Chapter II.

Harper’s

New Monthly Magazine

No. XXI.—February, 1852.—Vol. IV.

CONTENTS

Public Life Of Benjamin Franklin. By Jacob Abbott.

Napoleon Bonaparte. The Syrian Expedition. By John S. C. Abbott.

Great Objects Attained By Little Things.

The Sublime Porte.

The Curse Of Gold. A Dream.

Maurice Tiernay, The Soldier Of Fortune.

Anecdotes And Aphorisms.

A Curious Page Of Family History.

The Ass Of La Marca.

The Legend Of The Weeping Chamber.

An Old Maid’s First Love.

The Poison-Eaters.

A Child’s History Of King John’s Reign. By Charles Dickens.

My Novel; Or, Varieties In English Life.

The Orphan’s Dream Of Christmas.

What Christmas Is In The Company Of John Doe. By Charles Dickens.

What Christmas Is, As We Grow Older. By Charles Dickens.

Helen Corrie.—Leaves From The Note-Book Of A Curate.

The Good Old Times In Paris.

Vision Of Charles XI.

Street-Scenes Of The French Usurpation.

What Becomes Of The Rind?

Mazzini, The Italian Liberal.

Chewing The Buyo. A Sketch Of The Philippines.

Sketch Of Suwarow.

Monthly Record of Current Events.

United States.

South America.

Europe.

Editor’s Table.

Editor’s Easy Chair.

Editor’s Drawer.

Literary Notices

A Leaf from Punch

Fashions for February.

Footnotes

PUBLIC LIFE OF BENJAMIN FRANKLIN.(1) BY JACOB ABBOTT.

[Illustration: Benjamin Franklin.]

Benjamin Franklin entered upon his career as a public man when very near

the middle of the active portion of his life. His history, therefore,

naturally divides itself into two equal portions, each entirely distinct

from the other. Until the age of about thirty-five he was simply a

Philadelphia mechanic, discharging his duties, however, in that capacity

so gracefully and with such brilliant success, as to invest industry, and

frugality, and all the other plain and unpretending virtues of humble life

with a sort of poetic charm which has been the means of commending them in

the most effectual manner, to millions of his countrymen. At length,

having accomplished in this field a work equal to the labor of any

ordinary life-time, he was by a sudden shifting of the scene in the drama

of his life, as it were, withdrawn from it, at once and entirely, and

ushered into a wholly different sphere. During all the latter half of his

life he was almost exclusively a public man. He was brought forward by a

peculiar combination of circumstances into a most conspicuous position; a

position, which not only made him the object of interest and attention to

the whole civilized world, but which also invested him with a controlling

power in respect to some of the most important events and transactions of

modern times. Thus there lived, as it were, two Benjamin Franklins,

Benjamin Franklin the honest Philadelphia printer, who quietly prosecuted

his trade during the first part of the eighteenth century, setting an

example of industry and thrift which was destined afterward to exert an

influence over half the world—and Benjamin Franklin the great American

statesman, who flourished in the last part of the same century, and

occupied himself in building and securing the foundations of what will

perhaps prove the greatest political power that any human combination has

ever formed. It is this latter history which is to form the subject of the

present article.

It is remarkable that the first functions which Franklin fulfilled in

public life were of a military character. When he found that his thrift

and prosperity as a citizen, and the integrity and good sense which were

so conspicuous in his personal character, were giving him a great

ascendency among his fellow men, he naturally began to take an interest in

the welfare of the community; and when he first began to turn his

attention in earnest to this subject, which was about the year 1743, there

were two points which seemed to him to demand attention. One was, the want

of a college in Philadelphia; the other, the necessity of some means of

defense against foreign invasion. Spain had been for some time at war with

England, and now France had joined with Spain in prosecuting the war. The

English colonies in America were in imminent danger of being attacked by

the French forces. The influence of the Friends was, however, predominant

in the colonial legislature, and no vote could be obtained there for any

military purposes; though the governor, and a very considerable part of

the population, were extremely desirous that suitable preparations for

defending the city should be made.

There was thus much diversity of sentiment in the public mind, and many

conflicting opinions were expressed in private conversation; but every

thing was unsettled, and no one could tell what it was best to undertake

to do.

Under these circumstances Franklin wrote and published a pamphlet entitled

Plain Truth, placing the defenseless condition of the colony in a strong

light, and calling upon the people to take measures for averting the

danger. This pamphlet produced a great sensation. A meeting of the

citizens was convened. An enrollment of the citizens in voluntary

companies was proposed and carried by acclamation. Papers were circulated

and large numbers of signatures were obtained. The ladies prepared silken

banners, embroidering them with suitable devices and presented these

banners to the companies that were formed. In a word, the whole city was

filled with military enthusiasm. The number of men that were enrolled as

the result of this movement was ten thousand.

[Illustration: Silken Banners.]

Such a case as this is probably wholly without a parallel in the history

of the world, when the legislative government of a state being held back

by conscientious scruples from adopting military measures for the public

defense in a case of imminent danger, the whole community rise voluntarily

at the call of a private citizen, to organize and arm themselves under the

executive power. There was, it is true, very much in the peculiar

circumstances of the occasion to give efficiency to the measures which

Franklin adopted, but there are very few men who, even in such

circumstances, would have conceived of such a design, or could have

accomplished it, if they had made the attempt.

The officers of the Philadelphia regiment, organized from these

volunteers, chose Franklin their colonel. He however declined the

appointment, considering himself, as he said, not qualified for it. They

then appointed another man. Franklin, however, continued to be foremost in

all the movements and plans for maturing and carrying into effect the

military arrangements that were required.

Among other things, he conceived the idea of constructing a battery on the

bank of the river below the town, to defend it from ships that might

attempt to come up the river. To construct this battery, and to provide

cannon for it, would require a considerable amount of money; and in order

to raise the necessary funds, Franklin proposed a public lottery. He

considered the emergency of the crisis, as it would seem, a sufficient

justification for a resort to such a measure. The lottery was arranged,

and the tickets offered for sale. They were taken very fast, for the whole

community were deeply interested in the success of the enterprise. The

money was thus raised and the battery was erected. The walls of it were

made of logs framed together, the space between being filled with earth.

The great difficulty, however, was to obtain cannon for the armament of

the battery. The associates succeeded at length in finding a few pieces of

old ordnance in Boston which they could buy. These they procured and

mounted in their places on the battery. They then sent to England to

obtain more; and in the mean time Franklin was dispatched as a

commissioner to New York, to attempt to borrow some cannon there, to be

used until those which they expected to receive from England should

arrive. His application was in the end successful, though the consent of

Governor Clinton, to whom the application was made, was gained in a

somewhat singular way. “At first,” says Franklin, “he refused us

peremptorily; but at dinner with his council, where there was great

drinking of Madeira wine, as the custom of the place then was, he softened

by degrees, and said he would lend us _six_. After a few more bumpers he

advanced to _ten_; and at length he very good-naturedly conceded

_eighteen_.”

[Illustration: Gun Guard.]

The pieces thus borrowed were eighteen pounders, all in excellent order

and well mounted on suitable carriages. They were soon transported to

Philadelphia and set up in their places on the battery, where they

remained while the war lasted. A company was organized to mount guard

there by day and night. Franklin himself was one of this guard, and he

regularly performed his duty as a common soldier, in rotation with the

rest. In fact, one secret of the great ascendency which he acquired at

this time over all those who were in any way connected with him, was the

unassuming and unpretending spirit which he manifested. He never sought to

appropriate to himself the credit of what he did, but always voluntarily

assumed his full share of all labors and sacrifices that were required.

The members of the society of Friends were very numerous in Philadelphia

at this time, and they held a controlling influence in the legislature.

And inasmuch as the tenets of their society expressly forbade them to

engage in war or war-like operations of any kind, no vote could be

obtained in the legislature to provide for any military preparations. The

Friends, however, were not disposed to insist so tenaciously upon their

views as to be unwilling that others should act as they saw fit. It was

even thought that many of them were willing to encourage and promote the

measures which Franklin was pursuing for the defense of the province, so

far as they could do so without directly violating their professed

principles by acting personally in furtherance of them.

Various instances occurred of this tacit acquiescence on the part of the

Friends in the defensive preparations which were going forward. It was

proposed for example that the fire-company which has already been alluded

to, should invest their surplus funds in lottery tickets, for the battery.

The Friends would not _vote_ for this measure, but a sufficient number of

them absented themselves from the meeting to allow the others to carry it.

In the legislature moreover, they would sometimes grant money “_for the

king’s use_” the tacit understanding being that the funds were to be

employed for military purposes. At one time, before the question of

appropriating the surplus funds of the fire company was disposed of,

Franklin had an idea—which he proposed to one of his friends—of

introducing a resolution at a meeting of the company, for purchasing a

_fire-engine_ with the money. “And then,” said he, “we will buy a _cannon_

with it, for no one can deny that that is a _fire-engine_.”

[Illustration: Indian Bonfire.]

Soon after this Franklin went as a commissioner from the government, to

make a treaty with a tribe of Indians at Carlisle, in the interior of

Pennsylvania. On the night after the treaty was concluded, a great uproar

was heard in the Indian camp, just without the town. The commissioners

went to see what was the matter. They found that the Indians had made a

great bonfire in the middle of the square around which their tents were

pitched, and that all the company, men and women, were around it,

shouting, quarreling and fighting. The spectacle of their dark colored

bodies, half naked, and seen only by the gloomy light of the fire, running

after and beating one another with firebrands, accompanied by the most

unearthly yellings, presented a dreadful scene. The frenzy of the people

was so great that there was no possibility of restraining it, and the

commissioners were obliged to retire and leave the savages to themselves.

[Illustration.]

After this Franklin returned to Philadelphia and devoted his attention to

a variety of plans for the improvement of the city, in all of which his

characteristic ingenuity in devising means for the accomplishment of his

plans, and his calm and quiet, but efficient energy in carrying them into

effect, were as conspicuous as ever. One of the first enterprises in which

he engaged was the founding of a hospital for the reception and cure of

sick persons. The institution which he was the means of establishing has

since become one of the most prominent and useful institutions of the

country. He caused a petition to be prepared and presented to the

Assembly, asking for a grant from the public funds in aid of this

undertaking. The country members were at first opposed to the plan,

thinking that it would mainly benefit the city. In order to diminish this

opposition, Franklin framed the petition so as not to ask for a direct and

absolute grant of the money that was required, but caused a resolve to be

drawn up granting the sum of two thousand pounds from the public treasury

on condition that the same sum should previously be raised by private

subscription. Many of the members were willing to vote for this, who would

not have voted for an unconditional donation; and so the vote was passed

without much opposition.

After this the private subscriptions went on very prosperously; for each

person who was applied to considered the conditional promise of the

Assembly as an additional motive to give, since every man’s donation would

be doubled by the public grant, if the required amount was made up. This

consideration had so powerful an influence that the subscriptions soon

exceeded the requisite sum. Thus the hospital was founded.

[Illustration: Poor Woman.]

Franklin interested himself also in introducing plans for paving, sweeping

and lighting the streets of the city. Before this time the streets had

been kept in very bad condition. This was the case, in fact, at that

period, in almost all cities—in those of Europe as well as those of

America. In connection with this subject Franklin relates an incident that

occurred when he was in London, which illustrates very strikingly both the

condition of the cities in those days, and the peculiar traits of

Franklin’s character. It seems that he found one morning at the door of

his lodgings a poor woman sweeping the pavement with a birch broom. She

appeared very pale and feeble, as if just recovering from a fit of

sickness. “I asked her,” says Franklin, “who employed her to sweep there.”

“Nobody,” said she, “but I am poor and in distress, and I sweeps before

gentlefolks’ doors and hopes they will give me something.”

Instead of driving the poor woman away, Franklin set her at work to sweep

the whole street clean, saying that when she had done it he would pay her

a shilling. She worked diligently all the morning upon the task which

Franklin had assigned her, and at noon came for her shilling. This

incident, trifling as it might seem, led Franklin to a long train of

reflections and calculations in respect to the sweeping of the streets of

cities, and to the formation of plans which were afterward adopted with

much success.

In the year 1755, Franklin became connected with the famous expedition of

General Braddock in the western part of Pennsylvania, which ended so

disastrously. A new war had broken out between the French and the English,

and the French, who had long held possession of Canada, and had gradually

been extending their posts down into the valley of the Mississippi, at

length took possession of the point of confluence of the Monongahela and

Alleghany rivers, where Pittsburg now stands. Here they built a fort,

which they called Fort Du Quesne. From this fort, as the English allege,

the French organized bands of Indians from the tribes which lived in the

neighborhood, and made predatory incursions into the English colonies,

especially into Pennsylvania. The English government accordingly sent

General Braddock at the head of a large force, with instructions to march

through the woods, take the fort, and thus put an end to these incursions.

General Braddock landed with his troops at a port in Virginia, and thence

marched into Maryland on his way to Pennsylvania. He soon found himself in

very serious difficulty, however, from being unable to procure wagons for

the transportation of the military stores and other baggage which it was

necessary to take with the army in going through such a wilderness as lay

between him and fort Du Quesne. He had sent all about the country to

procure wagons, but few could be obtained.

In the mean time the Assembly at Philadelphia made arrangements for

Franklin to go to Maryland to meet General Braddock on his way, and give

him any aid which it might be in his power to render. They were the more

inclined to do this from the fact that for some time there had been a good

deal of disagreement and contention between the colony of Pennsylvania and

the government in England, and they had heard that General Braddock was

much prejudiced against the Assembly on that account. They accordingly

dispatched Franklin as their agent, to proceed to the camp and assure

General Braddock of the desire of the Assembly to co-operate with him by

every means in their power.

Franklin found when he reached the camp, that the general was in great

trouble and perplexity for want of wagons, and he immediately undertook to

procure them for him. He accordingly took a commission from the general

for this purpose, and went at once to Lancaster, in Pennsylvania, and

there issued circulars which he sent to all the farmers in the country,

inviting them to bring their wagons to Lancaster, and offering them

advantageous terms for the hire of them. These measures were perfectly

successful. The wagons came in, in great numbers, and an abundant supply

was speedily obtained. This success was owing partly to Franklin’s

sagacity in knowing exactly where to send for wagons, and what sort of

inducements to offer to the farmers to make them willing to bring them

out, and partly to the universal respect and confidence that was felt

toward him personally, which led the farmers to come forward readily at

_his_ call and on _his_ promise, when they would have been suspicious and

distrustful of any offers which Braddock could have made them through any

of the English officers under his command. A train of one hundred and

fifty wagons, and two hundred and fifty carrying horses were very soon on

their way to the camp.

Encouraged by the success of these measures, Franklin conceived of another

plan to promote the comfort and welfare of Braddock’s army. He procured a

grant of money from the Assembly to be applied to purchasing stores for

the subaltern officers, who, as he had learned, were very scantily

supplied with the articles necessary for their comfort. With this money he

purchased a supply of such commodities as he judged would be most useful

in camp, such as coffee, tea, sugar, biscuit, butter, cheese, hams, &c.,

and dividing these stores into parcels, so as to make one for each officer

in the army, he placed the parcels upon as many horses, and sent them to

the camp. The supply intended for each officer made a load for one horse.

[Illustration: Supply Horse.]

Notwithstanding all these efforts, however, to promote the success of

Braddock’s expedition, it was destined, as is well known, to come to a

very disastrous end. Braddock allowed himself to fall into an ambuscade.

Here he was attacked by the Indians with terrible fury. The men stood

their ground as long as possible, but finally were seized with a panic and

fled in all directions. The wagoners—men who had come from the

Philadelphia farms in charge of the wagons that had been furnished in

answer to Franklin’s call—in making their escape, took each a horse out of

his team, and galloped away, and thus the wagons themselves and all the

provisions, ammunition, and military stores of every kind, fell into the

hands of the enemy. Braddock himself was wounded, nearly half of the

troops were killed, and the whole object of the expedition was completely

frustrated. The wounded general was conveyed back about forty miles to the

rear, and there, a few days afterward, he died.

[Illustration: Braddock’s Escape.]

Of course a feeling of great alarm was awakened throughout Pennsylvania as

the tidings of this disaster were spread abroad. Every one was convinced

that some efficient measures must at once he adopted to defend the country

from the incursions of the French and Indians on the frontier. There was,

however, a very serious difficulty in the way of taking such measures.

This difficulty was, an obstinate quarrel which had existed for a long

time between the governor and the Assembly. The governor was appointed in

England, and he represented the views and the interests of the English

proprietors of the colony. The Assembly were elected by the people of the

colony, and of course represented their interests and views. Now the

proprietors had instructed the governor to insist that _their_ property

should not be subject to taxation; and to refuse his assent to all bills

for raising money unless the property of the proprietors should be

exempted. On the other hand the colonists maintained that the land

belonging to the proprietors was as justly subject to taxation as any

other property; and they refused to pass any bills for raising money

unless the property of the proprietors was included. Thus nothing could be

done.

This dispute had already been long protracted and both parties had become

somewhat obstinate in their determination to maintain the ground which

they had respectively taken. Even now when the country was in this

imminent danger, it was some time before either side would yield, while

each charged upon the other the responsibility of refusing to provide the

means for the defense of the country.

At length, however, a sort of compromise was made. The proprietors offered

to contribute a certain sum toward the public defense, and the Assembly

consented to receive the contribution in lieu of a tax, and passed a law

for raising money, exempting the proprietors’ land from being taxed. The

sum of sixty thousand pounds was thus raised, and Franklin was appointed

one of the commissioners for disposing of the money.

A law was also enacted for organizing and arming a volunteer militia; and

while the companies were forming, the governor persuaded Franklin to take

command of the force, and proceed at the head of it to the frontier.

Franklin was reluctant to undertake this military business, as his whole

life had been devoted to entirely different pursuits. He, however,

accepted the appointment, and undertook the defense of the frontier.

There was a settlement of Moravians about fifty or sixty miles from

Philadelphia, at Bethlehem, which was then upon the frontier. Bethlehem

was the principal settlement of the Moravians, but they had several

villages besides. One of these villages, named Gnadenhütten, had just been

destroyed by the Indians, and the whole settlement was in great alarm.

Franklin proceeded to Bethlehem with his force, and having made such

arrangements and preparations as seemed necessary there, he obtained some

wagons for his stores, and set off on a march to Gnadenhütten. His object

was to erect a fort and establish a garrison there.

[Illustration.]

It was in the dead of winter, and before the column had proceeded many

miles a violent storm of rain came on, but there were no habitations along

the road, and no places of shelter; so the party were obliged to proceed.

They went on toiling heavily through the mud and snow.

They were of course in constant danger of an attack from the Indians, and

were the more apprehensive of this from the fact that on such a march they

were necessarily in a very defenseless condition. Besides, the rain fell

so continually and so abundantly that the men could not keep the locks of

their muskets dry. They went on, however, in this way for many hours, but

at last they came to the house of a solitary German settler, and here they

determined to stop for the night. The whole troop crowded into the house

and into the barn, where they lay that night huddled together, and “as

wet,” Franklin says, “as water could make them.” The next day, however,

was fair, and they proceeded on their march in a somewhat more comfortable

manner.

They arrived at length at Gnadenhütten, where a most melancholy spectacle

awaited them. The village was in ruins. The country people of the

neighborhood had attempted to give the bodies of the murdered inhabitants

a hurried burial; but they had only half performed their work, and the

first duty which devolved on Franklin’s soldiers was to complete the

interment in a proper manner. The next thing to be thought of was to

provide some sort of shelter for the soldiers; for they had no tents, and

all the houses had been destroyed.

There was a mill near by, around which were several piles of pine boards

which the Indians had not destroyed. Franklin set his troops at work to

make huts of these boards, and thus in a short time his whole army was

comfortably sheltered. All this was done on the day and evening of their

arrival, and on the following morning the whole force was employed in

commencing operations upon the fort.

The fort was to be built of palisades, and it was marked out of such a

size that the circumference was four hundred and fifty-five feet. This

would require four hundred and fifty-five palisades; for the palisades

were to be formed of logs, of a foot in diameter upon an average, and

eighteen feet long. The palisades were to be obtained from the trees in

the neighborhood, and these trees were so tall that each tree would make

three palisades. The men had seventy axes in all, and the most skillful

and able woodmen in the company were immediately set at work to fell the

trees. Franklin says that he was surprised to observe how fast these axmen

would cut the trees down; and at length he had the curiosity to look at

his watch when two men began to cut at a pine. They brought it down in six

minutes; and on measuring it, where they had cut it off, Franklin found

the diameter of the tree to be fourteen inches.

While the woodmen were cutting the palisades a large number of other

laborers were employed in digging a trench all around the circumference of

the fort to receive them. This trench was made about three feet deep, and

wide enough to receive the large ends of the palisades. As fast as the

palisades were cut they were brought to the spot, by means of the wagon

wheels which had been separated from the wagon bodies for this purpose.

The palisades were set up, close together, in the trench, and the earth

was rammed in around them; thus the inclosure of the fort was soon

completed.

A platform was then built all around on the inside, for the men to stand

upon to fire through the loop holes which were left in the palisades

above. There was one swivel gun, which the men had brought with them in

one of the wagons. This gun they mounted in one corner of the fort, and as

soon as they had mounted it they fired it, in order, as Franklin said, to

let the Indians know, if any were within hearing, that they had such

artillery.

There _were_ Indians within hearing it seems; several bands were lurking

in the neighborhood, secretly watching the movements of Franklin’s

command. This was found to be the case a short time after the fort was

completed, for when Franklin found his army securely posted he sent out a

party of scouts to explore the surrounding country to see if any traces of

Indians could be found. These men saw no Indians, but they found certain

places on the neighboring hills where it was evident that Indians had been

lurking to watch the proceedings of the soldiers in building the fort.

Franklin’s men were much struck with the ingenious contrivance which the

Indians had resorted to, in order to escape being observed while thus

watching. As it was in the depth of the winter it was absolutely necessary

for them to have a fire, and without some special precaution a fire would

have betrayed them, by the light which it would emit at night, or the

smoke which would rise from it by day. To avoid this, the Indians, they

found, had dug holes in the ground, and made their fires in the bottoms of

the holes, using charcoal only for fuel, for this would emit no smoke.

They obtained the charcoal from the embers, and brands, and burnt ends of

logs, which they found in the woods near by. The soldiers found by the

marks on the grass around these holes that the Indians had been accustomed

to sit around them upon the edges, with their feet below, near the fire.

The building and arming of such a fort, and the other military

arrangements which Franklin made on the frontier produced such an

impression upon the Indians that they gradually withdrew, leaving that

part of the country in a tolerably secure condition. Soon after this

Franklin was summoned by the governor to return to Philadelphia, as his

presence and counsel were required there. He found on his arrival that he

had acquired great fame by the success of his military operations. In fact

quite a distinguished honor was paid to him, soon after this time, on the

occasion of his going to Virginia on some public business. The officers of

the regiment resolved to escort him out of the town, on the morning when

he was to commence his journey. He knew nothing of this project until just

as he was coming forth, when he found the officers at the door, all

mounted and dressed in their uniforms. Franklin says that he was a good

deal chagrined at their appearing, as he could not avoid their

accompanying him, though if he had known it beforehand he should have

prevented it.

[Illustration: Departure.]

While Franklin was thus acquiring some considerable military renown in

America, he was becoming quite celebrated as a philosopher on the

continent of Europe. It seems that some years before, the library society

of Philadelphia had received some articles of electrical apparatus from

England, and Franklin had performed certain experiments with them which

led him to believe, what had not been known before, that lightning was an

electrical phenomenon. He wrote some account of his experiments, and of

the views which they had led him to entertain, and sent it to the person

from whom the library society had received the apparatus. These papers

attracted much attention, and were at length laid before the Royal Society

of London, and soon afterward published in the transactions of the

Society. In this form they were seen by a distinguished French

philosopher, the Count de Buffon, who caused them to be be translated into

the French language and published at Paris. By this means the attention of

the whole scientific world was called to Franklin’s speculations, and as

the correctness of his views was fully established by subsequent

investigations and experiments, he acquired great renown. He was elected a

member of the various scientific societies, and the Royal Society of

London sent him a magnificent gold medal.

[Illustration: Count de Buffon.]

This medal was brought to America to be delivered to Franklin by a new

Governor, Captain Denny, who was about this time appointed over the colony

of Pennsylvania. The course of public business had often brought Franklin

and the former governor into conflict with each other; for the governor,

as has already been said, represented the interests of the English

proprietors of the colony, while Franklin espoused very warmly the cause

of the people. The governor often sent messages and addresses to the

Assembly censuring them for the course of proceeding which they had

followed in reference to taxing the proprietors’ lands, and the Assembly

often appointed Franklin to draw up suitable replies. The new governor

seems to have been pleased with having the medal intrusted to his charge,

as he intended in commencing his administration, to do all in his power to

propitiate Franklin, so as to secure the great influence which the

philosopher had now begun to wield in the province, in his favor.

When Governor Denny arrived at Philadelphia and entered upon the duties of

his office, he determined on giving a great entertainment to the people of

Philadelphia, and to take that occasion for presenting Franklin with his

medal. This he accordingly did; and he accompanied the presentation with

an appropriate speech, in which he complimented Franklin in a very

handsome manner for his scientific attainments, and spoke in flattering

terms of the renown which he was acquiring in Europe. After the dinner, he

took Franklin aside into a small room, leaving the general company still

at the table, and entered into conversation with him in respect to the

affairs of the province and the contemplated measures of his

administration. He had been advised, he said, by his friends in England,

to cultivate a good understanding with Franklin, as a man capable of

giving him the best advice, and of contributing most effectually to making

his administration easy. He said a great deal about the friendly feeling

toward the colony which was entertained by the proprietors, and about the

advantage which it would be to all concerned, and to Franklin in

particular, if the opposition which had been made to the proprietor’s

views should be discontinued, and harmony restored between them and the

people of the colony.

[Illustration: Franklin and Denny.]

During all this time while the governor was plying his guest with these

flatteries and promises, he was offering him wine and drinking his health;

for the people at the dinner table, when they found that the governor did

not return, sent a decanter of Madeira and some glasses into the room

where he and Franklin were sitting. All these civilities and

blandishments, however, on the part of the governor seem to have been

thrown away. Franklin replied with politeness, but yet in such a manner as

to evince a full determination to adhere faithfully to the cause of the

colonists, in case any farther encroachments on their rights should be

attempted.

In fact the breach between the people of the colony and the proprietors in

England soon began to grow wider, under the administration of the new

governor, than they had ever been before, until at length it was decided

to send Franklin to England to lay a remonstrance and petition against the

proceedings of the proprietors, before the king. Franklin accordingly took

passage on board of a packet which was to sail from New York.

A great many embarrassments and delays, however, supervened before he

finally set sail. In the first place, he was detained by certain

negotiations which were entered into between Governors Loudoun of New

York, and Denny of Philadelphia on the one part, and the Philadelphia

Assembly on the other, in a vain attempt to compromise the difficulty,

until the packet in which he had taken passage had sailed, carrying with

her all the stores which he had laid in for the voyage. Next, he found

himself detained week after week in New York by the dilatoriness and

perpetual procrastination of Governor Loudoun, who kept back the packets

as they came in, one after another, in order to get his dispatches

prepared. He was always busy writing letters and dispatches, but they

seemed never to be ready; so that it was said of him by some wags that he

was like the figure of St. George upon the tavern signs, “who though

always on horseback never rides on.”

[Illustration: St. George Sign.]

After being detained in this way several weeks, it was announced that the

packets were about to sail, and the passengers were all ordered to go on

board. The packets proceeded to Sandy Hook, and there anchored to wait for

the governor’s final dispatches. Here they were kept waiting day after day

for about six weeks, so that at last the passengers’ stores were consumed,

and they had to obtain a fresh supply; and one of the vessels became so

foul with the incrustation of shells and barnacles upon her hull, that she

required to be taken into dock and cleaned. At length, however, the fleet

sailed, and Franklin, after various adventures, arrived safely one foggy

morning at Falmouth in England.

[Illustration: The Ship.]

The vessel narrowly escaped shipwreck on the Scilly Islands as they were

approaching the town of Falmouth. Although the wind was not violent, the

weather was very thick and hazy, and there was a treacherous current

drifting them toward the rocks as they attempted to pass by the island and

gain the shore. There was a watchman stationed at the bow, whose duty it

was to keep a vigilant look-out. This watchman was called to from time to

time by an officer on the deck, “Look out well before there,” and he as

often answered “Ay, ay;” but he neglected his duty, notwithstanding, being

probably half asleep at his station; for suddenly all on deck were alarmed

by an outcry, and looking forward they saw the light-house which stood

upon the rocks, looming up close before them. The ship was immediately

brought round by a kind of manœuvre considered very dangerous in such

circumstances, but it was successful in this case, and thus they escaped

the impending danger. The passengers were all aware of the peril they were

in, and many of them were exceedingly alarmed. In fact, the shipmaster and

the seamen considered it a very narrow escape. If the ship had gone upon

the rocks, the whole company would probably have perished.

It was Sunday morning and the bells were ringing for church when the

passengers landed. Franklin with the others went to church immediately,

with hearts full of gratitude to God, as he says, for the deliverance

which they had experienced. He then went to his inn and wrote a letter to

his family giving them an account of his voyage.

[Illustration: Franklin Writing.]

A few days after this he went up to London, and began to devote himself to

the business of his agency.

He found, however, that he made very slow progress in accomplishing his

object, for the ministry were so much engaged with other affairs, that for

a long time he could not obtain a hearing. He however was not idle. He

wrote pamphlets and articles in the newspapers; and every thing that he

wrote was of so original a character, and so apposite, and was moreover

expressed with so much terseness and point, that it attracted great

attention and acquired great influence.

In fact, Franklin was distinguished all his life for the genius and

originality which he displayed in expressing any sentiments which he

wished to inculcate upon mankind. One of the most striking examples of

this is the celebrated Parable against persecution of which he is

generally considered the author; it is as follows:

[Illustration: Abraham and the Old Man.]

And it came to pass after these things, that Abraham sat in the

door of his tent, about the going down of the sun.

2. And behold, a man, bowed with age, came from the way of the

wilderness, leaning on a staff.

3. And Abraham arose and met him, and said unto him, “Turn in, I

pray thee, and wash thy feet, and tarry all night, and thou shalt

arise early on the morrow, and go on thy way.”

4. But the man said, “Nay, for I will abide under this tree.”

5. And Abraham pressed him greatly; so he turned, and they went

into the tent, and Abraham baked unleavened bread, and they did

eat.

6. And when Abraham saw that the man blessed not God, he said unto

him, “Wherefore dost thou not worship the most high God, Creator

of heaven and earth?”

7. And the man answered and said, “I do not worship the God thou

speakest of, neither do I call upon his name; for I have made to

myself a god, which abideth alway in mine house, and provideth me

with all things.”

8. And Abraham’s zeal was kindled against the man, and he arose

and fell upon him, and drove him forth with blows into the

wilderness.

9. And at midnight God called unto Abraham, saying, “Abraham,

where is the stranger?”

10. And Abraham answered and said, “Lord, he would not worship

thee, neither would he call upon thy name; therefore have I driven

him out from before my face into the wilderness.”

11. And God said, “Have I borne with him these hundred ninety and

eight years, and nourished him, and clothed him, notwithstanding

his rebellion against me; and couldst not thou, that art thyself a

sinner, bear with him one night?”

‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐

This parable, the idea of which Franklin probably obtained from some

ancient Persian books, he wrote out and committed to memory, and he used

to amuse himself sometimes by opening the Bible, and repeating the parable

as if he were reading it from that book; and he found, he said, that very

few auditors were sufficiently acquainted with the contents of the sacred

volume to suspect the deception.

He often expressed the sentiments which he wished to inculcate, in some

unusual and striking form, as in this instance. His conversation assumed

somewhat the same character, so that wherever he was, his sayings and

doings always attracted great attention.

In respect to this parable on persecution, although it is generally

considered as the production of Franklin, it was never really claimed as

such by him. In fact, Franklin himself did not publish it. It was

published without his knowledge, by a friend of his in Scotland, the

celebrated Lord Kames, who inserted it in a volume of his writings, saying

it was “furnished to him” by Franklin. Lord Kames resided in Scotland, and

Franklin became acquainted with him during a visit which he made to that

country in the summer of 1759. Lord Kames became very greatly interested

in Franklin’s character, and a warm friendship and constant correspondence

was kept up between the two philosophers for many years, as long, in fact,

as Lord Kames lived; for Franklin was the survivor.

[Illustration: Mrs. Stevenson.]

Franklin’s residence while he was in London was in Craven-street, near the

Strand, at the house of a Mrs. Stevenson. This house is still commemorated

in the London Guide Books, among other places of historical interest in

the metropolis, on account of its having been the home of the

distinguished philosopher so long. Franklin lived on very friendly terms

with Mrs. Stevenson and her family, while he remained in her house, and he

interested himself in the studies and instruction of her daughter. At the

same time he kept up a constant and familiar correspondence with his wife

and family at home. One of his sons was with him during his residence in

England having accompanied him when he came over. His friends were very

desirous that he should send for his wife to come to England too, and more

especially his daughter Sally, who was a very attractive and agreeable

young lady, just arrived to years of woman-hood. One of Franklin’s most

intimate friends, Mr. Strahan, a member of Parliament, wrote to Mrs.

Franklin very urgently requesting her to come to England with her

daughter. Franklin himself, however, seems not to have seconded this

proposition very strongly. He knew, in the first place, that his wife had

an irresistible repugnance to undertaking a sea voyage, and then he was

continually hoping that the long and weary negotiations in which he was

engaged would be brought soon to an end, so that he could return himself

to his native land.

At length, after an infinite variety of difficulties and delays, the

object for which Franklin had been sent to England was in the main

accomplished. It was decided that the lands of the proprietors should be

taxed as well as the property of the colonists. There were several other

measures which he had been desirous of securing, which he found then

impracticable. Still his object in the main was accomplished, and the

Assembly were well satisfied with what he had done. He accordingly

concluded to return to America.

He left England about the end of August, in 1762, in company with ten sail

of merchant ships under convoy of a man-of-war. They touched at Madeira on

the passage, where they were very kindly received by the inhabitants, and

Franklin was very much interested in the observations which he made on the

island and its productions. After remaining on the island for a few days,

and furnishing the ships with provisions and refreshments of all kinds,

the ships sailed again. They proceeded southward until they reached the

trade winds, and then westward toward the coast of America. All this time

the weather was so favorable, and the water was so smooth, that there were

very few days when the passengers could not visit from ship to ship,

dining with each other on board the different vessels, which made the time

pass very agreeably; “much more so,” as Franklin said, “than when one goes

in a single ship, as this was like traveling in a moving village with all

one’s neighbors about one.”

He arrived at home on the 1st of November, after an absence of between

five and six years. He found his wife and daughter well—the latter, as he

says, grown to quite a woman, and with many amiable accomplishments,

acquired during his absence. He was received too with great distinction by

the public authorities and by the people of Philadelphia. The Assembly

voted him twelve thousand pounds for his services, and also passed a vote

of thanks, to be presented to him in public by the Speaker. His friends

came in great numbers to see him and congratulate him on his safe return,

so that his house for many days was filled with them. Besides these public

and private honors bestowed upon himself, Franklin experienced an

additional satisfaction also at this time on account of the distinction to

which his son was attaining. His son had been appointed Governor of New

Jersey just before his father left England, and he remained behind when

his father sailed, in order to be married to a very agreeable West India

lady to whom he had proposed himself, with his father’s consent and

approbation. The young governor and his bride arrived in Philadelphia a

few months after Franklin himself came home. Franklin accompanied his son

to New Jersey, where he had the pleasure of seeing him warmly welcomed by

people of all ranks, and then left him happily established in his

government there.

Soon after this Franklin, who still held the office of postmaster for the

colonies, turned his attention to the condition of the post-office, and

concluded to make a tour of inspection with reference to this business in

all the colonies north of Philadelphia. He took his daughter with him on

this journey, although it was likely to be a very long and fatiguing one.

He traveled in a wagon, accompanied by a saddle horse. His daughter rode

on this horse for a considerable part of the journey. At the beginning of

it she rode on the horse only occasionally; but, as she became accustomed

to the exercise, she found it more and more agreeable, and on the journey

home she traveled in this manner nearly all the way from Rhode Island to

Philadelphia.

[Illustration: Travelling by Wagon.]

Not long after this time new Indian difficulties occurred on the

frontiers, which called for the raising of a new military force to

suppress them. A law was accordingly proposed in the Assembly for

providing the necessary funds for this purpose by a tax. And now it was

found that the question which Franklin had been sent to Europe to arrange,

namely, the question of taxing the proprietary lands had not, after all,

been so definitely settled as was supposed. The language of the law was

this: “The uncultivated lands of the proprietaries shall not be assessed

higher than the lowest rate at which any uncultivated lands belonging to

the inhabitants shall be assessed;” and on attempting to determine the

practical application of this language, it was found to be susceptible of

two interpretations. The Assembly understood it to mean that the land of

the proprietaries should not be taxed higher than that of any of the

inhabitants, _of the same quality_. Whereas the governor insisted that the

meaning must be that none of the proprietaries’ land should be taxed any

higher than the lowest and poorest belonging to any of the inhabitants.

The language of the enactment is, perhaps, susceptible of either

construction. It will certainly bear the one which the governor put upon

it, and as he insisted, in the most absolute and determined manner, upon

his view of the question, the Assembly were at length compelled to yield;

for the terrible danger which impended over the colony from the Indians on

the frontier would not admit of delay.

The people of the colony, though thus beaten in the contest and forced to

submit, were by no means disposed to submit peaceably. On the contrary a

very general feeling of indignation and resentment took possession of the

community, and at length it was determined to send a petition to the King

of Great Britain, praying him to dispossess the proprietaries of the power

which they were so obstinately determined on abusing, and to assume the

government of the colonies himself, as a prerogative of the crown. The

coming to this determination on the part of the colony was not effected

without a great deal of debate, and political animosity and contention,

for the governor of course had a party on his side, and they exerted

themselves to the utmost to prevent the adoption of the petition. It was,

however, carried against all opposition. The Speaker of the Assembly

however, refused to sign the bill when it was passed, and he resigned his

office to avoid the performance of this duty, an act which would of course

greatly please the proprietary party. The majority of the Assembly then

elected Franklin Speaker, and he at once signed the bill. This proceeding

made Franklin specially obnoxious to the proprietary party, and at the

next election of members of the Assembly they made every possible effort

in Franklin’s district to prevent his being chosen. They succeeded.

Franklin lost his election by about twenty-five votes out of four

thousand. But though the proprietary interest was thus the strongest in

Franklin’s district, it was found when the new Assembly came together that

the party that was opposed to them was in a majority of two-thirds; and in

order to rebuke their opponents for the efforts which they had made to

defeat Franklin in his district, they immediately passed a vote to send

him to England again, as a special messenger, to present the petition

which they had voted, to the king.

[Illustration: Church.]

The animosity and excitement which attended this contest was of course

extreme, and the character and the whole political course of Franklin,

were assailed by his enemies with all the violence and pertinacity that

characterize political contests of this kind at the present day. Franklin,

however, bore it all very good-naturedly. Just before he sailed, after he

had left Philadelphia to repair to the ship, which was lying some distance

down the river, he wrote a very affectionate letter to his daughter to bid

her farewell and give her his parting counsels. “You know,” said he, in

this letter, “that I have many enemies, all, indeed, on the public account

(for I can not recollect that I have in a private capacity given just

cause of offense to any one whatever), yet they are enemies, and very

bitter ones; and you must expect their enmity will extend in some degree

to you, so that your slightest indiscretions will be magnified into

crimes, in order the more sensibly to wound and afflict me. It is,

therefore, the more necessary for you to be extremely circumspect in all

your behavior, that no advantage may be given to their malevolence.” Then

followed various counsels relating to her duty to her mother, her general

deportment, her studies, and her obligations to the church. The church

with which Franklin was connected was of the Episcopal denomination, and

he took a great interest in its prosperity; though he manifested the same

liberality and public spirit here as in all the other relations that he

sustained. At one time, for example, it was proposed by certain members of

the congregation to form a sort of colony, and build a new church in

another place. A portion of the people opposed this plan as tending to

weaken the mother church, but Franklin favored it, thinking that in the

end the measure would have a contrary effect from the one they

apprehended. He compared it to the swarming of bees, by which, he said,

the comfort and prosperity of the old hive was increased, and a new and

flourishing colony established to keep the parent stock in countenance.

Very few persons, at that period, would have seen either the expediency or

the duty of pursuing such a course in respect to the colonization of a

portion of a church: though now such views are very extensively

entertained by all liberal minded men, and many such colonies are now

formed from thriving churches, with the concurrence of all concerned.

[Illustration: Assembled upon the wharf.]

But to return to the voyage. Franklin was to embark on board his ship at

Chester, a port situated down the river from Philadelphia, on the confines

of the State of Delaware. A cavalcade of three hundred people from

Philadelphia accompanied him to Chester, and a great company assembled

upon the wharf, when the vessel was about to sail, to take leave of their

distinguished countryman and wish him a prosperous voyage. The crowd thus

assembled saluted Franklin with acclamations and cheers, as the boat which

was to convey him to the vessel slowly moved away from the shore. The day

of his sailing was the 7th of November, 1764, about two years after his

return from his former visit.

The voyage across the Atlantic was a prosperous one, notwithstanding that

it was so late in the season. Franklin wrote a letter home to give his

wife and daughter an account of his voyage, before he left the vessel. On

landing he proceeded to London, and went directly to his old landlady’s,

at Mrs. Stevenson’s, in Craven-street, Strand. When the news of his safe

arrival reached Philadelphia, the people of the city celebrated the event

by ringing the bells, and other modes of public rejoicing. The hostility

which had been manifested toward him had operated to make him a greater

favorite than ever.

Franklin now began to turn his attention toward the business of his

agency. He had not been long in England, however, before difficulties grew

up between the colonies and the mother country, which proved to be of a

far more serious character than those which had been discussed at

Philadelphia. Parliament claimed the right to tax the colonies. The

colonies maintained that their own legislatures alone had this right, and

a long and obstinate dispute ensued. The English government devised all

sorts of expedients to assess the taxes in such a way that the Americans

should be compelled to pay them; and the Americans on their part met these

attempts by equally ingenious and far more effectual contrivances for

evading the payment. For a time the Americans refused to use any British

commodities, in order that the people of England might see that by the

persisting of the government in their determination to tax the colonies,

they would lose a very valuable trade. Franklin joined in this effort,

insomuch that for a long time he would not make purchases in England of

any articles to send home to his family. At length the difficulty was in

some measure compromised. One of the most obnoxious of the acts of

Parliament for taxing America was repealed, and then for the first time

Franklin purchased and sent home to his wife and daughter quite a trunk

full of dresses—silks, satins, and brocade—with gloves, and bottles of

lavender water, and other such niceties to fill the corners. He told her,

in the letter which he sent with this trunk, that, as the Stamp Act was

repealed, he was now willing that she should have a new gown.

[Illustration: The Gown.]

In fact the great philosopher’s attention was attracted at this time in

some degree to the effect of dress upon his own personal appearance, for

on making a visit to Paris, which he did toward the close of 1767, he says

that the French tailor and perruquier so transformed him as to make him

appear twenty years younger than he really was.

[Illustration: Twenty Years Younger.]

Franklin received a great deal of attention while he was in Paris, and he

seems to have enjoyed his visit there very highly. The most distinguished

men in the walks of literature and science sought his society, for they

all knew well his reputation as a philosopher; and many of them had read

his writings and had repeated the experiments which he had made, and which

had awakened so deep an interest throughout the whole learned world.

Franklin received too, many marks of distinction and honor from the public

men of France—especially from those who were connected with the

government. It was supposed that they had been watching the progress of

the disputes between England and her colonies, and secretly hoping that

these disputes might end in an open rupture; for such a rupture they

thought would end in weakening the power of their ancient rival.

Sympathizing thus with the party in this contest which Franklin

represented, they naturally felt a special interest in him. Franklin was

presented at court, and received into the most distinguished society in

the metropolis.

After a time he returned again to England, but he found when he arrived

there that the state of things between the English government and the

American colonies was growing worse instead of better. Parliament insisted

on its right “to bind the colonies,” as their resolve expressed it, “in

all cases whatsoever.” The Americans, on the other hand, were more and

more determined to resist such a claim. Parliament adopted measures more

and more stringent every day, to compel the colonies to submit. They

passed coercive laws; they devised ingenious modes of levying taxes; they

sent out troops, and in every possible way strengthened the military

position of the government in America. The colonists, on the other hand,

began to evince the most determined spirit of hostility to the measures of

the mother country. They held great public assemblages; they passed

violent resolves; they began to form extensive and formidable combinations

for resisting or evading the laws. Thus every thing portended an

approaching conflict.

Franklin exerted all his power and influence for a long time in attempting

to heal the breach. He wrote pamphlets and articles in the newspapers in

England defending, though in a tone of great candor and moderation, the

rights of America, and urging the ministry and people of England not to

persist in their attempts at coercion. At the same time he wrote letters

to America, endeavoring to diminish the violence of the agitation there,

in hopes that by keeping back the tide of excitement and passion which was

so rapidly rising, some mode of adjustment might be found to terminate the

difficulty. All these efforts were, however, in vain. The quarrel grew

wider and more hopeless every day.

