed hour, and if it were fine weather, we sat in the little shabby
porch—if it were raining, in the little room that looked upon it. Dear,
stupid little thing! What a world of trouble she gave me. She did not
half know her letters when I began to teach her, and was continually
mistaking the P’s and B’s, and Q’s and D’s. R and S, too, were sad
stumbling-blocks, and the putting letters together into syllables,
together with pricking the page with a pin occupied a long time.
Then she was so volatile too. When I was pouring forth my young
philosophy upon her, and laboring hard to teach her the sounds
produced by different combinations of letters, she would start up
and dart out into the garden in chase of a butterfly, or tempted by a
flower. Then, when she came back and was scolded, how she would
coax and wheedle her soft young tutor, and kiss his cheek and pat
his hair, and one way or another contrive to get the words “good
Mariette” written at the end of every lesson to show her mother. I
have got the book still, all full of pin holes, and strange figures
scribbled on it with a pen; but not one lesson in it has not “good
Mariette” written at the end, though Heaven knows she was often
naughty enough to merit another comment. But I was a true lover
even then, and perhaps loved the dear child’s faults.
 Moreover, at the end of that book of little reading lessons there is
a page which I have kissed a thousand times since. It represents—
and not very badly—Mariette as she appeared then with a little
spaniel dog looking up in her face. Oh! how well I recollect when it
was drawn. I could always handle my pencil well, though I don’t
know when I learnt to draw; but as we were coming near the end of
the book, I promised Mariette if she would be a very good girl
indeed, and get through the remaining lessons in a week, that I
would draw her picture at the end with an imaginary dog which she
was always to have at some indefinite period in the future; for she
was exceedingly fond of dogs, and I believe the highest ambition of
her heart at that moment was to have a spaniel of her own. Before
Saturday night fell, the lessons were all done, and I was immediately
reminded of my promise. We sat in the porch, with the western sky
just growing purple, and I made her get up and stand at a little
distance, and sketched her lightly with a pen and ink, and then at
her feet, I drew from memory the best dog I could manufacture,
with its ears falling back, and its face turned up toward her. How
delighted she was when she saw it, and how she clapped her little
hands! It was all charming, but the spaniel above all, and I doubt
not she was convinced that she should soon have a dog exactly like
that. She ran with it, first to Father Bonneville, who was in the next
room, and then to her mother, who was very sad that evening; but
she kissed her child, and looked at the drawing, and dropped some
tears upon it—the traces are there still.
Then Mariette came back to me, and thanked and embraced me,
and declared that I was the dearest, best boy that ever lived, and
that when she was old enough, she would draw me at the end of
one of my books, with a great big dog as big as a horse.
This is all very trifling perhaps, and not much worthy of record,
but in those trifling times, and those trifling things lie the brightest
and the sweetest memories of my life. It was all so pure, so artless,
so innocent. We were there in that little garden, as in a Paradise,
and the atmosphere of all our thoughts was the air of Eden.
 Such things never last very long. I reached my thirteenth birth-
day there, and it was kept with kindly cheerfulness by Father
Bonneville and Madame de Salins. Mariette I remember wove me a
wreath of flowers, and put it on my head after dinner; but that was
her last happy day for a long while. The next day Madame de Salins
walked to the city as usual, and Father Bonneville went with her.
They were long in returning; but when they did come back there
was a sparkling light in the eyes of Madame de Salins which I little
fancied augured so much wo to me.
“Come, Louis, come,” said Father Bonneville. “Madame de Salins
has heard good news at length. She must set out this very evening
for England. The carriage and horses will be here in an hour, and we
must all help her to get ready.”
“And Mariette?” I asked, with an indescribable feeling of alarm.
“Does she stay here?”
“No, my son, no,” replied Father Bonneville, almost impatiently.
“She goes with her mother of course.”
Grown people forget the feelings of childhood, especially old
people, and appreciate too little either the pangs or joys of youth.
Blessed is the man who bestows a happy childhood upon any one.
