HARPER'S NEW MONTHLY MAGAZINE.
NO. XXIX.--OCTOBER, 1852.--VOL. V.
MEMOIRS OF THE HOLY LAND.[1]
BY JACOB ABBOTT.
THE DEAD SEA.
SODOM AND GOMORRAH.
How strongly associated in the minds of men, are the ideas of guilt
and ruin, unspeakable and awful, with the names of Sodom and Gomorrah.
The very words themselves seem deeply and indelibly imbued with a
mysterious and dreadful meaning.
[1] Entered, according to Act of Congress, in the year 1852, by Harper
and Brothers, in the Clerk's Office of the District Court of the
Southern District of New York.
The account given in the Sacred Scriptures of the destruction of these
cities, and of the circumstances connected with it, has, perhaps,
exercised a greater influence in modifying, or, rather, in forming, the
conception which has been since entertained among mankind in respect
to the character of God, than any other one portion of the sacred
narrative. The thing that is most remarkable about it is, that while in
the destruction of the cities we have a most appalling exhibition of
the terrible energy with which God will punish confirmed and obdurate
wickedness, we have in the attendant circumstances of the case, a
still more striking illustration of the kind, and tender, and merciful
regard with which he will protect, and encourage, and sustain those who
are attempting, however feebly, to please him, and to do his will. We
are told elsewhere in the Scriptures, didactically, that God is love,
and also that he is a consuming fire. In this transaction we see the
gentleness and the tenderness of his love, and the terrible severity of
his retributive justice, displayed together. Let us examine the account
somewhat in detail.
* * * * *
"And the Lord said, Because the cry of Sodom and Gomorrah is great, and
because their sin is very grievous,
"I will go down now, and see whether they have done altogether
according to the cry of it, which is come unto me; and if not, I will
know."--_Gen._ xviii. 20, 21.
* * * * *
There is a certain dramatic beauty in the manner in which the designs
and intentions of Jehovah are represented in such cases as this,
under the guise of words spoken. This rhetorical figure is adopted
very frequently by the Hebrew writers, being far more spirited and
graphic than the ordinary mode of narration, and more forcible in its
effect upon common minds that are not accustomed to abstractions and
generalizations. Thus, instead of saying, And God determined to create
man, it is, And God said, I will make man. In the same manner, where
a modern historian in speaking of the discovery of America would have
written: Columbus, having learned that trunks of trees were brought by
western winds to the shores of Europe, inferred that there was land in
that direction, and resolved to go in search of it, a Hebrew writer
would have said, And it was told to Columbus, that when western winds
had long been blowing, trees were thrown up upon the European shores;
and Columbus said, I will take vessels and men and go and search for
the land whence these trees come.
The verses which we have quoted above, accordingly, though in form
ascribing words to Jehovah, in reality are meant only to express, in a
manner adapted to the conceptions of men, the cautious and deliberate
character of the justice of God. "I have heard the cry of Sodom and
Gomorrah, the cry of grievous violence and guilt, and I will go down
and see if the real wickedness that reigns there, is as great as
would seem to be denoted by the cry. And if not, I will know." In
other words, God would not condemn hastily. He would not judge from
appearances, since appearances might be fallacious. He would cautiously
inquire into all the circumstances, and even in the case of wickedness
so enormous as that of Sodom and Gomorrah, he would carefully ascertain
whether there were any considerations that could extenuate or soften
it. How happy would it be for mankind, if we all, in judging our
neighbors, would follow the example of forbearance and caution here
presented to us. It was undoubtedly with reference to its influence as
an example for us, that the sacred writer has thus related the story.
In the same manner, how strikingly the narrative which is given of
the earnest intercession made by Abraham, to save the cities, and
of the apparent yielding of the Almighty Judge, again and again, to
humble prayers in behalf of sinners, offered by a brother sinner,
illustrates the long-suffering and the forbearance of God--his
reluctance to punish, and his readiness to save. There is a special
charm in the exhibition which is made of these divine attributes in
this case, assuming the form as they do of a divine sympathy with the
compassionate impulses of man. The great and almighty Judge allows
himself to be led to deal mercifully with sinners through the pity and
the prayers of a brother sinner, deprecating the merited destruction.
The intercession of Abraham was after all unavailing, for there were
not ten righteous men to be found to fulfill the condition on which he
had obtained the promise that the city should be spared. The narrative,
however, of the intercession, the final result of it in the promise
of God to spare the whole monstrous mass of wickedness, if only ten
righteous men could be found in the city, and the measures which he
adopted, when it was ascertained that there were not ten to be found,
to warn and rescue all that there were, give to the whole story a great
power in bringing home to the hearts of men, a sense of the compassion
of God, and the regard which he feels for human sympathies and desires.
There is no portion of the sacred Scriptures which has more encouraged
and strengthened the spirit of prayer, than the narration of the
circumstances that preceded the destruction of Sodom and Gomorrah.
SITUATION OF THE PLAIN.
Sodom and Gomorrah are described as the cities of the plain, and this
plain is spoken of as the plain of Jordan. And yet the place where
the cities are supposed to have stood, is near the southern end of
the Dead Sea, while the Jordan empties into the northern end of it.
If, therefore, the plain on which the cities stood was the plain of
the Jordan, in the time of Lot, it would seem that the sea itself
could not have existed then, but that the river must have continued
its flow, beyond the point which now forms the southern termination
of the sea. The sea as at present existing, is bounded on both sides
by ranges of lofty and precipitous mountains, which lie parallel to
each other, and extend north and south for several hundred miles. The
space which lies between these ranges, forms a long and narrow ravine,
very deeply depressed below the ordinary level of the earth's surface,
as if it were an enormous crevasse, with the bed of it filled up to a
certain level, in some places with water and in others with alluvial
soil, either fertile or barren according to the geological structure
of the different sections of it. This remarkable ravine divides itself
naturally into five sections. The first, reckoning from north to south,
contains the sources of the Jordan, and the lakes Merom and Tiberias.
The second is the valley of the Jordan. Here the bottom of the ravine
consists of a long and narrow plain of fertile land, with the river
meandering through it. The third section is the bed of the Dead Sea.
The waters here fill the whole breadth of the valley so completely,
that in many places it is impossible to pass along the shore between
the mountains and the sea. The water is deepest near the northern
part of the sea, and grows more and more shallow toward the southern
part, until at length the land rises above the level of the surface of
the water, and then the bottom of the ravine presents again a plain
of land, instead of a sheet of water. This is the fourth section. It
extends, perhaps, a hundred miles, rising gradually all the way, and
forming in summer the bed of a small stream which flows northward to
the Dead Sea. This part of the great fissure is called the valley of
Arabah.[2] At length the level of the bottom of the valley reaches its
highest point, and the land descends again to the south, forming the
fifth or southern-most section of the vast crevasse. The waters of
the Red sea flow up some hundred miles into this section, forming the
eastern one of the two forks into which that sea divides itself, at its
northernmost extremity.
[2] Wadi Arabah.
It will be seen thus that it is at the Dead Sea that the depression of
the valley is the greatest. In fact, the bed of the valley descends in
both directions toward the Dead Sea for a hundred miles. Some writers
have supposed that the whole of this depression was produced at the
time of the destruction of Sodom and Gomorrah, and that previous to
that time, the Jordan continued its course through the whole length
of the valley to the Red Sea, being bordered throughout this whole
distance by fertile plains extending on either hand from its banks to
the base of the mountains; and that it was on this plain, near the
place where now lies the southern extremity of the Dead Sea, that the
cities Sodom and Gomorrah, Admah and Zeboim, were built. In adopting
this hypothesis we must suppose that the destruction of the cities was
attended with some volcanic convulsion, by which all that part of the
valley was sunk so far below its natural level that the river could no
longer continue its course. The waters then, we must imagine, gradually
filled up the deep bed so suddenly made for them, until the surface
became so extended that the evaporation from it was equal to the
supply from the river; and thus the sea was formed, and its size and
configuration permanently determined.
Others supposed that the sea existed from the most ancient times
substantially as at present, occupying the whole breadth of the valley,
from side to side, though not extending so far to the southward as
now. On this supposition the cities destroyed were situated on a
fertile plain which then bordered the southern extremity of the sea,
but which is now submerged by its waters. It is no longer possible to
determine which of these hypotheses, if either, is correct. A much
greater physical change is implied in the former than in the latter
supposition, but perhaps the latter is not on that account any the
less improbable. When the question is of an actual sinking of the
earth, whether we suppose the causes to be miraculous or natural, it
is as easy to conceive of a great subsidence, as of a small one. The
enlargement of a sea, whether by the agency of an earthquake, or by the
direct power of God, is as great a wonder as the creation of it would
be.
THE DESTRUCTION OF THE CITIES.
The account given by the sacred writers of the destruction of Sodom
and Gomorrah is this. Lot was dwelling, at the time, in Sodom. He was
warned by the messengers of God, that the city was to be destroyed,
and was directed to make his escape from it with all his family. This
warning was given to Lot in the night. He went out immediately to the
houses of his sons-in-law, to communicate the awful tidings to them
and to summon them to flee. They however did not believe him. They
ridiculed his fears and refused to accompany him in his flight. Lot
returned to his house much troubled and perplexed. He could not go
without his daughters, and his daughters could not go without their
husbands. The two messengers urged him not to delay. They entreated him
to take his daughters with him and go, before the fated hour should
arrive. Finally they took him by the hand, and partly by persuasion and
partly by force, they succeeded in bringing him out of the city. His
wife and his daughters accompanied him. His sons-in-law, it seems, were
left behind.
[Illustration: THE DEPARTURE OF LOT FROM SODOM.]
It was very early in the morning when Lot came forth from the city--not
far from the break of day. As soon as he was without the walls, the
messengers urged him not to tarry there or imagine that he was yet
safe, but to press forward with all speed, until he reached the
mountain. "Escape for thy life," said they "Look not behind thee,
neither stay thou in all the plain; escape to the mountain lest thou be
consumed." Lot was, however, afraid to go into the mountains. They were
wild and desolate. His wife and his daughters were with him and it was
yet dark. To take so helpless a company into such solitudes at such a
time, seemed awful to him, and he begged to be permitted to retire to
Zoar. Zoar was a small town on the eastern side of the plain, just at
the foot of the mountains, at a place where a lateral valley opened,
through which a stream descended to the plain. Lot begged that he might
be permitted to go to Zoar, and that that city might be spared. His
prayer was granted. A promise was given him that Zoar should be saved,
and he was directed to proceed thither without delay. He accordingly
went eastward across the plain and reached Zoar, just as the sun was
rising. His wife, instead of going diligently on with her husband,
lingered and loitered on the way, and was lost. The words are, "She
became a pillar of salt." Precisely what is intended by this expression
is somewhat uncertain; at any rate she was destroyed, and Lot escaped
with his daughters alone into Zoar. Immediately afterward Sodom and
Gomorrah were overwhelmed. The description of the catastrophe is given
in the following words:
"The Lord rained upon Sodom and Gomorrah brimstone and fire from the
Lord out of heaven.
"And he overthrew those cities and all the plain, and all the
inhabitants of the cities and that which grew upon the ground.
"And Abraham got up early in the morning to the place where he stood
before the Lord:
"And he looked toward Sodom and Gomorrah, and toward all the land of
the plain, and beheld, and lo, the smoke of the country went up as the
smoke of a furnace."--_Gen._ xix. 24, 25, 27, 28.
[Illustration: THE PLAIN.]
PHILOSOPHIZING ON THE DESTRUCTION OF SODOM AND GOMORRAH.
There has been a great deal of philosophical speculation on the
nature of the physical causes which were called into action in the
destruction of these cities, and of the plain on which they stood.
These speculations, however, are to be considered as ingenious and
curious rather than useful, since they can not lead to any very
tangible results. We can, in fact, know nothing positive of the
phenomenon except what the sacred narrative records. And yet there is a
certain propriety in making philosophical inquiries in respect to the
nature even of miraculous effects, for we observe in respect to almost
all of the miracles recorded in the Old Testament, that, though they
transcend the power of nature, still, in character, they are always
in a certain sense in harmony with it. Thus the plagues which were
brought upon the Egyptians, in the time of Pharaoh, are the ordinary
calamities to which the country was subject, following each other in a
rapid and extraordinary succession, and developed in an aggravated and
unusual form. The children of Israel, in their journeys through the
desert, were fed miraculously on manna. There is a natural manna found
in those regions as an ordinary production, from which undoubtedly the
type and character of the miraculous supply were determined. The waters
of the Red Sea were driven back at the time when the Israelites were
to cross it, by the blowing of a strong east wind. The blowing of a
wind has a natural tendency to drive back such waters, and to lay the
shoals and shallows of a river bare. The effects produced in all these
cases were far greater than the causes would naturally account for, but
they were all, so to speak, in the same direction with the tendency of
the causes. They transcended the ordinary course of nature; still, in
character, they were in harmony with its laws. It is right and proper
for us, therefore, where a miraculous effect is described, to look into
the natural laws related to it, for the sake of observing whatever of
analogy or conformity between the causes and effects may really appear.
With reference to such analogies, the character and the physical
constitution of the gorge in which the Dead Sea lies, has excited
great interest in every age. The valley has been generally considered
as of volcanic formation, though it is somewhat doubtful how far it
is strictly correct thus to characterize it, since no signs of lava
or of extinct craters appear in any part of it. The whole region,
however, is subject to earthquakes, and many substances that are
usually considered as volcanic productions are found here and there
along the valley, especially near the southern extremity of the Dead
Sea. One of the most remarkable of these substances is bitumen, a hard
and inflammable mineral which has been found, from time to time, in
all ages, on the shores of the sea. Some writers have supposed that
the "pits," which are referred to in the passage, "And the vale of
Siddim was full of slime pits," were pits of liquified bitumen or
asphaltum,--that the plain of Sodom was composed in a great degree of
these and similar inflammable substances--that they were set on fire by
lightning from heaven or by volcanic ignition from below, and that thus
the plain itself on which the cities stood was consumed and destroyed.
Others suppose that under the influence of some great volcanic
convulsion, attended, as such convulsions often are, by thunderings and
lightnings--the brimstone and fire out of heaven, referred to in the
sacred record--a sinking, or subsidence of the land at the bottom of
the valley, took place; and that the waters of the Jordan overflowed
and filled the cavity, thus forming, or else greatly enlarging the Dead
Sea. That the waters of the sea now flow where formerly a tract of
fertile land extended, seems to be implied in the passage, Gen. xiv. 3,
in which it is stated that certain kings assembled their forces, "in
the vale of Siddim which is the Salt Sea." The meaning is undoubtedly
as if the writer had said, The armies were gathered at a place which
was then the vale of Siddim, but which is now the Salt Sea.
THE DEAD SEA IN THE MIDDLE AGES.
After the destruction of Sodom and Gomorrah, the valley of the Dead
Sea seemed to be forsaken of God, and to be abhorred and shunned by
man, so that it remained for a great many centuries, the very type
and symbol of solitude, desolation, and death. A few wild Arabs dwelt
along its shores, building their rude and simple villages in the little
dells that open among the mountains that border it, and feeding their
camels on the scanty herbage which grew in them. Now and then some
party of Crusaders, or some solitary pilgrim travelers, descended the
valley from the fords of the Jordan, till they reached the sea--or
looked down upon it from some commanding position among the mountains,
on the eastern or western sides--and caravans or beasts of burden were
accustomed to go to its southern shores to procure salt for the people
of the interior. Through these and other similar channels, vague and
uncertain tidings of the deadly influences of the sea and of the awful
solitude and desolation which reigned around it, came out, from time
to time, to more frequented regions, whence they spread in strange and
exaggerated rumors throughout the civilized world. It was said that the
waters of the sea filled the gloomy valley which they occupied with
influences so pestiferous and deadly that they were fatal to every
species of life. No fish could swim in them, no plant could grow upon
their shores. It was death for a man to bathe in them, or for a bird
to fly over them; and even the breezes which blew from them toward the
land, blighted and destroyed all the vegetation that they breathed
upon. The surface and margin of the water, instead of being adorned
with verdant islands, or fringed with the floating vegetation of other
seas, was blackened with masses of bitumen, that were driven hither and
thither by the winds, or was bordered with a pestiferous volcanic scum;
while all the approaches to the shores in the valley below were filled
with yawning pits of pitchy slime, which engulfed the traveler in their
horrid depths, or destroyed his life by their poisonous and abominable
exhalations. In a word, the valley of the Dead Sea was for two thousand
years regarded as an accursed ground, from which the wrath of God,
continually brooding over it, sternly excluded every living thing.
