I have had a night of ghostly dreams and horrors; the imagination of
Monk Lewis, or, worse, of Hoffman himself, never conceived any thing so
diabolical. H., who visited me last evening, by way of interesting me
related the incidents of a dreadful murder enacted in the very room I
slept in. There was a reality given to the narrative by the presence of
the scene itself--the ancient hangings still on the walls--the antique
chairs and cabinets standing, as they had done, when the deed of blood
took place; but, more than all, by the marble bust of the murderess
herself: for it was a woman, singularly beautiful, young, and of the
highest rank, who enacted it. The story is this:--
The Villa, which originally was in possession of the Medici family,
and subsequently of the Strozzi’s, was afterwards purchased by Count
Juliano, one of the most distinguished of the Florentine nobility.
With every personal advantage--youth, high station, and immense wealth,
he was married to one his equal in every respect, and might thus have
seemed an exception to the lot of humanity, his life realising, as it
were, every possible element of happiness. Still he was not happy; amid
all the voluptuous enjoyments of a life passed in successive pleasures,
the clouded brow and drooping eye told that some secret sorrow preyed
upon him, and that his gay doublet in all its bravery covered a sad and
sorrowing heart. His depression was generally attributed to the fact
that, although now married three years, no child had been born to their
union, or any likelihood that he should leave an heir to his great
name and fortune. Not even to his nearest friends, however, did any
confession admit this cause of sorrow; nor to the Countess, when herself
lamenting over her childless lot, did he seem to shew any participation
in the grief.
The love of solitude, the desire to escape from all society, and pass
hours, almost days, alone in a tower, the only admittance to which was
by a stair from his own chamber, had now grown upon him to that extent,
that his absence was regarded as a common occurrence by the guests of
the castle, nor even excited a passing notice from any one. If others
ceased to speculate on the Count’s sorrow, and the daily aversion he
exhibited to mixing with the world, the Countess grew more and more
eager to discover the source. All her blandishments to win his secret
from him were, however, in vain; vague answers, evasive replies, or
direct refusals to be interrogated, were all that she met with, and the
subject was at length abandoned,--at least by these means.
Accident, however, disclosed what all her artifice had failed in--the
key of the secret passage to the tower, and which the Count never
entrusted to any one, fell from his pocket one day, when riding from the
door; the Countess eagerly seized it, and guessing at once to what it
belonged, hastened to the Count’s chamber.
The surmise was soon found to be correct; in a few moments she had
entered the winding stairs, passing up which, she reached a small
octagon chamber at the summit of the tower. Scarcely had her eager eyes
been thrown around the room, when they fell upon a little bed, almost
concealed beneath a heavy canopy of silk, gorgeously embroidered with
the Count’s armorial bearings. Drawing rudely aside the hangings, she
beheld the sleeping figure of a little boy, who, even in his infantine
features, recalled the handsome traits of her husband’s face. The child
started and awoke with the noise, and looking wildly up, cried out,
“Papa;” and then suddenly changing his utterance, said, “Mamma.” Almost
immediately, however, discovering his error, he searched with anxious
eyes around the chamber for those he was wont to see beside him.
“Who are you?” said the Countess, in a voice that trembled with the
most terrible conflict of terror and jealousy, excited to the verge of
madness. “Who are you?”
“Il Conte Juliano,” said the child, haughtily; and shewing at the same
time a little medallion of gold embroidered on his coat, and displaying
the family arms of the Julianos.
“Come with me, then, and, see your father’s castle,” said the Countess;
and she lifted him from the bed, and led him down the steps of the steep
stairs into, her husband’s chamber.
It was the custom of the period, that the lady, no matter how exalted
her rank, should with her own hands arrange the linen which composed her
husband’s toilet, and this service was never permitted to be discharged
by any less exalted member of the household. When the Count returned,
toward night-fall, he hastened to his room--an invitation, or command,
to dine at the Court that day compelling him to dress with all speed. He
asked for the Countess as he passed up the stairs, but paid no attention
to the reply, for as he entered his chamber he found she had already
performed the accustomed office, and that the silver basket, with
its snow-white contents, lay ready to his hand. With eager haste he
proceeded to dress, and took up the embroidered shirt before him. When,
horror of horrors! there lay beneath it the head of his child, severed
from the body, still warm and bleeding--the dark eyes glaring as if with
but half-extinguished life, the lips parted as if yet breathing! One cry
of shrill and shrieking madness was heard through every vaulted chamber
of that vast castle; the echoes were still ringing with it as the
maddened father tore wildly from chamber to chamber in search of the
murderess. She had quitted the castle on horseback two hours before.
Mounting his swiftest horse he followed her from castle to castle; the
dreadful chase continued through the night and the next day; a few
hours of terrible slumber refreshed him again to pursue her; and thus he
wandered over the Apennines and the vast plain beyond them, days,
weeks, months long, till in a wild conflict of his baffled vengeance and
insanity he died! She was never heard of more!
Such is the horrid story of the chamber in which I sit; her bust, that
of a lovely and gentle girl, fast entering into womanhood, is now before
me; the forehead and the brows are singularly fine; the mouth alone
reveals any thing of the terrible nature within; the lips are firm and
compressed--the under one drawn slightly--very slightly--backward.
The head itself is low, and, for the comfort of phrenologists, sadly
deficient in “veneration.” The whole character of the face is, however,
beautiful, and of a classic order. It is horrible to connect the
identity with a tale of blood.
With this terrible tragedy still dwelling on my mind, and the features
of her who enacted it, I fell asleep. The room in which I lay had
witnessed the deed. The low portal in the corner, concealed behind the
arras, led to the stairs of the tower; the deep window in the massive
wall looked out upon the swelling landscape over which she fled, and he,
in mad fury, pursued her: these, were enough to seize and hold the mind,
and, blending the actual with the past, to make up a vision of palpable
reality. Oftentimes did I start from sleep. Now, it was the fancy of a
foot upon the tower stair; now, a child’s fairy step upon the terrace
overhead; now, I heard, in imagination, the one, wild, fearful cry,
uttered as if the reeling senses could endure no more! At last I found
it better to rise and sit by the window, so overwrought and excited had
my brain become. Day was breaking, not in the cold grey of a northern
dawn, but in a rich glow of violet-coloured light, which, warmer on the
mountain-tops, gradually merged into a faint pinkish hue upon the lesser
hills, and became still fainter in the valleys and over the city itself.
