THE belated passports arrive, and Aaron journeys to Paris. It is
now with him as it was with the unfortunate gentleman, celebrated in
Scripture, who went down into a certain city only to fall among
thieves. Fouché orders his police to dog him. The post office is given
instructions; his letters are stolen--those he writes as well as those
he should receive.
What is at the bottom of all this French scoundrelism? Madison the weak
is president in Washington. That is to say, he is called “president,”
the actual power abiding in Mon-ticello with Jefferson, at whose
political knee he was reared. Armstrong is Madison’s minister to France.
Armstrong is a New York politician married to a Livingston, and, per
incident, a promoted puppet of Jefferson’s. McRae is American consul at
Paris--McRae, who sat at the back of Wirt and Hay during the Richmond
trial. It is these influences, directed from Mon-ticello, which, in each
of its bureaus, oppose the government of Napoleon to Aaron. By orders
from Monticello, “every captain, French or American, is instructed
to convey no letter or message or parcel for Colonel Burr. Also such
captain is required to make anyone handing him a letter or parcel for
delivery in the United States, to pledge his honor that it contains
nothing from Colonel Burr.” In this way is Aaron shut off from his
friends and his supplies. He writes in his diary:
“These vexations arise from the machinations of Minister Armstrong, who
is indefatigable in his exertions to my prejudice, being goaded on by
personal hatred, political rancor, and the native malevolence of his
temper.”
Aaron waits on Savary, and finds that minister polite but helpless. He
sees Fouché; the policeman is as polite and as helpless as Savary.
He calls upon Talleyrand. That ingrate and congenital traitor skulks out
of an interview. Aaron smiles as he recalls the skulking, limping one
fawning upon him aforetime at Richmond Hill.
Talleyrand puts Aaron in mind of Jerome Bonaparte, now King of
Westphalia, made so by that kingmonger, his brother. His Royal Highness
of Westphalia was, like Talleyrand, a guest at Richmond Hill. He, too,
has nibbled American crusts, and was thankful for American crumbs in
an hour when his official rating, had he been given one, could not have
soared above that of a vagrant out of Corsica by way of France. Aaron
applies for an interview.
“His Royal Highness is engaged; he cannot see Colonel Burr,” is the
response.
“I am not surprised,” says Aaron. “He who will desert a wife will desert
a friend, and I am not to suppose that one can remember friendship who
forgets love.”
Official France shuts and bolts its doors in the face of Aaron to please
the Man of Monticello. Thereupon Aaron demands his passports of the
American minister.
Armstrong, minister, is out of Paris for the moment, and Aaron goes
to Consul McRae. That official, feeling the pressure of the Monticello
thumb, replies:
“My knowledge of the circumstances under which Colonel Burr left the
United States, render it my duty to decline giving him a passport.”
Five weeks eaten up in disappointment!
Aaron, who intended remaining but a month in Paris, finds his money
running out. He confides to his diary:
“Behold me, a prisoner of state, and almost without a sou.”
Aaron resolves to economize. He removes from his hotel, dismisses his
servants, and takes up garret lodgings in a back street. He jokes with
his poverty:
“How sedate and sage one is,” he writes, “on only three sous. Eating my
bread and cheese, and seeing half a bottle of the twenty-five sous wine
left, I thought it too extravagant to open a bottle of the good. I tried
to get down the bad, constantly thinking on the other, which was in
sight. I stuck to the bad and got it all down. Then to pay myself
for this heroism, I treated myself to a large tumbler of the true
Roussillon. I am of Santara’s opinion that though a man may be a little
the poorer for drinking good wine, yet he is, under its influence, much
more able to bear poverty.” Farther on he sets down: “It is now so
cold that I should be glad of a fire, but to that there are financial
objections. I was near going to bed without writing, for it is very
cold, and I have but two stumps of wood left. By the way, I wear no
surtout these days, for a great many philosophic reasons, the principal
being that I have not got one. The old greatcoat, which I brought from
America, will serve for traveling if I ever travel again.”