Within the last half century, however, many scientific travelers have
visited the spot, and have brought back to the civilized world more
correct information in respect to the natural history of the valley.
BURCKHARDT'S VISIT TO THE VALLEY OF ARABAH.
One of the earliest of the scientific travelers, to whom we have
alluded, was John Lewis Burckhardt, who spent several years, in the
early part of the present century, in exploring the countries around
the southeastern shores of the Mediterranean Sea, under the auspices of
a society established in London, called the Association for Promoting
the Discovery of the Interior Parts of Africa. Burckhardt prepared
himself for his work, by taking up his residence for several years in
Aleppo, and in other Oriental cities, for the purpose of studying the
Arabic language, and making himself perfectly familiar with the manners
and customs of the people, so that in traveling through the countries
which he was intending to explore, he might pass for a native, and thus
be allowed to go where he pleased without molestation. He succeeded
perfectly in attaining this object. He acquired the Arabic language,
assumed the Arabic dress, and learned to accommodate himself, in all
respects, to the manners and customs of the country. He thus passed
without hindrance or suspicion where no known European or Christian
would have been allowed to go.
[Illustration: THE VALLEY OF ARABAH.]
Burckhardt explored the valley of Arabah, which extends from the Dead
Sea to the Red Sea, forming, as has already been said, a southern
continuation of the great Jordan gorge. He was, in fact, the first
to bring the existence of this southern valley to the notice of the
civilized world. The valley of the Jordan, as he describes it, widens
about Jericho, where the hills which border it, join the chains of
mountains which inclose the Dead Sea. At the southern extremity of the
sea they again approach each other, leaving between them a valley or
Ghor, similar in form to the northern Ghor, through which the Jordan
flows; though the southern valley, from want of water, is a desert,
while the Jordan and its tributaries make the other a fertile plain.
In the southern Ghor, the rivulets which descend from the mountains
are lost in the sand and gravel which form their beds, long before
they reach the valley below. The valley itself, therefore, is entirely
without water, and is, consequently, barren and desolate. The whole
plain, as Burckhardt viewed it, presented the appearance of an expanse
of shifting sands, the surface varied with innumerable undulations
and low hills. A few trees grow here and there in the low places, and
at the foot of the rocks which line the valley; but the depth of the
sand, and the total want of water in the summer season, preclude the
growth of every species of herbage. A few Bedouin tribes encamp in the
valley in the winter, when the streams from the mountains being full,
a sufficient supply of water is produced to flow down into the valley,
causing a few shrubs to grow, on which the sheep and goats can feed.
Burckhardt and his party were an hour and a half in crossing the
valley. It was in the month of August that they made the tour, and
they found the heat almost intolerable. There was not the slightest
appearance of a road or of any other work of man at the place where
they crossed it. Still they met with no difficulty in prosecuting their
journey, for the sand, though deep, was firm, and the camels walked
over it without sinking. In the various journeys which Burckhardt made
in these solitary regions, he carefully noted all that he saw, and
copious reports of his observations were afterward published by the
society in whose service he was engaged. The only instrument which
he had, however, for making observations, was a pocket compass, and
this he was obliged to conceal in the most careful manner from his
Arab attendants, for fear of betraying himself to them. If they had
seen such an instrument in his possession, they would not only have
suspected his true character, but would have believed the compass
to be an instrument of magic, and would have been overwhelmed with
superstitious horror at the sight of it. Accordingly, Burckhardt
was compelled, not only to keep his compass in concealment, as he
journeyed, but also to resort to a great variety of contrivances and
devices to make observations with it without being seen. Sometimes,
when riding on horseback, he would stop for a moment in the way, and
watching an opportunity when the attention of his companions was turned
in another direction, would hastily glance at his compass unseen,
covering it, while he did so, beneath his wide Arabian cloak. When
riding upon a camel he could not adopt this method, for a single camel
in a caravan can not be induced to stop while the train is going on.
To meet this emergency, the indefatigable traveler learned to dismount
and mount again without arresting the progress of the animal. He would
descend to the ground, and straying away for a moment into a copse of
bushes, or behind some angle of a rock, would crouch down, take out his
compass, ascertain the required bearing, make a note of it secretly in
a little book which he carried for the purpose in the pocket of his
vest, and then returning to the camel, would climb up to his seat and
ride on as before.
It was by such means as these that the existence and the leading
geographical features of the valley of Arabah were first made known to
the Christian world.
ROBINSON'S VISIT TO EN-GEDI.
Edward Robinson is a distinguished American philosopher and scholar,
who has devoted a great deal of attention to the geography and history
of Palestine, and whose researches and explorations have perhaps
accomplished more in throwing light upon the subject, than those of
any other person, whether of ancient or modern times. He has enjoyed
very extraordinary facilities for accomplishing his work; for, in
his character, and in the circumstances in which he has been placed,
there have been combined, in a very remarkable degree, all the
qualifications, and all the opportunities necessary for the successful
prosecution of it. Having been devoted, during the greater portion of
his life, to the pursuit of philological studies, he has acquired a
very accurate knowledge of the languages, as well as of the manners and
customs of the East; and, being endued by nature with a temperament in
which great firmness and great steadiness of purpose are combined with
a certain quiet and philosophical calmness and composure, and a quick
and discriminating apprehension with caution, prudence, and practical
good sense, he is very eminently qualified for the work of an Oriental
explorer. In the year 1838, he made an extended tour, or, rather,
series of tours, in the Holy Land, a very minute and interesting report
of which he afterward gave to the world. He is now, in 1852, making a
second journey there; and the Christian world are looking forward, with
great interest, to the result of it.
[Illustration: MAP OF THE DEAD SEA.]
During Robinson's first tour in Palestine, he made an excursion from
Jerusalem to the western shores of the Dead Sea, where he visited a
spot which is marked by a small tract of fertile ground, under the
cliffs on the shore, known in ancient times as En-gedi, but called by
the Arabs of the present day Ain Jidy. From Jerusalem he traveled
south to Hebron, and thence turning to the east, he traversed the
mountains through a succession of wild and romantic passes which led
him gradually toward the sea. The road conducted him at length into the
desolate and rocky region called in ancient times the Wilderness of
En-gedi, the place to which David retreated when pursued by the deadly
hostility of Saul. It was here that the extraordinary occurrences took
place that are narrated in 1 Sam. xxiv. David, in endeavoring to escape
from his enemy, hid in a cave. Saul, in pursuing him, came to the
same cave, and being wearied, lay down and went to sleep there. While
he was asleep, David, coming out, secretly cut off the skirt of his
robe, without attempting to do him any personal injury; thus showing
conclusively that he bore him no ill-will. Robinson found the region
full of caves, and the scenery corresponded, in all other respects,
with the allusions made to it in the Scripture narrative.
[Illustration: CAVES OF EN-GEDI.]
VIEW OF THE SEA.
As our traveler and his party journeyed on toward the sea, they found
the country descending continually, and as they followed the road
down the valleys and ravines through which it lay, they imagined that
they had reached the level of the sea, long before they came in sight
of its shores. At length, however, to their astonishment, they came
suddenly out upon the brow of a mountain, from which they looked down
into a deep and extended valley where the broad expanse of water lay,
fifteen hundred feet below them. The surprise which they experienced
at finding the sea at so much lower a level than their estimate made
it, illustrates the singular accuracy of Robinson's ideas in respect to
the topography of the country which he was exploring; for, if the Dead
Sea had been really at the same level with the Mediterranean, as was
then generally supposed to be the case, it would have presented itself
to the party of travelers precisely as they had expected to find it.
The unlooked for depth was owing to a very extraordinary depression
of the valley, the existence and the measure of which has since been
ascertained.
Robinson and his companions, from the summit of a small knoll which
lay on one side of their path, looked down upon the vast gulf beneath
them with emotions of wonder and awe. It was the Dead Sea which
they saw extended before them. There it lay, filling the bottom of
its vast chasm, and shut in on both sides by ranges of precipitous
mountains, whose steep acclivities seemed sometimes to rise directly
from the water, though here and there they receded a little from the
shore, so as to leave a narrow beach beneath the rocks below. From
the point where our observers stood the whole southern half of the
sea was exposed to view. The northern part was partly concealed by a
precipitous promontory, called Ras Mersed, which rose abruptly from the
shore a little north of their position.
The southern part of the sea, as viewed from this point, was remarkable
for the numerous shoals and sand bars which appeared projecting in many
places from the shore, forming long and low points and peninsulas of
sandy land. There was one very large and remarkable peninsula of higher
land, in the southeast part of the sea. The position and configuration
of this peninsula may be seen upon the map. It is formed in some
respect like a human foot, with the heel toward the sea. Of course,
the ankle of the foot is the isthmus which connects the peninsula with
the main land. The length of this peninsula, from north to south,
is five or six miles. Our observers, from their lofty position at
En-gedi, looked down upon it, and could trace almost the whole of its
outline. North of it, too, there was a valley, which opened up among
the mountains to the eastward, called the Valley of Kerak. At the head
of this valley, several miles from the shore of the sea, lies the town
of Kerak, a place sometimes visited by pilgrims and travelers, who
pass that way along a road which traverses that part of the country
on a line parallel to the shore of the sea. The course of the valley
was such that the position of our observers on the mountain at En-gedi
commanded a full view of the whole extent of it. They could even see
the town of Kerak, with its ancient castle on a rock--far up near the
summit of the mountain. It is in the lower part of this valley, a
little to the eastward of the isthmus which has been already described,
that the town of Zoar stood, as it is supposed, where Lot sought
refuge at the time of the destruction of Sodom and Gomorrah.
THE PASS.
After remaining on the cliff about three quarters of an hour, to
observe and to record every thing worthy of notice in the extended
view before them, the party began to go down the pass to the shore.
The descent was frightful, the pathway having been formed by zigzags
down the cliff, the necessary width for the track having been obtained,
sometimes by cutting into the face of the rock, and sometimes by means
of rude walls built from below. As they looked back up the rocks after
they had descended, it seemed impossible to them that any road could
have been formed there--and yet so skillfully had the work been planned
and executed, that the descent, though terrific, was accomplished
without any serious difficulty. In fact, the road was so practicable,
that loaded camels sometimes passed up and down. One of Mr. Robinson's
companions had crossed the heights of Lebanon and the mountains of
Persia, and he himself had traversed all the principal passes of the
Alps, but neither of them had ever met with a pass so difficult and
dangerous as this. The way was really dangerous as well as difficult.
An Arab woman, not long before the time of Robinson's visit, in
descending the road, had fallen off over the brink of the precipice to
the rocks below. She was, of course, killed by the fall.
[Illustration: THE DESCENT.]
After descending for about three quarters of an hour, the party reached
a sort of dell, where a copious and beautiful fountain, springing forth
suddenly from a recess in the rock, formed at once an abundant stream,
that flowed tumultuously down a narrow ravine toward the sea, still
four hundred feet below. This fount was the Ain Jidy, the word Ain
signifying fountain in the Arabic tongue. The meaning of the whole
name is the _fountain of the kid_. The course of the stream in its
descent from its source was hidden from view by a luxuriant thicket of
trees and shrubs which grew along its bed, nourished by the fertilizing
influence of the waters. The party halted at the spring, and pitched
their tents, determining to make their encampment at this spot with a
view of leaving their animals here and going down on foot to the shore
below. They had originally intended not to go up the pass again, but
to proceed to the northward along the shore of the sea, having been
informed that they could do so. They now learned, however, that there
was no practicable passage along the shore, and that they must reascend
the mountain in order to continue their journey. They accordingly
determined, for the purpose of saving the transportation of their
baggage up and down, to encamp at the fountain.
While pitching their tents, an alarm was given, that some persons were
coming down the pass, and, on looking upward, they saw at the turns
of the zigzag, on the brow of the precipice far above, two or three
men, mounted and armed with guns. The party were for a moment alarmed,
supposing that the strangers might be robbers. Their true character,
however, very soon appeared; for, as they drew near, they were found
to be a troop of laboring peasants of the neighborhood, mounted on
peaceful donkeys, and coming down to the shore in search of salt; and
so the alarm ended in a laugh. The party of peasants stopped a short
time at the fountain to rest, and then continued their descent to the
shore. They gathered the salt, which they came to procure, on the
margin of the sea; for the waters of the sea are so impregnated with
saline solutions, that whenever pools of it are evaporated by the sun,
along the shore, inflorescences and incrustations remain, which can
be easily gathered. After a time, the train of donkeys, bearing their
heavy burdens, went toiling up the steep ascent again, and disappeared.
THE SHORE OF THE SEA.
After remaining for some time at the encampment, Robinson and his
companions set out at five o'clock, to go down to the shore. The
declivity was still steep, though less so than in the pass above. The
ground was fertile, and bore many plants and trees, and the surface
of it appeared to have been once terraced for tillage and gardens. At
one place, near the foot of the descent, were the ruins of an ancient
town. From the base of the declivity, there was a rich and fertile
plain which lay sloping gradually nearly half a mile to the shore. The
bed of the brook could be traced across this plain to the sea, though
at the season of this visit, the waters which the fountain supplied,
copious as they appeared where they first issued from the rock, were
absorbed by the earth long before they reached the shore. The rivulet,
therefore, of Ain Jidy is the most short-lived and transitory of
streams. It breaks forth suddenly from the earth at its fountain, and
then, after tumbling and foaming for a short distance over its rocky
bed, it descends again into the ground, disappearing as suddenly and
mysteriously as it came into being.
The plain which this evanescent stream thus gave up its life to
fertilize, was all under cultivation at the time that Robinson visited
it, being divided into gardens, which belonged to a certain tribe of
wandering Arabs. This tribe were, however, not now encamped here, but
had gone away to a tract of ground belonging to them in another part
of the country, having left only a few sentinels to watch the fruits
that were growing in the gardens. Robinson and his party went across
the plain, and finally came to the margin of the sea, approaching it at
last over a bank of pebbles which lined the shore, and formed a sort of
ridge of sand and shingle, six or eight feet higher than the level of
the water. The slope of these pebbles, on the seaward side, was covered
with saline incrustations.
The water had a greenish hue, and its surface was very brilliant. To
the taste, the travelers found it intensely and intolerably salt, and
far more nauseous than the waters of the ocean. The great quantity of
saline matter, which it contains, makes it very dense, and, of course,
very buoyant in respect to bodies floating in it. This property of the
sea has been observed and commented upon by visitors in every age.
Swimmers, and those who can not swim, as an ancient writer expressed
it, are borne up by it alike. Robinson himself bathed in the sea, and
though, as he says, he had never learned to swim, he found, that in
this water he could sit, stand, lie, or float in any position without
difficulty. The bottom was of clean sand and gravel, and the bathers
found that the water shoaled very gradually as they receded from the
shore, so that they were obliged to wade out many rods before it
reached their shoulders. Its great density produced a peculiar effect
in respect to the appearance that it presented to the eye, adding
greatly to its brilliancy, and imparting a certain pearly richness and
beauty to its reflections. The objects seen through it on the bottom
appeared as if seen through oil.
MEASUREMENTS.