A light, gauzy mist, tracked out in the air the course of the Arno; but
so frail was this curtain, that the sun’s rays were already rending and
scattering its fragments, giving through the breaches bright peeps of
villas, churches, and villages on the mountain sides: the great dome,
too, rose up in solemn grandeur; and the tall tower of Santa Croce
stood, sentinel like, over the sleeping city. Already the low sounds of
labour, awakening to its daily call, were heard; the distant rumbling
of the heavy waggon, the crashing noise of branches, as the olive-trees
beside the road brushed against the lumbering teams; and, further off,
the cheering voices of the boatmen, whose fast barks were hurrying
along the rapid Arno;--all pleasant sounds, for they spoke of life and
movement, of active minds and labouring hands, the only bulwarks against
the corroding thoughts that eat into the sluggish soul of indolence.
For this fair scene--these fresh and balmy odours--this brilliant
blending of blue sky and rosy earth, I could unsay all that I have said
of Florence, and own, that it is beautiful! I could wish to sit here
many mornings to come, and enjoy this prospect as now I do. Vain
thought! as if I could follow my mind to the contemplation of the fair
scene, and so rove away in fancy to all that I have dreamed of, have
loved and cared for, have trusted and been deceived in!
I must be up and stirring--my time grows briefer. This hand, whose blue
veins stand out like knotted cordage, is fearfully attenuated; another
day or two, perhaps, the pen will be too much fatigue; and I have still
“Good-by,” to say to many--friends?--ay, the word will serve as well as
another. I have letters to write--some to read over once again; some to
burn without reading. This kind of occupation--this “setting one’s house
in order,” for the last time--is like a rapid survey taken of a whole
life, a species of overture, in which fragments of every air of the
piece enter, the gay and cheerful succeeded by the sad and plaintive,
so fast as almost to blend the tones together; and is not this mingled
strain the very chord that sounds through human life?
Here, then, for my letter-box. What have we here?--a letter from the
Marquis of D------, when he believed himself high in ministerial favour,
and in a position to confer praise or censure:--
“_Carlton Club_.
“Dear Tempy,
“Your speech was admirable--first-rate; the quotation
from Horace, the neatest thing I ever heard; and
astonishing, because so palpably unpremeditated. Every one
I’ve met is delighted, and all say that, with courage and
the resolve to succeed, the prize is your own. I go to
Ireland, they say, or Paris. The latter if I can; the
former if I must. In either case, will you promise to come
with me? The assurance of this would be a very great relief
to
“Yours, truly,
“D------.”
What have we pinned to the back of this? Oh, a few lines in pencil from
Sir C------S------, received, I see, the same evening.
“Dear T.,
“Sir H------ is not pleased with your speech,
although he owns it was clever. The levity he disliked,
because he will not give D------ any pretence for continuing
this system of personalities. The bit of Horace had been
better omitted; Canning used the same lines once before,
and the _réchauffée_--if it were such--was poor. The
Marquis of D------ was twice at Downing Street, to say that
he had ‘crammed’ you. This, of course, no one believes; but
he takes the merit of your speech to himself, and claims
high reward in consequence. He asks for an Embassy!
This is what Lord L------ calls ‘too bad.’ Come over to-
morrow before twelve o’clock.
“Believe me yours,
“C------ S------.”
Another of the same date:--
“Go in and win, old boy! You’ve made capital running, and
for the start too--distanced the knowing ones, and no
mistake! The odds are seven to four that you’re in the
Cabinet before the Derby day. I’ve taken equal fifties that
Tramp wins the Goodwood, and that you’re in--double event.
So look out sharp, and don’t baulk “Yours ever,
“Frank Lushington.”
A fourth, tied in the same piece of riband:--
“_Wilson Crescent_.
“Dear Friend,
“We have just heard of your success. Brilliant and
fascinating as it must be, do not forget those who long to
share your triumph. Come over here at once. We waited
supper till two; and now we are sitting here, watching
every carriage, and opening the window at every noise in the
street. Come then, and quickly.
“Augusta Beverly.”
And here is the last of the batch:--
“The D------ of B------ presents his compliments to Mr.
Templeton, and begs to inform him that his ancestor was not
the Marquis of T------ who conducted the negotiations at
Malaga;’ neither were ‘thirty thousand pounds voted by the
last Parliament to the family by way of secret service for
parliamentary support,’ but in compensation for two patent
offices abolished--Inspectorship of Gold Mines, and Ordnance
Comptrollership. And, lastly, that ‘Infamous speech,’ so
pathetically alluded to, was made at a private theatrical
meeting at Lord Mudbury’s in Kent, and not ‘on the
hustings,’ as Mr. T. has asserted.”
So much for one event, and in itself a trivial one! Who shall say that
any act of his life is capable of exciting even an approach to unanimous
praise or censure? This speech, which on one side won me the adhesion
of some half-dozen clubs, the praise of a large body of the Upper House,
the softest words that the “beauty of the season” condescended to utter,
brought me, on the other, the coldness of the Minister, the chilling
civility of mock admiration, and lost me the friendship--in House of
Commons parlance--of the leading member of the Government!
And here is a strange, square-shaped epistle, signed in the corner,
“Martin Haverstock.” This rough-looking note was my first step in
Diplomacy! I was a very young _attaché_ to the mission at Florence,
when, on returning to England through Milan, I was robbed of my trunk,
and with it of all the money I possessed for my journey. It was taken by
a process very well known in Italy, being cut off from the back of the
carriage, not improbably, with the concurrence of the driver. However
that might be, I arrived at the “Angelo d’Oro” without a sou. Having
ordered a room, I sat down by myself, hungry and penniless, not having
a single acquaintance at Milan, nor the slightest idea how to act in the
emergency. My very passport was gone, so that I had actually nothing to
authenticate my position--not even my name.
