could not extinguish the cultivated instincts of this extraordinary man;
and one of the most interesting things in this volume, is the glimpses
which we occasionally get of his impressions of the new order of things.
Harsh, and even cruel, as the old society had been to him, it had a
profound hold upon his affections; and when the solitude and satiety of
age invited reflection, he was compelled "to doubt whether the good
which had been gained could ever compensate for that which had been
forfeited". He lived on the memory of the past, and drew his best
inspirations from it. "Where," said he, "is the wit of your _salons_,
the independence of your writers, the charm and influence of your women?
What have you received in exchange for all these, which have fled
forever? I would not give the remembrance of these times for all the
novelty, and what you call _improvements_ of the social system of
to-day, even with the youth and spirit necessary to enjoyment. 'Tis
true, there were abuse and exaggeration in many of our institutions, but
where is the system in which these do not exist? If our people were
devoured with misery and taxes, yours is wasting to the core with _envy_
and discontent. Our _noblesse_ was corrupt and prodigal; yours is
_bourgeoise_ and miserly--greater evils still for the prosperity of the
nation. If our king had many mistresses, yours has many masters. Has
_he_ gained by the exchange? Thus you see it clearly demonstrated, that
not one of the three orders has advanced in happiness by these wonderful
_improvements_ which you so much admire."[26] This is a strange
testimony to the blessings of revolution on a grand scale, and from one,
too, who had been in the midst of it as a prominent actor; but we
suspect it is what most others, in like circumstances, would give were
they candid, and what, after all, is simply true. Let any man of sound
understanding look at France now, and say what she has gained, or the
world through her, from the last outburst of popular fury; which has not
only left her the prey of charlatanism, but made her the victim of the
grossest passions. Talleyrand was, undoubtedly, right in his retrospect,
but his healthy convictions came too late to be of any use.
Of Talleyrand's literary habits little is known that can be relied upon,
but M. Colmache tells as, that "he could neither write nor dictate with
ease"; and that the most trifling productions of his pen caused him as
much trouble as the most elaborate dispatch. This may have proceeded
from fastidiousness in the choice of language, but was, most probably,
attributable to the defects of his education, and to the want of early
practice in composition. We are not told what kind of reading pleased
him, nor whether he was addicted to books; but he was a great admirer of
Voltaire, with whom he had conversed in early life, and whose style, of
its class, is perfect. He always deplored the scantiness of his
classical attainments, and, particularly, his ignorance of the Greek
tongue; and, so far as this volume teaches us, he would not appear to
have been what it is customary to call a learned man. M. Colmache gives
us certain "maxims for seasoning conversation," which, he says, were
Talleyrand's, but which convey to the mind the idea of a lively and
acute, rather than that of a profound thinker. If they want the
bitterness of Rochefoucauld, they have not the point and pith of Bacon,
nor the gravity of Locke. Three of these may suffice as specimens, and
as favorable ones:
"Both erudition and agriculture ought to be encouraged by government;
wit and manufactures will come of themselves.
"Metaphysics always remind me of the caravanseras in the desert. They
stand solitary and unsupported, and are always ready to crumble into
ruin.
"A great capitalist is like a vast lake, upon whose bosom ships can
navigate; but which is useless to the country, because no stream issues
therefrom to fertilize the land."
M. Colmache professes to give two fragments of the _Memoirs_, but he
does not state how he came by them, and we doubt the fact of their being
genuine. They are gracefully written, however, and that on the death of
Mr. Fox particularly so. In his "Maxims" he speaks of women
disrespectfully--a consequence, no doubt, of his disregard for the
domestic virtues, and of the dissolute manners which prevailed in the
higher ranks of French society in his time--and of the priesthood
contemptuously. No hatred is so intense, or so durable, as that which is
begotten of apostasy; and a renegade clerk, or a renegade politician,
may be always expected to rail fiercely against his original creed. In
his personal habits, the Prince of the Empire would seem to have adhered
closely to the manners of the _ancien regime_, in the bosom of which he
had been nurtured. He was courtly, formal, and somewhat exclusive; but
his rigid temperance, and his regularity were proper to the man, and
neither to the past nor present age. Of his _bons mots_ we have a
sprinkling, and but a sprinkling, in this volume; but the celebrated one
about language is not there, though others of less piquancy are. Did M.
Colmache consider it of apocryphal authenticity? We suspect so.
To sum up, then, What was the character of M. de Talleyrand? Of his
extraordinary abilities there is no question, since men of every variety
of feeling and position have borne testimony to them; but, was he great,
great as we esteem any of the models of our own, or other countries? We
think not. Celebrated he might be, but great he was not. No intensely
selfish man like Talleyrand can ever become so. Where there is so much
individual concentration, there is no room left for that expansion of
the faculties of the soul upon which true renown rests, and out of which
it springs. The region in which the mind acts is, necessarily,
circumscribed by the constant pressure of a never-absent egotism; and
when this mental constitution happens to be united to timidity,
distrust, and temperamental coldness, greatness ceases to be a possible
achievement. Moreover, he wanted principle, which is the natural
foundation of public virtue; and he had no higher an idea of morality
than its conveniency. His sense of propriety, which, in some cases was
high, was merely a conventional instinct but it was derived from no
anterior obligation, and recognized no source more elevated than the
canons of society. Of _duty_ (that sacred word!) in its English sense,
he had not the faintest conception; and provided that his person was
protected, and his fortunes advanced, it was a matter of absolute
indifference to him what master he served, or in what cause he enlisted.
The first revolution, the empire, the restoration, and the throne of the
barricades, all found in him a willing and an able instrument, and yet
he proved faithless to all; for, though we have not circumstantial proof
of this as to the last, his growing discontent with Louis Philippe shows
clearly, that the political weathercock was again veering. Even when we
make allowance for the very peculiar circumstances by which he was
surrounded from his entry into life until his exit from it, it is
impossible to doubt that this versatility was a consequence of a
particular mental organization, and that, if rigorously analyzed, its
causes would be found to resolve themselves into habits of reasoning
upon men and things from which courage, generosity, and masculine
disinterestedness, were carefully excluded. Patriotism may be pleaded in
justification--it is a ready argument, and a common defense; but, ample
as its proportions are, it will not cover every thing: besides that, in
Talleyrand's case it was a non-existence, for of that holy love of
country which the word is designed to convey, and which is the fruitful
mother of moral heroism, he had not one particle. He might be, and no
doubt was, the clever minister of a system, whatever that system chanced
to be, and we know that he carried out the views of his immediate
employers _a toute outrance_, and without the slightest regard to their
future social or political consequences; but of any grand conceptions
resting upon the rights, or contemplating the happiness of mankind, and
discriminated from the claims of an existing dynasty, be it democratical
or monarchical, he was utterly incapable. _Carpe diem_ was his motto,
and he was faithful to it; but however proper that Epicurean maxim might
have been in the mouth of a Roman poet, or however truly it might depict
the philosophy of a Roman courtesan, it is the deadly antagonist of
greatness, which it blights in the bud. Out of such a nature as this--a
nature unequal to the slightest sacrifice for the benefit of others,
conservative of itself, and indifferent to all the world besides, it is
impossible to make a great, though it may be easy enough to make a
celebrated man--and such we take M. de Talleyrand, Prince de Benevento,
to have been.
FOOTNOTES:
[Footnote 17: _Revelations of the Life of Prince Talleyrand_. Edited
from the Papers of the late M. Colmache, Private Secretary to the
Prince. Second Edition. One Volume. London, 1850. H. Colburn.]
[Footnote 18: Suetonius, in Vita, cap. 92.]
[Footnote 19: [Greek: Onar ek Dios estin].]
[Footnote 20: _Voice from St. Helena_.]
[Footnote 21: The reader will perceive that this was written before the
death of Louis Philippe, which took place at Claremont on the 26th day
of August last.]
[Footnote 22: The italics are not ours.]
[Footnote 23: See Caulincourt's _Recollections_, &c. vol. ii. Appendix.]
[Footnote 24: Caulincourt, vol. ii. p. 274, 5.]
[Footnote 25: The particulars have been gleaned from a few scanty
notices contained in an unpublished volume by the late George Macintosh,
Esq., the nephew of the Mr. Wm. Macintosh spoken of above, entitled,
_Biographical Memoir of the late Charles Macintosh, Esq., F.R.S. &c.
&c._ Glasgow, 1847.]
[Footnote 26: P. 210. The italics are in the original.]
THE DANGERS OF DOING WRONG. A TALE OF THE SEA-SIDE.