After having spent some time in noting these general phenomena,
Robinson, finding that the day was wearing away, called the attention
of his party to the less entertaining but more important work of making
the necessary scientific measurements and observations. He laid off a
base line on the shore, fifteen hundred feet in length; and from the
extremities of it, by means of a large and accurate compass, which he
carried with him in all his travels for this express purpose, he took
the bearings of all the principal points and headlands which could be
seen around the sea, as well as of every mountain in view. By this
means he secured the data for making an exact map of the sea, at least
so far as these leading points are concerned; for, by the application
of certain principles of trigonometry, it is very easy to ascertain the
precise situation of any object whatever, provided its precise bearing
from each of two separate stations, and also the precise distance
between the two stations is known. Accordingly, by establishing two
stations on the plain, and measuring the distance between them, and
then taking the bearings of all important points on the shores of the
sea, from both stations, the materials are secured for a correct map of
it, in its general outline.
This work being accomplished, and the day being now fully spent, the
party bade the shores of the sea farewell; and, weary with the fatigues
and excitement of the day, they began, with slow and toilsome steps,
to reascend the path toward their encampment by the fountain. They at
length arrived at their tent, and spent the evening there to a late
hour, in writing out their records of the observations which they had
made, and of the adventures which they had met with during the day.
From time to time, as the hours passed on, they looked out from their
tent to survey the broad expanse of water now far below them. The day
had been sultry and hot, but the evening was cool. The air was calm and
still, and the moon rising behind the eastern mountains shone in upon
their encampment, and cheered the solitude of the night, illuminating,
at the same time, with her beams, the quiet and lonely surface of the
sea.
THE SALT MOUNTAIN OF USDUM.
At a subsequent period of his tour in the Holy Land, Robinson
approached the Dead Sea again, near the southern extremity of it, and
there examined and described a certain very remarkable geological
formation, which is justly considered one of the greatest wonders of
this most wonderful valley. It is called the Salt Mountain of Usdum.
It is a lofty ridge that extends for a great distance along the shore
of the sea, and consists of a solid mass of rock-salt. The situation
of this mountain, as will be seen from the map, is on the southwestern
shore of the sea. There is a narrow tract of low and level land between
the mountain and the water. The road passes along this plain, close
under the cliffs, giving the traveler a very convenient opportunity of
examining the formation of the mountain as he journeys with his caravan
slowly along.
The existence of such a mountain of salt was asserted by certain
travelers many centuries ago, but the accounts which they gave of it
were not generally believed, the spot being visited too seldom, and the
accounts which were brought from it being too vague and imperfect to
confirm sufficiently so extraordinary a story. Robinson, however, and
other travelers who have, since his day, fully explored the locality,
have found that the ancient tales were true. The ridge is very uneven
and rugged, its summit and its sides having been furrowed by the rains
which sometimes, though at very distant intervals, fall in this arid
region. The height of the ridge is from one hundred to one hundred
and fifty feet. The surface of the hill is generally covered, like
that of other rocky ridges, with earth and marl, and sometimes with
calcareous strata of various kinds, so that its true character is in
some measure concealed from ordinary and casual observers. The mass
of salt, however, which underlies these superficial coverings, breaks
out in various places along the line of the hills, and sometimes
forms perpendicular precipices of pure crystalized fossil salt, forty
or fifty feet high, and several hundred feet long. The traveler who
beholds these crystaline cliffs is always greatly astonished at the
spectacle, and can scarcely believe that the mountain is really what it
seems, until he has gone repeatedly to the precipice and broken off a
fragment from the face of it, to satisfy himself of the true character
of the rock, by tasting the specimen.
The mountain extends for two or three miles along the shore, drawing
nearer and nearer to it toward the south, until at last it approaches
so closely to the margin of the sea, that the waters, when high, wash
the foot of the precipice. Along the road which lies between the cliffs
and the shore, and upon the beach, masses of salt are found, which,
having been broken off from the heights above, have fallen down to the
level land below, where they lie like common rocks upon the ground.
Here and there ravines are found, forming little dells, down which
small streams are constantly trickling; and, in some seasons of the
year rains fall, and, dissolving small portions of the rock, flow with
the solution into the sea below. Of course, what salt finds its way
into the sea remains there forever, except so far as it is carried away
by man--for the process of evaporation takes up the aqueous particles
alone, from saline solutions. A very small annual addition is therefore
sufficient to keep up the saltness of such a sea. It is supposed that
this mountain is the source which furnishes the supply in this case. If
so, the Dead Sea, geologically speaking, is simply an accumulation of
the waters of the Jordan, formed in a deep depression of its valley,
and made salt by impregnation from a range of soluble rocks, the base
of which they lave.
THE CAVERN.
[Illustration: THE CAVERN OF USDUM.]
At one point in the eastern face of the Usdum mountain, that is the
face which is turned toward the sea, there is a cavern. This cavern
seems to have been formed by a spring. A spring of water issuing from
among soluble strata will, of course, always produce a cavern, as its
waters must necessarily dissolve and wear away the substance of the
rock, and so, in the process of ages, form an open recess leading
into the heart of the mountain. The few European travelers who have
ever passed the road that leads along the base of this mountain, have
generally stopped to examine and explore this cavern. It is irregular
in its form, but very considerable in extent. The mouth of it is ten
or twelve feet high, and about the same in breadth. Robinson and his
party went into it with lights. They followed it for three or four
hundred feet into the heart of the mountain, until at length they came
to a place where it branched off into two small fissures, which could
not be traced any farther. A small stream of water was trickling slowly
along its bed in the floor of the cavern, which, as well as the walls
and roof, were of solid salt. There were clear indications that the
quantity of water flowing here varied greatly at different seasons; and
the cavern itself was undoubtedly formed by the action of the stream.
AN INCIDENT OF ORIENTAL TRAVELING.
When Robinson and his party came out from the cavern in the Salt
Mountain, an incident occurred which illustrates so forcibly both
the nature of Oriental traveling, and the manners and customs of the
semi-savage tribes that roam about the shores of the Dead Sea, that it
well deserves a place in this memoir. When they were about entering
the cavern, a report came from some of the scouts, of whom it was
always customary to have one or more ahead, when traveling on these
expeditions, that a troop of riders were in sight, coming round the
southern end of the sea. This report had been confirmed during the time
that Robinson and his companions had been in the cave, and when they
came out they found their camp in a state of great confusion and alarm.
The strangers that were coming were supposed, from their numbers,
and from the manner in which they were mounted, to be enemies or
robbers. The Arab attendants of the party were greatly excited by this
intelligence. They were getting their guns in readiness, and loading
and priming them. A consultation was held, and it was determined by
the party that they would not leave their encampment at the mouth of
the cavern, since the position which they occupied there was such as
to afford them a considerable advantage, as they judged, in the case
of an attack. They accordingly began to strengthen themselves where
they were with such means as they had at their command, and to make the
best disposition they could of the animals and baggage, with a view to
defending them. At the same time they sent forward an Arab chieftain of
the party, to reconnoitre and learn more particularly the character of
the enemy.
The messenger soon returned, bringing back a report which at once
relieved their fears. The dreaded troop of marauders proved to be a
flock of sheep, driven by a few men on donkeys. Of course, all alarm
was at once dispelled, and the expedition immediately resumed its
march, pursuing its way as before along the strand. But this was not
the end of the affair, for the Arabs of Robinson's escort, finding
that they were now the stronger party, at once assumed the character
of robbers themselves, and began immediately to make preparations for
plundering the strangers. The customs of the country as they understood
the subject, fully justified them in doing so, and before Robinson
was aware of their intentions, they galloped forward, and attacked
the peaceful company of strangers, and began to take away from them
every thing valuable on which they could lay their hands. One seized
a pistol, another a cloak, and a third stores of provisions. Robinson
and his companions hastened to the spot and arrested this proceeding,
though they had great difficulty in doing it. The Arabs insisted that
these men were their enemies, and that they had a right to rob them
wherever they found them. To which Robinson replied, that that might
perhaps be the law of the desert, but that while the Arabs were in
his employ they must be content to submit to his orders. At length
the stolen property was reluctantly restored, and the strangers went
on their way. They proved to be a party in the service of a merchant
of Gaza, a town on the Mediterranean coast, nearly opposite this part
of the Dead Sea. This merchant had been to Kerak--the village which
has already been mentioned as seen by our party from their position
on the heights of Ain Jidy, at the head of the valley which opens on
the eastern side of the sea beyond Zoar--and there he had purchased a
flock of sheep, and was now driving them, with the assistance of some
peasants whom he had hired for the purpose, home to Gaza.
THE FORD.
As has already been stated, the water of the Dead Sea, though deep in
the northern part, spreads out toward the southward over an immense
region of flats and shallows, so that sometimes the water is only a few
feet deep over an extent of many miles. There are, moreover, southward
of the sea, vast tracts of low and sandy land, which are sometimes
covered with water and sometimes bare, on account of the rising and
falling of the sea, the level of which seems to vary many feet in
different years and in different seasons, according to the state of the
snows on Mount Lebanon and the quantity of water brought down by the
Jordan and other streams. The shallowness of the water becomes very
marked and apparent at the peninsula, and various rumors were brought
to Europe, from time to time, in the middle ages, of a fording place
there, by means of which caravans, when the water was low, could cross
over from the eastern shore to the western, and thus save the long
detour around the southern end of the sea. The most direct and tangible
evidence in respect to this ford, was given by the two celebrated
travelers, Irby and Mangles, who relate that in descending from Kerak
to the peninsula, they fell in with a small company of Arabs that were
going down to the sea--riding upon asses and other beasts of burden.
The Arabs of this caravan said that they were going to cross the sea
at the ford. The travelers did not actually see them make the passage,
for they were themselves engaged in exploring the eastern and northern
part of the peninsula at the time, and the caravan was thus hidden
from view when they approached the water, by the high land intervening
between them and the travelers. After a short time, however, the
travelers came over to the western side of the promontory, and there
they saw the place of the ford indicated by boughs of trees set up in
the water. The caravan had passed the ford, and were just emerging from
the water on the western side of the sea. This evidence was considered
as very direct and very conclusive, and yet other travelers who visited
the same region, both before and afterward, could obtain no certain
information in respect to the ford. Allusions to it exist in some
very ancient records, and yet the Arabs themselves who live in the
vicinity, when inquired of in respect to the subject, often denied the
possibility of such a passage. The only way, apparently, of reconciling
these seemingly contradictory accounts, is to suppose that the sea
is subject to great changes of level, and that for certain periods,
perhaps at distant intervals from each other, the water is so low that
caravans can cross it--and that afterward it becomes again too deep to
be passable, continuing so perhaps for a long series of years, so that
the existence of the ford is for a time in some measure forgotten.
[Illustration: THE FORD]
LIEUTENANT LYNCH.
The information which the Christian world obtained in respect to
the Dead Sea and the character of the country around it, was, after
all, down to quite a late period, of a very vague and unsatisfactory
character, being derived almost entirely from the reports of occasional
travelers who approached the shores of it, from time to time, at
certain points more accessible than others, but who remained at their
places of observation for so brief a period, and were so restricted
in respect to their means and facilities for properly examining the
localities that they visited, that, notwithstanding all their efforts,
the geography and natural history of the region were very imperfectly
determined. Things continued in this state until the year 1847,
when Lieutenant Lynch, of the United States naval service, made his
celebrated expedition into the Holy Land, for the express purpose of
exploring the River Jordan and the Dead Sea. We have already, in our
article on the River Jordan, given an account of the landing of this
party at the Bay of Acre, of their extraordinary journey across the
country to the Sea of Galilee, and of their passage down the Jordan in
the metallic boats, the Fanny Mason and the Fanny Skinner, which they
had brought with them across to the Mediterranean. We now propose to
narrate briefly the adventures which the intrepid explorer met with
in his cruise around the Dead Sea. When he commenced the undertaking,
it was considered both by himself and his companions, and also by his
countrymen and friends at home, to be extremely doubtful whether he
would be able to accomplish it. All previous attempts to navigate the
sea had failed, and had proved fatal to their projectors. Some had been
destroyed by the natives--others had sunk under the pestiferous effects
of the climate. When, therefore, the boats of this party, heavily laden
with their stores of provisions and their crews, came from the mouth
of the Jordan out into the open sea, the hearts of the adventurous
navigators were filled with many forebodings.
A GALE.
The party expected to spend several weeks upon the sea, and their plan
was to establish fixed encampments from time to time on the shore, to
be used as stations where they could keep the necessary stores and
supplies, and from which they could make excursions over the whole
surface of the sea. The first of these stations was to be at a place
called the Fountain of Feshkah; a point on the western shore of the
sea, about five miles from the mouth of the Jordan. The caravan which
had accompanied the expedition along the bank while they had been
descending the river, were to go around by land, and meet the boats
at the place of rendezvous at night. Things being thus arranged, the
land and water parties took leave of each other, and the boats pushed
out upon the sea--turning to the westward and southward as soon as
they had rounded the point of land which forms the termination of the
bank of the river--and shaped their course in a direction toward the
place of rendezvous. Their course led them across a wide bay, which
forms the northwestern termination of the sea. There was a fresh
northwestern wind blowing at the time, though they did not anticipate
any inconvenience from it when they left the river. The force of the
wind, however, rapidly increased, and the effects which it produced
were far more serious than would have resulted from a similar gale
in any other sea. The weight of the water was so great, on account
of the extraordinary quantity of saline matter which it held in
solution, that the boats in encountering the waves, suffered the most
tremendous concussions. The surface of the sea became one wide spread
sheet of foaming brine, while the spray which dashed over upon the
men, evaporating as it fell, covered their faces, their hands, and
their clothes with encrustations of salt, producing, at the same time,
prickling and painful sensations upon the skin, and inflammation and
smarting in the eyes. The party, nevertheless, pushed boldly on for
some time toward the west, in the hope of reaching the shore. The wind,
however, being almost directly ahead, they made very little progress.
They began to fear that they should be driven entirely out to the open
sea, and at length, about the middle of the afternoon, when they had
been for some hours in this dangerous situation, the gale increased to
such a degree that the boats were in imminent danger of foundering. The
officers were obliged to order their supplies of water to be thrown
overboard, in order to lighten the burden. They gave up all hope of
gaining the land; and, expecting to spend the night on the sea, they
thought only of the means of saving themselves from sinking. At length,
however, about six o'clock, the wind suddenly ceased, and the waves, on
account of the great weight of the water, almost immediately went down.
The voyagers now, though almost exhausted with their toils, had little
difficulty in gaining the land.
THE FIRST ENCAMPMENT.
It was, however, now dark, and Mr. Lynch felt much solicitude in
respect to the difficulty of finding the place of rendezvous on the
coast where the party in the boats were to meet the caravan. They
rowed along the shore to the southward, looking out on all the cliffs
and headlands for lights or other signals. They had an Arab chieftain
on board as a guide, and on him the party had depended for direction
to the place where the fountain of Feshkah was to be found. The Arab
had, however, become so bewildered by the terror which the storm had
inspired, or, perhaps, by the strange and unusual aspect which the
land presented to him, as seen from the side toward the sea and in
the night, that he seemed to be entirely lost. At length the boatmen
saw the light of a fire on the beach to the southward of them. They
discharged a gun as a signal, and pulled eagerly toward the fire. The
light, however, soon disappeared. The men were then at a loss again,
and while resting upon their oars, awaiting another signal, they
suddenly saw flashes, and heard reports of guns and sounds of voices on
the cliffs, not far from them, and immediately afterward heard other
reports from a considerable distance back, at a place which they had
passed in coming along the shore. These various and uncertain sounds
quite embarrassed the boatmen. They might indicate an attack from some
hostile force upon their friends on the land, or some stratagem, to
draw the boats into an ambuscade. They, however, determined, at length,
that they would, at all events, ascertain the truth; so closing in with
the shore, they pulled along the beach, sounding as they proceeded.