About this time the administration of the colonial affairs for the English

government was committed to a new officer, Lord Hillsborough, who was now

made Secretary of State for America; and immediately new negotiations were

entered into, and new schemes formed, for settling the dispute. Two or

three years thus passed away, but nothing was done. At length Lord

Hillsborough seems to have conceived the idea of winning over Franklin’s

influence to the side of the English government by compliments and

flattering attentions. He met him one morning in Dublin, at the house of

the Lord-lieutenant of Ireland, where he paid him special civilities, and

invited him in the most cordial manner to visit him at his country mansion

at Hillsborough, in the north of England. Franklin was then contemplating

a journey northward, and in the course of this journey he stopped at

Hillsborough. He and his party were received with the greatest attention

by his lordship, and detained four days, during which time Franklin was

loaded with civilities.

If these attentions were really designed to make Franklin more manageable,

as the representative of the colonies in the contest that was going on,

they wholly failed of their object; for in the negotiations which

followed, Franklin continued as firm and intractable as ever. In fact, not

long after this, he came directly into conflict with Lord Hillsborough

before the Board of Trade, when a certain measure relating to the

colony—one which Lord Hillsborough strongly opposed, and Franklin as

strenuously advocated—was in debate. At last after a long contest Franklin

gained the day; and this result so changed his lordship’s sentiments

toward Franklin that for some time he treated him with marked rudeness. At

one time Franklin called to pay his respects to Lord Hillsborough on a day

when his lordship was holding a levee, and when there were a number of

carriages at the door. Franklin’s coachman drove up, alighted, and was

opening the carriage for Franklin to dismount, when the porter came out,

and in the most supercilious and surly manner rebuked the coachman for

opening the door of the carriage before he had inquired whether his

lordship was at home; and then turning to Franklin he said, “My lord is

_not_ at home.”

[Illustration: Franklin and Hillsborough.]

Lord Hillsborough, however, recovered from his resentment after this, in

the course of a year; and at length on one occasion his lordship called

upon Franklin in his room, and accosted him in a very cordial and friendly

manner, as if no difficulty between them had ever occurred.

In the mean time the determination in America to resist the principle of

the supremacy of Parliament over the colonies, became more and more

extended. A disposition was manifested by the several colonies to combine

their efforts for this end, and one after another of them sent out

commissions to Franklin to act as their agent, as well as agent for

Pennsylvania. Things went on in this way until a certain tragical affair

occurred in Boston, known generally in American accounts of these events

as the Boston massacre, which greatly increased the popular excitement

among the people of the colonies.

This massacre, as it was called, was the shooting of some persons in a

crowd in State-street in Boston, by the British soldiers. It originated

thus: A company of boys one day undertook to burn effigies of certain

merchants who persisted in importing British goods and secretly selling

them, thus taking sides as it were against their countrymen in the contest

that was going on. While doing this a man whom they considered a spy and

informer came by; and the boys, in some way or other, became involved in a

quarrel with him. The man retreated to his house; the boys followed him

and threw snow-balls and pieces of ice at the house when he had gone in.

The man brought a gun to the window and shot one of the boys dead on the

spot.

[Illustration: Boston Massacre.]

This of course produced a very intense excitement throughout the city. The

soldiers naturally took part with those supposed to favor British

interests; this exasperated the populace against them, and finally, after

various collisions, a case occurred in which the British officer deemed it

his duty to order the troops to fire upon a crowd of people that were

assembled to taunt and threaten them, and pelt them with ice and snow.

They had been led to assemble thus, through some quarrel that had sprung

up between a sentinel and one of the young men of the town. In the firing

three men were killed outright, and two more were mortally wounded. The

killing of these men was called a massacre, and the tidings of it produced

a universal and uncontrollable excitement throughout the provinces.

[Illustration: Lord Chatham.]

In proportion, however, as the spirit of resistance to British rule

manifested itself in America, the determination became more and more firm

and decided on the part of the British government not to yield. It is a

point of honor with all governments, and especially with monarchical

governments, not to give way in the slightest degree to what they call

rebellion. There were, however, a few among the British statesmen who

foresaw the impossibility of subduing the spirit which was manifesting

itself in America, by any force which could be brought to bear upon so

distant and determined a population. Lord Chatham was one of these; and he

actually brought forward in Parliament, in 1775, just before the

revolution broke out, a bill for withdrawing the troops from Boston as the

first step toward a conciliatory course of measures. Franklin was present

in Parliament, by Chatham’s particular request, at the time when this

motion was brought forward. In the speech which Lord Chatham made on this

occasion, he alluded to Franklin, and spoke of him in the highest terms.

The motion was advocated too, by Lord Camden, another of the British

peers, who made an able speech in favor of it. On the other hand it was

most violently opposed by other speakers, and Franklin himself was

assailed by one of them in very severe terms. When the vote came to be

taken, it was lost by a large majority; and thus all hope of any thing

like a reconciliation disappeared.

[Illustration: Lord Camden.]

A great variety of ingenious devices were resorted to from time to time to

propitiate Franklin, and to secure his influence in America, in favor of

some mode of settling the difficulty, which would involve submission on

the part of the colonies. He was for example quite celebrated for his

skill in playing chess, and at one time he was informed that a certain

lady of high rank desired to play chess with him, thinking that she could

beat him. He of course acceded to this request and played several games

with her. The lady was a sister of Lord Howe, a nobleman who subsequently

took a very active and important part in the events of the revolution. It

turned out in the end that this plan of playing chess was only a manœuvre

to open the way for Franklin’s visiting at Mrs. Howe’s house, in order

that Lord Howe himself might there have the opportunity of conferring with

him on American affairs without attracting attention. Various conferences

were accordingly held between Franklin and Lord Howe, at this lady’s

house, and many other similar negotiations were carried on with various

other prominent men about this time, but they led to nothing satisfactory.

In fact, the object of them all was to bring over Franklin to the British

side of the question, and to induce him to exert his almost unlimited

influence with the colonies to bring them over. But nothing of this sort

could be done.

[Illustration: Mrs. Howe.]

Ten years had now passed away since Franklin went to England, and it began

to appear very obvious that the difficulties in which his mission had

originated, could not be settled, but would soon lead to an open rupture

between the colonies and the mother country. Franklin of course concluded

that for him to remain any longer in England would be of no avail. He had

hitherto exerted all his power to promote a settlement of the dispute, and

had endeavored to calm the excitement of the people at home, and restrain

them from the adoption of any rash or hasty measures. He now, however,

gave up all hope of a peaceable settlement of the question, and returned

to America prepared to do what lay in his power to aid his countrymen in

the approaching struggle.

It was in May, 1775, that Franklin arrived in Philadelphia, just about the

time that open hostilities were commenced between the colonies and the

mother country. Though he was now quite advanced in age, being about

seventy years old, he found himself called to the discharge of the most

responsible and arduous duties. A Continental Congress had been

summoned—to consist of delegates from all the colonies. Franklin was

elected, on the next day after his arrival, as a member of this body, and

he entered at once upon the discharge of the duties which his position

brought upon him, and prosecuted them in the most efficient manner. In all

the measures which were adopted by Congress for organizing and arming the

country, he took a very prominent and conspicuous part. In fact so high

was the estimation in which he was held, on account of his wisdom and

experience, and the far-reaching sagacity which characterized all his

doings, that men were not willing to allow any important business to be

transacted without his concurrence; and at length, notwithstanding his

advanced age, for he was now, as has been said, about seventy years old,

they proposed to send him as a commissioner into Canada.

The province of Canada had not hitherto evinced a disposition to take part

with the other colonies in the contest which had been coming on, and now

Congress, thinking it desirable to secure the co-operation of that colony

if possible, decided on sending a commission there to confer with the

people, and endeavor to induce them to join the general confederation.

Franklin was appointed at the head of this commission. He readily

consented to accept the appointment, though for a man of his years the

journey, long as it was, and leading through such a wilderness as then

intervened, was a very formidable undertaking. So few were the facilities

for traveling in those days that it required five or six weeks to make the

journey. The commissioners left Philadelphia on the 20th of March, and did

not reach Montreal until near the end of April. In fact after commencing

the journey, and finding how fatiguing and how protracted it was likely to

be, Franklin felt some doubt whether he should ever live to return; and

when he reached Saratoga he wrote to a friend, saying that he began to

apprehend that he had undertaken a fatigue which at his time of life might

prove too much for him; and so he had taken paper, he said, to write to a

few friends by way of farewell.

He did, however, safely return, after a time, though unfortunately the

mission proved unsuccessful. The Canadians were not disposed to join the

confederation.

At length early in the spring of 1776 the leading statesmen of America

came to the conclusion that the end of the contest in which they were

engaged must be the absolute and final separation of the colonies from the

mother country, and the establishment of an independent government for

America. When this was resolved upon, a committee of five members of

Congress, namely Jefferson, Adams, Franklin, Sherman, and Livingston, were

appointed a committee to prepare a declaration of independence. The

original resolution, on the basis of which the appointment of this

committee was made, was as follows:

“Resolved, That these united colonies are and of right ought to be free

and independent states, and that all political connection between them and

Great Britain is, and of right ought to be totally dissolved.”

[Illustration: The Committee.]

This resolution was first proposed and debated on the 8th of June. Some of

the provinces were however found to be not quite prepared for such a

measure, and so the debate was adjourned. The vote was finally taken on

the 1st of July, and carried by a majority of nine out of thirteen

colonies. Pennsylvania and South Carolina were against it; Delaware was

divided; and New York did not vote, on account of some informality in the

instructions of her delegates.

In the mean time the committee had proceeded to the work of drawing up the

declaration of independence. Jefferson was appointed to write the

document, and he, when he had prepared his draft, read it in committee

meeting for the consideration of the other members. The committee approved

the draft substantially as Jefferson had written it, and it was

accordingly reported to Congress and was adopted by the vote of all the

colonies.

For by the time that the final and decisive vote was to be taken, the

delegates from all the colonies had received fresh instructions from their

constituents, or fresh intelligence in respect to the state of public

sentiment in the communities which they represented, so that at last the

concurrence of the colonies was unanimous in the act of separation; and

all the members present on the 4th of July, the day on which the

declaration was passed, excepting one, signed the paper; thus making

themselves individually and personally responsible for it, under the awful

pains and penalties of treason.

In connection with these discussions in relations to the declaration of

independence, a curious instance is preserved of the tone of good humor

and pleasantry which always marked the intercourse which Franklin held

with others, even in cases where interests of the most momentous

importance were concerned. When Jefferson had read his draft in the

presence of the committee, the several members had various suggestions to

make, and amendments to propose, as is usual in such cases; while the

author, as is also equally usual, was very sensitive to these criticisms,

and was unwilling to consent to any changing of his work. At length

Jefferson appearing to be quite annoyed by the changes proposed, Franklin

consoled him by saying that his case was not quite so bad, after all, as

that of John Thompson, the hatter. “He wrote a sign,” said Franklin, “to

be put up over his door, which read thus, ‘_John Thompson makes and sells

hats for ready money_.’ On showing his work to his friends they one and

all began to amend it. The first proposed to strike out ‘for ready money,’

since it was obvious, he said, that if a hatter sold hats at all he would

be glad to sell them for ready money. Another thought the words ‘makes and

sells hats,’ superfluous—that idea being conveyed in the word ‘hatter;’

and finally a third proposed to expunge the ‘hatter,’ and put the figure

of a hat after the name, instead, which he said would be equally well

understood, and be more striking. Thus the composition was reduced from

‘John Thompson, hatter, makes and sells hats for ready money,’ to simply

‘John Thompson,’ with the figure of a hat subjoined.” The whole story was

perhaps fabricated by Franklin on the spot, for the occasion. It answered

its purpose, however, perfectly. Jefferson laughed, and his good-humor was

restored.

In the mean time during the summer of 1776 the hostile operations which

had been commenced between the new government and the parent state were

prosecuted on both sides with great vigor. Great Britain however did not

yet give up all hope of persuading the revolted provinces to return. The

English government sent out Lord Howe with instructions to communicate

with the leading men in America and endeavor to effect some accommodation

of the difficulty. When Lord Howe arrived in this country he attempted to

open communications with the Americans through Franklin, but insuperable

difficulties were encountered at the outset. Lord Howe could only treat

with the American authorities as private persons in a state of rebellion,

and the offers he made were offers of _pardon_. The American government

indignantly rejected all such propositions. In a letter which he wrote in

reply to Lord Howe Franklin says, “Directing pardons to be offered to the

colonies, who are the very parties injured, expresses indeed that opinion

of our ignorance, baseness, and insensibility, which your uninformed and

proud nation has long been pleased to entertain of us: but it can have no

other effect than that of increasing our resentment.” Of course all hope

of an accommodation was soon abandoned, and both parties began to give

their whole attention to the means for a vigorous prosecution of the war.

[Illustration.]

The American government soon turned their thoughts to the subject of

forming some foreign alliance to help them in the impending struggle; and

they presently proposed to send Franklin to France to attempt to open a

negotiation for this purpose with the government of that country. Franklin

was now very far advanced in life and his age and infirmities would

naturally have prompted him to desire repose—but he did not decline the

duty to which he was thus called; and all aged men should learn from his

example that they are not to consider the work of life as ended, so long

as any available health and strength remain.

Franklin arrived in Paris in the middle of winter in 1776. He traveled on

this expedition wholly as a private person, his appointment as

commissioner to the court of France having been kept a profound secret,

for obvious reasons. He however, immediately entered into private

negotiations with the French ministry, and though he found the French

government disposed to afford the Americans such indirect aid as could be

secretly rendered, they were not yet willing to form any alliance with

them, or to take any open ground in their favor. While this state of

things continued, Franklin, of course, and his brother commissioners could

not be admitted to the French court; but though they were all the time in

secret communication with the government, they assumed the position at

Paris of private gentlemen residing at the great capital for their

pleasure.

Notwithstanding his being thus apparently in private life, Franklin was a

very conspicuous object of public attention at Paris. His name and fame

had been so long before the world, and his character and manners were

invested with so singular a charm, that he was universally known and

admired; all ranks and classes of people were full of enthusiasm for the

venerable American philosopher. Pictures, busts, and medallions of the

illustrious Franklin were met on every hand. He was received into the very

highest society, being welcomed by all circles with the greatest

cordiality and interest.

[Illustration: In Paris.]

At length, after the lapse of about a year, the progress of the Americans

in making good their defense against the armies of the mother country was

so decided, that it began to appear very probable that the independence of

the country would be maintained, and the French government deemed that it

would be safe for them to enter into treaties of commerce and friendship

with the new state. This was accordingly done in February, 1778, though it

necessarily involved the consequence of a war with England.

When these treaties were at length signed, Franklin and the two other

commissioners were formally presented at court, where they were received

by the French monarch as the acknowledged representatives of an

independent and sovereign power, now for the first time taking her place

among the nations of the earth. This was an event in the life of Franklin

of the highest interest and importance, since the open negotiations of the

American government by France made the success of the country, in its

effort to achieve its independence, almost certain, and thus it was the

seal and consummation of all that he had been so laboriously toiling to

accomplish for fifty years. For we may safely say that the great end and

aim of Franklin’s life, the one object which he kept constantly in view,

and to which all his efforts tended from the beginning to the end of his

public career, was the security of popular rights and popular liberty

against the encroachments of aristocratic prerogative and power; and the

establishment of the independence of these United States, which he saw

thus happily settled at last, sealed and secured this object for half the

world.

As soon as the event of the acknowledgment of the independence of the

United States of America, by the French government transpired, the whole

subject of the conflict between the late colonies and the mother country

assumed a new aspect before mankind. The British government became now

more desirous than ever to contrive some means of settling the dispute

without entirely losing so important a portion of their ancient dominion.

A great many applications were made to Franklin, by the secret agents of

the British government, with a view of drawing off the Americans from

their alliance with the French, and making a separate peace with them.

Franklin, however, would listen to no such proposals, but on the contrary,

made them all known to the French government.

Another consequence of the recognition of American independence was that a

large number of young French gentlemen desired to proceed to America and

join the army there. Many of them applied to Franklin for commissions—more

in fact than could possibly be received. Among those who were successful

was the Marquis de La Fayette, then a young man, who came to this country

with letters of recommendation from Franklin, and who afterward

distinguished himself so highly in the war.

[Illustration: La Fayette.]

After this, Franklin remained in France for several years, at first as

commissioner, and afterward as minister plenipotentiary of the government

at the French court, during all which time the most arduous and the most

responsible public duties devolved upon him. He concluded most important

negotiations with other foreign powers. He received of the French

government and transmitted to America vast sums of money to be used in the

prosecution of the war. He conferred with various other commissioners and

embassadors who were sent out from time to time from the government at

home. In a word, there devolved upon him day by day, an uninterrupted

succession of duties of the most arduous and responsible character.

[Illustration: Printing Office.]

It is a curious illustration of the manner in which the tastes and habits

of early life come back in old age, that Franklin was accustomed at this

time, for recreation, to amuse himself with a little printing office,

which he caused to be arranged at his lodgings—on a small scale it is

true—but sufficiently complete to enable him to live his youth over again,

as it were, in bringing back old associations and thoughts to his mind by

giving himself up to his ancient occupations. The things that he printed

in this little office were all trifles, as he called them, and were only

intended for the amusement of his friends; but the work of producing them

gave him great pleasure.

The time at length arrived when England began to conclude that it would be

best for her to give up the attempt to reduce her revolted colonies to

subjection again; and negotiations for peace were commenced at Paris, at

first indirectly and informally, and afterward in a more open and decided

manner. In these negotiations Franklin of course took a very prominent

part. In fact the conclusion and signing of the great treaty of peace

between Great Britain and the United States, by which the independence of

this nation was finally and fully acknowledged, was the last crowning act

of Franklin’s official career. The treaty was signed in 1783, and thus the

work of the great statesman’s life was ended. His public life, in fact,

began and ended with the beginning and the end of that great protracted

struggle by which the American nation was ushered into being. His history

is then simply the history of the establishment of American independence;

and when this work was achieved his duty was done.

Soon after the peace was made, Franklin prepared to take leave of France,

in order to return to his native land. He had contemplated a tour over the

continent before going back to America, but the increasing infirmities of

age prevented the realization of this plan. When the time arrived for

leaving Paris, almost all the rank, fashion, and wealth of the city

gathered around him to bid him farewell. He was borne in the queen’s

palanquin to Havre, and accompanied on the journey by numerous friends.

From Havre he crossed the channel to Southampton, and there took passage

in the London packet for Philadelphia.

The voyage occupied a period of forty-eight days, at the end of which time

the ship anchored just below Philadelphia. The health-officer of the port

went on board, and finding no sickness gave the passengers leave to land.

The passengers accordingly left the ship in a boat, and landed at the

Market-street wharf, where crowds of people were assembled, who received

Franklin with loud acclamations, and accompanied him through the streets,

with cheers and rejoicings, to his door.

In a word, the great philosopher and statesman, on his return to his

native land, received the welcome he deserved, and spent the short period

that still remained to him on earth, surrounded by his countrymen and

friends, the object of universal respect and veneration. But great as was

the veneration which was felt for his name and memory then, it is greater

now, and it will be greater and greater still, at the end of every

succeeding century, as long as any written records of our country’s early

history remain.

NAPOLEON BONAPARTE.(2) THE SYRIAN EXPEDITION. BY JOHN S. C. ABBOTT.

Though, after the Battle of the Pyramids, Napoleon was the undisputed

master of Egypt, still much was to be accomplished in pursuing the

desperate remnants of the Mamelukes, and in preparing to resist the

overwhelming forces which it was to be expected that England and Turkey

would send against him. Mourad Bey had retreated with a few thousand of

his horsemen into Upper Egypt. Napoleon dispatched General Desaix, with

two thousand men, to pursue him. After several terribly bloody conflicts,

Desaix took possession of all of Upper Egypt as far as the cataracts.

Imbibing the humane and politic sentiments of Napoleon, he became widely

renowned and beloved for his justice and his clemency. A large party of

scientific men accompanied the military division, examining every object

of interest, and taking accurate drawings of those sphinxes, obelisks,

temples, and sepulchral monuments, which, in solitary grandeur, have

withstood the ravages of four thousand years. To the present hour, the

Egyptians remember with affection, the mild and merciful, yet efficient

government of Desaix. They were never weary with contrasting it with the

despotism of the Turks.

[Illustration: The Escape from the Red Sea.]

In the mean time Napoleon, in person, made an expedition to Suez, to

inspect the proposed route of a canal to connect the waters of the

Mediterranean with the Red Sea. With indefatigable activity of mind he

gave orders for the construction of new works to fortify the harbor of

Suez, and commenced the formation of an infant marine. One day, with quite

a retinue, he made an excursion to that identical point of the Red Sea

which, as tradition reports, the children of Israel crossed three thousand

years ago. The tide was out, and he passed over to the Asiatic shore upon

extended flats. Various objects of interest engrossed his attention until

late in the afternoon, when he commenced his return. The twilight faded

away, and darkness came rapidly on. The party lost their path, and, as

they were wandering, bewildered among the sands, the rapidly returning

tide surrounded them. The darkness of the night increased, and the horses

floundered deeper and deeper in the rising waves The water reached the

girths of the saddles, and dashed upon the feet of the riders, and

destruction seemed inevitable. From this perilous position Napoleon

extricated himself, by that presence of mind, and promptness of decision,

which seemed never to fail him. It was an awful hour and an awful scene.

And yet, amidst the darkness and the rising waves of apparently a

shoreless ocean, the spirit of Napoleon was as unperturbed as if he were

reposing in slippered ease upon his sofa. He collected his escort around

him, in concentric circles, each horseman facing outward, and ranged in

several rows. He then ordered them to advance, each in a straight line.

When the horse of the leader of one of these columns lost his foothold,

and began to swim, the column drew back, and followed in the direction of

another column, which had not yet lost the firm ground. The radii, thus

thrown out in every direction, were thus successively withdrawn, till all

were following in the direction of one column, which had a stable footing.

Thus escape was effected. The horses did not reach the shore until

midnight, when they were wading breast deep in the swelling waves. The

tide rises on that part of the coast to the height of twenty-two feet.

“Had I perished in that manner, like Pharaoh,” said Napoleon, “it would

have furnished all the preachers of Christendom with a magnificent text

against me.”

England, animated in the highest degree by the great victory of Aboukir,

now redoubled her exertions to concentrate all the armies of Europe upon

Republican France. Napoleon had been very solicitous to avoid a rupture

with the Grand Seignor at Constantinople. The Mamelukes who had revolted

against his authority had soothed the pride of the Ottoman Porte, and

purchased peace by paying tribute. Napoleon proposed to continue the

tribute, that the revenues of the Turkish Empire might not be diminished

by the transfer of the sovereignty of Egypt from the oppressive Mamelukes

to better hands. The Sultan was not sorry to see the Mamelukes punished,

but he looked with much jealousy upon the movements of a victorious

European army so near his throne. The destruction of the French fleet

deprived Napoleon of his ascendency in the Levant, and gave the

preponderance to England. The agents of the British government succeeded

in rousing Turkey to arms, to recover a province which the Mamelukes had

wrested from her, before Napoleon took it from the Mamelukes. Russia also,

with her barbaric legions, was roused by the eloquence of England, to rush

upon the French Republic in this day of disaster. Her troops crowded down

from the north to ally themselves with the turbaned Turk, for the

extermination of the French in Egypt. Old enmities were forgotten, as

Christians and Mussulmans grasped hands in friendship, forgetting all

other animosities in their common hatred and dread of Republicanism. The

Russian fleet crowded down from the Black Sea, through the Bosphorus, to

the Golden Horn, where, amidst the thunders of artillery, and the

acclamations of the hundreds of thousands who throng the streets of

Constantinople, Pera, and Scutari, it was received into the embrace of the

Turkish squadron. It was indeed a gorgeous spectacle as, beneath the

unclouded splendor of a September sun, this majestic armament swept

through the beautiful scenery of the Hellespont. The shores of Europe and

Asia, separated by this classic strait, were lined with admiring

spectators, as the crescent and the cross, in friendly blending, fluttered

together in the breeze. The combined squadron emerged into the

Mediterranean, to co-operate with the victorious fleet of England, which

was now the undisputed mistress of the sea. Religious animosities the most

inveterate, and national antipathies the most violent were reconciled by

the pressure of a still stronger hostility to those principles of popular

liberty which threatened to overthrow the despotism both of the Sultan and

the Czar. The Grand Seignor had assembled an army of twenty thousand men

at Rhodes. They were to be conveyed by the combined fleet to the shores of

Egypt, and there effect a landing under cover of its guns. Another vast

army was assembled in Syria, to march down upon the French by way of the

desert, and attack them simultaneously with the forces sent by the fleet.

England, and the emissaries of the Bourbons, with vast sums of money

accumulated from the European monarchies, were actively co-operating upon

the Syrian coast, by landing munitions of war, and by supplying able

military engineers. The British Government was also accumulating a vast

army in India, to be conveyed by transports up the Red Sea, and to fall

upon the French in their rear. England also succeeded in forming a new

coalition with Austria, Sardinia, Naples, and other minor European states

to drive the French out of Italy, and with countless numbers to invade the

territory of France. Thus it would be in vain for the Directory to attempt

even to send succors to their absent general. And it was not doubted that

Napoleon, thus assailed in diverse quarters by overpowering numbers, would

fall an easy prey to his foes. Thus suddenly and portentously peril

frowned upon France from every quarter.

Mourad Bey, animated by this prospect of the overthrow of his victorious

foes, formed a widespread conspiracy, embracing all the friends of the

Mamelukes and of the Turks. Every Frenchman was doomed to death, as in one

hour, all over the land, the conspirators, with scimitar and poniard,

should fall upon their unsuspecting foes. In this dark day of accumulating

disaster the genius of Napoleon blazed forth with new and terrible

brilliance.

But few troops were at the time in Cairo, for no apprehension of danger

was cherished, and the French were scattered over Egypt, engaged in all

plans of utility. At five o’clock on the morning of the 21st of October,

Napoleon was awoke from sleep by the announcement that the city was in

revolt, that mounted Bedouin Arabs were crowding in at the gates, that

several officers and many soldiers were already assassinated. He ordered

an aid immediately to take a number of the Guard, and quell the

insurrection. But a few moments passed ere one of them returned covered

with blood, and informed him that all the rest were slain. It was an hour

of fearful peril. Calmly, fearlessly, mercilessly did Napoleon encounter

it. Immediately mounting his horse, accompanied by a body of his faithful

Guards, he proceeded to every threatened point. Instantly the presence of

Napoleon was felt. A perfect storm of grape-shot, cannon-balls, and

bomb-shells swept the streets with unintermitted and terrible destruction.

Blood flowed in torrents. The insurgents, in dismay, fled to the most

populous quarter of the city. Napoleon followed them with their doom, as

calm as destiny. From the windows and the roofs the insurgents fought with

desperation. The buildings were immediately enveloped in flames. They fled

into the streets only to be hewn down with sabres and mown down with

grape-shot. Multitudes, bleeding and breathless with consternation, sought

refuge in the mosques. The mosques were battered down and set on fire, and

the wretched inmates perished miserably. The calm yet terrible energy with

which Napoleon annihilated “the murderers of the French,” sent a thrill of

dismay through Egypt. A large body of Turks, who had surprised and

assassinated a party of the French, intrenched themselves in a small

village. Their doom was sealed. The next day a long line of asses, heavily

laden with sacks, was seen entering the gates of Cairo. The mysterious

procession proceeded to the public square. The sacks were opened, and the

ghastly, gory heads of the assassins were rolled upon the pavements. The

city gazed upon the spectacle with horror. “Such,” said Napoleon, sternly,

“is the doom of murderers.” This language of energetic action was awfully

eloquent. It was heard and heeded. It accomplished the purpose for which

it was uttered. Neither Turk nor Arab ventured again to raise the dagger

against Napoleon. Egypt felt the spell of the mighty conqueror, and stood

still, while he gathered his strength to encounter England, and Russia,

and Turkey in their combined power. What comment shall be made upon this

horrible transaction. It was the stern necessity of diabolical war. “My

soldiers,” said Napoleon, “are my children.” The lives of thirty thousand

Frenchmen were in his keeping. Mercy to the barbaric and insurgent Turks

would have been counted weakness, and the bones of Napoleon and of his

army would soon have whitened the sands of the desert. War is a wholesale

system of brutality and carnage. The most revolting, execrable details are

essential to its vigorous execution. Bomb-shells can not be thrown

affectionately. Charges of cavalry can not be made with a meek and lowly

spirit. Red-hot shot, falling into the beleagured city, will not turn from

the cradle of the infant, or from the couch of the dying maiden. These

horrible scenes must continue to be enacted till the nations of the earth

shall learn war no more.

Early in January, Napoleon received intelligence that the vanguard of the

Syrian army, with a formidable artillery train, and vast military stores,

which had been furnished from the English ships, had invaded Egypt, on the

borders of the great Syrian desert, and had captured El Arish. He

immediately resolved to anticipate the movement of his enemies, to cross

the desert with the rapidity of the wind, to fall upon the enemy unawares,

and thus to cut up this formidable army before it could be strengthened by

the co-operation of the host assembled at Rhodes.

Napoleon intended to rally around his standard the Druses of Mount

Lebanon, and all the Christian tribes of Syria, who were anxiously

awaiting his approach, and having established friendly relations with the

Ottoman Porte, to march, with an army of an hundred thousand auxiliaries,

upon the Indus, and drive the English out of India. As England was the

undisputed mistress of the sea, this was the only point where Republican

France could assail its unrelenting foe. The imagination of Napoleon was

lost in contemplating the visions of power and of empire thus rising

before him.

[Illustration: The Dromedary Regiment.]

For such an enterprise the ambitious general, with an army of but ten

thousand men, commenced his march over the desert, one hundred and fifty

miles broad, which separates Africa from Asia. The Pacha of Syria, called

Achmet the _Butcher_, from his merciless ferocity, was execrated by the

Syrians. Napoleon had received delegations from the Christian tribes

entreating him to come for their deliverance from the most intolerable

oppression, and assuring him of their readiness to join his standard. The

English, to divert the attention of Napoleon from his project upon Syria,

commenced the bombardment of Alexandria. He understood the object of the

unavailing attack, and treated it with disdain. He raised a regiment of

entirely a new kind, called the dromedary regiment. Two men, seated back

to back, were mounted on each dromedary; and such was the strength and

endurance of these animals, that they could thus travel ninety miles

without food, water, or rest. This regiment was formed to give chase to

the Arab robbers who, in fierce banditti bands, were the scourge of Egypt.

The marauders were held in terror by the destruction with which they were

overwhelmed by these swift avengers. Napoleon himself rode upon a

dromedary. The conveyance of an army of ten thousand men, with horses and

artillery, across such an apparently interminable waste of shifting sand,

was attended with inconceivable suffering. To allay the despair of the

soldiers, Napoleon, ever calm and unagitated in the contemplation of any

catastrophe however dreadful, soon dismounted, and waded through the

burning sands by the side of the soldiers, sharing the deprivations and

the toils of the humblest private in the ranks. Five days were occupied in

traversing this forlorn waste. Water was carried for the troops in skins.

At times portions of the army, almost perishing with thirst, surrendered

themselves to despair. The presence of Napoleon, however, invariably

reanimated hope and courage. The soldiers were ashamed to complain when

they saw their youthful leader, pale and slender, and with health

seriously impaired, toiling along by their side, sharing cheerfully all

their privations and fatigues. The heat of these glowing deserts, beneath

the fierce glare of a cloudless sun, was almost intolerable. At one time,

when nearly suffocated by the intense heat, while passing by some ruins, a

common soldier yielded to Napoleon the fragments of a pillar, in whose

refreshing shadow he contrived, for a few moments, to shield his head.

“And this,” said Napoleon, “was no trifling concession.” At another time a

party of the troops got lost among the sand hills and nearly perished.

Napoleon took some Arabs on dromedaries, and hastened in pursuit of them.

When found they were nearly dead from thirst, fatigue, and despair. Some

of the younger soldiers, in their frenzy, had broken their muskets and

thrown them away. The sight of their beloved general revived their hopes,

and inspired them with new life. Napoleon informed them that provisions

and water were at hand. “But,” said he, “if relief had been longer

delayed, would that have excused your murmurings and loss of courage? No!

soldiers, learn to die with honor.”

After a march of five days they arrived before El Arish, one of those

small, strongly fortified military towns, deformed by every aspect of

poverty and wretchedness, with which iron despotism has filled the once

fertile plains of Syria. El Arish was within the boundaries of Egypt. It

had been captured by the Turks, and they had accumulated there immense

magazines of military stores. It was the hour of midnight when Napoleon

arrived beneath its walls. The Turks, not dreaming that a foe was near,

were roused from sleep by the storm of balls and shells, shaking the walls

and crushing down through the roofs of their dwellings. They sprang to

their guns, and, behind the ramparts of stone, fought with their

accustomed bravery. But after a short and bloody conflict, they were

compelled to retire, and effected a disorderly retreat. The garrison, in

the citadel, consisting of nearly two thousand men, were taken prisoners.

Napoleon was not a little embarrassed in deciding what to do with these

men. He had but ten thousand soldiers with whom to encounter the whole

power of the Ottoman Porte, aided by the fleets of England and Russia.

Famine was in his camp, and it was with difficulty that he could obtain

daily rations for his troops. He could not keep these prisoners with him.

They would eat the bread for which his army was hungering; they would

demand a strong guard to keep them from insurrection; and the French army

was already so disproportionate to the number of its foes, that not an

individual could be spared from active service. They would surely take

occasion, in the perilous moments of the day of battle, to rise in revolt,

and thus, perhaps, effect the total destruction of the French army.

Consequently, to retain them in the camp was an idea not to be entertained

for a moment. To disarm them, and dismiss them upon their word of honor no

longer to serve against the French, appeared almost equally perilous.

There was no sense of honor in the heart of the barbarian Turk. The very

idea of keeping faith with infidels they laughed to scorn. They would

immediately join the nearest division of the Turkish army, and thus swell

the already multitudinous ranks of the foe, and even if they did not

secure the final defeat of Napoleon, they would certainly cost him the

lives of many of his soldiers. He could not supply them with food, neither

could he spare an escort to conduct them across the desert to Egypt. To

shoot them in cold blood was revolting to humanity. Napoleon, however,

generously resolved to give them their liberty, taking their pledge that

they would no longer serve against him; and in order to help them keep

their word, he sent a division of the army to escort them, one day’s

march, toward Bagdad, whither they promised to go. But no sooner had the

escort commenced its return to the army, than these men, between one and

two thousand in number, turned also, and made a straight path for their

feet to the fortress of Jaffa, laughing at the simplicity of their

outwitted foe. But Napoleon was not a man to be laughed at. This merriment

soon died away in fearful wailings. Here they joined the marshaled hosts

of Achmet the Butcher. The bloody pacha armed them anew, and placed them

in his foremost ranks, again to pour a shower of bullets upon the little

band headed by Napoleon. El Arish is in Egypt, eighteen miles from the

granite pillars which mark the confines of Asia and Africa. Napoleon now

continued his march through a dry, barren, and thirsty land. After having

traversed a dreary desert of an hundred and fifty miles, the whole aspect

of the country began rapidly to change. The soldiers were delighted to see

the wreaths of vapor gathering in the hitherto glowing and cloudless

skies. Green and flowery valleys, groves of olive-trees, and wood-covered

hills, rose, like a vision of enchantment, before the eye, so long weary

of gazing upon shifting sands and barren rocks. Napoleon often alluded to

his passage across the desert, remarking that the scene was ever

peculiarly gratifying to his mind. “I never passed the desert,” said he,

“without experiencing very powerful emotions. It was the image of

immensity to my thoughts. It displayed no limits. It had neither beginning

nor end. It was an ocean for the foot of man.” As they approached the

mountains of Syria, clouds began to darken the sky, and when a few drops

of rain descended, a phenomenon which they had not witnessed for many

months, the joy of the soldiers was exuberant. A murmur of delight ran

through the army, and a curious spectacle was presented, as, with shouts

of joy and peals of laughter, the soldiers, in a body, threw back their

heads and opened their mouths, to catch the grateful drops upon their dry

and thirsty lips.

But when dark night came on, and, with saturated clothing, they threw

themselves down, in the drenching rain, for their night’s bivouac, they

remembered with pleasure the star-spangled firmament and the dry sands of

cloudless, rainless Egypt. The march of a few days brought them to Gaza.

Here they encountered another division of the Turkish army. Though headed

by the ferocious Achmet himself, the Turks were, in an hour, dispersed

before the resistless onset of the French, and all the military stores,

which had been collected in the place, fell into the hands of the

conqueror. But perils were now rapidly accumulating around the adventurous

band. England, with her invincible fleet, was landing men, and munitions

of war and artillery, and European engineers, to arrest the progress of

the audacious and indefatigable victor. The combined squadrons of Turkey

and Russia, also, were hovering along the coast, to prevent any possible

supplies from being forwarded to Napoleon from Alexandria. Thirty thousand

Turks, infantry and horsemen, were marshaled at Damascus. Twenty thousand

were at Rhodes. Through all the ravines of Syria, the turbaned Musselmans,

with gleaming sabres, were crowding down to swell the hostile ranks,

already sufficiently numerous to render Napoleon’s destruction apparently

certain. Still unintimidated, Napoleon pressed on, with the utmost

celerity, into the midst of his foes. On the 3d of March, twenty-three

days after leaving Cairo, he arrived at Jaffa, the ancient Joppa. This

place, strongly garrisoned, was surrounded by a massive wall flanked by

towers. Napoleon had no heavy battering train, for such ponderous machines

could not be dragged across the desert. He had ordered some pieces to be

forwarded to him from Alexandria, by small vessels, which could coast near

the shore. But they had been intercepted and taken by the vigilance of the

English cruisers. Not an hour, however, was to be lost. From every point

in the circumference of the circle, of which his little band was the

centre, the foe was hurrying to meet him. The sea was whitened with their

fleets, and the tramp of their dense columns shook the land. His only hope

was, by rapidity of action, to defeat the separate divisions before all

should unite. With his light artillery he battered a breach in the walls,

and then, to save the effusion of blood, sent a summons to the commander

to surrender. The barbarian Turk, regardless of the rules of civilized

warfare, cut off the head of the unfortunate messenger, and raised the

ghastly, gory trophy, upon a pole, from one of the towers. This was his

bloody defiance and his threat. The enraged soldiers, with extraordinary

intrepidity, rushed in at the breach and took sanguinary vengeance. The

French suffered very severely, and the carnage, on both sides, was awful.

Nothing could restrain the fury of the assailants, enraged at the wanton

murder of their comrade. For many hours a scene of horror was exhibited in

the streets of Jaffa, which could hardly have been surpassed had the

conflict raged between fiends in the world of woe. Earth has never

presented a spectacle more horrible than that of a city taken by assault.

The vilest and the most abandoned of mankind invariably crowd into the

ranks of an army. Imagination shrinks appalled from the contemplation of

the rush of ten thousand demons, infuriated and inflamed, into the

dwellings of a crowded city.

Napoleon, shocked at the outrages which were perpetrated, sent two of his

aids to appease the fury of the soldiers, and to stop the massacre.

Proceeding upon this message of mercy, they advanced to a large building

where a portion of the garrison had taken refuge. The soldiers were

shooting them as they appeared at the windows, battering the doors with

cannon-balls, and setting fire to the edifice, that all might be consumed

together. The Turks fought with the energies of despair. These were the

men who had capitulated at El Arish, and who had violated their parole.

They now offered to surrender again, if their lives might be spared. The

aids, with much difficulty, rescued them from the rage of the maddened

soldiers, and they were conducted, some two thousand in number, as

prisoners into the French camp. Napoleon was walking in front of his tent,

when he saw this multitude of men approaching. The whole dreadfulness of

the dilemma in which he was placed flashed upon him instantaneously. His

countenance fell, and in tones of deep grief he exclaimed, “What do they

wish me to do with these men? Have I food for them—ships to convey them to

Egypt or France? Why have they served me thus?” The aids excused

themselves for taking them prisoners, by pleading that he had ordered them

to go and stop the carnage. “Yes!” Napoleon replied sadly, “as to women,

children, and old men, all the peaceable inhabitants, but not with respect

to armed soldiers. It was your duty to die, rather than bring these

unfortunate creatures to me. What do you want me to do with them?”

A council of war was immediately held in the tent of Napoleon, to decide

upon their fate. Long did the council deliberate, and, finally, it

adjourned without coming to any conclusion. The next day the council was

again convened. All the generals of division were summoned to attend. For

many anxious hours they deliberated, sincerely desirous of discovering any

measures by which they might save the lives of the unfortunate prisoners.

The murmurs of the French soldiers were loud and threatening. They

complained bitterly of having their scanty rations given to the prisoners;

of having men again liberated who had already broken their pledge of

honor, and had caused the death of many of their comrades. General Bon

represented that the discontent was so deep and general, that unless

something were expeditiously done, a serious revolt in the army was to be

apprehended. Still the council adjourned, and the third day arrived

without their being able to come to any conclusion favorable to the lives

of these unfortunate men. Napoleon watched the ocean with intense

solicitude, hoping against hope that some French vessel might appear, to

relieve him of the fearful burden. But the evil went on increasing. The

murmurs grew louder. The peril of the army was real and imminent, and, by

the delay, was already seriously magnified. It was impossible longer to

keep the prisoners in the camp. If set at liberty, it was only

contributing so many more troops to swell the ranks of Achmet the Butcher,

and thus, perhaps, to insure the total discomfiture and destruction of the

French army. The Turks spared no prisoners. All who fell into their hands

perished by horrible torture. The council at last unanimously decided that

the men must be put to death. Napoleon, with extreme reluctance, signed

the fatal order. The melancholy troop, in the silence of despair, were

led, firmly fettered, to the sand hills, on the sea-coast, where they were

divided into small squares, and mown down by successive discharges of

musketry. The dreadful scene was soon over, and they were all silent in

death. The pyramid of their bones still remains in the desert, a frightful

memorial of the horrors of war.

As this transaction has ever been deemed the darkest blot upon the

character of Napoleon, it seems but fair to give his defense in his own

words: “I ordered,” said Napoleon at St. Helena, “about a thousand or

twelve hundred to be shot. Among the garrison at Jaffa a number of Turkish

troops were discovered, whom I had taken a short time before at El Arish,

and sent to Bagdad, on their parole not to be found in arms against me for

a year. I had caused them to be escorted thirty-six miles, on their way to

Bagdad, by a division of my army. But, instead of proceeding to Bagdad,

they threw themselves into Jaffa, defended it to the last, and cost me the

lives of many of my brave troops. Moreover, before I attacked the town I

sent them a flag of truce. Immediately after, we saw the head of the

bearer elevated on a pole over the wall. Now, if I had spared them again,

and sent them away on their parole, they would directly have gone to Acre,

and have played over, for the second time, the same scene that they had

done at Jaffa. In justice to the lives of my soldiers, as every general

ought to consider himself as their father, and them as his children, I

could not allow this. To leave as a guard a portion of my army, already

reduced in number in consequence of the breach of faith of those wretches,

was impossible. Indeed, to have acted otherwise than as I did, would

probably have caused the destruction of my whole army. I, therefore,

availing myself of the rights of war, which authorize the putting to death

prisoners taken under such circumstances, independent of the right given

to me by having taken the city by assault, and that of retaliation on the

Turks, ordered that the prisoners, who, in defiance of their capitulation,

had been found bearing arms against me, should be selected out and shot.

The rest, amounting to a considerable number, were spared. I would do the

same thing again to-morrow, and so would Wellington, or any general

commanding an army under similar circumstances.” Whatever judgment

posterity may pronounce upon this transaction, no one can see in it any

indication of an innate love of cruelty in Napoleon. He regarded the

transaction as one of the stern necessities of war. The whole system is

one of unmitigated horror. Bomb-shells are thrown into cities to explode

in the chambers of maidens and in the cradles of infants, and the

incidental destruction of innocence and helplessness is disregarded. The

execrable ferocity of the details of war are essential to the system. To

say that Napoleon ought not to have shot these prisoners, is simply to say

that he ought to have relinquished the contest, to have surrendered

himself and his army to the tender mercies of the Turk; and to allow

England, and Austria, and Russia, to force back upon the disenthralled

French nation the detested reign of the Bourbons. England was bombarding

the cities of France, to compel a proud nation to re-enthrone a discarded

and hated king. The French, in self-defense, were endeavoring to repel

their powerful foe, by marching to India, England’s only vulnerable point.

Surely, the responsibility of this war rests with the assailants, and not

with the assailed. There was a powerful party in the British Parliament

and throughout the nation, the friends of reform and of popular liberty,

who sympathized entirely with the French in this conflict, and who

earnestly protested against a war which they deemed impolitic and unjust.

But the king and the nobles prevailed, and as the French would not meekly

submit to their demands, the world was deluged with blood. “Nothing was

easier,” says Alison, “than to have disarmed the captives and sent them

away.” The remark is unworthy of the eloquent and distinguished historian.