BY AGNES STRICKLAND.
"And so you will not join our party to Dunwich fair to-morrow,
Elizabeth?" said Margaret Blackbourne to the pretty daughter of the
Vicar of Southwold, with whom she was returning from a long ramble along
the broken cliffs toward Eastern Bavent, one lovely July evening in the
year 1616.
Southwold, be it known to such of my readers as may happen to be
unacquainted with its _locale_, is a pretty retired bathing town on the
coast of Suffolk, remarkable for its picturesque scenery and salubrious
air. At the time when the events on which my tale is founded took place,
Southwold, though it boasted none of the pretty marine villas which now
grace the Gunhill and centre cliffs, was a place of greater wealth and
importance than with all its modern improvements it is at present. It
was then one of the most flourishing sea-ports in Suffolk, and
occasionally sheltered in its ample bay the stateliest ships in the
British navy. And, in addition to the little corn-brigs and colliers,
whose light sails alone vary the blue expanse of waters, a mighty fleet
of vessels of war might not unfrequently be seen stretching in majestic
order along the undulating coast between Eastenness and Dunwich, and the
more remote promontory of Orford-Ness. Dunwich, too, that Tyre of the
East Angles, sat not then so wholly desolate on her crumbling cliff as
now overlooking, in dust and ashes, the devouring waves of the German
ocean in which her former glory lies buried two centuries ago. Dunwich,
however changed and fallen from what she was in olden time, still
retained the rank of a city; and, instead of the miserable horde of
smugglers' and fishermen's huts we now behold, with the roofless remains
of one lonely church, there were busy and populous streets, with shops,
and some appearances of maritime enterprise and mercantile prosperity.
The annual fair, which still takes place there on St. James's-day, was
at that time considered as a most attractive holiday by the denizens of
all the scattered towns and villages along that picturesque coast. Many
a well-manned yawl and light sailing-vessel would, in those days, put
off from Southwold, Lowestofft, or Aldborough, freighted with a
pleasure-loving crew, eager to enjoy a summer voyage and a merry day at
old Dunwich.
A great revolution has taken place in public opinion since then, with
respect to fairs, which, so far from being exclusively the saturnalia of
the vulgar and dissolute, were then used as marts for the sale of
various articles of domestic produce; and regarded by all classes of
society as seasons of social glee, where all met together, from the
highest to the lowest, in gala array, with smiles on their faces, and
good-will in their hearts, to participate in cheerful sports and
harmless mirth, in which good order and decency were observed out of
respect for the presence of ladies and gentlemen.
Christopher Younges, Elizabeth's father, was, however, a man of stern
notions; and looking on the dark side of the picture, the abuse of such
assemblages, he absolutely condemned them as affording fatal
opportunities for the idle, the extravagant, and the dissipated to
indulge in sinful excesses, and to seduce the weak and unstable to
follow bad example. He had never, on any occasion, permitted his pretty
daughter Elizabeth, then in the opening bloom of eighteen, to display
her youthful charms and gay attire even at the annual fair held in their
own town, and she knew, as she told her gay companion, Margaret, "that
it would be in vain to ask his permission to join the festive party on
the morrow."
"For my part," rejoined Margaret, "I would as lief be a nun, and live
shut up between four stone walls, as be subjected to such restraints! My
father is the worshipful bailiff of this town, but he never stands in
the way of a little harmless pleasure."
"Very true, Margaret; but my father, being a minister of the Gospel,
understands these things better, you know."
"What! better than a magistrate? the chief magistrate of the borough and
corporation of Southwold, Bessy Younges? No, no, my dear; you won't
persuade me to that. Your father is a very good kind of man, and has a
deal of book knowledge; but my father says, 'he knows very little of the
world, and is far too stiff in his notions for his congregation,'"
exclaimed Margaret.
"It may be so," observed Elizabeth, "but as I am bound to pay double
attention to my father's advice, both as my parent and my pastor, I beg
to hear no more on the subject."
"As you please, Elizabeth;--but have you seen Arthur yet?"
"Arthur! I thought he was at sea."
"He landed this morning at seven."
"And you not to tell me of it before!"
"I thought you had seen him; but I dare say he has called at the
Vicarage while we have been out walking."
"How very provoking!"
"Never mind; you will have enough of his company to-morrow, if you go to
Dunwich fair with us."
"But I am _not_ going to Dunwich fair!" cried Elizabeth, pettishly; "and
if Arthur Blackbourne goes without me I will never speak to him again."
"And if _you_ do not there are plenty in this town who will be ready to
pull caps for him, I can tell you. There is Joan Bates will be only too
happy to sit by him in the boat, and she says--"
"Something vastly impertinent, I dare say; but I don't want to hear any
of her cross speeches second-hand: I beg you will save yourself the
trouble of repeating them, Margaret. It is getting late, and I must
hasten home."
Time had, indeed, stolen a march on the vicar's fair daughter, while she
had been discussing this interesting subject with her youthful friend
and gossip, the sister of her sailor lover; for the full-orbed moon had
already reared her bright face over the swelling waves, and was pouring
a flood of radiance through the bay, and illuminating the high-arched
windows of All-Saints' church on the distant dark promontory of Dunwich
cat-cliff.
Elizabeth turned resolutely about to pursue a homeward path; but, at the
little turnstile leading to the vicarage, which then with its neat
garden and paddock adjoined the western boundary of the church-yard, she
encountered Arthur Blackbourne and her brother Edward.
"Where have you been cruising out of your course, girls, for the last
age?" cried Arthur: "here have I been giving chase to you both in all
directions, till I have hardly a leg to stand on!"
"We have only been for a walk to Easton Broad," said Elizabeth.
"A walk to Easton Broad, the very evening of my return, and without me!"
"How should I know you were home?"
"There were other girls in the town who contrived to find it out;--ay,
and pretty girls too--but they took the trouble of keeping a look-out
for the Jolly Nicholas," rejoined Arthur, reproachfully.
"So did Bessy, I am sure!" exclaimed the boy Edward, with great
vivacity; "why, she wholly crazed us about the Jolly Nicholas, and sent
me a dozen times a day to ask our old pilots at the station, whether she
were in sight, till they were so sick of the Jolly Nicholas and me, that
they got as savage as so many sea-bears, and gave me the name of 'Old
Nick' for my pains."
"Joan Bates was on the beach to welcome me on shore when I landed,"
pursued Arthur.
"Just like her; she is always so forward," retorted Elizabeth.
"It would be well if some people thought as much of me as Joan Bates,"
continued Arthur.
"And if you have nothing more agreeable to say to me, Arthur
Blackbourne, I will wish you good night," said Elizabeth. "Come,
Edward."
"You are in a mighty hurry, I think; when you have not seen me for six
months, and I have thought of you, sleeping and waking, all that time,
and now you won't speak one kind word to a poor fellow!" said the young
sailor.
"I have spoken quite as many as you deserve," retorted Elizabeth; "if
you want flattery, you may go to Joan Bates."
"And so I will, if you are not more lovingly disposed the next time we
meet," said Arthur; "but you will be better tempered, I hope, at Dunwich
fair to-morrow."
"I am not going to Dunwich fair."
"Not going to Dunwich fair, Bessy! a pretty joke, i'faith, when the
Royal Anne is new painted and rigged with her best flags and canvas all
ready to take us; and we have the prospect of a glorious day to-morrow."
"No matter; I shall not go."
"How very perverse;--just to vex me, I suppose!"
"You know my father does not approve of fairs."
"Fiddle-de-dee! there will be plenty of people as good as Parson Younges
at Dunwich fair, and some a little wiser, mayhap."
"I am sure there is no harm in going to a fair," said the boy Edward;
"and, oh, dear! how I should like to go to-morrow."
"So you shall, my hearty, if you can persuade Bessy to go with us."
"Pray, sister, let us go! there will be such fine doings;--a pair of
dancing bears, and three jack-an-apes dressed like soldiers, a
mountebank with an Andrew and a Master Merriman, and such lots of booths
with toys, and beads, and ribbons; more cakes and sweetmeats than I
could eat in a year; besides a merry-go-round and two flying ships.
Then, there will be wrestling and cudgel-playing, foot-ball, jumping in
sacks, and dancing on the church-green to the pipe and tabor, and you
dance so well."
"And we should dance together," whispered the handsome mate of the Jolly
Nicholas.
"It is all very fine talking; but my father will never consent."
"Tut, tut; you have not asked him yet."
"It would be useless if I did."
"That is more than I know; for no ship is always in the same tack. Men
change their minds as often as girls; and if you coax the old boy
handsomely, when you bid him good-night, my compass to your distaff,
he'll let you both go."