I sent for the landlord, who, after a very cold interview, referred me
to the Consul; but the Consul had on that very morning left the city
for Verona, so that his aid was cut off. My last resource--my only one,
indeed--was to write to Florence for money, and wait for the answer.
This was a delay of seven, possibly of eight, days, but it was
unavoidable.
This done, I ordered supper--a very humble one too, and befitting the
condition of one who had not wherewithal to pay for it. I remember still
the sense of shame I felt as the waiter, on entering, looked around for
my luggage, and saw neither trunk nor carpet-bag--not even a hat-box. I
thought--nay, there could be no mistake about it, it was quite clear--he
laid the table with a certain air of careless and noisy indifference
that bespoke his contempt. The very bang of the door as he went out, was
a whole narrative of my purseless state.
I had been very hungry when I ordered the meal. I had not tasted food
for several hours, and yet now I could not eat a morsel; chagrin and
shame had routed all appetite, and I sat looking at the table, and
almost wondering why the dishes were there. I thought of all the kind
friends far away, who would have been so delighted to assist me; who,
at that very hour perhaps, were speaking of me affectionately; and yet
I had not one near, even to speak a word of counsel, or say one syllable
of encouragement. It was not, it may well be believed, the monied loss
that afflicted me--the sum was neither large, nor did I care for it. It
was the utter desolation, and the sense of dependence, that galled me--a
feeling whose painful tortures, even temporary as they were, I cannot,
at this hour, eradicate from my memory.
Had I been left enough to continue my journey in the very humblest way,
on foot even, it would have been happiness compared with what I felt. I
arose at last from the table, where the untasted food still stood, and
strolled out into the streets. I wandered about listlessly, not even
feeling that amusement the newly seen objects of a great city almost
always confer, and it was late when I turned back to the inn. As I
entered, a man was standing talking with the master of the house, who,
in his broken English, said, as I passed, “There he is!” I at once
suspected that my sad adventure had been the subject of conversation,
and hurried up the stairs to hide my shame. In my haste, however, I
forgot my key at the porter’s lodge, and was obliged to go back to fetch
it. On doing so, I met on the stairs a large, coarse-looking man, with
a florid face, and an air of rough but of simple good-nature in his
countenance. “You are a countryman, I believe?” said he in English.
“Well, I’ve just heard of what has happened to you. The rascals tried
the same trick with me at Modena; but I had an iron chain around _my_
trunk, and as they were baulked, and while they were rattling at it, I
got a shot at one of them with a pistol--not to hurt the devil, for it
was only duck-shot; not a bullet, you know. Where’s your room?--is this
it?”
I hesitated to reply, strange enough; though he shewed that he was well
aware of all my loss. I felt ashamed to shew that I had no baggage, nor
any thing belonging to me. He seemed to guess what passed in my mind,
and said,--
“Bless your heart, sir, never mind me. I know the rogues have stripped
you of all you had; but I want to talk to you about it, and see what is
best to be done.”
This gave me courage. I unlocked the door, and shewed him in.
“I suspected how it was,” said he, looking at the table, where the
dishes stood untouched; “you could not eat by yourself, nor I either:
so come along with me, and we’ll have a bit of supper together, and chat
over your business afterwards.”
Perhaps I might have declined a more polished invitation; whether or
not, it was of no use to refuse him, for he would not accept an excuse;
and down we went to his chamber, and supped together. Unlike my slender
meal, his was excellent, and the wine first-rate. He made me tell him
about the loss of my trunk, twice over, I believe; and then he moralised
a great deal about the rascality of the Continent generally, and Italy
in particular, which, however, he remembered, could not be wondered at,
seeing that three-fourths of the population of every rank did nothing
but idle all day long. After that he inquired whether I had any pursuit
myself; and although pleased when I said Yes, his gratification became
sensibly diminished on learning the nature of the employment, “I may be
wrong,” said he, “but I have always taken it, that you diplomatic folk
were little better than spies in gold-laced coats--fellows that were
sent to pump sovereigns and bribe their ministers.” I took a deal of
pains, “for the honour of the line,” to undeceive him; and, whether
I perfectly succeeded or not, I certainly secured his favour towards
myself, for, before we parted, it was all settled that I was to travel
back with him to England, he having a carriage and a strong purse, and
that he was to be my banker in all respects till I reached my friends.
As we journeyed along through France, where my knowledge of the language
and the people seemed to give the greatest pleasure to my companion, he
informed me that he was a farmer near Nottingham, and had come abroad
to try and secure an inheritance bequeathed to him by a brother, who for
several years had been partner in a great silk factory near Piacenza.
In this he had only partly succeeded, the Government having thrown all
possible obstructions in his way; still he was carrying back with him
nearly twenty thousand pounds--a snug thing, as he said, for his little
girl, for he was a widower with an only child. Of Amy he would talk
for hours--ay, days long! It was a theme of which he never wearied.
According to him, she was a paragon of beauty and accomplishments. She
had been for some time at a boarding-school at Brighton, and was the
pride of the establishment. “Oh, if I could only shew her to you!” said
he. “But why couldn’t I? what’s to prevent it? When you get to England
and see your friends, what difficulty would there be in coming down to
Hodley for a week or two? If you like riding, the Duke himself at Retton
Park has not two better bred ones in his stable than I have!” No need to
multiply his arguments and inducements: I agreed to go, not only to, but
actually with him--the frank good-nature of his character won on me at
every moment, and, long before we arrived at Calais, I had conceived for
him the strongest sentiments of affection.
From the moment he touched English ground his enthusiasm rose beyond
all bounds; delighted to be once back again in his own country, and
travelling the well-known road to his own home, he was elated like a
schoolboy. It was never an easy thing for me to resist the infectious
influence of any temperament near me, whether its mood was grave or gay,
and I became as excited and overjoyed as himself; and I suppose that two
exiles, returning from years of banishment, never gave themselves up to
greater transports than did we at every stage of our journey. I cannot
think of this without astonishment, for, in honest truth, I was all
my life attached to the Continent--from my earliest experience I had
preferred the habits and customs to our own, and yet, such was the easy
and unyielding compliance of my nature, that I actually fancied that my
Anglo-mania was as great as his own.