It is simply affirming that France should have yielded the conflict, and

submitted to British dictation. It would have been far more in accordance

with the spirit of the events to have said, “Nothing was easier than for

England to allow France to choose her own form of government.” But had

this been done, the throne of England’s king, and the castles of her

nobles might have been overturned by the earthquake of revolution. Alas,

for man!

Bourrienne, the rejected secretary of Napoleon, who became the enemy of

his former benefactor, and who, as the minister and flatterer of Louis

XVIII., recorded with caustic bitterness the career of the great rival of

the European kings, thus closes his narrative of this transaction: “I have

related the truth; the whole truth. I assisted at all the conferences and

deliberations, though, of course, without possessing any deliberative

voice. But I must in candor declare, that had I possessed a right of

voting, my voice would have been for death. The result of the

deliberations, and the circumstances of the army, would have constrained

me to this. War, unfortunately, offers instances, by no means rare, in

which an immutable law, of all times and common to all nations, has

decreed that private interests shall succumb to the paramount good of the

public, and that humanity itself shall be forgotten. It is for posterity

to judge whether such was the terrible position of Bonaparte. I have a

firm conviction that it was. And this is strengthened by the fact, that

the opinion of the members of the council was unanimous upon the subject,

and that the order was issued upon their decision. I owe it also to truth

to state, that Napoleon yielded only at the last extremity, and was,

perhaps, one of those who witnessed the massacre with the deepest sorrow.”

Even Sir Walter Scott, who, unfortunately, allowed his Tory predilections

to dim the truth of his unstudied yet classic page, while affirming that

“this bloody deed must always remain a deep stain upon the character of

Napoleon,” is constrained to admit, “yet we do not view it as the

indulgence of an innate love of cruelty; for nothing in Bonaparte’s

history shows the existence of that vice; and there are many things which

intimate his disposition to have been naturally humane.”

Napoleon now prepared to march upon Acre, the most important military post

in Syria. Behind its strong ramparts Achmet the Butcher had gathered all

his troops and military stores, determined upon the most desperate

resistance. Colonel Philippeaux, an emissary of the Bourbons, and a former

school-mate of Napoleon, contributed all the skill of an accomplished

French engineer in arming the fortifications and conducting the defense.

Achmet immediately sent intelligence of the approaching attack to Sir

Sydney Smith, who was cruising in the Levant with an English fleet. He

immediately sailed for Acre, with two ships of the line and several

smaller vessels, and proudly entered the harbor two days before the French

made their appearance, strengthening Achmet with an abundant supply of

engineers, artillerymen, and ammunition. Most unfortunately for Napoleon,

Sir Sydney, just before he entered the harbor, captured the flotilla,

dispatched from Alexandria with the siege equipage, as it was cautiously

creeping around the headlands of Carmel. The whole battering train,

amounting to forty-four heavy guns, he immediately mounted upon the

ramparts, and manned them with English soldiers. This was an irreparable

loss to Napoleon, but with undiminished zeal the besiegers, with very

slender means, advanced their works. Napoleon now sent an officer with a

letter to Achmet, offering to treat for peace “Why,” said he, in this,

“should I deprive an old man, whom I do not know, of a few years of life?

What signify a few leagues more, added to the countries I have conquered?

Since God has given victory into my hands, I will, like him, be forgiving

and merciful, not only toward the people, but toward their rulers also.”

The barbarian Turk, regardless of the flag of truce, cut off the head of

this messenger, though Napoleon had taken the precaution to send a Turkish

prisoner with the flag, and raised the ghastly trophy upon a pole, over

his battlements, in savage defiance. The decapitated body he sewed up in a

sack, and threw it into the sea. Napoleon then issued a proclamation to

the people of Syria: “I am come into Syria,” said he, “to drive out the

Mamelukes and the army of the Pacha. What right had Achmet to send his

troops to attack me in Egypt? He has provoked me to war. I have brought it

to him. But it is not on you, inhabitants, that I intend to inflict its

horrors. Remain quiet in your homes. Let those who have abandoned them

through fear return again. I will grant to every one the property which he

possesses. It is my wish that the Cadis continue their functions as usual,

and dispense justice; that religion, in particular, be protected and

revered, and that the mosques should continue to be frequented by all

faithful Mussulmans. It is from God that all good things come; it is he

who gives the victory. The example of what has occurred at Gaza and Jaffa

ought to teach you that if I am terrible to my enemies, I am kind to my

friends, and, above all, benevolent and merciful to the poor.”

The plague, that most dreadful scourge of the East, now broke out in the

army. It was a new form of danger, and created a fearful panic. The

soldiers refused to approach their sick comrades, and even the physicians,

terrified in view of the fearful contagion, abandoned the sufferers to die

unaided. Napoleon immediately entered the hospitals, sat down by the cots

of the sick soldiers, took their fevered hands in his own, even pressed

their bleeding tumors, and spoke to them words of encouragement and hope.

The dying soldiers looked upon their heroic and sympathizing friend with

eyes moistened with gratitude, and blessed him. Their courage was

reanimated and thus they gained new strength to throw off the dreadful

disease. “You are right,” said a grenadier, upon whom the plague had made

such ravages, that he could hardly move a limb; “your grenadiers were not

made to die in a hospital.” The physicians, shamed by the heroism of

Napoleon, returned to their duty. The soldiers, animated by the example of

their chief, no longer refused to administer to the wants of their

suffering comrades, and thus the progress of the infection in the army was

materially arrested. One of the physicians reproached Napoleon for his

imprudence, in exposing himself to such fearful peril. He coolly replied,

“It is but my duty. I am the commander-in-chief.”

[Illustration: The Plague Hospital.]

Napoleon now pressed the siege of Acre. It was the only fortress in Syria

which could stop him. Its subjugation would make him the undisputed master

of Syria. Napoleon had already formed an alliance with the Druses and

other Christian tribes, who had taken refuge from the extortions of the

Turks, among the mountains of Lebanon, and they only awaited the capture

of Acre to join his standard in a body, and to throw off the intolerable

yoke of Moslem despotism. Delegations of their leading men frequently

appeared in the tent of Napoleon, and their prayers were fervently

ascending for the success of the French arms. That in this conflict

Napoleon was contending on the side of human liberty, and the allies for

the support of despotism, is undeniable. The Turks were not idle. By vast

exertions they had roused the whole Mussulman population to march, in the

name of the Prophet, for the destruction of the “Christian dogs.” An

enormous army was marshaled, and was on its way for the relief of the

beleagured city. Damascus had furnished its thousands. The scattered

remnants of the fierce Mamelukes, and the mounted Bedouins of the desert,

had congregated, to rush, with resistless numbers, upon their bold

antagonist.

Napoleon had been engaged for ten days in an almost incessant assault upon

the works of Acre, when the approach of the great Turkish army was

announced. It consisted of about thirty thousand troops, twelve thousand

of whom were the fiercest and best-trained horsemen in the world. Napoleon

had but eight thousand effective men with which to encounter the

well-trained army of Europeans and Turks within the walls of Acre, and the

numerous host rushing to its rescue. He acted with his usual promptitude.

Leaving two thousand men to protect the works and cover the siege, he

boldly advanced with but six thousand men, to encounter the thirty

thousand already exulting in his speedy and sure destruction. Kleber was

sent forward with an advance-guard of three thousand men. Napoleon

followed soon after, with three thousand more. As Kleber, with his little

band, defiled from a narrow valley at the foot of Mount Tabor, he entered

upon an extended plain. It was early in the morning of the sixteenth of

April. The unclouded sun was just rising over the hills of Palestine, and

revealed to his view the whole embattled Turkish host spread out before

him. The eye was dazzled with the magnificent spectacle, as proud banners

and plumes, and gaudy turbans and glittering steel, and all the barbaric

martial pomp of the East was reflected by the rays of the brilliant

morning. Twelve thousand horsemen, decorated with the most gorgeous

trappings of military show, and mounted on the fleetest Arabian chargers,

were prancing and curveting in all directions. A loud and exultant shout

of vengeance and joy, rising like the roar of the ocean, burst from the

Turkish ranks, as soon as they perceived their victims enter the plain.

The French, too proud and self-confident to retreat before any superiority

in numbers, had barely time to form themselves into one of Napoleon’s

impregnable squares, when the whole cavalcade of horsemen, with gleaming

sabres and hideous yells, and like the sweep of the wind, came rushing

down upon them. Every man in the French squares knew that his life

depended upon his immobility; and each one stood, shoulder to shoulder

with his comrades, like a rock. It is impossible to drive a horse upon the

point of a bayonet. He has an instinct of self-preservation which no power

of the spur can overcome. He can be driven to the bayonet’s point, but if

the bayonet remains firm he will rear and plunge, and wheel, in defiance

of all the efforts of his rider to force his breast against it. As the

immense mass came thundering down upon the square, it was received by

volcanic bursts of fire from the French veterans, and horse and riders

rolled together in the dust. Chevaux-de-frise of bayonets, presented from

every side of this living, flaming citadel, prevented the possibility of

piercing the square. For six long hours this little band sustained the

dreadful and unequal conflict. The artillery of the enemy plowed their

ranks in vain. In vain the horsemen made reiterated charges on every side.

The French, by the tremendous fire incessantly pouring from their ranks,

soon formed around them a rampart of dead men and horses. Behind this

horrible abattis, they bid stern defiance to the utmost fury of their

enemies. Seven long hours passed away while the battle raged with unabated

ferocity. The mid-day sun was now blazing upon the exhausted band. Their

ammunition was nearly expended. Notwithstanding the enormous slaughter

they had made, their foes seemed undiminished in number. A conflict so

unequal could not much longer continue. The French were calling to their

aid a noble despair, expecting there to perish, but resolved, to a man, to

sell their lives most dearly.

Matters were in this state, when at one o’clock Napoleon, with three

thousand men, arrived on the heights which overlooked the field of battle.

The field was covered with a countless multitude, swaying to and fro in

the most horrible clamor and confusion. They were canopied with thick

volumes of smoke, which almost concealed the combatants from view.

Napoleon could only distinguish the French by the regular and

unintermitted volleys which issued from their ranks, presenting one steady

spot, incessantly emitting lightning flashes, in the midst of the moving

multitude with which it was surrounded. With that instinctive judgment

which enabled him, with the rapidity of lightning, to adopt the most

important decisions, Napoleon instantly took his resolution. He formed his

little band into two squares, and advanced in such a manner as to compose,

with the square of Kleber, a triangle inclosing the Turks. Thus, with

unparalleled audacity, with six thousand men he undertook to surround

thirty thousand of as fierce and desperate soldiers as the world has ever

seen. Cautiously and silently the two squares hurried on to the relief of

their friends, giving no sign of approach, till they were just ready to

plunge upon the plains. Suddenly the loud report of a cannon upon the

hills startled with joyful surprise the weary heroes. They recognized

instantly the voice of Napoleon rushing to their rescue. One wild shout of

almost delirious joy burst from the ranks. “It is Bonaparte! It is

Bonaparte!” That name operated as a talisman upon every heart. Tears of

emotion dimmed the eyes of those scarred and bleeding veterans, as,

disdaining longer to act upon the defensive, they grasped their weapons

with nervous energy, and made a desperate onset upon their multitudinous

foes. The Turks were assailed by a murderous fire instantaneously

discharged from the three points of this triangle. Discouraged by the

indomitable resolution with which they had been repulsed, and bewildered

by the triple assault, they broke and fled. The mighty host, like ocean

waves, swept across the plain, when suddenly it was encountered by one of

the fresh squares, and in refluent surges rolled back in frightful

disorder. A scene of horror now ensued utterly unimaginable. The Turks

were cut off from retreat in every direction. The enormous mass of

infantry, horse, artillery, and baggage, was driven in upon itself, in

wild and horrible confusion. From the French squares there flashed one

incessant sheet of flame. Peal after peal, the artillery thundered in a

continuous roar. These thoroughly-drilled veterans fired with a rapidity

and a precision which seemed to the Turks supernatural. An incessant storm

of cannon-balls, grape-shot, and bullets pierced the motley mass, and the

bayonets of the French dripped with blood.

Murat was there, with his proud cavalry—Murat, whom Napoleon has described

as in battle probably the bravest man in the world. Of majestic frame,

dressed in the extreme of military ostentation, and mounted upon the most

powerful of Arabian chargers, he towered, proudly eminent, above all his

band. With the utmost enthusiasm he charged into the swollen tide of

turbaned heads and flashing scimitars. As his strong horse reared and

plunged in the midst of the sabre strokes falling swiftly on every side

around him, his white plume, which ever led to victory, gleamed like a

banner over the tumultuous throng. It is almost an inexplicable

development of human nature to hear Murat exclaim, “In the hottest of this

terrible fight, I thought of Christ, and of his transfiguration upon this

very spot, two thousand years ago, and the reflection inspired me with

ten-fold courage and strength.” The fiend-like disposition created by

these horrible scenes, is illustrated by the conduct of a French soldier

on this occasion. He was dying of a frightful wound. Still he crawled to a

mangled Mameluke, even more feeble than himself, also in the agonies of

death, and, seizing him by the throat, tried to strangle him. “How can

you,” exclaimed a French officer, to the human tiger, “in your condition,

be guilty of such an act?” “You speak much at your ease,” the man replied,

“you who are unhurt; but I, while I am dying, must reap some enjoyment

while I can.”

The victory was complete. The Turkish army was not merely conquered, it

was destroyed. As that day’s sun, vailed in smoke, solemnly descended,

like a ball of fire, behind the hills of Lebanon, the whole majestic

array, assembled for the invasion of Egypt, and who had boasted that they

were “innumerable as the sands of the sea or as the stars of heaven,” had

disappeared to be seen no more. The Turkish camp, with four hundred camels

and an immense booty, fell into the hands of the victors.

This signal victory was achieved by a small division of Napoleon’s army,

of but six thousand men, in a pitched battle, on an open field. Such

exploits history can not record without amazement. The ostensible and

avowed object of Napoleon’s march into Syria was now accomplished.

Napoleon returned again to Acre, to prosecute with new vigor its siege,

for, though the great army, marshaled for his destruction, was

annihilated, he had other plans, infinitely more majestic, revolving in

his capacious mind. One evening he was standing with his secretary upon

the mount which still bears the name of Richard Cœur de Lion,

contemplating the smouldering scene of blood and ruin around him, when,

after a few moments of silent thought, he exclaimed, “Yes, Bourrienne,

that miserable fort has cost me dear. But matters have gone too far not to

make a last effort. The fate of the East depends upon the capture of Acre.

That is the key of Constantinople or of India. If we succeed in taking

this paltry town, I shall obtain the treasures of the Pacha, and arms for

three hundred thousand men. I will then raise and arm the whole population

of Syria, already so exasperated by the cruelty of Achmet, and for whose

fall all classes daily supplicate Heaven. I shall advance on Damascus and

Aleppo. I will recruit my army, as I advance, by enlisting all the

discontented. I will announce to the people the breaking of their chains

and the abolition of the tyrannical governments of the Pachas. The Druses

wait but for the fall of Acre, to declare themselves. I am already offered

the keys of Damascus. My armed masses will penetrate to Constantinople,

and the Mussulman dominion will be overturned. I shall found in the East a

new and mighty empire, which will fix my position with posterity.”

With these visions animating his mind, and having fully persuaded himself

that he was the child of destiny, he prosecuted, with all possible vigor,

the siege of Acre. But English and Russian and Turkish fleets were in that

harbor. English generals, and French engineers, and European and Turkish

soldiers, stood, side by side, behind those formidable ramparts, to resist

the utmost endeavors of their assailants, with equal vigor, science, and

fearlessness. No pen can describe the desperate conflicts and the scenes

of carnage which ensued. Day after day, night after night, and week after

week, the horrible slaughter, without intermission, continued. The French

succeeded in transporting, by means of their cruisers, from Alexandria, a

few pieces of heavy artillery, and the walls of Acre were reduced to a

pile of blackened ruins. The streets were plowed up, and the houses blown

down by bomb-shells. Bleeding forms, blackened with smoke, and with

clothing burnt and tattered, rushed upon each other, with dripping sabres

and bayonets, and with hideous yells which rose even above the incessant

thunders of the cannonade. The noise, the uproar, the flash of guns, the

enveloping cloud of sulphurous smoke converting the day into hideous

night, and the unintermitted flashes of musketry and artillery,

transforming night into lurid and portentous day, the forms of the

combatants, gliding like spectres, with demoniacal fury through the

darkness, the blast of trumpets, the shout of onset, the shriek of death,

presented a scene which no tongue can tell nor imagination conceive. There

was no time to bury the dead, and the putrefaction of hundreds of corpses

under that burning sun added appalling horrors. To the pure spirits of a

happier world, in the sweet companionship of celestial mansions, loving

and blessing each other, it must have appeared a spectacle worthy of

pandemonium. And yet the human heart is so wicked, that it can often,

forgetting the atrocity of such a scene, find a strange pleasure in the

contemplation of its energy and its heroism. We are indeed a fallen race.

There were occasional lulls in this awful storm, during which each party

would be rousing its energies for more terrible collision. The besiegers

burrowed mines deep under the foundations of walls and towers, and with

the explosion of hundreds of barrels of gunpowder, opened volcanic

craters, blowing men and rocks into hideous ruin. In the midst of the

shower of destruction darkening the skies, the assailants rushed, with

sabres and dripping bayonets, to the assault. The onset, on the part of

the French, was as furious and desperate as mortal man is capable of

making. The repulse was equally determined and fearless.

Sir Sydney Smith conducted the defense, with the combined English and

Turkish troops. He displayed consummate skill, and unconquerable firmness,

and availed himself of every weapon of effective warfare. Conscious of the

earnest desire of the French soldiers to return to France, and of the

despair with which the army had been oppressed when the fleet was

destroyed, and thus all hope of return was cut off, he circulated a

proclamation among them, offering to convey safely to France every soldier

who would desert from the standard of Napoleon. This proclamation, in

large numbers, was thrown from the ramparts to the French troops. A more

tempting offer could not have been presented, and yet so strong was the

attachment of the soldiers for their chief, that it is not known that a

single individual availed himself of the privilege. Napoleon issued a

counter proclamation to his army, in which he asserted that the English

commodore had actually gone mad. This so provoked Sir Sydney, that he sent

a challenge to Napoleon to meet him in single combat. The young general

proudly replied, “If Sir Sydney will send Marlborough from his grave, to

meet me, I will think of it. In the mean time, if the gallant commodore

wishes to display his personal prowess, I will neutralize a few yards of

the beach, and send a tall grenadier, with whom he can run a tilt.”

In the progress of the siege, Gen. Caffarelli was struck by a ball and

mortally wounded. For eighteen days he lingered in extreme pain, and then

died. Napoleon was strongly attached to him, and during all the period,

twice every day, made a visit to his couch of suffering. So great was his

influence over the patient, that though the wounded general was frequently

delirious, no sooner was the name of Napoleon announced, than he became

perfectly collected, and conversed coherently.

[Illustration: The Bomb-Shell.]

The most affecting proofs were frequently given of the entire devotion of

the troops to Napoleon. One day, while giving some directions in the

trenches, a shell, with its fuse fiercely burning, fell at his feet. Two

grenadiers, perceiving his danger, instantly rushed toward him, encircled

him in their arms, and completely shielded every part of his body with

their own. The shell exploded, blowing a hole in the earth sufficiently

large to bury a cart and two horses. All three were tumbled into the

excavation, and covered with stones and sand. One of the men was rather

severely wounded; Napoleon escaped with but a few slight bruises. He

immediately elevated both of these heroes to the rank of officers.

“Never yet, I believe,” said Napoleon, “has there been such devotion shown

by soldiers to their general, as mine have manifested for me. At Arcola,

Colonel Muiron threw himself before me, covered my body with his own, and

received the blow which was intended for me. He fell at my feet, and his

blood spouted up in my face. In all my misfortunes never has the soldier

been wanting in fidelity—never has man been served more faithfully by his

troops. With the last drop of blood gushing out of their veins, they

exclaimed, _Vive Napoleon_.”

The siege had now continued for sixty days. Napoleon had lost nearly three

thousand men, by the sword and the plague. The hospitals were full of the

sick and the wounded. Still, Napoleon remitted not his efforts. “Victory,”

said he, “belongs to the most persevering.” Napoleon had now expended all

his cannon-balls. By a singular expedient he obtained a fresh supply. A

party of soldiers was sent upon the beach, and set to work, apparently

throwing up a rampart for the erection of a battery. Sir Sydney

immediately approached with the English ships, and poured in upon them

broadside after broadside from all his tiers. The soldiers, who perfectly

comprehended the joke, convulsed with laughter, ran and collected the

balls as they rolled over the sand. Napoleon ordered a dollar to be paid

to the soldiers for each ball thus obtained. When this supply was

exhausted, a few horsemen or wagons were sent out upon the beach, as if

engaged in some important movement, when the English commodore would again

approach and present them, from his plethoric magazines, with another

liberal supply. Thus for a long time Napoleon replenished his exhausted

stores.

One afternoon in May, a fleet of thirty sail of the line was descried in

the distant horizon, approaching Acre. All eyes were instantly turned in

that direction. The sight awakened intense anxiety in the hearts of both

besiegers and besieged. The French hoped that they were French ships

conveying to them succors from Alexandria or from France. The besieged

flattered themselves that they were friendly sails, bringing to them such

aid as would enable them effectually to repulse their terrible foes. The

English cruisers immediately stood out of the bay to reconnoitre the

unknown fleet. Great was the disappointment of the French when they saw

the two squadrons unite, and the crescent of the Turk, and the pennant of

England, in friendly blending, approach the bay together. The Turkish

fleet brought a reinforcement of twelve thousand men, with an abundant

supply of military stores. Napoleon’s only hope was to capture the place

before the disembarkation of these reinforcements. Calculating that the

landing could not be effected in less than six hours, he resolved upon an

immediate assault. In the deepening twilight, a black and massy column,

issued from the trenches, and advanced, with the firm and silent steps of

utter desperation, to the breach. The besieged knowing that, if they could

hold out but a few hours longer, deliverance was certain, were animated to

the most determined resistance. A horrible scene of slaughter ensued. The

troops, from the ships, in the utmost haste, were embarked in the boats,

and were pulling, as rapidly as possible, across the bay, to aid their

failing friends. Sir Sydney himself headed the crews of the ships, and led

them armed with pikes to the breach. The assailants gained the summit of

the heap of stones into which the wall had been battered, and even forced

their way into the garden of the pacha. But a perfect swarm of janizaries

suddenly poured in upon them, with the keen sabre in one hand, and the

dagger in the other, and in a few moments they were all reduced to

headless trunks. The Turks gave no quarter. The remorseless Butcher sat in

the court-yard of his palace, paying a liberal reward for the gory head of

every infidel which was laid at his feet. He smiled upon the ghastly

trophies heaped up in piles around him. The chivalric Sir Sydney must at

times have felt not a little abashed in contemplating the deeds of his

allies. He was, however, fighting to arrest the progress of free

institutions, and the scimitar of the Turk was a fitting instrument to be

employed in such a service. In promotion of the same object, but a few

years before, the “tomahawk and scalping-knife of the savage” had been

called into requisition, to deluge the borders of our own land with blood.

Napoleon was contending to wrest from the hand of Achmet the Butcher, his

bloody scimitar. Sir Sydney, with the united despots of Turkey and of

Russia, was struggling to help him retain it.

Sir Sydney also issued a proclamation to the Druses, and other Christian

tribes of Syria, urging them to trust to the faith of a “Christian

knight,” rather than to that of an “unprincipled renegado.” But the

“Christian knight,” in the hour of victory, forgot the poor Druses, and

they were left, without even one word of sympathy, to bleed, during ages

whose limits can not yet be seen, beneath the dripping yataghan of the

Moslem. Column after column of the French advanced to the assault, but all

were repulsed with dreadful slaughter. Every hour the strength of the

enemy was increasing. Every hour the forces of Napoleon were melting away,

before the awful storm sweeping from the battlements. In these terrific

conflicts, where immense masses were contending hand to hand, it was found

that the scimitar of the Turk was a far more efficient weapon of

destruction than the bayonet of the European.

Success was now hopeless. Sadly Napoleon made preparations to relinquish

the enterprise. He knew that a formidable Turkish army, aided by the

fleets of England and Russia, was soon to be conveyed from Rhodes to

Egypt. Not an hour longer could he delay his return to meet it. Had not

Napoleon been crippled by the loss of his fleet at Aboukir, victory at

Acre would have been attained without any difficulty. The imagination is

bewildered in contemplating the results which might have ensued. Even

without the aid of the fleet, but for the indomitable activity, courage,

and energy of Sir Sydney Smith, Acre would have fallen, and the bloody

reign of the Butcher would have come to an end. This destruction of

Napoleon’s magnificent anticipations of Oriental conquest must have been a

bitter disappointment. It was the termination of the most sanguine hope of

his life. And it was a lofty ambition in the heart of a young man of

twenty-six, to break the chains which bound the countless millions of

Asia, in the most degrading slavery, and to create a boundless empire such

as earth had never before seen, which should develop all the physical,

intellectual, and social energies of man.

History can record with unerring truth the _deeds_ of man and his _avowed

designs_. The attempt to delineate the conflicting _motives_, which

stimulate the heart of a frail mortal, are hazardous. Even the most lowly

Christian finds unworthy motives mingling with his best actions. Napoleon

was not a Christian. He had learned no lessons in the school of Christ.

Did he merely wish to aggrandize himself, to create and perpetuate his own

renown, by being the greatest and the best monarch earth has ever known?

This is not a Christian spirit. But it is not like the spirit which

demonized the heart of Nero, which stimulated the lust of Henry the

Eighth, which fired the bosom of Alexander with his invincible phalanxes,

and which urged Tamerlane, with his mounted hordes, to the field of blood.

Our Saviour was entirely regardless of self in his endeavors to bless

mankind. Even Washington, who though one of the best of mortals, must be

contemplated at an infinite distance from the Son of God, seemed to forget

himself in his love for his country. That absence of regard for self can

not be so distinctly seen in Napoleon. He wished to be the great

benefactor of the world, elevating the condition and rousing the energies

of man, not that he might obtain wealth and live in splendor, not that he

might revel in voluptuous indulgences, but apparently that his own name

might be embalmed in glory. This is not a holy motive. Neither is it

degrading and dishonorable. We hate the mercenary despot. We despise the

voluptuary. But history can not justly consign Napoleon either to hatred

or to contempt. Had Christian motives impelled him, making all due

allowance for human frailty, he might have been regarded as a saint. Now

he is but a hero.

The ambitious conqueror who invades a peaceful land, and with fire and

blood subjugates a timid and helpless people, that he may bow their necks

to the yoke of slavery, that he may doom them to ignorance and

degradation, that he may extort from them their treasures by the energies

of the dungeon, the scimetar, and the bastinado, consigning the millions

to mud hovels, penury, and misery, that he and his haughty parasites may

revel in voluptuousness and splendor, deserves the execrations of the

world. Such were the rulers of the Orient. But we can not with equal

severity condemn the ambition of him, who marches not to forge chains, but

to break them; not to establish despotism, but to assail despotic

usurpers; not to degrade and impoverish the people, but to ennoble, and to

elevate, and to enrich them; not to extort from the scanty earnings of the

poor the means of living in licentiousness and all luxurious indulgence,

but to endure all toil, all hardship, all deprivation cheerfully, that the

lethargic nations may be roused to enterprise, to industry, and to thrift.

Such was the ambition of Napoleon. Surely it was lofty. But far more lofty

is that ambition of which Christ is the great exemplar, which can bury

self entirely in oblivion.

Twenty years after the discomfiture at Acre, Napoleon, when imprisoned

upon the Rock of St. Helena, alluded to these dreams of his early life.

“Acre once taken,” said he; “the French army would have flown to Aleppo

and Damascus. In the twinkling of an eye it would have been on the

Euphrates. The Christians of Syria, the Druses, the Christians of Armenia,

would have joined it. The whole population of the East would have been

agitated.” Some one said, he would have soon been reinforced by one

hundred thousand men. “Say rather, six hundred thousand,” Napoleon

replied. “Who can calculate what would have happened! I would have reached

Constantinople and the Indies—I would have changed the face of the world.”

The manner in which Napoleon bore this disappointment most strikingly

illustrates the truth of his own remarkable assertion. “Nature seems to

have calculated that I should endure great reverses. She has given me a

mind of marble. Thunder can not ruffle it. The shaft merely glides along.”

Even his most intimate friends could discern no indications of discontent.

He seemed to feel that it was not his destiny to found an empire in the

East, and, acquiescing without a murmur, he turned his attention to other

enterprises. “That man,” said he, with perfect good-nature, speaking of

Sir Sydney Smith, “made me miss my destiny.” Napoleon ever manifested the

most singular magnanimity in recognizing the good qualities of his

enemies. He indulged in no feelings of exasperation toward Sir Sydney,

notwithstanding his agency in frustrating the most cherished plan of his

life.—Wurmser, with whom he engaged in such terrible conflicts in Italy,

he declared to be a brave and magnanimous foe; and, in the hour of

triumph, treated him with a degree of delicacy and generosity which could

not have been surpassed had his vanquished antagonist been his intimate

friend. Of Prince Charles, with whom he fought repeated and most desperate

battles in his march upon Vienna, he remarked, “He is a _good man_, which

includes every thing when said of a prince. He is incapable of a

dishonorable action.” And even of his eccentric and versatile antagonist

at Acre, Napoleon says, with great impartiality and accuracy of judgment,

“Sir Sydney Smith is a brave officer. He displayed considerable ability in

the treaty for the evacuation of Egypt by the French. He also manifested

great honor in sending immediately to Kleber the refusal of Lord Keith to

ratify the treaty, which saved the French army. If he had kept it a secret

for seven or eight days longer, Cairo would have been given up to the

Turks, and the French army would have been obliged to surrender to the

English. He also displayed great humanity and honor in all his proceedings

toward the French who fell into his hands. He is active, intelligent,

intriguing, and indefatigable; but I believe that he is half crazy. The

chief cause of the failure at Acre was, that he took all my battering

train, which was on board several small vessels. Had it not been for that

I should have taken Acre in spite of him. He behaved very bravely. He sent

me, by means of a flag of truce, a lieutenant or midshipman, with a letter

containing a challenge to me, to meet him in some place he pointed out, in

order to fight a duel. I laughed at this, and sent him back an intimation

that when he brought Marlborough to fight me, I would meet him.

Notwithstanding this, I like the character of the man. He has certain good

qualities, and, as an old enemy, I should like to see him.”

A minute dissector of human nature may discern, in this singular candor, a

destitution of earnestness of principle. The heart is incapable of this

indifference, when it cherishes a profound conviction of right and wrong.

It is undoubtedly true that Napoleon encountered his foes upon the field

of battle, with very much the same feeling with which he would meet an

opponent in a game of chess. These wars were fierce conflicts between the

kings and the people; and Napoleon was not angry with the kings for

defending strongly their own cause. There were of course moments of

irritation, but his prevailing feeling was that his foes were to be

conquered, not condemned. At one time he expressed much surprise in

perceiving that Alexander of Russia had allowed feelings of personal

hostility to enter into the conflict. A chess-player could not have

manifested more unaffected wonder, in finding his opponent in a rage at

the check of his king. Napoleon does not appear often to have acted from a

deep sense of moral obligation. His justice, generosity, and magnanimity

were rather the instinctive impulses of a noble nature, than the result of

a profound conviction of duty. We see but few indications, in the life of

Napoleon, of tenderness of conscience. That faculty needs a kind of

culture which Napoleon never enjoyed.

He also cherished the conviction that his opponents were urged on by the

same destiny by which he believed himself to be impelled. “I am well

taught,” said Dryfesdale, “and strong in the belief, that man does naught

of himself. He is but the foam upon the billow, which rises, bubbles, and

bursts, not by its own efforts, but by the mightier impulse of fate, which

urges him.” The doctrine called _destiny_ by Napoleon, and _philosophical

necessity_ by Priestley, and _divine decrees_ by Calvin, assuming in each

mind characteristic modifications, indicated by the name which each

assigned to it, is a doctrine which often nerves to the most heroic and

virtuous endeavors, and which is also capable of the most awful

perversion.

Napoleon was an inveterate enemy to dueling, and strongly prohibited it in

the army. One evening in Egypt, at a convivial party, General Lanusse

spoke sarcastically respecting the condition of the army. Junot,

understanding his remarks to reflect upon Napoleon, whom he almost

worshiped, was instantly in a flame, and stigmatized Lanusse as a traitor.

Lanusse retorted by calling Junot a scoundrel. Instantly swords were

drawn, and all were upon their feet, for such words demanded blood.

“Hearken,” said Junot, sternly, “I called you a traitor; I do not think

that you are one. You called me a scoundrel; you know that I am not such.

But we must fight. One of us must die. I hate you, for you have abused the

man whom I love and admire, as much as I do God, if not more.” It was a

dark night. The whole party, by the light of torches, proceeded to the

bottom of the garden which sloped to the Nile, when the two half

inebriated generals cut at each other with their swords, until the head of

Lanusse was laid open, and the bowels of Junot almost protruded from a

frightful wound. When Napoleon, the next morning, heard of the occurrence,

he was exceedingly indignant. “What?” exclaimed he, “are they determined

to cut each other’s throats? Must they go into the midst of the reeds of

the Nile to dispute it with the crocodiles? Have they not enough, then,

with the Arabs, the plague, and the Mamelukes? You deserve, Monsieur

Junot,” said he, as if his aid were present before him, “you richly

deserve, as soon as you get well, to be put under arrest for a month.”

In preparation for abandoning the siege of Acre, Napoleon issued the

following proclamation to his troops. “Soldiers! You have traversed the

desert which separates Asia from Africa, with the rapidity of an Arab

force. The army, which was on its march to invade Egypt, is destroyed. You

have taken its general, its field artillery, camels, and baggage. You have

captured all the fortified posts, which secure the wells of the desert.

You have dispersed, at Mount Tabor, those swarms of brigands, collected

from all parts of Asia, hoping to share the plunder of Egypt. The thirty

ships, which, twelve days since, you saw enter the port of Acre, were

destined for an attack upon Alexandria. But you compelled them to hasten

to the relief of Acre. Several of their standards will contribute to adorn

your triumphal entry into Egypt. After having maintained the war, with a

handful of men, during three months, in the heart of Syria, taken forty

pieces of cannon, fifty stands of colors, six thousand prisoners, and

captured or destroyed the fortifications of Gaza, Jaffa, and Acre, we

prepare to return to Egypt, where, by a threatened invasion, our presence

is imperiously demanded. A few days longer might give you the hope of

taking the Pacha in his palace. But at this season the castle of Acre is

not worth the loss of three days, nor the loss of those brave soldiers who

would consequently fall, and who are necessary for more essential

services. Soldiers! we have yet a toilsome and a perilous task to perform.

After having, by this campaign, secured ourselves from attacks from the

eastward, it will perhaps be necessary to repel efforts which may be made

from the west.”

On the 20th of May, Napoleon, for the first time in his life, relinquished

an enterprise unaccomplished. An incessant fire was kept up in the

trenches till the last moment, while the baggage, the sick, and the field

artillery were silently defiling to the rear, so that the Turks had no

suspicion that the besiegers were about to abandon their works. Napoleon

left three thousand of his troops, slain or dead of the plague, buried in

the sands of Acre. He had accomplished the ostensible and avowed object of

his expedition. He had utterly destroyed the vast assemblages formed in

Syria for the invasion of Egypt, and had rendered the enemy, in that

quarter, incapable of acting against him. Acre had been overwhelmed by his

fire, and was now reduced to a heap of ruins. Those vague and brilliant

dreams of conquest in the East, which he secretly cherished, had not been

revealed to the soldiers. They simply knew that they had triumphantly

accomplished the object announced to them, in the destruction of the great

Turkish army. Elated with the pride of conquerors, they prepared to

return, with the utmost celerity, to encounter another army, assembled at

Rhodes, which was soon to be landed, by the hostile fleet, upon some part

of the shores of Egypt. Thus, while Napoleon was frustrated in the

accomplishment of his undivulged but most majestic plans, he still

appeared to the world an invincible conqueror.

There were, in the hospitals, twelve hundred sick and wounded. These were

to be conveyed on horses and on litters. Napoleon relinquished his own

horse for the wounded, and toiled along through the burning sands with the

humblest soldiers on foot. The Druses and other tribes, hostile to the

Porte, were in a state of great dismay when they learned that the French

were retiring. They knew that they must encounter terrible vengeance at

the hands of Achmet the Butcher. The victory of the allies riveted upon

them anew their chains, and a wail, which would have caused the ear of

Christendom to tingle, ascended from terrified villages, as fathers and

mothers and children cowered beneath the storm of vengeance which fell

upon them, from the hands of the merciless Turk. But England was too far

away for the shrieks to be heard in her pious dwellings.

At Jaffa, among the multitude of the sick, there were seven found near to

death. They were dying of the plague, and could not be removed. Napoleon

himself fearlessly went into the plague hospital, passed through all its

wards, and spoke words of sympathy and encouragement to the sufferers. The

eyes of the dying were turned to him, and followed his steps, with

indescribable affection, as he passed from cot to cot. The seven who were

in such a condition that their removal was impossible, Napoleon for some

time contemplated with most tender solicitude. He could not endure the

thought of leaving them to be taken by the Turks; for the Turks tortured

to death every prisoner who fell into their hands. He at last suggested to

the physician the expediency of administering to them an opium pill, which

would expedite, by a few hours, their death, and thus save them from the

hands of their cruel foe. The physician gave the highly admired reply, “My

profession is to cure, not to kill.” Napoleon reflected a moment in

silence, and said no more upon the subject, but left a rear-guard of five

hundred men to protect them, until the last should have expired. For this

suggestion Napoleon has been most severely censured. However much it may

indicate mistaken views of Christian duty, it certainly does not indicate

a cruel disposition. It was his tenderness of heart, and his love for his

soldiers, which led to the proposal. An unfeeling monster would not have

troubled himself about these few valueless and dying men; but, without a

thought, would have left them to their fate. In reference to the severity

with which this transaction has been condemned, Napoleon remarked at St.

Helena, “I do not think that it would have been a crime had opium been

administered to them. On the contrary, I think it would have been a

virtue. To leave a few unfortunate men, who could not recover, in order

that they might be massacred by the Turks with the most dreadful tortures,

as was their custom, would, I think, have been cruelty. A general ought to

act with his soldiers, as he would wish should be done to himself. Now

would not any man, under similar circumstances, who had his senses, have

preferred dying easily, a few hours sooner, rather than expire under the

tortures of those barbarians? If my own son, and I believe I love my son

as well as any father does his child, were in a similar situation with

these men, I would advise it to be done. And if so situated myself, I

would insist upon it, if I had sense enough and strength enough to demand

it. However, affairs were not so pressing as to prevent me from leaving a

party to take care of them, which was done. If I had thought such a

measure as that of giving opium necessary, I would have called a council

of war, have stated the necessity of it, and have published it in the

order of the day. It should have been no secret. Do you think, if I had

been capable of secretly poisoning my soldiers, as doing a necessary

action secretly would give it the appearance of a crime, or of such

barbarities as driving my carriage over the dead, and the still bleeding

bodies of the wounded, that my troops would have fought for me with an

enthusiasm and affection without a parallel? No, no! I never should have

done so a second time. Some would have shot me in passing. Even some of

the wounded, who had sufficient strength left to pull a trigger, would

have dispatched me. I never committed a crime in all my political career.

At my last hour I can assert that. Had I done so, I should not have been

here now. I should have dispatched the Bourbons. It only rested with me to

give my consent, and they would have ceased to live. I have, however,

often thought since on this point of morals, and, I believe, if thoroughly

considered, it is always better to suffer a man to terminate his destiny,

be it what it may. I judged so afterward in the case of my friend Duroc,

who, when his bowels were falling out before my eyes, repeatedly cried to

me to have him put out of his misery. I said to him ‘I pity you, my

friend, but there is no remedy, it is necessary to suffer to the last.’ ”

Sir Robert Wilson recorded, that the merciless and blood-thirsty monster

Napoleon, poisoned at Jaffa five hundred and eighty of his sick and

wounded soldiers, merely to relieve himself of the encumbrance of taking

care of them. The statement was circulated, and believed throughout Europe

and America. And thousands still judge of Napoleon through the influence

of such assertions. Sir Robert was afterward convinced of his error, and

became the friend of Napoleon. When some one was speaking, in terms of

indignation, of the author of the atrocious libel, Napoleon replied, “You

know but little of men and of the passions by which they are actuated.

What leads you to imagine that Sir Robert is not a man of enthusiasm and

of violent passions, who wrote what he then believed to be true? He may

have been misinformed and deceived, and may now be sorry for it. He may be

as sincere now in wishing us well as he formerly was in seeking to injure

us.” Again he said, “The fact is that I not only never committed any

crime, but I never even thought of doing so. I have always marched with

the opinions of five or six millions of men. In spite of all the libels, I

have no fear whatever respecting my fame. Posterity will do me justice.

The truth will be known, and the good which I have done will be compared

with the faults which I have committed. I am not uneasy as to the result.”

Baron Larrey was the chief of the medical staff. “Larrey,” said Napoleon

to O’Meara, “was the most honest man, and the best friend to the soldier

whom I ever knew. Indefatigable in his exertions for the wounded, he was

seen on the field of battle, immediately after an action, accompanied by a

train of young surgeons, endeavoring to discover if any signs of life

remained in the bodies. He scarcely allowed a moment of repose to his

assistants, and kept them ever at their posts. He tormented the generals,

and disturbed them out of their beds at night, whenever he wanted

accommodations or assistance for the sick or wounded. They were all afraid

of him, as they knew that if his wishes were not complied with, he would

immediately come and make a complaint to me.” Larrey, on his return to

Europe, published a medical work, which he dedicated to Napoleon as a

tribute due to him for the care which he always took of the sick and

wounded soldiers. Assulini, another eminent physician, records, “Napoleon,

great in every emergence, braved on several occasions the danger of

contagion. I have seen him in the hospitals at Jaffa, inspecting the

wards, and talking familiarly with the soldiers attacked by the plague.

This heroic example allayed the fears of the army, cheered the spirits of

the sick, and encouraged the hospital attendants, whom the progress of the

disease and the fear of contagion had considerably alarmed.”

The march over the burning desert was long and painful, and many of the

sick and wounded perished. The sufferings of the army were inconceivable.

Twelve hundred persons, faint with disease, or agonized with broken bones

or ghastly wounds, were borne along, over the rough and weary way, on

horseback. Many were so exhausted with debility and pain that they were

tied to the saddles, and were thus hurried onward, with limbs freshly

amputated and with bones shivered to splinters. The path of the army was

marked by the bodies of the dead, which were dropped by the way-side.

There were not horses enough for the sick and the wounded, though Napoleon

and all his generals marched on foot. The artillery pieces were left among

the sand hills, that the horses might be used for the relief of the

sufferers. Many of the wounded were necessarily abandoned to perish by the

way-side. Many who could not obtain a horse, knowing the horrible death by

torture which awaited them, should they fall into the hands of the Turks,

hobbled along with bleeding wounds in intolerable agony. With most

affecting earnestness, though unavailingly, they implored their comrades

to help them. Misery destroys humanity. Each one thought only of himself.

Seldom have the demoralizing influences and the horrors of war been more

signally displayed than in this march of twenty-five days. Napoleon was

deeply moved by the spectacle of misery around him. One day as he was

toiling along through the sands, at the head of a column, with the blazing

sun of Syria pouring down upon his unprotected head, with the sick, the

wounded, and the dying, all around him, he saw an officer, in perfect

health, riding on horseback, refusing to surrender his saddle to the sick.

The indignation of Napoleon was so aroused, that by one blow from the hilt

of his sword he laid the officer prostrate upon the earth, and then helped

a wounded soldier into his saddle. The deed was greeted with a shout of

acclamation from the ranks. The “recording angel in heaven’s chancery”

will blot out the record of such violence with a tear.

The historian has no right to draw the vail over the revolting horrors of

war. Though he may wish to preserve his pages from the repulsive recital,

justice to humanity demands that the barbarism, the crime, and the cruelty

of war should be faithfully portrayed. The soldiers refused to render the

slightest assistance to the sick or the wounded. They feared that every

one who was not well was attacked by the plague. These poor dying

sufferers were not only objects of horror, but also of derision. The

soldiers burst into immoderate fits of laughter in looking upon the

convulsive efforts which the dying made to rise from the sands upon which

they had fallen. “He has made up his account,” said one. “He will not get

on far,” said another. And when the exhausted wretch fell to rise no more,

they exclaimed, with perfect indifference, “His lodging is secured.” The

troops were harassed upon their march by hordes of mounted Arabs, ever

prowling around them. To protect themselves from assault, and to avenge

attacks, they fired villages, and burned the fields of grain, and with

bestial fury pursued shrieking maids and matrons. Such deeds almost

invariably attend the progress of an army, for an army is ever the resort

and the congenial home of the moral dregs of creation. Napoleon must at

times have been horror-stricken in contemplating the infernal

instrumentality which he was using for the accomplishment of his purposes.