"Oh, do try, dear sister Bessy!" cried Edward, hanging on her arm.
"Well, I suppose I must; and if my father consents I will join you on
the beach with Edward at six to-morrow morning."
"We shall wait for you, remember," said the sailor, "so come and let us
know, at all events; for time and tide tarry for no one," and so they
parted.
Elizabeth, when she preferred her suit to her father that evening, met
with a positive denial, accompanied with a stern rebuke for her late
return from her evening ramble. She retired to her own chamber in tears,
and cried herself to sleep. She dreamed of the forbidden pleasure; and
that she was seated in the gayly painted Queen Anne, at the helm by the
side of her long-absent sailor love, listening to his whispered
endearments, as the boat glided rapidly toward the scene of festive
enjoyment, to which the merry pealing of bells seemed to invite her. At
five she was awakened by a light tap at her chamber door, from her
little brother, who whispered, "Oh, sister Bessy, it is such a lovely
morning, let us go and see the boats push off for Dunwich fair!"
"To what purpose?" cried the mortified girl, "the sight of them will
only increase my vexation."
"Oh, but you promised to let Arthur and Margaret know; and they will
take it unkindly if you do not keep your word," said Edward.
Far wiser would it have been for the brother and sister if they had kept
out of the way of temptation; but mutually compounding with their
consciences, that there could be no harm in going to see the boat off,
since they did not mean to sail with her crew, they left the paternal
roof together, and tripped hand-in-hand toward the spot where the Queen
Anne, with her new crimson pennon, lay in readiness for the launch,
surrounded by a gayly-dressed group of females, young and old, in their
holiday attire, jovial seamen, and blithe young bachelors of the town,
among whom, but superior to them all, stood Arthur Blackbourne, in his
sable fur cap with a bullion cordon and tassels. His nautical dress
differed little in fashion from that of the rowers of the yawl, only
that his doublet was of a smarter cut and finer material, and surmounted
with a full ruff of Flanders lace, a piece of foppery in which the
handsome mate of the Jolly Nicholas imitated the fashion of the court of
James I., and was enabled, by his trading voyages to Antwerp and
Hamburgh, to indulge without any great extravagance. He had brought home
half-a-dozen yards of this costly adornment and a damasked gown for the
vicar's fair daughter, and he communicated the fact to her in a loving
whisper, when, after springing half-way up the cliff at three bounds to
meet her, he had fondly encircled her waist with his arm, to aid her in
the descent to the beach. "And the damask is white damask," pursued he,
"on purpose for your wedding gown; and I have a pocket full of silver
and gold besides, to treat you with any thing you may fancy at Dunwich
fair, my sweeting."
"Dear Arthur, it is of no use talking of it; father was very angry with
me for asking his leave to go, and so I can not go. I told you how it
would be!" said Elizabeth, with mingled wrath and sorrow in her tones.
The mate of the Jolly Nicholas looked troubled for a moment, and then
said, "Never mind, my darling girl, you shall go to Dunwich fair for all
that, and so shall little Teddy."
"Oh, dear Arthur, I am so glad! Hurrah for Dunwich fair!" shouted the
boy.
"Be quiet, foolish child, we can not go without my father's leave," said
Elizabeth.
"Yes, yes, you can; it is but for once, and I will take all the blame
upon myself," cried Arthur Blackbourne.
"Goodness, Arthur! I never disobeyed my father in my life."
"Then you have been a very good girl, Bessy, and he can not reasonably
rate you for a first fault; and if he does--there is the white damask
ready bought for the wedding gown, and I am ready to take you for better
or worse to-morrow," continued Arthur, drawing the half-resisting, but
more than half-willing girl, nearer and nearer to the boat at every
word; while Teddy, hanging on her arm, continued to wheedle and implore
her to go.
"It is only for once, sister Bessy; only for once: father can't kill us
if we do take this one day's pastime. Oh, dear, oh, dear; I shall die if
I don't go to Dunwich fair!"
"Arthur Blackbourne, we shall lose the tide if you stand palavering
there," shouted half-a-dozen of the crew of the Queen Anne.
"Arthur Blackbourne, you are to take charge of my niece, Joan Bates, if
Bessy Younges doesn't go with us," screamed the shrill voice of the
widow Robson, one of the busiest bodies in the busy borough corporate of
Southwold two centuries ago.
"Oh gracious, aunt! you must not interfere between sweethearts;"
expostulated Joan, with a giggle of affected simplicity. "I am sure I
don't wish to take Arthur Blackbourne from Mistress Elizabeth Younges,
if he prefers her company to mine, and it is her intention to go to
Dunwich fair with us; but I think she does not go to fairs. Parson
Younges always preaches against them, does not he, aunt?" said Joan.
"Why, to be sure he does," cried the widow Robson; "so of course his
daughter can not be seen at such a place."
Elizabeth turned pale with vexation at these observations, the drift of
which she perfectly understood. Margaret Blackbourne stepped back, and
whispered in her ear, "All that is said to keep you from going to
Dunwich fair with Arthur."
"I shall not ask their leave if I choose to go," returned Elizabeth.
"Then pray make up your mind at once," said the widow Robson, "or we
shall none go, I fancy, as Arthur Blackbourne is the steersman of the
Queen Anne."
"I am coming," cried Arthur, drawing Elizabeth toward the boat. All the
female voyagers had now scrambled in, save Joan Bates, who was
exercising her coquettish skill in parrying the advances of Bennet
Allen, the town-clerk's brother, with the evident design of securing the
attentions of the handsome Arthur Blackbourne for the voyage.
Four stout seamen, aided by a bare-foot, ragged rout of auxiliaries,
such as are always loitering on Southwold beach in readiness to
volunteer their services on such occasions, now began to impel the boat
through the breakers with the usual chorus of, "Yeo ho--steady--yeo ho!"
and Edward, following the example of some of the juvenile passengers,
sprang into the boat with the agility of a squirrel, and a wild cry of
delight.
"Edward, Edward, you must not go," exclaimed his sister.
"Hurrah for Dunwich fair!" shouted the willful urchin, tossing up his
cap.
"Arthur, help me!" cried Elizabeth.
"Ay, ay, by all means," rejoined the mate of the Jolly Nicholas, taking
her about the waist, and swinging her into the boat. The next moment he
was seated by her side, and the Queen Anne was gayly dashing through the
waves. Her canvas was hoisted amidst bursts of mirth, and snatches of
nautical songs, and it was said that so gallant and fair a company and
crew never before left Southwold beach. Elizabeth Younges was perhaps
the only one who looked back with boding glances toward the town, and in
so doing recognized her father's tall, bending figure on the centre
cliff, holding up his hand in an authoritative manner, as if to
interdict her voyage. It was her first act of willful disobedience, and
her heart sank within her; and though she had triumphed over her bold
rival, by securing the company and attentions of Arthur Blackbourne for
the day, she felt more dejected than if she had been left alone on the
beach. One black cloud, the only one in the silver and azure sky, now
floated across the horizon, and appeared to hover darkly and ominously
over her forsaken home, as the shores of Southwold receded in the
distance.
"Arthur," whispered she to her lover, "I do not like to go to Dunwich
fair so entirely against my father's prohibition. Do make the boat tack,
and set the boy Edward and me ashore."
"Dear heart! it is folly to think of such a thing; we are opposite
Dingle now."
"It will be only a pleasant walk back to Southwold for us."
"Very pleasant for you, perhaps; but recollect, there are twenty people
besides yourself in the boat, and I really do not see why they should be
put to inconvenience for your whims."
"But, Arthur, you know you put me into the boat against my will."
"The more fool I," retorted the offended lover. Elizabeth made an angry
rejoinder, but instead of persisting in her purpose, she sat silent and
sullen during the rest of the voyage. The merry pealing of bells from
the three churches then remaining in Dunwich, sounded a jocund welcome
over the waves--the old city was adorned with flags and green boughs in
honor of her chartered fair, and the tall cliffs were lined with
gayly-dressed groups, rejoicing in their holiday; but these things gave
no pleasure to Elizabeth. The uproarious glee of her brother Edward
annoyed her, and finding Arthur appeared in no haste to offer her his
arm, to assist her in ascending the lofty cliffs of Dunwich, after they
had landed, she took that of the reluctant boy and walked proudly on,
without deigning to direct a glance toward her lover.
"I wish you would walk with your own man, sister Bess," said Edward. "I
want to have some fun with the other boys."