About eight o'clock they arrived at the place of rendezvous, where
they found their friends awaiting them at the fountain. The shouts
and signal-guns which they had heard had proceeded from two portions
of the caravan that had become separated on the march, and were thus
attempting to communicate with each other. The party in the boats were
greatly relieved on reaching the land, for the whole scene through
which they had passed in approaching it, had been one of the wildest
and most exciting character. The sea itself, mysterious and unknown,
the lonely and desolate coast, the dark and gloomy mountains, the human
voices heard in shouts and outcries on the cliffs, with the flashes of
the guns, and the reports reverberating along the shore, joined to the
dread uncertainty which the boatmen felt in respect to what the end of
the adventure was to be, combined to impress the minds of all the party
with the most sublime and solemn emotions.
The boats, they found, for some reason or other, could not land at
the place which had been chosen for the encampment, but were obliged
to proceed about a mile to the southward, where, at length, they were
safely drawn up upon the beach. Some Arabs were placed here to guard
them, while the seamen were conducted to the camp, in order that they
might enjoy a night of repose. The camp was pitched in a cane-brake,
not far from the shore, the vegetation which covered the spot proving
that there was nothing very specially deleterious in the atmosphere of
the sea. In fact, during the remainder of the excursion, Mr. Lynch's
party always found, in landing along the shores, that there was always
abundance of vegetation whenever there was fresh water from the
mountains to sustain it. The water of the sea seems to be itself too
deeply impregnated with saline solutions to nourish vegetable life;
but beyond the reach of the spray, which the wind drives only to a
short distance from the margin of the shore, it exerts, apparently no
perceptible influence on either plants or animals. Many animals were
seen at different times in the vicinity of the sea, some on the land,
and others flying freely over the water. The water itself, however,
seemed to produce no living thing. Some few shells were found in two or
three instances on the beach, but they were of such a character, and
appeared under such circumstances as to lead to the supposition that
they were brought down to the sea by the torrents from the mountains,
or by the current of the Jordan.
The scene which presented itself to the party as the night came on at
this their first encampment on the shore of the Dead Sea, was solemn
and sublime. The dark and gloomy mountains, barren and desolate--their
declivities fretted and furrowed by the tooth of time, rose behind
them in dismal grandeur; the waters of the sea lay reposing heavily in
their vast caldron before them, covered with a leaden-colored mist;
while the moon, which rose toward midnight above the mountains beyond,
cast spectre-like shadows from the clouds over the broad and solemn
expanse, in a wild and fantastic manner. Every thing seemed strange
and unnatural, and wore an expression of unspeakable loneliness and
desolation. And yet about midnight the death-like silence and repose
which reigned around, was strangely broken by the distant tolling of a
bell!
The tolling of the bell which the travelers heard, proceeded from the
Convent of Mar Saba, a rude and lonely structure, situated in the
middle of the desolate gorge which the brook Kedron forms in traversing
the mountains that lie between Jerusalem and the Dead Sea. The place of
the convent was seven or eight miles from the shore where our travelers
were encamped, but yet the tones of the bell, calling the monks to
their devotions, made their way to the spot through the still evening
air. The travelers felt cheered and encouraged in their solitude, by
being thus connected again, even by so slender a bond as this, with
the common family of man, from which they had seemed before to have
undergone an absolute and total separation.
THE VOYAGE TO EN-GEDI.
After remaining a day or two at Feshkah, and making various excursions
across the sea and along the shores, from that station, for the
purpose of measuring distances and taking soundings, the party broke
up their encampment, and prepared to proceed to the southward. They
made arrangements for taking every thing with them on board the boats,
except a load from one single camel, which was to be sent along the
shore. Their intention was to proceed to En-gedi, and to encamp there
at the foot of the cliffs, on the little plain which Robinson had
visited about ten years before. This encampment at En-gedi was to be a
sort of permanent station for the party during all the time necessary
for the survey of the middle and southern portions of the sea. It was
a suitable spot for such a post, on account of its central position,
and also on account of the abundant supply of fresh water which could
be obtained there from the fountain. The company were obliged to hasten
their departure from Feshkah; for the water of the fountain at the
place of their first encampment was brackish and unfit for use, while
the supply which they had brought from the Jordan was nearly exhausted.
Their stock of provisions, too, was well-nigh spent, and Lieutenant
Lynch felt a considerable degree of uneasiness in respect to the means
of sufficiently replenishing it. He sent off detachments from his
party to Hebron and to Jerusalem, to procure supplies, directing them
to bring whatever they could procure to En-gedi. He also sent an Arab
chieftain, named Akil, round to the eastern side of the sea, to Kerak,
to purchase provisions there. The Arab, if successful, was to bring
down his stores to the sea, at the peninsula, and at the proper time,
Lieutenant Lynch was to send one of the boats across from En-gedi to
receive them.
Things being thus arranged, the tents were struck, the boats pushed off
from the land, while a train of Arabs attended by the loaded camel,
took up their line of march along the beach. As they proceeded, the
boats stopped from time to time, to note and to record every thing
worthy of notice that appeared along the shore. They passed the mouth
of the brook Kedron, a deep gorge, narrow at the base, and yawning wide
at the summit. The sides of this frightful ravine were twelve hundred
feet high. The bed of it was perfectly dry; the waters of the stream at
this season of the year being wholly absorbed by the sands long before
reaching the sea. They passed many caves, some opening into the face of
the rock, far up the mountain sides, in positions wholly inaccessible.
The shores were generally barren and desolate, consisting of dark
brown mountains, which looked as if they had been scorched by fire,
with a narrow beach equally dreary and desolate below. Here and there,
however, little valleys opened, which sustained a scanty vegetation,
and birds and other animals were occasionally seen. There seemed to be
no vegetation, except at points where streams or springs of fresh water
flowed down from the land.
The boats proceeded onward in this manner till night, and then rounding
a point which was covered sparsely with bushes and trees, and with
tufts of cane and grass, they came into a little bay which opened to a
dell, fertilized by a fountain. The name of the fountain was Turabeh.
Flowers were growing here, and certain fruits, the sight of which
gladdened the eyes of our voyagers, though in any other situation they
would have attracted little attention. The stream which sustained this
vegetation was extremely small. The water trickled down from the spring
so scantily that the Arabs were forced to dig holes in the sand, and
wait for them to fill, in order to procure enough for drink. Still its
influence was sufficient to clothe its narrow dell with something like
verdure and fruitfulness. The little oasis had its inhabitants, too, as
well as its plants and flowers. One of the party saw a duck at a little
distance from the shore, and fired at her; though it might have been
thought that no one could have had the heart to disturb even a duck in
the possession of so solitary and humble a domain. In fact, it seems
the sportsman must have had some misgivings, and was accordingly not
very careful in his aim, for the bird was not harmed by the shot. She
flew out to sea a little way, alarmed by the report, and then alighting
on the glassy surface of the water, began to swim back again toward
the shore, as if thinking it not possible that the strange intruders
into her lonely home, whoever and whatever they might be, could really
intend to do her any harm.
[Illustration: TURABEH.]
Soon after the party in the boats had landed, the camel with his
attendants arrived, and they all encamped on this spot for the night.
The scene which presented itself when the arrangements had been made
for the night was, as usual in such cases, very solemn and impressive.
The tents stood among the trees. The Arab watch-fires were burning. The
boats were drawn up upon the shore. The dark and sombre mountains rose
like a wall behind the encampment; while the smooth and placid sea was
spread out before it, reflecting with a sort of metallic lustre the
silver radiance of the moon. The stillness, too, which reigned around
seemed strange and fearful, it was so absolute and profound.
In the morning, the party, after breakfasting under the trees on the
shore, resumed their voyage. After proceeding a few miles along the
coast, they saw an Arab on the beach. The Arab hailed the party, and
they attempted to communicate with him, but could not understand what
he said. At one place they stopped to examine a mass of ruins which
they saw standing a short distance up the mountain side. The ruins
proved to be the remains of a wall, built to defend the entrances to
several caves which opened in the face of the precipice directly behind
them. The caves were perfectly dry, and one of them was large enough to
contain twenty or thirty men. There were openings cut from them through
the rock to the air above, intended apparently to serve the purpose of
chimneys. These caves were in the wilderness of En-gedi.
In fact, the boats were now drawing near to their place of destination.
At noon they arrived at the spot, and the party landing, unloaded the
boats and hauled them up upon the shore. They selected a spot for their
encampment on the little plain at the foot of the cliffs, not far from
the place where the stream descends to it from the mountain above. They
found that the gardens and other marks of vegetation which Robinson had
observed at the time of his visit, had disappeared; in other respects,
every thing corresponded with his description. The water was gushing
from the fountain as copiously as ever, and was disappearing as rapidly
in the sands of its thirsty bed, after running its short and foaming
course along its little dell. After a brief survey of the scene, the
ground was marked out, the tents were pitched, and the stores deposited
within them; the boats were hauled up and examined for repairs, and all
the arrangements made for a permanent encampment; for this was to be
the head-quarters of the expedition during all the remaining time that
they were to spend upon the sea. They named it "Camp Washington."
EXPLORINGS.
The encampment thus established at En-gedi continued to be occupied as
the head-quarters of our party for two or three weeks, during which
time many expeditions were fitted out from it, for exploring the whole
southern portion of the sea, and the country around. The engineer of
the party measured a base line on the beach, and from the two stations
at the extremities of it took the bearings of all the important
points on the shores of the sea. He made the necessary astronomical
observations also for determining the exact latitude and longitude of
the camp. Parties were sent out, too, sometimes along the shores and
up the mountains to collect plants and specimens, and at other times
across to the eastern shore to measure the breadth of the sea, and to
make soundings for determining the depth of it in every part. They
preserved specimens and memorials of every thing. Even the mud and
sand, and the cubical crystals of salt which their sounding apparatus
brought up from the bottom of the sea, were put up in airtight vessels
to be brought home for the inspection of naturalists and philosophers
in America. Thus the whole party were constantly employed in the
various labors incident to such an undertaking, meeting from time
to time with strange and romantic adventures, and suffering on many
occasions most excessively from exposure and fatigue.
One of the most remarkable of the expeditions which they made from
their camp at En-gedi, was a cruise of four days in the southern
portion of the sea, in the course of which they circumnavigated the
whole southern shore. In following down the western coast in first
commencing their voyage, they found the scenery much the same as it
had been in the northern part of the sea, the coast being formed of
bald and barren mountains, desolate and gloomy, with a low, flat beach
below, and sometimes a broad peninsula, or delta, formed, at the mouths
of the ravines, by the detritus brought down from above. Farther south,
however, the water became very shoal, so much so, that at last they
could not approach the shore near enough to land, without wading for a
great distance through water and mire. In fact, the line of demarkation
between the land and the sea was often scarcely perceptible, the land
consisting of low flats and slimy mud, coated with incrustations of
salt, and sometimes with masses of drift-wood lying upon it, while
the water was covered with a frothy scum, formed of salt and bitumen.
Sometimes for miles the water was only one or two feet deep, and the
men in such cases, leaving the boats, waded often to a great distance
from them. Every night, of course, they stopped and encamped on the
land.
THE SIROCCO.
The party suffered on some occasions most intensely from heat and
thirst. Their supply of water was not abundant, and one of the
principal sources of solicitude which the officers of the expedition
felt throughout the cruise, was to find fountains where they could
replenish their stores. One night they were reduced to the greatest
extreme of misery from the influence of an intolerably hot and
suffocating wind, which blew upon them from off the desert to the
southward. It was the Sirocco. It gave them warning of its approach
on the evening before by a thin purple haze which spread over the
mountains a certain unnatural and lurid hue, that awakened a mysterious
emotion of awe and terror. Something dreadful seemed to be portended
by it. It might be a thunder-tempest; it might be an earthquake, or it
might be some strange and nameless convulsion of nature incident to the
dreadful region to which they had penetrated, but elsewhere unknown.
The whole party were impressed with a sentiment of solemnity and awe,
and deeming it best for them to get to the land as soon as possible,
they took in sail, turned their boats' heads to the westward, and rowed
toward the shore.
In a short time they were struck suddenly by a hot and suffocating
hurricane, which blew directly against them, and, for a time, not only
stopped their progress, but threatened to drive them out again to sea.
The thermometer rose immediately to 105°. The oarsmen were obliged to
shut their eyes to protect them from the fiery blast, and to pull, thus
blinded, with all their strength to stem the waves. The men who steered
the boats were unable, of course, thus to protect themselves, and their
eyelids became dreadfully inflamed by the hot wind before they reached
the land.
At length, to their great joy, they succeeded in getting to the shore.
They landed at a most desolate and gloomy spot at the mouth of a dismal
ravine; and the men, drawing the boats up on the beach, immediately
began to seek, in various ways, some means of escape from the dreadful
influences of the blast. Several went up the ravine in search of some
place of retreat, or shelter. Others finding the glare of the sun upon
the rocks insupportable, while they remained on the shore, returned to
the boats and crouched down under the awnings. One of the officers put
spectacles upon his eyes to protect them from the lurid and burning
light, but the metal of the bows became so hot, that he was obliged
to remove them. Every thing metallic, in fact, such as the arms, and
even the buttons on the clothes of the men, were almost burning to
the touch, and the wind, instead of bringing the usual refreshing
influences of a breeze, was now the vehicle of heat, and blew hot and
suffocating along the beach, as if coming from the mouth of an oven.
Intolerable as the influence was of this ill-fated blast, it increased
in power, until it blew a gale. The distant mountains, seen across the
surface of the sea, were curtained by mists of a purple and deadly hue.
The sky above was covered with bronze-colored clouds, through which the
declining sun shone, red and rayless, diffusing over the whole face of
nature, instead of light, a sort of lurid and awful gloom.
The sun went down, and the shades of the evening came on, but the heat
increased. The thermometer rose to 106°. The wind was like the blast of
a furnace. The men, without pitching their tents or making any other
preparations for the night, threw themselves down upon the ground,
panting and exhausted, and oppressed with an intolerable thirst. They
went continually to the "water breakers," in which their supplies of
water were kept, and drank incessantly, but their thirst could not be
assuaged.
Things continued in this state till midnight. The wind then went down,
and very soon afterward a gentle breeze sprung up from the northward.
The thermometer fell to 82°, and the Sirocco was over.
THE PILLAR OF SALT.
Mr. Lynch's party visited the salt mountain of Usdum, of which we have
already spoken, and examined it throughout its whole extent, in a very
careful and thorough manner. They found at one place, at the head of
a deep and narrow chasm, a remarkable conformation of the salt rock,
consisting of a tall cylindrical mass, standing out detached, as it
were, from the mountain behind it, and appearing like an artificial
column. It was in fact literally a pillar of salt. It was forty or
fifty feet high, and was capped above with a layer of limestone, a
portion perhaps of the once continuous calcareous stratum, which at
some remote geological period had been deposited over the whole bed of
salt. The appearance of the pillar was as if it were itself a portion
of the salt mountain that had been left by the gradual disintegration
and wearing away of the adjoining mass, having assumed and preserved
its tall and columnar form, through the protecting influence of the cap
of insoluble rock on its summit. The mass, though as seen in front it
appeared to stand isolated and alone like a pillar, was connected with
the precipice behind it by a sort of buttress, by means of which some
of the party climbed up to the top of the gigantic geological ruin, and
standing upon the pinnacle, looked down upon their companions below,
and upon the wide scene of desolation and death which was spread out
before them.
EXCURSION TO KERAK.