The only excuse which can be offered for him is, that it was then as now,

the prevalent conviction of the world that war, with all its inevitable

abominations, is a necessary evil. The soldiers were glad to be fired upon

from a house, for it furnished them with an excuse for rushing in, and

perpetrating deeds of atrocious violence in its secret chambers.

Those infected by the plague accompanied the army at some distance from

the main body. Their encampment was always separated from the bivouacs of

the troops, and was with terror avoided by those soldiers who, without the

tremor of a nerve, could storm a battery. Napoleon, however, always

pitched his tent by their side. Every night he visited them to see if

their wants were attended to. And every morning he was present, with

parental kindness, to see them file off at the moment of departure. Such

tenderness, at the hands of one who was filling the world with his renown,

won the hearts of the soldiers. He merited their love. Even to the present

day the scarred and mutilated victims of these wars, still lingering in

the Hotel des Invalides at Paris, will flame with enthusiastic admiration

at the very mention of the name of Napoleon. There is no man, living or

dead, who at the present moment is the object of such enthusiastic love as

Napoleon Bonaparte. And they who knew him the best love him the most.

One day, on their return, an Arab tribe came to meet him, to show their

respect and to offer their services as guides. The son of the chief of the

tribe, a little boy about twelve years of age, was mounted on a dromedary,

riding by the side of Napoleon, and chatting with great familiarity.

“Sultan Kebir,” said the young Arab to Napoleon, “I could give you good

advice, now that you are returning to Cairo.” “Well! speak, my friend,”

said Napoleon; “if your advice is good I will follow it.” “I will tell you

what I would do, were I in your place,” the young chief rejoined. “As soon

as I got to Cairo, I would send for the richest slave-merchant in the

market, and I would choose twenty of the prettiest women for myself. I

would then send for the richest jewelers, and would make them give me up a

good share of their stock. I would then do the same with all the other

merchants. For what is the use of reigning, or being powerful, if not to

acquire riches?” “But, my friend,” replied Napoleon, “suppose it were more

noble to preserve these things for others?” The young barbarian was quite

perplexed in endeavoring to comprehend ambition so lofty, intellectual,

and refined. “He was, however,” said Napoleon, “very promising for an

Arab. He was lively and courageous, and led his troops with dignity and

order. He is perhaps destined one day or other, to carry his advice into

execution in the market-place of Cairo.”

[Illustration: Arrival of the Courier.]

At length Napoleon arrived at Cairo, after an absence of three months.

With great pomp and triumph he entered the city. He found, on his return

to Egypt, that deep discontent pervaded the army. The soldiers had now

been absent from France for a year. For six months they had heard no news

whatever from home, as not a single French vessel had been able to cross

the Mediterranean. Napoleon, finding his plans frustrated for establishing

an empire which should overshadow all the East, began to turn his thoughts

again to France. He knew, however, that there was another Turkish army

collected at Rhodes, prepared, in co-operation with the fleets of Russia

and England, to make a descent on Egypt. He could not think of leaving the

army until that formidable foe was disposed of. He knew not when or where

the landing would be attempted, and could only wait.

One evening, in July, he was walking with a friend in the environs of

Cairo, beneath the shadow of the Pyramids, when an Arab horseman was seen,

enveloped in a cloud of dust, rapidly approaching him over the desert. He

brought dispatches from Alexandria, informing Napoleon that a powerful

fleet had appeared in the Bay of Aboukir, that eighteen thousand Turks had

landed, fierce and fearless soldiers, each armed with musket, pistol, and

sabre; that their artillery was numerous, and well served by British

officers; that the combined English, Russian, and Turkish fleets supported

the armament in the bay; that Mourad Bey, with a numerous body of Mameluke

cavalry, was crossing the desert from Upper Egypt to join the invaders;

that the village of Aboukir had been taken by the Turks, the garrison cut

to pieces, and the citadel compelled to capitulate. Thus the storm burst

upon Egypt.

Napoleon immediately retired to his tent, where he remained till 3 o’clock

the next morning, dictating orders for the instant advance of the troops;

and for the conduct of those who were to remain in Cairo, and at the other

military stations. At 4 o’clock in the morning he was on horseback, and

the army in full march. The French troops were necessarily so

scattered—some in Upper Egypt, eight hundred miles above Cairo, some upon

the borders of the desert to prevent incursions from Syria, some at

Alexandria—that Napoleon could take with him but eight thousand men. By

night and by day, through smothering dust and burning sands, and beneath

the rays of an almost blistering sun, his troops, hungry and thirsty, with

iron sinews, almost rushed along, accomplishing one of those extraordinary

marches which filled the world with wonder. In seven days he reached the

Bay of Aboukir.

It was the hour of midnight, on the 25th of July, 1799, when Napoleon,

with six thousand men, arrived within sight of the strongly intrenched

camp of the Turks. They had thrown up intrenchments among the sand-hills

on the shore of the bay. He ascended an eminence and carefully examined

the position of his sleeping foes. By the bright moonlight he saw the vast

fleet of the allies riding at anchor in the offing, and his practiced eye

could count the mighty host, of infantry and artillery and horsemen,

slumbering before him. He knew that the Turks were awaiting the arrival of

the formidable Mameluke cavalry from Egypt, and for still greater

reinforcements, of men and munitions of war, from Acre, and other parts of

Syria. Kleber, with a division of two thousand of the army, had not yet

arrived. Napoleon resolved immediately to attack his foes, though they

were eighteen thousand strong. It was indeed an unequal conflict. These

janizaries were the most fierce, merciless, and indomitable of men; and

their energies were directed by English officers and by French engineers.

Just one year before, Napoleon with his army had landed upon that beach.

Where the allied fleet now rode so proudly, the French fleet had been

utterly destroyed. The bosom of Napoleon burned with the desire to avenge

this disaster. As Napoleon stood silently contemplating the scene, Murat

by his side, he foresaw the long results depending upon the issue of the

conflict. Utter defeat would be to him utter ruin. A partial victory would

but prolong the conflict, and render it impossible for him, without

dishonor, to abandon Egypt and return to France. The entire destruction of

his foes would enable him, with the renown of an invincible conqueror, to

leave the army in safety and embark for Paris, where he doubted not that,

in the tumult of the unsettled times, avenues of glory would be opened

before him. So strongly was he impressed with the great destinies for

which he believed himself to be created, that, turning to Murat, he said,

“This battle will decide the fate of the world.” The distinguished cavalry

commander, unable to appreciate the grandeur of Napoleon’s thoughts,

replied, “At least of this army. But every French soldier feels now that

he must conquer or die. And be assured, if ever infantry were charged to

the teeth by cavalry, the Turks shall be to-morrow so charged by mine.”

The first gray of the morning was just appearing in the East, when the

Turkish army was aroused by the tramp of the French columns, and by a

shower of bomb-shells falling in the midst of their intrenchments. One of

the most terrible battles recorded in history then ensued. The awful

genius of Napoleon never shone forth more fearfully than on that bloody

day. He stood upon a gentle eminence, calm, silent, unperturbed, pitiless,

and guided, with resistless skill, the carnage. The onslaught of the

French was like that of wolves. The Turks were driven like deer before

them. Every man remembered that in that bay the proud fleet of France had

perished. Every man felt that the kings of Europe had banded for the

destruction of the French Republic. Every man exulted in the thought that

there were but six thousand French Republicans to hurl themselves upon

England, Russia, and Turkey combined, nearly twenty thousand strong. The

Turks, perplexed and confounded by the skill and fury of the assault, were

driven in upon each other in horrible confusion. The French, trained to

load and fire with a rapidity which seemed miraculous, poured in upon them

a perfect hurricane of bullets, balls, and shells. They were torn to

pieces, mown down, bayoneted, and trampled under iron hoofs. In utter

consternation, thousands of them plunged into the sea, horsemen and

footmen, and struggled in the waves, in the insane attempt to swim to the

ships, three miles distant from the shore. With terrible calmness of

energy Napoleon opened upon the drowning host the tornado of his

batteries, and the water was swept with grape-shot as by a hail-storm. The

Turks were on the point of a peninsula. Escape by land was impossible.

They would not ask for quarter. The silent and proud spirit of Napoleon

was inflamed with the resolve to achieve a victory which should reclaim

the name of Aboukir to the arms of France. Murat redeemed his pledge.

Plunging with his cavalry into the densest throng of the enemy, he spurred

his fiery steed, reckless of peril, to the very centre of the Turkish

camp, where stood Mustapha Pacha, surrounded by his staff. The proud Turk

had barely time to discharge a pistol at his audacious foe, which slightly

wounded Murat, ere the dripping sabre of the French general severed half

of his hand from the wrist. Thus wounded, the leader of the Turkish army

was immediately captured, and sent in triumph to Napoleon. As Napoleon

received his illustrious prisoner, magnanimously desiring to soothe the

bitterness of his utter discomfiture, he courteously said, “I will take

care to inform the Sultan of the courage you have displayed in this

battle, though it has been your misfortune to lose it.” “Thou mayst save

thyself that trouble,” the proud Turk haughtily replied. “My master knows

me better than thou canst.”

Before 4 o’clock in the afternoon, the whole Turkish army was destroyed.

Hardly an individual escaped. About two thousand prisoners were taken in

the fort. All the rest perished, either drowned in the sea, or slain upon

the land. Sir Sydney Smith, who had chosen the position occupied by the

Turkish army, with the utmost difficulty avoided capture. In the midst of

the terrible scene of tumult and death, the Commodore succeeded in getting

on board a boat, and was rowed to his ships. More than twelve thousand

corpses of the turbaned Turks were floating in the bay of Aboukir, beneath

whose crimsoned waves, but a few months before, almost an equal number of

the French had sunk in death. Such utter destruction of an army is perhaps

unexampled in the annals of war. If God frowned upon France in the naval

battle of Aboukir, He as signally frowned upon her foes in this terrific

conflict on the land.

The cloudless sun descended peacefully, in the evening, beneath the blue

waves of the Mediterranean. Napoleon stood at the door of his tent, calmly

contemplating the scene, from whence all his foes had thus suddenly and

utterly vanished. Just then Kleber arrived, with his division of two

thousand men, for whom Napoleon had not waited. The distinguished soldier,

who had long been an ardent admirer of Napoleon, was overwhelmed with

amazement in contemplating the magnitude of the victory. In his enthusiasm

he threw his arms around the neck of his adored chieftain, exclaiming,

“Let me embrace you, my General, you are great as the universe.”

[Illustration: Napoleon and Kleber.]

Egypt was now quiet. Not a foe remained to be encountered. No immediate

attack, from any quarter, was to be feared. Nothing remained to be done

but to carry on the routine of the administration of the infant colony.

These duties required no especial genius, and could be very creditably

performed by any respectable governor.

It was, however, but a barren victory which Napoleon had obtained, at such

an enormous expenditure of suffering and of life. It was in vain for the

isolated army, cut off, by the destruction of its fleet, from all

intercourse with Europe, to think of the invasion of India. The French

troops had exactly “caught the Tartar.” Egypt was of no possible avail as

a colony, with the Mediterranean crowded with hostile English, and

Russian, and Turkish cruisers. For the same reason, it was impossible for

the army to leave those shores and return to France. Thus the victorious

French, in the midst of all their triumphs, found that they had built up

for themselves prison walls from which, though they could repel their

enemies, there was no escape. The sovereignty of Egypt alone was too petty

an affair to satisfy the boundless ambition of Napoleon. Destiny, he

thought, deciding against an Empire in the East, was only guiding him back

to an Empire in the West.

For ten months Napoleon had now received no certain intelligence

respecting Europe. Sir Sydney Smith, either in the exercise of the spirit

of gentlemanly courtesy, or enjoying a malicious pleasure in communicating

to his victor tidings of disaster upon disaster falling upon France, sent

to him a file of newspapers full of the most humiliating intelligence. The

hostile fleet, leaving its whole army of eighteen thousand men, buried in

the sands, or beneath the waves, weighed anchor and disappeared.

Napoleon spent the whole night, with intense interest, examining those

papers. He learned that France was in a state of indescribable confusion;

that the imbecile government of the Directory, resorting to the most

absurd measures, was despised and disregarded; that plots and

counter-plots, conspiracies and assassinations filled the land. He

learned, to his astonishment, that France was again involved in war with

monarchical Europe; that the Austrians had invaded Italy anew, and driven

the French over the Alps; and that the banded armies of the European kings

were crowding upon the frontiers of the distracted republic. “Ah!” he

exclaimed to Bourrienne, “my forebodings have not deceived me. The fools

have lost Italy. All the fruit of our victories has disappeared. I must

leave Egypt. We must return to France immediately, and, if possible,

repair these disasters, and save France from destruction.”

[Illustration: The Return.]

It was a signal peculiarity in the mind of Napoleon that his decisions

appeared to be instinctive rather than deliberative. With the rapidity of

the lightning’s flash his mind contemplated all the considerations upon

each side of a question, and instantaneously came to the result. These

judgments, apparently so hasty, combined all the wisdom which others

obtain by the slow and painful process of weeks of deliberation and

uncertainty. Thus in the midst of the innumerable combinations of the

field of battle, he never suffered from a moment of perplexity; he never

hesitated between this plan and that plan, but instantaneously, and

without the slightest misgivings, decided upon that very course, to which

the most slow and mature deliberation would have guided him. This

instinctive promptness of correct decision was one great secret of his

mighty power. It pertained alike to every subject with which the human

mind could be conversant. The promptness of his decision was only equaled

by the energy of his execution. He therefore accomplished in hours that

which would have engrossed the energies of other minds for days.

Thus, in the present case, he decided, upon the moment, to return to

France. The details of his return, as to the disposition to be made of the

army, the manner in which he would attempt to evade the British cruisers,

and the individuals he would take with him, were all immediately settled

in his mind. He called Bourrienne, Berthier, and Gantheaume before him,

and informed them of his decision, enjoining upon them the most perfect

secrecy, lest intelligence of his preparations should be communicated to

the allied fleet. He ordered Gantheaume immediately to get ready for sea

two frigates from the harbor of Alexandria, and two small vessels, with

provisions for four hundred men for two months. Napoleon then returned

with the army to Cairo. He arrived there on the 10th of August, and again,

as a resistless conqueror, entered the city. He prevented any suspicion of

his projected departure, from arising among the soldiers, by planning an

expedition to explore Upper Egypt.

One morning he announced his intention of going down the Nile, to spend a

few days in examining the Delta. He took with him a small retinue, and

striking across the desert, proceeded with the utmost celerity to

Alexandria, where they arrived on the 22d of August. Concealed by the

shades of the evening of the same day, he left the town, with eight

selected companions, and escorted by a few of his faithful guards.

Silently and rapidly they rode to a solitary part of the bay, the party

wondering what this movement could mean. Here they discovered, dimly in

the distance, two frigates riding at anchor, and some fishing-boats near

the shore, apparently waiting to receive them. Then Napoleon announced to

his companions that their destination was France. The joy of the company

was inconceivable. The horses were left upon the beach, to find their way

back to Alexandria. The victorious fugitives crowded into the boats, and

were rowed out, in the dim and silent night, to the frigates. The sails

were immediately spread, and before the light of morning dawned, the low

and sandy outline of the Egyptian shore had disappeared beneath the

horizon of the sea.

GREAT OBJECTS ATTAINED BY LITTLE THINGS.

There is nothing, however small, in nature that has not its appropriate

use—nothing, however insignificant it may appear to us, that has not some

important mission to fulfill. The living dust that swarms in clusters

about our cheese—the mildew casting its emerald tint over our

preserves—the lichen and the moss wearing away the words of grief and

honor engraved upon the tombs of our forefathers, have each their

appropriate work, and are all important in the great economy of nature.

The little moss which so effectually aroused the emotions of Mungo Park

when far away from his friends and kin, and when his spirits were almost

failing, may teach a moral lesson to us all, and serve to inspire us with

some of that perseverance and energy to travel through life, that it did

Mungo Park in his journey through the African desert. By the steady and

long-continued efforts of this fragile little plant, high mountains have

been leveled, which no human power could have brought from their towering

heights. Adamantine rocks have been reduced to pebbles; cliffs have

mouldered in heaps upon the shore; and castles and strongholds raised by

the hand of man have proved weak and powerless under the ravages of this

tiny agent, and become scenes of ruin and desolation—the habitations of

the owl and the bat. Yet who, to look upon the lichen, would think it

could do all this?—so modest that we might almost take it for a part of

the ground upon which we tread. Can this, we exclaim, be a leveler of

mountains and mausoleums! Contemplate its unobtrusive, humble course;

endowed by nature with an organization capable of vegetating in the most

unpropitious circumstances—requiring indeed little more than the mere

moisture of the atmosphere to sustain it, the lichen sends forth its small

filamentous roots and clings to the hard, dry rock with a most determined

pertinacity. These little fibres, which can scarcely be discerned with the

naked eye, find their way into the minute crevices of the stone; now,

firmly attached, the rain-drops lodge upon their fronds or membranaceous

scales on the surface, and filtering to their roots, moisten the space

which they occupy, and the little plant is then enabled to work itself

further into the rock; the dimensions of the aperture become enlarged, and

the water runs in in greater quantities. This work, carried on by a legion

ten thousand strong, soon pierces the stony cliff with innumerable

fissures, which being filled with rain, the frost causes it to split, and

large pieces roll down to the levels beneath, reduced to sand, or to

become soil for the growth of a more exalted vegetation.—This, of course,

is a work of time—of generations, perhaps, measured by the span of human

life; but, undaunted, the mission of the humble lichen goes on and

prospers. Is not this a lesson worth learning from the book of nature?

Does it not contain much that we might profit by, and set us an example

that we should do well to imitate? “Persevere, and despise not little

things,” is the lesson we draw from it ourselves, and the poorest and

humblest reader of this page will be able to accomplish great things, if

he will take the precept to himself, engrave it upon his heart, or hold it

constantly before him; depend upon it, you will gain more inspiration from

these words than from half the wise sayings of the philosophers of old.

But nature is full of examples to stimulate us to perseverance, and

beautiful illustrations of how much can be achieved by little

things—trifles unheeded by the multitude. The worms that we tread in the

dust beneath our feet, are the choicest friends of the husbandman. A tract

of land rendered barren by the incrustation of stones upon its surface,

becomes by their labors a rich and fertile plain; they loosen and throw up

in nutritious mealy hillocks the hardest and most unprofitable soil—the

stones disappear, and where all was sterility and worthlessness, is soon

rich with a luxurious vegetation. We may call to mind, too, the worm upon

the mulberry-tree, and its miles of fine-spun glistening silk; we may

watch the process of its transformation till the choice fabric which its

patient industry had produced is dyed by an infusion gained from another

little insect (the Cochineal), and then, endowed with the glory of tint

and softness of texture, it is cut into robes to deck the beauty of our

English wives and daughters. Yet, those ignorant of their usefulness would

despise these little laborers, as they do others equally valuable. The bee

and the ant, again, are instances which we may all observe—but how few

will spare five minutes to contemplate them. Yet, where is the man,

sluggard though he be, who would not shake off his slothfulness on

observing the patient industry and frugal economy of the little ant? or

where is the drunkard and spendthrift who could watch the bee, so busy in

garnering up a rich store for the coming winter—laboring while the sun

shone, to sustain them when the frost and rain, and the flowerless plants

shut out all means of gaining their daily bread; and not put his shoulder

to the wheel, and think of old age, and the clouds that are gathering in

the heavens? The worth of all the delicious sweets we have derived from

the industry of the little bee, is nothing, when compared with the value

of this moral which they teach us.

If we turn from the book of Nature and open the annals of discovery and

science, many instances of the importance of little things will start up

and crowd around us—of events which appear in the lowest degree

insignificant, being the cause of vast and stupendous discoveries. “The

smallest thing becomes respectable,” says Foster, “when regarded as the

commencement of what has advanced or is advancing into magnificence. The

first rude settlement of Romulus would have been an insignificant

circumstance, and might justly have sunk into oblivion, if Rome had not at

length commanded the world. The little rill near the source of one of the

great American rivers is an interesting object to the traveler, who is

apprised as he steps across it, or walks a few miles along its bank, that

this is the stream which runs so far, and gradually swells into so immense

a flood.” By the accidental mixing of a little nitre and potash, gunpowder

was discovered. In ancient times, before the days of Pliny, some merchants

traveling across a sandy desert, could find no rock at hand on which to

kindle a fire to prepare their food; as a substitute, they took a block of

alkali from among their heaps of merchandise, and lit a fire thereon. The

merchants stared with surprise when they saw the huge block melting

beneath the heat, and running down in a glistening stream as it mingled

with the sand, and still more so, when they discovered into what a hard

and shining substance it had been transformed. From this, says Pliny,

originated the making of glass. The sunbeams dazzling on a crystal prism

unfolded the whole theory of colors. A few rude types carved from a wooden

block have been the means of revolutionizing nations, overthrowing

dynasties, and rooting out the most hardened despotisms—of driving away a

multitude of imps of superstition, which for ages had been the terror of

the learned, and of spreading the light of truth and knowledge from the

frontiers of civilization to the coasts of darkness and barbarism. “We

must destroy the Press,” exclaimed the furious Wolsey, “or the Press will

destroy us.” The battle was fought, the Press was triumphant, and Popery

banished from the shores of Britain. The swinging of a lamp suspended from

a ceiling led Galileo to search into the laws of oscillation of the

pendulum; and by the fall of an apple the great Newton was led to unfold

what had hitherto been deemed one of the secrets of the Deity—a mystery

over which God had thrown a vail, which it would be presumption for man to

lift or dare to pry beneath. Had Newton disregarded little things, and

failed to profit by gentle hints, we should perhaps have thought so still,

and our minds would not have been so filled with the glory of Him who made

the heavens; but with these great truths revealed to our understandings,

we exclaim from our hearts, “Manifold, O God! are thy works; in wisdom

hast thou made them all.”

When the heart of the woolspinner of Genoa was sickening with “hope

deferred,” and his men, who had long been straining their eyes in vain to

catch a glimpse of land, were about to burst into open mutiny, and were

shouting fearfully to their leader to steer the vessel back again,

Columbus picked up a piece of wood which he found floating upon the

waters. The shore must be nigh, he thought, from whence this branch has

wafted, and the inference inspired the fainting hearts of his crew to

persevere and gain the hoped-for land; had it not been for this trifling

occurrence, Columbus would perhaps have returned to Spain an unsuccessful

adventurer. But such trifles have often befriended genius. Accidentally

observing a red-hot iron become elongated by passing between iron

cylinders, suggested the improvements effected by Arkwright in the

spinning machinery. A piece of thread and a few small beads were means

sufficient in the hands of Ferguson, to ascertain the situation of the

stars in the heavens. The discovery of Galvani was made by a trifling

occurrence; a knife happened to be brought in contact with a dead frog

which was lying upon the board of the chemist’s laboratory, the muscles of

the reptile were observed to be severely convulsed—experiments soon

unfolded the whole theory of Galvanism. The history of the gas-light is

curious, and illustrates our subject. Dr. Clayton distilled some coal in a

retort, and confining the vapor in a bladder, amused his friends by

burning it as it issued from a pin-hole; little did the worthy doctor

think to what purposes the principle of that experiment was capable of

being applied. It was left for Murdoch to suggest its adoption as a means

of illuminating our streets and adding to the splendor of our shops. Had

Clayton not made known his humble experiment, we probably should still be

depending on the mercy of a jovial watchman for a light to guide us

through the dark thoroughfares of the city, or to the dim glimmer of an

oil lamp to display the luxury of our merchandise.

These facts, which we have gleaned from the fields of nature and from the

annals of science, may be useful to us all. If God has instilled the

instinct of frugality into the ant, and told us, in his written word, to

go learn her ways and be wise, think you he will be displeased to observe

the same habits of economy in us, or deny us the favor of his countenance,

because we use with care the talents he has intrusted to our keeping, or

the wealth he has placed within our reach? Let not instances of the abuse

of this feeling, which spendthrifts in derision will be sure to point out

to you, deter you from saving, in times of plenty, a little for a time of

need. Avarice is always despicable—the crime of the miser is greater than

that of the spendthrift; both are extremes, both abuse the legitimate

purposes of wealth. It is equally revolting to read of two avaricious

souls, whose coffers could have disgorged ten times ten thousand guineas,

growing angry over a penny, or fretting at the loss of a farthing

rushlight; but it is a sight quite as sad and painful to observe the

spendthrift squandering in the mire the last shilling of an ample fortune,

and reducing his wife and children to beggary for ever. Save, then, a

little, although the thoughtless and the gay may sneer. Throw nothing

away, for there is nothing that is purely worthless; the refuse from your

table is worth its price, and if you are not wanting it yourself, remember

there are hundreds of your kind, your brethren by the laws of God, who are

groaning under a poverty which it would help to mitigate, and pale with a

hunger which it might help to satisfy. Where can you find your

prescriptive right to squander that which would fill the belly of a hungry

brother? A gentleman, some years ago, married the daughter of a public

contractor, whose carts carried away the dust from our habitations; he was

promised a portion with his bride, and on his nuptial day was referred to

a large heap of dust and offal as the promised dowry. He little thought,

as he received it with some reluctance, that it would put two thousand

pounds into his pocket.

To achieve independence, then, you must practise an habitual frugality,

and while enjoying the present, look forward to old age, and think now and

then of the possibility of a rainy day. Do not fancy, because you can only

save an occasional penny now, that you will never become the possessor of

pounds. Small things increase by union. Recollect, too, the precepts and

life of Franklin, and a thousand others who rose to wealth and honor by

looking after little things: be resolute, persevere, and prosper. Do not

wait for the assistance of others in your progress through life; you will

grow hungry, depend upon it, if you look to the charity or kindness of

friends for your daily bread. It is far more noble to gird up your loins,

and meet the difficulties and troubles of human life with a dauntless

courage. The wheel of fortune turns as swiftly as that of a mill, and the

rich friend who has the power, you think, to help you to-day, may become

poor tomorrow—many such instances of the mutability of fortune must occur

to every reader. If he be rich, let him take the inference to himself. If

he has plenty, let him save a little, lest the wheel should turn against

him; and if he be poor and penniless, let him draw from such cases

consolation and hope.

You are desirous of promotion in your worldly position—you are ambitious

of rising from indigence to affluence?—resist, then, every temptation that

may allure you to indolence or every fascination that may lead to

prodigality. Think not that the path to wealth or knowledge is all

sunshine and honey; look for it only by long years of vigorous and

well-directed activity; let no opportunity pass for self-improvement. Keep

your mind a total stranger to the _ennui_ of the slothful. The dove,

recollect, did not return to Noah with the olive-branch till the second

time of her going forth; why, then, should you despond at the failure of a

first attempt? Persevere, and above all, despise not little things; for,

you see, they sometimes lead to great matters in the end.

THE SUBLIME PORTE.

In offering a few remarks upon the government of Turkey, which, by common

accord, is known in Europe and the United States as “The Sublime Porte,”

it is not intended to quote history, but rather to speak of it only in

reference to the present period. It is nevertheless necessary to state

that the Turks themselves call the Turkish Empire _Mémâliki-Othmanieh_, or

the “Ottoman States” (kingdoms), in consequence of their having been

founded by Othman, the great ancestor of the present reigning sovereign,

Abd-ul-Mejid. They are no better pleased with the name of _Turk_ than the

people of the United States are, generally, with that of _Yankee_: it

bears with it a meaning signifying a gross and rude man—something indeed

very much like our own definition of it, when we say any one is “no better

than a Turk;” and they greatly prefer being known as Ottomans. They call

their language the “Ottoman tongue”—_Othmanli dilee_—though some do speak

of it as the _Turkish_.

As regards the title, “The Sublime Porte,” this has a different origin. In

the earlier days of Ottoman rule, the reigning sovereign, as is still the

case in some parts of the East, held courts of justice and levees at the

entrance of his residence. The palace of the Sultan is always surrounded

by a high wall, and not unfrequently defended by lofty towers and

bastions. The chief entrance is an elevated portal, with some pretensions

to magnificence and showy architecture. It is guarded by soldiers or

door-keepers well armed; it may also contain some apartments for certain

officers, or even for the Sultan himself; its covering or roof, projecting

beyond the walls, offers an agreeable shade, and in its external alcoves

are sofas more or less rich or gaudy. Numerous loiterers are usually found

lingering about the portal, applicants for justice; and there, in former

times, when the Ottomans were indeed _Turks_, scenes of injustice and

cruelty were not unfrequently witnessed by the passer-by.

This lofty portal generally bears a distinct title. At Constantinople it

has even grown into one which has given a name to the whole government of

the Sultan. I am not aware, however, that the custom here alluded to was

ever in force in that capital, though it certainly was in other parts of

the empire of Othman. It is not improbable that it was usual with all the

Sultans, who, at the head of their armies, seldom had any permanent fixed

residence worthy of the name of _palace_. Mahomet the Second, who

conquered Constantinople from the degenerate Greeks, may, for some time

after his entrance into the city of Constantine—still called in all the

official documents, such as “_Firmans_,” or “Royal Orders,”

_Kostantinieh_—have held his courts of justice and transacted business at

the elevated portal of his temporary residence. The term “Sublime Porte,”

in Turkish, is _Deri Alieh_, or the elevated and lofty door; the Saxon

word door being derived from the Persian _der_, or _dor_, in common use in

the Ottoman language, which is a strange mixture of Tartar, Persian, and

Arabic. The French, or rather the Franks, in their earlier intercourse

with Turkey, translated the title literally “La Sublime Porte,” and this

in English has been called, with similar inaccuracy, “The Sublime Porte.”

Long since, the Ottoman Sultans have ceased administering justice before

their palaces, or indeed any where else, in person. The office is

delegated to a deputy, who presides over the whole Ottoman government,

with the title of Grand Vezir, or in Turkish, _Véziri Azam_, the Chief

Vezir, whose official residence or place of business, once no doubt at the

portal of his sovereign, is now in a splendid edifice in the midst of the

capital. At Constantinople the Ottoman government is also called the

“Sublime Government,” _Devleti Alieh_, a word closely bordering on that of

superiority and pre-eminence claimed by the “Heavenly Government” of the

empire of China. The Sultan, in speaking of his government, calls it “My

Sublime Porte.” The Grand Vezir being an officer of the highest rank in

the empire—a Pacha, of course, in fine, _the_ Pacha—his official residence

is known in Constantinople as that of the Pacha, _Pacha Ka pousee_, _i.e._

the “Gate of the Pacha.” The chief entrance to the “seraglio” of the

former Sultans, erected on the tongue of land where once stood the

republican city of Byzantium, called the “Imperial Gate,” or the _Babi

Humayoon_, is supposed by some to have given rise to the title of “The

Sublime Porte;” but this is not correct. It may have once been used as a

court of justice, certainly as a place where justice was wont to be

executed, for not unfrequently criminals were decapitated there; and among

others, the head of the brave but unfortunate Aâli Pacha, of Yanina in

Albania, the friend of Lord Byron, was exposed there for some days

previous to its interment beyond the walls of the city.

The title of _porte_, or door, is used in Constantinople to designate

other departments of the government. The bureau of the Minister of War is

called the _Seraskier Kapousee_, or the Gate of the _Serasker_ (head of

the army); and those of the Ministers of Commerce and Police are called,

the one _Tijaret Kapousee_, and the other _Zabtieh Kapousee_. These,

however are sufficient, without mentioning any other facts, to explain the

origin and nature of the title of the Ottoman government, known as “The

Sublime Porte.”

The Sultan of the Ottoman Empire is known by his subjects under the title

of _Sultân_, which word signifies a ruler; and generally as _Shevketlu

Padischah Effendimiz_, “His Majesty the Emperor our Lord;” and all foreign

governments now recognize him as an Emperor, and call him by the title of

“Imperial Majesty.” The definition of the word _Padischah_ is supposed to

be “Father of Kings,” and originally was _Peder Schah_, the first part of

it (Peder) being the origin of our Saxon word _Fâder_, or father. In his

own tongue he is called _Khan_, in Persian _Shah_, and in Arabic _Sultan_,

all meaning, _in extensu_, the same, viz. King, Sovereign, or Prince. He

reigns over one of the most extensive empires of the world, all possessed

or acquired by inheritance from his ancestors, who obtained it by

conquest.

Until the reign of the late Sultan, Mahmoud the Second, the Ottoman

sovereigns had their residence in _the_ “Seraglio” before alluded to, in

the city of Constantinople. Its high walls were not, however, sufficiently

strong to protect them against the violence of the Janizaries, and after

their destruction the remembrance of the scenes of their cruelty induced

the late and present Sultan to forsake it for the safer and more agreeable

banks of the Bosphorus. The extensive and very picturesque buildings of

the Seraglio are now left to decay; they offer only the spectacle of the

“dark ages” of Turkey, gloomy in their aspect, as in their history, and

yet occupying one of the most favored spots in the world, on which the

eyes of the traveler are fixed as by a charm in approaching the great

capital of the East, and on which they dwell with a parting feeling of

regret as he bids the magnificent “City of the Sultan” farewell.

On the Bosphorus are two splendid palaces, one on the Asiatic and the

other on the European shore. The first is called _Beylerbey_, “Prince of

Princes,” the latter _Teherâgiân_, “The Lights.” Both are beautiful

edifices, in excellent taste; and, as architecture has done in all ages,

they serve to show the advance of the people who erected them in the

noblest of the arts.

The Turkish Sultan, in theory, is a despotic sovereign, while in practice

he is a very paternal one. As the supreme head of the government, he may

exercise unlimited power; few checks exist to preserve the lives and

property of his subjects against an influence which he _might_ exercise

over them. His ancestors conquered the country, and subjugated its

inhabitants to _his_ rule with _his_ troops; consequently it all belonged

to him, and could only be possessed by _his_ gift: thus, in fact, the

empire is his, and the concessions made by him to his subjects are

free-will offerings, which are not drawn from him by compulsion on their

part, but are grants on his, in behalf of reform and civilization. The

feudal system of land-tenure was abolished by his father, and there is now

scarcely a feature of it remaining. It is several years since the present

Sultan spontaneously renounced all the arbitrary power hitherto possessed

and frequently exercised by his predecessors; at the same time he granted

all his subjects a “Charter of Rights,” called the _Hatti Sherif of

Gulkhaneh_, or imperial sacred rescript of _Gulkhaneh_, named after a

summerhouse or _Kiosckk_ within the precincts of the Seraglio, where it

was read before him by the present Grand Vezir, Rechid Pacha, in the

presence of the whole diplomatic corps, and all the ministers and other

high officers of the Ottoman government. In this charter the Sultan

conceded all the rights and privileges which could be expected from a

sovereign prince not reigning with a constitutional form of government. He

has never withdrawn any of these privileges, or resumed the power which he

then renounced. Moreover, this charter limited the power of all his

officers. The only punishments which they can now exercise are fines and

imprisonments of limited extent. None can any longer inflict the

“bastinado,” nor capital punishment for crimes of a graver nature; these

are reserved for the Councils or Boards at the capital and the chief towns

of each province. The sentences of the latter are, in all cases, subject

to the confirmation of the former, and the decrees of the Council of

State, held at the Sublime Porte, are laid before the Sultan previous to

their adoption as laws.

The present Sultan, Abd-ul-Mejid, which name is Arabic, and signifies

“Servant of the Glorious” (God), is now in his twenty-ninth year: he

succeeded his late illustrious father, Mahmoud II., in 1839, when he was

but seventeen years of age. His father had inspired him with the desire to

improve his empire and promote the welfare of his people by salutary

reforms, and frequently carried him with him to observe the result of the

new system which he had introduced into the different branches of the

public service. Previous to his accession to the throne, but little is

known of his life, or the way in which he was brought up. It may be

supposed to have been much like that of all Oriental princes. Except when

he attended his parent, he seldom left the palace. He had several sisters

and one brother, all by other mothers than his own. The former have, since

his accession, died, with the exception of one, the wife of the present

Minister of War. His brother still lives, and resides with the Sultan in

his palace. The mother of the Sultan, who was a Circassian slave of his

father, is said to be a woman of a strong mind and an excellent judgment.

She exercised much influence over her son when he ascended the throne, and

her counsels were greatly to his benefit. He entertains for her feelings

of the deepest respect, and has always evinced the warmest concern for her

health and happiness. She is a large, portly lady, yet in the prime of

life; and although she possesses a fine palace of her own, near to that of

her son, she mostly resides with him. Her revenues are derived from the

islands of Chio and Samos.

In person the Sultan is of middle stature, slender, and of a delicate

frame. In his youth he suffered from illness, and it was thought that his

constitution had been severely affected by it. His features are slightly

marked with the small pox. His countenance denotes great benevolence and

goodness of heart, and the frankness and earnestness of character which

are its chief traits. He does not possess the dignified and commanding

figure which eminently characterized his father, and in conduct is simple

and diffident. His address, when unrestrained by official forms and

ceremony, is gentle and kind in the extreme—more affable and engaging than

that of his Pachas; and no one can approach him without being won by the

goodness of heart which his demeanor indicates. He has never been known to

commit an act of severity or injustice; his purse and his hand have always

been open for the indigent and the unfortunate, and he takes a peculiar

pride in bestowing his honors upon men of science and talent. Among his

own subjects he is very popular and much beloved; they perceive and

acknowledge the benefit of the reforms which he has instituted, and he no

longer need apprehend any opposition on their part. In some of the more

distant portions of his empire, such as Albania, where perhaps foreign

influence is exerted to thwart his plans, his new system of military rule

has not yet been carried out; but it evidently soon will be, especially

when its advantage over the old is felt by the inhabitants.

The palaces of the Sultan, on both banks of the Bosphorus, though

externally showy, are very plain and simple in their interior arrangement.

They are surrounded by high walls, and guarded by soldiery. The first

block of buildings which the traveler approaches on visiting them, up the

Bosphorus, are the apartments of the eunuchs; the second his _harem_, or

female apartments; and the third those of the Sultan. Beyond this are the

offices of his secretaries, guard, and band of music, all beyond the walls

of the palace. The number of eunuchs is some sixty or eighty, and the

females in the harem about 300 to 400. The Sultan never marries; all the

occupants of his harem are slaves, and he generally selects from four to

six ladies as his favorites, who bear children to him, and who succeed to

his throne. The remainder of the females are employed as maids of honor,

who attend upon his mother, his favorites, his brother’s mother, favorite,

if he has one, and upon his children. Many hold offices in the palace, and

are charged with the maintenance of good order and regularity. Many of

them are aged females, who have been servants to his father, his mother,

and sisters, and brother, and have thus claims upon his kindness and

protection. The only males who have the right of entrance to the imperial

harem are the eunuchs, all of whom are black, and come mutilated from

Egypt. The chief of their corps is an aged “gentleman of color,”

possessing the Sultan’s confidence in an eminent degree, and in official

rank is higher than any other individual connected with the imperial

palace. The eunuchs are assigned to the service of the different ladies of

the harem, do their shopping in the bazaars, carry their messages, and

accompany them on their visits. Indeed, their duties are much like those

of well-bred gallants in our country, without any of the ambitious

feelings which animate the latter, and certainly they never aspire to the

possession of their affections. Some of them grow wealthy, possess much

property, and slaves of both sexes, but as they can have no families, the

Sultan is their legal heir. Eunuchs are possessed by many of the pachas

and other officers of rank, for the purpose of serving their wives,

sisters, and daughters: they cost four or five times as much as an

ordinary black slave, and the highest officers seldom possess more than

ten of them at once. From them much interesting information can at times

be procured relative to the most sacred and least known of the Mussulman

family system. They are generally of mild disposition, gentle and amiable;

though this is not always the case, for they sometimes are petulant,

cross, and confoundedly non-communicative.

The Sultan’s palace is peculiarly his private home, and no officers of

high rank occupy it with him. He has four private secretaries and as many

chamberlains. He has also two aids-de-camp, who are generally in command

of the body-guard, which has its quarters in the vicinity of the palace.

He seldom, however, commands their attendance; their duties are to keep

watch at the principal entrances, and to salute him or any other higher

officers who may arrive at or leave the royal residence. The secretaries

write out his orders, and the chief of their number receives all foreign

functionaries or Turkish dignitaries who visit the palace on business. One

of them is the Sultan’s interpreter, and translates articles for his

perusal from the many foreign papers received from Europe and America by

the Sultan. All official documents are sent to the chief secretary by the

different ministers of the Sublime Porte, and those received from the

foreign embassies and legations are translated there, previous to being

transmitted to the Sultan. No foreign legation ever transacts any official

business directly with the Sultan, or through the chief (private)

secretary; but the latter may be visited on matters relating to the

sovereign personally. Documents from the Sublime Porte are always

communicated through the Grand Vezir, who has a number of portfolios in

which these are placed, and he sends them to the palace by certain

functionaries charged especially with their conveyance. Of these the Vezir

possesses one key, and the Sultan, or his chief secretary, another. The

sultan passes several hours of the day, from eleven till three, in

perusing these papers, and in hearing their perusal by the private

secretary before him; and his imperial commands are traced on their broad

margin, either by his own hand in red ink (as is customary in China), or

he directs his secretary to do it for him. So very sacred are all

manuscripts coming from his pen, that these papers seldom ever leave the

bureaux to which they belong, except after his decease. It is only on such

documents that the autograph of the Sultan is ever seen.

At about three o’clock the Sultan generally leaves the palace in a

_caïque_ or barge, which, being smaller than that used for official

purposes, is called the _incognito_ (_tebdil_), and visits the edifices

that he may be erecting, calls upon his sisters, or spends the remainder

of the day at one of the many delightful nooks on the Bosphorus or Golden

Horn, where he possesses _kiosks_, or summer-houses. Sometimes he takes

with him his brother or his sons; and he is strongly attached to them. It

is said that he is having the latter instructed in the French language, in

geography and mathematics. The elder is some ten years of age, but will

not succeed his father to the throne until after the death of his uncle,

who, by Mussulman law, is next in right to the reigning Sultan.

Inheritance, in Islam lands, runs through all the brothers before it

reverts to the children of the eldest son. Females can not succeed to the

throne, and the house of Othman would consequently become extinct with its

last male representative.

THE CURSE OF GOLD. A DREAM.

Mordant Lindsay threw off the long black crape scarf and hat-band which,

in the character of chief mourner, he had that day worn at the funeral of

his wife, as he entered one of the apartments at Langford, and moodily

sought a seat. The room was spacious, and filled with every luxury which

wealth could procure or ingenuity invent to add to its comfort or its

ornament. Pictures, mirrors, silken curtains, and warm carpets; statues in

marble and bronze were scattered about in rich profusion in the saloon,

and its owner, in the deep mourning of a widower, sat there—grieving

truly—thinking deeply; but not, as might have been supposed, of the lady

who had that day been laid in the vault of his ancestors—no, he was

regretting the loss of a much brighter spirit than ever lived in her pale

proud face, or in the coldness of her calm blue eye. Mordant Lindsay was

apparently a man of past fifty; his hair was streaked with gray, though

its dark locks still curled thickly round his head; he bore on his face

the marks of more than common beauty, but time had left its traces there,

in the furrows on his brow; and even more deeply than time, care. As a

young man, he had been very handsome, richly endowed by nature with all

those graces which too often make captive only to kill; but fortune, less

generous, had gifted him but with the heritage of a good name—nothing

more—and his early life had been passed in an attempt, by his own means,

to remedy the slight she had put upon him at his birth. The object of his

ambition was gained—had been now for some years: he was wealthy, the

possessor of all the fair lands stretched out before him as far as his eye

could reach, and a rent-roll not unworthy of one in a higher station in

life. Looked up to by the poor of Langford as the lord of the manor,

courted by his equals as a man of some consequence. Was he happy? See the

lines so deeply marked on his countenance, and listen to the sigh which

seems to break from the bottom of his heart. You will find in them an

answer.

How brightly the sun shines in through the windows of the room, gilding

all around with its own radiance, and giving life and light to the very

statues! It shines even on his head, but fails in warming his bosom; it

annoys him, uncongenial as it is with his sad thoughts, and he rises and

pulls down the blind, and then restlessly wanders forth into the open air.

The day is close, for summer is still at its height, and Mordant Lindsay

seeks the shade of a group of trees and lies down, and presently he

sleeps, and the sun (as it declines) throws its shadows on nearer objects;

and now it rests on him, and as it hovers there, takes the form of that

companion of his childhood, who for long, with a pertinacity he could not

account for, seemed ever avoiding his path, and flying from him when most

anxiously pursued; and he sees again those scenes of his past life before

him dimly pictured through the vista of many years, and his dream runs

thus:

He is a child at play, young and innocent, as yet untainted by worldly

ambition, and standing by him is a beautiful figure, with long golden

hair, very bright, and shining like spun glass or the rays of the summer

sun. Her eyes seem born for laughter, so clear, so mirthful, so full of

joy, and her spotless robe flows around her, making every thing it comes

in contact with graceful as itself; and she has wings, for Happiness is

fickle and flies away, so soon as man proves false to himself and unworthy

of her. She joins the child in his gambols, and hand in hand with him

sports beside him, gathering the same flowers that he gathers, looking

through his smiling eyes as she echoes his happy laughter; and then over

meadow, past ditches, and through tangled bushes, in full chase after a

butterfly. In the eagerness of the sport he falls, and the gaudy insect

(all unconscious of being the originator of so many conflicting hopes and

fears) flutters onward in full enjoyment of the sun and the light, and

soon it is too far off to renew the chase. Tears, like dewdrops, fill the

child’s eyes, and he looks around in vain for his companion of the day.