"You are very unkind, Edward, to wish to desert me, when Arthur has
treated me so ill. If it had not been for your perversity in jumping
into the boat, and refusing to leave it, I should not have disobeyed my
father by coming here," said Elizabeth.
"It is of no use thinking of that now," rejoined Edward; "as we are
here, we had better enjoy ourselves."
Elizabeth never felt so little in the humor for any thing of the kind
called pleasure. The want of sympathy, too, in her little brother, added
to the bitterness of her feelings. She directed a furtive glance toward
the party behind, and perceived Arthur engaged in what in these days
would be called an active flirtation with her rival, Joan Bates: under
these circumstances she determined not to relinquish her brother's arm;
but that perverse urchin, whom she had so entirely loved and petted from
his cradle, with the usual ingratitude of a spoiled child, took the
earliest opportunity of breaking from her, and joining a boisterous
company of boys of his own age. Bennet Allen then approached, and
offered his arm to Elizabeth, with the mortifying observation, "that as
they both appeared to be forsaken and forlorn, the best thing they could
do would be to walk together."
The proud heart of Elizabeth was ready to burst at this remark, and had
it been any where else, she would have rejected the proffered attentions
of young Allen with scorn; but she felt the impropriety of walking alone
in a fair, and silently accepted the arm of her rival's discarded lover,
and at the same time affected a gayety of manner she was far from
feeling, in the hope of piquing Arthur Blackbourne. Nothing is, however,
so wearisome to both mind and body as an outward show of mirth when the
heart is sorrowful. Elizabeth Younges relapsed into long fits of gloom
and silence, and when addressed by her companion, made short and
ungracious answers.
"What a disagreeable thing a fair is," said she, at last; "I no longer
wonder at my father saying it was not a suitable place for me--how I
wish I were at home!"
But many weary hours of noise and pleasureless excitement had to be worn
away, ere the party with whom Elizabeth came to Dunwich would agree to
return. Elizabeth's remonstrances, entreaties, and anger were alike
unheeded by the companions of her voyage. She had haughtily rejected
every overture on the part of Arthur toward a reconciliation, and
declined to receive fairings or attentions of any kind from him, to
manifest her indignant sense of the slight she had experienced from him
in the early part of the day; and Arthur had retorted by paying his
court very ostentatiously to Joan Bates. Elizabeth, neglected and alone,
strayed from her party, and sought a solitary nook among the ivied ruins
of a monastic pile, whose rifted arches overhung the verge of the lofty
cliff, where she indulged in floods of tears, casting from time to time
her wistful glances toward Southwold, whose verdant cliffs looked so
calm and peaceful in the mellow lights of a glowing sunset; but it was
not till those cliffs were silvered by the rising moon that the tide
served for the return of the boats. At length, Elizabeth heard her name
vociferated by many individuals of her party, and felt sorely mortified
at the publicity thus given to the fact of her being at a forbidden
place. Ashamed to raise her voice in reply, yet painfully anxious to
return to her deserted home, she hastened from her retreat among the
ruins, and ran eagerly toward the steep narrow path that led to the
beach. On the way she encountered Arthur Blackbourne, evidently the
worse for his revels.
"Where have you been wandering about by yourself?" cried he, seizing her
roughly by the arm.
"You have used me very ill to-day, Arthur," said she, bursting into
tears.
"You are jealous and out of temper," was the reply.
"Where is my brother Edward?" sobbed Elizabeth, for she could not trust
her voice with a rejoinder to this taunt.
"In the boat, and if you do not make haste, we shall lose the tide."
"I have suffered enough for my disobedience to my father as it is," said
Elizabeth; "and oh, what will he say to me on my return from this
disgraceful expedition!"
"There is no time to think of that now," rejoined Arthur, as they
proceeded to the boat in mutual displeasure with each other. Elizabeth
perceived with alarm, that boatmen and passengers alike were in the same
state of inebriation which was only too evident in Arthur.
The beach was now a scene of tumultuous bustle; a crowd of boats were
putting off for Southwold, Walberswick, and all the other places along
the coast for which the wind and tide served.
"Young woman," said an experienced Dunwich mariner who had been
regarding Elizabeth with much interest, "which boat are you going in."
"The Queen Anne of Southwold," was the reply.
"Take an old man's counsel and go not in her to-night. She is too full
of riotous head strong people, and those who ought to be the most cool
and considerate there are the worst."
"Oh, but I must go; I dare not remain longer, for I came without my
father's leave."
"So much the worse, young girl, for you; no good can come of such
doings," said the ancient mariner.
"Oh, if I but reach my home in safety, I will never, never so transgress
again!" sobbed Elizabeth as she took her seat among the reckless crew of
the Queen Anne, and rested her aching head against the dewy canvas which
was now unfurled to the gay breeze that came dancing over the summer
waves.
It was a night of intense beauty, and the contemplation of the starry
heavens above, with that glorious moon shining in such cloudless
splendor over the mighty expanse of heaving blue waters, might have
drawn the minds of the midnight voyagers to far different themes than
those which were so clamorously discussed by them as they glided through
the murmuring waves. The Queen Anne had shot ahead of the swarm of
sailing boats with which she left Dunwich strand, and her thoughtless
crew, with wild excitement, continued to accelerate her perilous speed
by hoisting a press of canvas as they neared the shores of Southwold.
A dispute now occurred among them, whether they should land at the haven
or opposite the town. None of the parties were in a state to form a very
correct judgment as to which would be the best and safest point to bring
the boat to shore. The importunities of Joan Bates and others of the
female passengers, who had suffered severely from sea-sickness during
the homeward voyage, prevailed on Arthur Blackbourne and a majority of
the party to attempt a landing at the haven, and four of the boatmen
scrambling through the surf proceeded to fix their rope and grapples, to
bring the boat to shore. They were resisted by such of the men as were
for landing opposite the town, and with reason, for the tide was rushing
with great force into the river Blythe. Arthur Blackbourne had seized
one of the oars to assist in effecting a landing on that perilous spot.
Elizabeth Younges, who perceived a cable lying athwart the haven,
started up in an agony of terror, caught him by the arm, and entreated
him to desist. Arthur, attributing her opposition to angry excitement of
temper, rudely shook off her hold and exerted a double portion of energy
to accomplish his object, and just at the fatal moment when the men
carelessly let go the rope, impelled the boat into immediate contact
with the obstacle of which Elizabeth was about to warn him. The next
instant all were struggling with the roaring tide. The slumbering
village of Walberswick was startled with the death-shrieks of that
devoted company. The anxious watchers on Southwold cliff, the parents,
relatives, and friends of the hapless voyagers, echoed back their cries
in hopeless despair. Then there was the impulsive rush of men, women,
and children toward the spot where they had seen the boat capsized. In
less than ten minutes the swift-footed neared it, but ere then, the
dread gulf which divides time from eternity had already been passed by
each and all, save one, of those who sailed so gayly from the town that
morn. Lovers and rivals, passengers and crew, were united in a watery
grave. The solitary survivor was Arthur Blackbourne.
The register of Southwold for the year 1616 contains the record of this
tragedy of domestic life, penned with mournful minuteness by the
faithful hand of the bereaved parent of two of the victims,
Christopherus Younges, the Vicar of Southwold: we copy it verbatim from
the tear-stained page.
"The names of those who were drowned and found again. They were drowned
in the haven coming from _Donwich fayer_, on St. James's day in a
_bote_, by reason of one cable lying _overwharf_ the haven, for by
reason the men that brought them down was so negligent, that when they
were _redie_ to come ashore the _bote_ broke _lose_, and so the force of
the tide carried the _bote_ against the cable and so overwhelmed. The
number of them were xxii, but they were not all found. The widow Robson,
Johne Bates, Mary Yewell, Susan Frost, Margaret Blackbourne and the
widow Taylor, were all buried on the 26th day of July, being all cast
away, coming from _Donwick fayer_, on St. James's daye.
"Widow Poster was buried the 27th day of Julye. Bennett Allen was buried
the 30th daie, Goodie Kerrison same daie. Edward and Elizabeth Younges,
daughter and son to me, C. Younges, vicar and minister, was buried the
31st _Dae of Julie_.
"All these were found again in this towne and buried."--_Southwold
Register_ A. D. 1616.
ANECDOTES OF NAPOLEON.
BY THE LATE LORD HOLLAND.[27]
HIS EARLY PURSUITS.
Napoleon was born at Ajaccio in 1769. It was affirmed by many that he
was at least a year older, and concealed his real age from an
unwillingness to acknowledge his birth in Corsica, at a period when that
island formed no part of the French dominions. The story is an idle one.