As we have already mentioned, an Arab chieftain who accompanied the
expedition, had been sent round to the eastern side of the sea to the
town of Kerak, which was situated, as will be recollected, at the head
of the valley beyond Zoar, to negotiate with the natives and to procure
provisions, and a day had been appointed for him to come down to the
shore, at a certain point on the peninsula, where a boat was to be sent
to meet him. When the time arrived for fulfilling this appointment,
Lieutenant Lynch organized a party for the excursion, and embarked
for the eastern shore. On approaching the land at the appointed place
of rendezvous, they saw an Arab lurking in the bushes, apparently
watching for them, and soon afterward several more appeared. At first
the voyagers doubted whether these were the friends whom they had come
to meet or whether they were enemies lying in wait to entrap them. On
approaching nearer to the beach, however, they soon recognized Akil.
He seemed greatly rejoiced to see them. He informed them that he had
been kindly received at Kerak, and he brought down an invitation to
Lieutenant Lynch, from the chieftain that ruled there, to come up to
the valley and make him a visit. After some hesitation, Lieutenant
Lynch concluded to accept this invitation. He encamped, however, first
on the shore for a day or two, to make the necessary explorations and
surveys in the neighborhood. During this time he went out with two
Arabs across the plain, to examine the supposed site of ancient Zoar.
He found ruins of an ancient village there, and fragments of pottery,
and other similar vestiges on the ground. At length, on the morning of
the third day, leaving his boat in the care of a guard, he put himself
and his party of attendants under Akil's guidance, and set out to
ascend the valley. The party were fourteen in number. The sailors were
mounted on mules. The officers rode on horseback. The cavalcade was
escorted by a troop of twenty armed Arabs--twelve mounted and the rest
on foot.
They found the valley which they had to ascend in going up to Kerak, a
gloomy gorge, of the wildest and grandest character. The path was steep
and very difficult, overhanging on one side a deep and yawning chasm,
and being itself overhung on the other with beetling crags, blackened
as if by fire, and presenting an aspect of unutterable and frightful
desolation. To complete the sublimity of the scene, a terrific tempest
of thunder, lightning, and rain swept over the valley while our party
were ascending it, and soon filled the bottom of the gorge with a
roaring and foaming torrent, which came down from the mountains and
swept on toward the sea with a thundering sound. At length the party
reached the brow of the table land, three thousand feet above the level
of the sea, and came out under the walls of the town.
The town proved to be a dreary and comfortless collection of rude stone
houses, without windows or chimneys, and blackened within with smoke.
The inhabitants were squalid and miserable. Three-fourths of the people
were nominally Christian. The visit of the Americans of course excited
great interest. We have not time to detail the various adventures
which the party met with in their intercourse with the inhabitants,
or to describe the singular characters which they encountered and the
extraordinary scenes through which they passed. They remained one
night at Kerak, and then after experiencing considerable difficulty
in escaping the importunities with which they were besieged by the
chieftains for presents, they succeeded in getting away and in
returning safely to their boat on the shore.
THE DEPRESSION OF THE SEA.
Our party, after having spent about three weeks in making these and
similar excursions from their various encampments, during which time
they had thoroughly explored the shores on every side, and sounded the
depths of the water in every part, made all the necessary measurements
and observations both mathematical and meteorological, collected
specimens for fully illustrating the geology and natural history of the
region, and carefully noted all the physical phenomena which they had
observed, found that their work was done. At least all was done which
could be accomplished at the sea itself. One thing only remained to be
determined, and that was the measure of the _depression_ of the sea.
This could be positively and precisely ascertained only by the process
of "leveling a line," as it is termed, across from the sea to the
shores of the Mediterranean. This work they now prepared to undertake,
making arrangements at the same time for taking their final leave of
the dismal lake which they had been so long exploring.
It had been long supposed that the Dead Sea lay below the general
level of the waters of the earth's surface, and various modes had
been adopted for ascertaining the amount of the depression. The first
attempt was made by two English philosophers in 1837. The method by
which they attempted to measure the depression was by means of the
boiling point of water. Water requires a greater or a less amount of
heat to boil it according to the degree of pressure which it sustains
upon its surface from the atmosphere--boiling with less heat on the
tops of mountains where the air is rare, and requiring greater in the
bottoms of mines, where the density and weight of the atmosphere is
increased in proportion to the depth. Heights and depths, therefore,
may be approximately measured by an observation of the degree of heat
indicated by the thermometer in the locality in question, when water
begins to boil. By this test the English philosophers found the
depression of the Dead Sea to be five hundred feet.
A short time after this experiment was performed a very careful
observation was made by means of a barometer, which also, measuring,
as it does, the density of the air, directly, may be made use of to
ascertain heights and depths. It is, in fact, often thus employed to
measure the heights of mountains. The result of observations with the
barometer gave a depression to the surface of the sea of about six
hundred feet.
A third method is by trigonometrical calculation. This mode is much
more laborious and difficult than either of the other modes which we
have alluded to, but it is more to be relied upon in its results.
The data for a trigonometrical calculation are to be obtained by
observing, in a very accurate manner, a series of angles of elevation
and depression on a line between the points, the relative levels of
which are to be obtained. Lieutenant Symonds, an officer of the English
service, made such a survey with great care, a few years after the
preceding experiments were performed. He carried a line across from
the Mediterranean to the Dead Sea, connecting the two extremes of it
by means of a series of vertical angles which he measured accurately,
with instruments of the most exact construction. The result of the
computation which he made from these data, was that the sea was
depressed _one thousand three hundred and twelve feet_ below the level
of the Mediterranean.
The surprise which had been felt at the results of the experiments
first mentioned, was greatly increased by the announcement of this
result. No one was disposed really to question the accuracy of the
engineer's measurements and calculations, but it seemed still almost
incredible that a valley lying so near the open sea could be sunken so
low beneath its level. There was one remaining mode of determining the
question, and that was by carrying an actual level across the land, by
means of leveling instruments, such as are used in the construction of
railroads and canals. This would be, of course, a very laborious work,
but there was a general desire among all who took an interest in the
subject that it should be performed and Lieutenant Lynch determined to
undertake it.
Accordingly, when the time arrived for leaving the shores of the sea,
he organized a leveling party, furnishing them with the necessary
instruments and with proper instructions, and commissioned them to
perform this service. They began by scaling the face of the mountain
which rose almost perpendicularly from the shore of the sea at the
place of the last encampment. They then proceeded slowly along, meeting
with various adventures, and encountering many difficulties, but
persevering steadily with the work, until at last, in twenty-three days
from the time of leaving the Dead Sea, they arrived on the shore of the
Mediterranean at Jaffa. The result confirmed in a very accurate manner
the calculations of Lieutenant Symonds, for the difference of level
was found to be a little over thirteen hundred feet--almost precisely
the same as Lieutenant Symonds had determined it. The question is,
therefore, now definitely settled. The vast accumulation of waters
lies so far below the general level of the earth's surface that, if
named after the analogy of its mighty neighbor, it might well have been
called the Subterranean Sea.
[Illustration: THE LEVELING PARTY.]
Lieutenant Lynch had great reason to congratulate himself on this
successful result of his labors; for the work which he had undertaken
was one not only of toil, exposure, and suffering, but also of great
danger. He was warned by the fatal results which had almost invariably
attended former attempts to explore these waters, that if he ventured
to trust himself upon them, it was wholly uncertain whether he would
ever return. He followed in a track which had led all who had preceded
him in taking it, to destruction; and the only hope of safety and
success which he could entertain in renewing an experiment which had so
often failed before, was in the superior sagacity and forethought which
he and his party could exercise in forming their plans, and in the
greater energy and courage, and the higher powers of endurance, which
they could bring into play in the execution of them. The event proved
that he estimated correctly the resources which he had at his command.
THE STORY OF COSTIGAN.
Among the stories which were related to Mr. Lynch, when he was
preparing at the Sea of Galilee to commence his dangerous voyage,
to discourage him from the undertaking, was that of the unfortunate
Costigan. Costigan was an Irish gentleman who, some years before the
period of Lieutenant Lynch's expedition, had undertaken to make a
voyage on the Dead Sea, in a boat, with a single companion--a sailor
whom he employed to accompany him, to row the boat, and to perform
such other services as might be required. Costigan laid in a store of
provisions and water, sufficient, as he judged, for the time that would
be consumed in the excursion, and then taking his departure from a
point on the shore near the mouth of the Jordan, he pushed out with his
single oarsman over the waters of the sea.
[Illustration: COSTIGAN]
About eight days afterward, an Arab woman, wandering along the shore
near the place where these voyagers had embarked, found Costigan lying
upon the ground there, in a dying condition, alone, and the boat at a
little distance on the beach, stranded and abandoned. The woman took
pity upon the sufferer, and calling some Arab men to the spot, she
persuaded them to take him up, and carry him to Jericho. There they
found the sailor, who, better able as it would seem to endure such
hardships than his master, had had strength enough left, when the
boat reached the land, to walk, and had, accordingly, made his way to
Jericho, leaving his master on the shore while he went for succor. At
Jericho Costigan revived a little, and was then taken to Jerusalem,
where he was lodged in a convent, and every effort was made to save his
life and to promote his recovery, but in vain. He died in two days, and
was never able to give any account of the events of his voyage.
The sailor, however, when questioned in respect to the events of the
cruise, gave an account of such of them as a mere sailor would be
likely to remember. They moved, he said, in a zigzag direction on the
lake, crossing and recrossing it a number of times. They sounded every
day, and found the depth of the water in many places very great. The
sufferings, the sailor said, which they both endured from the heat,
were very great; and the labor of rowing was excessively exhausting. In
three days, however, they succeeded in reaching the southern extremity
of the sea, and then set out on their return. During all this time
Costigan himself took his turn regularly at the oars, but on the sixth
day the supply of water gave out, and then Costigan's strength entirely
failed. On the seventh day, they had nothing to drink but the water of
the sea. This only aggravated instead of relieving their thirst, and on
the eighth day the sailor undertook to make coffee from the sea water,
hoping, by this means, to disguise in some measure its nauseating and
intolerable saltness. But all was in vain. No sustenance or strength
could be obtained from such sources, and the sailor himself soon found
his strength, too, entirely gone. All attempts at rowing were now, of
course, entirely abandoned, and although the boat had nearly reached
the land again, at the mouth of the Jordan, the ill fated navigators
must have perished floating on the sea, had it not happened that a
breeze sprung up just at this juncture--blowing toward the land. The
sailor, though too much exhausted to row, contrived to raise the sail,
and to guide the helm, so that the boat at length attained the shore.
There he left his master, while he himself made his way to Jericho, as
has been already described.
These and several other attempts somewhat similar in their nature and
results, which had been made in previous years, made it evident to
Lieutenant Lynch, when he embarked in his enterprise, that he was about
to engage in a very dangerous undertaking. The arrangements and plans
which he formed, however, were on a much greater scale and far more
complete than those of any of his predecessors, and he was enabled
to make a much more ample provision than they for all the various
emergencies which might occur in the course of the expedition. By these
means, and through the extraordinary courage, energy, and resolution
displayed by himself and by the men under his command, the enterprise
was conducted to a very successful result.
THE FUTURE.
The true character and condition of the whole valley of the Dead
Sea having been thus fully ascertained, and all the secrets of its
gloomiest recesses having been brought fully to light, it will probably
now be left for centuries to come, to rest undisturbed in the dismal
and death-like solitude which seems to be its peculiar and appropriate
destiny. Curious travelers may, from time to time, look out over its
waters from the mouth of the Jordan, or survey its broad expanse from
the heights at En-gedi, or perhaps cruise along under the salt cliffs
of Usdum, on its southeastern shore, in journeying to or from the
Arabian deserts; but it will be long, probably, before any keel shall
again indent its salt-encrusted sands, or disturb the repose of its
ponderous waters. It is true that the emotion of awe which its gloomy
and desolate scenery inspires has something in it of the sublime; and
the religious associations connected with the past history of the sea,
impart a certain dread solemnity to its grandeur, and make the spot a
very attractive one to those who travel into distant climes from love
of excitement and emotion. But the physical difficulties, dangers,
exposures, and sufferings, which are unavoidably to be incurred in
every attempt to explore a locality like this, are so formidable, and
the hazard to life is so great, while the causes from which these evils
and dangers flow lie so utterly beyond all possible or conceivable
means of counteraction, that the vast pit will probably remain forever
a memorial of the wrath and curse of God, and a scene of unrelieved and
gloomy desolation.
THE PALACES OF FRANCE.
BY JOHN S. C. ABBOTT.
Versailles. It was a beautiful morning in May, when we took the cars in
Paris for a ride to Versailles, to visit this most renowned of all the
voluptuous palaces of the French kings. Nature was decked in her most
joyous robes. The birds of spring had returned, and, in their fragrant
retreats of foliage and flowers, were filling the air with their happy
warblings. In less than an hour we alighted at Versailles, which is
about twelve miles from Paris.
When Henry IV., three hundred years ago, attained the sovereignty of
France, an immense forest spread over the whole region now occupied
by the princely residences of Versailles. For a hundred years this
remained the hunting ground of the French monarchs. Lords and
ladies, with packs of hounds in full chase of the frightened deer,
like whirlwinds swept through the forests, and those dark solitudes
resounded with the bugle notes of the huntsmen, and with the shouts of
regal revelry. Two hundred years ago Louis XIII., in the midst of this
forest, erected a beautiful pavilion, where, when weary with the chase,
the princely retinue, following their king, might rest and feast, and
with wine and wassail prolong their joy. The fundamental doctrine of
political economy then was that _people_ were made simply to earn money
for kings to spend. The art of governing consisted simply in the art of
keeping the people submissive while they earned as much as possible to
administer to the voluptuous indulgences of their monarchs.
Louis XIV. ascended the throne. He loved sin and feared its
consequences. He could not shut out reflection, and he dreaded death
and the scenes which might ensue beyond the grave. Whenever he
approached the windows of the grand saloon of his magnificent palace
at St. Germain, far away, in the haze of the distant horizon, he
discerned the massive towers of the church of St. Denis. In damp and
gloomy vaults, beneath those walls, mouldered the ashes of the kings
of France. The sepulchral object ever arrested the sight and tortured
the mind of the royal debauchee. It unceasingly warned him of death,
judgment, retribution. He could never walk the magnificent terrace of
his palace, and look out upon the scene of loveliness spread through
the valley below, but there rose before him, in sombre majesty, far
away in the distance, the gloomy mausoleum awaiting his burial. When
heated with wine and inflamed by passion he surrendered himself to
dalliance with all forbidden pleasures, his tomb reproached him and
warned him, and the troubled king could find no peace. At last he was
unable to bear it any longer, and abandoning St. Germain, he lavished
uncounted millions in rearing, for himself, his mistresses, and his
courtiers, at Versailles, a palace, where the sepulchre would not
gloomily loom up before their eyes. It is estimated that the almost
incredible sum of two hundred millions of dollars were expended upon
the buildings, the gardens, and the park. Thirty thousand soldiers,
besides a large number of mechanics, were for a long time employed
upon the works. A circuit of sixty miles inclosed the immense park,
in the midst of which the palace was embowered. An elegant city rose
around the royal residence, as by magic. Wealthy nobles reared their
princely mansions, and a population of a hundred thousand thronged the
gay streets of Versailles. Water was brought in aqueducts from a great
distance, and with a perfectly lavish expenditure of money, to create
fountains, cascades, and lakes. Forests, and groves, and lawns arose
as by creative power, and even rocks were made of cement, and piled up
in precipitous crags to give variety and picturesqueness to the scene.
Versailles! It eclipsed Babylon in voluptuousness, extravagance, and
sin. Millions toiled in ignorance and degradation from the cradle to
the grave, to feed and clothe these proud patricians, and to fill to
superfluity the measure of their indulgences. The poor peasant, with
his merely animal wife and animal daughter, toiled in the ditch and
in the field, through joyless years, while his king, beneath gilded
ceilings, was feasting thousands of nobles, with the luxuries of all
climes, from plate of gold.