The grass is not so green without her; even the bird’s song is discordant,

and, tired, he sadly wends his way toward home. “Oh, dear mamma!” he

exclaims, brightening up, as he sees his mother coming toward him, and

running to her finds a ready sympathy in his disappointment as she clasps

her boy to her bosom and dries his little tearful face, closely pressing

him to a heart whose best hopes are centred in his well-being. Happiness

is in her arms, and he feels her warm breath upon his cheek as she kisses

and fondles him; and anon he is as cheerful as he was, for his playmate of

the day, now returned with his own good-humor, accompanies him for all the

hours he will encourage her to remain; sometimes hiding within the purple

flower of the scented violet, or nodding from beneath the yellow cups of

the cowslip, as the breeze sends her laden with perfume back to him again.

And in such childish play and innocent enjoyment time rolls on, until the

child has reached his ninth year, and becomes the subject and lawful slave

of all the rules in Murray’s Grammar, and those who instill them into the

youthful mind. And then the boy finds his early friend (although ready at

all times to share his hours of relaxation) very shy and distant; when

studies are difficult or lessons long, keeping away until the task is

accomplished; but cricket and bat and ball invariably summon her, and then

she is bright and kind as of yore, content to forget old quarrels in

present enjoyment; and as Mordant dreamed, he sighed in his sleep, and the

shadow of Happiness went still further off, as if frightened by his grief.

The picture changes: and now more than twenty years are past since the

time when the boy first saw the light, and he is sitting in the room of a

little cottage. The glass door leading to the garden is open, and the

flowers come clustering in at the windows. The loveliness of the child has

flown, it is true, but in its place a fond mother gazes on the form of a

son whose every feature is calculated to inspire love. The short dark

curls are parted from off his sunburnt forehead, and the bright hazel eyes

(in which merriment predominates) glance quickly toward the door, as if

expecting some one. The book he has been pretending to read lies idly on

his lap, and bending his head upon his hand, his eyes had shut in the

earnestness of his reverie, he does not hear the light footstep which

presently comes stealing softly behind him. The new-comer is a young and

very pretty girl, with a pale Madonna-looking face, seriously thoughtful

beyond her years. She may be seventeen or eighteen, not more. Her hands

have been busy with the flowers in the garden, and now, as she comes up

behind the youth, she plucks the leaves from off a rose-bud, and drops

them on his open book. A slight start, and a look upward, and then (his

arms around her slight form) he kisses her fondly and often. And Happiness

clings about them, and nestles closely by their side, as if jealous of

being separated from either, and they were happy in their young love. How

happy! caring for naught besides, thinking of no future, but in each

other—taking no account of time so long as they should be together,

contented to receive the evils of life with the good, and to suffer side

by side (if God willed it) sooner than be parted. They were engaged to be

married. At present, neither possessed sufficient to live comfortably

upon, and they must wait and hope; and she did hope, and was reconciled

almost to his departure, which must soon take place, for he has been

studying for a barrister, and will leave his mother’s house to find a

solitary home in a bachelor’s chambers in London. Mordant saw himself (as

he had been then) sitting with his first love in that old familiar place,

her hand clasped in his, her fair hair falling around her, and vailing the

face she hid upon his shoulder, and even more vividly still, the

remembrance of that Happiness which had ever been attendant on them then,

when the most trivial incidents of the day were turned into matters of

importance, colored and embellished as they were by love. He saw himself

in possession of the reality, which, alas! he had thrown away for the

shadow of it, and he longed for the recovery of those past years which had

been so unprofitably spent, in a vain attempt at regaining it. The girl

still sat by him; they did not seem to speak, and throughout that long

summer afternoon still they sat, she pulling the flowers (so lately

gathered) in pieces, and he playing with the ringlets of her hair. And now

the door opens, and his mother enters, older by many years than when she

last appeared to him, but still the same kind smile and earnest look of

affection as she turns toward her son. Her hand is laid upon his arm (as

he rises to meet her), and her soft voice utters his name, coupled with

endearment. “Mordant, dearest, Edith and myself wish to walk, if you will

accompany us?” “Certainly,” is the reply, and the three set out, and the

dreamer watched their fast receding forms down a shady lane, until a turn

lost them to his sight, and the retrospective view had vanished, but

quickly to be replaced by another.

Again he sees the same youth, this time impatiently walking up and down a

close, dismal room. The furniture is smoke-dried and dusty, once red, now

of a dark ambiguous color. The sofa is of horse-hair, shining (almost

white in places) from constant friction. On the mantlepiece hangs a

looking-glass, the frame wrapped round with yellow gauze to protect it

from dirt and here and there a fly-catcher, suspended from the ceiling,

annoys the inmate of the dusky room by its constant motion. It is a

lodging-house, ready furnished, and the young man, who has not left his

home many months, is not yet accustomed to the change, and he is wearied

and unhappy. He has just been writing to Edith, and the thought of her

causes him uneasiness; he is longing to be with her again. Restlessly he

paces up and down the narrow chamber, unwilling to resume studies, by the

mastery of which he could alone hope to be with her again, until a knock

at the hall-door makes him pause and sit down; another knock (as if the

visitor did not care to be kept waiting). Mordant knew what was coming; he

remembered it all, and felt no surprise at seeing in his dream a friend

(now long since dead) enter the apartment, with the exclamation of “What,

Lindsay! all alone? I had expected to find you out, I was kept so long

knocking at your door. How are you, old fellow?” and Charles Vernon threw

himself into a chair. “We are all going to the play,” continued he, “and a

supper afterward. You know Leclerque? he will be one of the party—will you

come?” and Vernon waited for an answer. The one addressed replied in the

affirmative, and Mordant saw (with a shudder) the same figure which had

lured him on in Pleasure to seek lost Happiness, now tempting the youth

before him. The two were so like each other in outward appearance, that he

wondered not that he too was deceived, and followed her with even more

eagerness than he had ever done her more retiring sister. And then with

that gay creature ever in mind, Mordant saw the young man led on from one

place of amusement to another—from supper and wine to dice and a

gambling-table—until ruin stared him in the face, and that mind, which had

once been pure and untarnished, was fast becoming defaced by a too close

connection with vice.

Mordant was wiser now, and he saw how flimsy and unreal this figure of

Pleasure appeared—how her gold was tinsel, and her laughter but the hollow

echo of a forced merriment—unlike his own once possessed Happiness, whose

treasures were those of a contented spirit—whose gayety proceeded from an

innocent heart and untroubled conscience. Strange that he should have been

so blinded to her beauties, and so unmindful of the other’s defects; but

so it had been. Mordant sympathized with the young man as he watched him

running headlong toward his own misery; but the scene continued before

him—he had no power to prevent it—and now the last stake is to be played.

On that throw of the dice rests the ruin of the small property he has

inherited from his father. It is lost! and he beggared of the little he

could call his own; and forth from the hell (in which he has been passing

the night) rushes into the street. It wants but one stroke to complete the

wreck of heart as well as of fortune, and that stroke is not long in

coming.

Miserable, he returned to his lodgings, and alone he thought of his

position. He thought of Edith. “Love in a cottage, even could I by my own

means regain what I have lost. Pshaw! the thing is ridiculous. Without

money there can not be Happiness for her or for me.” A few months had

sadly changed _him_, who before saw it only in her society. But now the

Goddess of his fancy stands before him—her golden curls of the precious

metal he covets—her eyes receiving their brightness from its lustre, and

in his heart a new feeling asserts superiority, and he wishes to be rich.

With money to meet every want he will command her presence—not sue for it;

and Mordant remembered how, in pursuance of this ambition, gradually

cooling toward her, he had at last broken off his engagement with

Edith—how for some years, day and night had seen him toiling at his

profession, ever with the same object in view, and how at last he had

married a woman in every way what he desired: rich in gold and lands and

worldly possessions, but poor in heart compared with Edith.

The crowd jostle each other to get a nearer view of the bride as she

passes (leaning on her father’s arm) from the carriage to the church-door.

The bridegroom is waiting for her, and now joins her, and they kneel side

by side at the altar. Mordant remembers his wedding-day. He is not happy,

notwithstanding the feeling of gratified pride he experiences as he places

the ring upon the fair hand of the Lady Blanche. No emotion of a very deep

kind tinges her cheek; she is calm and cold throughout the ceremony. She

admires Mordant Lindsay very much; he was of a good family, so was she; he

very handsome and young, and she past thirty. Matches more incongruous

have been made, and with less apparent reason, and this needs no farther

explanation on her side. They are married now, and about to leave the

church. The young man turns as he passes out (amidst the congratulations

of his friends), attracted by scarcely suppressed sobs; but the cloaked

figure from whom they proceed does not move, and he recognizes her not. It

is Edith, and Mordant, as he gazes on the scene before him, sees Happiness

standing afar off, afraid to approach too near to any one of the party,

but still keeping her eyes fixed on the pale young mourner at that bridal,

who, bowed down with grief, sat there until the clock warned her to go, as

the doors were being closed. The married pair (after a month spent abroad)

settles down at Langford; and the husband—was he happy now? No, not

yet—but expecting to be from day to day, hoping that time would alter for

the better what was wanting to the happiness of his home; but time flew

on, and, regardless of his hopes, left him the same disappointed man that

it found him—disappointed in his wife, in his expectations of

children—feeling a void in his heart which money was inefficient to

supply. The drama was drawing to a close; Mordant felt that the present

time had arrived. His wife was dead, and he in possession of every thing

which had been hers, but still an anxious, unsatisfied mind prevented all

enjoyment of life; but yet one more scene, and this time Mordant was

puzzled, for he did not recognize either the place or the actors.

On a bed on one side was stretched the figure of a young woman. Her

features were so drawn and sharpened by illness, that he could not recall

them to his mind, although he had an idea that he ought to know her face.

She was very pale, and the heat seemed to oppress her, for in a languid

voice she begged the lady (who was sitting by her side) to open the

window. She rose to do so, and then Mordant saw that the scenery beyond

was not English, for hedges of myrtle and scarlet geranium grew around in

profusion, and the odor of orange flowers came thickly into the chamber of

the dying girl. Raising herself with difficulty, she called to her

companion, and then she said,

“I know I shall not now get better; I feel I am dying, and I am glad of

it. My life has been a living death to me for some years. When I am dead I

would wish to be buried in England—not here—not in this place, which has

proved a grave to so many of my countrymen. Let me find my last

resting-place, dearest mother, at home, in our own little church-yard.”

The lady wept as she promised her child to fulfill her last request, and

Mordant saw that Happiness had flown from the bed (around which she had

been hovering for some minutes) straight up to heaven, to await there the

spirit of the broken-hearted girl, who was breathing her last under the

clear and sunny sky of Madeira.

Mordant shuddered as he awoke, for he had been asleep for some time, and

the evening was closing in as he rose from the damp grass. It was to a

lonely hearth that he returned, and during the long night which followed,

as he thought of his dream and of an ill-spent life, he resolved to

revisit his early home, in the hope that amidst old scenes he might bring

back the days when he was happy. Was Edith still alive? He knew not. He

had heard she had gone abroad; she might be there still. He did not

confess it to himself, but it was Edith of whom he thought most; and it

was the hope of again seeing her which induced him to take a long journey

to the place where he had been born. The bells were ringing for some

merry-making as Mordant Lindsay left his traveling carriage, to walk up

the one street of which Bower’s Gifford boasted. He must go through the

church-yard to gain the new inn, and passing (by one of the inhabitants’

directions) through the turnstile, he soon found himself amidst the

memorials of its dead. Mordant, as he pensively walked along, read the

names of those whose virtues were recorded on their grave-stones, and as

he read, reflected. And now he stops, for it is a well-known name which

attracts his attention, and as he parts the weeds which have grown high

over that grave, he sees inscribed on the broken pillar which marks the

spot, “Edith Graham, who died at Madeira, aged 21.” And Mordant, as he

looks, sinks down upon the grass, and sheds the first tears which for

years have been wept by him, and in sorrow of heart, when too late,

acknowledges that it is not money or gratified ambition which brings

Happiness in this world, but a contented and cheerful mind; and from that

lonely grave he leaves an altered man, and a better one.

MAURICE TIERNAY, THE SOLDIER OF FORTUNE.(3)

Chapter LI. “Schönbrunn” In 1809.

About two months afterward, on a warm evening of summer, I entered Vienna

in a litter, along with some twelve hundred other wounded men, escorted by

a regiment of Cuirassiers. I was weak and unable to walk. The fever of my

wound had reduced me to a skeleton; but I was consoled for every thing by

knowing that I was a captain on the Emperor’s own staff, and decorated by

himself with the Cross of “the Legion.” Nor were these my only

distinctions, for my name had been included among the lists of the

“Officiers d’Elite;” a new institution of the Emperor, enjoying

considerable privileges and increase of pay.

To this latter elevation, too, I owed my handsome quarters in the “Raab”

Palace at Vienna, and the sentry at my door, like that of a field officer.

Fortune, indeed, began to smile upon me, and never are her flatteries more

welcome than in the first hours of returning health, after a long

sickness. I was visited by the first men of the army; marshals and

generals figured among the names of my intimates, and invitations flowed

in upon me from all that were distinguished by rank and station.

Vienna, at that period, presented few features of a city occupied by an

enemy. The guards, it is true, on all arsenals and forts, were French, and

the gates were held by them; but there was no interruption to the course

of trade and commerce. The theatres were open every night, and balls and

receptions went on with only redoubled frequency. Unlike his policy toward

Russia, Napoleon abstained from all that might humiliate the Austrians.

Every possible concession was made to their national tastes and feelings,

and officers of all ranks in the French army were strictly enjoined to

observe a conduct of conciliation and civility on every occasion of

intercourse with the citizens. Few general orders could be more palatable

to Frenchmen, and they set about the task of cultivating the good esteem

of the Viennese with a most honest desire for success. Accident, too,

aided their efforts not a little; for it chanced that a short time before

the battle of Aspern, the city had been garrisoned by Croat and Wallachian

regiments, whose officers, scarcely half civilized, and with all the

brutal ferocity of barbarian tribes, were most favorably supplanted by

Frenchmen, in the best of possible tempers with themselves and the world.

It might be argued, that the Austrians would have shown more patriotism in

holding themselves aloof, and avoiding all interchange of civilities with

their conquerors. Perhaps, too, this line of conduct would have prevailed

to a greater extent, had not those in high places set an opposite example.

But so it was; and in the hope of obtaining more favorable treatment in

their last extremity, the princes of the Imperial House, and the highest

nobles of the land, freely accepted the invitations of our marshals, and

as freely received them at their own tables.

There was something of pride, too, in the way these great families

continued to keep up the splendor of their households, large retinues of

servants and gorgeous equipages, when the very empire itself was crumbling

to pieces. And to the costly expenditure of that fevered interval may be

dated the ruin of some of the richest of the Austrian nobility. To

maintain a corresponding style, and to receive the proud guests with

suitable magnificence, enormous “allowances” were made to the French

generals; while in striking contrast to all the splendor, the Emperor

Napoleon lived at Schönbrunn with a most simple household and restricted

retinue.

“Berthier’s” Palace, in the “Graben,” was, by its superior magnificence,

the recognized centre of French society; and thither flocked every evening

all that was most distinguished in rank of both nations. Motives of

policy, or at least the terrible pressure of necessity, filled these

salons with the highest personages of the empire; while as if accepting,

as inevitable, the glorious ascendency of Napoleon, many of the French

_emigré_ families emerged from their retirement to pay their court to the

favored lieutenants of Napoleon. Marmont, who was highly connected with

the French aristocracy, gave no slight aid to this movement; and it was

currently believed at the time, was secretly intrusted by the Emperor with

the task of accomplishing, what in modern phrase is styled a “fusion.”

The real source of all these flattering attentions on the Austrian side,

however, was the well-founded dread of the partition of the empire; a plan

over which Napoleon was then hourly in deliberation, and to the

non-accomplishment of which he ascribed, in the days of his last exile,

all the calamities of his fall. Be this as it may, few thoughts of the

graver interests at stake disturbed the pleasure we felt in the luxurious

life of that delightful city; nor can I, through the whole of a long and

varied career, call to mind any period of more unmixed enjoyment.

Fortune stood by me in every thing. Marshal Marmont required as the head

of his Etat-major an officer who could speak and write German, and if

possible, who understood the Tyrol dialect. I was selected for the

appointment; but then there arose a difficulty. The etiquette of the

service demanded that the chef d’Etat-major should be at least a

lieutenant-colonel, and I was but a captain.

“No matter,” said he; “you are officier d’élite, which always gives brevet

rank, and so one step more will place you where we want you. Come with me

to Schönbrunn to-night and I’ll try to arrange it.”

I was still very weak and unable for any fatigue, as I accompanied the

Marshal to the quaint old palace which, at about a league from the

capital, formed the head-quarters of the Emperor. Up to this time I had

never been presented to Napoleon, and had formed to myself the most

gorgeous notions of the state and splendor that should surround such

majesty. Guess then my astonishment, and, need I own, disappointment, as

we drove up a straight avenue, very sparingly lighted, and descended at a

large door, where a lieutenant’s guard was stationed. It was customary for

the Marshals and Generals of Division to present themselves each evening

at Schönbrunn, from six to nine o’clock, and we found that eight or ten

carriages were already in waiting when we arrived. An officer of the

household recognized the Marshal as he alighted, and as we mounted the

stairs whispered a few words hurriedly in his ear, of which I only caught

one, “Komorn,” the name of the Hungarian fortress on the Danube where the

Imperial family of Vienna and the cabinet had sought refuge.

“Diantre!” exclaimed Marmont, “bad news! My dear Tiernay, we have fallen

on an unlucky moment to ask a favor! The dispatches from Komorn are, it

would seem, unsatisfactory. The Tyrol is far from quiet. Kuffstein, I

think that’s the name, or some such place, is attacked by a large force,

and likely to fall into their hands from assault.”

“That can scarcely be, sir,” said I, interrupting; “I know Kuffstein well.

I was two years a prisoner there; and, except by famine, the fortress is

inaccessible.”

“What! are you certain of this?” cried he, eagerly; “is there not one side

on which escalade is possible?”

“Quite impracticable on every quarter, believe me, sir. A hundred men of

the line and twenty gunners might hold Kuffstein against the world.”

“You hear what he says, Lefebre,” said Marmont to the officer; “I think I

might venture to bring him up?” The other shook his head doubtfully, and

said nothing. “Well, announce _me_ then,” said the Marshal; “and, Tiernay,

do you throw yourself on one of those sofas there and wait for me.”

I did as I was bade, and, partly from the unusual fatigue and in part from

the warmth of a summer evening, soon fell off into a heavy sleep. I was

suddenly awoke by a voice saying, “come along, captain, be quick, your

name has been called twice!” I sprang up and looked about; me, without the

very vaguest notion of where I was. “Where to? Where am I going?” asked I,

in my confusion. “Follow that gentleman,” was the brief reply; and so I

did in the same dreamy state that a sleep-walker might have done. Some

confused impression that I was in attendance on General Marmont was all

that I could collect, when I found myself standing in a great room densely

crowded with officers of rank. Though gathered in groups and knots

chatting, there was, from time to time, a sort of movement in the mass

that seemed communicated by some single impulse; and then all would remain

watchful and attentive for some seconds, their eyes turned in the

direction of a large door at the end of the apartment. At last this was

thrown suddenly open, and a number of persons entered, at whose appearance

every tongue was hushed, and the very slightest gesture subdued. The crowd

meanwhile fell back, forming a species of circle round the room, in front

of which this newly entered group walked. I can not now remember what

struggling efforts I made to collect my faculties, and think where I was

then standing; but if a thunderbolt had struck the ground before me, it

could not have given me a more terrific shock than that I felt on seeing

the Emperor himself address the general officer beside me.

I can not pretend to have enjoyed many opportunities of royal notice. At

the time I speak of, such distinction was altogether unknown to me; but

even when most highly favored in that respect, I have never been able to

divest myself of a most crushing feeling of my inferiority—a sense at once

so humiliating and painful, that I longed to be away and out of a presence

where I might dare to look at him who addressed me, and venture on

something beyond mere replies to interrogatories. This situation, good

reader, with all your courtly breeding and aplomb to boot, is never

totally free of constraint; but imagine what it can be when, instead of

standing in the faint sunshine of a royal smile, you find yourself

cowering under the stern and relentless look of anger, and that anger an

Emperor’s.

This was precisely my predicament, for, in my confusion, I had not noticed

how, as the Emperor drew near to any individual to converse, the others,

at either side, immediately retired out of hearing, preserving an air of

obedient attention, but without in any way obtruding themselves on the

royal notice. The consequence was, that as his Majesty stood to talk with

Marshal Oudinot, I maintained my place, never perceiving my awkwardness

till I saw that I made one of three figures isolated in the floor of the

chamber. To say that I had rather have stood in face of an enemy’s

battery, is no exaggeration. I’d have walked up to a gun with a stouter

heart than I felt at this terrible moment; and yet there was something in

that sidelong glance of angry meaning that actually nailed me to the spot,

and I could not have fallen back to save my life. There were, I afterward

learned, no end of signals and telegraphic notices to me from the officers

in waiting. Gestures and indications for my guidance abounded, but I saw

none of them. I had drawn myself up in an attitude of parade

stiffness—neither looked right nor left—and waited as a criminal might

have waited for the fall of the ax that was to end his sufferings forever.

That the Emperor remained something like two hours and a half in

conversation with the marshal, I should have been quite ready to verify on

oath; but the simple fact was, that the interview occupied under four

minutes; and then General Oudinot backed out of the presence leaving me

alone in front of his Majesty.

The silence of the chamber was quite dreadful, as, with his hands clasped

behind his back, and his head slightly thrown forward, the Emperor stared

steadily at me. I am more than half ashamed of the confession; but what

between the effect of long illness and suffering, the length of time I had

been standing, and the emotion I experienced, I felt myself growing dizzy,

and a sickly faintness began to creep over me, and but for the support of

my sabre, I should actually have fallen.

“You seem weak; you had better sit down,” said the Emperor, in a soft and

mild voice.

“Yes, sire, I have not quite recovered yet,” muttered I, indistinctly; but

before I could well finish the sentence, Marmont was beside the Emperor,

and speaking rapidly to him.

“Ah, indeed!” cried Napoleon, tapping his snuff-box, and smiling. “This is

Tiernay, then. Parbleu! we have heard something of you before.”

Marmont still continued to talk on; and I heard the words, Rhine, Genoa,

and Kuffstein distinctly fall from him. The Emperor smiled twice, and

nodded his head slowly, as if assenting to what was said.

“But his wound?” said Napoleon, doubtingly.

“He says that your Majesty cured him when the doctor despaired,” said

Marmont. “I’m sure, sire, he has equal faith in what you still could do

for him.”

“Well, sir,” said the Emperor, addressing me, “if all I hear of you be

correct, you carry a stouter heart before the enemy than you seem to wear

here. Your name is high in Marshal Massena’s list; and General Marmont

desires to have your services on his staff. I make no objection; you shall

have your grade.”

I bowed without speaking; indeed, I could not have uttered a word, even if

it had been my duty.

“They have extracted the ball, I hope?” said the Emperor to me, and

pointing to my thigh.

“It never lodged, sire; it was a round shot,” said I.

“Diable! a round shot! You’re a lucky fellow, Colonel Tiernay,” said he,

laying a stress on the title, “a very lucky fellow.”

“I shall ever think so, sire, since your Majesty has said it,” was my

answer.

“I was not a lieutenant-colonel at your age,” resumed Napoleon; “nor were

you either, Marmont. You see, sir, that we live in better times, at least,

in times when merit is better rewarded.” And with this he passed on; and

Marmont, slipping my arm within his own, led me away, down the great

stair, through crowds of attendant orderlies and groups of servants. At

last we reached our carriage, and in half an hour re-entered Vienna, my

heart wild with excitement, and burning with zealous ardor to do something

for the service of the Emperor.

The next morning I removed to General Marmont’s quarters; and for the

first time put on the golden aigrette of chef d’état-major, not a little

to the astonishment of all who saw the “boy colonel,” as, half in sarcasm,

half in praise, they styled me. From an early hour of the morning till the

time of a late dinner, I was incessantly occupied. The staff duties were

excessively severe, and the number of letters to be read and replied to

almost beyond belief. The war had again assumed something of importance in

the Tyrol. Hofer and Spechbacher were at the head of considerable forces,

which in the fastnesses of their native mountains were more than a match

for any regular soldiery. The news from Spain was gloomy: England was

already threatening her long-planned attack on the Scheldt. Whatever real

importance might attach to these movements, the Austrian cabinet made them

the pretext for demanding more favorable conditions; and Metternich was

emboldened to go so far as to ask for the restoration of the Empire in all

its former integrity.

These negotiations between the two cabinets at the time assumed the most

singular form which probably was ever adopted in such intercourse; all the

disagreeable intelligences and disastrous tidings being communicated from

one side to the other with the mock politeness of friendly relations. As

for instance, the Austrian cabinet would forward an extract from one of

Hofer’s descriptions of a victory; to which the French would reply by a

bulletin of Eugene Beauharnois, or, as Napoleon on one occasion did, by a

copy of a letter from the Emperor Alexander, filled with expressions of

friendship, and professing the most perfect confidence in his “brother of

France.” So far was this petty and most contemptible warfare carried, that

every little gossip and every passing story was pressed into the service,

and if not directly addressed to the cabinet, at least conveyed to its

knowledge by some indirect channel.

It is probable I should have forgotten this curious feature of the time,

if not impressed on my memory by personal circumstances too important to

be easily obliterated from memory. An Austrian officer arrived one morning

from Komorn, with an account of the defeat of Lefebre’s force before

Schenatz, and of a great victory gained by Hofer and Spechbacher over the

French and Bavarians. Two thousand prisoners were said to have been taken,

and the French driven across the Inn, and in full retreat on Kuffstein.

Now, as I had been confined at Kuffstein, and could speak of its

impregnable character from actual observation, I was immediately sent off

with dispatches about some indifferent matter, to the cabinet, with

injunctions to speak freely about the fortress, and declare that we were

perfectly confident of its security. I may mention incidentally, and as

showing the real character of my mission, that a secret dispatch from

Lefebre had already reached Vienna, in which he declared that he should be

compelled to evacuate the Tyrol, and fall back into Bavaria.

“I have provided you with introductions that will secure your friendly

reception,” said Marmont to me. “The replies to these dispatches will

require some days, during which you will have time to make many

acquaintances about the court, and if practicable to effect a very

delicate object.”

This, after considerable injunctions as to secrecy, and so forth, was no

less than to obtain a miniature, or a copy of a miniature, of the young

archduchess, who had been so dangerously ill during the siege of Vienna,

and whom report represented as exceedingly handsome. A good-looking young

fellow, a colonel, of two or three-and-twenty, with unlimited bribery, if

needed, at command, should find little difficulty in the mission: at

least, so Marmont assured me; and from his enthusiasm on the subject, I

saw, or fancied I saw, that he would have had no objection to be employed

in the service himself. For while professing how absurd it was to offer

any advice or suggestion on such a subject to one like myself, he entered

into details, and sketched out a plan of campaign, that might well have

made a chapter of “Gil Blas.” It would possibly happen, he reminded me,

that the Austrian court would grow suspectful of me, and not exactly feel

at ease, were my stay prolonged beyond a day or two; in which case it was

left entirely to my ingenuity to devise reasons for my remaining; and I

was at liberty to dispatch couriers for instructions, and await replies,

to any extent I thought requisite. In fact, I had a species of general

commission to press into the service whatever resources could forward the

object of my mission, success being the only point not to be dispensed

with.

“Take a week, if you like—a month, if you must, Tiernay,” said he to me at

parting; “but, above all, no failure! mind that—no failure!”

Chapter LII. “Komorn” Forty Years Ago.

I doubt if our great Emperor dated his first dispatch from Schönbrunn with

a prouder sense of elevation, than did I write “Komorn” at the top of my

first letter to Marshal Marmont, detailing, as I had been directed, every

incident of my reception. I will not pretend to say that my communication

might be regarded as a model for diplomatic correspondence; but having

since that period seen something of the lucubrations of great envoys and

plenipos, I am only astonished at my unconscious imitation of their style;

blending, as I did, the objects of my mission with every little personal

incident, and making each trivial circumstance bear upon the fortune of my

embassy.

I narrated my morning interview with Prince Metternich, whose courteous

but haughty politeness was not a whit shaken by the calamitous position of

his country, and who wished to treat the great events of the campaign as

among the transient reverses which war deals out, on this side, to-day, on

that, to-morrow. I told that my confidence in the impregnable character of

Kuffstein only raised a smile, for it had already been surrendered to the

Tyrolese; and I summed up my political conjectures by suggesting that

there was enough of calm confidence in the minister’s manner to induce me

to suspect that they were calculating on the support of the northern

powers, and had not given up the cause for lost. I knew for certain that a

Russian courier had arrived and departed since my own coming; and although

the greatest secrecy had attended the event, I ascertained the fact, that

he had come from St. Petersburg, and was returning to Moscow, where the

Emperor Alexander then was. Perhaps I was a little piqued, I am afraid I

was, at the indifference manifested at my own presence, and the little, or

indeed no importance, attached to my prolonged stay. For when I informed

Count Stadion that I should await some tidings from Vienna, before

returning thither, he very politely expressed his pleasure at the prospect

of my company, and proposed that we should have some partridge shooting,

for which the country along the Danube is famous. The younger brother of

this minister, Count Ernest Stadion, and a young Hungarian magnate,

Palakzi, were my constant companions. They were both about my own age, but

had only joined the army that same spring, and were most devoted admirers

of one who had already won his epaulettes as a colonel in the French

service. They showed me every object of interest and curiosity in the

neighborhood, arranged parties for riding and shooting, and, in fact,

treated me in all respects like a much valued guest—well repaid, as it

seemed, by those stories of war and battlefields which my own life and

memory supplied.

My improved health was already noticed by all, when Metternich sent me a

most polite message, stating, that if my services at Vienna could be

dispensed with for a while longer, that it was hoped I would continue to

reside where I had derived such benefit, and breathe the cheering breezes

of Hungary for the remainder of the autumn.

It was full eight-and-twenty years later that I accidentally learned to

what curious circumstance I owed this invitation. It chanced that the

young archduchess, who was ill during the siege, was lingering in a slow

convalescence, and to amuse the tedious hours of her sick couch, Madame

Palakzi, the mother of my young friend, was accustomed to recount some of

the stories which I, in the course of the morning, happened to relate to

her son. So guardedly was all this contrived and carried on, that it was

not, as I have said, for nearly thirty years after that I knew of it; and

then, the secret was told me by the chief personage herself, the Grand

Duchess of Parma.

Though nothing could better have chimed in with my plans than this

request, yet, in reality the secret object of my mission appeared just as

remote as on the first day of my arrival. My acquaintances were limited to

some half dozen gentlemen in waiting, and about an equal number of young

officers of the staff, with whom I dined, rode, hunted, and shot; never

seeing a single member of the Imperial family, nor, stranger still, one

lady of the household. In what Turkish seclusion they lived? when they

ventured out for air and exercise, and where? were questions that never

ceased to torture me. It was true that all my own excursions had been on

the left bank of the river, toward which side the apartment I occupied

looked; but I could scarcely suppose that the right presented much

attraction, since it appeared to be an impenetrable forest of oak;

besides, that the bridge which formerly connected it with the island of

Komorn had been cut off during the war. Of course, this was a theme on

which I could not dare to touch; and as the reserve of my companions was

never broken regarding it, I was obliged to be satisfied with my own

guesses on the subject.

I had been about two months at Komorn, when I was invited to join a

shooting party on the north bank of the river, at a place called Ercacs,

or, as the Hungarians pronounce it, Ercacsh, celebrated for the black

cock, or the auerhahn, one of the finest birds of the east of Europe. All

my companions had been promising me great things, when the season for the

sport should begin, and I was equally anxious to display my skill as a

marksman. The scenery, too, was represented as surpassingly fine, and I

looked forward to the expedition, which was to occupy a week, with much

interest. One circumstance alone damped the ardor of my enjoyment: for

some time back exercise on horseback had become painful to me, and some of

those evil consequences which my doctor had speculated on, such as

exfoliation of the bone, seemed now threatening me. Up to this the

inconvenience had gone no further than an occasional sharp pang after a

hard day’s ride, or a dull uneasy feeling which prevented my sleeping

soundly at night. I hoped, however, by time, that these would subside, and

the natural strength of my constitution carry me safely over every

mischance. I was ashamed to speak of these symptoms to my companions, lest

they should imagine that I was only screening myself from the fatigues of

which they so freely partook; and so I continued, day after day, the same

habit of severe exercise; while feverish nights, and a failing appetite,

made me hourly weaker. My spirits never flagged, and, perhaps, in this

way, damaged me seriously; supplying a false energy long after real

strength had begun to give way. The world, indeed, “went so well” with me

in all other respects, that I felt it would have been the blackest

ingratitude against Fortune to have given way to any thing like discontent

or repining. It was true, I was far from being a solitary instance of a

colonel at my age; there were several such in the army, and one or two

even younger; but they were unexceptionably men of family influence,

descendants of the ancient nobility of France, for whose chivalric names

and titles the Emperor had conceived the greatest respect; and never, in

all the pomp of Louis XIV’s court, were a Gramont, a Guise, a

Rochefoucauld, or a Tavanne more certain of his favorable notice. Now, I

was utterly devoid of all such pretensions; my claims to gentle blood,

such as they were, derived from another land, and I might even regard

myself as the maker of my own fortune.

How little thought did I bestow on my wound, as I mounted my horse on that

mellow day of autumn! How indifferent was I to the pang that shot through

me, as I touched the flank with my leg. Our road led through a thick

forest, but over a surface of level sward, along which we galloped in all

the buoyancy of youth and high spirits. An occasional trunk lay across our

way, and these we cleared at a leap; a feat, which I well saw my Hungarian

friends were somewhat surprised to perceive, gave me no trouble whatever.

My old habits of the riding-school had made me a perfect horseman; and

rather vain of my accomplishment, I rode at the highest fences I could

find. In one of these exploits an acute pang shot through me, and I felt

as if something had given way in my leg. The pain for some minutes was so

intense that I could with difficulty keep the saddle, and even when it had

partially subsided, the suffering was very great.

To continue my journey in this agony was impossible; and yet I was

reluctant to confess that I was overcome by pain. Such an acknowledgment

seemed unsoldier-like and unworthy, and I determined not to give way. It

was no use; the suffering brought on a sickly faintness that completely

overcame me. I had nothing for it but to turn back; so, suddenly affecting

to recollect a dispatch that I ought to have sent off before I left, I

hastily apologized to my companions, and with many promises to overtake

them by evening, I returned to Komorn.

A Magyar groom accompanied me, to act as my guide; and attended by this

man, I slowly retraced my steps toward the fortress, so slowly, indeed,

that it was within an hour of sunset as we gained the crest of the little

ridge, from which Komorn might be seen, and the course of the Danube, as

it wound for miles through the plain.

It is always a grand and imposing scene, one of those vast Hungarian

plains, with waving woods and golden corn-fields, bounded by the horizon

on every side, and marked by those immense villages of twelve or even

twenty thousand inhabitants. Trees, rivers, plains, even the dwellings of

the people are on a scale with which nothing in the Old World can vie. But

even with this great landscape before me, I was more struck by a small

object which caught my eye, as I looked toward the fortress. It was a

little boat, covered with an awning, and anchored in the middle of the

stream, and from which I could hear the sound of a voice, singing to the

accompaniment of a guitar. There was a stern and solemn quietude in the

scene: the dark fortress, the darker river, the deep woods casting their

shadows on the water, all presented a strange contrast to that girlish

voice and tinkling melody, so light-hearted and so free.

The Magyar seemed to read what was passing in my mind, for he nodded

significantly, and touching his cap in token of respect, said it was the

young Archduchess Maria Louisa, who, with one or two of her ladies,

enjoyed the cool of the evening on the river. This was the very same

princess for whose likeness I was so eager, and of whom I never could

obtain the slightest tidings. With what an interest that bark became

invested from that moment! I had more than suspected, I had divined the

reasons of General Marmont’s commission to me, and could picture to myself

the great destiny that in all likelihood awaited her who now, in sickly

dalliance, moved her hand in the stream, and scattered the sparkling drops

in merry mood over her companions. Twice or thrice a head of light brown

hair peeped from beneath the folds of the awning, and I wondered within

myself if it were on that same brow that the greatest diadem of Europe was

to sit.

So intent was I on these fancies, so full of the thousand speculations

that grew out of them, that I paid no attention to what was passing, and

never noticed an object on which the Hungarian’s eyes were bent in earnest

contemplation. A quick gesture and a sudden exclamation from the man soon

attracted me, and I beheld, about a quarter of a mile off, an enormous

timber-raft descending the stream at headlong speed. That the great mass

had become unmanageable, and was carried along by the impetuosity of the

current, was plain enough, not only from the zig-zag course it took, but

from the wild cries and frantic gestures of the men on board. Though

visible to us from the eminence on which we stood, a bend of the stream

still concealed it from those in the boat. To apprise them of their

danger, we shouted with all our might, gesticulating at the same time, and

motioning to them to put in to shore. It was all in vain; the roar of the

river, which is here almost a torrent, drowned our voices, and the little

boat still held her place in the middle of the stream. Already the huge

mass was to be seen emerging from behind a wooded promontory of the river

side, and now their destruction seemed inevitable. Without waiting to

reach the path, I spurred my horse down the steep descent, and half

falling, and half plunging, gained the bank. To all seeming now, they

heard me, for I saw the curtain of the awning suddenly move, and a

boatman’s red cap peer from beneath it. I screamed and shouted with all my

might, and called out “The raft—the raft!” till my throat felt bursting.

For some seconds the progress of the great mass seemed delayed, probably

by having become entangled with the trees along the shore; but now, borne

along by its immense weight, it swung round the angle of the bank, and

came majestically on, a long, white wave marking its course as it breasted

the water.

They see it! they see it! Oh! good heavens! are they paralyzed with

terror, for the boatman never moves! A wild shriek rises above the roar of

the current, and yet they do nothing. What prayers and cries of entreaty,

what wild imprecations I uttered, I know not; but I am sure that reason

had already left me, and nothing remained in its place except the mad

impulse to save them, or perish. There was then so much of calculation in

my mind that I could balance the chances of breasting the stream on

horseback, or alone, and this done, I spurred my animal over the bank into

the Danube. A horse is a noble swimmer, when he has courage, and a

Hungarian horse rarely fails in this quality.

Heading toward the opposite shore, the gallant beast cleared his track

through the strong current, snorting madly, and seeming to plunge at times

against the rushing waters. I never turned my eyes from the skiff all this

time, and now could see the reason of what had seemed their apathy. The

anchor had become entangled, fouled among some rocks or weeds of the

river, and the boatman’s efforts to lift it were all in vain. I screamed

and yelled to the man to cut the rope, but my cries were unheard, for he

bent over the gunwale, and tugged and tore with all his might. I was more

than fifty yards higher up the stream, and rapidly gaining the calmer

water under shore, when I tried to turn my horse’s head down the current;

but the instinct of safety rebelled against all control, and the animal

made straight for the bank. There was then but one chance left, and taking

my sabre in my mouth, I sprang from his back into the stream. In all the

terrible excitement of that dreadful moment I clung to one firm purpose.

The current would surely carry the boat into safety, if once free; I had

no room for any thought but this. The great trees along shore, the great

fortress, the very clouds over head, seemed to fly past me, as I swept

along; but I never lost sight of my purpose, and now almost within my

grasp. I see the boat and the three figures, who are bending down over one

that seems to have fainted. With my last effort, I cry again to cut the

rope, but his knife has broken at the handle! I touch the side of the

skiff, I grasp the gunwale with one hand, and seizing my sabre with the

other, I make one desperate cut. The boat swings round to the current, the

boatman’s oars are out—they are saved. My “thank God!” is like the cry of

a drowning man—for I know no more.

Chapter LIII. A Loss And A Gain.

To apologize to my reader for not strictly tracing out each day of my

history, would be, in all likelihood, as great an impertinence as that of

the tiresome guest who, having kept you two hours from your bed by his

uninteresting twaddle, asks you to forgive him at last for an abrupt

departure. I am already too full of gratitude for the patience that has

been conceded to me so far, to desire to trifle with it during the brief

space that is now to link us together. And believe me, kind reader, there

is more in that same tie than perhaps you think, especially where the

intercourse had been carried on, and, as it were, fed from month to month.

In such cases the relationship between him who writes and him who reads

assumes something like acquaintanceship; heightened by a greater desire on

one side to please, than is usually felt in the routine business of

everyday life. Nor is it a light reward, if one can think that he has

relieved a passing hour of solitude or discomfort, shortened a wintry

night, or made a rainy day more endurable. I speak not here of the greater

happiness in knowing that our inmost thoughts have found their echo in far

away hearts, kindling noble emotions, and warming generous aspirations,

teaching courage and hope by the very commonest of lessons; and showing

that, in the moral as in the vegetable world, the bane and antidote grow

side by side; and, as the eastern poet has it, “He who shakes the tree of

sorrow, is often sowing the seeds of joy.” Such are the triumphs of very

different efforts from mine, however, and I come back to the humble theme

from which I started.

If I do not chronicle the incidents which succeeded to the events of my

last chapter, it is, in the first place, because they are most imperfectly

impressed upon my own memory; and, in the second, they are of a nature

which, whether in the hearing or the telling, can afford little pleasure;

for what if I should enlarge upon a text which runs but on suffering and

sickness, nights of feverish agony, days of anguish, terrible alternations

of hope and fear, ending, at last, in the sad, sad certainty, that skill

has found its limit. The art of the surgeon can do no more, and Maurice

Tiernay must consent to lose his leg! Such was the cruel news I was

compelled to listen to as I awoke one morning dreaming, and for the first

time since my accident, of my life in Kuffstein. The injuries I had

received before being rescued from the Danube, had completed the mischief

already begun, and all chance of saving my limb had now fled. I am not

sure if I could not have heard a sentence of death with more equanimity

than the terrible announcement that I was to drag out existence maimed and

crippled. To endure the helplessness of age with the warm blood and daring

passions of youth, and, worse than all, to forego a career that was

already opening with such glorious prospects of distinction.

Nothing could be more kindly considerate than the mode of communicating

this sad announcement; nor was there omitted any thing which could

alleviate the bitterness of the tidings. The undying gratitude of the

Imperial family; their heartfelt sorrow for my suffering; the pains they

had taken to communicate the whole story of my adventure to the Emperor

Napoleon himself, were all insisted on; while the personal visits of the

Archdukes, and even the Emperor himself, at my sick bed, were told to me

with every flattery such acts of condescension could convey. Let me not be

thought ungrateful, if all these seemed but a sorry payment for the

terrible sacrifice I was to suffer; and that the glittering crosses which

were already sent to me in recognition, and which now sparkled on my bed,

appeared a poor price for my shattered and wasted limb; and I vowed to

myself that to be once more strong and in health I’d change fortunes with

the humblest soldier in the grand army.

After all, it is the doubtful alone can break down the mind and waste the

courage. To the brave man, the inevitable is always the endurable. Some

hours of solitude and reflection brought this conviction to my heart, and

I recalled the rash refusal I had already given to submit to the

amputation, and sent word to the doctors that I was ready. My mind once

made up, a thousand ingenious suggestions poured in their consolations.

Instead of incurring my misfortune as I had done, my mischance might have

originated in some commonplace or inglorious accident. In lieu of the

proud recognitions I had earned, I might have now the mere sympathy of

some fellow-sufferer in an hospital; and instead of the “Cross of St.

Stephen,” and the “valor medal” of Austria, my reward might have been the

few sous per day allotted to an invalided soldier.

As it was, each post from Vienna brought me nothing but flattering

recognitions; and one morning a large sealed letter from Duroc conveyed

the Emperor’s own approval of my conduct, with the cross of commander of

the Legion of Honor. A whole life of arduous services might have failed to

win such prizes, and so I struck the balance of good and evil fortune, and

found I was the gainer!

Among the presents which I received from the Imperial family was a

miniature of the young Archduchess, whose life I saved, and which I at

once dispatched by a safe messenger to Marshal Marmont, engaging him to

have a copy of it made and the original returned to me. I concluded that

circumstances must have rendered this impossible, for I never beheld the

portrait again, although I heard of it among the articles bequeathed to

the Duc de Reichstadt at St. Helena. Maria Louisa was, at that time, very

handsome; the upper lip and mouth were, it is true, faulty, and the

Austrian heaviness marred the expression of these features; but her brow

and eyes were singularly fine, and her hair of a luxuriant richness rarely

to be seen.

Count Palakzi, my young Hungarian friend, and who had scarcely ever

quitted my bedside during my illness, used to jest with me on my

admiration of the young Archduchess, and jokingly compassionate me on the

altered age we lived in, in contrast to those good old times when a bold

feat or a heroic action was sure to win the hand of a fair princess. I

half suspect that he believed me actually in love with her, and deemed

that it was the best way to treat such an absurd and outrageous ambition.