At last we reached Hodley, and drove up a fine, trimly-kept gravel
avenue, through several meadows, to a long comfortable-looking
farmhouse, at the door of which, in expectant delight, stood Amy
herself. In the oft-renewed embraces she gave her father I had time
to remark her well, and could see that she was a fine, blue-eyed,
fair-haired, handsome girl--a very flattering specimen of that good
Saxon stock we are so justly proud of; and if not all her father’s
partiality deemed as regarded ladylike air and style, she was perfectly
free from any thing like pretension or any affectation whatever. This
was my first impression: subsequent acquaintance strengthened it. In
fact, the Brighton boarding-school had done no mischief to her; she had
not learned a great deal by her two years’ residence, but she had not
brought back any toadying subserviency to the more nobly born, any
depreciating sense of her former companions, or any contempt for the
thatched farmhouse at Hodley and its honest owner.
If our daily life at the farm was very unvarying, it was exceedingly
pleasurable; we rose early, and I accompanied Martin into the fields
with the workmen, where we remained till breakfast. After which I
usually betook myself to a little brook, where there was excellent
fishing, and where, her household duties over, Amy joined me. We dined
about two; and in the afternoon we--that is, Amy and myself--rode
out together; and as we were admirably mounted, and she a capital
horsewoman, usually took a scamper “cross country,” whenever the
fences were not too big and the turf inviting. Home to tea, and a walk
afterwards through the green lanes and mossy paths of the neighbourhood,
filled the day; and however little exciting the catalogue of pursuits,
when did I feel time pass so swiftly? Let me be honest and avow, that
the position I enjoyed had its peculiar flattery. There was through all
their friendship a kind of deferential respect--a sense of looking up
to me, which I was young enough to be wonderfully taken by: and my
experiences at Foreign Courts--which Heaven knows were few and meagre
enough--had elevated me in their eyes into something like Lord Whitworth
or Lord Castlereagh; and I really believe, that all the pleasure my
stories and descriptions afforded was inferior to the delight they
experienced in seeing the narrator, and occasionally the actor, in the
scenes described, their own guest at their own table.
It was while revelling in the fullest enjoyment of this pleasant life
that I received a Foreign Office letter, in reply to an application I
had made for promotion, rejecting my request, and coolly commanding my
immediate return to Florence. These missives were not things to disobey,
and it was in no very joyful mood I broke the tidings to my host.
“What’s it worth?” said Martin, abruptly.
“Oh, in point of money,” said I, “the appointments are poor things. It
is only that there are some good prizes in the wheel, and, whether one
is lucky enough to gain them or not, even Hope is something. My salary
is not quite two hundred a-year!”
Martin gave a long, low whistle, and said,--
“Why, dang it! my poor brother George, that’s gone, had six hundred when
he went out as inspector over that silk factory! Two hundred a-year!”
mused he; “and what do you get at your next promotion?”
“That is not quite certain. I might be named _attaché_ at Vienna, which
would, perhaps, give me one hundred more--or, if I had the good fortune
to win the Ministers favour, I might be made a Secretary at some small
legation and have five hundred--that is, however, a piece of luck not to
be thought of.”
“Well, I’m sure,” sighed Martin; “I’m no judge of these matters; but it
strikes me that’s very poor pay, and that a man like myself, who has his
ten or twelve hundreds a-year--fifteen in good seasons--is better off
than the great folk dining with kings or emperors.”
“Of course you are,” said I; “who doubts it? But we must all do
something. England is not a country where idleness is honourable.”
“Why not turn farmer?” said Martin, energetically; “you’d soon learn
the craft, I’ve not met any one this many a-year picks up the knowledge
about it like yourself. You seem to like the life too.”
“If you mean such as I live now, I delight in it.”
“Do you, my dear boy?” cried he, grasping my hand, and squeezing it
between both his own. “If so, then never leave us. You shall live with
us--we’ll take that great piece of land there near the haugh--I’ve had
an eye on it for years back; there’s a sheep run there as fine as any
in Europe. I’ll lay down the whole of those two fields into meadow, and
keep the green crops to the back altogether. Such partridge-shooting
we will have there yet. In winter, too, the Duke’s hounds meet twice
a-week. I’ve got such a strapping three-year-old--you haven’t seen him,
but he’ll be a clipper. Well, don’t say nay. You’ll stay and marry
Amy. I’ll give her twenty thousand down, and leave you all I have
afterwards.”
This was poured forth in such a voluble strain, that an interruption was
impossible; and at last, when over, the speaker stood with tearful eyes,
gazing on me, as if on my reply his very existence was hanging.
Surprise and gratitude for the unbounded confidence he had shewn in
me were my first sensations, soon to be followed by a hundred other
conflicting and jarring ones. I should shame--even now, after years
have gone by--to own to some of these. Alas! our very natures are at the
mercy of the ordinances we ourselves have framed; and the savage red man
yields not more devotion to the idol he has carved, than do we to the
fashion we have made our Deity! I thought of the Lady Georginas and
Carolines of my acquaintance, and grew ashamed of Amy Haverstock! If
I had loved, this I am sure would not have been the case, but I cannot
acquit myself that principle and good feeling should not have been
sufficient without love! Whether from the length of time in which I
remained without answering, or that in my confusion he read something
adverse to his wishes, but Martin grew scarlet, and in a voice full of
emotion said,--
“There, Mr. Templeton, enough said. I see it will not do--there’s no
need of explaining. I was a fool, that’s all!”
“But will you not let me, at least, reflect?” “No, sir; not a second. If
my offer was not as frankly taken as made--ay, and on the instant too--I
am only the more ashamed for ever making it: but there’s an end on’t. If
you would be as good friends parting with me as we have been hitherto,
never speak of this again.” And so saying, Martin turned on his heel and
walked hastily away. I followed him after a second, but he waved me back
with his hand, and I was forced to comply.