A yet more idle one was circulated that he had been baptized by the name
of Nicholas, but from apprehension of ridicule converted it, when he
rose to celebrity, into Napoleon. The printed exercises of the military
school of Brienne, of the years 1780, 1781, 1783, preserved in the
Bibliotheque at Paris, represent him as proficient in history, algebra,
geography, and dancing, under the name of Buona-Parte de l'Isle de
Corse; sometimes d'Ajaccio en Corse. Many traits of his aspiring and
ambitious character, even in early youth, have been related, and Pozzo
di Borgo quoted (1826) a conversation with him when 18 years of age, in
which, after inquiring and learning the state of Italy, he exclaimed,
"Then I have not been deceived, and with two thousand soldiers a man
might make himself king (Principe) of that country." The ascendency he
acquired over his family and companions, long before his great talents
had emerged from obscurity, were formerly described to me by Cardinal
Fesch and Louis Bonaparte, and have been confirmed since by the uniform
testimony of such as knew him during his residence in Corsica, or before
his acquaintance with Barras, the Director. When at home he was
extremely studious, ardent in some pursuit, either literary or
scientific, which he communicated to no one. At his meals, which he
devoured rapidly, he was silent, and apparently absorbed in his own
thoughts. Yet he was generally consulted on all questions affecting the
interests of any branch of his family, and on all such occasions was
attentive, friendly, decisive, and judicious. He wrote at a very early
period of his life, a History of Corsica, and sent the manuscript to the
Abbe Raynal, with a flourishing letter, soliciting the honor of his
acquaintance, and requesting his opinion of the work. The abbe
acknowledged the letter, and praised the performance, but Napoleon never
printed it. Persons who have dined with him at taverns and coffee-houses
when it was convenient to him not to pay his reckoning, have assured me,
that though the youngest and poorest, he always obtained, without
exacting it, a sort of deference or even submission from the rest of the
company. Though never parsimonious, he was at that period of his life
extremely attentive to the details of expense, the price of provisions,
and of other necessary articles, and, in short, to every branch of
domestic economy. The knowledge thus early acquired in such matters, was
useful to him in a more exalted station. He cultivated and even made a
parade of his information in subsequent periods of his career, and thus
sometimes detected and frequently prevented embezzlement in the
administration of public accounts.
HIS ATTENTION TO DETAILS.
Nothing could exceed the order and regularity with which his household
both as consul and emperor was conducted. The great things he
accomplished, and the savings he made, without even the imputation of
avarice or meanness, with the sum comparatively inconsiderable of
fifteen millions of francs a year, are marvelous, and expose his
successors, and indeed all European princes to the reproach of
negligence or incapacity. In this branch of his government, he owed much
to Duroc. It is said, that they often visited the markets of Paris (les
halles) dressed in plain clothes and early in the morning. When any
great accounts were to be submitted to the emperor, Duroc would apprise
him in secret of some of the minutest details. By an adroit allusion to
them or a careless remark on the points upon which he had received such
recent and accurate information, Napoleon contrived to impress his
audience with a notion that the master's eye was every where. For
instance, when the Tuilleries were furnished, the upholsterer's charges,
though not very exorbitant, were suspected by the emperor to be higher
than the usual profit of that trade would have warranted. He suddenly
asked some minister, who was with him, how much the egg at the end of
the bell-rope should cost? "J'ignore," was the answer. "Eh bien! nous
verrons," said he, and then cut off the ivory handle, called for a
valet, and bidding him dress himself in plain and ordinary clothes, and
neither divulge his immediate commission or general employment to any
living soul, directed him to inquire the price of such articles at
several shops in Paris, and to order a dozen as for himself. They were
one-third less dear than those furnished to the palace. The emperor,
inferring that the same advantage had been taken in the other articles,
struck a third off the whole charge, and directed the tradesman to be
informed that it was done at his express command, because on
_inspection_, he had himself discovered the charges to be by one-third
too exorbitant. When afterward, in the height of his glory, he visited
Caen, with the Empress Maria Louisa, and a train of crowned heads and
princes, his old friend, M. Mechin, the Prefect, aware of his taste for
detail, waited upon him with five statistical tables of the expenditure,
revenue, prices, produce, and commerce of the department. "C'est bon,"
said he, when he received them the evening of his arrival, "vous et moi
nous ferons bien de l'esprit sur tout cela demain au Conseil."
Accordingly, he astonished all the leading proprietors of the department
at the meeting next day, by his minute knowledge of the prices of good
and bad cider, and of the produce and other circumstances of the various
districts of the department. Even the royalist gentry were impressed
with a respect for his person, which gratitude for the restitution of
their lands had failed to inspire, and which, it must be acknowledged,
the first, faint hope of vengeance against their enemies entirely
obliterated in almost every member of that intolerant faction.
Other princes have shown an equal fondness for minute details with
Napoleon, but here is the difference. The use they made of their
knowledge was to torment their inferiors and weary their company: the
purpose to which Napoleon applied it was to confine the expenses of the
state to the objects and interests of the community.
NAPOLEON'S POWERS OF MEMORY.
His powers of application and memory seemed almost preternatural. There
was scarcely a man in France, and none in employment, with whose private
history, characters, and qualifications, he was not acquainted. He had,
when emperor, notes and tables, which he called the moral statistics of
his empire. He revised and corrected them by ministerial reports,
private conversation, and correspondence. He received all letters
himself, and what seems incredible, he read and recollected all that he
received. He slept little, and was never idle one instant when awake.
When he had an hour for diversion, he not unfrequently employed it in
looking over a book of logarithms, which he acknowledged, with some
surprise, was at all seasons of his life a recreation to him. So
retentive was his memory of numbers, that sums over which he had once
glanced his eye were in his mind ever after. He recollected the
respective produce of all taxes through every year of his
administration, and could, at any time, repeat any one of them, even to
the centimes. Thus his detection of errors in accounts appeared
marvelous, and he often indulged in the pardonable artifice of
displaying these faculties in a way to create a persuasion that his
vigilance was almost supernatural. In running over an account of
expenditure, he perceived the rations of a battalion charged on a
certain day at Besancon. "Mais le bataillon n'etait pas la," said he,
"il y a erreur." The minister, recollecting that the emperor had been at
the time out of France, and confiding in the regularity of his
subordinate agents, persisted that the battalion must have been at
Besancon. Napoleon insisted on further inquiry. It turned out to be a
fraud and not a mistake. The peculating accountant was dismissed, and
the scrutinizing spirit of the emperor circulated with the anecdote
through every branch of the public service, in a way to deter every
clerk from committing the slightest error, from fear of immediate
detection. His knowledge, in other matters, was often as accurate and
nearly as surprising. Not only were the Swiss deputies in 1801
astonished at his familiar acquaintance with the history, laws, and
usages of their country, which seemed the result of a life of research,
but even the envoys from the insignificant Republic of San Marino, were
astonished at finding that he knew the families and feuds of that small
community, and discoursed on the respective views, conditions, and
interests of parties and individuals, as if he had been educated in the
petty squabbles and local politics of that diminutive society. I
remember a simple native of that place told me in 1814 that the
phenomenon was accounted for by the Saint of the town appearing to him
over-night, in order to assist his deliberations.
HIS KNOWLEDGE OF NAVAL AFFAIRS.
Some anecdotes related to me by the distinguished officer who conveyed
him in the Undaunted to Elba, in 1814, prove the extent, variety, and
accuracy of knowledge of Napoleon. On his first arrival on the coast, in
company with Sir Neil Campbell, an Austrian and a Russian commissioner,
Captain Usher waited upon him, and was invited to dinner. He conversed
much on naval affairs, and explained the plan he had once conceived of
forming a vast fleet of 160 ships-of-the-line. He asked Captain Usher if
he did not think it would have been practicable; and Usher answered,
that with the immense means he then commanded, he saw no impossibility
in building and manning any number of ships, but his difficulty would
have consisted in forming thorough seamen as distinguished from what we
call smooth-water sailors. Napoleon replied that he had provided for
that also; he had organized exercises for them afloat, not only in
harbor, but in smaller vessels near the coast, by which they might have
been trained to go through, even in rough weather, the most arduous
manoeuvres of seamanship, which he enumerated; and he mentioned among
them the keeping a ship clear of her anchors in a heavy sea. The
Austrian, who suspected Napoleon of talking in general upon subjects he
imperfectly understood, acknowledging his own ignorance, asked him the
meaning of the term, the nature of the difficulty, and the method of
surmounting it. On this the emperor took up two forks, and explained the
problem in seamanship, which is not an easy one, in so short,
scientific, and practical a way, that Captain Usher assured me he knew
none but professional men, and very few of them, who could off-hand have
given so perspicuous, seamanlike, and satisfactory solution of the
question. Any board of officers would have inferred, from such an
exposition, that the person making it had received a naval education,
and was a practical seaman. Yet how different were the objects on which
the mind of Napoleon must have been long, as well as recently, employed!
