In my last chapter I brought my reader to that portion of my story
which formed the turning-point of my destiny. And here I might, perhaps,
conclude these brief memoirs of an early life, whose chief object was
to point out the results of a hasty and rash judgment, which, formed in
mere boyhood, exerted its influence throughout the entire of a lifetime.
Only one incident remains still to be told; and I shall not trespass on
the good-natured patience of my readers by any delay in the narrative.
From being poor, houseless, and unknown, a sudden turn of fortune
had made me wealthy and conspicuous in station; the owner of a large
estate,--almost a lead-ing man in my native county. My influence was
sufficient to procure the liberation of M'Keown; and my interference in
his behalf mainly contributed to procure for Fortescue the royal pardon.
The world, as the phrase is, went with me; and the good luck which
attended every step I took and every plan I engaged in was become a
proverb among my neighbors.
Let not any one suppose I was unmindful or ungrateful, if I confess,
that even with all these I was not happy. No: the tranquil mind, the
spirit at ease with itself, cannot exist where the sense of duty is not.
The impulse which swayed my boyish heart still moved the ambition of the
man. The pursuits I should have deemed the noblest and the purest seemed
to me uninteresting and ignoble; the associations I ought to have
felt the happiest and the highest appeared to me vulgar, and low, and
commonplace. I was disappointed in my early dream of liberty, and
had found tyranny where I looked for freedom, and intolerance where I
expected enlightenment; but if so, I recurred with tenfold enthusiasm to
the career of the soldier, whose glories were ever before me. That
noble path had not deceived me; far from it. Its wild and whirlwind
excitement, its hazardous enterprise, its ever-present dangers, were
stimulants I loved and gloried in. All the chances and changes of a
peaceful life were poor and mean compared to the hourly vicissitudes of
war. I knew not then, it is true, how much of enjoyment I derived from
forgetful ness; how many of my springs of happiness flowed from that
preoccupation which prevented my dwelling on the only passion that ever
stirred my heart,--my love for one whose love was hopeless.
How thoroughly will the character of an early love tinge the whole of a
life! Our affections are like flowers,--they derive their sweetness and
their bloom from the soil in which they grow: some, budding in joy and
gladness, amid the tinkling plash of a glittering fountain, live on ever
bright and beautiful; others, struggling on amid thorns and wild
weeds, overshadowed by gloom, preserve their early impressions to the
last,--their very sweetness tells of sadness.
To conquer the memory of this hopeless passion, I tried a hundred ways.
I endeavored, by giving myself up to the duties of a country gentleman,
to become absorbed in all the cares and pursuits which had such interest
for my neighbors. Failing in this, I became a sportsman; I kept horses
and dogs, and entered, with all the zest mere determination can impart,
upon that life of manly exertion, so full of pleasure to thousands. But
here again without succeeding.
I went into society; but soon retired from it, on finding, that among
the class of my equals the prestige of my early life had still tracked
me. I was in their eyes a rebel, whose better fortune had saved him
from the fate of his companions. My youth had given no guarantee for my
manhood; and I was not trusted. Baffled in every endeavor to obliterate
my secret grief, I recurred to it now, as though privileged by fate,
to indulge a memory nothing could efface. I abandoned all the petty
appliances by which I sought to shut out the past, and gave myself up in
full abandonment to the luxury of my melancholy.
Living entirely within the walls of my demesne, never seen by my
neighbors, not making nor receiving visits, I appeared to many a
heartless recluse, whose misanthropy sought indulgence in solitude;
others, less harshly, judged me as one whose unhappy entrance on life
had unfitted him for the station to which fortune had elevated him. By
both I was soon forgotten.
The peasantry were less ungenerous, and more just. They saw in me one
who felt acutely for the privations they were suffering; yet never gave
them that cheap, delusive hope, that legislative changes will touch
social evils,--that the acts of a parliament will penetrate the thousand
tortuous windings of a poor man's destiny. They found in me a friend and
an adviser. They only-wondered at one thing,--how any man could feel for
the poor, and not hate the rich. So long had the struggle lasted between
affluence and misery, they could not understand a compromise.