That day Amy and I dined alone together. Her father, she said, “had got
a bad headache;” and this she said with such evident candour, it was
clear she knew nothing of our interview. The dinner was to me, at least,
a very constrained affair; nor were my sensations rendered easier as she
said--“My father tells me that you are obliged to leave us this evening,
Mr. Templeton. I’m very sorry for it; but I hope we’ll meet soon again.”
We did not meet soon again, or ever. I left the farm that night for
London. Martin came to the door from his bed to wish me good-by. He
looked very ill, and only spoke a few words. His shake-hands was,
however, hearty; and his “God bless you,” uttered with kind meaning.
I have never seen that neighbourhood since.
It was about two years after that I received a letter--the very one now
before me--superscribed Martin Haverstock. It was brief, and to this
effect. The Secretary for Foreign Affairs being a candidate for the
representation in Parliament of the county in which Martin held a large
stake, had, in acknowledgment of his friend Mr. Haverstock’s exertions
in his support, been only too happy to consider the application made
respecting Mr. H.’s young friend, who, by the next Gazette, would be
announced for promotion.
And thus I was made Secretary of Legation at Studtgart!
There was a postscript to Martin’s letter, which filled me with strange
and varying emotions:---“Amy is sorry that her baby is a little girl;
she’d like to have called it ‘Horace.’”
This packet I need not open. The envelope is superscribed, “Hints and
Mems for H.T. during his residence at the Court of M------.” They were
given in a series of letters from old Lord H------, who had long been
a resident Minister there, and knew the people thoroughly. I followed,
very implicitly too, the counsels he gave, and was said to have
acquitted myself well, for I was “_Chargé d’Affaires_.” But what
absurdity it is to suppose that any exclusive information is ever
obtainable by a Minister, except when the Government itself is disposed
to afford it! I remember well, the spy we employed was also in the pay
of the French Embassy. He was a Sardinian, and had spent some years of
his life an Austrian prisoner in a fortress. We all believed, whatever
the fellow’s sentiments on other subjects, that he was a profound hater
of Austria. Well, it turned out that he sold us all to Metternich.
Old Sir Robert W------ used to say to his _attachés_--“Never tell me
secrets, but whenever any thing is publicly discussed in the clubs
and cafés, let me hear it.” In the same way, he always rejected the
authenticity of any revelations where Talleyrand, or Metternich, or
Pozzo di Borgo’s names appeared. “These men,” he always used to say,
“were their own confidants, and never leaked save to serve a purpose.”
It was from Sir Robert I heard a story first, which has since, I
believe, been fully corroborated. An Under-secretary of Talleyrand,
during the Prince’s residence as French ambassador at St. James’s,
informed his Excellency one morning, that a very tempting offer had
been made to him if he would disclose the contents of his master’s
writing-desk. He had not accepted, nor altogether declined the proposal,
wishing to know from the Prince how it might be made available to his
plans, and whether a direct accusation of the author, a person of high
station, would be deemed advisable. Talleyrand merely said, “Take the
money; the middle board of the drawer in my secretary is removable by a
very simple contrivance, which I’ll shew you. I had it made so at Paris.
You’ll find all the papers you want there. Take copies of them.”
“But, Monsieur le Prince-----”
“Pray make your mind at ease. I’ll neither compromise myself nor you.”
The Secretary obeyed; the bargain was perfected, and a supposed
“secret correspondence between Talleyrand and Arnim,” deposited in Lord
T------‘s hands. About a week afterwards Lord T------ invited the Prince
to pass some days at his seat in Herefordshire, where a distinguished
party was assembled. The Ambassador accepted; and they met like the most
cordial of friends. When the period of the visit drew to its conclusion,
they were walking one morning in the grounds together, engaged in a
conversation of the most amicable candour, each vying with the other by
the frankness and unreserve of his communications.
“Come now, Prince,” said Lord T------, “we are, I rejoice to find, on
terms which will permit any freedom. Tell me frankly, how do you stand
with Prussia? Are there any understandings between you to which we must
not be parties?”
“None whatever.”
“You say this freely and without reserve?”
“Without the slightest reserve or qualification.”
Lord T------ seemed overjoyed, and the discussion concluded. They dined
that day together, and in the evening a large company was assembled to
meet the Prince before his departure for London. As usual at T------
House, the party contained a great show of distinguished persons,
political and literary. Among the subjects of conversation started was
the question of how it happened that men of great literary distinction
so rarely could shine as statesmen; and that even such as by their
writings evinced a deep insight into political science, were scarcely
ever found to combine practical habits of business with this great
theoretical talent.
The discussion was amusing, because it was carried on by men who
themselves occupied the highest walks in their respective careers.
To arrest a somewhat warm turn of the controversy, Lord T------, turning
to the Prince, said, “I suppose, Monsieur le Prince, you have seldom
been able to indulge in imaginative composition?”
“Pardon me, my Lord, I have from time to time dissipated a little in
that respect; and, if I must confess it, with a very considerable degree
of amusement.”
The announcement, made with a most perfect air of candour, interested at
once the whole company, who could not subdue their murmured expressions
of surprise as to the theme selected by the great Diplomatist.
“I believe,” said he, smiling, “I am in a position to gratify the
present company; for, if I mistake not, I have actually with me at this
moment a brief manuscript of my latest attempt in fiction. As I am a
mere amateur, without the slightest pretension to skill or ability,
I feel no reluctance at exposing my efforts to the kind criticism of
friends. I only make one stipulation.”
“Oh, pray, what is it? any thing, of course, you desire!” was heard on
every side.
“It is this. I read very badly, and I would request that T------, our
kind host, would take upon him to read it aloud for us.”
Lord T------ was only too much flattered by the proposal, and the
Prince retired to fetch his papers, leaving the company amazed at the
singularity of a scene which so little accorded with all they had ever
heard of the deep and wily Minister; some of the shrewdest persons
significantly observing, that the Prince was evidently verging on those
years when vanity of every kind meets fewest obstacles to its display.
“Here are my papers, my Lord,” said the Prince, entering with his
manuscript. “I have only to hope that they may afford to the honourable
company any portion of the amusement their composition has given me.”