Although official France shuts its doors on Aaron, unofficial France
does not. The excellent Volney, of a better memory than the King of
Westphalia or the slily skulking Talleyrand, remembers Richmond Hill.
Volney hunts out Aaron in his poor lodgings, laughs at his penury, and
offers gold. Aaron also laughs, and puts back the kindly gold-filled
hand.
“Very well,” says Volney. “Some other day, when you are a little more
starved. Meanwhile, come with me; there are beautiful women and brave
men who are dying to meet the renowned Colonel Burr.”
Again in salon and drawing-room is Aaron the lion--leaving the most
splendid scenes to return to his poor, barren den in the back street.
And yet he likes the contrast. He goes home from the Duchess d’Alberg’s
and writes this:
“The night bad, and the wind blowing down my chimney into the room.
After several experiments as to how to weather the gale, I discovered
that I could exist by lying flat on the floor. Here, on the floor,
reposing on my elbows, a candle by my side, I have been reading
‘L’Espion Anglos,’ and writing this. When I got up just now for pen and
ink, I found myself buried in ashes and cinders. One might have thought
I had lain a month at the foot of Vesuvius.”
Aaron, having leisure and a Yankee fancy for invention, decides to
remedy the chimney. He calls in a chimney doctor, of whom there are many
in chimney-smoking Paris, and assumes to direct the bricklaying energies
of that scientist. The _fumiste_ rebels; he objects that to follow
Aaron’s directions will spoil the chimney.
“Monsieur,” returns Aaron grandly, “that is my affair.”
The rebellious _fumiste_ is quelled, and lays bricks according to
directions. The work is completed; the inmates of the house gather
about, as a fire is lighted, to enjoy the discomfiture of the “insane
American”; for the _fumiste_ has told. The fire is lighted; the chimney
draws to perfection; the convinced _fumiste_ sheds tears, and tries to
kiss Aaron, but is repelled.
“Monsieur,” cries the repentant _fumiste_, “if you will but announce
yourself as a chimney doctor, your fortune is made.”
Aaron’s friend, Madam Fenwick, is told of his triumph, and straightway
begs him to restore the health of her many chimneys--a forest of them,
all sick! Aaron writes:
“Madam Fenwick challenged me to cure her chimneys. Accepted, and was
assigned for a first trial the worst in the house. Enter the mason, the
bricks, and the mortar. To work; Madam Fenwick making, meanwhile, my
breakfast--coffee, blanc and honey--in the adjoining room, and laughing
at my folly. Visitors came in to see what was going forward. Much wit
and some satire was displayed. The work was finished. Made a large fire.
The chimney drew in a manner not to be impeached. I was instantly a
hero, especially to the professional _fumiste_, who bent to the floor
before me, such was the burden of his respect.”
Griswold, a New York man and a speculator, unites with Aaron; the two
take a moderate flier in the Holland Company stocks. Aaron is made
richer by several thousand francs. These riches come at a good time, for
the evening before he entered in his journal:
“Having exactly sixteen sous, I bought with them two plays for my
present amusement. Came home with my two plays, and not a single sou.
Have been ransacking everywhere to see if some little vagrant ten-sou
piece might not have gone astray. Not one! To make matters worse, I am
out of cigars. However, I have some black vile tobacco which will serve
as a substitute.”
With Volney, Aaron meets Baron Denon, who is charmed to know “the
celebrated Colonel Burr.” Baron Denon was with Napoleon in Egypt, and is
a privileged character. Denon is a bosom friend of Maret. Nothing will
do but Maret must know Aaron. He does know him and is enchanted. Denon
and Maret ask Aaron how they may serve him.
“Get me my passports,” says Aaron.
Maret and Denon are figures of power. Armstrong, minister, and McRae,
consul, begin to feel a pressure. It is intimated that the Emperor’s
post office is tired of stealing Aaron’s letters, Fouché’s police weary
of dogging him. In brief, it is the emperor’s wish that Aaron depart.
Maret and Denon intrigue so sagaciously, press so surely, that, acting
as one man, the French and the American officials agree in issuing
passports to Aaron. He is free; he may quit France when he will. He is
quite willing, and makes his way to Amsterdam.
