Lord Beaconsfield in his early political days, it must be remembered,
had many difficulties of a widely different sort with which to contend.
In addition to the disadvantage of not being favourably looked upon by
many, some did not scruple to call him a mere dandy who should not be
taken too seriously. Later on he had to educate his party, being
obliged, as was once rather wittily said, “to drag an omnibus full of
country gentlemen uphill.”
His Reform Bill of 1859 even excited a certain amount of ridicule. I
remember it being described as “a piece of Downing Street millinery,”
whilst his “Fancy Franchise,” as it was called, was declared to be “not
at all the thing for the people of England.” A more serious criticism
called it “change without progress.” It is very difficult to say what
Lord Beaconsfield’s real view of politics was, but my own impression is
that he was deeply attached to the traditions of government by
aristocracy, the romantic side of which appealed to his imagination and
nature. At heart I think he feared the eventual triumph of a sort of mob
rule, the coming of which it was ever his object to delay. Undoubtedly
in his last years he was extremely pessimistic as to the future, having,
rightly or wrongly, no particular confidence in the political sagacity
of an English democracy, the judgment of which he thought could be
easily swayed by unprincipled and specious agitators.
Always most guarded in his references to his great opponent, Mr.
Gladstone, and speaking very little about him at any time, Lord
Beaconsfield without doubt entertained a real and sincere distrust of
him as a politician, quite apart from any question of rivalry. There
were times, I know, when the Conservative leader was more than half
inclined to think that the Liberal policy was being dictated by no sound
mind, a conviction which is fully supported by certain references to
being “governed by Colney Hatch,” which Lord Beaconsfield made to a very
dear relative of mine. Mr. Gladstone, indeed, owing to his habit of
saying things which he afterwards declared were never meant to convey
the meaning which was naturally to be drawn from them, caused many
people who were not under the spell of his marvellous fascination to
wonder whether the Grand Old Man’s intelligence had not become more or
less unbalanced. He had a habit of saying things which, taken literally,
meant much, but as a number of them were often but pious opinions, it
was better to assume that they meant nothing at all. To take Mr.
Gladstone too seriously was sometimes very dangerous, as I believe a
foreign diplomatist of singularly trustful nature once discovered. From
a conversation with the Grand Old Man the secretary in question, then
_chargé d’affaires_, formed the impression that the evacuation of Egypt
by England was merely a question of a comparatively short time. Was it
not an act of justice dear to Mr. Gladstone’s heart? Bursting with joy
at this noble utterance, this somewhat ingenuous diplomat, in spite of
warnings from more worldly colleagues, at once informed his Government
of the glad tidings, which Government, making serious inquiry into the
matter, of course discovered that England had not the slightest
intention of removing one soldier from the land of the Pharaohs. The end
of the whole affair was that the unfortunate and confiding diplomatist
fell into great disgrace, and was eventually practically obliged to
abandon his career.
Bernal Osborne once nicknamed Mr. Gladstone the “Milo” of politics, a
name which certain events at the end of the Grand Old Man’s political
career rendered singularly appropriate. Milo of Crotona, the Greek
athlete famous for his strength, perished, it is said, owing to his
hands becoming fixed in a cleft of a tree which he had endeavoured to
rend in twain. Mr. Gladstone’s political life, or at least tenure of
political power, was ended by his having become entangled in the Home
Rule movement and by the efforts which he made to cleave in two that
Parliamentary bond which, in spite of his endeavours, still holds
England and Ireland together.
Mr. Osborne himself held some very original views as to the Irish
question, being particularly opposed to the system of government by a
Viceroy, which he deemed obsolete and demoralising, besides tending to
bring Royalty into contempt. Dublin Castle, he declared, was regarded by
both Conservatives and Liberals as a political club, of which the
Viceroy was merely a temporary manager, a _roi fainéant_ with no real
power. The British monarchy in Ireland, he once said, is in reality
embodied in the not very agreeable form of the Judge at the Assizes, who
puts on the black cap. Mr. Osborne always maintained that occasional
visits from the Sovereign would effect a great deal in conciliating the
Irish people, by nature inclined to poetry and sentiment.
V
A memorandum by Napoleon—English opinions concerning him in other
days—His effigy burnt at Norwich—The Chevalier de Bardelin—
Interesting relics at Highclere—My sight of Marie Louise—The
Emperor at Mass—His love of church bells—Sir Henry Drummond
Wolff’s visit to Elba—Hears recollections of Napoleon’s
gardener—Anecdotes—The Emperor and General Lecourbe—Baron von
Kleist—Mr. Manning—Napoleon in London—“The Midnight Review.”