To amuse myself with his earnestness, for such had it become, on the

subject, I affected not to be indifferent to his allusions, and assumed

all the delicate reserve of devoted admiration. Many an hour have I

lightened by watching the fidgety uneasiness the young count felt at my

folly; for now instead of jesting, as before, he tried to reason me out of

this insane ambition, and convince me that such pretensions were utter

madness.

I was slowly convalescing, about five weeks after the amputation of my

leg, when Palakzi entered my room one morning with an open letter in his

hand. His cheek was flushed, and his air and manner greatly excited.

“Would you believe it, Tiernay,” said he, “Stadion writes me word from

Vienna, that Napoleon has asked for the hand of the young Archduchess in

marriage, and that the Emperor has consented?”

“And am _I_ not considered in this negotiation?” asked I, scarcely

suppressing a laugh.

“This is no time nor theme for jest,” said he, passionately; “nor is it

easy to keep one’s temper at such a moment. A Hapsburgher Princess married

to a low Corsican adventurer! to the—”

“Come, Palakzi,” cried I, “these are not words for me to listen to; and

having heard them, I may be tempted to say, that the honor comes all of

the other side; and that he who holds all Europe at his feet ennobles the

dynasty from which he selects his empress.”

“I deny it—fairly and fully deny it!” cried the passionate youth. “And

every noble of this land would rather see the provinces of the empire torn

from us, than a Princess of the Imperial House degraded to such an

alliance!”

“Is the throne of France, then, so low?” said I, calmly.

“Not when the rightful sovereign is seated on it,” said he. “But are we,

the subjects of a legitimate monarchy, to accept as equals the lucky

accidents of your Revolution? By what claim is a soldier of fortune the

peer of King or Kaiser? I, for one, will never more serve a cause so

degraded; and the day on which such humiliation is our lot shall be the

last of my soldiering;” and so saying, he rushed passionately from the

room, and disappeared.

I mention this little incident here, not as in any way connecting itself

with my own fortunes, but as illustrating what I afterward discovered to

be the universal feeling entertained toward this alliance. Low as Austria

then was—beaten in every battle—her vast treasury confiscated—her capital

in the hands of an enemy—her very existence as an empire threatened; the

thought of this insult—for such they deemed it—to the Imperial House,

seemed to make the burden unendurable; and many who would have sacrificed

territory and power for a peace, would have scorned to accept it at such a

price as this.

I suppose the secret history of the transaction will never be disclosed;

but living as I did, at the time, under the same roof with the royal

family, I inclined to think that their counsels were of a divided nature;

that while the Emperor and the younger Archdukes gave a favorable ear to

the project, the Empress and the Archduke Charles as steadily opposed it.

The gossip of the day spoke of dreadful scenes between the members of the

Imperial House, and some have since asserted that the breaches of

affection that were then made never were reconciled in after life.

With these events of state or private history I have no concern. My

position and my nationality, of course, excluded me from confidential

intercourse with those capable of giving correct information; nor can I

record any thing beyond the mere current rumors of the time. This much,

however, I could remark, that all whom conviction, policy, or perhaps

bribery inclined to the alliance, were taken into court favor, and

replaced in the offices of the household those whose opinions were

adverse. A total change, in fact, took place in the persons of the royal

suite, and the Hungarian nobles, many of whom filled the “Hautes Chargés,”

as they are called, now made way for Bohemian grandees, who were

understood to entertain more favorable sentiments toward France. Whether

in utter despair of the cause for which they had suffered so long and so

much, or that they were willing to accept this alliance with the oldest

dynasty of Europe as a compromise, I am unable to say; but so was it. Many

of the emigré nobility of France, the unflinching, implacable enemies of

Bonaparte, consented to bury their ancient grudges, and were now seen

accepting place and office in the Austrian household. This was a most

artful flattery of the Austrians, and was peculiarly agreeable to

Napoleon, who longed to legalize his position by a reconciliation with the

old followers of the Bourbons, and who dreaded their schemes and plots far

more than he feared all the turbulent violence of the “Faubourg.” In one

day, no fewer than three French nobles were appointed to places of trust

in the household, and a special courier was sent off to Gratz to convey

the appointment of maid of honor to a young French lady who lived there in

exile.

Each of my countrymen on arriving came to visit me. They had all known my

father by name, if not personally, and most graciously acknowledged me as

one of themselves, a flattery they sincerely believed above all price.

I had heard much of the overweening vanity and conceit of the

Legitimatists, but the reality far exceeded all my notions of them. There

was no pretense, no affectation whatever about them. They implicitly

believed that in “accepting the Corsican,” as the phrase went, they were

displaying a condescension and self-negation unparalleled in history. The

tone of superiority thus assumed, of course made them seem supremely

ridiculous to my eyes—I, who had sacrificed heavily enough for the Empire,

and yet felt myself amply rewarded. But apart from these exaggerated ideas

of themselves, they were most amiable, gentle-mannered, and agreeable.

The ladies and gentlemen of what was called the “Service,” associated all

together, dining at the same table, and spending each evening in a

handsome suite appropriated to themselves. Hither some one or other of the

Imperial family occasionally came to play his whist, or chat away an hour

in pleasant gossip; these distinguished visitors never disturbing in the

slightest degree the easy tone of the society, nor exacting any

extraordinary marks of notice or attention.

The most frequent guest was the Archduke Louis, whose gayety of

temperament and easy humor induced him to pass nearly every evening with

us. He was fond of cards, but liked to talk away over his game, and make

play merely subsidiary to the pleasure of conversation. As I was but an

indifferent “whister,” but a most admirable auditor, I was always selected

to make one of his party.

It was on one of the evenings when we were so engaged, and the Archduke

had been displaying a more than ordinary flow of good spirits and

merriment, a sudden lull in the approving laughter, and a general

subsidence of every murmur, attracted my attention. I turned my head to

see what had occurred, and perceived that all the company had risen, and

were standing with eyes directed to the open door.

“The Archduchess, your Imperial Highness!” whispered an aid-de-camp to the

Prince, and he immediately rose from the table, an example speedily

followed by the others. I grasped my chair with one hand, and with my

sword in the other, tried to stand up, an effort which hitherto I had

never accomplished without aid. It was all in vain—my debility utterly

denied the attempt. I tried again, but overcome by pain and weakness, I

was compelled to abandon the effort, and sink down on my seat, faint and

trembling. By this time the company had formed into a circle, leaving the

Archduke Louis alone in the middle of the room; I, to my increasing shame

and confusion, being seated exactly behind where the Prince stood.

There was a hope for me still; the Archduchess might pass on through the

rooms without my being noticed. And this seemed likely enough, since she

was merely proceeding to the apartments of the Empress, and not to delay

with us. This expectation was soon destined to be extinguished; for,

leaning on the arm of one of her ladies, the young Princess came straight

over to where Prince Louis stood. She said something in a low voice, and

he turned immediately to offer her a chair; and there was I seated, very

pale, and very much shocked at my apparent rudeness. Although I had been

presented before to the young Archduchess, she had not seen me in the

uniform of the Corps de Guides (in which I now served as colonel), and

never recognized me. She therefore stared steadily at me, and turned

toward her brother as if for explanation.

“Don’t you know him?” said the Archduke, laughing; “it’s Colonel de

Tiernay, and if he can not stand up, _you_ certainly should be the last to

find fault with him. Pray, sit quiet, Tiernay,” added he, pressing me down

on my seat; “and if you won’t look so terrified, my sister will remember

you.”

“We must both be more altered than I ever expect if I cease to remember M.

de Tiernay,” said the Archduchess, with a most courteous smile. Then

leaning on the back of a chair, she bent forward and inquired after my

health. There was something so strange in the situation: a young, handsome

girl condescending to a tone of freedom and intimacy with one she had seen

but a couple of times, and from whom the difference of condition separated

her by a gulf wide as the great ocean, that I felt a nervous tremor I

could not account for. Perhaps, with the tact that royalty possesses as

its own prerogative, or, perhaps, with mere womanly intuition, she saw how

the interview agitated me, and, to change the topic, she suddenly said:

“I must present you to one of my ladies, Colonel de Tiernay, a

countrywoman of your own. She already has heard from me the story of your

noble devotion, and now only has to learn your name. Remember you are to

sit still.”

As she said this, she turned, and drawing her arm within that of a young

lady behind her, led her forward.

“It is to this gentleman I owe my life, Mademoiselle D’Estelles.”

I heard no more, nor did she either; for, faltering, she uttered a low,

faint sigh, and fell into the arms of those behind her.

“What’s this, Tiernay!—how is all this?” whispered Prince Louis; “are you

acquainted with mademoiselle?”

But I forgot every thing; the presence in which I stood, the agony of a

wounded leg, and all, and, with a violent effort, sprung from my seat.

Before I could approach her, however, she had risen from the chair, and in

a voice broken and interrupted, said:

“You are so changed, M. de Tiernay—so much changed—that the shock

overpowered me. We became acquainted in the Tyrol, madame,” said she to

the Princess, “where monsieur was a prisoner.”

What observation the Princess made in reply I could not hear, but I saw

that Laura blushed deeply. To hide her awkwardness perhaps it was, that

she hurriedly entered into some account of our former intercourse, and I

could observe that some allusion to the Prince de Condé dropped from her.

“How strange, how wonderful is all that you tell me!” said the Princess,

who bent forward and whispered some words to Prince Louis; and then,

taking Laura’s arm, she moved on, saying in a low voice to me, “Au revoir,

monsieur,” as she passed.

“You are to come and drink tea in the Archduchess’s apartments, Tiernay,”

said Prince Louis; “you’ll meet your old friend, Mademoiselle D’Estelles,

and of course you have a hundred recollections to exchange with each

other.”

The Prince insisted on my accepting his arm, and, as he assisted me along,

informed me that old Madame D’Acgreville was dead about a year, leaving

her niece an immense fortune—at least a claim to one—only wanting the

sanction of the Emperor Napoleon to become valid; for it was one of the

estreated but not confiscated estates of La Vendée. Every word that

dropped from the Prince extinguished some hope within me. More beautiful

than ever, her rank recognized, and in possession of a vast fortune, what

chance had I, a poor soldier of fortune, of success?

“Don’t sigh, Tiernay,” said the Prince, laughing; “you’ve lost a leg for

us, and we must lend you a hand in return;” and with this we entered the

salon of the Archduchess.

Maurice Tiernay’s “Last Word And Confession.”

I have been very frank with my readers in these memoirs of my life. If I

have dwelt somewhat vain-gloriously on passing moments of success, it must

be owned that I have not spared my vanity and self-conceit, when either

betrayed me into any excess of folly. I have neither blinked my humble

beginnings, nor have I sought to attribute to my own merits those happy

accidents which made me what I am. I claim nothing but the humble

character—a Soldier of Fortune. It was my intention to have told the

reader somewhat more than these twenty odd years of my life embrace.

Probably, too, my subsequent career, if less marked by adventure, was more

pregnant with true views of the world and sounder lessons of conduct; but

I have discovered to my surprise that these revelations have extended over

a wider surface than I ever destined them to occupy, and already I tremble

for the loss of that gracious attention that has been vouchsafed me

hitherto. I will not trust myself to say how much regret this abstinence

has cost me; enough if I avow that in jotting down the past I have lived

my youth over again, and in tracing old memories, old scenes, and old

impressions, the smouldering fire of my heart has shot up a transient

flame so bright as to throw a glow even over the chill of my old age.

It is, after all, no small privilege to have lived and borne one’s part in

stirring times; to have breasted the ocean of life when the winds were up

and the waves ran high; to have mingled, however humbly, in eventful

scenes, and had one’s share in the mighty deeds that were to become

history afterward. It is assuredly in such trials that humanity comes out

best, and that the character of man displays all its worthiest and noblest

attributes. Amid such scenes I began my life, and, in the midst of similar

ones, if my prophetic foresight deceive me not, I am like to end it.

Having said this much of and for myself, I am sure the reader will pardon

me if I am not equally communicative with respect to another, and if I

pass over the remainder of that interval which I spent at Komorn. Even

were love-making—which assuredly it is not—as interesting to the spectator

as to those engaged, I should scruple to recount events which delicacy

should throw a vail over; nor am I induced, even by the example of the

wittiest periodical writer of the age, to make a “feuilleton” of my own

marriage. Enough that I say, despite my shattered form, my want of

fortune, my unattested pretension to rank or station, Mademoiselle

D’Estelles accepted me, and the Emperor most graciously confirmed her

claims to wealth, thus making me one of the richest and the very happiest

among the Soldiers of Fortune.

The Père Delamoy, now superior of a convent at Pisa, came to Komorn to

perform the ceremony; and if he could not altogether pardon those who had

uprooted the ancient monarchy of France, yet did not conceal his gratitude

to him who had restored the Church and rebuilt the altar.

There may be some who deem this closing abrupt, and who would wish for

even a word about the bride, her bouquet, and her blushes. I can not

afford to gratify so laudable a curiosity, at the same time that a lurking

vanity induces me to say, that any one wishing to know more about the

“personnel” of my wife or myself, has but to look at David’s picture, or

the engraving made from it, of the Emperor’s marriage. There they will

find, in the left hand corner, partly concealed behind the Grand Duke de

Berg, an officer of the Guides, supporting on his arm a young and very

beautiful girl, herself a bride. If the young lady’s looks are turned with

more interest on her companion than upon the gorgeous spectacle, remember

that she is but a few weeks married. If the soldier carry himself with

less of martial vigor or grace, pray bear in mind that cork legs had not

attained the perfection to which later skill has brought them.

I have the scene stronger before me than painting can depict, and my eyes

fill as I now behold it in my memory!

ANECDOTES AND APHORISMS.

As it is likely some of our readers have never read “Napier’s Life of

Montrose,” we think it may not be amiss to insert an extract descriptive

of the execution of that nobleman. It need scarcely be mentioned that this

is the famous Graham of Claverhouse, whom Sir Walter Scott has drawn with

such fine effect in one of his best novels.

It was resolved to celebrate his entrance into Edinburgh with a kind of

mock solemnity. Thus on Sunday, the 18th of May, the magistrates met him

at the gates, and led him in triumph through the streets. First appeared

his officers, bound with cords, and walking two and two; then was seen the

Marquis, placed on a high chair in the hangman’s cart, with his hands

pinioned, and his hat pulled off, while the hangman himself continued

covered by his side. It is alleged in a contemporary record, that the

reason of his being tied to the cart was, in hope that the people would

have stoned him, and that he might not be able by his hands to save his

face. In all the procession there appeared in Montrose such majesty,

courage, modesty, and even somewhat more than natural, that even these

women who had lost their husbands and children in his wars, and were hired

to stone him, were, upon the sight of him, so astonished and moved, that

their intended curses turned into tears and prayers. Of the many thousand

spectators only one, Lady Jane Gordon, Countess of Haddington, was heard

to scoff and laugh aloud. Montrose himself continued to display the same

serenity of temper, when at last, late in the evening, he was allowed to

enter his prison, and found there a deputation from the Parliament. He

merely expressed to them his satisfaction at the near approach of the

Sunday as the day of rest.

“For,” said he, “the compliment you put upon me this day was a little

tedious and fatiguing.”

Montrose told his persecutors that he was more proud to have his head

fixed on the top of the prison walls than that his picture should hang in

the king’s bed-chamber, and that far from being troubled at his legs and

arms being dispersed among the four principal cities, he only wished he

had limbs to send to every city in Christendom, as testimonies of his

unshaken attachment to the cause in which he suffered. When Sir Archibald

Johnson of Warriston, the Clerk-Register, entered the prisoner’s cell, and

found him employed, early in the morning, combing the long curled hair

which he wore according to the custom of the cavaliers, the visitor

muttered:

“Why is James Graham so careful of his locks?”

Montrose replied with a smile:

“While my head is my own, I will dress and adorn it; but when it becomes

yours, you may treat it as you please.”

Montrose, proud of the cause in which he was to suffer, clad himself, on

the day of his execution, in rich attire—“more becoming a bridegroom,”

says one of his enemies, “than a criminal going to the gallows.” As he

walked along, and beheld the instrument of his doom, his step was not seen

to falter nor his eye quail; to the last he bore himself with such

steadfast courage, such calm dignity, as had seldom been equaled, and

never surpassed. At the foot of the scaffold, a further and parting insult

was reserved for him: the executioner brought Dr. Wishart’s narrative of

his exploits and his own manifesto, to hang round his neck; but Montrose

himself assisted in binding them, and smiling at this new token of malice,

merely said:—“I did not feel more honored when his majesty sent me the

garter.”

He then asked whether they had any more indignities to put upon him, and

finding there were none, he prayed for some time, with his hat before his

eyes. He drew apart some of the magistrates, and spoke awhile with them,

and then went up the ladder in his red scarlet cassock, in a very stately

manner, and never spoke a word; but when the executioner was putting the

cord about his neck, he looked down to the people upon the scaffold, and

asked:

“How long shall I hang here?”

His head was afterward affixed to a spike at the top of the Tolbooth,

where it remained a ghastly spectacle, during ten years.

There is another execution scene, that of the courtly and enterprising

Walter Raleigh, not usually accessible to general readers.

Sir Walter Raleigh, on the morning of his execution, received a cup of

sack, and remarked that he liked it as well as the prisoner who drank of

St. Giles’s bowl in passing through Tyburn, and said, “It is good to drink

if a man might but tarry by it.” He turned to his old friend, Sir Hugh

Ceeston, who was repulsed by the sheriff from the scaffold, saying:

“Never fear but _I_ shall have a place.”

When a man extremely bald pressed forward to see Raleigh, and to pray for

him, Sir Walter took from his own head a richly embroidered cap, and

placing it on that of the aged spectator, said:

“Take this, good friend, to remember me, for you have more need of it than

I.”

“Farewell, my lords,” he exclaimed to a courtly group, who took an

affectionate leave of him; “I have a long journey before me, and must say

good-by.”

“Now I am going to God,” said he, as he reached the scaffold; and gently

touching the ax, continued, “This is a sharp medicine, but it will cure

all diseases.”

The very executioner shrunk from beheading one so brave and illustrious,

until the unintimidated knight encouraged him, saying:

“What dost thou fear? Strike, man!”

In another moment the great soul had fled from its mangled tenement.

Next shall be related the story of the Tower Ghost; “communicated by Sir

David Brewster to Professor Gregory,” and authentically recorded in

“Letters on Animal Magnetism?”

At the trial of Queen Caroline, in 1821, the guards of the Tower were

doubled; and Colonel S——, the keeper of the Regalia, was quartered there

with his family. Toward twilight one evening, and before dark, he, his

wife, son, and daughter were sitting, listening to the sentinels, who were

singing and answering one another, on the beats above and below. The

evening was sultry, and the door stood ajar, when something suddenly

rolled in through the open space. Colonel S—— at first thought it was a

cloud of smoke, but it assumed the shape of a pyramid of dark thick gray,

with something working toward its centre. Mrs. S—— saw a form. Miss S——

felt an indescribable sensation of chill and horror. The son sat at the

window, staring at the terrified and agitated party; but saw nothing. Mrs.

S—— threw her head down upon her arms on the table, and screamed. The

Colonel took a chair, and hurled it at the phantom, through which it

passed. The cloud seemed to him to revolve round the room, and then

disappear, as it came, through the door. He had scarcely risen from his

chair to follow, when he heard a loud shriek, and a heavy fall at the

bottom of the stair. He stopped to listen, and in a few minutes the guard

came up and challenged the poor sentry, who had been so lately singing,

but who now lay at the entrance in a swoon. The sergeant shook him rudely,

declared he was asleep at his post, and put him under arrest. Next day the

soldier was brought to a court-martial, when Colonel S—— appeared on his

behalf, to testify that he could not have been asleep, for that he had

been singing, and the Colonel’s family had been listening, ten minutes

before. The man declared that, while walking toward the stair-entrance, a

dreadful figure had issued from the doorway, which he took at first for an

escaped bear on its hind legs. It passed him, and scowled upon him with a

human face, and the expression of a demon, disappearing over the Barbican.

He was so frightened that he became giddy, and knew no more. His story, of

course, was not credited by his judges; but he was believed to have had an

attack of vertigo, and was acquitted and released on Colonel’s S——’s

evidence.

That evening Colonel S—— went to congratulate the man, but he was so

changed that he did not know him. From a glow of rude health in his

handsome face, he had become of the color of bad paste. Colonel S—— said

to him:

“Why do you look so dejected, my lad? I think I have done you a great

favor in getting you off; and I would advise you in future to continue

your habit of singing.”

“Colonel,” replied the sentry, “you have saved my character, and I thank

you; but as for any thing else, it little signifies. From the moment I saw

that infernal demon, I felt I was a dead man.”

He never recovered his spirits, and died next day, forty-eight hours after

he had seen the spectre. Colonel S—— had conversed with the sergeant about

it, who quietly remarked:

“It was a bad job, but he was only a recruit, and must get used to it like

the rest.”

“What!” said Colonel S——, “have you heard of others seeing the same?”

“Oh, yes,” answered the sergeant, “there are many queer, unaccountable

things seen here, I assure you, and many of our recruits faint a time or

two; but they get used to it, and it don’t hurt them.”

“Mrs. S—— never got used to it. She remained in a state of dejection for

six weeks, and then died. Colonel S—— was long recovering from the

impression, and was reluctant to speak of it; but he said he would never

deny the thing he had seen.”

What explanation Sir David Brewster has given of this singular apparition,

the present writer does not happen to know. We quote it for its

strangeness, and leave the reader to make of it what he can. We proceed

with a curious instance of mental absence:

Lessing, the German philosopher, being remarkably absent, knocked at his

own door one evening, when the servant looking out of the window, and not

recognizing him, said:

“The professor is not at home!”

“Oh, very well!” replied Lessing, composedly walking away; “I shall call

another time.”

There is an anecdote of successful coolness, of earlier date, which will

serve very well to accompany the foregoing:

Charles II., after his restoration, appears, according to custom, to have

neglected his most faithful adherent, Lord St. Albans, who nevertheless

was a frequenter of the court. One day, when a gentleman had requested an

interview of his majesty to ask for a valuable office then vacant, the

king in jest desired the Earl of St. Albans to personate him, which he did

before the whole court; but, after hearing the stranger’s petition with an

air of dignified authority, he said that the office was by no means too

great for so deserving a subject. “But,” added the earl, gravely, “I have

already conferred it on my faithful adherent, Lord St. Albans, who

constantly followed my father’s fortunes and my own, having never before

received any reward.” The king was so amused by this ready jest that he

instantly confirmed the gift to his clever representative.

But we have yet a cooler thing (though somewhat different in character)

than either of the preceding to bring forward, and which, if true, is

really one of the strangest incidents that could happen in a man’s

experience.

Barthe, a writer of French comedies, hearing that his intimate friend

Colardeau was on the point of death, instantly hastened to the sick man’s

chamber, and finding him still in a condition to listen, addressed him

thus:

“My dear friend, I am in despair at seeing you in this extremity, but I

have still one favor to ask of you; it is that you will hear me read my

’Homme Personnel.’”

“Consider,” replied the dying man, “that I have only a few hours to live.”

“Alas! yes; and this is the very reason that makes me so desirous of

knowing what you think of my play.”

His unhappy friend heard him to the end without saying a word, and then in

a faint voice, observed, that there was yet one very striking feature

wanted to complete the character which he had been designing.

“You must make him,” said he, “force a friend who is dying to listen to a

comedy in five acts.”

Our collector has treasured up two or three tolerable anecdotes of that

artfullest of “dodgers,” Talleyrand, which, though not new to every body

are likely to have a novelty for some, and there fore may bear quoting.

After the Pope had excommunicated him, he is reported to have written to a

friend, saying, “Come and comfort me; come and sup with me. Every body is

going to refuse me fire and water; we shall therefore have nothing this

evening but iced meats, and drink nothing but wine.” When Louis XVIII., at

the restoration, praised Talleyrand for his talents and influence, the

latter modestly disclaimed the compliment, but added, with an arch

significance, “There is, however, some inexplicable thing about me which

prevents any government from prospering that attempts to set me aside.”

The next is exquisitely _diplomatic_. A banker, anxious about the rise or

fall of stocks, came once to Talleyrand for information respecting the

truth of a rumor that George III. had suddenly died, when the statesman

replied, in a confidential tone, “I shall be delighted if the information

I have to give be of any use to you.” The banker was enchanted at the

prospect of obtaining authentic intelligence from so high a source; and

Talleyrand, with a mysterious air continued, “Some say the King of England

is dead; others, that he is not dead; for my own part, I believe neither

the one nor the other. I tell you this in confidence, but do not commit

me.” No better parody on modern diplomacy could easily be written.

A CURIOUS PAGE OF FAMILY HISTORY.

The Chambellans were an old Yorkshire family, which once had held a high

place among the landed gentry of the county. A knight of that family had

been a Crusader in the army of Richard Cœur de Lion; and now he lay, with

all his insignia about him, in the parish church, while others of his race

reposed in the same chancel, under monuments and brasses, which spoke of

their name and fame during their generation. In the lapse of time the

family had become impoverished, and gradually merged into the class of

yeomen, retaining only a remnant of the broad lands which had once

belonged to them. In 1744-5, the elder branch of the family, consisting of

the father, two sons, and a daughter, resided at what had once been the

mansion-house. It had been built originally in the reign of Stephen, and

was a curious specimen of different kinds of architecture, bearing traces

of its gradual transformation from the stronghold of the days when it was

no metaphor to say that every man’s house was his castle, down to the more

peaceful dwelling of lawful and orderly times, It had now become little

more than a better sort of farm-house. What had been the tilt-yard was

filled with a row of comfortable barns, cart-sheds, and hay-stacks: a low

wall of rough gray stones inclosed a small garden: a narrow gravel walk,

edged on each side with currant-trees and gooseberry-bushes, led up to the

fine old porch, embowered in the ivy and creepers which covered nearly the

whole of the building with its luxuriant growth. The old gateway at the

entrance of the yard was still surmounted with the “coat armor” of the

family, carved in stone; but the gates themselves had long ago

disappeared, and been replaced by a common wooden farm-yard gate. The

“coat armor” itself was covered with moss, and a fine crop of grass and

house-leek grew among the stones of the walls, to which it would have

communicated a desolate appearance, if the farm-yard arrangements had been

less orderly.

Halsted Hall, as it was called, was six miles from the city of York, and

stood about a mile from the main road. The only approach to it was by a

long rough lane, so much cut up by the carts and cattle that it was almost

impassable to foot-passengers, except in the height of summer or depth of

winter, when the mud had been dried up by the sun or the frost.

The father and brothers attended the different fairs and markets in the

ordinary course of business; their sister, Mary Chambellan, managed the

affairs of the house and dairy. She led a very secluded life, for they had

no neighbors, and of general society there was none nearer than the city

itself. Mary, however, had plenty of occupation, and was quite contented

with her lot. She was nearly seventeen, tall, well-formed, and with an air

of composed dignity which suited well with her position, which was of

great responsibility for so young a person. Her mother, who had been dead

rather more than a year, had been a woman of superior education and strong

character. To her Mary owed all the instruction she had ever received, and

the tinge of refinement which made her manners very superior to those of

either her father or brothers. She, however, was quite unconscious of

this, and they all lived very happily together in the old out-of-the-way

place.

It happened that, in the spring of 1745, an uncle of her mother’s, who

resided at York, was about to celebrate the marriage of one of his

daughters; Mary Chambellan, with her father and brothers, were invited to

the festivities. The father would have sent an excuse for himself and

Mary; he was getting old, and did not like to be put out of his usual

ways. The brothers, however, pleaded earnestly that their sister might

have a little recreation. Finally consent was obtained, and she went with

her brothers.

It was a very fine wedding, and a ball and supper finished the rejoicings.

Some of the officers, quartered with their regiments in York, were invited

to this ball. Among others was a certain Captain Henry Pollexfen. He was a

young man of good family in the south of England, heir to a large fortune;

and extremely handsome and attractive on his own account, independent of

these advantages.

He was, by all accounts, a type of the fine, high-spirited young fellow of

those days; good-tempered, generous, and overflowing with wild animal life

and spirits, which he threw off in a thousand impetuous extravagances. He

could dance all night at a ball, ride a dozen miles to meet the hounds the

following morning, and, after a hard day’s sport, sit down to a deep

carouse, and be as fresh and gay after it as if he had been following the

precepts of Lewis Cornaro. The women contended with each other to attract

his attentions; but although he was devoted to every woman he came near,

and responded to their universal good-will by flirting indefatigably, his

attentions were so indiscriminate, that there was not one belle who could

flatter herself that she had secured him for her “humble servant”—as

lovers were then wont to style themselves. Mary Chambellan was not,

certainly, the belle of the wedding ball-room, and by no means equal in

fortune or social position to most of the women present; but whether from

perverseness, or caprice, or love of novelty, Henry Pollexfen was

attracted by her, and devoted himself to her exclusively.

The next York Assembly was to take place in a few days; and this young

man, who did not know what contradiction meant, made Mary promise to be

his partner there. Old Mr. Chambellan, however, who thought his daughter

had been away from home quite long enough, fetched her back himself on the

following day; and Mary would as soon have dared to ask to go to the moon

as to remain to go to the assembly. Henry Pollexfen was extremely

disappointed when he found that Miss Chambellan had returned home; but he

was too much caressed and sought after to be able to think long about the

matter, and so his sudden fancy soon passed away.

In the autumn of the same year he met one of her brothers in the hunting

field. Accident threw them together toward the close of a hard day’s run;

when, in clearing a stone fence, some loose stones were dislodged, and

struck Captain Pollexfen’s horse, laming him severely. Night was coming

on; it was impossible to return to his quarters on foot; and young

Chambellan invited his fellow-sportsman to go home with him—Halsted Hall

being the nearest habitation. The invitation was accepted. Although old

Mr. Chambellan would as soon have opened his doors to a dragon; yet even

he could find no fault under the circumstances, and was constrained to

welcome their dangerous guest with old-fashioned hospitality. He soon

became so charmed with his visitor, that he invited him to return, and the

visitor gladly did so.

His almost forgotten admiration for Mary revived in full force the moment

he saw her again. He soon fell desperately and seriously in love with her.

Mary’s strong and gentle character assumed great influence over his

mercurial and impetuous disposition. That she became deeply attached to

him was nothing wonderful; she could scarcely have helped it, even if he

had not sought to win her affections.

In a short time, he made proposals of marriage for her to her father, who

willingly consented, feeling, if the truth must be told, very much

flattered at the prospect of such a son-in-law.

Henry Pollexfen then wrote a dutiful letter to his own father, telling him

how much he was in love, and how earnestly he desired permission to follow

his inclinations. Old Mr. Pollexfen had, like many other fathers, set his

heart upon his son’s making a brilliant match; and although, after

consulting the “History of Yorkshire,” where he found honorable mention

made of the Chambellan family, he could offer no objection on the score of

birth; yet he thought his son might do better. He was too wise to make any

direct opposition; on the contrary, he gave his conditional consent, only

stipulating for time. He required that twelve months should elapse before

the marriage took place, when his son would be little more than

two-and-twenty, while Mary would be not quite nineteen. He wrote paternal

letters to Mary, and polite epistles to her father. He even applied at

head-quarters for leave of absence for his son; whom he immediately

summoned up to London, where his own duties, as member of parliament,

would detain him for some time.

Under any other circumstances, Captain Pollexfen would have been delighted

with this arrangement; but, as it was, he would infinitely have preferred

being allowed to marry Mary at once. However, there was no help for it.

Old Mr. Chambellan, himself urged the duty of immediate obedience to his

father’s summons, and Pollexfen departed.

For many weeks his letters were as frequent as the post would carry them.

He was very miserable under the separation; and, much as she loved him,

Mary could not wish him to be otherwise. His regiment was suddenly ordered

abroad; the necessary hurry of preparation, and the order to join his

detachment at Canterbury without delay, rendered it quite impossible for

Captain Pollexfen to see Mary before his departure. He wrote her a tender

farewell, sent her his picture, and exhorted her to write frequently, and

never to forget him for an instant; promising, of course, everlasting

constancy for himself.

There was little chance that Mary should forget him, in that old lonely

house, without either friends or neighbors. Besides, the possibility of

ceasing to love her affianced husband never occurred to her. With Captain

Pollexfen it was different. Under no circumstances was his a character

that would bear absence unchanged; and the distraction of foreign scenes,

and the excitement of his profession, soon banished the image of Mary from

his mind. At length he felt it a great bore that he was engaged to be

married. The regiment remained sixteen months absent, and he heartily

hoped that she would have forgotten him.

Mary’s father died shortly after her lover’s departure; the family

property descended to her brothers, and she was left entirely dependent

upon them. Captain Pollexfen’s letters had entirely ceased; Mary had

received no communication for more than six months, when she saw the

return of his regiment announced, and his name gazetted as colonel. He,

however, neither came to see her, nor wrote to her, and Mary became

seriously ill. She could no longer conceal her sufferings from her

brothers. Under the impression that she was actually dying, they wrote to

her lover, demanding the cause of his silence, and telling him of her

situation. Colonel Pollexfen was conscience-stricken by this letter. He

declared to the brothers that he intended to act as became a man of honor,

and wrote to Mary with something of his old affection, revived by remorse;

excusing his past silence, begging forgiveness, and promising to go down

to see her, the instant he could obtain leave of absence.

Under the influence of this letter Mary revived; but the impression made

upon her future husband soon passed away—he daily felt less inclination to

perform his promise. He was living in the midst of fashionable society,

and was more courted than ever, since by the death of his father he had

come into possession of his fortune. He began to feel that he had

decidedly thrown himself away; and by a most unnatural transition, he

hated Mary for her claims upon him and considered himself a very ill-used

victim.

Mary’s brothers, finding that Colonel Pollexfen did not follow his letter,

nor show any signs of fulfilling his engagement, would not submit to any

more trifling. The elder made a journey to London, and demanded

satisfaction, with the intimation that the younger brother would claim the

same right when the first affair was terminated.

Colonel Pollexfen was not, of course, afraid of having even two duels on

his hands at once; he had already proved his courage too well to allow a

suspicion of that sort. His answer was characteristic. He told young

Chambellan that he was quite ready to meet both him and his brother, but

that he was under a previous engagement to marry their sister, which he

wished to perform first, as otherwise circumstances might occur to prevent

it; he should then be quite at their service, as it was his intention to

quit his bride at the church-door, and never to see her again!

The brothers, looking upon this as a pretext to evade the marriage

altogether, resolved, after some deliberation, to accept his proposal.

They had great difficulty in prevailing upon their sister to agree to

their wishes; but they none of them seriously believed that he would carry

out his threat, and Mary fancied that all danger of a duel would be

evaded. A very liberal settlement was drawn up by Colonel Pollexfen’s

direction, which he signed, and sent down to the bride’s family. On the

day appointed, Mary and her brothers repaired to the church; a traveling

chariot and four horses stood at the door. On entering, they found Colonel

Pollexfen pointing out to a friend who accompanied him the monuments

belonging to the Chambellan family. As soon as he perceived them he took

his place at the altar, and the ceremony commenced without delay. As soon

as it was concluded, he bowed with great politeness to all present, and

said, “You are all here witnesses that I have performed my engagement!”

Then, without even looking at his bride, he quitted the church, and,

accompanied by his friend, entered the carriage which was in waiting, and

drove rapidly away! Mary was carried senseless from the church, and for

several weeks continued dangerously ill.

The real strength of her character now showed itself. She made no

complaint; she did not even assume her husband’s name, but took the

appellation of Mrs. Chambellan. The settlement was returned to Colonel

Pollexfen’s lawyer, with an intimation that it would never be claimed. She

stilled the anger of her brothers, and would not endure a word to be said

against her husband. She never alluded to him herself. A great change came

over her; she did not seem to suffer nearly so much from her cruel

position as might have been expected; her melancholy and depression gave

place to a steady determination of purpose. In the brief space during

which she and her husband had stood before the altar, she had realized the

distance that existed between their positions in life. With a rare

superiority, she understood how natural it was that he should have felt no

desire to fulfill his boyish engagement; she owned in her heart that she

was not fitted to be the wife and companion of such a man as he had now

become. Had she seen all this sooner, she would have at once released him;

now she could no longer do so, and she resolved to fit herself to fill the

station to which, as his wife, she had been raised.

The brief interview before the altar had stimulated to desperation her

attachment to him: and she felt that she must win him back or die. Mary

had received very little education. In those days the education bestowed

on most women was very limited; but Mary fancied that all gentlewomen, who

moved in society, were well-informed; and her first step was to obtain

some elementary books from the master of a boy’s school at York, and

begin, with undoubting simplicity, to learn history and geography, and all

the things which she supposed every lady of her husband’s acquaintance

knew. A thirst for information was soon aroused in her; she had few

advantages and very little assistance; but her energies and perseverance

surmounted all obstacles, and she found a present reward in her labor. Her

life ceased to seem either lonely or monotonous. Still, the spirit that

worked within her was far more precious than any actual result she

obtained. She had a noble object in view; and, unconsciously to herself,

it purified her heart from all bitterness, or wounded vanity, or

impatience. A great sorrow nobly borne, is a great dignity. The very

insult which had seemed to condemn her to a wasted existence, was

transformed into a source of life and fruitfulness, by the wise humility

with which she accepted it.

Ten years passed thus, and in the matured woman of thirty, few could have

recognized the forsaken girl of nineteen. But the present only fulfilled

the promise which was then latent in her character.

All this time her husband had endeavored to forget that he was married.

Shortly after the ceremony, he went abroad with his regiment; and after

some time spent in active service, he returned to England, and quitted the

army with the brevet rank of general. He resided partly in London and

partly in Bath, leading the usual life of a man of fashion in those days,

and making himself remarkable for his brilliant extravagances.

About that time a young and beautiful actress appeared, who speedily

became the object of adoration to all the young men of fashion about town.

General Pollexfen was one of her lovers, and carried her off one night

from the theatre, when she came off the stage between the acts. He allowed

her to assume his name, and lavished a fortune upon her caprices; although

her extravagance and propensity to gambling involved him in debt.

Ten years had thus passed, when the cousin, whose marriage was mentioned

at the beginning of this story, was ordered to Bath by her physician. She

entreated Mary to accompany her, who, after some persuasion, consented. It

was a formidable journey in those days, and they were to stay some months.

They found a pleasant lodging. Mary, with some reluctance, was drawn into

society, and occasionally accompanied her cousin to the Assemblies, which

were then in high vogue.

General Pollexfen was absent from Bath when his wife arrived there. He had

been called up to London by some lawyer’s business, and calculated upon

being absent three weeks.

It so chanced, however, that the business was concluded sooner than he

expected, and that he returned to Bath without announcing his coming. He

went at once to the Assembly, and was walking through the rooms in a

chafed and irritable mood (having that night discovered the treachery of

the beautiful actress, which had long been known to every body else), when

a voice struck his ear which caused him to turn suddenly. He saw, near at

hand, a dignified and beautiful woman, who reminded him of some one he had

seen before. She turned away on perceiving him—it was Mary. She had

recognized her husband, and, scarcely able to stand, she took the arm of

her cousin, and reached the nearest seat. Her husband, forgetting every

thing else in his impatience to learn who it was who had thus startled

vague recollections, went hastily up to the Master of the Ceremonies, and

desired to be introduced to—his own wife!

By some fatality, the Master of the Ceremonies blundered, and gave the

name of Mary’s cousin. This mistake gave Mary courage; for years she had

dreamed of such a meeting, and the fear of losing the opportunity nerved

her to profit by it. She exerted herself to please him. He had been rudely

disenchanted from the graces of fine ladies, and was in a humor to

appreciate the gentle home influence of Mary’s manners; he was enchanted

with her, and begged to be allowed to follow up the acquaintance, and to

wait upon her the next morning. Permission was of course given, and he

handed Mary and her cousin to their chairs.

Mary was cruelly agitated; she had not suffered so much during the ten

preceding years; the suspense and anxiety were too terrible to endure; it

seemed as though morning would never come. Her husband was not much more

to be envied. He had discovered that she resembled the woman he had once

so much loved, and then so cruelly hated—whom he married, and deserted;

but though tormented by a thousand fancied resemblances, he scarcely dared

to hope that it could be she. The next day, long before the lawful hour

for paying morning visits, he was before her door and obtained admittance.

The resemblance by daylight was more striking than it had been on the

previous evening; and Mary’s agitation was equal to his own. His impetuous

appeal was answered. Overwhelmed with shame and repentance, and at the

same time happy beyond expression, General Pollexfen passionately

entreated his wife’s forgiveness. Mary not only won back her husband, but

regained, with a thousandfold intensity, the love which had once been

hers—regained it, never to lose it more!

The story soon became known, and created an immense sensation. They

quitted Bath, and retired to her husband’s family seat in Cornwall, where

they continued chiefly to reside. They had one son, an only child, who

died when he was about fifteen. It was an overwhelming affliction, and was

the one mortal shadow on their happiness. They died within a few weeks of

each other; their honors and estates passing to a distant branch of the

family.

THE ASS OF LA MARCA.

I. The Hog-Boy.

In the year 1530, a Franciscan was traveling on foot in the papal

territory of Ancona. He was proceeding to Ascoli; but, at that time, the

roads were bad, where there were any roads at all, and after wandering in

what appeared to be a wilderness, he lost his bearings altogether, and

came to a stand-still. A village was visible in the distance, but he was

unwilling to proceed so far to ask his way, lest it might prove to be in

the wrong direction. While listening intently, however, for some sound

that might indicate the propinquity of human beings—for the scrubby wood

of the waste, marshy land intercepted his view—he heard what appeared to

be a succession of low sobs close by. Mounting a little eminence a few

paces off, he saw a small company of hogs widely scattered, and searching

with the avidity of famine for a dinner; and rightly conjecturing that the

sounds of human grief must proceed from the swineherd, he moved on to the

nearest clump of bushes, where he saw on the other side a boy about nine

years of age, lying upon the soft ground, and endeavoring to smother his

sobs in a tuft of coarse moss, while he dug his fingers into the mud in an

agony of grief and rage. The good father allowed the storm of emotion to

sweep past, and then inquired what was the matter.

“Have you lost any of your hogs?” said he.

“I don’t know—and I don’t care,” was the answer.

“Why were you crying then?”

“Because they have been using me worse than a hog: they have been beating

me—they never let me alone; always bad names, and worse blows; nothing to

eat but leavings, and nothing to lie upon but dirty straw!”

“And for what offense are you used thus?”

“They say I am unhandy at field-work; that I am useless in the house and

the barn; that I am unfit to be a servant to the horses in the stable; and

that I can’t even keep the hogs together. They are hogs themselves—they

be! I was clever enough at home; but my father could not keep me any

longer, and so he sent me to be a farmer’s drudge, and turned me out to

the—the—hogs!” and the boy gave way to another passionate burst of grief.

The Franciscan endeavored to soothe him, and talked of submission to

Providence; but finding he could do no good he inquired the name of the

village.

“Montalto,” replied the boy, sulkily.

“Montalto? Then in what direction lies Ascoli?”

“Are you going to Ascoli?” demanded the hog-boy, suddenly, as he fixed a

pair of blazing eyes on the Franciscan’s face in a manner that made him

start. “I will show you the way,” continued he, in a tone of as much

decision as if he spoke of some mighty enterprise; and leaping to his feet

like a boy made of India-rubber, he led through the scrubby wood of the

common, kicking the hogs aside with a fierceness that drew a remonstrance

from the good father. This seemed to have the desired effect. His manner

softened instantaneously. He spoke in a mild, low voice; answered the

questions that were addressed to him with modesty and good-sense; and

astonished the Franciscan by a display of intelligence rare enough even

where natural abilities are developed by education. It was in vain,

however, that he reminded his young companion that it was time for him to

turn; the hog-boy seemed fascinated by the father’s conversation, and

always made some excuse for accompanying him a little further.

“Come, my son,” said the Franciscan at length, “this must have an end, and

here we part. There is a little trifle which I give you with my blessing,

and so God speed you!”

“I am going further,” replied the boy, quickly.

“What! to Ascoli?”

“Ay, to Ascoli—or to the end of the earth! Ah, father, if you would but

get me something to do—for I am sure you can if you will; any drudgery,

however humble—any thing in the world but tending hogs!”

“You forget my profession, my son, and that I am powerless out of it. You

would not become a monk yourself?”

“A monk! Oh! wouldn’t I? Only try me!”

“To be a monk is to toil, watch, and pray; to live meagrely, to submit to

innumerable hardships—”

“And to learn, father! to read—to think! O, what would I not submit to for

the sake of knowing what there is in books!” The boy spoke with

enthusiasm, and yet with nothing of the coarse impetuosity which had at

first almost terrified his new acquaintance. The Franciscan thought he

beheld in him the elements of a character well adapted for a religious

order; and after some further conversation, he finally consented to take

the stripling with him to Ascoli. They were now at the summit of an

eminence whence they saw that town lying before them, and the village of

Montalto hardly discernible in the distance behind. The father looked back

for a moment at his companion, in some curiosity to see how he would take

leave, probably forever, of the place of his birth. The hog-boy’s hands

were clenched as if the nails were imbedded in his flesh; and one arm,

trembling with agitation, was stretched forth in a fierce farewell. When

he turned away, the blazing eyes again flashed upon the Franciscan’s face;

but, in an instant, they softened, grew mild and tearful, and Felix—for

that was the lad’s name—followed his patron meekly into the town.