Bitter as their poverty had been, it never extinguished the poetry of
their lives. They were hungry and naked; but they held to their ancient
traditions, and they built on them great hopes for the future. The old
family names, the time-honored memories of place, the famous deeds
of ancestors, made an ideal existence powerful enough to exclude the
pressure of actual daily evils; and they argued from what had been to
what might be, with a persistency of hope it seemed almost cruel to
destroy. So deeply were these thoughts engrained into their natures,
they felt him but half their friend who ventured to despise them. The
relief of present poverty, the succor of actual suffering, became in
their eyes an effort of mere passing kindness. They looked to some great
amelioration of condition, some wondrous change, some restoration to an
imaginary standard of independence and comfort, which all the efforts
of common interference fell sadly short of; and thus they strained their
gaze to a government, a ruling power, for a boon undefined, unknown, and
illimitable.
To expectations like these advice and slight assistance are as the mere
drop of water to the parched tongue of thirst; and so I found it. I
could neither encourage them in their hopes of such legislative changes
as would greatly ameliorate their condition, nor flatter them in the
delusion that none of their misfortunes were of home origin; and thus,
if they felt gratitude for many kindnesses, they reposed no confidence
in my opinion. The trading patriot, who promised much while he pocketed
their hard-earned savings; the rabid newspaper writer, who libelled
the Government and denounced the landlord,--were their standards of
sympathy; and he who fell short of either was not their friend.
In a word, the social state of the people was rotten to its very core.
Their highest qualities, degraded by the combined force of poverty,
misrule, and superstition, had become sources of crime and misery. They
had suffered so long and so much, their patience was exhausted; and they
preferred the prospect of any violent convulsion which might change the
face of the land, whatever dangers it might come with, to a slow and
gradual improvement of condition, however safe and certain.
To win their confidence at the only price they would accord it, I never
could consent to; and without it I was almost powerless for good.
Here again, therefore, did I find closed against me another avenue for
exertion; and the only one of all I could have felt a fitting sphere
for my labor. The violence of their own passionate natures, the headlong
impulses by which they suffered themselves to be swayed, left them no
power of judgment regarding those whose views were more moderate and
temperate. They could understand the high Tory landlord, whom they
invested with every attribute of tyranny, as their open, candid
opponent; they could see a warm friend in the violent mob-orator of the
day; but they recognized no trait of kindness in him who would rather
see them fed than flattered, and behold them in the enjoyment of comfort
sooner than in the ecstasy of triumph.
From “Darby the Blast”--for he was now a member of my household--I
learned the light in which I was regarded by the people, and heard the
dissatisfaction they expressed that one who “sarved Boney” should not
be ready to head a rising, if need be. Thus was I in a false position
on every side. Mistrusted by all, because I would neither enter into the
exaggerations of party, nor become blind to the truth my senses revealed
before me, my sphere of utility was narrowed to the discharge of the
mere duties of common charity and benevolence, and my presence among my
tenantry no more productive of benefit than if I had left my purse as my
representative.
Years rolled on, and in the noiseless track of time I forgot its flight.
I now had grown so wedded to the habits of my solitary life, that its
very monotony was a source of pleasure. I had intrenched myself within a
little circle of enjoyments, and among my books and in my walks my days
went pleasantly over.
For a long time, I did not dare to read the daily papers, nor learn the
great events which agitated Europe. I tried to think that an interval of
repose would leave me indifferent to their mention; and so rigidly did I
abstain from indulging my curiosity, that the burning of Moscow, and the
commencement of the dreadful retreat which followed, was the first fact
I read of.
From the moment I gave way, the passion for intelligence from France
became a perfect mania. Where were the different corps of the “Grand
Army”? where the Emperor himself? by what great stroke of genius would
he emerge from the difficulties around him, and deal one of his fatal
blows on the enemy?--were the questions which met me as I awoke, and
tortured me during the day.
Each movement of that terrible retreat I followed in the gazettes with
an anxiety verging on insanity. I tracked the long journey on the map,
and as I counted towns and villages, dreary deserts of snow, and vast
rivers to be traversed, my heart grew faint to think how many a brave
soldier would never reach that fair France for whose glory he had shed
his best blood. Disaster followed disaster; and as the news reached
England, came accounts of those great defections which weakened the
force of the “Grand Army,” and deranged the places formed for its
retiring movements.
They who can recall to mind the time I speak of, will remember the
effect produced in England by the daily accounts from the seat of war;
how heavily fell the blows of that altered fortune which once rested on
the eagles of France; how each new bulletin announced another feature of
misfortune,--some shattered remnant of a great _corps d'armée_ cut off
by Cossacks,--some dreadful battle engaged against superior numbers, and
fought with desperation, not for victory, but the liberty to retreat.