[Illustration: PLAN _of_ VERSAILLES]
It is in vain to attempt a description of Versailles. The main palace
contains five hundred rooms. We passed the long hours of a long day
in rapidly passing through them. The mind becomes bewildered with
the magnificence. Here is the chapel where an offended God was to
be appeased by gilding his altar with gold, and where regal sinners
cheaply purchased pardon for the past and indulgence for the future.
It is one of the essentials of luxurious iniquity to be furnished with
facile appliances to silence the reproaches of the soul; and nothing
more effectually accomplishes this than a religion of mere ceremony.
Upon this chapel Louis XIV. concentrated all the taste and grandeur
of the age. It was an easy penance for a profligate life to expend
millions, wrested from the toiling poor, to embellish an edifice
consecrated to an insulted God. Before this gorgeous altar stood Maria
Antoinette and Louis XVI., in consummation of that nuptial union which
terminated in the most melancholy tragedy earth has ever known. The
exquisite paintings, the rich carvings and gildings, the graceful
spring of the arched ceiling, the statues of marble and bronze, the
subdued light, which gently penetrates the apartment, through the
stained glass, the organ in its tones so soft and rich and full, all
conspire to awaken that luxury of poetic feeling which the human heart
is so apt to mistake for the spirit of devotion--for love to God. "If
ye love me, ye will keep my commandments."
But every spot in this sumptuous abode is so alive with the memories
of other days, is so peopled with the spirits of the departed, that we
linger and linger, as historical incidents of intensest interest crowd
the mind.
[Illustration: LOUIS XIV.]
"Voici la salle de l'Opéra," exclaims the guide, and he rattles off a
voluble description, which falls upon your ear like the unintelligible
moaning of the wind, as, lost in reverie, you recall to mind the scenes
which have transpired in the theatre of Versailles. Sinking down upon
the cushioned sofa, where Maria Antoinette often reclined in her days
of bridal beauty and ambition, the vision of private theatricals rises
before you. The deserted stage is again peopled. The nobles of the
Bourbon court, in all the regalia of aristocratic pomp and pride, crowd
the brilliant theatre, blazing with the illumination of ten thousand
waxen lights. Maria, the queen of France, enacts a tragedy, little
dreaming that she is soon to take a part in a real tragedy, the recital
of which will bring tears into the eyes of all generations. Maria
performs her part upon the stage with triumphant success. The courtiers
fill the house with tumultuous applause. Her husband loves not to see
his wife a play-actress. He hisses. The wife is deaf to every sound but
that one piercing note of reproach. In the midst of resounding triumph
she retires overwhelmed with sorrow and tears.
[Illustration: OLD CHATEAU OF VERSAILLES]
Suddenly the vision changes. The dark hours of the monarchy have come.
The people, ragged, beggared, desperate, have thundered at the doors
of the palace, declaring that they will starve no longer to support
kings and nobles in such splendor. Poor Maria, educated in the palace,
is amazed that the people should be so unreasonable and so insolent.
She had supposed that as the horse is made to bear his rider, and the
cow to give milk to her owner, so the _people_ were created to provide
kings with luxury and splendor. But the maddened populace have lost all
sense of mercy. They burn the chateaus of the nobles and hang their
inmates at the lamp-posts. The high civil and military officers of the
king rally at Versailles to protect the royal family. In this very
theatre they hold a banquet to pledge to each other undying support. In
the midst of their festivities, when chivalrous enthusiasm is at its
height, the door opens, and Maria enters, pale, wan, and woe-stricken.
The sight inflames the wine-excited enthusiasts to frenzy. The hall
is filled with shoutings and with weeping; with acclamations and with
oaths of allegiance. But we must no longer linger here. The hours are
fast passing and there are hundreds of rooms, gorgeous with paintings
and statues, and crowded with historical associations, yet to explore.
We must not, however, forget to mention, in illustration of the
atrocious extravagance of these kings, that the expense of every grand
opera performed in that theatre was twenty-five thousand dollars.
There were two grand suites of apartments, one facing the gardens on
the north, belonging to the king, the other facing the south, belonging
to the queen. The king's apartments, vast in dimensions and with lofty
ceilings decorated with the most exquisite and voluptuous paintings,
are encrusted with marble and embellished with a profusion of the
richest works of the pencil and the chisel. The queen's rooms are all
tastefully draped in white, and glitter with gold. Upon this gorgeous
couch of purple and of fine linen, she placed her aching head and
aching heart, seeking in vain that repose which the defrauded peasants
found, but which fled from the pillow of the queen. Let society be
as corrupt as it may, in a nominally Christian land, no woman can be
happy when she is but the prominent slave in the harem of her husband.
The paramours of Louis XIV. and Louis XV. trod proudly the halls of
Versailles; their favor was courted even more than that of their queen,
and the neglected wife and mother knew well the secret passages through
which her husband passed to the society of youth, and beauty, and
infamy.
The statues and the paintings which adorn these rooms seem to have been
inspired by that one all-powerful passion, which, properly regulated,
fills the heart with joy, and which unregulated is the most direful
source of wretchedness which can desolate human homes. It is said that
art is in possession of a delicacy which rises above the instinctive
modesty of ordinary life. France has adopted this philosophy, and it
is undeniable that France, with all her refinement and politeness, has
become an indelicate nation. The evidence is astounding and revolting.
No gentleman, no lady, from other lands can long reside in Paris
without being amazed at the scenes which Paris exhibits. The human
frame in its nudity is so familiar to every eye, that it has lost all
its sacredness. In all the places of public amusement, the almost
undraped forms of living men and women pass before the spectators,
and all the modesties of nature are profaned. The pen can not detail
particulars, for we may not even record in America that which is done
in France. The connection is plain. The effect comes legitimately from
the cause. No lady can visit Versailles without having her sense of
delicacy wounded. It is said that "to the pure all things are pure."
But alas for humanity! a fleeting thought will sully the soul. There
is much, very much in France to admire. The cordiality and the courtesy
of the French are worthy of all praise. But the delicacy of France has
received a wound, deplorable in the extreme, and a wound from which it
can not soon recover.
[Illustration: PALACE OF VERSAILLES--OLD COURT ENTRANCE.]
The grand banqueting room of Versailles is perhaps the most magnificent
apartment in the world, extending along the whole central façade of
the palace, and measuring 242 feet in length, 35 feet in width, and
43 feet in height. It is lighted by 17 large arched windows, with
corresponding mirrors upon the opposite wall. The ceiling is painted
with the most costly creations of art. Statues of Venus and Adonis, and
of every form of male and female beauty, embellish the niches. Here
Louis XIV. displayed all the grandeur of royalty, and this vast gallery
was often filled to its utmost capacity with the brilliant throng of
lords and ladies, whom the people here supported, Versailles was the
Royal alms-house of the kingdom. The French Revolution, in its terrible
reprisals, was caused by strong provocatives.
The cabinet of the king, a very beautiful room, is near. Here is a
large round table in the centre of the saloon. History informs us
that one day Louis XV. was sitting at this table, with a packet of
letters before him. The petted favorite, Madame du Barri, came in, and
suspecting that the package was from a rival, she snatched it from the
king's hand. He rose indignantly, and pursued her. She ran around the
table, chased by the angry monarch, till finding herself in danger
of being caught, she threw the letters into the glowing fire of the
grate. The fascinating and guilty beauty perished in the Revolution.
She was condemned by the revolutionary tribunal. Her long hair was
shorn, that the knife of the guillotine might more keenly cut its way.
But clustering ringlets, in beautiful profusion, fell over her brow
and temples, and vailing her voluptuous features reposed upon her
bosom, from which the executioner had brutally torn the dress. The
yells of the maddened populace, deriding her exposure and her agony
of terror, filled the air. The drunken mob danced exultingly around
the aristocratic courtesan as the cart dragged her to the block. But
the shrieks of the appalled victim pierced through the uproar which
surrounded her. "Life--life--life!" she screamed, frantic with fright;
"O, save me, save me!" The mob laughed and shouted, and taunted her
with coarse witticisms upon the soft pillow of the guillotine, upon
which her head would soon repose. The coarse executioners, with rude
violence, bound her graceful, struggling limbs to the plank, the slide
fell, and her shrieks were hushed in death.
And here is the room in which her royal lover died. It was midnight,
the 10th of May, 1774. The small-pox, in its most loathsome form, had
swollen his frame into the mockery of humanity. The courtiers had fled
in consternation from the monarch whom they hated and despised. In his
gorgeous palace the king of thirty millions of people was left, to
struggle with death, unpitied and alone. An old woman sat unconcerned
in an adjoining room, waiting till he should be dead. Occasionally
she rose and walked to his bedside to see if he still breathed, and,
disappointed that he lived so long, returned again to her chair. A
lamp flickers at the window, a signal to the courtiers, at a safe
distance, that the king is not yet dead. They watch impatiently through
the hours of the night the glimmer of that dim torch. Suddenly it is
extinguished, and gladness fills all hearts.
"So live, that sinking in thy last long sleep,
Smiles may be thine, while all around thee weep."
And here is the gorgeous couch upon which the monarch who reared
these walls expired. It was the 30th of August, 1715. The gray-haired
king, emaciate with remorse and physical suffering, reclined upon the
regal bed, whose velvet hangings were looped back with heavy tassels
and ropes of gold. The vast apartment was thronged with princes and
courtiers in the magnificent costume of the times. Ladies sunk upon
their knees around the bed where the proudest monarch of France was
painfully gasping in the agonies of death. His soul was harrowed with
anguish, as he reflected upon the bitter past, and anticipated the
dread future. Publicly he avowed with gushing tears his regret, in view
of the scenes of guilt through which he had passed. "Gentlemen," said
the dying king, in a faltering voice to those around him, "I implore
your pardon for the bad example I have set you. Forgive me. I trust
that you will sometimes think of me when I am gone." Then exclaiming,
"Oh, my God, come to my aid, and hasten to help me," he fell back
insensible upon his pillow, and soon expired.
As he breathed his last, one of the high officers of the household
approached the window of the state apartment, which opened upon the
great balcony, and threw it back. A vast crowd was assembled in the
court-yard below, awaiting the tidings which they knew could not long
be delayed. Raising his truncheon above his head, he broke it in the
centre, and throwing the pieces among the crowd exclaimed, with a loud
and solemn voice, "The king is dead!" Then seizing another staff from
an attendant, he waved it in the air, shouting joyfully, "Long live the
king!" The dead king is instantly and forever forgotten. The living
king, who alone had favors to confer, was welcomed to his throne by
multitudinous shouts, echoing through the apartment of death.
[Illustration: DEATH OF LOUIS XIV.]
But upon this balcony a scene of far greater moral sublimity has
transpired. It was the morning of the 8th of October, 1789. The
night had been black and stormy. The infuriated mob of Paris,
drenched with rain, men, women, boys, drunken, ragged, starving,
in countless thousands, had all the night long been howling around
their watch-fires, ravenous for the life of the queen. Clouds, heavy
with rain, were still driven violently through the stormy sky, and
pools of water filled the vast court-yard of the palace. Muskets
were continually discharged, and now and then the crash of a bullet
through a window was heard. At last the mob, pressing the palace in an
innumerable throng, with a roar which soon became simultaneous, like
an uninterrupted peal of thunder, shouted, "The Queen! the Queen!"
demanding that she should appear upon the balcony. With that heroic
spirit which ever inspired her, she fearlessly stepped out of the low
window, leading her children by her side. "Away with the children!"
shouted thousands of voices. Even this maddened multitude had not the
heart to massacre youth and innocence. Maria, whose whole soul was
roused to meet the sublimity of the occasion, without the tremor of
a nerve led back her children, and again appearing upon the balcony,
folded her arms and raised her eyes to heaven, as if devoting herself
a sacrifice to the wrath of her subjects. Even degraded souls could
appreciate the heroism of such a deed. A murmur of admiration ensued,
followed by a simultaneous shout, which pierced the skies, "Vive la
Reine! Vive la Reine!"
And now we enter the chamber where Maria slept on that night--or rather
where she did not sleep, but merely threw herself for a few moments
upon her pillow, in the vain attempt to soothe her agitated spirit. The
morning had nearly dawned ere she retired to her chamber. A dreadful
clamor upon the stairs roused her. The mob had broken into the palace.
The discharge of fire-arms and the clash of swords at her door,
proclaimed that the desperadoes were struggling with her guard. At the
same moment she heard the dying cry of her faithful sentinel, as he
fell beneath the blows of the assassins, calling to her, "Fly! fly for
your life!" She sprang from her bed, rushed to the private door which
led to the king's apartment, and had but just time to close the door
behind her, when the tumultuous assailants rushed into the room, and
plunged their bayonets, with all the vigor of their brawny arms, into
her bed. Unfortunately, Maria had escaped. Happy would it have been
for the ill-fated queen had she died in that short agony. But she was
reserved for a fate perhaps more dreadful than has ever befallen any
other daughter of our race.
Poor Maria! fancy can not create so wild a dream of terror as was
realized in her sad life. The annals of the world contain not another
tragedy so mournful.
Every room we enter has its tale to tell. Providence deals strangely
in compensations. The kings of France robbed the nation to rear for
themselves these gorgeous palaces. And yet the poor unlettered peasant
in his hut, was a stranger to those woes, which have ever held high
carnival within these gilded walls. Few must have been the hours of
happiness which have been found in the Palace of Versailles. The
paintings which adorn the saloons and galleries of this princely abode,
are executed in the highest style of ancient and modern art. One is
never weary of gazing upon them. Many of them leave an impression upon
the mind which a lifetime can not obliterate. All the great events of
France are here chronicled in that universal language which all nations
can alike understand. David's magnificent painting of the Coronation of
Napoleon attracts the special attention of every visitor. The artist
has seized upon the moment when the Emperor is placing the crown upon
the brow of Josephine. When the colossal work was finished, many
criticisms were passed upon the composition, which met the Emperor's
ear. Among other things, it was specially objected that it was not
a picture of the coronation of Napoleon but of that of Josephine.
When the great work was entirely completed, Napoleon appointed a day
to inspect it in person, prior to its public exhibition. To confer
honor upon the distinguished artist, he went in state, attended by a
detachment of horse and a military band, accompanied by the Empress
Josephine, the princes and princesses of the family, and the great
officers of the crown.
Napoleon for a few moments contemplated the painting in thoughtful
silence, and then, turning to the artist, said, "M. David, this is
well--very well, indeed. The empress, my mother, the emperor, all are
most appropriately placed. You have made me a French knight, and I am
gratified that you have thus transmitted to future ages the proofs of
affection I was desirous of testifying toward the empress." Josephine
was at the time standing at his side, leaning upon his right arm. M.
David stood at his left. After contemplating the picture again for a
few moments in silence, he dropped the arm of the empress, advanced two
steps, and turning to the painter, uncovered his head, and bowing to
him profoundly, exclaimed, "M. David, I salute you!"
"Sire!" replied the painter, with admirable tact, "I receive the
compliment of the emperor, in the name of all the artists in the
empire, happy in being the individual one you deign to make the channel
of such an honor."
When this painting was afterward removed to the Museum, the emperor
wished to see it a second time. M. David, in consequence, attended in
the hall of the Louvre, accompanied by all of his pupils. Napoleon on
this occasion inquired of the illustrious painter who of his pupils had
distinguished themselves in their art. Napoleon immediately conferred
upon those young men the decoration of the Legion of Honor. He then
said, "It is requisite that I should testify my satisfaction to the
master of so many distinguished artists; therefore I promote you to be
Officer of the Legion of Honor. M. Duroc, give a golden decoration to
M. David." "Sire, I have none with me," answered the Grand Marshal.
"No matter," replied the Emperor; "do not let this day pass without
executing my order."
The King of Wirtemberg, himself quite an artist, visited the painting,
and exceedingly admired it. As he contemplated the glow of light which
irradiated the person of the Pope, he exclaimed, "I did not believe
that your art could effect such wonders. White and black, in painting,
afford but very weak resources. When you produced this you had no doubt
a sunbeam upon your pencil!"