Amongst the odds and ends which I have pasted into different volumes I
found the other day a memorandum, dated _28ème Pluviôse, an 4 de la
République_, addressed to the Minister of War and signed by Buonaparte,
at that time General-in-Chief of the Army of the Interior. The
memorandum in question deals with a request for increased pay made by
certain officers, which General Buonaparte declares, on account of _la
modicité de leur traitement_, to be _fondé et légitime_. The signature
of the great captain is a very original one, the letters running very
much together, and the whole ending with a double and determined
flourish. Looking at it my mind wandered back to the days of my
childhood when Napoleon was still remembered as having been a terrible
and dangerous foe to this country.
It is difficult, indeed, for those of a later generation to realise the
feelings of Englishmen of even seventy years ago towards our
neighbours—now our friendly allies—across the Channel. To those who
had lived through the time of the Napoleonic wars France was ever a
rapacious and world-enslaving country, only awaiting another Buonaparte
to make a descent upon the shores of England.
To-day the name of the great Emperor, now almost a mythical figure,
arouses as much admiration here as across the Channel, but to those who
had actually experienced the feeling that a French invasion was
immediately imminent, the French were brigands and Napoleon merely
“Boney”—feared, hated, and despised.
In the early years of the nineteenth century, when all England was in
daily anticipation of a French invasion, Norwich was not behindhand in
publicly demonstrating its hatred of the Corsican tyrant.
At a celebration of his defeat in 1813 an effigy of Buonaparte was
burned in the market-place, whilst a year later another effigy, loaded
with fetters, was paraded in processions both at Yarmouth and Thetford.
On the restoration of the Bourbons there was a great demonstration in
the market-place at Norwich, the church bells being rung and bonfires
lit, whilst amidst uproarious cheering the Chevalier de Bardelin, for
some twenty years an exile from France who had supported himself by
giving drawing and French lessons at Thurgar’s school, took his seat on
the mail coach, free, as he said, once more to return to his beloved
France. He received a real old English farewell, horses, guard,
coachman, and passengers being decorated with the emblem of the
Bourbons, the white cockade. Before he came to Norwich (where he was
universally popular) the Chevalier de Bardelin had been a _garde du
corps_ of Louis XVI., in which capacity he acted at Versailles on that
memorable day, October 6, 1789, when the mob from Paris nearly
assassinated the King and Queen. In 1816 M. de Bardelin married a
Norfolk lady, Miss Sutton, and until his death in 1852, at the age of
eighty-five, he kept in constant communication with his Norwich friends,
whom he always delighted to welcome on their visits to France. His
daughter became the Baroness de Fabry.
As late as 1843 there died at Lynn a man who had been a schoolfellow of
Napoleon, and who in the days of his boyhood was said to have taken part
in many a rough and tumble with him. This was Mr. Peter Lewis Dacheux,
who, having many years before immigrated into England, had, as a Roman
Catholic priest, long attended to the religious wants of such of his
co-religionists as resided in the old Norfolk town.
There are a good many relics of Napoleon in England. At Hertford House
is the table on which was signed the Treaty of Tilsit, whilst in the
library of Highclere Castle, the beautiful home of Lord Carnarvon, is
shown the table and chair used by the Emperor when putting his signature
to the act of abdication at Fontainbleau. On the right arm of the chair
is an “N,” roughly cut as if with a penknife, said to be the work of
Napoleon himself, it having been a well-known habit of his to cut almost
mechanically an initial upon the arm of his chair whilst pondering over
the various schemes which perpetually occupied his mind.
My father possessed a very fine bust of the Emperor by Canova, but what
has now become of it I am quite unable to say. I also remember at
Wolterton a print of Napoleon, given to my uncle, General Walpole, by
the lovely Pauline Borghese—this, fortunately, my nephew, the present
Lord Orford, still retains.
It is curious to read of the difference which Napoleon showed in his
treatment of Marie Louise and Josephine. The former he sometimes allowed
to enter his _cabinet de travail_, whereas Josephine would never have
been permitted to set foot in it. The Emperor in all probability allowed
his Austrian consort more latitude on account of her royal birth, for of
the two women Josephine without question was the better loved of the
two.