Their destination was a monastery of Cordeliers, where the ex-hog-boy was

introduced to the superior, and pleased him so much by his sensible

answers and modest demeanor, that he at once received the habit of a

lay-brother, and was set to assist the sacristan in sweeping the church

and lighting the candles. But at leisure hours he was still busier with

the dust of the schools, and the lamp of theology. The brethren taught him

the responses and grammar; but he never ceased to teach himself every

thing he could get at; so that in the year 1534, when he was only

fourteen, he was permitted to enter on his novitiate, and after the usual

probation, to make his profession. He was, in short, a monk; and in ten

years he had taken deacon’s orders, been ordained a priest, and graduated

as bachelor and doctor. Felix the hog-boy was now known as Father

Montalto.

II. The Assistant.

The world was now before the Ancona hog-boy. In his boyhood he had

suffered stripes and starvation, herded unclean animals, and almost broken

his heart with impotent, and, therefore, secret rage. In his youth he had

been the patient drudge of a convent, and passed his leisure hours in

persevering study, and the accumulation of book-knowledge. But now he was

a man, ready for his destiny, and in the midst of troublous times, when a

bold, fierce, and fearless character is sure to make its way. No more

secret sobs—no more cringing servility—no more studious solitude. Montalto

threw himself into the vortex of the world, and struck out boldly, right

and left. An impetuous and impatient temper, and haughty and dictatorial

manner, were now his prominent characteristics; and these, united as they

were with natural talent and solid acquirements, soon pointed him out for

congenial employment. The rising monk was seen and understood by the

Cardinals Carpi and Alexandrino; and by the latter he was appointed

Inquisitor-general at Venice. Here was fortune for the poor trampled boy

of Ancona! But to rest there was not his purpose. A little of the

tranquillity he knew so well how to assume, or even the mere abstinence

from violence and insult, would have retained him in his post; but,

instead of this he became harsh, stern, and peremptory to a degree that

outraged every body who came near him, and carried out the measures he

determined on with an arbitrary vehemence that bordered on frenzy. The

jealous republicans were astonished, but not terrified: the liberties of

their strange tyranny were at stake: and, at length, the Venetian magnates

rose like one man, and Father Montalto only escaped personal violence by

flight. And so he was a martyr to the cause of the church! And so all eyes

were drawn upon him, as a man ready in action, and inflexible in will. He

was now invited by the Cardinal Buon-Campagno to accompany him to Madrid

as his chaplain and inquisitorial adviser, the cardinal being sent thither

as legate from the Pope to his Catholic majesty. Montalto’s was an office

both of power and dignity, and he acquitted himself in it so zealously,

that on the legate’s recall he was offered all sorts of ecclesiastical

honors and preferment to induce him to settle in Spain. But the monk had

other aspirations. The news of the death of Pius IV. had reached Madrid,

and Montalto’s patron, Cardinal Alexandrino, would doubtless succeed to

the papal throne. He would want assistance, and, what is more, he could

repay it; and Father Montalto, rejecting the Spanish offers, hastened to

Rome. He found his friend, now Pius V., mindful of his former services,

and perhaps flattered by the reputation which his protégé had made in the

world. He was kindly received, and immediately appointed general of his

order.

And now the _ci-devant_ hog-boy set to sweep the church anew, but in a

different way. He no longer troubled himself with theological

controversies, but punished his contumacious opponents. In four years

after the accession of the new Pope he was made a bishop, and handsomely

pensioned; and in the year 1570 our adventurer was admitted into the

College of Cardinals.

Montalto was now fifty years of age, when the will is at its proudest, and

the intellectual nature smiles at the changing hair and its prophecies of

physical decay. It might be supposed that the fierce inquisitor ripened

into the stern and inflexible cardinal; but no such process of development

took place. And truly it would have been somewhat inconvenient as matters

stood; for his new associates—ranking with kings, every man of them,

hog-boy and all!—were the intellectual flower of the time, deep and

sagacious statesmen, immersed in a game of policy of which the tiara was

the prize, and qualified for the lofty contention not more by their

talents than by the blood of the Medici, the Caraffa, the Colonna, and the

Frangipani, that flowed in their veins. The wild nature of Montalto

appeared to be awed by the association into which he had thus been

elevated. It seemed as if a vision of his stripes, and his hogs, and his

besoms came back upon him, and he walked gingerly along the marble floors

of the Vatican, as if alarmed at the echo. He became mild, affable,

good-natured; his business was over in the world; he had nothing more to

do than to enjoy. Why should he concern himself with intrigues in which he

could have no possible interest? Why should he permit even his own family

to disturb his dignified repose? One of his nephews, on his way to Rome to

see his prodigious uncle and claim his favor, was murdered; but the

cardinal, so ready in former days to punish even crimes of thought,

interceded for the pardon of the assassin. The relatives who did arrive at

the Mecca of their pilgrimage he lodged at an inn, and sent them home to

their families the next day with a small present, telling them to trouble

him no more. The only promise he made for the future was that, by-and-by,

when old age and its infirmities came on, he might, perhaps, send for one

of them to nurse his declining years.

Time wore on, and his patron, Pope Pius V., died, and was buried. This was

a trouble as well as a grief to our cardinal; for, being obliged to enter

the conclave like the rest, he was asked by one and another for his vote.

How should he vote? He did not know whom to vote for. He was an obscure

and insignificant man—he was; and the rest were all so admirably

well-fitted to be Pope, that he could not tell the difference. Besides,

this was the first conclave he had been in, and in a path so much loftier

than he was accustomed to tread, he was afraid of making a false step. He

only wished he could vote for them all; but, as it was, he entreated them

to manage the affair without him. And so they did; and Cardinal

Buon-Campagno being elected, assumed the papal crown and the name of

Gregory XIII.

As for Montalto, he grew more meek, modest, and humble every day. He lived

frugally, even meanly, considering his rank, and gave the residue of his

income to the poor. He submitted patiently to all sorts of insults and

injuries, and not only forgave his enemies, but treated them with the

utmost tenderness. At this time a change appeared to take place in his

health. Violent internal pains destroyed his repose; and, although he

consulted all the doctors in Rome, and took physic from them all, he got

no better. His disease was not the less lamentable that it was nameless.

He grew thin and pale. Some said he took too much medicine. He leaned

heavily on his staff. His body was bent toward the ground: he seemed like

a man who was looking for his grave. Public prayers were offered up in the

churches for his recovery: and sometimes with so much effect, that he

appeared to be a little convalescent. At such intervals, being humble

himself, he delighted to converse with humble persons—such as the

domestics of cardinals and embassadors; and, above all things, auricular

confession, if it had not been the sick man’s duty, would have been called

his hobby. He confessed every body he could bring to his knees: his mind

became a sink through which constantly poured all the iniquities of Rome.

His brother cardinals smiled at these weaknesses. The poor man was

doubtless sinking into premature dotage. They gave him in ridicule a name,

taken from the muddy wastes of Ancona, in the midst of which he had been

picked up by the stray Franciscan: they called him THE ASS OF LA MARCA.

III. The Pope.

Time wore on in this way, till at length Gregory XIII. died. The event

took place at a perplexing moment, for never had the College of Cardinals

been so completely torn asunder by conflicting interests. There were three

powerful parties so singularly well-balanced, that each felt sure of being

able to elect the new Pope, and the poor Ass of La Marca, who was once

more obliged to join the conclave, was half-distracted with their various

claims. All they cared about was his vote; but that was important. They

were compelled, however, by tradition, to go through the form of

consulting him from time to time; and the cardinal, though never giving

way to impatience, was pathetic in his entreaties to be let alone.

According to the custom of this solemn council, each member of the holy

college was shut up in a separate room; and the messengers always found

Montalto’s door bolted. He would reply to their eminences, he said, the

moment his cough abated, the moment he felt any intermission of his

excruciating pains. But why could they not proceed to business without

him? The opinions of so insignificant a person could not at any time be

necessary; but, surely, it was inhuman to disturb a man fast sinking under

disease, and whose thoughts were fixed upon that world to which he was

hastening. The conclave sat fourteen days, and even then the votes of the

three parties were equally divided. What was to be done? The best way was

to have a nominal Pope, for the shortest possible time, so that the

struggle of the real competitors might begin anew. They accordingly

elected unanimously to the papal throne—the Ass of La Marca!

On this announcement the new monarch came instantly forth from his cell,

leaving behind him his staff, his cough, his stoop, his pains, his

infirmities, and his humility! He advanced with an erect figure, and a

firm and dignified step into the midst of the conclave, and thanked their

eminences for the honor they had conferred upon him, which he would

endeavor to merit by discharging its high functions conscientiously. As he

passed from the sacred council the _vivas_ of the people rent the air.

“Long live the Pope!” they cried: “justice, plenty, and large loaves!”

“Address yourselves to God for plenty,” was the answer: “_I will give you

justice._”

And he kept his word: ready, stern, severe, inflexible, impartial justice!

He was impatient to see the triple crown; and before preparations could be

made for his coronation, he caused the bauble to be produced, and placed

on a velvet cushion in the room where he sat. The bauble? It was no bauble

to him. It was the symbol of Power, just as he was himself the

personification of Will. It was the thought which had governed his whole

life—which had blazed even in the unconscious eyes of his boyhood. With

what memories was that long gaze filled—with what resolves. The room was

crowded with spectres of the past, and visions of the future, that met and

blended in one homogeneous character; and as Pope Sixtus V. rose from his

chair, he felt proudly that there rose with him—within him—throughout

him—the hog-boy of Montalto.

The dissimulation which was so remarkable a trait in this remarkable

character was now at an end, and only the fierceness, sternness, and

indomitable will of the man remained. He felt himself to be placed on a

height from which every thing beneath him appeared on one level. The

cardinals, with their ancient blood and accomplished statesmanship, were

no more to him than the meanest drudges in his dominions; and when they

first attempted remonstrate at his proceedings, he answered them with such

withering disdain, that the proudest of them quailed beneath his eye. He

told them distinctly that he was not only their spiritual head but their

temporal king, and that in neither capacity would he brook any

interference with his authority. It was the custom, on the accession of a

pope, for the prisoners to be manumitted in all the jails of Rome; and the

consequence of this equivocal mercy was, that these places of durance were

always full at such a time—the whole villainy of the city taking the

opportunity of committing murders, robberies, and other great crimes that

would be cheaply visited by a brief imprisonment. When Sixtus was asked,

as a matter of form, for his sanction to the discharge of the prisoners,

he peremptorily refused it. In vain the members of the holy college, in

vain the civic authorities, implored him not to set tradition at defiance:

he ordered for instant execution those legally deserving of death, and in

the case of the others, did not abate a single day of their confinement.

Even the respect paid to his own person by the populace became a crime,

since it interfered with his designs. The perpetual _vivas_ with which he

was greeted made his whereabout so public that he could not come unawares

into any suspected place, and he issued an order forbidding such

demonstrations. One day, however, two citizens were so enthusiastic in

their loyalty that they could not repress the cry of “Long live the Pope!”

which rose to their lips; whereupon the offenders were instantly laid hold

of by the orders of Sixtus, and received a hearty flogging.

This _parvenu_ pope treated with other monarchs with the unbending dignity

which might have been looked for in the descendant of a line of kings; and

in some cases—more especially that of Spain—he exhibited the

uncompromising sternness of his character. But where the interest of his

policy was not involved—where the actors in the drama of life moved in

circles that had no contact with his—he admired with all his impulsive

soul a masculine and independent spirit. So far did he carry his

admiration of our Protestant Queen Elizabeth, who was his contemporary,

that one might almost fancy the solitary monk day-dreaming of those times

when even popes were permitted a mortal bride. He is said to have given

her secret intimation of the approaching Armada of his Catholic majesty;

and when the head of the Catholic Queen of Scotland rolled under the ax of

the executioner, he is described as having emitted an exclamation of

fierce and exulting applause at this memorable exhibition of will and

power.

And so Sixtus lived, and reigned, and died—a stern, strong spirit of his

day and generation, leaving a broad trail in history, and a lasting

monument in the architectural stones of Rome. In the biography of common

men, who are swayed by changing currents of passion and circumstance, it

would be vain to attempt to explain actions and reconcile inconsistencies,

as we have done here, by viewing all their doings, and all the phases of

their character, with reference to a leading principle. But Sixtus was

governed from his birth by one great thought, though fully developed only

by the force of events—a thought as obvious in the hog-boy of Ancona, or

the drudge of the Cordeliers, as in the monk Montalto, the inquisitor, the

cardinal, and the pope.

THE LEGEND OF THE WEEPING CHAMBER.

A strange story was once told me by a Levantine lady of my acquaintance,

which I shall endeavor to relate—as far as I am able with the necessary

abridgments—in her own words. The circumstances under which she told it

were peculiar. The family had just been disturbed by the visit of a

ghost—a real ghost, visible, if not palpable. She was not what may be

called superstitious; and though following with more or less assiduity the

practices of her religion, was afflicted now and then with a fit of

perfect materialism. I was surprised, therefore, to hear her relate, with

every appearance of profound faith, the following incidents:

There is an old house in Beyrout, which, for many successive years, was

inhabited by a Christian family. It is of great extent, and was of yore

fitted for the dwelling of a prince. The family had, indeed, in early

times been very rich; and almost fabulous accounts are current of the

wealth of its founder, Fadlallah Dahân. He was a merchant; the owner of

ships, the fitter-out of caravans. The regions of the East and of the West

had been visited by him; and, after undergoing as many dangers and

adventures as Sinbad, he had returned to spend the latter days of his life

in his native city. He built, accordingly, a magnificent dwelling, the

courts of which he adorned with marble fountains, and the chambers with

silk divans; and he was envied on account of his prosperity.

But, in the restlessness of his early years, he had omitted to marry, and

now found himself near the close of his career without an heir to inherit

his wealth and to perpetuate his name. This reflection often disturbed

him; yet he was unwilling to take a wife because he was old. Every now and

then, it is true, he saw men older than he, with fewer teeth and whiter

beards, taking to their bosoms maidens that bloomed like peaches just

beginning to ripen against a wall; and his friends, who knew he would give

a magnificent marriage-feast, urged him to do likewise. Once he looked

with pleasure on a young person of not too tender years, whose parents

purposely presented her to him; but having asked her in a whisper whether

she would like to marry a withered old gentleman like himself, she frankly

confessed a preference for his handsome young clerk, Harma, who earned a

hundred piastres a month. Fadlallah laughed philosophically, and took care

that the young couple should be married under happy auspices.

One day he was proceeding along the street gravely and slowly—surrounded

by a number of merchants proud to walk by his side, and followed by two or

three young men, who pressed near in order to be thought of the company,

and thus establish their credit—when an old woman espying him, began to

cry out, “Yeh! yeh! this is the man who has no wife and no child—this is

the man who is going to die and leave his fortune to be robbed by his

servants, or confiscated by the governor! And yet, he has a sagacious

nose”—(the Orientals have observed that there is wisdom in a nose)—“and a

beard as long as my back! Yeh! yeh! what a wonderful sight to see!”

Fadlallah Dahân stopped, and retorted, smiling, “Yeh! yeh! this is the

woman that blames an old man for not marrying a young wife. Yeh! yeh! what

a wonderful sight to see!”

Then the woman replied, “O, my lord, every pig’s tail curls not in the

same direction, nor does every maiden admire the passing quality of youth.

If thou wilt, I will bestow on thee a wife, who will love thee as thou

lovest thyself, and serve thee as the angels serve Allah. She is more

beautiful than any of the daughters of Beyrout, and her name is Selima, a

name of good augury.”

The friends of Fadlallah laughed, as did the young men who followed in

their wake, and urged him to go and see this peerless beauty, if it were

only for a joke. Accordingly, he told the woman to lead the way. But she

said he must mount his mule, for they had to go some distance into the

country. He mounted and, with a single servant, went forth from the

gates—the woman preceding—and rode until he reached a village in the

mountains. Here, in a poor little house, he found Selima; clothed in the

very commonest style, engaged in making divan cushions. She was a

marvelously beautiful girl, and the heart of the merchant at once began to

yearn toward her: yet he endeavored to restrain himself, and said, “This

beautiful thing is not for me.” But the woman cried out, “Selima, wilt

thou consent to love this old man?” The girl gazed in his face a while,

and then, folding her hands across her bosom, said, “Yes; for there is

goodness in his countenance.” Fadlallah wept with joy; and, returning to

the city, announced his approaching marriage to his friends. According to

custom, they expressed civil surprise to his face; but, when his back was

turned, they whispered that he was an old fool, and had been the dupe of a

she-adventurer.

The marriage took place with ceremonies of royal magnificence; and Selima,

who passed unmoved from extreme poverty to abundant riches, seemed to

merit the position of the greatest lady in Beyrout. Never was woman more

prudent than she. No one ever knew her previous history, nor that of her

mother. Some said that a life of misery, perhaps of shame, was before

them, when this unexpected marriage took place. Selima’s gratitude to

Fadlallah was unbounded; and out of gratitude grew love. The merchant

daily offered up thanks for the bright diamond which had come to shine in

his house.

In due time a child was born; a boy lovely as his mother; and they named

him Halil. With what joy he was received, what festivities announced the

glad intelligence to the town, may easily be imagined. Selima and

Fadlallah resolved to devote themselves to his education, and determined

that he should be the most accomplished youth of Bar-er-Shâm. But a long

succession of children followed, each more beautiful than the former—some

boys, some girls; and every new-comer was received with additional delight

and still grander ceremonies; so that the people began to say, “Is this a

race of sovereigns?”

Now Halil grew up to the age of twelve—still a charming lad; but the

parents, always fully occupied by the last arrival, had not carried out

their project of education. He was as wild and untamed as a colt, and

spent more of his time in the street than in the company of his mother;

who, by degrees, began to look upon him with a kind of calm friendship due

to strangers. Fadlallah, as he took his accustomed walk with his merchant

friends, used from time to time to encounter a ragged boy fighting in the

streets with the sons of the Jew butcher; but his eyes beginning to grow

dim, he often passed without recognizing him. One day, however, Halil,

breathless and bleeding, ran up and took refuge beneath the skirts of his

mantle from a crowd of savage urchins. Fadlallah was amazed, and said, “O,

my son—for I think thou art my son—what evil hath befallen thee, and

wherefore do I see thee in this state?” The boy, whose voice was choked by

sobs, looked up into his face, and said, “Father, I am the son of the

richest merchant of Beyrout, and behold, there is no one so little cared

for as I.”

Fadlallah’s conscience smote him, and he wiped the boy’s bleeding face

with the corner of his silk caftan, and blessed him; and, taking him by

the hand, led him away. The merchants smiled benignly one to the other,

and, pointing with their thumbs, said, “We have seen the model youth!”

While they laughed and sneered, Fadlallah, humbled, yet resolved, returned

to his house, leading the ragged Halil, and entered his wife’s chamber.

Selima was playing with her seventh child, and teaching it to lisp the

word “Baba”—about the amount of education which she had found time to

bestow on each of her offspring. When she saw the plight of her eldest son

she frowned, and was about to scold him; but Fadlallah interposed, and

said, “Wife, speak no harsh words. We have not done our duty by this boy.

May God forgive us; but we have looked on those children that have bloomed

from thee, more as play-things than as deposits for which we are

responsible. Halil has become a wild out-of-door lad, doubting with some

reason of our love. It is too late to bring him back to the destiny we had

dreamt of; but he must not be left to grow up thus uncared for. I have a

brother established in Bassora; to him will I send the lad to learn the

arts of commerce, and to exercise himself in adventure, as his father did

before him. Bestow thy blessing upon him, Selima (here the good old man’s

voice trembled), and may God in his mercy forgive both thee and me for the

neglect which has made this parting necessary. I shall know that I am

forgiven if, before I go down into the tomb, my son return a wise and

sober man; not unmindful that we gave him life, and forgetting that, until

now, we have given him little else.”

Selima laid her seventh child in its cradle of carved wood, and drew Halil

to her bosom; and Fadlallah knew that she loved him still, because she

kissed his face, regardless of the blood and dirt that stained it. She

then washed him and dressed him, and gave him a purse of gold, and handed

him over to his father; who had resolved to send him off by the caravan

that started that very afternoon. Halil, surprised and made happy by

unwonted caresses, was yet delighted at the idea of beginning an

adventurous life; and went away, manfully stifling his sobs, and

endeavoring to assume the grave deportment of a merchant. Selima shed a

few tears, and then, attracted by a crow and a chuckle from the cradle,

began to tickle the infant’s soft double chin, and went on with her

interrupted lesson, “Baba, Baba!”

Halil started on his journey, and having passed through the Valley of

Robbers, the Valley of Lions, and the Valley of Devils—this is the way in

which Orientals localize the supposed dangers of traveling—arrived at the

good city of Bassora; where his uncle received him well, and promised to

send him as supercargo on board the next vessel he dispatched to the

Indian seas. What time was spent by the caravan upon the road, the

narrative does not state. Traveling is slow work in the East; but almost

immediately on his arrival in Bassora, Halil was engaged in a love

adventure. If traveling is slow, the approaches of manhood are rapid. The

youth’s curiosity was excited by the extraordinary care taken to conceal

his cousin Miriam from his sight; and having introduced himself into her

garden, beheld, and, struck by her wonderful beauty, loved her. With an

Oriental fondness, he confessed the truth to his uncle, who listened with

anger and dismay, and told him that Miriam was betrothed to the Sultan.

Halil perceived the danger of indulging his passion, and promised to

suppress it; but while he played a prudent part, Miriam’s curiosity was

also excited, and she, too, beheld and loved her cousin. Bolts and bars

can not keep two such affections asunder. They met and plighted their

troth, and were married secretly, and were happy. But inevitable discovery

came. Miriam was thrown into a dungeon; and the unhappy Halil, loaded with

chains, was put on board a vessel, not as supercargo, but as prisoner;

with orders that he should be left in some distant country.

Meanwhile a dreadful pestilence fell upon Beyrout, and among the first

sufferers was an eighth little one, that had just learned to say “Baba!”

Selima was almost too astonished to be grieved. It seemed to her

impossible that death should come into her house, and meddle with the

fruits of so much suffering and love. When they came to take away the

little form which she had so often fondled, her indignation burst forth,

and she smote the first old woman who stretched out her rough

unsympathetic hand. But a shriek from her waiting-woman announced that

another victim was singled out; and the frantic mother rushed like a

tigress to defend the young that yet remained to her. But the enemy was

invisible; and (so the story goes) all her little ones drooped one by one

and died; so that on the seventh day Selima sat in her nursery gazing

about with stony eyes, and counting her losses upon her fingers—Iskender,

Selima, Wardy, Fadlallah, Hanna, Hennenah, Gereges—seven in all. Then she

remembered Halil, and her neglect of him; and, lifting up her voice, she

wept aloud; and, as the tears rushed fast and hot down her cheeks, her

heart yearned for her absent boy, and she would have parted with worlds to

have fallen upon his breast—would have given up her life in return for one

word of pardon and of love.

Fadlallah came in to her; and he was now very old and feeble. His back was

bent, and his transparent hand trembled as it clutched a cane. A white

beard surrounded a still whiter face; and as he came near his wife, he

held out his hand toward her with an uncertain gesture, as if the room had

been dark. This world appeared to him but dimly. “Selima,” said he, “the

Giver hath taken. We, too, must go in our turn. Weep, my love; but weep

with moderation, for those little ones that have gone to sing in the

golden cages of Paradise. There is a heavier sorrow in my heart. Since my

first-born, Halil, departed for Bassora, I have only written once to learn

intelligence of him. He was then well, and had been received with favor by

his uncle. We have never done our duty by that boy.” His wife replied, “Do

not reproach me; for I reproach myself more bitterly than thou canst do.

Write, then, to thy brother to obtain tidings of the beloved one. I will

make of this chamber a weeping chamber. It has resounded with merriment

enough. All my children learned to laugh and to talk here. I will hang it

with black, and erect a tomb in the midst; and every day I will come and

spend two hours, and weep for those who are gone and for him who is

absent.” Fadlallah approved her design; and they made a weeping chamber,

and lamented together every day therein. But their letters to Bassora

remained unanswered; and they began to believe that fate had chosen a

solitary tomb for Halil.

One day a woman, dressed in the garb of the poor, came to the house of

Fadlallah with a boy about twelve years old. When the merchant saw them he

was struck with amazement, for he beheld in the boy the likeness of his

son Halil; and he called aloud to Selima, who, when she came, shrieked

with amazement. The woman told her story, and it appeared that she was

Miriam. Having spent some months in prison, she had escaped and taken

refuge in a forest in the house of her nurse. Here she had given birth to

a son, whom she had called by his father’s name. When her strength

returned, she had set out as a beggar to travel over the world in search

of her lost husband. Marvelous were the adventures she underwent, God

protecting her throughout, until she came to the land of Persia, where she

found Halil working as a slave in the garden of the Governor of Fars.

After a few stolen interviews, she had again resumed her wanderings to

seek for Fadlallah, that he might redeem his son with wealth; but had

passed several years upon the road.

Fortune, however, now smiled upon this unhappy family, and in spite of his

age, Fadlallah set out for Fars. Heaven made the desert easy, and the road

short for him. On a fine calm evening he entered the gardens of the

governor, and found his son gayly singing as he trimmed an orange tree.

After a vain attempt to preserve an incognito, the good old man lifted up

his hands, and shouting, “Halil, my first born!” fell upon the breast of

the astonished slave. Sweet was the interview in the orange grove, sweet

the murmured conversation between the strong young man and the trembling

patriarch, until the perfumed dew of evening fell upon their heads.

Halil’s liberty was easily obtained, and father and son returned in safety

to Beyrout. Then the Weeping Chamber was closed, and the door walled up;

and Fadlallah and Selima lived happily until age gently did its work at

their appointed times; and Halil and Miriam inherited the house and the

wealth that had been gathered for them.

The supernatural part of the story remains to be told. The Weeping Chamber

was never again opened; but every time that a death was about to occur in

the family, a shower of heavy teardrops was heard to fall upon its marble

floor, and low wailings came through the walled doorway. Years, centuries,

passed away, and the mystery repeated itself with unvarying uniformity.

The family fell into poverty, and only occupied a portion of the house,

but invariably before one of its members sickened unto death, a shower of

heavy drops, as from a thunder cloud, pattered on the pavement of the

Weeping Chamber, and was heard distinctly at night through the whole

house. At length the family quitted the country in search of better

fortunes elsewhere, and the house remained for a long time uninhabited.

The lady who narrated the story went to live in the house, and passed some

years without being disturbed; but one night she was lying awake, and

distinctly heard the warning shower dripping heavily in the Weeping

Chamber. Next day the news came of her mother’s death, and she hastened to

remove to another dwelling. The house has since been utterly abandoned to

rats, mice, beetles, and an occasional ghost seen sometimes streaming

along the rain-pierced terraces. No one has ever attempted to violate the

solitude of the sanctuary where Selima wept for the seven little ones

taken to the grave, and for the absent one whom she had treated with

unmotherly neglect.

AN OLD MAID’S FIRST LOVE.

I went once to the south of France for my health; and being recommended to

choose the neighborhood of Avignon, took my place, I scarcely know why, in

the diligence all the way from Paris. By this proceeding I missed the

steam-voyage down the Rhône, but fell in with some very pleasant people,

about whom I am going to speak. I traveled in the _intérieur_, and from

Lyon had no one for companion but a fussy little lady, of a certain age,

who had a large basket, a parrot in a cage, a little lapdog, a band-box, a

huge blue umbrella, which she could never succeed in stowing any where,

and a moth-eaten muff. In my valetudinarian state I was not pleased with

this inroad—especially as the little lady had a thin, pinched-up face, and

obstinately looked out of the window, while she popped about the

_intérieur_ as if she had just taken lodgings, and was putting them in

order, throwing me every now and then some gracious apology in a not

unpleasant voice. “Mince as you please, madam,” thought I; “you are a

bore.” I am sorry to add that I was very unaccommodating, gave no

assistance in the stowing away of the umbrella, and when Fanfreluche came

and placed his silken paws upon my knees, pushed him away very rudely. The

little old maid—it was evident this was her quality—apologized for her dog

as she had done for herself, and went on arranging her furniture—an

operation not completed before we got to St. Saphorin.

For some hours a perfect silence was preserved, although my companion

several times gave a short, dry cough, as if about to make an observation.

At length, the digestion of a hurried dinner being probably completed, I

felt all of a sudden quite bland and sociable, and began to be mightily

ashamed of myself. “Decidedly,” thought I, “I must give this poor woman

the benefit of my conversation.” So I spoke, very likely with that

self-satisfied air assumed sometimes by men accustomed to be well

received. To my great vexation the old maid had by this time taken

offense, and answered in a very stiff and reserved manner. Now the whole

absurdity of my conduct was evident to me, and I determined to make

amends. Being naturally of a diplomatic turn, I kept quiet for a while,

and then began to make advances to Fanfreluche. The poor animal bore no

malice, and I won his heart by stroking his long ears. Then I gave a piece

of sugar to the parrot; and having thus effected a practicable breach,

took the citadel by storm by pointing out a more commodious way of

arranging the great blue umbrella.

We were capital friends thenceforward; and I soon knew the history of

Mlle. Nathalie Bernard by heart. A mightily uninteresting history it was

to all but herself; so I shall not repeat it: suffice to say, that she had

lived long on her little income, as she called it, at Lyon, and was now on

her way to Avignon, where a very important object called her. This was no

other than to save her niece Marie from a distasteful marriage, which her

parents, very good people, but dazzled by the wealth of the unamiable

suitor, wished to bring about.

“And have you,” said I, “any reasonable hope of succeeding in your

mission?”

“_Parbleu!_” replied the old maid, “I have composed a little speech on

ill-assorted unions, which I am sure will melt the hearts of my sister and

my brother-in-law; and if that does not succeed—why, I will make love to

the _futur_ myself, and whisper in his ear that a comfortable little

income available at once, and a willing old maid, are better than a

cross-grained damsel with expectations only. You see I am resolved to make

any sacrifice to effect my object.”

I laughed at the old maid’s disinterestedness, which was perhaps greater

than at first appeared. At least she assured me that she had refused

several respectable offers, simply because she liked the independence of a

single life; and that if she had remained single to that age, it was a

sign that marriage had nothing attractive for her in itself. We discussed

the point learnedly as the diligence rolled; and what with the original

turn of my companion’s mind, the sportive disposition of Fanfreluche, and

the occasional disjointed soliloquies of Coco, the parrot, our time passed

very pleasantly. When night came, Mlle. Nathalie ensconced herself in the

corner behind her parcels and animals, and endeavored to sleep; but the

jolting of the diligence, and her own lively imagination, wakened her

every five minutes; and I had each time to give her a solemn assurance, on

my word of honor as a gentleman, that there was no particular danger of

our being upset into the Rhône.

We were ascending a steep hill next day, both had got out to walk. I have

omitted to note that it was autumn. Trees and fields were touched by the

golden fingers of the season. The prospect was wide, but I forget the

precise locality. On the opposite side of the Rhône, which rolled its

rapid current in a deepening valley to our right, rose a range of hills,

covered with fields that sloped wonderfully, and sometimes gave place to

precipices or wood-lined declivities. Here and there the ruins of some old

castle—reminiscences of feudal times—rose amid lofty crags, and traced

their jagged outline against the deep-blue sky of Provence. Nathalie

became almost sentimental as she gazed around on this beautiful scene.

We had climbed about half of the hill; the diligence was a little way

behind; the five horses were stamping and striking fire from the pavement

as they struggled up with the ponderous vehicle: the other passengers had

lingered in the rear with the conductor, who had pointed out a little

_auberge_ among some trees. We here saw a man preceding us upon the road

carrying a little bundle at the end of a stick over his shoulder: he

seemed to advance painfully. Our attention was attracted—I scarcely knew

why. He paused a moment—then went on with an uncertain step—paused again,

staggered forward, and fell on his face just as we came up. Mlle.

Nathalie, with a presence of mind that surprised me, had her

smelling-bottle out in an instant, and was soon engaged in restoring the

unfortunate traveler to consciousness. I assisted as well as I was able,

and trust that my good-will may atone for my awkwardness. Nathalie did

every thing; and, just as the diligence reached us, was gazing with

delight on the languid opening of a pair of as fine eyes as I have ever

seen, and supporting in her lap a head covered with beautiful curls. Even

at that moment, as I afterward remembered, she looked upon the young man

as a thing over which she had acquired a right of property. “He is going

our way,” said she: “let us lift him into the diligence.”

“A beggarly Parisian; yo, yo!” quoth the postillion as he passed, clacking

his long whip.

“Who will answer for his fare?” inquired the conductor.

“I will,” replied Nathalie, taking the words out of my mouth.

In a few minutes the young man, who looked bewildered and could not speak,

was safely stowed away among Nathalie’s other parcels; and the crest of

the hill being gained, we began rolling rapidly down a steep descent. The

little old maid, though in a perfect ecstasy of delight—the incident

evidently appeared to her quite an adventure—behaved with remarkable

prudence. While I was puzzling my head to guess by what disease this poor

young man had been attacked, she was getting ready the remedies that

appeared to her the most appropriate, in the shape of some excellent cakes

and a bottle of good wine, which she fished out of her huge basket. Her

protégé, made tame by hunger, allowed himself to be treated like a child.

First, she gave him a very small sip of Burgundy, then a diminutive

fragment of cake; and then another sip and another piece of cake—insisting

on his eating very slowly. Being perfectly useless, I looked quietly on,

and smiled to see the submissiveness with which this fine, handsome fellow

allowed himself to be fed by the fussy old maid, and how he kept his eyes

fixed upon her with an expression of wondering admiration.

Before we arrived at Avignon we knew the history of the young man. He was

an artist, who had spent several years studying in Paris, without friends,

without resources, except a miserable pittance which his mother, a poor

peasant woman, living in a village not far from Aix, had managed to send

him. At first he had been upheld by hope; and although he knew that his

mother not only denied herself necessaries, but borrowed money to support

him, he was consoled by the idea that the time would come when, by the

efforts of his genius, he would be able to repay every thing, with the

accumulated interest which affection alone would calculate. But his

expenses necessarily increased, and no receipts came to meet them. He was

compelled to apply to his mother for further assistance. The answer was

one word—“impossible.” Then he endeavored calmly to examine his position,

came to the conclusion that for several years more he must be a burden to

his mother if he obstinately pursued his career, and that she must be

utterly ruined to insure his success. So he gave up his art, sold every

thing he had to pay part of his debts, and set out on foot to return to

his village and become a peasant, as his father had been before him. The

little money he had taken with him was gone by the time he reached Lyon.

He had passed through that city without stopping, and for more than two

days, almost for two nights, had incessantly pursued his journey, without

rest and without food, until he had reached the spot where, exhausted with

fatigue and hunger, he had fallen, perhaps to perish had we not been there

to assist him.

Nathalie listened with eager attention to this narrative, told with a

frankness which our sympathy excited. Now and then she gave a convulsive

start, or checked a hysterical sob, and at last fairly burst into tears. I

was interested as well as she, but retained more calmness to observe how

moral beauty almost vainly struggled to appear through the insignificant

features of this admirable woman. Her little eyes, reddened with weeping;

her pinched-up nose, blooming at the point; her thin lips, probably

accustomed to sarcasm; her cheeks, with a leaden citron hue; her hair that

forked up in unmanageable curls—all combined to obscure the exquisite

expression of respect and sympathy, perhaps already of love, sparkling

from her kindled soul, that could just be made out by an attentive eye. At

length, however, she became for a moment perfectly beautiful, as, when the

young painter had finished his story, with an expression that showed how

bitterly he regretted his abandoned art, she took both his hands in hers,

and exclaimed, “No, _mon enfant_, you shall not be thus disappointed. Your

genius”—she already took for granted he had genius—“shall have an

opportunity for development. Your mother can not do what is necessary—she

has played her part. I will be a—second mother to you, in return for the

little affection you can bestow on me without ingratitude to her to whom

you owe your life.”

“My life has to be paid for twice,” said he, kissing her hand. Nathalie

could not help looking round proudly to me. It was so flattering to

receive the gallant attentions of so handsome a young man, that I think

she tried to forget how she had bought them.

In the exuberance of her hospitality, the little old maid invited both

Claude Richer and myself to spend some time in the large farm-house of her

brother-in-law. I declined, with a promise to be a frequent visitor; but

Claude, who was rather commanded than asked, could do nothing but accept.

I left them at the diligence office, and saw them walk away, the little

Nathalie affecting to support her feeble companion. For the honor of human

nature let me add, that the conductor said nothing about the fare. “It

would have been indelicate,” he said to me, “to remind Mlle. Nathalie of

her promise in the young man’s presence. I know her well; and she will pay

me at a future time. At any rate, I must show that there is a heart under

this waistcoat.” So saying, the conductor thumped his breast with simple

admiration of his own humanity, and went away, after recommending me to

the Café de Paris—indeed an excellent house.

I shall say nothing of a variety of little incidents that occurred to me

at Avignon, nor about my studies on the history of the popes who resided

there. I must reserve myself entirely for the development of Nathalie’s

romance, which I could not follow step by step, but the chief features of

which I was enabled to catch during a series of visits I paid to the

farm-house. Nathalie herself was very communicative to me at first, and

scarcely deigned to conceal her sentiments. By degrees, however, as the

catastrophe approached, she became more and more reserved; and I had to

learn from others, or to guess the part she played.

The farm-house was situated on the other side of the river, in a small

plain, fertile and well wooded. Old Cossu, the owner, was a fine jolly

fellow, but evidently a little sharp in money-matters. I was surprised at

first that he received the visit of Claude favorably; but when it came out

that a good part of his capital belonged to Nathalie, every circumstance

of deference to her was explained. Mère Cossu was not a very remarkable

personage; unless it be remarkable that she entertained the most profound

veneration for her husband, quoted his commonest sayings as witticisms,

and was ready to laugh herself into convulsions if he sneezed louder than

usual. Marie was a charming little person; perhaps a little too demure in

her manners, considering her wicked black eyes. She was soon very friendly

with Claude and me, but seemed to prefer passing her time in whispered

conversations with Nathalie. I was let into the secret that their

conversation turned principally on the means of getting rid of the

husband-elect—a great lubberly fellow, who lived some leagues off, and

whose red face shone over the garden-gate, in company with a huge nosegay,

regularly every Sunday morning. In spite of the complying temper of old

Cossu in other respects when Nathalie gave her advice, he seemed

obstinately bent on choosing his own son-in-law. Parents are oftener

correct than romancers will allow in their negative opinions on this

delicate subject, but I can not say as much for them when they undertake

to be affirmative.

I soon observed that Nathalie was not so entirely devoted to the

accomplishment of the object for which she had undertaken the journey as

she had promised; and, above all, that she spoke no more of the

disinterested sacrifice of herself as a substitute for Marie. I

maliciously alluded to this subject in one of our private confabulations,

and Nathalie, instead of being offended, frankly answered that she could

not make big Paul Boneau happy and assist Claude in his studies at the

same time. “I have now,” she said, “an occupation for the rest of my

life—namely, to develop this genius, of which France will one day be

proud; and I shall devote myself to it unremittingly.”

“Come, Nathalie,” replied I, taking her arm in mine as we crossed the

poplar-meadow, “have you no hope of a reward?”

“I understand,” quoth she, frankly; “and I will not play at cross-purposes

with you. If this young man really loves his art, and his art alone, as he

pretends, could he do better than reward me—as you call it—for my

assistance? The word has a cruel signification, but you did not mean it

unkindly.”

I looked at her wan, sallow countenance, that had begun for some days to

wear an expression of painful anxiety. At that moment I saw over a

hedge—but she could not—Claude and Marie walking in a neighboring field,

and pausing now and then to bend their heads very close together in

admiration of some very common flower. “Poor old maid,” thought I, “you

will have no reward save the consciousness of your own pure intentions.”

The minute development of this drama without dramatic scenes would,

perhaps, be more instructive than any elaborate analysis of human passions

in general; but it would require a volume, and I can only here give a mere

summary. Nathalie, in whom alone I felt particularly interested, soon

found that she had deceived herself as to the nature of her sentiments for

Claude—that instead of regarding him with almost maternal solicitude, she

loved him with an intensity that is the peculiar characteristic of

passions awakened late in life, when the common consolation is

inadmissible—“after all, I may find better.” This was her last, her only

chance of a happiness which she had declared to me she had never dreamed

of, but which in reality she had only declined because it did not present

itself to her under all the conditions required by her refined and

sensitive mind. Claude, who was an excellent fellow, but incapable of

comprehending her or sacrificing himself, never swerved from grateful

deference to her; but I could observe, that as the state of her feelings

became more apparent, he took greater care to mark the character of his

sentiments for her, and to insist with some affectation on the depth of

his filial affection. Nathalie’s eyes were often red with tears—a fact

which Claude did not choose, perhaps, to notice, for fear of an

explanation. Marie, on the contrary, became more blooming every day, while

her eloquent eyes were still more assiduously bent upon the ground. It was

evident to me that she and Claude understood one another perfectly well.

At length the same thing became evident to Nathalie. How the revelation

was made to her I do not know; but sudden it must have been, for I met her

one day in the poplar-field, walking hurriedly along with an extraordinary

expression of despair in her countenance. I know not why, but the thought

at once occurred to me that the Rhône ran rapid and deep not far off, and

I threw myself across her path. She started like a guilty thing, but did

not resist when I took her hand and led her back slowly toward the

farm-house. We had nearly reached it in silence, when she suddenly

stopped, and bursting into tears, turned away into a by-lane where was a

little bench under an elm. Here she sat down and sobbed for a long time,

while I stood by. At length she raised her head and asked me, “Do morality

and religion require self-sacrifice even to the end—even to making half a

life a desert, even to heart-breaking, even unto death?”

“It scarcely belongs to a selfish mortal to counsel such virtue,” I

replied; “but it is because it is exercised here and there, now and then,

once in a hundred years, that man can claim some affinity with the divine

nature.”

A smile of ineffable sweetness played about the poor old girl’s lips. She

wiped her eyes, and began talking of the changing aspect of the season,

and how the trees day by day more rapidly shed their leaves, and how the

Rhône had swelled within its ample bed, and of various topics apparently

unconnected with her frame of mind, but all indicating that she felt the

winter was coming—a long and dreary winter for her. At this moment

Fanfreluche, who had missed her, came down the lane barking with fierce

joy; and she took the poor little beast in her arms, and exhaled the last

bitter feeling that tormented her in these words: “Thou at least lovest

me—because I have fed thee!” In her humility she seemed now to believe

that her only claim to love was her charity; and that even this claim was

not recognized except by a dog!

I was not admitted to the secret of the family conclave that took place,

but learned simply that Nathalie pleaded with feverish energy the love

that had grown up between Marie and Claude as an insuperable bar to the

proposed marriage between Paul Boneau and her niece. Matters were arranged

by means of large sacrifices on the part of the heroic maid. Paul’s face

ceased to beam over the garden-gate on a Sunday morning; and by degrees

the news got abroad that Marie was betrothed to the young artist. One day

a decent old woman in _sabots_ came to the farm-house; it was Claude’s

mother, who had walked from Aix to see him. It was arranged that Claude

should pursue his studies a year longer, and then marry. Whether any

explanation took place I do not know; but I observed that the young man

sometimes looked with the same expression of wondering admiration I had

observed in the diligence on the little Nathalie—-more citron-hued than

ever. At length she unhooked the cage of Coco, the parrot, took

Fanfreluche under one arm and her blue umbrella under the other, and went

away in company with the whole family, myself included, every one carrying

a parcel or a basket to the diligence office. What a party that was! Every

one was in tears except Nathalie. She bore up manfully if I may use the

word; laughed, and actually joked; but just as I handed Coco in, her

factitious courage yielded, and she burst into an agony of grief. With

officious zeal I kept at the window until the diligence gave a lurch and

started; and then turning round I looked at Claude and Marie, who were

already mingling their eyes in selfish forgetfulness of their

benefactress, and said, solemnly: “There goes the best woman ever created

for this unworthy earth.” The artist, who, for an ordinary man, did not

lack sentiment, took my hand and said: “Sir, I will quarrel with any man

who says less of that angel than you have done.”

The marriage was brought about in less time than had been agreed upon.

Nathalie of course did not come; but she sent some presents and a pleasant

letter of congratulation, in which she called herself “an inveterate old

maid.” About a year afterward I passed through Lyon and saw her. She was

still very yellow and more than ever attentive to Fanfreluche and Coco. I

even thought she devoted herself too much to the service of these two

troublesome pets, to say nothing of a huge cat which she had added to her

menagerie, as a kind of hieroglyphic of her condition. “How fare the

married couple?” cried she, tossing up her cork-screw curls. “Still cooing

and billing?”