We cannot shelter mature life from its pangs and sorrows, but we
can insure, if we like, that the brightest portion of the allotted space
—the portion where the heart is pure, and the thoughts unsullied—
shall be exempt in those we love from the pangs, and cares, and
sorrows which, so insignificant in our eyes, are full of bitter
significance to a child.
Father Bonneville did not know how terribly his intelligence
depressed my heart. He rejoiced in Madame de Salins’ brightening
prospects, although they deprived him of society that cheered and
comforted. I was more selfish; I thought only that I was again to
lose Mariette, and I grieved from my very heart. I would not
disgrace the first manhood of my teens by bursting into tears,
though the inclination to do so was very strong, and I assisted in the
preparations as much as I could. But oh how I wished that some
accident might happen to the horses before they reached our door,
or that the carriage might break down—that any thing might happen
which would give me one—but one day more. It was not to be,
however: the ugly brutes, and the little less ugly driver, appeared not
more than half an hour behind their time, the baggage was put up,
and Madame de Salins proceeded to the door of the house. She
embraced Father Bonneville tenderly, and then me, and taking a
little gold chain which she had in her hand, and spreading it out with
her fingers, she placed it round my neck, and I saw a small ring
hanging to it, which I found afterward contained her own hair and
Mariette’s.
“Keep it, Louis, keep it always,” she said. “I do not know when
we shall meet again; but I pray God to bless you, dear boy, and
repay you for all you have done for me and mine.”
It was at that moment that the idea of a long separation seemed
to strike Mariette for the first time. She burst into the most terrible
fit of tears I ever saw, and when I took her in my arms she clung
round my neck so tight that it was hardly possible to remove her.
Madame de Salins wept too, but went slowly into the carriage, and
Father Bonneville unclasping the dear child’s arms carried her away
to her mother’s knee. I could bear no more, and running away to my
own little room, gave way to all I felt; only lifting up my head to take
one more look, when I heard the harsh grating of the carriage-
wheels as they rolled away.

——

A SUMMARY.
I have often thought that it must be a curious, and by no means
unimportant, or useless process, which the Roman Catholic is
frequently called upon to go through, when preparing his mind for
confession.
 The above sentence may startle any one who reads these pages,
and he may exclaim—
“The Roman Catholic!” Is not the writer—born in a Roman
Catholic country, educated by a Roman Catholic priest, and with the
force of his beautiful example to support all his precepts—is he not
himself a Roman Catholic, or does he mean to say that he has never
himself been to confession?
Never mind. That shall all be explained hereafter.
The process I allude to is that of making, as it were, a summary
of all the acts and events, which have occurred within a certain
period of the past, trying them by the test of reason and of
conscience, and endeavoring to clear away all the mists of passion,
prejudice, and error which crowd round man and obscure his sight in
the moment of exertion or pursuit. Such is not exactly the task I
propose to myself just now. All I propose to myself is to give a very
brief and sketch-like view of the facts which occupied the next two
or three years of my life. It will be faint enough. Rather a collection
of reminiscences than of any thing else—often detached from each
other, and never, I fear, very sharply defined. The truth is, events at
that period were so hurried that they seemed to jostle each other in
the memory, and often when I wish to render my own thoughts
clear upon the particular events of the period, I am obliged to have
recourse to the written or printed records of the events, where they
lie chronicled in the regular order of occurrence.
I know that after Mariette’s departure, I was very sad and very
melancholy for several weeks. Father Bonneville with all his kindness
and tenderness, and with much greater consideration for the faults
and weaknesses of others than for his own, did not seem to
comprehend my sensations at all at first, and could not imagine—till
he had turned it in his own mind a great many times, and painted a
picture of it, as it were in imagination, that the society of a little girl
of six years old could have become so nearly a necessity to a boy of
thirteen. He became convinced, however, in the end that I was, what
he called “pining after Mariette.” He strove then to amuse me in
various ways—occupied my mind with fresh studies—procured for
me many English books, and directed my attention to the study of
German, which he himself spoke well, and which I mastered with the
ready facility of youth. We all know how children imbibe a language,
rather than learn it, and I had not at that time lost the blessed
faculty of acquisition.