Great names were mentioned among the slain, and the proudest chivalry of
Gaul left to perish on the far-off steppes of Russia.
Such were the fearful tales men read of that terrible campaign; and the
joy in England was great, to hear that the most powerful of her enemies
had at length experienced the full bitterness of defeat. While men vied
with one another in stories of the misfortunes of the Emperor,--when
each post added another to the long catalogue of disasters to the “Grand
Army,”--I sat in my lonely house, in a remote part of Ireland, brooding
over the sad reverses of him who still formed my ideal of a hero.
I thought how, amid the crumbling ruins of his splendid force, his great
soul would survive the crash that made all others despair; that each
new evil would suggest its remedy as it arose, and the mind that never
failed in expedient would shine out more brilliantly through the gloom
of darkening fortune than even it had done in the noonday splendor
of success. When all others could only see the tremendous energy of
despair, I thought I could recognize those glorious outbursts of heroism
by which a French army sought and won the favor of their Emperor. The
routed and straggling bodies which hurried along in seeming disorder, I
gloried to perceive could assume all the port and bearing of soldiers at
the approach of danger, and form their ranks at the wild “houra” of the
Cossack as steadily as in the proudest day of their prosperity.
The retreat continued: the horrible suffering of a Russian winter added
to the carnage of a battle-tide, which flowed unceasingly from the
ruined walls of the Kremlin to the banks of the Vistula: the battle of
Borisow and the passage of the Berezina followed fast on each other.
And now we heard that the Emperor had surrendered the chief command
to Murat, and was hastening back to France with lightning speed; for
already the day of his evil fortune had thrown its shadow over the
capital. No longer reckoned by tens of thousands, that vast army had now
dwindled down to divisions of a few hundred men. The Old Guard scarce
exceeded one thousand; and of twenty entire regiments of cavalry,
Murat mustered a single squadron as a bodyguard. Crowds of wounded and
mutilated men dragged their weary limbs along over the hardened snow,
or through dense pine forests where no villages were to be met with,--a
fatuous determination to strive to reach France, the only impulse
surviving amid all their sufferings.
With the defections of D'York and Massenbach, then began that new
feature of disaster which was so soon to burst forth with all the fell
fury of long pent-up hatred. The nationality of Germany--so long, so
cruelly insulted--now saw the day of retribution arrive. Misfortune
hastened misfortune, and defeat engendered treason in the ranks of the
Emperor's allies. Murat, too, the favorite of Napoleon, the king of his
creation, deserted him now, and fled ignominiously from the command of
the army.
“The Elbe! the Elbe!” was now the cry amid the shattered ranks of that
army which but a year before saw no limit to its glorious path. The Elbe
was the only line remaining which promised a moment's repose from the
fatigues and privations of months long. Along that road the army could
halt, and stem the tide of pursuit, however hotly it pressed. The
Prussians had already united with the Russians; the defection of Austria
could not be long distant; Saxony was appealed to, as a member of the
German family, to join in arms against the Tyrant; and the wild “houra”
of the Cossack now blended with the loud “Vorwarts” of injured Prussia.
“Where shall he seek succor now? What remains to him in this last
eventful struggle? How shall the Emperor call back to life the legions
by whose valor his great victories were gained, and Europe made a vassal
at the foot of his throne?” Such was the thought that never left me day
or night. Ever present before me was his calm brow, and his face paler,
but not less handsome, than its wont. I could recall his rapid glance;
the quick and hurried motion of his hand; his short and thick utterance,
as words of command fell from his lips; and his smile, as he heard some
intelligence with pleasure.
I could not sleep,--scarcely could I eat. A feverish excitement burned
through my frame, and my parched tongue and hot hand told how the very
springs of health were dried up within me. I walked with hurried steps
from place to place; now muttering the words of some despatch, now
fancying that I was sent with orders for a movement of troops. As I
rode, I spurred my horse to a gallop, and in my heated imagination
believed I was in presence of the enemy, and preparing for the fray.
Great as my exhaustion frequently was, weariness brought no rest. Often
I returned home at evening, overcome by fatigue; but a sleepless night,
tortured with anxieties and harassed with doubts and fears, followed,
and I awoke to pursue the same path, till in my weakened frame and
hectic cheek the signs of illness could no longer be mistaken.