The party seated themselves round the room, and Lord T------, disposing
the papers on the table before him, arranged the candles, and prepared
to begin. “The title of the piece is missing,” said he, after a pause.
“Oh, no, my Lord; you’ll find it on the envelope,” replied Talleyrand.
“Ah, very true; here it is!--‘Secret Correspondence’------” Lord T------
stopped--his hands trembled--the blood left his face--and he leaned back
in his chair almost fainting.
“You are not ill!--are you ill?” broke from many voices together.
“No; not in the least,” said he, endeavouring to smile; “but the Prince
has been practising a bit of ‘plaisanterie’ on me, which I own has
astounded me.”
“Won’t you read it, my Lord; or shall I explain?”
“Oh, Monsieur le Prince,” said Lord T------, crushing the papers into
his pocket, “I think you may be satisfied;” and with this, to the
company, very mysterious excuse, his Lordship abruptly retired; while
Talleyrand almost immediately set out for London.
The nature of the mystification was not disclosed till long afterwards;
and it is but justice to both parties to say, not by Talleyrand, but by
Lord T------ himself.
With what facility men, whose whole daily life is artifice, can be
imposed on, is a very remarkable feature in all these cases. The
practice of deceit would actually appear to obstruct clear-sightedness
and dull the ordinary exercise of common sense. Witness that poor Dutch
ambassador Fabricius, who, a few years ago, was imposed on at Paris by
Bouffé, the comedian, representing himself to be the first Secretary of
the Minister for Foreign Affairs, and offering, for a sum of money, to
confide to him the secret negotiations between M. Guizot and the Belgian
Government! Fabricius, deceived by the great resemblance of Bouffé to
the person he represented, agreed, and actually wrote to the King of
Holland a triumphant despatch, announcing his own diplomatic dexterity.
Every post saw a huge packet of letters to the King, containing
various documents and papers; some assuming to be in the handwriting of
Guizot--some, of Nothomb--some, of the Duke of Wellington--and two or
three of King Leopold himself. The task of undeceiving the unhappy
dupe was taken by his Majesty Louis Philippe, who having, at an evening
reception at Neuilly, exposed his attempted corruption, coolly turned
his back and refused to receive him.
Another dive into this chaotic mass of reminiscence! A letter from poor
Granthorpe, whose sad suicide remains the unexplained and unexplainable
mystery of all who knew him. A man whose mind was remarkable for its
being so deeply imbued with sentiments of religious truth--whose whole
life was, so to say, devotional--is found dead, the act being by his own
hand! No circumstance of domestic calamity, no pecuniary difficulty, not
even a passing derangement of health, to account for the terrible event.
Here is his note; we were but new acquaintances at the time, and it
begins,--
“Dear Sir,
“From the conversation we held together lately at Lord N----‘s
table, I believe I shall not misinterpret your
sentiments by supposing that any new fact connected with
Waterloo will interest you strongly. I therefore enclose you
a memoir, drawn up a few evenings back at W------. It was
begun by way of a regular refutation of Alison, whose views
are so manifestly incorrect; the idea of publication is,
however, abandoned, and I am at liberty merely to shew it to
such of my friends as take a more than common interest in
the transaction.
“Truly yours,
“S. Granthorpe.”
The memoir which accompanied this is curious for two reasons: first,
from its authenticity; and, secondly, from the fact that, being dictated
from beginning to end, it is as clear, as consecutive, as free from
unnecessary, and as full of all necessary detail, as if the events were
of a few days’ back, and that no recital of them had yet been given
to the world. Two or three anecdotes (new to me, at least) were
interspersed here and there, not for themselves, but as circumstantially
evidencing facts of some importance.
One, I remember, alluded to a Prussian statement by a Captain
Hahnsfelder, who stated that two British guns, placed on the height
above La Haye Sainte, were captured by the French as early as eleven
o’clock. The passage in the memoir is this:--“Untrue; these guns were in
the field at seven in the evening, in the same position which they stood
at the beginning of the battle. They are in advance of Adam’s left, and
were so far unprotected that the artillerymen who served them had to
retire after each discharge. The Cuirassiers made several attempts to
carry them off, but as orders were given that, after each fire, one
wheel should be taken off each gun, the cavalry failed in their object.
They tried to lasso them, but this also failed, besides losing them some
men.”
Alison’s strategy, for he went so far as to plan a campaign of his own,
is very ably exposed, and the necessity of posting troops in particular
districts clearly explained from circumstances peculiar to the
localities, such as stationing the cavalry at Enghein, where alone
forage was procurable. The controversy, if it can be so called, is
worthless. They whose opinions are alone valuable are exactly the
persons who will not speak on the subject.
A strange-looking letter is this from C------ enclosing the proof of
a paper I wrote on Irish Educational matters, very laconic and
editorial:--
“Dear T.,
“You are all wrong: as blue and yellow, when mixed, form
green, so will your Protestant and Papist League make
nothing but rampant infidelity. In any great State scheme of
education there must be one grand standard of obedience--the
Bible is the only one I’ve heard of yet. Keep this one then
till you hear of better.
“Yours,
“H. C.”
Another of the same hand:--
“H------ desires me to inclose you these two letters: one I
know is an introduction to Guizot; the other, I suppose, to
be ‘Ein empfehlungs Brief’ to the ‘Gräfin.’ Take care to say
as little as possible to the one, and to have, in Irish
parlance, as little as possible ‘to say’ to the other. At
Paris you want no guidance; and at Vienna, the Abbé Discot
is your man. Coloredo is out of favour for the moment; but
he can afford to wait, and, waiting, to win. Be assiduous in
your visits at B------y’s; and when the Countess affects
ignorance, let us always hear from you.
“Yours ever,
“H. C.”
This is a very rose-coloured and rose-odoured document:--
“Dear Mr. Templeton,
“I have to make two thousand excuses; one each for two
indiscretions, I believed I had your box at the Opera for
last evening; and I also fancied--think of my absurdity!--
that the bouquet of camélias left there was meant for me.