All this had its effect, while I was busying my mind with other
things—for I pursued every object with earnestness, nay with
eagerness—I thought little of my loneliness, but often when my
lessons were done, and I was tired of reading, and indisposed to
walk, I would sit in our little garden, and looking round upon the
various objects about me, would recall the pretty figure of my dear
little lost Mariette dancing in and out amongst the trees and shrubs,
and almost fancy I heard her sweet voice, and the prattle which
used so to delight me, strangely mingled as it was, of the innocent
frankness of her nature, and a certain portion of shy reserve, which
had been forced into her mind by the various painful scenes she had
gone through.
One evening as I was thus seated and looking out upon the road,
which ran between our small house and the forest, I saw an old
woman coming down from the high road which led to the town with
a slow and weary pace. I should not have taken much notice of her,
perhaps, had not her dress been very different from that of the
peasantry in the neighborhood. It was a dress which awakened old
recollections—that of the Canton in which I had been brought up, if
not born. There was the white cap, with the long ears flapping down
almost to the shoulders, and the top running up and curling over
into a sort of helmet shape—Heaven only knows how it was
constructed; but it was a very complicated piece of architecture.
Then again there was the neat little jacket of dull colored gingham,
and beneath it the short petticoat of bright red cloth, with the blue
stockings, and the red embroidered clocks, and the high-heeled
shoes with the silver buckles in them. She carried a good sized
bundle in her hand, and held her head upright, though she was
evidently tired. But as she came nearer, I saw a round, dry, apple-
like face, with two sparkling black eyes and a nose of extensive
proportions. I was upon my feet in one moment, and the next, good
old Jeanette was in my arms.
I need not say how rejoiced I was to see her, or how rejoiced
was also Father Bonneville, nor need I tell all her simple history since
we had left her in France; nor how we wondered at her achieving so
long a journey in perfect safety. Her account, however, showed how
simple the whole process had been, though I do not mean to say
that Jeanette put her statement altogether in the most simple terms.
She was not without her own little share of vanity, innocent and
primeval as it was. She did not, indeed, strive to enhance the value
of her services and affection toward us, but she seemed to consider
that she was magnified in abstract importance by dangers
undergone and privations suffered. She told us how far she had
walked on foot, where she had got a Diligence, where somebody
had given her a ride in a cart, where she had got no supper, where
she had got a good one, where she had been cheated of fifteen sous
at least, and where the landlord and landlady were good honest
people, and had treated her well for a reasonable remuneration. Her
great difficulties had begun in Germany; the language of which land
she understood not at all, but by dint of patient perseverance, and
asking questions in French of every person she met—whether they
understood that language or not—she had made her way at length
to the spot which good Father Bonneville’s last letter had indicated
as his place of residence, not having gone, by the nicest calculation,
more than eight hundred and seventy-four miles out of her way. She
looked upon it as a feat of great importance, and was reasonably
proud of it; but she thought fit to assign her motives for coming at
all—although those motives were not altogether very coherent, nor
did the premises invariably agree with the deductions. Indeed,
Father Bonneville was a little shocked at some of the proceedings of
his good housekeeper; for he had a great objection to using dirty
arms against those who even used dirty arms against him. It
seemed that after Jeanette had notified his absence to the
municipality, his books, papers, and furniture had been seized for the
rapacious maw of the public good. An auction had been held on the
premises, and every thing had been sold; but Jeanette boldly
produced a claim upon the effects of the absconding priest for a
great arrear of wages, which she roundly asserted had never been
paid. She brought forward the agreement between Father Bonneville
and herself, in which the amount to be paid monthly was clearly
stated, and as the commune could show no receipts it was obliged
to pass the good housekeeper’s account, and pay her the money out
of the funds raised by the sale. Some laughed, indeed, and said that
the good woman had learnt the first grand art of taking care of
herself, while others defended her on the ground that it was rather
laudable than otherwise to pillage an aristocrat. They cited even the
cases of Moses and Pharaoh, where the plunder of the Egyptians
was not only lauded, but commanded. An old touch of religious
fanaticism reigned in that part of the country, and men, even the
most atheistical in profession and in action, which is still more, could
quote Scripture for their purpose when it served their purpose.