Oddly enough, I can say that in a sort of way I once saw the Empress
Marie Louise. In 1843, when travelling on the Continent with my parents,
we stopped an evening at Villach, a town in Germany just on the Italian
frontier. There was at that time no railway, and the very evening we
arrived the ex-Empress Marie Louise was expected at seven o’clock,
having sent on orders for horses to be in readiness. I remember that the
postillions in the courtyard were in a great state of excitement, being
helped to don their state liveries by the bustling damsels of the inn.
Everybody, indeed, was eagerly expectant, but all had to wait till nine
o’clock before Marie Louise arrived, and when she did come all our hopes
of seeing her were dashed to the ground, for it was too dark to see
much, except the four exceedingly dusty carriages which conveyed her and
her suite.
A certain number of the numerous portraits of the Emperor were drawn
from life whilst he was at Mass. This was said to be the best time to
catch his expression. Couder sketched him thus in 1811, and Girodet
twice in 1812, whilst many other portraits of him are known to have been
inspired during this religious function. During Mass Napoleon stood,
according to the military custom, with his arms folded and his eyes
glancing in all directions. He made little pretence of following the
service or taking any especial interest in it, never knelt, but stood,
grave, serious, and meditative. In front of him, at a _prie-dieu_, knelt
the Empress, to whom he would occasionally stoop down and address a
remark. On the whole his attitude was in no way irreverent, and
contrasted very favourably with that which Louis XVI. is reported to
have adopted in the Chapel of Versailles, where some English visitors
were scandalised at seeing the King laughing and joking with the Comte
d’Artois.
The Emperor’s attendance at Mass was accompanied with considerable
ceremonial. On each side of the altar in the chapel a grenadier stood on
guard, whilst a roll of drums announced the entry of the Emperor and
Josephine. The whole building glittered with the brilliant uniforms of
the imperial household, whilst a certain portion was set aside for
ladies-in-waiting and other friends of the Empress. Nevertheless,
Napoleon would never allow any special passes of admission to be issued
for his chapel, declaring that public worship should be free and for the
people. Any charge for chairs in a building devoted to religious
purposes seemed to him odious. “One ought not to deprive the poor,” said
he, “because they are poor, of that which is a consolation in their
poverty.”
When Napoleon re-established the Catholic religion in France, Girardin
told him that he would find attendance at Mass a bore, and advised him
to see that some excellent musicians and singers should always be
present to mitigate the tedium of the ceremony. The Emperor took his
advice and procured some of the best artistes that Paris could produce.
These were well paid, dividing between them some six thousand pounds.
In matters of religion Napoleon betrayed the genius of a consummate
politician, as was shown by his conciliatory attitude when in Egypt
towards Mahomedanism, which faith he ordered his troops to respect. As
regards his own personal beliefs it would seem that at all events he was
very far from being an unbeliever, his habit of crossing himself in
moments of danger, for instance, going to prove this. One of the
Emperor’s favourite maxims, indeed, was, “The future is in the hand of
God.” By nature inclined to fatalism, he was also imbued with a good
deal of native Corsican superstition. Friday in particular he ever
considered a momentous day: on a Friday he entered the military school
of Brienne, and on a Friday he left Saint Cloud to set out upon his
disastrous Russian campaign.
The sound of church bells was always especially pleasing to Napoleon and
produced a most extraordinary effect upon him. At Malmaison he would
listen to the church bell of the village of Rueil with the greatest
pleasure, breaking off from any conversation in which he might be
engaged to do so. “Ah!” he would say, “that sound recalls to me my early
days at Brienne; how happy I was in those days!”
Never, probably, did any man excite such hatred, and, on the other hand,
arouse such devotion as the Emperor.
When travelling in the island of Elba in 1854, my cousin, Sir Henry
Drummond Wolff (then Mr. Wolff), came across an octogenarian who had
been Napoleon’s gardener, and had gone with him to the palace of La
Malmaison. Monsieur Holard, as this old man was called, told Mr. Wolff
that though he had for ever lost his benefactor his name was graven on
his heart—he had indeed made desperate efforts to follow the Emperor to
St. Helena, but, not being allowed to do so, found himself, by the irony
of fate, gardener to the Duke of Wellington, then (1817) residing at
Mont St. Martin in the department of the Aisne. He had been recommended
to the Duke by Sir Neil Campbell, and at first had had some scruples as
to the propriety of entering the service of his imperial master’s
conqueror. These, however, were overcome, and Monsieur Holard spoke
gratefully of the kindness shown both to himself and his wife.