Pray forgive me; or, rather, ask the fair lady who came in
at the ballet to forgive me. I never can think of the
incident without shame and self-reproach; _du reste_, it
has given me the opportunity of knowing that your taste in
beauty equals your judgment in flowers.
“Very much yours,
“Helen Collyton.
“Sir H------ bids me say, that he expects you on Wednesday.
We dine earlier, as the Admiral goes on board in the
evening.”
This was an absurd incident; and, trivially as it is touched on here,
made of that same Lady Collyton a very dangerous enemy to me.
This is not a specimen of calligraphy, certainly:--
“If you promise neither to talk of the Catholic Question,
the Kildare Place Society, nor the ‘Glorious Revolution of
1688.’ P------ will have no objection to meet you at dinner.
Hammond, you’ve heard, I suppose, has lost his election; he
polled more voters than there were freeholders registered on
the books: this was proving too much, and he must pay the
penalty. Y------ is in, and will remain if he can; but
there is a hitch in it--‘as the man who lent him his
qualification is in gaol at Bruges.’ Write and say if you
accept the conditions.
“Yours,
“Frederick Hamilton.”
There are some memorials of a very different kind--they are bound up
together; and well may they, they form an episode quite apart from all
the events before or after them! I dare not open them; for, although
years have passed away, the wounds would bleed afresh if only breathed
on! This was the last I ever received from her. I have no need to open
it--I know every line by heart!--almost prophetic, too!
“I have no fear of offending you now, since we shall never
meet again. The very thought that the whole world divides
us, as completely as death itself, will make you accept my
words less as reproof than warning. Once more, then, abandon
the career for which you have not health, nor energy, nor
enduring strength. Brilliant displays, discursive efforts,
however effective, will no more constitute statesmanship
than fireworks suffice to light up the streets of a city.
Like all men of quick intelligence, you undervalue those who
advance more slowly, forgetting that their gleaning is more
cleanly made, and that, while you come sooner, they come
more heavily laden. Again, this waiting for conviction--this
habit of listening to the arguments on each side, however
excellent in general life, is inapplicable in politics. You
must have opinions previously formed--you must have your
mind made up, on principles very different and much wider
than those a debate embraces. If I find the person who
guides me through the streets of a strange city stop to
inquire here, to ask this, to investigate that, and so on, I
at once conceive--and very reasonably--a doubt of his skill
and intelligence; but if he advance with a certain air of
assured knowledge, I yield myself to his guidance with
implicit trust: nor does it matter so much, when we have
reached the desired goal, that we made a slight divergence
from the shortest road.
“Now, if a constituency concede much to your judgment,
remember that you owe a similar debt to the leader of your
party, who certainly--all consideration of ability apart--
sees further, because from a higher eminence, than other
men.
“Again, you take no pleasure in any pursuit wherein no
obstacle presents itself; and yet, if the difficulty be one
involving a really strong effort, you abandon it. You
require as many conditions to your liking as did the
commander at Walcheren--the wind must not only blow from a
particular quarter, but with a certain degree of violence.
This will never do! The favouring gale that leads to
fortune is as often a hurricane as a zephyr; some are blown
into the haven half shipwrecked, but still safe.
“Lastly, you have a failing, for which neither ability, nor
address, nor labour, nor even good luck, can compensate. You
trust every one--not from any implicit reliance on the
goodness of human nature--not that you think well of this
man, or highly of that, but simply from indolence.
‘Believing,’ is so very easy--such a rare self-indulgence!
Think of all the deception this has cost you--think of the
fallacies, which you knew to be fallacies, that found their
way into your head, tainting your own opinions, and mingling
themselves with your matured convictions. Believe me, there
is nothing but a strict quarantine can prevail against
error!”
Enough of these,--now for an incremation: would that, Hindoo
like, I could consume with them the memory to which they
have been wedded!
*****
Dr. H------ has been here again; he came in just as the last flicker was
expiring over the charred leaves; he guessed readily what had been my
occupation, and seemed to feel relieved that the sad office of telling
bad tidings of my case was taken off his hands. Symptoms seem now
crowding on each other--they come, like detached battalions meeting on
the field of battle when victory is won, only to shew themselves and
to proclaim how hopeless would be resistance. The course of the malady
would, latterly, appear to have been rapid, and yet how reluctant does
the spirit seem to quit its ruined temple!
I wish that I had more command over my faculties; the tricks Imagination
plays me at each moment are very painful: scarcely have I composed my
mind into a calm and patient frame, than Fancy sets to work at some
vision of returning health and strength--of home scenes and familiar
faces--of the green lanes of Old England, as seen at sunset of a summer
eve, when the last song of the blackbird rings through the clear air,
and odours of sweet flowers grow stronger in the heavy atmosphere.
To start from these, and think of what I am--of what so soon I shall be!
What marvellously fine aspirations and noble enterprises cross the
sick man’s fancy! The climate of health is sadly unfavourable to the
creatures begot of fancy--one tithe of the strange notions that are now
warring in my distracted brain would make matter for a whole novelist’s
library. Thoughts that are thus engendered are like the wines which the
Germans call “Ausgelesene,” and which, falling from the grape unpressed,
have none of the impurities of fabrication about them. After all, the
things that have been left undone by all of us in this life, would be
far better and greater than those we have done.
Oh, the fond hearts that have never been smitten,
And all the hot tears that have never been shed!
Not to speak of the books that have never been written;
And all the smart things that have never been said!
*****
Weaker and weaker!--the senses fail to retain impressions, and, like
cracked vases, let their contents ooze out by slow degrees. Objects of
sight become commingled with those of sound; and I can half understand
the blind man Locke tells us of, who imagined “the colour scarlet to be
like the sound of a trumpet.”
Mesmerism affects the power of transferring the operations of one sense
to the organs of another; can it be that, in certain states of the
brain, the nervous fluids become intermixed?
It is night--calm, still, and starlit! How large are the stars compared
with what they appear in northern latitudes! And the moonlight, too,
is pale as silver, and has none of the yellow tint we see with us.
Beautifully it lies along that slope of the mountain yonder, where the
tall dark yew-trees throw their straight shadows across the glittering
surface.