Lowering in the world’s sky is the cloud of possible war between England
and America. “Once a subject, always a subject,” does not match the
wants of a young and growing republic, and America is racked of a war
fever. The feeble Madison, in leash to Monticello, does not like war and
hangs back. In spite of the weakly peaceful Madison, however, the war
cloud grows large enough to scare American ships. Being scared, they
avoid the ports of Northern Europe, as lying too much within the
perilous shadow of England.
This war scare, and its effect on American ships, now gets much in
Aaron’s way. He turns the port of Amsterdam upside down; not a ship
for New York can he find. Killing time, he again gambles in the Holland
Company’s shares. He travels about the country. He does not like the
swamps and canals and windmills; nor yet the Dutchmen themselves, with
their long pipes and twenty pairs of breeches. He returns to Amsterdam,
and, best of good fortunes! discovers the American ship _Vigilant_,
Captain Combes.
“Can he arrange passage for America?”
Captain Combes replies that he can. There is a difficulty, however.
Captain Combes and his good ship _Vigilant_ are in debt to the Dutch
in the sum of five hundred guilders. If Aaron will advance the sum, it
shall be repaid the moment the _Vigilant’s_ anchors are down in New York
mud. Aaron advances the five hundred guilders. The _Vigilant_ sails out
of the Helder with Aaron a passenger. Once in blue water, the _Vigilant_
is swooped upon by an English frigate, which carries her gayly into
Yarmouth, a prize.
Aaron writes to the English Alien Office, relates how his homeward
voyage has been brought to an end, and asks permission to go ashore.
Since England has somewhat lost interest in Spain, and is on the
threshold of war with the United States, her objections to Aaron
expressed aforetime by Lord Liverpool have cooled. Aaron will not now
“embarrass his Majesty’s Government.” He is granted permission to
land; indeed, as though to make amends for a past rudeness, the English
Government offers Aaron every courtesy. Thus he goes to London, and is
instantly in the midst of Bentham, Godwin, Mulgrave, Canning, Cobbett,
and the rest of his old friends.
Aaron’s funds are at their old Parisian ebb; that loan to Captain
Combes, which ransomed the _Vigilant_ from the Dutch, well-nigh
bankrupted him. He got to like poverty in France, however, and does not
repine. He refuses to go home with Bentham, and takes to cheap London
lodgings instead. He explains to the fussy, kindly philosopher that his
sole purpose now is to watch for a home-bound ship, and he can keep no
sharp lookout from Barrow Green.
Once in his poor lodgings, Aaron resumes that iron economy he learned to
practice in Paris. He sets down this in his diary:
“On my way home discovered that I must dine. I find my appetite in the
inverse ratio to my purse, and I can now conceive why the poor eat
so much when they can get it. Considering the state of my finances, I
bought half a pound of boiled beef, eightpence; a quarter of a pound
of ham, sixpence; one pound of brown sugar, eightpence; two pounds
of bread, eight-pence; ten pounds of potatoes, fivepence; and then,
treating myself to a pot of ale, eightpence, proceeded to read the
second volume of ‘Ida.’ As I read, I boiled my potatoes, and made a
great dinner, eating half my beef. Of the two necessaries, coffee and
tobacco, I have at least a week’s allowance, so that without spending
another penny, I can keep the machinery going for eight days.”
At last Aaron’s money is nearly gone. He makes a memorandum of the
stringency in this wise:
“Dined at the Hole in the Wall off a chop. Had two halfpence left, which
are better than a penny would be, because they jingle, and thus one may
refresh one’s self with the music.”
Aaron, at this pinch in his fortunes, seeks out a friendly bibliophile,
and sells him an armful of rare books. In this manner he lifts himself
to affluence, since he receives sixty pounds.
Practicing his economies, and filling his treasury by the sale of
his books, Aaron is still the center of a brilliant circle. He goes
everywhere, is received everywhere; for in England poverty comes not
amiss with the honor of an exile, and is held to be no drawing-room bar.
Exiled opulence, on the other hand, is at once the subject of gravest
British suspicions.