On the same voyage, when the propriety of putting into a harbor of
Corsica was under discussion, and the want of a pilot urged as an
objection, Napoleon described the depth of water, shoals, currents,
bearings, and anchorage, with a minuteness which seemed as if he had
himself acted in that capacity; and which, on reference to the charts,
was found scrupulously accurate. When his cavalry and baggage arrived at
Porto Ferrajo, the commander of the transports said that he had been on
the point of putting into a creek near Genoa (which he named, but I have
forgotten); upon hearing which Napoleon exclaimed, "It is well you did
not; it is the worst place in the Mediterranean; you would not have got
to sea again for a month or six weeks." He then proceeded to allege
reasons for the difficulty, which were quite sufficient if the
peculiarities of the little bay were really such as he described; but
Captain Usher, having never heard of them during his service in the
Mediterranean, suspected that the emperor was mistaken, or had
confounded some report he had heard from mariners in his youth. When,
however, he mentioned the circumstance many years afterward to Captain
Dundas, who had recently cruised in the Gulf of Genoa, that officer
confirmed the report of Napoleon in all its particulars, and expressed
astonishment at its correctness. "For" (said he), "I thought it a
discovery of my own, having ascertained all you have just told me about
that creek, by observation and experience."
HIS INDUSTRY AND CURIOSITY.
Great as was his appetite for knowledge, his memory in retaining, and
his quickness in applying it; his labor both in acquiring and using it
was equal to them. In application to business he could wear out the men
most inured to study. In the deliberations on the Code Civil, many of
which lasted ten, twelve, or fifteen hours without intermission, he was
always the last whose attention flagged; and he was so little disposed
to spare himself trouble, that even in the Moscow campaign he sent
regularly to every branch of administration in Paris directions in
detail, which in every government but his would, both from usage and
convenience, have been left to the discretion of the superintending
minister, or to the common routine of business. This and other instances
of his diligence are more wonderful than praiseworthy. He had
established an office with twelve clerks, and Mounier at their head,
whose sole duty it was to extract, translate, abridge, and arrange under
heads the contents of our English newspapers. He charged Mounier to omit
no abuse of him, however coarse or virulent; no charge, however
injurious or malignant. As, however, he did not specify the empress,
Mounier, who reluctantly complied with his orders, ventured to suppress,
or, at least, to soften any phrases about her; but Napoleon questioned
others on the contents of the English papers; detected Mounier and his
committee in their mutilations of the articles, and forbade them to
withhold any intelligence or any censure they met with in the
publications which they were appointed to examine. Yet with all this
industry, and with the multiplicity of topics which engaged his
attention, he found time for private and various reading. His librarian
was employed for some time every morning in replacing maps and books
which his unwearied and insatiable curiosity had consulted before
breakfast. He read all letters whatever addressed to himself, whether in
his private or public capacity; and it must, I believe, be acknowledged,
that he often took the same liberty with those directed to other people.
He had indulged in that unjustifiable practice[28] before his elevation,
and such was his impatience to open both parcels and letters, that,
however employed, he could seldom defer the gratification of his
curiosity an instant after either came under his notice or his reach.
Josephine, and others, well acquainted with his habits, very pardonably
took some advantage of this propensity. Matters which she feared to
mention to him were written and directed to her, and the letters
unopened left in his way. He often complied with wishes which he thought
he had detected by an artifice, more readily than had they been
presented in the form of claim, petition, or request. He liked to know
every thing; but he liked all he did to have the appearance of springing
entirely from himself, feeling, like many others in power, an
unwillingness to encourage even those they love in an opinion that they
have an influence over them, or that there is any certain channel to
their favor. His childish eagerness about cases led, in one instance, to
a gracious act of playful munificence. He received notice of the arrival
of a present from Constantinople, in society with the empress and other
ladies. He ordered the parcel[29] to be brought up, and instantly tore
it open with his own hand. It contained a large aigrette of diamonds
which he broke into various pieces, and he then threw the largest into
her imperial majesty's lap, and some into that of every lady in the
circle.
HIS LITERARY TASTE AND ACQUIREMENTS.
Among his projects were many connected with the arts and with
literature. They were all, perhaps, subservient to political purposes,
generally gigantic, abruptly prepared, and, in all likelihood, as
suddenly conceived. Many were topics of conversation and subjects for
speculation, not serious, practical, or digested designs. Though not
insensible to the arts or to literature, he was suspected latterly of
considering them rather as political engines or embellishments, than as
sources of enjoyment. M. de Talleyrand, and several artists concurred in
saying, that "il avait le sentiment du grand, mais non pas celui du
beau." He had written "bon sujet d'un tableau," opposite to some passage
in Letourneur's translation of Ossian, and he had certainly a passion
for that poem.
His censure on David, for choosing the battle at the straits of
Thermopylae as a subject for a picture, was that of a general rather than
connoisseur: it smelt, if I may say so, of his shop; though, perhaps,
the real motive for it was dislike to the republican artist, and
distaste to an act of national resistance against a great military
invader. "A bad subject," said he "after all, Leonidas was turned." He
had the littleness to expect to be prominent in every picture of
national victories of his time, and was displeased at a painting of an
action in Egypt for Madame Murat, in which her wounded husband was the
principal figure. Power made him impatient of contradiction,[30] even in
trifles; and, latterly, he did not like his taste in music, for which he
had no turn, to be disputed. His proficiency in literature has been
variously stated. He had read much, but had written little. In the
mechanical part he was certainly no adept; his handwriting was nearly
illegible. Some would fain persuade me that that fault was intentional,
and merely an artifice to conceal his bad spelling; that he could form
his letters well if he chose, but was unwilling to let his readers know
too exactly the use he made of them. His orthography was certainly not
correct; that of few Frenchmen, not professed authors, was so thirty
years ago: but his brothers Lucien and Louis, both literary men, and
both correct in their orthography, write a similar hand, and nearly as
bad a one as he did, probably for the same reason; viz., that they can
not write a better one without great pains and loss of time.
Napoleon, when consul and emperor, seldom wrote, but he dictated much.
It was difficult to follow him, and he often objected to any revision of
what he had dictated.
HIS RELIGIOUS SENTIMENTS.
Whatever were the religious sentiments of this extraordinary man, such
companions were likely neither to fix nor to shake, to sway nor to alter
them. I have been at some pains to ascertain the little that can be
known of his thoughts on such subjects; and though it is not very
satisfactory, it appears to me worth recording.
In the early periods of the revolution, he, in common with many of his
countrymen, conformed to the fashion of treating all such matters, both
in conversation and action, with levity and even derision. In his
subsequent career, like most men exposed to wonderful vicissitudes, he
professed half in jest and half in earnest a sort of confidence in
fatalism and predestination. But on some solemn public occasions, and
yet more in private and sober discussion, he not only gravely disclaimed
and reproved infidelity, but both by actions and words implied his
conviction that a conversion to religious enthusiasm might befall
himself or any other man. He had more than tolerance--he had indulgence
and respect for extravagant and ascetic notions of religious duty. He
grounded that feeling, not on their soundness or their truth, but on the
uncertainty of what our minds may be reserved for, on the possibility of
our being prevailed upon to admit and even to devote ourselves to tenets
which at first excite our derision. It has been observed that there was
a tincture of Italian superstition in his character, a sort of
conviction from reason that the doctrines of revelation were not true,
and yet a persuasion, or at least an apprehension that he might live to
think them so. He was satisfied that the seeds of belief were deeply
sown in the human heart. It was on that principle that he permitted and
justified, though he did not dare to authorize the revival of La Trappe
and other austere orders. He contended that they might operate as a
safety-valve for the fanatical and visionary ferment which would
otherwise burst forth and disturb society. In his remarks on the death
of Duroc and in the reasons he alleged against suicide, both in calm and
speculative discussion and in moments of strong emotion (such as
occurred at Fontainbleau in 1814), he implied a belief both in fatality
and providence.
In the programme of his coronation, a part of the ceremony was to
consist in his taking the communion. But when the plan was submitted to
him, he, to the surprise of those who had drawn it, was absolutely
indignant at the suggestion. "No man," he said, "had the means of
knowing, or had the right to say, when or where he would take the
Sacrament, or whether he would or not." On this occasion, he added that
he would not,[31] nor did he!