We are told that the devil does the same—and I think it very
likely.
The sum thus received from Jeanette—swelled by every item she
could think of, was by no means inconsiderable; but she had not
cheated a fraudulent and oppressive civic government for her own
peculiar benefit. The sum which had been left her by Father
Bonneville, and the wages which had been paid her, sufficed to
maintain her for several months in Angoumois—in her frugal mode
of living—and to carry her across the whole of France, leaving her
with some dozen or two of livres at the time she reached us in
Germany. The money which she had obtained from the commune,
all carefully deposited in a canvas bag, she produced and placed in
the hands of Father Bonneville, who, to say sooth, did not well know
what to do in the peculiar circumstances of the case. Jeanette
justified her acts and deeds toward the commune upon the same
principle on which some members of the commune had justified her
supposed acts toward Father Bonneville. She did not know much
about spoiling the Egyptians indeed; but her mind was not
sufficiently refined to see the harm of cheating cheats, or spoiling
plunderers of part of their plunder.
I believe the good Father talked to her seriously on the subject
when I was not present; but what became of the money I do not
know. All I can tell, is, that the good Father never seemed to be
actually in want of money, and that all those romantic distresses
which hinge upon the absence of a crown-piece, were spared us
even in our exile.
Time passed. Jeanette was fully established in her old post in the
household, with the addition of another German maid-servant. The
one whom she found with us was strongly imbued with despotic
ideas; and was, for good reasons, unwilling to submit either to the
orders of a foreign superior in her peculiar department, or to the
inspection of accounts and prices which she soon found was to be
established. Another German girl, consequently, was sought for and
found, who being younger in age, unhardened by experience, and of
a diffident nature, willingly undertook to receive a dollar and a half a
month, and do the harder work of the house under the orders of
Jeanette, of which she did not understand one word.
Our peaceful state of existence, however, was not destined to be
of very long duration. The successes of the allies, then combating
the republicans of France, both on the northern and eastern frontier,
insured us, for some time, tranquillity and safety. We heard of the
defeat of the French army at Neerwinden, and the fall of
Valenciennes and Condé, mixed with vague rumors of the defection
of Dumouriez, and the flight of some of the most celebrated
generals in the French army. These latter events gave great joy and
satisfaction to Father Bonneville; for his hopeful mind looked forward
to the re-establishment of law and order in his native country, and to
the utter abasement of the anarchical party in France before the skill
of Dumouriez, and the bayonets of the Austrians joined with those of
all the well disposed and moderate of the land itself.
Many others shared in the same delusions; but the manifestoes
of the Austrians, soon checked all enthusiasm, even on the part of
the emigrants. No pretence was made of coming to support the loyal
and orderly in the re-establishment of a monarchy, and a war of
aggression and dismemberment was gladly commenced against
France from the moment that Dumouriez’s more generous—and I
must say, more prudent schemes, were rendered abortive by
circumstances.
Doubtless, this first raised some indignation in the bosom of
Father Bonneville, who was of too true and really loyal a nature to
see unmoved, his native land partitioned by the sword, upon any
pretence or coloring whatever. I do not know why, but these matters
did not appear to me in the same light. I thought the people of
France had committed a great crime, and deserved to be punished,
as if they were but one simple, individual man. I thought that all
who were genuine loyalists or supporters of an orderly and
constitutional system were guilty of a crime little less great than that
of the anarchists, in their dastardly holding back when great
questions involving the whole fate of France, hung upon the simple
exertion of a well ordered body of the bourgeoisie; and I saw not
why they should not be punished for their culpable negligence which
was more disastrous in effect than all the virulence of the terrorists
—I saw not why those who committed tremendous crimes under the
name of justice should not be brought under the sword of justice,
and I looked forward, I confess, to a period of retribution with no
little joy and satisfaction. It mattered not to me, in my ignorance of
great affairs whether this was effected by the Austrians, the
Prussians, or any other nation on the face of the earth, but France
deserved punishment, and I hoped she might be punished.