But we must no longer linger here. And yet how can we hurry along
through the midst of this profusion of splendor and of beauty. Room
after room opens before us, in endless succession, and the mind is
bewildered with the opulence of art. In each room you wish to stop for
hours, and yet you can stop but moments, for there are hundreds of
these gorgeous saloons to pass through, and the gardens and the parks
to be visited, the fountains and the groves, the rural palaces of the
Great Trianon and the Little Trianon, and above all the Swiss village.
The Historical Museum consists of a suite of eleven magnificent
apartments, filled with the most costly paintings illustrating the
principal events in the history of France up to the period of the
revolution. You then enter a gallery, three hundred feet in length,
filled with the busts, statues, and monumental effigies of the
kings, queens, and illustrious personages of France. The Hall of the
Crusades consists of a series of five splendid saloons in the Gothic
style, filled with pictures relating to that strange period of the
history of the world. But there seems to be no end to the artistic
wonders here accumulated. The Grand Gallery of Battles is a room 393
feet in length, 43 in breadth, and the same in height. The vaulted
ceiling is emblazoned with gold, and the walls are brilliant with
the most costly productions of the pencil. One vast gallery contains
more than three hundred colossal pictures, illustrating the military
history of Napoleon. In one of the apartments, on the ground floor,
are seen two superb carriages. One is that in which Charles X. rode
to his coronation. It was built for that occasion, at an expense of
one hundred thousand dollars. The resources of wealth and art were
exhausted in the construction of this voluptuous and magnificent
vehicle. The other was built expressly for the christening of the
infant Duke of Bordeaux.
But let us enter the stables, for they also are palaces. The nobles of
other lands have hardly been as sumptuously housed as were the horses
of the kings of France. The Palace of Versailles is approached from
the town by three grand avenues--the central one 800 feet broad. These
avenues open into a large space called the Place of Arms. Flanking the
main avenue, and facing the palace, were placed the Grand Stables,
inclosed by handsome iron railings and lofty gate-ways, and ornamented
with trophies and sculptures. These stables were appropriated to the
carriages and the horses of the royal family. Here the king kept
his stud of 1000 of the most magnificent steeds the empire could
furnish. It must have been a brilliant spectacle, in the gala days
of Versailles, when lords and ladies, glittering in purple and gold,
thronged these saloons, and mounted on horses and shouting in chariots,
with waving plumes, and robes like banners fluttering in the air,
swept as a vision of enchantment through the Eden-like drives which
boundless opulence and the most highly cultivated taste had opened in
the spacious parks of the palace. The poor peasant and pale artisan,
whose toil supplied the means for this luxury, heard the shout, and saw
the vision, and, ate their black bread, and looked upon the bare-footed
daughter and the emaciate wife, and treasured up wrath. The fearful
outrages of the French revolution, concentrated upon kings and nobles
in the short space of a few years, were but the accumulated vengeance
which had been gathering through ages of wrong and violence in the
hearts of oppressed men. But those days of kingly grandeur have passed
away from France forever. Versailles can never again be filled as it
has been. It is no longer a regal palace. It is a museum of art, opened
freely to all the people. No longer will the blooded Arabians of a
proud monarch fill those stables. One has already been converted into
cavalry barracks, and the other into an agricultural school. It is to
be hoped that the soldiers will soon follow the horses, and that the
sciences of peace will eject those of war.
[Illustration: LOUIS XIV. HUNTING.]
What tongue can tell the heart-crushing dramas of real life which have
been enacted in this palace. Its history is full of the revealings
of the agonies of the soul. Love, in all its delirium of passion, of
hopelessness, of jealousy, and of remorse, has here rioted, causing
the virtuous to fall and weep tears of blood, the vicious to become
demoniac in reckless self-abandonment. After years of soul-harrowing
pleasure and sin, the Duchesse de la Vallière, with pallid cheek, and
withered charms, and exhausted vivacity, retired from these sumptuous
halls and from her heartless, selfish, discarding betrayer, to seek
in the glooms of a convent that peace which the guilty love of a
king could never confer upon her heart. For thirty years, clothed in
sackcloth, she mourned and prayed, till the midnight tollings of the
convent bell consigned her emaciate frame to the tomb.
Madame Montespan, a lady of noble rank, beautiful and brilliant,
abandoning her husband, willingly threw herself into the arms of the
proud, mean, self-worshiping monarch. The patient, gentle, pious,
martyr wife of Louis XIV. looked silently on, and saw Madame Montespan
become the mother of the children of the king. But Madame Montespan's
cheek also, in time, became pale with jealousy and sorrow, as another
love attracted the vagrant desires of the royal debauchee. He sent
a messenger to inform the ruined, woe-stricken, frantic woman, that
her presence was no longer desired, that she was but a supernumerary
in the palace, that she must retire. With insult almost incredible
he informed the unhappy woman, that as the children to whom she had
given birth were his own they might be received and honored in the
palace, but that as she had been only his mistress, it was not decorous
that she should longer be seen there. The discarded favorite, in the
delirium of her indignation and her agony, seized a dessert knife upon
the table, and rushing upon her beautiful boy, the little Count of
Toulouse, whom the king held by the hand, shrieked out, "I will leave
the palace, but first I will bury this knife in the heart of that
child." With difficulty the frantic woman was seized and bound, and the
affrighted child torn from her grasp. And here we stand in the very
saloon in which this tragedy occurred. The room is deserted and still.
The summer's sun sleeps placidly upon the polished floor. But far away
in other worlds the perfidious lover and his victim have met before a
tribunal, where justice can not be warded off, by sceptre or by crown.
Madame Maintenon, whom the king gained by a private marriage, which he
afterward was meanly ashamed to acknowledge, succeeded Madame Montespan
in the evanescent love of the king.
The fate of this proud beauty, once one of the most envied and admired
of the gilded throng, which crowded Versailles, was indeed peculiar.
Upon her dying bed, in accordance with the gloomy superstitions of the
times, she bequeathed her body to the family tomb, her heart to the
convent of La Flèche, and her entrails to the priory of St. Menoux. A
village surgeon performed the duty of separating from the body those
organs, which were to be conveyed as sacred relics to the cloister.
The heart, inclosed in a leaden case, was forwarded to La Flèche. The
intestines were taken out and placed in a small trunk. The trunk was
intrusted to the care of a peasant, who was directed to convey them
to St. Menoux. The porter, having completed half of his journey, sat
down under a tree to rest. His curiosity was excited to ascertain the
contents of the box. Astonished at the sight, he thought that some
comrade was trifling with him, desiring to make merry at his expense.
He therefore emptied the trunk into a ditch beside which he sat.
Just at that moment, a lad who was herding swine drove them toward
him. Groveling in the mire they approached the remains and instantly
devoured them! She had bequeathed the sacred relics as a legacy to the
church, to be approached with reverence through all coming time. The
filthiest animals in the world rooted them into the mire and ate them,
devouring a portion of the remains of one of the proudest beauties who
ever reigned in an imperial palace.
[Illustration: MADAME MAINTENON.]
It has often been said that the French revolution merely overthrew
a Bourbon to place upon the throne a Bonaparte. But Napoleon, a
democratic king, with all the energy of his impassioned nature
consulting for the interests of the people of France, was as different
in his character, and in the great objects of his ambition, and his
life, from the old feudal monarchs, as is light from darkness. The
following was the ordinary routine of life, day after day, and year
after year, with Louis XIV., in the palace of Versailles.
At eight o'clock in the morning two servants carefully entered the
chamber of the king. One, if the weather was cold or damp, brought dry
wood to kindle a cheerful blaze upon the hearth, while the other opened
the shutters, carried away the collation of soup, roasted chicken,
bread, wine, and water, which had been placed, the night before, at
the side of the royal couch, that the king might find a repast at hand
in case he should require refreshment during the night. The valet de
chambre then entered and stood silently and reverently at the side of
the bed for one half hour. He then awoke the monarch, and immediately
passed into an ante-room to communicate the important intelligence that
the king no longer slept. Upon receiving this announcement an attendant
threw open the double portals of a wide door, when the dauphin and
his two sons, the brother of the king, and the Duke of Chartres, who
awaited the signal, entered, and approaching the bed with the utmost
solemnity of etiquette, inquired how his majesty had passed the
night. After the interval of a moment the Duke du Maine, the Count de
Toulouse, the first lord of the bed-chamber, and the grand master of
the robes entered the apartment, and with military precision took their
station by the side of the couch of recumbent royalty. Immediately
there followed another procession of officers bearing the regal
vestments. Fagon, the head physician, and Telier, the head surgeon,
completed the train.
The head valet de chambre then poured upon the hands of the king a few
drops of spirits of wine, holding beneath them a plate of enameled
silver, and the first lord of the bed-chamber presented to the monarch,
who was ever very punctilious in his devotions, the holy water, with
which the king made the sign of the cross upon his head and his
breast. Thus purified and sanctified he repeated a short prayer, which
the church had taught him, and then rose in his bed. A noble lord
then approached and presented to him a collection of wigs from which
he selected the one which he intended to wear that day, and having
condescended to place it, with his own royal hands upon his head, he
slipped his arms into the sleeves of a rich dressing-gown, which the
head valet de chambre held ready for him. Then reclining again upon
his pillow, he thrust one foot out from the bed clothes. The valet de
chambre reverently received the sacred extremity, and drew over it a
silk stocking. The other limb was similarly presented and dressed,
when slippers of embroidered velvet were placed upon the royal feet.
The king then devoutly crossing himself with holy water, with great
dignity moved from his bed and seated himself in a large arm-chair,
placed at the fire-side. The king then announced that he was prepared
to receive the First Entrée. None but the especial favorites of the
monarch were honored with an audience so confidential. These privileged
persons were to enjoy the ecstatic happiness of witnessing the awful
ceremony of shaving the king. One attendant prepared the water and held
the basin. Another religiously lathered the royal chin, and removed the
sacred beard, and with soft sponges, saturated with wine and water,
washed the parts which had been operated upon and soothed them with
silken towels.
And now the master of the robes approaches to dress the king. At the
same moment the monarch announces that he is ready for his Grand
Entrée. The principal attendants of royalty, accompanied by several
valets de chambre and door keepers of the cabinet, immediately took
their stations at the entrance of the apartment. Princes often sighed
in vain for the honor of an admission to the Grand Entrée. The
greatest precautions were observed that no unprivileged person should
intrude. As each individual presented himself at the door, his name
was whispered to the first lord of the bed chamber, who repeated it to
the king. If the monarch made no reply the visitor was admitted. The
duke in attendance marshaled the newcomers to their several places,
that they might not approach too near the presence of His Majesty.
Princes of the highest rank, and statesmen of the most exalted station
were subjected alike to these humiliating ceremonials. The king, the
meanwhile, regardless of his guests, was occupied in being dressed.
A valet of the wardrobe delivered to a gentleman of the chamber
the garters, which he in turn presented to the monarch. Inexorable
etiquette would allow the king to clasp his garters in the morning,
but not to unclasp them at night. It was the exclusive privilege of
the head valet de chambre to unclasp that of the right leg, while an
attendant of inferior rank might remove the other. One attendant put on
the shoes, another fastened the diamond buckles. Two pages, gorgeously
dressed in crimson velvet, overlaid with gold and silver lace, received
the slippers as they were taken from the king's feet.
The breakfast followed. Two officers entered; one with bread on an
enameled salver, the other with a folded napkin between two silver
plates. At the same time the royal cup bearers presented to the first
lord a golden vase, into which he poured a small quantity of wine and
water, which was tasted by a second cup bearer to insure that there was
no poison in the beverage. The vase was then rinsed, and being again
filled, was presented to the king upon a golden saucer. The dauphin, as
soon as the king had drank, giving his hat and gloves to the first lord
in waiting, took the napkin and presented it to the monarch to wipe his
lips. The frugal repast was soon finished. The king then laid aside
his dressing-gown, while two attendants drew off his night shirt, one
taking the left sleeve and the other the right. The monarch then drew
from his neck the casket of sacred relics, with which he ever slept.
It was passed from the hands of one officer to that of another, and
then deposited in the king's closet, where it was carefully guarded.
The royal shirt, in the mean time, had been thoroughly warmed at the
fire. It was placed in the hands of the first lord, he presented it
to the dauphin, and he, laying aside his hat and gloves, approached
and presented it to the king. Each garment was thus ceremoniously
presented. The royal sword, the vest, and the blue ribbon were brought
forward. A nobleman of high rank was honored in the privilege of
putting on the vest, another buckled on the sword, another placed over
the shoulders of the monarch a scarf, to which was attached the cross
of the Holy Ghost in diamonds, and the cross of St. Louis. The grand
master of the robes presented to the king his cravat of rich lace,
while a favorite courtier folded it around his neck. Two handkerchiefs
of most costly embroidery and richly perfumed were then placed before
his majesty, on an enameled saucer, and his toilet was completed.
The king then returned to his bedside. Obsequious attendants spread
before him two soft cushions of crimson velvet. In all the pride of
ostentatious humility he kneeled upon these, and repeated his prayers,
while the bishops and cardinals in his suit, with suppressed voice,
uttered responses. But our readers will be weary of the recital of the
routine of the day. From his chamber the king went to his cabinet,
where, with a few privileged ones, he decided upon the plans or
amusements of the day. He then attended mass in the chapel. At one
o'clock he dined alone, in all the dignity of unapproachable majesty.
The ceremony at the dinner table was no less punctilious and ridiculous
than at the toilet. After dinner he fed his dogs, and amused himself in
playing with them. He then, in the presence of a number of courtiers,
changed his dress, and leaving the palace by a private staircase,
proceeded to his carriage, which awaited him in the marble court-yard.
Returning from his drive, he again changed his dress, and visited the
apartments of Madame Maintenon, where he remained until 10 o'clock,
the hour of supper. The supper was the great event of the day. Six
noblemen stationed themselves at each end of the table to wait upon
the king. Whenever he raised his cup, the cup bearer exclaimed aloud
to all the company, "drink for the king." After supper he held a short
ceremonial audience with members of the royal family, and at midnight
went again to feed his dogs. He then retired, surrounded by puerilities
of ceremony too tedious to be read.
[Illustration: CASCADES OF VERSAILLES.]
Such was the character of one of the most majestic kings of the Bourbon
race. France wearied with them, drove them from the throne, and placed
Napoleon there, a man of energy, of intellect, and of action; toiling,
night and day, to promote the prosperity of France in all its varied
interests. The monarchs of Europe, with their united millions, combined
and chained the democratic king to the rock of St. Helena, and replaced
the Bourbon. But the end is not even yet. In view of the wretched
life of Louis XIV., Madame Maintenon exclaimed: "Could you but form
an idea of what kingly life is! Those who occupy thrones are the most
unfortunate in the world."
On one occasion Louis gave a grand entertainment in the magnificent
banqueting-room of the palace. Seventy-five thousand dollars were
expended in loading the tables with every luxury. After the feast
the gaming tables were spread. Gold and silver ornaments, jewels and
precious stones, glittered on every side. For these treasures thus
profusely spread, the courtiers of both sexes gambled without incurring
any risk.
As the visitor leaves the palace for the gardens and the park, he
enters a labyrinth of enchantment, to which there is apparently no
end. Groves, lawns, parterres of flowers, fountains, basins, cascades,
lakes, shrubbery, forests, avenues, and serpentine paths bewilder him
with their profusion and their opulence of beauty. It is in vain to
begin to describe these works. There is the Terrace of the Chateau, the
Parterre of Water with its miniature lakes and twenty-four magnificent
groups of statuary. Now you approach the Parterre of the South,
embellished with colossal vases in bronze; again you saunter through
the Parterre of the North, with antique statues in marble, with its
group of Tritons and Sirens, with its basins and its gorgeous flower
beds. Your steps are invited to the Baths of Diana, to the Grove of the
Arch of Triumph, to the Grove of the Three Crowns, to the Basin of the
Dragon, and to the magnificent Basin of Neptune, with its wilderness of
sculpture and its fantastic jets from which a deluge of water may be
thrown. The Basin of Latona presents a group consisting of Latona, with
Apollo and Diana. The goddess has implored the vengeance of Jupiter
against the peasants of Libya, who had refused her water. Jupiter has
transformed the peasants, some half and others entirely, into frogs
or tortoises, and they are surrounding Latona and throwing water upon
her in liquid arches of beautiful effect. The Fountain of Fame and the
Fountain of the Star are neatly represented in the accompanying cuts.