There is some mystery about his conduct in similar respects at St.
Helena, and during the last days of his life. He certainly had mass
celebrated in his chapel while he was well, and in his bedroom when ill.
But though I have reason to believe that the last Sacraments were
actually administered to him privately, a few days before his death, and
probably after confession, yet Count Montholon, from whom I derive
indirectly my information, also stated that he received Napoleon's
earliest and distinct directions to conceal all the preliminary
preparations for that melancholy ceremony from all his other companions,
and even to enjoin the priest, if questioned, to say he acted by Count
Montholon's orders, but had no knowledge of the Emperor's wishes.
It seems as if he had some desire for such assurance as the church could
give, but yet was ashamed to own it. He knew that some at St. Helena,
and more in France, would deem his recourse to such consolation,
infirmity; perhaps he deemed it so himself. Religion may sing her
triumph, Philosophy exclaim, "pauvre humanite," more impartial
skepticism despair of discovering the motive, but truth and history
must, I believe, acknowledge the fact. M. de Talleyrand, who, on hearing
of his death, spoke of his mental endowments, added the following
remarks:
"His career is the most extraordinary that has occurred for one thousand
years. He committed three capital faults, and to them his fall, scarce
less extraordinary than his elevation, is to be ascribed--Spain, Russia,
and the Pope. I say the Pope; for his coronation, the acknowledgment by
the spiritual head of Christendom that he, a little lieutenant of
Corsica, was the chief sovereign of Europe, from whatever motive it
proceeded, was the most striking consummation of glory that could happen
to an individual. After adopting that mode of displaying his greatness
and crowning his achievements, he should never, for objects
comparatively insignificant, have stooped to vex and persecute the same
Pontiff. He thereby outraged the feelings of the very persons whose
enmity had been softened, and whose imagination had been dazzled by that
brilliant event. Such were his capital errors. Those three apart, he
committed few others in policy, wonderfully few, considering the
multiplicity of interests he had to manage, and the extent, importance,
and rapidity of the events in which he was engaged. He was certainly a
great, an extraordinary man, nearly as extraordinary in his qualities as
in his career; at least, so upon reflection I, who have seen him near
and much, am disposed to consider him. He was clearly the most
extraordinary man I ever saw, and I believe the most extraordinary man
that has lived in our age, or for many ages."
FOOTNOTES:
[Footnote 27: From a volume of Foreign Reminiscences, by Henry Richard
Lord Holland, edited by his son, Henry Edward Lord Holland,--in the
press of Messrs. Harper and Brothers, and soon to be published.]
[Footnote 28: Denon, Mechin, and others.]
[Footnote 29: Mechin.]
[Footnote 30: He was not so, however, either in deliberation or
discussion, at least when the matter was invited by himself. He allowed
his ministers to comment upon, and even to object to measures in
contemplation (provided they acquiesced in them when adopted) in free
and even strong terms, and he liked those he questioned on facts or
opinions to answer without compliment or reserve.]
[Footnote 31: Some attributed this repugnance to conform, to his fear of
the army, others to a secret and conscientious aversion to what he
deemed in his heart a profanation.]
A CRISIS IN THE AFFAIRS OF MR. JOHN BULL.
AS RELATED BY MRS. BULL TO THE CHILDREN
Mrs. Bull and her rising family were seated round the fire, one November
evening at dusk, when all was mud, mist, and darkness, out of doors, and
a good deal of fog had even got into the family parlor. To say the
truth, the parlor was on no occasion fog-proof, and had, at divers
notable times, been so misty as to cause the whole Bull family to grope
about, in a most confused manner, and make the strangest mistakes. But,
there was an excellent ventilator over the family fire-place (not one of
Dr. Arnott's, though it was of the same class, being an excellent
invention, called Common Sense), and hence, though the fog was apt to
get into the parlor through a variety of chinks, it soon got out again,
and left the Bulls at liberty to see what o'clock it was, by the solid,
steady-going, family time-piece: which went remarkably well in the long
run, though it was apt, at times, to be a trifle too slow.
Mr. Bull was dozing in his easy chair, with his pocket-handkerchief
drawn over his head. Mrs. Bull, always industrious, was hard at work,
knitting. The children were grouped in various attitudes around the
blazing fire. Master C. J. London (called after his God-father), who had
been rather late at his exercise, sat with his chin resting, in
something of a thoughtful and penitential manner, on his slate resting
on his knees. Young Jonathan--a cousin of the little Bulls, and a noisy,
overgrown lad--was making a tremendous uproar across the yard, with a
new plaything. Occasionally, when his noise reached the ears of Mr.
Bull, the good gentleman moved impatiently in his chair, and muttered
"Con--found that boy in the stripes, I wish he wouldn't make such a fool
of himself!"
"He'll quarrel with his new toy soon, I know," observed the discreet
Mrs. Bull, "and then he'll begin to knock it about. But we mustn't
expect to find old heads on young shoulders."
"That can't be, ma," said Master C. J. London, who was a sleek,
shining-faced boy.
"And why, then, did you expect to find an old head on Young England's
shoulders?" retorted Mrs. Bull, turning quickly on him.
"I didn't expect to find an old head on Young England's shoulders!"
cried Master C. J. London, putting his left-hand knuckles to his right
eye.
"You didn't expect it, you naughty boy?" said Mrs. Bull.
"No!" whimpered Master C. J. London, "I am sure I never did. Oh, oh,
oh!"
"Don't go on in that way, don't!" said Mrs. Bull, "but behave better in
future. What did you mean by playing with Young England at all?"
"I didn't mean any harm!" cried Master C. J. London, applying, in his
increased distress, the knuckles of his right hand to his right eye, and
the knuckles of his left hand to his left eye.
"I dare say you didn't!" returned Mrs. Bull. "Hadn't you had warning
enough, about playing with candles and candlesticks? How often had you
been told that your poor father's house, long before you were born, was
in danger of being reduced to ashes by candles and candlesticks? And
when Young England and his companions began to put their shirts on, over
their clothes, and to play all sorts of fantastic tricks in them, why
didn't you come and tell your poor father and me, like a dutiful C. J.
London?"
"Because the Rubric--" Master C. J. London was beginning, when Mrs. Bull
took him up short.
"Don't talk to me about the Rubric, or you'll make it worse!" said Mrs.
Bull, shaking her head at him. "Just exactly what the Rubric meant then,
it means now; and just exactly what it didn't mean then, it don't mean
now. You are taught to act, according to the spirit, not the letter; and
you know what its spirit must be, or _you_ wouldn't be. No, C. J.
London!" said Mrs. Bull, emphatically. "If there were any candles or
candlesticks in the spirit of your lesson-book, Master Wiseman would
have been my boy, and not you!"
Here, Master C. J. London fell a-crying more grievously than before,
sobbing, "Oh, ma! Master Wiseman with his red legs, your boy! Oh, oh,
oh!"
"Will you be quiet," returned Mrs. Bull, "and let your poor father rest?
I am ashamed of you. _You_ to go and play with a parcel of sentimental
girls, and dandy boys! Is _that_ your bringing up?"
"I didn't know they were fond of Master Wiseman," protested Master C. J.
London, still crying.
"You didn't know, sir!" retorted Mrs. Bull "Don't tell me! Then you
ought to have known. Other people knew. You were told often enough, at
the time, what it would come to. You didn't want a ghost, I suppose, to
warn you that when they got to candlesticks, they'd get to candles; and
that when they got to candles, they'd get to lighting 'em; and that when
they began to put their shirts on outside, and to play at monks and
friars, it was as natural that Master Wiseman should be encouraged to
put on a pair of red-stockings, and a red hat, and to commit I don't
know what other Tom-fooleries and make a perfect Guy Fawkes of himself
in more ways than one. Is it because you are a Bull, that you are not to
be roused till they shake scarlet close to your very eyes?" said Mrs.
Bull indignantly.
Master C. J. London still repeating "Oh, oh, oh!" in a very plaintive
manner, screwed his knuckles into his eyes until there appeared
considerable danger of his screwing his eyes out of his head. But,
little John (who though of a spare figure was a very spirited boy),
started up from the little bench on which he sat; gave Master C. J.