A great favourite with the Emperor, he told how, wishing to give his
master a pleasant surprise, he rose one morning early, in order to
arrange a number of small flower-pots in the cyphers of each member of
the imperial family. Before his task was quite finished, however,
Napoleon, ever an early riser, appeared on the scene and expressed his
pleasure at such an ingenious device, adding, however, that one cypher
had been forgotten—one which, as he said, should have been placed
first—the cypher of Queen Hortense. But Holard was not to be found
wanting, for, producing a quantity of pots filled with the flower called
hortensia, he explained how at that very moment he was just about to
arrange the missing cypher.
“Ah! Coquin,” said his master, whilst he affectionately pulled the
gardener’s ear, “I have never found you fail yet.”
The hortensia, as it is called in France and Germany, is the magnificent
Chinese flower known in England as the hydrangea. The French sea-captain
who brought home the plant from China in 1790 named it hortensia as a
compliment to his wife, whose name was Hortense. It quickly became very
popular in Europe, and was the “Lieblings blume” or favourite flower of
Queen Louisa of Prussia and also of the great Goethe. When Mr. Wolff
paid his visit to Elba, Claude Holard was, as has been said, an old man
of eighty, but his mental faculties were in no wise impaired by age or
by the many vicissitudes which had fallen to his lot, and he gave his
visitor many details of his life, which had been anything but an
uneventful one. Born at Metz in 1773, he became a soldier in the
Austrian army at the early age of fifteen, saw service, and was taken
prisoner by the forces of Dumouriez near Brussels. Allowed to return to
his native place, he afterwards joined the army of the Ardennes, and was
wounded at the battle of Fleurus whilst fighting under Jourdan. This
wound ended his military career, and he became Syndic of Marine at the
port of Breskens, a small town on the Scheldt opposite Flushing, and
married, for his prosperity seemed now assured. A trading vessel,
however, in which he had sunk his little fortune, was captured by the
enemy, and this loss, in addition to the difficulty of collecting
certain debts, eventually caused him to leave Breskens and make his way
to Fontainebleau, there to lay before the Emperor the story of his
misfortunes, which were much aggravated by the poor state of health into
which he had fallen. Certain persons of influence interested themselves
on his behalf, and he was nominated gardener to the Emperor’s sister,
Princess Elise of Piombino, afterwards Grand Duchess of Tuscany, in
which capacity he served till 1814, when, being ordered to repair to
Elba, he was made director of the imperial gardens, becoming, in due
course, gardener of the palace of La Malmaison during the hundred days.
After the Emperor’s final defeat and fall, the poor man, as has been
said, made every effort to be allowed to accompany his imperial master
to St. Helena; but this was not to be, and then followed a long period
filled with undeserved misfortune. It was in 1851 that Prince Demidoff
engaged him once more as head gardener in the gardens of San Martino at
Elba, the same post which the old man had occupied many years before
under the great Emperor; and, though this relieved him of all fear of
actual penury, Mr. Wolff was informed that he was much hampered and
worried by many vexatious restrictions and regulations not at all to the
taste of an old soldier of the Napoleonic times.
Whilst at Elba, Mr. Wolff was told several anecdotes about the Emperor,
of which the following shows very clearly that the idea of a return to
France was ever present in the great captain’s mind.
A balustrade being in course of erection in some part of the so-called
palace of San Martino, one of the Emperor’s suite declared the wood to
be so bad and the bars so thin that the whole affair could not last for
any time at all. “How long,” asked his imperial master, “do you give it
then—a year?” “Yes, sire,” was the reply. “That will do,” rejoined the
Emperor, with a smile.
During his stay at Porto Ferrajo, Mr. Wolff had an opportunity of
inspecting the books left behind by the Emperor. Amongst them he
particularly noticed two French handbooks to the study of the English
language, a rough cypher “N” being pasted on the back of each. Most of
the leaves were uncut, but another linguistic guide showed signs of
having been a good deal perused. This work, in which the original
English was placed side by side with a French translation, was entitled
_The Hundred Thoughts of a Young Lady_—“Cent pensées d’une Jeune
Anglaise”—written by Mistress Gillet. Queer reading this must have been
for the conqueror of Austerlitz!
Napoleon’s flag at Elba, which is, I believe, still in existence—three
golden bees on a red band running diagonally over a white ground—was a
modification of an old Tuscan ensign, made by the ship’s tailors of the
_Undaunted_, the vessel which brought him to Elba.
Another smaller flag of the same sort, which is said to have been the
regimental banner of the Old Guard which accompanied the Emperor to the
island, may be seen amidst other Napoleonic relics at the Invalides in
Paris, where also is his cocked hat decorated with an Elban cockade.