The expectations of retribution were destined to be long
unfulfilled. The manifestoes of the Allies acted with singular power
and significance, producing combinations not at all expected. The
royalists, the constitutionalists, who still remained in France,
prepared to resist operations, the avowed object of which was the
dismemberment of France itself, and not the restoration of a purified
monarchy. They were willing to support even their mortal enemies
within the land, in resisting the newly declared enemies of the whole
land, who were advancing along two frontiers. The republicans were
roused to the most powerful and successful exertions in order to
repel a slow and cautious, but victorious enemy from their frontiers,
and even the émigrés, who were scattered all along the banks of the
Rhine, protested loudly against a scheme, which not only menaced
the integrity of France as it then existed, but threatened to deprive
the monarchy of some of its fairest provinces, if the legitimate line of
their sovereigns should ever be restored.
No contrivance could have been devised so well calculated to
reunite the greatest possible number of Frenchmen in opposition to
a counter-revolution, and to render all others indifferent to the
progress of the allied arms, as the proclamation of the Prince of
Coburg. Some few, indeed, thought with me, but mine were
doubtless boyish thoughts: for I have ever remarked that it is
experience, and the hard lessons of the world, which bring
moderation.
Father Bonneville seldom talked upon these subjects with me; for
he had rightly no great opinion of my judgment in matters of which I
could have had but a very vague knowledge, and he little knew how
often and how deeply I thought upon such questions.
The siege and capture of Mayence, however: the inactivity of
Custine, and the retreat of the whole of the French armies within the
frontier line, seemed to insure to us perfect security, for a long time
to come, in our calm and pleasant retreat upon the banks of the
Rhine: when suddenly burst forth that wild and vengeful spirit of
reaction which armed all France, almost as one man, against attacks
from without, and soon retrieved all she had lost under a weak
government and inexperienced commander.
Toward the end of the year, our situation became somewhat
perilous. After a long period of successes, the fruits of which were all
lost by indecision or procrastination, the allied armies found
themselves the assailed rather than the assailers, the conquered
rather than the conquerors; and the fierce spirit of the Frank, the
most war-loving, if not the most warlike, of all the nations of the
earth was soon ready to carry the flaming sword into all the
neighboring lands.
 I have given this little sketch merely to connect the events
together, without at all wishing to imply that I knew or
comprehended all the facts at the time, or recollect them now,
except with the aid of books. My own memories are very slight and
merely personal. I remember lingering on for some months in that
small house by the Rhine. I recollect the warm, bright summer
sinking down into heavy autumn, and the year withering in the old
age of winter. I recollect numerous reports and rumors, and gossip’s
tales, and—falser than all—newspaper narratives, and printed
dispatches, reaching us in our solitude, some of them exciting my
wonder, and some of them my alarm, and then I recollect various
passages of no great importance in a somewhat long journey, till I
find myself in a quaint old town upon the border of Switzerland, near
which the Rhine breaks over high rocks and forms the cascade of
Schaffhausen.
This place is only notable in my memory for the beauty of the
water-fall, which I have since seen surpassed in grandeur, but not in
picturesque effect, and by one little incident which there brightened
many an hour. One day, when we were there, a letter was delivered
to Father Bonneville, in my presence, which he found to contain a
small note addressed to me. It was the first letter I had ever
received in my life, although I was now between fourteen and fifteen
years of age, and the sensations which I experienced when it was
placed in my hands, and I saw my own name on the back, were very
strange. Imagination went whirling here and there, seeking to divine
whence it could come. The mystery of my own strange, isolated
existence—which was frequently present to my thoughts, was the
first thing that fancy snatched at; but I did not remain long in
uncertainty. The seal was soon broken, and I found a few lines in a
round, childlike hand, very well written, and very well expressed,
with the name of “Mariette de Salins” at the bottom.