London a hearty pat on the back (accompanied, however, with a slight
poke in the ribs); and told him that if Master Wiseman, or Young
England, or any of those fellows, wanted any thing for himself, he
(little John) was the boy to give it him. Hereupon, Mrs. Bull, who was
always proud of the child, and always had been, since his measure was
first taken for an entirely new suit of clothes to wear in Commons,
could not refrain from catching him up on her knee and kissing him with
great affection, while the whole family expressed their delight in
various significant ways.
"You are a noble boy, little John," said Mrs. Bull, with a mother's
pride, "and that's the fact, after every thing is said and done!"
"I don't know about that, ma;" quoth little John, whose blood was
evidently up; "but if these chaps and their backers, the Bulls of
Rome--"
Here Mr. Bull, who was only half asleep, kicked out in such an alarming
manner, that for some seconds, his boots gyrated fitfully all over the
family hearth, filling the whole circle with consternation. For, when Mr
Bull _did_ kick, his kick was tremendous. And he always kicked, when the
Bulls of Rome were mentioned.
Mrs. Bull holding up her finger as an injunction to the children to keep
quiet, sagely observed Mr. Bull from the opposite side of the
fire-place, until he calmly dozed again, when she recalled the scattered
family to their former positions, and spoke in a low tone.
"You must be very careful," said the worthy lady, "how you mention that
name; for, your poor father has so many unpleasant experiences of those
Bulls of Rome--Bless the man! he'll do somebody a mischief."
Mr. Bull, lashing out again more violently than before, upset the
fender, knocked down the fire-irons, kicked over the brass footman, and,
whisking his silk handkerchief off his head, chased the Pussy on the rug
clean out of the room into the passage, and so out of the street-door
into the night; the Pussy having (as was well known to the children in
general), originally strayed from the Bulls of Rome into Mr. Bull's
assembled family. After the achievement of this crowning feat, Mr. Bull
came back, and in a highly excited state performed a sort of war-dance
in his top-boots, all over the parlor. Finally, he sank into his
arm-chair, and covered himself up again.
Master C. J. London, who was by no means sure that Mr. Bull in his heat
would not come down upon him for the lateness of his exercise, took
refuge behind his slate and behind little John, who was a perfect
game-cock. But, Mr. Bull having concluded his war-dance without injury
to any one, the boy crept out, with the rest of the family, to the knees
of Mrs. Bull, who thus addressed them, taking little John into her lap
before she began:
"The B.'s of R.," said Mrs. Bull, getting, by this prudent device, over
the obnoxious words, "caused your poor father a world of trouble, before
any one of you were born. They pretended to be related to us, and to
have some influence in our family; but it can't be allowed for a single
moment--nothing will ever induce your poor father to hear of it; let
them disguise or constrain themselves now and then, as they will, they
are, by nature, an insolent, audacious, oppressive, intolerable race."
Here little John doubled his fists, and began squaring at the Bulls of
Rome, as he saw those pretenders with his mind's eye. Master C. J.
London, after some considerable reflection, made a show of squaring,
likewise.
"In the days of your great, great, great, great, grandfather," said Mrs.
Bull, dropping her voice still lower, as she glanced at Mr. Bull in his
repose, "the Bulls of Rome were not so utterly hateful to our family as
they are at present. We didn't know them so well, and our family were
very ignorant and low in the world. But, we have gone on advancing in
every generation since then; and now we are taught, by all our family
history and experience, and by the most limited exercise of our rational
faculties, that our knowledge, liberty, progress, social welfare and
happiness are wholly irreconcilable and inconsistent with them. That the
Bulls of Rome are not only the enemies of our family, but of the whole
human race. That wherever they go, they perpetuate misery, oppression,
darkness, and ignorance. That they are easily made the tools of the
worst of men for the worst of purposes; and that they _can not_ be
endured by your poor father, or by any man, woman, or child, of common
sense, who has the least connection with us."
Little John, who had gradually left off squaring, looked hard at his
aunt, Miss Eringobragh, Mr. Bull's sister, who was groveling on the
ground, with her head in the ashes. This unfortunate lady had been, for
a length of time, in a horrible condition of mind and body, and
presented a most lamentable spectacle of disease, dirt, rags,
superstition, and degradation.
Mrs. Bull, observing the direction of the child's glance, smoothed
little John's hair, and directed her next observations to him.
"Ah! You may well look at the poor thing, John!" said Mrs. Bull; "for
the Bulls of Rome have had far too much to do with her present state.
There have been many other causes at work to destroy the strength of her
constitution, but the Bulls of Rome have been at the bottom of it; and,
depend upon it, wherever you see a condition at all resembling hers, you
will find, on inquiry, that the sufferer has allowed herself to be dealt
with by the Bulls of Rome. The cases of squalor and ignorance, in all
the world most like your aunt's, are to be found in their own household;
on the steps of their doors; in the heart of their homes. In
Switzerland, you may cross a line no broader than a bridge or a hedge,
and know, in an instant, where the Bulls of Rome have been received, by
the condition of the family. Wherever the Bulls of Rome have the most
influence, the family is sure to be the most abject. Put your trust in
those Bulls, John, and it's the inevitable order and sequence of
things, that you must come to be something like your aunt, sooner or
later."
"I thought the Bulls of Rome had got into difficulties and run away,
ma?" said little John, looking up into his mother's face inquiringly.
"Why, so they did get into difficulties, to be sure, John," returned
Mrs. Bull, "and so they did run away, but, even the Italians, who had
got thoroughly used to them, found them out, and they were obliged to go
and hide in a cupboard, where they still talked big through the
key-hole, and presented one of the most contemptible and ridiculous
exhibitions that ever were seen on earth. However, they were taken out
of the cupboard by some friends of theirs--friends, indeed! who care as
much about them as I do for the sea-serpent; but who happened, at the
moment, to find it necessary to play at soldiers, to amuse their fretful
children, who didn't know what they wanted, and, what was worse, would
have it--and so the Bulls got back to Rome. And at Rome they are any
thing but safe to stay, as you'll find, my dear, one of these odd
mornings."
"Then, if they are so unsafe, and so found out, ma," said Master C. J.
London, "how come they to interfere with us, now?"
"Oh, C. J. London!" returned Mrs. Bull, "what a sleepy child you must
be to put such a question! Don't you know that the more they are found
out, and the weaker they are, the more important it must be to them to
impose upon the ignorant people near them, by pretending to be closely
connected with a person so much looked up to as your poor father?"
"Why, of course!" cried little John to his brother. "Oh, you stupid!"
"And I am ashamed to have to repeat, C. J. London," said Mrs. Bull,
"that, but for your friend, Young England, and the encouragement you
gave to that mewling little Pussy, when it strayed here--don't say you
didn't, you naughty boy, for you did!"
"You know you did!" said little John.
Master C. J. London began to cry again.
"Don't do that," said Mrs. Bull, sharply, "but be a better boy in
future! I say, I am ashamed to have to repeat, that, but for that, the
Bulls of Rome would never have had the audacity to call their
connection, Master Wiseman, your poor father's child, and to appoint
him, with his red hat and stockings, and his mummery and flummery, to a
portion of your father's estates--though, for the matter of that, there
is nothing to prevent their appointing him to the Moon, except the
difficulty of getting him there! And so, your poor father's affairs have
been brought to this crisis: that he has to deal with an insult which is
perfectly absurd, and yet which he must, for the sake of his family in
all time to come, decisively and seriously deal with, in order to detach
himself, once and forever, from those Bulls of Rome; and show how
impotent they are. There's difficulty and vexation, you have helped to
bring upon your father, you bad child!"
"Oh, oh, oh!" cried Master C. J. London. "Oh, I never went to do it. Oh,
oh, oh!"
"Hold your tongue!" said Mrs. Bull, "and do a good exercise! Now that
your father has turned that Pussy out of doors, go on with your
exercise, like a man; and let us have no more playing with any one
connected with those Bulls of Rome; between whom and you there is a
great gulf fixed, as you ought to have known in the beginning. Take your
fingers out of your eyes, sir, and do your exercise!"
"Or I'll come and pinch you!" said little John.
"John," said Mrs. Bull, "you leave him alone. Keep your eye upon him,
and, if you find him relapsing, tell your father."
"Oh, won't I neither!" cried little John.
"Don't be vulgar," said Mrs. Bull. "Now, John, I can trust _you_.
Whatever you do, I know you won't wake your father unnecessarily. You
are a bold, brave child, and I highly approve of your erecting yourself
against Master Wiseman and all that bad set. But, be wary, John; and, as
you have, and deserve to have, great influence with your father, I am
sure you will be careful how you wake him. If he was to make a wild
rush, and begin to dance about, on the Platform in the Hall, I don't
know where he'd stop."