It is the churchyard of St. M------; and now in the church I can
perceive the twinkle of lights--they are the candles around the coffin
of him whose funeral I saw this morning. The custom of leaving the body
for a day in the church before consigning it to the grave is a touching
one. The dimly-lighted aisles, and the solemn air of the place, seem a
fitting transition from Life to the sleep of Death.
I have been thinking of that very old man, who came past the window
yesterday, and sat down to rest himself on the stone-bench beside the
door. Giordano never took a finer head as a study: lofty and massive,
with the temples deeply indented; and such a beard, snow-white and
waving! How I longed for strength enough to have wandered forth and
seated myself beside him! A strange, mysterious feeling was on me--that
I should hear words of comfort from his lips! This impression grew out
of his own remarkable story. Yes, poor and humble as his dress, lowly
as his present condition may seem, he was a “Captain of the Imperial
Guard”--a proud title once! He was taken prisoner during the retreat
from Moscow, and, with hundreds more, sent away to eternal exile in
Siberia! At that period he was in all the pride of manhood, a true
specimen of his class--gay, witty, full of daring, and a sceptic; a
Frenchman of the Revolution grafted on a gentleman of the old _régime!_
The Fatalism that sustained them--it was their only faith--through long
years of banishment, brought many in sadness to the grave! It was a
gloomy-religion, whose hope was but chastened despair! He himself lived
on, the reckless spirit of a bold heart hardening him against grief as
effectually as it excluded memory. When, at length, as time went on, and
his companions dropped off around him, a severe and cheerless melancholy
settled down upon him, and he lived on in a state of dreamy unreality,
less like sleep than death itself! And yet, through this dense cloud a
ray of light pierced and fell upon his cold and darkened spirit, like
day descending into some cleft between the mountains!
He was sitting at the door of his hut one evening, to taste the few
short moments of sunset, when, unwrapping the piece of paper
which surrounded his cigar--the one sole luxury the prisoners are
permitted--he was proceeding to light it, when a thought occurred that
he would read the lines, for it was a printed paper. He opened the bit
of torn and ragged paper, and found there three verses from the Gospel
of St. John. Doubtless he had often sat in weariness before the most
heart-stirring appeals and earnest exhortations; and yet these few lines
did what years of such teaching failed to do. The long-thirsting heart
was refreshed by this one drop of clear water! He became a believer,
firm and faithful! His liberation, which he owed to the clemency of
the Emperor Alexander, set him free to wander over the world as a
missionary, and this he has been ever since. How striking are his
calm and benevolent features among the faces which pass you in every
street--for we live in times of eager and insensate passion. The volcano
has thrown forth ashes, and who knows how soon the flame may follow!
How long this night appears! I have sat, as I believe, for hours here,
and yet it is but two o’clock! The dreary vacuity of weakness is like a
wide and pathless waste. I see but one great spreading moorland, with
a low, dark horizon; no creature moves across the surface--no light
glimmers on it. It is the plain before the Valley of the Shadow of
Death.
Poor Gilbert!--how soundly he sleeps, believing that I am also sunk to
rest! The deep-drawn breathings of his strong chest are strange
beside the fluttering hurry of my respiration. He was wearied out with
watching--wearied, as I feel myself: but Death comes not the sooner for
our weariness; we must bide our time, even like the felon whose sentence
has fixed the day and the hour.
Three o’clock! What a chill is on me! The fire no longer warms me, nor
does the great cloak with which I braved the snows of Canada. This is
a sensation quite distinct from mere cold--it is like as though my body
were itself the source from which the air became chilled. I have tried
to heap more wood upon the fire, but am too weak to reach it. I cannot
bear to awaken that poor fellow. It is but enduring a little--a very
little longer--and all will be over!
There was a man upon the terrace below the window, walking slowly back
and forwards. What can it mean, so late? It has made me nervous and
irritable to watch his shadow as it crosses before me. There!--how
strange!--he has beckoned to me! Is this real? Now I see no one! Some
trick of imagination; but how weak it has left me! My hand trembles,
too, with a strange fear.
It has struck again! It must be four; and I have slept. What a long
night it has been! O Life! Life! how little your best and highest
ambitions seem to him who sits, like me, waiting to be released! Now and
then the heart beats full and strong, and a momentary sense of vigour
flashes across my mind; and then the icy current comes back, the faint
straggle to breathe shaking the frame as a wrecked vessel trembles with
each crashing wave!
Day breaks at length--that must be the dawn! But my eyes are failing,
and my hands are numbed. Poor Gilbert! how sound is his sleep! He has
turned--and now he dreams! What is he muttering? Good night! good night!
Even so--good night!
*****
How cold--how very cold I feel! I thought it had been over! Oh, for a
little longer of this dalliance here!--ay, even here, on the last shores
of life! Inexpressibly sweet the odours are, and the birds! How I drink
in those strains!--they will float with me along the journey I am going!
Weaker and weaker. This must be death! Farewell!
*****
The circumstances which have placed these papers in my hands afford
me the only apology I can offer for making them public. They were
bequeathed to me, in some sort, as a recompense for services which my
poor master had long intended to have rewarded very differently; nor,
save under the pressure of an actual necessity, should I devote them
now to the purpose of personal assistance. I neither understand how to
correct nor arrange them. I have no skill in editorship, and send them
to the printer without the addition of a letter by any hand except his
who wrote them. It is true, some pages have been withheld--I am not sure
whether necessarily or not--for I have no competent judgment to guide
me. I would, however, hope, that what I here give to the world may,
while benefiting the servant, leave no stain upon the memory of the best
of masters.
GEORGE GILBERT,
_Valet to the late H. Templeton, Esq_.
_Dover, January_ 1848.
_Postscript to Envoy_.
A word may be necessary as to the political allusions, as they were
all written in the autumn of the past year, many are, of course,
inapplicable to countries whose condition the wonderful events lately
occurring have modified: many are, however, almost correct in every
detail of prophetic foresight; and, it is not necessary that I should
repeat, have neither been changed nor added to since penned by my late
master.
THE END.