That Aaron’s experiences have not warmed him toward France, finds
exhibition one evening at Holland House. He is in talk with the
inquisitive Lord Balgray, who asks about Napoleon and France.
“Sir,” says Aaron, “France, under Napoleon, is fast
rebarberizing--retrograding to the darkest ages of intellectual and
moral degradation. All that has been seen or heard or felt or read of
despotism is freedom and ease compared with that which now dissolves
France. The science of tyranny was in its infancy; Napoleon has matured
it. In France all the efforts of genius, all the nobler sentiments and
finer feelings are depressed and paralyzed. Private faith, personal
confidence, the whole train of social virtues are condemned and
eradicated. They are crimes. You, sir, with your generous propensities,
your chivalrous notions of honor, were you condemned to live within the
grasp of that tyrant, would be driven to discard them or be sacrificed
as a dangerous subject.”
“What a contrast to England!” cries Bal-gray--“England, free and great!”
“England!” retorts Aaron, with a grimace. “There are friends here whom I
love. But for England as mere England, why, then, I hope never to visit
it again, once I am free of it, unless at the head of fifty thousand
fighting men!”
Balgray sits aghast.--Meanwhile the chance of war between America and
England broadens, the cloud in the sky grows blacker. Aaron is all
impatience to find a ship for home; war might fence him in for years. At
last his hopes are rewarded. The _Aurora_, outward bound for Boston,
is reported lying off Gravesend. The captain says he will land Aaron in
Boston for thirty pounds.
And now he is really going; the ship will sail on the morrow. At
midnight he takes up his diary:
“It is twelve o’clock--midnight. Having packed up my residue of duds,
and stowed my papers in the writing desk, I sit smoking my pipe and
contemplating the certainty of escaping from this country. As to my
reception in my own country, so far as depends on J. Madison & Co., I
expect all the efforts of their implacable malice. This, however, does
not give me uneasiness. I shall meet those efforts and repel them. My
confidence in my own resources does not permit me to despond or even
doubt. The incapacity of J. Madison & Co. for every purpose of public
administration, their want of energy and firmness, make it impossible
they should stand. They are too feeble and corrupt to hold together
long. Mem.: To write to Alston to hold his influence in his State, and
not again degrade himself by compromising with rascals and cowards.”
It is in this high vein that Aaron sails away for home, and, thirty-five
days later, sits down to beef and potatoes with the pilot and the
_Auroras_ captain, in the harbor of Boston. He goes ashore without a
shilling, and sells his “Bayle” and “Moreri” to President Kirtland of
Harvard for forty dollars. This makes up his passage money for New York.
He negotiates with the skipper of a coasting sloop, and nine days later,
in the evening’s dusk, he lands at the Battery.
It is the next day. The sun is shining into narrow Stone Street. It
lights up the Swartwout parlor where Aaron, home at last, is hearing
the news from the stubborn, changeless one--Swartwout of the true,
unflagging breed!
“It is precisely four years,” says Aaron, following a conversational
lull, “since I left this very room to go aboard the _Clarissa_ for
England.”
“Aye! Four years!” repeats the stubborn one, meditatively. “Much water
runs under the bridges in four years! It has carried away some of your
friends, colonel; but also it has carried away as many of your enemies.”
For one day and night, Aaron and the stubborn, loyal Swartwout smoke and
exchange news. On the second day, Aaron opens offices in Nassau Street.
Three lines appear in the _Evening Post_. The notice reads:
“Colonel Burr has returned to the city, and will resume his practice of
the law. He has opened offices in Nassau Street.”
The town sits up and rubs its eyes. Aaron’s enemies--the old fashionable
Hamilton-Schuyler coterie--are scandalized; his friends are exalted.
What is most important, a cataract of clients swamps his offices, and
when the sun goes down, he has received over two thousand dollars in
retainers. Instantly, he is overwhelmed with business; never again will
he cumber his journals with ha’penny registrations of groat and farthing
economies. As redoubts are carried by storm, so, with a rush, to the
astonishment of friend and foe alike, Aaron retakes his old place as
foremost among the foremost at the New York bar.