Terrified at the ravages a few weeks had made in my health, and fearful
what secret malady was preying upon me, Darby, without asking any leave
from me, left the house one morning at daybreak, and returned with the
physician of the neighboring town. I was about to mount my horse, when I
saw them coming up the avenue, and immediately guessed the object of the
visit. A moment was enough to decide me as to the course to pursue;
for well knowing how disposed the world ever is to stamp the impress
of wandering intellect on any habit of mere eccentricity, I resolved to
receive the doctor as though I was glad of his coming, and consult with
him regarding my state. This would at least refute such a scandal, by
enlisting the physician among the allies of my cause.
By good fortune, Dr. Clibborn was a man of shrewd common sense, as well
as a physician of no mean skill.
In the brief conversation we held together, I perceived, that while he
paid all requisite attention to any detail which implied the existence
of malady, his questions were more pointedly directed to the possibility
of some mental cause of irritation,--the source of my ailment. I could
see, however, that his opinion inclined to the belief that the events of
the trial had left their indelible traces on my mind; which, inducing
me to adopt a life of isolation and retirement, had now produced the
effects he witnessed.
I was not sorry at this mistake on his part. By suffering him to
indulge in this delusive impression, I saved myself all the trouble of
concealing my real feelings, which I had no desire to expose before him.
I permitted him, therefore, to reason with me on the groundless notions
he supposed I had conceived of the world's feeling regarding me,
and heard him patiently as he detailed the course of public duty, by
fulfilling which I should occupy my fitting place in society, and best
consult my own health and happiness.
“There are,” said he, “certain fixed impressions, which I would not so
combat. It was but yesterday, for instance, I yielded to the wish of
an old general officer, who has served upwards of half a century, and
desires once more to put himself at the head of his regiment. His
heart was bent on it. I saw that though he might consent to abandon his
purpose, I was not so sure his mind might bear the disappointment; for
the intellect will sometimes go astray in endeavoring to retrace its
steps. So I thought it better to concede what might cost more in the
refusal.”
The last words of the doctor remained in my head long after he took his
leave, and I could not avoid applying them to my own case. Was not _my_
impression of this nature? Were not _my_ thoughts all centred on one
theme as fixedly as the officer's of whom he spoke? Could I, by any
effort of my reason or my will, control my wandering fancies, and call
them back to the dull realities amongst which I lived?
These were ever recurring to me, and always with the same reply. It is
in vain to struggle against an impulse which has swallowed up all other
ambitions. My heart is among the glittering ranks and neighing squadrons
of France; I would be there once more; I would follow that career which
first stirred the proudest hopes I ever cherished.
That same evening the mail brought the news that Eugène Beauharnais had
fallen back on Magdeburg, and sent repeated despatches to the Emperor,
entreating his immediate presence among the troops, whom nothing but
Napoleon himself in the midst of them could restore to their wonted
bravery and determination. The reply of Napoleon was briefly,--
“I am coming; and all who love me, follow me.”
How the words rang in my ears,--“_Tous ceux qui m'aiment!_” I heard
them in every rustling of the wind and motion of the leaves against the
window; they were whispered to my sense by every avenue of my brain;
and I sat no longer occupied in reading as usual, but with folded arms,
repeating word by word the brief sentence.
It was midnight. All was still and silent through the house; no servant
stirred, and the very wind was hushed to a perfect calm. I was sitting
in my library, when the words I have repeated seemed spoken in a low,
clear voice beside me. I started up: the perspiration broke over my
forehead and fell upon my cheek with terror; for I knew I was alone, and
the fearful thought flashed on me,--this may be madness! For a second or
two the agony of the idea was almost insupportable. Then came a resolve
as sudden. I opened my desk, and took from it all the ready money I
possessed; I wrote a few hurried lines to my agent; and then, making my
way noiselessly to the stable, I saddled my horse and led him out.
In two hours I was nearly twenty miles on my way to Dublin. Day was
breaking as I entered the capital. I made no delay there; but taking
fresh horses, started for Skerries, where I knew the fishermen of the
coast resorted.
“One hundred pounds to the man who will land me on the coast of France
or Holland,” said I to a group that were preparing their nets on the
shore.
A look of incredulity was the only reply. A very few words, however,
settled the bargain. Ere half an hour I was on board. The wind
freshened, and we stood out to sea.
“Let the breeze keep to this,” said the skipper, “and we'll make the
voyage quickly.”
Both wind and tide were in our favor. We held down Channel rapidly; and
I saw the blue hills grow fainter and fainter, till the eye could but
detect a gray cloud on the horizon, which at last disappeared in the
bright sun of noon, and a wide waste of blue water lay on every side.