She told me that she wrote to show me, her dear instructor, how
much progress she had made in her studies; and to tell me that
although she had now a great number of companions, she loved me
as well as ever, and better than them all. She bade me not forget
her though she did not doubt that I had grown a great, tall man,
and she was still but a little girl.
I cannot express how much pleasure this gave me; for I had
been oppressed by the thought that in new scenes and new
circumstances, all memory of her young companion would soon be
obliterated in the mind of my little Mariette. That such had not yet
been the case was in itself a pleasure; but I calculated sagaciously
that the very fact of having to write to me, and to recall our youthful
intercourse would renew all her recollections of the time we had
passed together, and give memory, as it were, a new point to start
from.
Our stay in Schaffhausen only continued a few months; for the
progress of events in France, and the revolutionary spirit which
began to effect other countries, left it hardly possible for emigrants
to find any secure spot in Europe, except indeed in England, and
thither Father Bonneville did not seem inclined to go. At
Schaffhausen, however, I pursued my studies very eagerly, and had
the opportunity of acquiring some knowledge of those manly
exercises which I had never yet had any opportunity of practicing.
There was a very good riding-school in the town, to which Father
Bonneville sent me every day; and a French exile, celebrated for his
knowledge of the sword exercise, had set up a fencing school, in
which I soon became a favorite pupil. I was now a tall, powerful lad,
and what between the continual exercise of the riding-school, and
the Salle d’Armes, all the powers of a frame, naturally robust, were
speedily developed. Previous to this time, I had stooped a little from
the habit of bending over books and drawings; but my chest now
became expanded, my step firm, and I acquired a sort of military air,
of which, I need hardly say, I was very proud.
Thus passed four months and a few days; but rumors of the
intention of the French to march an army up the Rhine, induced
Father Bonneville to move our quarters, and about a fortnight before
my fifteenth birth-day, we traveled up to Constance, and then across
what they call the Boden See—or lake of Constance, to the
Vorarlberg.
 ——

CHANGING SCENES AND THOUGHTS.

We passed some time in Switzerland, wandering from place to
place, and never remaining for above a few months in any. Though
not very rich, we were never in want of money; but it seemed to me
that Father Bonneville protracted his stay occasionally in different
towns, waiting the arrival of letters, and I concluded—having now
acquired some knowledge of the general affairs of life—that these
letters contained remittances. Whence they came, or by whom they
were sent, I did not know; for Father Bonneville transacted all his
money affairs himself, but at the age of sixteen he began to make
me a regular allowance, too much for what is usually called pocket-
money, and enough to have maintained me in a humble mode of
life, even if he had not paid the whole expenses of housekeeping.
With this money, at first, I committed, as I suppose all boys do, a
great number of follies and extravagancies. I bought myself a Swiss
rifle, and became a practiced shot, not only in the target-grounds,
but upon the mountains, and Father Bonneville, seeming now to
judge that the education of my mind was nearly completed,
encouraged me to pursue that education of the body in which the
good old man was unable himself to be my instructor. The Swiss
hunters, however, were good enough teachers, and I acquired
powers of endurance very serviceable to me in after life. About this
period, however, although I was full of active energy, and fond of
every robust exercise, a new and softening spirit seemed to come
into my heart. Vague dreams of love took possession of me, and
pretty faces and bright eyes produced strange sensations in my
young bosom. I became somewhat sentimental, bought Rosseau’s
nouvelle Heloise, and poured over its burning, enthusiastic pages
with infinite delight. The beautiful scenery, which before had only
attracted my attention by the effect of the forms and coloring upon
the eye of one naturally fond of the arts, now seemed invested with
new splendor, and the very air of the mountains fell with a sort of
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