“Mademoiselle,” said I, “they are getting on pretty well. Claude, finding

the historic pencil not lucrative, has taken to portrait-painting; and

being no longer an enthusiastic artist, talks even of adopting the more

expeditious method of the Daguerreotype. In the mean time, half the

tradesmen of Avignon, to say nothing of Aix, have bespoken caricatures of

themselves by his hand. Marie makes a tolerable wife, but has a terrible

will of her own, and is feared as well as loved.”

Nathalie tried to laugh; but the memory of her old illusions coming over

her, she leaned down toward the cat she was nursing, and sparkling tears

fell upon its glossy fur.

THE POISON-EATERS.

A very interesting trial for murder took place lately in Austria. The

prisoner, Anna Alexander, was acquitted by the jury, who, in the various

questions put to the witnesses, in order to discover whether the murdered

man, Lieutenant Matthew Wursel, was a poison-eater or not, educed some

very curious evidence relating to this class of persons.

As it is not generally known that eating poison is actually practiced in

more countries than one, the following account of the custom, given by a

physician, Dr. T. von Tschudi, will not be without interest.

In some districts of Lower Austria and in Styria, especially in those

mountainous parts bordering on Hungary, there prevails the strange habit

of eating arsenic. The peasantry in particular are given to it. They

obtain it under the name of _hedri_ from the traveling hucksters and

gatherers of herbs, who, on their side, get it from the glass-blowers, or

purchase it from the cow-doctors, quacks, or mountebanks.

The poison-eaters have a twofold aim in their dangerous enjoyment: one of

which is to obtain a fresh, healthy appearance, and acquire a certain

degree of _embonpoint_. On this account, therefore, gay village lads and

lasses employ the dangerous agent, that they may become more attractive to

each other; and it is really astonishing with what favorable results their

endeavors are attended, for it is just the youthful poison-eaters that

are, generally speaking, distinguished by a blooming complexion, and an

appearance of exuberant health. Out of many examples I select the

following:

A farm-servant who worked in the cow-house belonging to —— was thin and

pale, but nevertheless well and healthy. This girl had a lover whom she

wished to enchain still more firmly; and in order to obtain a more

pleasing exterior she had recourse to the well-known means, and swallowed

every week several doses of arsenic. The desired result was obtained; and

in a few months she was much fuller in the figure, rosy-cheeked, and, in

short, quite according to her lover’s taste. In order to increase the

effect, she was so rash as to increase the dose of arsenic, and fell a

victim to her vanity: she was poisoned, and died an agonizing death.

The number of deaths in consequence of the immoderate enjoyment of arsenic

is not inconsiderable, especially among the young. Every priest who has

the cure of souls in those districts where the abuse prevails could tell

such tragedies; and the inquiries I have myself made on the subject have

opened out very singular details. Whether it arise from fear of the law,

which forbids the unauthorized possession of arsenic, or whether it be

that an inner voice proclaims to him his sin, the arsenic-eater always

conceals as much as possible the employment of these dangerous means.

Generally speaking, it is only the confessional or the death-bed that

raises the vail from the terrible secret.

The second object the poison-eaters have in view is to make them, as they

express it, “better winded!”—that is, to make their respiration easier

when ascending the mountains. Whenever they have far to go and to mount a

considerable height, they take a minute morsel of arsenic and allow it

gradually to dissolve. The effect is surprising; and they ascend with ease

heights which otherwise they could climb only with distress to the chest.

The dose of arsenic with which the poison-eaters begin, consists,

according to the confession of some of them, of a piece the size of a

lentil, which in weight would be rather less than half a grain. To this

quantity, which they take fasting several mornings in the week, they

confine themselves for a considerable time; and then gradually, and very

carefully, they increase the dose according to the effect produced. The

peasant R——, living in the parish of A——g, a strong, hale man of upward of

sixty, takes at present at every dose a piece of about the weight of four

grains. For more than forty years he has practiced this habit, which he

inherited from his father, and which he in his turn will bequeath to his

children.

It is well to observe, that neither in these nor in other poison-eaters is

there the least trace of an arsenic cachexy discernible; that the symptoms

of a chronic arsenical poisoning never show themselves in individuals who

adapt the dose to their constitution, even although that dose should be

considerable. It is not less worthy of remark, however, that when, either

from inability to obtain the acid, or from any other cause, the perilous

indulgence is stopped, symptoms of illness are sure to appear, which have

the closest resemblance to those produced by poisoning from arsenic. These

symptoms consist principally in a feeling of general discomfort, attended

by a perfect indifference to all surrounding persons and things, great

personal anxiety, and various distressing sensations arising from the

digestive organs, want of appetite, a constant feeling of the stomach

being overloaded at early morning, an unusual degree of salivation, a

burning from the pylorus to the throat, a cramp-like movement in the

pharynx, pains in the stomach, and especially difficulty of breathing. For

all these symptoms there is but one remedy—a return to the enjoyment of

arsenic.

According to inquiries made on the subject, it would seem that the habit

of eating poison among the inhabitants of Lower Austria has not grown into

a passion, as is the case with the opium-eaters in the East, the chewers

of the betel nut in India and Polynesia, and of the coco-leaves among the

natives of Peru. When once commenced, however, it becomes a necessity.

In some districts sublimate of quicksilver is used in the same way. One

case in particular is mentioned by Dr. von Tschudi, a case authenticated

by the English embassador at Constantinople, of a great opium-eater at

Brussa, who daily consumed the enormous quantity of forty grains of

corrosive sublimate with his opium. In the mountainous parts of Peru the

doctor met very frequently with eaters of corrosive sublimate; and in

Bolivia the practice is still more frequent, where this poison is openly

sold in the market to the Indians.

In Vienna the use of arsenic is of every-day occurrence among

horse-dealers, and especially with the coachmen of the nobility. They

either shake it in a pulverized state among the corn, or they tie a bit

the size of a pea in a piece of linen, which they fasten to the curb when

the horse is harnessed, and the saliva of the animal soon dissolves it.

The sleek, round, shining appearance of the carriage-horses, and

especially the much-admired foaming at the mouth, is the result of this

arsenic-feeding.(4) It is a common practice with the farm-servants in the

mountainous parts to strew a pinch of arsenic on the last feed of hay

before going up a steep road. This is done for years without the least

unfavorable result; but should the horse fall into the hands of another

owner who withholds the arsenic, he loses flesh immediately, is no longer

lively, and even with the best feeding there is no possibility of

restoring him to his former sleek appearance.

The above particulars, communicated by a contributor residing in Germany,

are curious only inasmuch as they refer to poisons of a peculiarly quick

and deadly nature. Our ordinary “indulgences” in this country are the same

in kind, though not in degree, for we are all poison-eaters. To say

nothing of our opium and alcohol consumers, our teetotallers are delighted

with the briskness and sparkle of spring-water, although these qualities

indicate the presence of carbonic acid or fixed air. In like manner, few

persons will object to a drop or two of the frightful corrosive, sulphuric

acid (vitriol), in a glass of water, to which it communicates an agreeably

acid taste; and most of us have, at some period or other of our lives,

imbibed prussic acid, arsenic, and other deadly poisons under the orders

of the physician, or the first of these in the more pleasing form of

confectionary. Arsenic is said by Dr. Pearson to be as harmless as a glass

of wine in the quantity of one-sixteenth part of a grain; and in the cure

of agues it is so certain in its effects, that the French Directory once

issued an edict ordering the surgeons of the Italian army, under pain of

military punishment, to banish that complaint, at two or three days’

notice, from among the vast numbers of soldiers who were languishing under

it in the marshes of Lombardy. It would seem that no poison taken in small

and diluted doses is immediately hurtful, and the same thing may be said

of other agents. The tap of a fan, for instance, is a _blow_, and so is

the stroke of a club; but the one gives an agreeable sensation, and the

other fells the recipient to the ground. In like manner the analogy holds

good between the distribution of a blow over a comparatively large portion

of the surface of the body and the dilution or distribution of the

particles of a poison. A smart thrust upon the breast, for instance, with

a foil does no injury; but if the button is removed, and the same momentum

thus thrown to a point, the instrument enters the structures, and perhaps

causes death.

But the misfortune is, that poisons swallowed for the sake of the

agreeable sensations they occasion owe this effect to their action upon

the nervous system; and the action must be kept up by a constantly

increasing dose till the constitution is irremediably injured. In the case

of arsenic, as we have seen, so long as the excitement is undiminished all

is apparently well; but the point is at length reached when to proceed or

to turn back is alike death. The moment the dose is diminished or entirely

withdrawn, symptoms of poison appear, and the victim perishes because he

has shrunk from killing himself. It is just so when the stimulant is

alcohol. The morning experience of the drinker prophesies, on every

succeeding occasion, of the fate that awaits him. It may be pleasant to

get intoxicated, but to get sober is horror. The time comes, however, when

the pleasure is at an end, and the horror alone remains. When the habitual

stimulus reaches its highest, and the undermined constitution can stand no

more, then comes the reaction. If the excitement could go on _ad

infinitum_, the prognosis would be different; but the poison-symptoms

appear as soon as the dose can no longer be increased without producing

instant death, and the drunkard dies of the want of drink! Many persons,

it can not be denied, reach a tolerable age under this stimulus; but they

do so only by taking warning in time—perhaps from some frightful

illness—and carefully proportioning the dose to the sinking constitution.

“I can not drink now as formerly,” is a common remark—sometimes elevated

into the boast, “I _do_ not drink now as formerly.” But the relaxation of

the habit is compulsory; and by a thousand other tokens, as well as the

inability to indulge in intoxication, the _ci-devant_ drinker is reminded

of a madness which even in youth produced more misery than enjoyment, and

now adds a host of discomforts to the ordinary fragility of age. As for

arsenic-eating, we trust it will never be added to the madnesses of our

own country. Think of a man deliberately condemning himself to devour this

horrible poison, on an increasing scale, during his whole life, with the

certainty that if at any time, through accident, necessity, or other

cause, he holds his hand, he must die the most agonizing of all deaths! In

so much horror do we hold the idea, that we would have refrained from

mentioning the subject at all if we had not observed a paragraph making

the round of the papers, and describing the agreeable phases of the

practice without mentioning its shocking results.

A CHILD’S HISTORY OF KING JOHN’S REIGN. BY CHARLES DICKENS.

At two-and-thirty years of age, John became King of England. His pretty

little nephew Arthur had the best claim to the throne; but John seized the

treasure, and made fine promises to the nobility, and got himself crowned

at Westminster within a few weeks after his brother Richard’s death. I

doubt whether the crown could possibly have been put upon the head of a

meaner coward, or a more detestable villain, if the country had been

searched from end to end to find him out.

The French King, Philip, refused to acknowledge the right of John to his

new dignity, and declared in favor of Arthur. You must not suppose that he

had any generosity of feeling for the fatherless boy; it merely suited his

ambitious schemes to oppose the King of England. So, John and the French

King went to war about Arthur.

He was a handsome boy, at that time only twelve years, old. He was not

born when his father, Geoffrey, had his brains trampled out at the

tournament; and, beside the misfortune of never having known a father’s

guidance and protection, he had the additional misfortune to have a

foolish mother (Constance by name), lately married to her third husband.

She took Arthur, upon John’s accession, to the French King, who pretended

to be very much his friend, and made him a knight, and promised him his

daughter in marriage; but, who cared so little about him in reality, that

finding it his interest to make peace with King John for a time, he did so

without the least consideration for the poor little Prince, and

heartlessly sacrificed all his interests.

Young Arthur, for two years afterward, lived quietly; and in the course of

that time his mother died. But, the French King then finding it his

interest to quarrel with King John again, again made Arthur his pretense,

and invited the orphan boy to court. “You know your rights, Prince,” said

the French King, “and you would like to be a king. Is it not so?” “Truly,”

said Prince Arthur, “I should greatly like to be a King!” “Then,” said

Philip, “you shall have two hundred gentlemen who are knights of mine, and

with them you shall go to win back the provinces belonging to you, of

which your uncle, the usurping King of England, has taken possession. I

myself, meanwhile, will head a force against him in Normandy.” Poor Arthur

was so flattered and so grateful, that he signed a treaty with the crafty

French King, agreeing to consider him his superior Lord, and that the

French King should keep for himself whatever he could take from King John.

Now, King John was so bad in all ways, and King Philip was so perfidious,

that Arthur, between the two, might as well have been a lamb between a fox

and a wolf. But, being so young, he was ardent and flushed with hope; and,

when the people of Brittany (which was his inheritance) sent him five

hundred more knights and five thousand foot soldiers, he believed his

fortune was made. The people of Brittany had been fond of him from his

birth, and had requested that he might be called Arthur, in remembrance of

that dimly-famous English Arthur, of whom I told you early in this book,

whom they believed to have been the brave friend and companion of an old

king of their own. They had tales among them about a prophet called Merlin

(of the same old time), who had foretold that their own king should be

restored to them after hundreds of years; and they believed that the

prophecy would be fulfilled in Arthur; that the time would come when he

would rule them with a crown of Brittany upon his head; and when neither

King of France nor King of England would have any power over them. When

Arthur found himself riding in a glittering suit of armor on a richly

caparisoned horse, at the head of his train of knights and soldiers, he

began to believe this too, and to consider old Merlin a very superior

prophet.

He did not know—how could he, being so innocent and inexperienced?—that

his little army was a mere nothing against the power of the King of

England. The French King knew it; but the poor boy’s fate was little to

him, so that the King of England was worried and distressed. Therefore,

King Philip went his way into Normandy, and Prince Arthur went his way

toward Mirebeau, a French town near Poictiers, both very well pleased.

Prince Arthur went to attack the town of Mirebeau, because his grandmother

Eleanor, who has so often made her appearance in this history (and who had

always been his mother’s enemy), was living there, and because his knights

said, “Prince, if you can take her prisoner, you will be able to bring the

king your uncle to terms!” But she was not to be easily taken. She was old

enough by this time—eighty—but she was as full of stratagem as she was

full of years and wickedness. Receiving intelligence of young Arthur’s

approach, she shut herself up in a high tower, and encouraged her soldiers

to defend it like men. Prince Arthur with his little army besieged the

high tower. King John, hearing how matters stood, came up to the rescue

with _his_ army. So here was a strange family-party! The boy-Prince

besieging his grandmother, and his uncle besieging him!

This position of affairs did not last long. One summer night King John, by

treachery, got his men into the town, surprised Prince Arthur’s force,

took two hundred of his knights, and seized the Prince himself in his bed.

The knights were put in heavy irons, and driven away in open carts drawn

by bullocks, to various dungeons, where they were most inhumanly treated,

and where some of them were starved to death. Prince Arthur was sent to

the castle of Falaise.

One day, while he was in prison at that castle, mournfully thinking it

strange that one so young should be in so much trouble, and looking out of

the small window in the deep dark wall, at the summer sky and the birds,

the door was softly opened, and he saw his uncle the King standing in the

shadow of the archway, looking very grim.

“Arthur,” said the King, with his wicked eyes more on the stone floor than

on his nephew, “will you not trust to the gentleness, the friendship, and

the truthfulness, of your loving uncle?”

“I will tell my loving uncle that,” replied the boy, “when he does me

right. Let him restore to me my kingdom of England, and then come to me

and ask the question.”

The King looked at him and went out. “Keep that boy close prisoner,” said

he to the warden of the castle.

Then the King took secret counsel with the worst of his nobles how the

Prince was to be got rid of. Some said, “Put out his eyes, and keep him in

prison, as Robert of Normandy was kept.” Others said, “Have him stabbed.”

Others, “Have him hanged.” Others, “Have him poisoned.”

King John, feeling that, in any case, whatever was done afterward, it

would be a satisfaction to his mind to have those handsome eyes burnt out

that had looked at him so proudly while his own royal eyes were blinking

at the stone floor, sent certain ruffians to Falaise to blind the boy with

red-hot irons. But Arthur so pathetically entreated them, and shed such

piteous tears, and so appealed to Hubert de Bourg, the warden of the

castle, who had a love for him, and was an honorable, tender man, that

Hubert could not bear it. To his eternal honor he prevented the torture

from being performed, and, at his own risk, sent the savages away.

The chafed and disappointed King bethought himself of the stabbing

suggestion next, and with his shuffling manner and his cruel face,

proposed it to one William de Bray. “I am a gentleman, and not an

executioner,” said William de Bray, and left the presence with disdain.

But it was not difficult for a king to hire a murderer in those days. King

John found one for his money, and sent him down to the castle of Falaise.

“On what errand dost thou come?” said Hubert to this fellow. “To dispatch

young Arthur,” he returned. “Go back to him who sent thee,” answered

Hubert, “and say that I will do it!”

King John very well knowing that Hubert would never do it, but that he

courageously sent this reply to save the Prince, or gain time, dispatched

messengers to convey the young prisoner to the castle of Rouen.

Arthur was soon forced from the good Hubert—of whom he had never stood in

greater need than then—carried away by night, and lodged in his new

prison: where, through the grated window, he could hear the deep waters of

the river Seine, rippling against the stone wall below.

One dark night, as he lay sleeping, dreaming perhaps of rescue by those

unfortunate gentlemen who were obscurely suffering and dying in his cause,

he was roused, and bidden by his jailer to come down the staircase to the

foot of the tower. He hurriedly dressed himself and obeyed. When they came

to the bottom of the winding stairs, and the night air from the river blew

upon their faces, the jailer trod upon his torch and put it out. Then,

Arthur, in the darkness, was hurriedly drawn into a solitary boat. And in

that boat he found his uncle and one other man.

He knelt to them, and prayed them not to murder him. Deaf to his

entreaties, they stabbed him and sunk his body in the river with heavy

stones. When the spring morning broke, the tower-door was closed, the boat

was gone, the river sparkled on its way, and never more was any trace of

the poor boy beheld by mortal eyes.

The news of this atrocious murder being spread in England, awakened a

hatred of the King (already odious for his many vices, and for his having

stolen away and married a noble lady while his own wife was living) that

never slept again through his whole reign. In Brittany, the indignation

was intense. Arthur’s own sister Eleanor was in the power of John and shut

up in a convent at Bristol, but his half-sister Alice was in Brittany. The

people chose her, and the murdered prince’s father-in-law, the last

husband of Constance, to represent them; and carried their fiery

complaints to King Philip. King Philip summoned King John (as the holder

of territory in France) to come before him and defend himself. King John

refusing to appear, King Philip declared him false, perjured, and guilty;

and again made war. In a little time, by conquering the greater part of

his French territory, King Philip deprived him of one-third of his

dominions. And, through all the fighting that took place, King John was

always found, either to be eating and drinking, like a gluttonous fool,

when the danger was at a distance, or to be running away, like a beaten

cur, when it was near.

You might suppose that when he was losing his dominions at this rate, and

when his own nobles cared so little for him or his cause that they plainly

refused to follow his banner out of England, he had enemies enough. But he

made another enemy of the Pope, which he did in this way.

The Archbishop of Canterbury dying, and the junior monks of that place

wishing to get the start of the senior monks in the appointment of his

successor, met together at midnight, secretly elected a certain Reginald,

and sent him off to Rome to get the Pope’s approval. The senior monks and

the King soon finding this out, and being very angry about it, the junior

monks gave way, and all the monks together elected the Bishop of Norwich,

who was the King’s favorite. The Pope, hearing the whole story, declared

that neither election would do for him, and that _he_ elected Stephen

Langton. The monks submitting to the Pope, the King turned them all out

bodily, and banished them as traitors.—The Pope sent three bishops to the

King, to threaten him with an Interdict. The King told the bishops that if

any Interdict were laid upon his kingdom, he would tear out the eyes and

cut off the noses of all the monks he could lay hold of, and send them

over to Rome in that undecorated state as a present for their master. The

bishops, nevertheless, soon published the Interdict, and fled.

After it had lasted a year, the Pope proceeded to his next step; which was

excommunication. King John was declared excommunicated, with all the usual

ceremonies. The King was so incensed at this, and was made so desperate by

the disaffection of his barons and the hatred of his people, that it is

said that he even privately sent embassadors to the Turks in Spain,

offering to renounce his religion and hold his kingdom of them if they

would help him. It is related that the embassadors were admitted to the

presence of the Turkish Emir, through long lines of Moorish guards, and

that they found the Emir with his eyes seriously fixed on the pages of a

large book from which he never once looked up. That they gave him a letter

from the King containing his proposals, and were gravely dismissed. That

presently the Emir sent for one of them, and conjured him, by his faith in

his religion, to say what kind of man the King of England truly was? That

the embassador, thus pressed, replied that the King of England was a false

tyrant, against whom his own subjects would soon rise. And that this was

quite enough for the Emir.

Money being, in his position, the next best thing to men, King John spared

no means of getting it. He set on foot another oppressing and torturing of

the unhappy Jews (which was quite in his way), and invented a now

punishment for one wealthy Jew of Bristol. Until such time as that Jew

should produce a certain large sum of money, the King sentenced him to be

imprisoned, and, every day, to have one tooth violently wrenched out of

his head—beginning with the double teeth. For seven days the oppressed man

bore the daily pain and lost the daily tooth; but, on the eighth, he paid

the money. With the treasure raised in such ways, the King made an

expedition into Ireland, where some English nobles had revolted. It was

one of the very few places from which he did not run away; because no

resistance was shown. He made another expedition into Wales—whence he

_did_ run away in the end: but not before he had got from the Welsh

people, as hostages, twenty-seven young men of the best families; every

one of whom he caused to be slain in the following year.

To Interdict and Excommunication, the Pope now added his last

sentence—Deposition. He proclaimed John no longer King, absolved all his

subjects from their allegiance, and sent Stephen Langton and others to the

King of France to tell him that, if he would invade England, he should be

forgiven all his sins—at least, should be forgiven them by the Pope, if

that would do.

As there was nothing that King Philip desired more than to invade England,

he collected a great army at Rouen, and a fleet of seventeen hundred ships

to bring them over. But the English people, however bitterly they hated

the King, were not a people to suffer invasion quietly.—They flocked to

Dover, where the English standard was, in such great numbers to enroll

themselves as defenders of their native land, that there were not

provisions for them, and the King could only select and retain sixty

thousand. But, at this crisis, the Pope, who had his own reasons for

objecting to either King John or King Philip being too powerful,

interfered. He intrusted a legate, whose name was Pandolf, with the easy

task of frightening King John. He sent him to the English camp, from

France, to terrify him with exaggerations of King Philip’s power, and his

own weakness in the discontent of the English barons and people. Pandolf

discharged his commission so well, that King John, in a wretched panic,

consented to acknowledge Stephen Langton; to resign his kingdom “to God,

Saint Peter, and Saint Paul”—which meant the Pope; and to hold it, ever

afterward, by the Pope’s leave, on payment of an annual sum of money. To

this shameful contract he publicly bound himself in the church of the

Knights Templars at Dover: where he laid at the legate’s feet a part of

the tribute, which the legate haughtily trampled upon. But they _do_ say,

that this was merely a genteel flourish, and that he was afterward seen to

pick it up and pocket it.

There was an unfortunate prophet, of the name of Peter, who had greatly

increased King John’s terrors by predicting that he would be unknighted

(which the King supposed to signify that he would die) before the Feast of

Ascension should be past. That was the day after this humiliation. When

the next morning came, and the King, who had been trembling all night,

found himself alive and safe, he ordered the prophet—and his son too—to be

dragged through the streets at the tails of horses, and then hanged, for

having frightened him.

As King John had now submitted, the Pope, to King Philip’s great

astonishment, took him under his protection, and informed King Philip that

he found he could not give him leave to invade England. The angry Philip

resolved to do it without his leave; but, he gained nothing and lost much;

for, the English, commanded by the Earl of Salisbury, went over, in five

hundred ships, to the French coast, before the French fleet had sailed

away from it, and utterly defeated the whole.

The Pope then took off his three sentences, one after another, and

empowered Stephen Langton publicly to receive King John into the favor of

the church again, and to ask him to dinner. The King, who hated Langton

with all his might and main—and with reason too, for he was a great and a

good man, with whom such a King could have no sympathy—pretended to cry

and to be very grateful. There was a little difficulty about settling how

much the King should pay, as a recompense to the clergy for the losses he

had caused them; but, the end of it was, that the superior clergy got a

good deal, and the inferior clergy got little or nothing—which has also

happened since King John’s time, I believe.

When all these matters were arranged, the King in his triumph became more

fierce, and false, and insolent to all around him than he had ever been.

An alliance of sovereigns against King Philip, gave him an opportunity of

landing an army in France; with which he even took a town! But, on the

French King’s gaining a great victory, he ran away, of course, and made a

truce for five years.

And now the time approached when he was to be still further humbled, and

made to feel, if he could feel any thing, what a wretched creature he was.

Of all men in the world, Stephen Langton seemed raised up by Heaven to

oppose and subdue him. When he ruthlessly burnt and destroyed the property

of his own subjects, because their lords, the Barons, would not serve him

abroad, Stephen Langton fearlessly reproved and threatened him. When he

swore to restore the laws of King Edward, or the laws of King Henry the

First, Stephen Langton knew his falsehood, and pursued him through all his

evasions. When the Barons met at the abbey of Saint Edmund’s-Bury, to

consider their wrongs and the King’s oppressions, Stephen Langton roused

them by his fervid words to demand a solemn charter of rights and

liberties from their perjured master, and to swear, one by one, on the

high altar, that they would have it, or would wage war against him to the

death. When the King hid himself in London from the Barons, and was at

last obliged to receive them, they told him roundly they would not believe

him unless Stephen Langton became a surety that he would keep his word.

When he took the Cross, to invest himself with some interest, and belong

to something that was received with favor, Stephen Langton was still

immovable. When he appealed to the Pope, and the Pope wrote to Stephen

Langton in behalf of his new favorite, Stephen Langton was deaf, even to

the Pope himself, and saw before him nothing but the welfare of England

and the crimes of the English King.

At Easter time, the Barons assembled at Stamford in Lincolnshire, in proud

array, and, marching near to Oxford where the King was, delivered into the

hands of Stephen Langton and two others, a list of grievances. “And

these,” they said, “he must redress, or we will do it for ourselves?” When

Stephen Langton told the King as much, and read the list to him, he went

half mad with rage. But that did him no more good than his afterward

trying to pacify the Barons with lies. They called themselves and their

followers, “The army of God and the Holy Church.” Marching through the

country, with the people thronging to them every where (except at

Northampton, where they failed in an attack upon the castle), they at last

triumphantly set up their banner in London itself, whither the whole land,

tired of the tyrant, seemed to flock to join them. Seven knights alone, of

all the knights in England, remained with the King; who, reduced to this

strait, at last sent the Earl of Pembroke to the Barons to say that he

approved of every thing, and would meet them to sign their charter when

they would. “Then,” said the Barons, “let the day be the 15th of June, and

the place, Runny-Mead.”

On Monday, the fifteenth of June, one thousand two hundred and fourteen,

the King came from Windsor Castle, and the Barons came from the town of

Staines, and they met on Runny-Mead, which is still a pleasant meadow by

the Thames, where rushes grow in the clear waters of the winding river,

and its banks are green with grass and trees. On the side of the Barons,

came the General of their army, ROBERT FITZ-WALTER, and a great concourse

of the nobility of England. With the King, came, in all, some

four-and-twenty persons of any note, most of whom despised him and were

merely his advisers in form. On that great day, and in that great company,

the King signed MAGNA CHARTA—the great charter of England—by which he

pledged himself to maintain the church in its rights; to relieve the

Barons of oppressive obligations as vassals of the Crown—of which the

Barons, in their turn, pledged themselves to relieve _their_ vassals, the

people; to respect the liberties of London and all other cities and

boroughs; to protect foreign merchants who came to England; to imprison no

man without a fair trial; and to sell, delay, or deny justice to none. As

the Barons knew his falsehood well, they further required, as their

securities, that he should send out of his kingdom all his foreign troops;

that for two months they should hold possession of the city of London, and

Stephen Langton of the Tower; and that five-and-twenty of their body,

chosen by themselves, should be a lawful committee to watch the keeping of

the charter, and to make war upon him if he broke it.

All this he was obliged to yield. He signed the charter with a smile, and,

if he could have looked agreeable, would have done so, as he departed from

the splendid assembly. When he got home to Windsor Castle, he was quite a

madman in his helpless fury. And he broke the charter immediately

afterward.

He sent abroad for foreign soldiers, and sent to the Pope for help, and

plotted to take London by surprise, while the Barons should be holding a

great tournament at Stamford, which they had agreed to hold there as a

celebration of the charter. The Barons, however, found him out and put it

off. Then, when the Barons desired to see him and tax him with his

treachery, he made numbers of appointments with them, and kept none, and

shifted from place to place, and was constantly sneaking and skulking

about. At last he appeared at Dover, to join his foreign soldiers of whom

numbers came into his pay; and with them he besieged and took Rochester

Castle, which was occupied by knights and soldiers of the Barons. He would

have hanged them every one; but the leader of the foreign soldiers,

fearful of what the English people might afterward do to him, interfered

to save the knights; therefore the King was fain to satisfy his vengeance

with the death of all the common men. Then he sent the Earl of Salisbury,

with one portion of his army to ravage the eastern part of his own

dominions, while he carried fire and slaughter into the northern part;

torturing, plundering, killing, and inflicting every possible cruelty upon

the people; and, every morning, setting a worthy example to his men by

setting fire, with his own monster-hands, to the house where he had slept

the last night. Nor was this all; for the Pope, coming to the aid of his

precious friend, laid the kingdom under an Interdict again, because the

people took part with the Barons. It did not much matter, for the people

had grown so used to it now, that they had begun to think about it. It

occurred to them—perhaps to Stephen Langton too—that they could keep their

churches open, and ring their bells, without the Pope’s permission as well

as with it. So they tried the experiment—and found that it succeeded

perfectly.

It being now impossible to bear the country, as a wilderness of cruelty,

or longer to hold any terms with such a foresworn outlaw of a king, the

Barons sent to LOUIS, son of the French monarch, to offer him the English

crown. Caring as little for the Pope’s excommunication of him if he

accepted the offer, as it is possible his father may have cared for the

Pope’s forgiveness of his sins, he landed at Sandwich (King John

immediately running away from Dover, where he happened to be) and went on

to London. The Scottish King, with whom many of the Northern English Lords

had taken refuge; numbers of the foreign soldiers, numbers of the Barons,

and numbers of the people, went over to him every day—King John, the

while, continually running away in all directions. The career of Louis was

checked, however, by the suspicions of the Barons, founded on the dying

declaration of a French Lord, that when the kingdom was conquered he was

sworn to banish them as traitors, and to give their estates to some of his

own Nobles. Rather than suffer this, some of the Barons hesitated; others

even went over to King John.

It seemed to be the turning point of King John’s fortunes, for, in his

savage and murderous course, he had now taken some towns and met with some

successes. But, happily for England and humanity, his death was near.

Crossing a dangerous quicksand, called the Wash, not very far from

Wisbeach, the tide came up and nearly drowned his army. He and his

soldiers escaped; but, looking back from the shore when he was safe, he

saw the roaring water sweep down in a torrent, overturn the wagons,

horses, and men that carried his treasure, and engulf them in a raging

whirlpool from which nothing could be delivered.

Cursing, and swearing, and gnawing his fingers, he went on to Swinestead

Abbey, where the monks set before him quantities of pears, and peaches,

and new cider—some say poison too, but there is very little reason to

suppose so—of which he ate and drank in an immoderate and beastly way. All

night he lay ill of a burning fever, and haunted with horrible fears. Next

day, they put him in a horse-litter, and carried him to Sleaford Castle,

where he passed another night of pain and horror. Next day, they carried

him, with greater difficulty than on the day before, to the castle of

Newark-upon-Trent; and there, on the eighteenth of October, in the

forty-ninth year of his age, and the seventeenth of his vile reign, was an

end of this miserable brute.

MY NOVEL; OR, VARIETIES IN ENGLISH LIFE.(5)

Book IX.—Initial Chapter.

Now that I am fairly in the heart of my story, these preliminary chapters

must shrink into comparatively small dimensions, and not encroach upon the

space required by the various personages whose acquaintance I have picked

up here and there, and who are now all crowding upon me like poor

relations to whom one has unadvisedly given a general invitation, and who

descend upon one simultaneously about Christmas time. Where they are to be

stowed, and what is to become of them all, Heaven knows; in the mean

while, the reader will have already observed that the Caxton family

themselves are turned out of their own rooms, sent a-packing, in order to

make way for the new comers.

And now that I refer to that respected family, I shall take occasion

(dropping all metaphor) to intimate a doubt, whether, should these papers

be collected and republished, I shall not wholly recast the Initial

Chapters in which the Caxtons have been permitted to re-appear. They

assure me, themselves, that they feel a bashful apprehension lest they may

be accused of having thrust irrelevant noses into affairs which by no

means belong to them—an impertinence which, being a peculiarly shy race,

they have carefully shunned in the previous course of their innocent and

segregated existence. Indeed, there is some cause for that alarm, seeing

that not long since in a journal professing to be critical, this _My

Novel_; _or_, _Varieties in English Life_, was misnamed and insulted as “a

Continuation of _The Caxtons_,” with which biographical work it has no

more to do (save in the aforesaid introductions to previous Books in the

present diversified and compendious narrative) than I with Hecuba, or

Hecuba with me. Reserving the doubt herein suggested for maturer

deliberation, I proceed with my new Initial Chapter. And I shall stint the

matter therein contained to a brief comment upon PUBLIC LIFE.

Were you ever in public life, my dear reader? I don’t mean, by that

question, to ask whether you were ever Lord-Chancellor, Prime-Minister,

Leader of the Opposition, or even a member of the House of Commons. An

author hopes to find readers far beyond that very egregious but very

limited segment of the Great Circle. Were you ever a busy man in your

vestry, active in a municipal corporation, one of a committee for

furthering the interests of an enlightened candidate for your native

burgh, town, or shire?—in a word, did you ever resign your private

comforts as men in order to share the public troubles of mankind? If ever

you have so far departed from the Lucretian philosophy, just look back—was

it life at all that you lived?—were you an individual distinct existence—a

passenger in the railway?—or were you merely an indistinct portion of that

common flame which heated the boiler and generated the steam that set off

the monster train?—very hot, very active, very useful, no doubt; but all

your identity fused in flame, and all your forces vanishing in gas.

And you think the people in the railway carriages care for you?—do you

think that the gentleman in the worsted wrapper is saying to his neighbor

with the striped rug on his comfortable knees, “How grateful we ought to

be for that fiery particle which is crackling and hissing under the

boiler! It helps us on a fraction of an inch from Vauxhall to Putney?” Not

a bit of it. Ten to one but he is saying—“Not sixteen miles an hour! What

the deuce is the matter with the stoker?”

Look at our friend Audley Egerton. You have just had a glimpse of the real

being that struggles under the huge copper; you have heard the hollow

sound of the rich man’s coffers under the tap of Baron Levy’s friendly

knuckle—heard the strong man’s heart give out its dull warning sound to

the scientific ear of Dr. F——. And away once more vanishes the separate

existence, lost again in the flame that heats the boiler, and the smoke

that curls into air from the grimy furnace.

Look to it, O Public Man, whoever thou art, and whatsoever thy degree—see

if thou canst not compound matters, so as to keep a little nook apart for

thy private life; that is, for _thyself_! Let the great Popkins Question

not absorb wholly the individual soul of thee, as Smith or Johnson. Don’t

so entirely consume thyself under that insatiable boiler, that when thy

poor little monad rushes out from the sooty furnace, and arrives at the

stars, thou mayest find no vocation for thee there, and feel as if thou

hadst nothing to do amidst the still splendors of the Infinite. I don’t

deny to thee the uses of “Public Life;” I grant that it is much to have

helped to carry that great Popkins Question; but Private Life, my friend,

is the life of thy private soul; and there may be matters concerned with

that which, on consideration, thou mayest allow, can not be wholly mixed

up with the great Popkins Question—and were not finally settled when thou

didst exclaim—“I have not lived in vain—the Popkins Question is carried at

last!” O immortal soul, for one quarter of an hour _per diem_—de-Popkinize

thine immortality!

Chapter II.

It had not been without much persuasion on the part of Jackeymo, that

Riccabocca had consented to settle himself in the house which Randal had

recommended to him. Not that the exile conceived any suspicion of the

young man beyond that which he might have shared with Jackeymo, viz., that

Randal’s interest in the father was increased by a very natural and

excusable admiration of the daughter. But the Italian had the pride common

to misfortune—he did not like to be indebted to others, and he shrank from

the pity of those to whom it was known that he had held a higher station

in his own land. These scruples gave way to the strength of his affection

for his daughter and his dread of his foe. Good men, however able and

brave, who have suffered from the wicked, are apt to form exaggerated

notions of the power that has prevailed against them. Jackeymo had

conceived a superstitious terror of Peschiera, and Riccabocca, though by

no means addicted to superstition, still had a certain creep of the flesh

whenever he thought of his foe.

But Riccabocca—than whom no man was more physically brave, and no man, in

some respects, more morally timid—feared the Count less as a foe than as a

gallant. He remembered his kinsman’s surpassing beauty—the power he had

obtained over women. He knew him versed in every art that corrupts, and

void of all the conscience that deters. And Riccabocca had unhappily

nursed himself into so poor an estimate of the female character, that even

the pure and lofty nature of Violante did not seem to him a sufficient

safeguard against the craft and determination of a practiced and

remorseless intriguer. But of all the precautions he could take, none

appeared more likely to conduce to safety, than his establishing a

friendly communication with one who professed to be able to get at all the

Count’s plans and movements, and who could apprise Riccabocca at once

should his retreat be discovered. “Forewarned is forearmed,” said he to

himself, in one of the proverbs common to all nations. However, as with

his usual sagacity he came to reflect upon the alarming intelligence

conveyed to him by Randal, viz., that the Count sought his daughter’s

hand, he divined that there was some strong personal interest under such

ambition; and what could be that interest save the probability of

Riccabocca’s ultimate admission to the Imperial grace, and the Count’s

desire to assure himself of the heritage to an estate that he might be

permitted to retain no more? Riccabocca was not indeed aware of the

condition (not according to usual customs in Austria) on which the Count

held the forfeited domains. He knew not that they had been granted merely

on pleasure; but he was too well aware of Peschiera’s nature to suppose

that he would woo a bride without a dower, or be moved by remorse in any

overture of reconciliation. He felt assured, too—and this increased all

his fears—that Peschiera would never venture to seek an interview himself;

all the Count’s designs on Violante would be dark, secret, and

clandestine. He was perplexed and tormented by the doubt, whether or not

to express openly to Violante his apprehensions of the nature of the

danger to be apprehended. He had told her vaguely that it was for her sake

that he desired secrecy and concealment. But that might mean any thing;

what danger to himself would not menace her? Yet to say more was so

contrary to a man of his Italian notions and Machiavellian maxims! To say

to a young girl, “There is a man come over to England on purpose to woo

and win you. For Heaven’s sake take care of him; he is diabolically

handsome; he never fails where he sets his heart,”—“Cospetto!” cried the

doctor, aloud, as these admonitions shaped themselves to speech in the

camera-obscura of his brain; “such a warning would have undone a Cornelia

while she was yet an innocent spinster.” No, he resolved to say nothing to

Violante of the Count’s intention, only to keep guard, and make himself

and Jackeymo all eyes and all ears.

The house Randal had selected pleased Riccabocca at first glance. It stood

alone, upon a little eminence; its upper windows commanded the high road.

It had been a school, and was surrounded by high walls, which contained a

garden and lawn sufficiently large for exercise. The garden doors were

thick, fortified by strong bolts, and had a little wicket lattice, shut

and opened at pleasure, from which Jackeymo could inspect all visitors

before he permitted them to enter.

An old female servant from the neighborhood was cautiously hired;

Riccabocca renounced his Italian name, and abjured his origin. He spoke

English sufficiently well to think he could pass as an Englishman. He

called himself Mr. Richmouth (a liberal translation of Riccabocca). He

bought a blunderbuss, two pair of pistols, and a huge house-dog. Thus

provided for, he allowed Jackeymo to write a line to Randal and

communicate his arrival.

Randal lost no time in calling. With his usual adaptability and his powers

of dissimulation he contrived easily to please Mrs. Riccabocca, and to

increase the good opinion the exile was disposed to form of him. He

engaged Violante in conversation on Italy and its poets. He promised to

buy her books. He began, though more distantly than he could have

desired—for her sweet stateliness awed him in spite of himself—the

preliminaries of courtship. He established himself at once as a familiar

guest, riding down daily in the dusk of evening, after the toils of

office, and retiring at night. In four or five days he thought he had made

great progress with all. Riccabocca watched him narrowly, and grew

absorbed in thought after every visit. At length one night, when he and

Mrs. Riccabocca were alone in the drawing-room, Violante having retired to

rest, he thus spoke as he filled his pipe:

“Happy is the man who has no children! Thrice happy he who has no girls!”

“My dear Alphonso!” said the wife, looking up from the wristband to which

she was attaching a neat mother-o’-pearl button. She said no more; it was

the sharpest rebuke she was in the custom of administering to her

husband’s cynical and odious observations. Riccabocca lighted his pipe

with a thread paper, gave three great puffs, and resumed.

“One blunderbuss, four pistols, and a house-dog called Pompey, who would

have made mincemeat of Julius Cæsar!”

“He certainly eats a great deal, does Pompey!” said Mrs. Riccabocca,

simply. “But if he relieves your mind!”

“He does not relieve it in the least, ma’am,” groaned Riccabocca: “and

that is the point I was coming to. This is a most harassing life, and a

most undignified life. And I who have only asked from Heaven dignity and

repose! But, if Violante were once married, I should want neither

blunderbuss, pistol, nor Pompey. And it is that which would relieve my

mind, _cara mia_;—Pompey only relieves my larder!”

Now Riccabocca had been more communicative to Jemima than he had been to

Violante. Having once trusted her with one secret, he had every motive to

trust her with another; and he had accordingly spoken out his fears of the

Count di Peschiera. Therefore she answered, laying down the work, and

taking her husband’s hand tenderly:

“Indeed, my love, since you dread so much (though I own that I must think

unreasonably) this wicked, dangerous man, it would be the happiest thing

in the world to see dear Violante well married; because, you see, if she

is married to one person, she can not be married to another; and all fear

of this Count, as you say, would be at an end.”

“You can not express yourself better. It is a great comfort to unbosom

one’s self to a wife, after all!” quoth Riccabocca.

“But,” said the wife, after a grateful kiss: “but where and how can we

find a husband suitable to the rank of your daughter?”

“There—there—there,” cried Riccabocca, pushing back his chair to the

farther end of the room: “that comes of unbosoming one’s self! Out flies

one’s secret; it is opening the lid of Pandora’s box; one is betrayed,

ruined, undone!”

“Why? there’s not a soul that can hear us!” said Mrs. Riccabocca,

soothingly.

“That’s chance, ma’am! If you once contract the habit of blabbing out a

secret when nobody’s by, how on earth can you resist it when you have the

pleasurable excitement of telling it to all the world? Vanity,

vanity—woman’s vanity! Woman never could withstand rank—never!” The Doctor

went on railing for a quarter of an hour, and was very reluctantly

appeased by Mrs. Riccabocca’s repeated and tearful assurances that she

would never even whisper to herself that her husband had ever held any

other rank than that of Doctor. Riccabocca, with a dubious shake of the

head, renewed:

“I have done with all pomp and pretension. Besides, the young man is a

born gentleman; he seems in good circumstances; he has energy and latent

ambition; he is akin to L’Estrange’s intimate friend; he seems attached to

Violante. I don’t think it probable that we could do better. Nay, if

Peschiera fears that I shall be restored to my country, and I learn the

wherefore, and the ground to take, through this young man—why, gratitude

is the first virtue of the noble!”

“You speak, then, of Mr. Leslie?”

“To be sure—of whom else?”

Mrs. Riccabocca leaned her cheek on her hand, thoughtfully: “Now, you have

told me _that_, I will observe him with different eyes.”

“_Anima mia!_ I don’t see how the difference of your eyes will alter the

object they look upon!” grumbled Riccabocca, shaking the ashes out of his

pipe.

“The object alters when we see it in a different point of view!” replied

Jemima, modestly. “This thread does very well when I look at it in order

to sew a button on, but I should say it would never do to tie up Pompey in

his kennel.”

“Reasoning by illustration, upon my soul!” ejaculated Riccabocca, amazed.

“And,” continued Jemima, “when I am to regard one who is to constitute the

happiness of that dear child, and for life, can I regard him as I would

the pleasantest guest of an evening? Ah, trust me, Alphonso—I don’t

pretend to be wise like you—but, when a woman considers what a man is

likely to prove to woman—his sincerity—his honor—his heart—oh, trust me,

she is wiser than the wisest man!”

Riccabocca continued to gaze on Jemima with unaffected admiration and

surprise. And, certainly, to use his phrase, since he had unbosomed

himself to his better half—since he had confided in her, consulted with

her, her sense had seemed to quicken—her whole mind to expand.

“My dear,” said the sage. “I vow and declare that Machiavelli was a fool

to you. And I have been as dull as the chair I sit upon, to deny myself so

many years the comfort and counsel of such a—but, _corpo di Baccho_!

forget all about rank; and so now to bed.”

“One must not holloa till one’s out of the wood,” muttered the ungrateful,

suspicious villain, as he lighted the chamber candle.