During his visit to the island in 1854, Mr. Wolff had many conversations
with persons who had been in close contact with Napoleon. He chanced to
travel in company with a certain Monsieur Larabit, who, as a young
officer of engineers, had superintended the repair and reconstruction of
most of the defences of the island some forty years before, and who
would often speak of the great interest taken by the Emperor in the
completion of his palace (in reality little more than a country house)
at San Martino; and also of the remark which he used to make, “Ce sera
la maison d’un bon bourgeois riche de quinze mille livres de rente.”
With this old senator (as he had now become) Mr. Wolff witnessed the
tunny fishing for which Elba is noted, at the same time hearing from the
veteran’s lips an account of how he had seen the Emperor on the 27th of
June 1814 attempt to land one of these fish, and fail owing to lack of
sufficient strength. As an instance of an extraordinary link between the
present and the past, it may be mentioned that during his visit to Elba,
Mr. Drummond Wolff was on one occasion rowed in a boat by a man whose
father had for years been a prisoner in the hands of Algerian corsairs.
A striking instance of the almost mesmeric power which the Emperor
Napoleon undoubtedly possessed, is shown by the reconciliation which he
effected with General Lecourbe, the story of which, I think, has never
been told in English.
Holding command in the army of the Rhine under Moreau, General Lecourbe
must certainly be mentioned in the foremost rank of those who
contributed to the military glory of France; but, nevertheless, owing to
his devotion to Moreau, whose cause, when brought to trial by the First
Consul, he warmly espoused, his name was ruthlessly obliterated from the
roll of the French army. He had offended Buonaparte, and for ten years
remained in the obscurity of civil life.
In 1815, however, after the Emperor’s return from Elba, generals of
tried capacity had to be found, and Napoleon’s thoughts flew to
Lecourbe. Accordingly, an order from the Ministry of War commanded him
to present himself at the Tuileries, to which a curt reply was returned
to the effect that General Lecourbe, being no longer a soldier, could
not recognise any order of the sort; if the Emperor wished to see him
one of his aides-de-camp must convey the intimation. On the morrow
arrived an officer with a personal invitation from His Imperial Majesty
to come the next day to the Tuileries at eleven o’clock in the morning.
“I will go,” said the old warrior to a friend, “but I shall speak my
mind—at last I shall be able to have it out with him.” The interview,
indeed, seemed likely to be a stormy one.
At eleven the next morning the General (not in uniform) awaited the
Emperor in the hall next his breakfast-room, from which Napoleon soon
emerged. Perceiving Lecourbe, he at once motioned him to approach, but
before he was able to do so strode forward himself (a thing he never did
for anybody), and then, drawing himself up, fixed the old soldier with
his eagle gaze.
“General Lecourbe,” said he in a resonant and penetrating voice, “your
grievances against the Emperor Napoleon I confess are great, but they
have not, I hope, obliterated all recollection of your old friend,
General Buonaparte. He, remember, is still your friend; will you be
his?”
At these words the veteran, already strangely moved by the mere
appearance of the Emperor, completely lost his self-possession, whilst
two big tears slowly rolled down his cheeks on to his grizzled
moustache. Terribly embarrassed, he could hardly stammer out a few words
of thanks, and his emotion rather increased than lessened when Napoleon
said, “I was sure I should find again the comrade of other days!” Then,
unbuckling his sword; “There will be work to do on the banks of the
Rhine; you know the ground, and I can rely upon you?” “Yes, Sire, you
may be sure of that.” “Take then this sword, General, as a pledge of our
reconciliation; there is no one able to use it better than yourself.”
Upon this the old man, completely overcome, seized the hand of the
Emperor in both of his own, and, rapturously kissing it, ejaculated:
“Rely upon me, Sire! Rely upon me!”
That afternoon General Lecourbe’s name appeared in the _Gazette_ as
commander of an important army corps.
On the other hand, there were men in whom the great Napoleon inspired
the most bitter hatred. Such a one was the Prussian general,
Field-Marshal von Kleist, to whom the Emperor sent the Legion of Honour.
Baron von Kleist, however, declined to wear it, and, purchasing a toy
bust of Napoleon, hung the decoration around its neck, always carrying
the bust with him wherever he went. The Emperor heard of this
contemptuous treatment and was greatly incensed thereby, declaring that
he would shoot von Kleist if he could catch him, but this he never did.
The Baron had conceived a violent antipathy for the Man of Destiny on
account of his rough and indeed almost brutal treatment of the gentle
Queen of Prussia (Königin Louise), always declaring, indeed, that it had
been with the greatest difficulty that he had restrained himself from
drawing a loaded pistol from his pocket and killing the Emperor during
the progress of the interview between the two sovereigns, at which he
had been present.
Baron von Kleist, when in command of a portion of the Prussian army in
1813, greatly contributed to the defeat of Napoleon at Leipzig.
Disregarding the cautious orders of Prince Schwatzenburg, the
Commander-in-chief, he marched by night across the heights of
Nollendorf, and after a fierce battle completely defeated Marshal
Vandamme, capturing sixty thousand men—practically the whole left wing
of the French army. For this brilliant military feat he was made Graf
von Nollendorf, and received from his King a complete dinner-service of
fine Berlin china, included in which were several large vases, bearing
on the one side the arms of von Kleist, and on the other the cross of
Kulm, a decoration especially instituted for those who had taken part in
the battle of that name. This dinner-service is still in the possession
of the old soldier’s descendants.
It is believed that the only passport ever signed by Napoleon for an
Englishman to visit England was one given to a Mr. Manning. This
gentleman, whilst at Oxford, received what he considered to be a very
serious affront or injury from the authorities of his college, and took
the matter so much to heart that he migrated to France, where he became
the intimate of many clever and learned Frenchmen, including Carnot and
the Abbé Remusat. Becoming interested in the East, Mr. Manning
afterwards set out on a long journey through Thibet, China, and Japan,
travelling, it must be added, in native dress. In after-years, owing to
his intimate acquaintance with the Chinese language, he was prevailed
upon to accompany an English expedition to China, where, by a somewhat
extraordinary chance, his vessel being shipwrecked, he was picked up and
taken to St. Helena. Here he had an interview with Napoleon, during
which, being asked by whom his French passport was signed, he tactfully
replied, “Par l’Empereur,” an answer which much pleased the illustrious
captive, who, by the special order of Hudson Lowe, was not allowed to be
addressed otherwise than as General Buonaparte.
It may not be generally known, perhaps, that from time to time
assertions have been made—some of the most emphatic kind—that Napoleon
once actually passed a considerable time in London. The date of his
visit is said to have been 1791-92, and the place of his residence
George Street, Strand. Whilst in all probability there is not the
slightest foundation for such a story, it would be curious to know from
what circumstance such a report arose.
About the time that I was a child there was written a poem, in which
Napoleon and his old army were resuscitated, by the very clever and
original pen of a young Hungarian poet, Baron von Sedlitz by name. This
poem, called the “Mitternachtliche Heerschau,” or “Midnight Review,” is
still, I fancy, very well known on the Continent, but the English
translations seem to be now totally forgotten. One of these, by William
Ball, was set to music and sung by the famous singer Braham (the father
of Frances, Lady Waldegrave) about 1831. He was an old man at the time,
but nevertheless is said to have rendered the words with such weird and
striking effect as to produce a very great impression upon his hearers.
The version in question, which has been reprinted in _Notes and Queries_
within comparatively recent years, rather fails to convey the impressive
simplicity of effect attained by the original poem. There are lines,
however, which are certainly striking:—
And at the midnight hour the chieftain leaves his grave,
Slowly he comes on his charger white amid his chosen brave;
The ranks salute their silent lord, the stately march renew,
And now with clanging music pass before their master’s view.
. . . . . . .
On their airy steeds on every side the thronging dead obey,
The blood-stained hosts of the battlefield in all their fierce array,
Ghastly beneath their glowing helms the grinning skulls appear,
And countless weapons high in air their bony hands uprear.
. . . . . . .
The weird scene which these verses describe has been depicted by Raffet,
in one of whose lithographs the spectre of the great Emperor is shown
passing a review of a phantom army.
Another translation of the “Midnight Review” was written by Mr. Leitch
Ritchie, a well-known writer in his day, who at one time edited the
_Era_, and also did a good deal of work for publications like the
_Keepsake_ and _Heath’s Picturesque Annual_. This version has not, to
the best of my knowledge, been reprinted since it first appeared in a
quarterly magazine (now somewhat difficult to obtain), about
seventy-seven years ago, which will be my excuse for giving it here side
by side with a French version which, it may be added, the Government of
Charles X. sought to suppress. Though no great poetic genius is shown in
Mr. Ritchie’s lines, avowedly a word for word translation, the writer
may nevertheless be said to have caught something of the simple and
impressive dignity which caused the German poem to create such a
sensation when it first appeared, some six or seven years after the
Emperor’s death.