[Illustration: FOUNTAIN OF FAME.]
[Illustration: FOUNTAIN OF THE STAR.]
The Parterre of the North, which is represented in the illustration,
on page 808, extends in front of the northern wing of the palace, the
apartments on the second floor of which are occupied by the king. This
parterre is approached by descending a flight of steps constructed of
white marble. Fourteen magnificent bronze vases crown the terraced
wall which separate these walks of regal luxury from the Parterre
d'Eau, which is spread out in front of the palace. Statues and vases of
exquisite workmanship crowd the grounds; most of the statues tending
to inflame a voluptuous taste. The beautiful flower beds, filled with
such a variety of plants and shrubs, as always to present an aspect
of gorgeous bloom, are ornamented with two smaller fountains, called
the Basins of the Crown, and one large fountain, called the Fountain
of the Pyramid. The two smaller basins or fountains are so named from
the chiseled groups of Tritons and Sirens supporting crowns of laurel,
from the midst of which issue, in graceful curves, columns of water.
The Pyramid consists of several round basins rising one above another
in a pyramidal form, supported by statues of lead. The water issues
from many jets and flows beautifully over the rims of the basins. Just
below the Fountain of the Pyramid are the Baths of Diana, which are not
represented in this illustration. This basin is embellished with finely
executed statuary, representing Diana and her nymphs, in voluptuous
attitudes, enjoying the luxury of the bath.
[Illustration: FOUNTAIN OF THE PYRAMID.]
Directly in front of the palace is the Terrace of the Chateaux,
embellished with walks, shrubbery, flowers, basins, fountains, and
colossal statues in bronze. Connected with this is the Parterre of
Water, with two splendid fountains, ever replenishing two large oblong
basins filled with golden fishes. Groups of statuary enrich the
landscape. From the centre of each of the basins rise jets of water.
These grounds lie spread out before the magnificent banqueting hall
of the palace. It is difficult to imagine a scene more beautiful than
is thus presented to the eye. Let the reader recur to the plan of
Versailles, and contemplate the vast expanse of lawn, forest, garden,
grove, fountain, lake, walks, and avenues which are spread before him
over a space of thirty-two thousand acres. From the Parterre of Water a
flight of massive white steps conducts to the Fountain of Latona.
[Illustration: PARTERRE OF VERSAILLES.]
At the extremity of the park is a beautiful palace called the Grand
Trianon. It was built by Louis XIV. for Madame Maintenon. This edifice,
spacious and aristocratic as it is in all its appliances, possesses the
charm of beauty rather than that of grandeur. It seems constructed for
an attractive home of opulence and taste. It was a favorite retreat of
the Bourbons, from the pomp and ceremony of Versailles. This was also
one of the favorite resorts of Napoleon when he sought a few hours of
repose from the cares of empire. That he might reach it without loss of
time, he constructed a direct road from thence to St. Cloud.
The Little Trianon, however, with its surroundings, constitutes to
many minds the most attractive spot in this region of attractions. It
is a beautiful house, about eighty feet square, erected by Louis XV.
for the hapless Madame du Barri. It is constructed in the style of a
Roman pavilion, and surrounded with gardens ornamented in the highest
attainments of French and English art. Temples, cottages, groves,
lawns, crags, fountains, lakes, cascades, embellish the grounds and
present a scene of peaceful beauty which the garden of Eden could
hardly have surpassed. This was the favorite abode of Maria Antoinette.
She called it her home. In the quietude of this miniature palace, she
loved to disembarrass herself of the restraints of regal life; and in
the society of congenial friends, and in the privacy of her own rural
walks to forget that she was an envied, hated queen. But even here the
monotony of life wearied her, and deeply regretting that she had not
formed in early youth intellectual tastes, she once sadly exclaimed
to her companions, "What a resource, amidst the casualties of life,
is to be found in a well cultivated mind. One can then be one's
own companion, and find society in one's own thoughts." There is a
beautiful sheet of water in the centre of the romantic, deeply wooded
grounds of the Little Trianon, upon the green shores of which Maria,
for pastime, erected a beautiful Swiss village, with its picturesque
inn, its farm house and cow sheds, and its mill.
[Illustration: THE GRAND TRIANON.]
Here the regal votaries of pleasure, satiated with the gayeties of
Paris, weary of the splendors and the etiquette of the Tuileries and
Versailles, endeavored to step from the palace to the cottage, and in
the humble employments of the humblest life, to alleviate the monotony
of an existence devoted only to pleasure. They _played_ that they
were peasants, put on the garb of peasants, and engaged heartily in
the employments of peasants. King Louis was the inn-keeper, and Maria
Antoinette, with her sleeves tucked up and her apron bound around her,
the inn-keeper's pretty and energetic wife. She courtesied humbly to
the guests, whom her husband received at the door, spread the table,
for them, and placed before them the fresh butter which, in the dairy,
she had churned with her own hands. A noble duke kept the shop and sold
the groceries. A graceful, high-born duchess was Betty, the maid of the
inn. A marquis, who proudly traced his lineage through many centuries,
was the miller, grinding the wheat for the evening meal.
The sun was just sinking beneath the horizon, on a calm, warm,
beautiful afternoon, when we sauntered through this picturesque,
lovely, silent, deserted village. It was all in perfect repair! The
green lawn was of velvet softness. The trees and shrubbery were in
full leaf. Innumerable birds filled the air with their warblings, and
the chirp of the insect, the rustling of the leaves, the sighing of
the wind, the ripple of the streamlet, and the silence of all human
voices, so deep, so solemn, left an impress upon the mind never to be
forgotten. How terrible the fate of those who once made these scenes
resound with the voice of gayety. Some were burned in their chateaux,
or massacred in the streets. Some died miserably on pallets of straw
in dungeons dark, and wet, and cold. Some were dragged by a deriding
mob to the guillotine to bleed beneath its keen knife. And some, in
beggary and wretchedness, wandered through weary years, in foreign
lands, envying the fate of those who had found a more speedy death.
The palace of Versailles! It is a monument of oppression and pride. It
will be well for the rulers of Europe to heed its monitory voice. The
thoughtful American will return from the inspection of its grandeur,
admiring, more profoundly than ever before, the beautiful simplicity
of his own land. He will more highly prize those noble institutions
of freedom and of popular rights which open before every citizen an
unobstructed avenue to wealth and power, encouraging every man to
industry, and securing to every man the possession of what he earns.
The glory of America consists not in the pride of palaces and the pomp
of armies, but in the tasteful homes of a virtuous, intelligent, and
happy people.
NAPOLEON BONAPARTE.
BY JOHN S. C. ABBOTT
THE CAMP AT BOULOGNE, AND THE BOURBON CONSPIRACY.
Impartial History, without a dissenting voice, must award the
responsibility of the rupture of the peace of Amiens to the government
of Great Britain. Napoleon had nothing to hope for from war, and
every thing to fear. The only way in which he could even approach his
formidable enemy, was by crossing the sea, and invading England. He
acknowledged, and the world knew, that such an enterprise was an act
of perfect desperation, for England was the undisputed mistress of the
seas, and no naval power could stand before her ships. The voice of
poetry was the voice of truth--
"Britannia needs no bulwarks, to frown along the steep,
Her march is on the mountain-wave; her home is on the deep."
England, with her invincible navy, could assail France in every
quarter. She could sweep the merchant ships of the infant Republic
from the ocean, and appropriate to herself the commerce of all climes.
Thus war proffered to England security and wealth. It promised the
commercial ruin of a dreaded rival, whose rapid strides toward opulence
and power had excited the most intense alarm. The temptation thus
presented to the British cabinet to renew the war was powerful in the
extreme. It required more virtue than ordinarily falls to the lot of
cabinets, to resist. Unhappily for suffering humanity, England yielded
to the temptation. She refused to fulfil the stipulations of a treaty
solemnly ratified, retained possession of Malta, in violation of her
plighted faith, and renewed the assault upon France.
In a communication which Napoleon made to the legislative bodies just
before the rupture, he said: "Two parties contend in England for the
possession of power. One has concluded a peace. The other cherishes
implacable hatred against France. Hence arises this fluctuation in
councils and in measures, and this attitude, at one time pacific and
again menacing. While this strife continues, there are measures which
prudence demands of the government of the Republic. Five hundred
thousand men ought to be, and will be, ready to defend our country, and
to avenge insult. Strange necessity, which wicked passions impose upon
two nations, who should be, by the same interests and the same desires,
devoted to peace. But let us hope for the best; and believe that we
shall yet hear from the cabinet of England the councils of wisdom and
the voice of humanity." Says Alison, the most eloquent, able, and
impartial of those English historians who, with patriotic zeal, have
advocated the cause of their own country, "Upon coolly reviewing the
circumstances under which the conflict was renewed, it is impossible
to deny that the British government manifested a feverish anxiety to
come to a rupture, and that, so far as the transactions between the two
countries are concerned, they were the aggressors."
[Illustration: SCENE IN THE LOUVRE.]
When Mr. Fox was in Paris, he was one day, with Napoleon and several
other gentlemen, in the gallery of the Louvre, looking at a magnificent
globe, of unusual magnitude, which had been deposited in the museum.
Some one remarked upon the very small space which the island of Great
Britain seemed to occupy. "Yes," said Mr. Fox, as he approached the
globe, and attempted to encircle it in his extended arms, "England is
a small island, but with her power she girdles the world." This was
not an empty boast. Her possessions were every where. In Spain, in the
Mediterranean, in the East Indies and West Indies, in Asia, Africa,
and America, and over innumerable islands of the ocean, she extended
her sceptre. Rome, in her proudest day of grandeur, never swayed such
power. To Napoleon, consequently, it seemed but mere trifling for this
England to complain that the infant republic of France, struggling
against the hostile monarchies of Europe, was endangering the world by
her ambition, because she had obtained an influence in Piedmont, in
the Cisalpine Republic, in the feeble Duchy of Parma, and had obtained
the island of Elba for a colony. To the arguments and remonstrances
of Napoleon, England could make no reply but by the broadsides of her
ships. "You are seated," said England, "upon the throne of the exiled
Bourbons." "And your king," Napoleon replies, "is on the throne of the
exiled Stuarts." "But the First Consul of France is also President of
the Cisalpine Republic," England rejoins. "And the King of England,"
Napoleon adds, "is also Elector of Hanover." "Your troops are in
Switzerland," England continues. "And yours," Napoleon replies, "are in
Spain, having fortified themselves upon the rock of Gibraltar." "You
are ambitious, and are trying to establish foreign colonies," England
rejoins. "But you," Napoleon replies, "have ten colonies where we have
one." "We _believe_," England says, "that you desire to appropriate
to yourself Egypt." "You _have_," Napoleon retorts, "appropriated
to yourself India." Indignantly England exclaims, "Nelson, bring on
the fleet! Wellington, head the army! This man must be put down. His
ambition endangers the liberties of the world. Historians of England!
inform the nations that the usurper Bonaparte, by his arrogance and
aggression, is deluging the Continent with blood."
Immediately upon the withdrawal of the British embassador from Paris,
and even before the departure of the French minister from London,
England, without any public declaration of hostilities, commenced her
assaults upon France. The merchant ships of the Republic, unsuspicious
of danger, freighted with treasure, were seized, even in the harbors
of England, and wherever they could be found, by the vigilant and
almost omnipresent navy of the Queen of the Seas. Two French ships
of war were attacked and captured. These disastrous tidings were the
first intimation that Napoleon received that the war was renewed. The
indignation of the First Consul was thoroughly aroused. The retaliating
blow he struck, though merited, yet terrible, was characteristic of
the man. At midnight he summoned to his presence the minister of
police, and ordered the immediate arrest of every Englishman in France,
between the ages of eighteen and fifty. These were all to be detained
as hostages for the prisoners England had captured upon the seas. The
tidings of this decree rolled a billow of woe over the peaceful homes
of England; for there were thousands of travelers upon the continent,
unapprehensive of danger, supposing that war would be declared before
hostilities would be resumed. These were the first-fruits of that
terrific conflict into which the world again was plunged. No tongue
can tell the anguish thus caused in thousands of homes. Most of the
travelers were gentlemen of culture and refinement--husbands, fathers,
sons, brothers--who were visiting the continent for pleasure. During
twelve weary years these hapless men lingered in exile. Many died and
moldered to the dust in France. Children grew to manhood strangers to
their imprisoned fathers, knowing not even whether they were living
or dead. Wives and daughters, in desolated homes, through lingering
years of suspense and agony, sank in despair into the grave. The hulks
of England were also filled with the husbands and fathers of France,
and beggary and starvation reigned in a thousand cottages, clustered
in the valleys and along the shores of the republic, where peace and
contentment might have dwelt, but for this horrible and iniquitous
strife. As in all such cases, the woes fell mainly upon the innocent,
upon those homes where matrons and maidens wept away years of agony.
The imagination is appalled in contemplating this melancholy addition
to the ordinary miseries of war. William Pitt, whose genius inspired
this strife, was a man of gigantic intellect, of gigantic energy. But
he was an entire stranger to all those kindly sensibilities which add
lustre to human nature. He was neither a father nor a husband, and no
emotions of gentleness, of tenderness, of affection, ever ruffled the
calm, cold, icy surface of his soul.
The order to seize all the English in France, was thus announced in the
_Moniteur_: "The government of the Republic, having heard read, by the
Minister of Marine and Colonies, a dispatch from the maritime prefect
at Brest, announcing that two English frigates had taken two merchant
vessels in the bay of Audrieu, without any previous declaration of war,
and in manifest violation of the law of nations:
"All the English, from the ages of 18 to 60, or holding any commission
from his Britannic Majesty, who are at present in France, shall
immediately be constituted prisoners of war, to answer for those
citizens of the Republic who may have been arrested and made prisoners
by the vessels or subjects of his Britannic Majesty previous to any
declaration of hostilities.
(Signed) "BONAPARTE."
Napoleon treated the captives whom he had taken with great humanity,
holding as prisoners of war only those who were in the military
service, while the rest were detained in fortified places on
their parole, with much personal liberty. The English held the
French prisoners in floating hulks, crowded together in a state
of inconceivable suffering. Napoleon at times felt that, for the
protection of the French captives in England, he ought to retaliate, by
visiting similar inflictions upon the English prisoners in France. It
was not an easy question for a humane man to settle. But instinctive
kindness prevailed, and Napoleon spared the unhappy victims who were
in his power. The cabinet of St. James's remonstrated energetically
against Napoleon's capture of peaceful travelers upon the land.
Napoleon replied, "You have seized unsuspecting voyagers upon the sea."
England rejoined, "It is customary to capture every thing we can find,
upon the ocean, belonging to an enemy, and therefore it is right."
Napoleon answered, "I will make it customary to do the same thing upon
the land, and then that also will be right." There the argument ended.
But the poor captives were still pining away in the hulks of England,
or wandering in sorrow around the fortresses of France. Napoleon
proposed to exchange the travelers he had taken upon the land for the
voyagers the English had taken upon the sea; but the cabinet of St.
James, asserting that such an exchange would sanction the validity of
their capture, refused the humane proposal, and heartlessly left the
captives of the two nations to their terrible fate. Napoleon assured
the detained of his sympathy, but informed them that their destiny was
entirely in the hands of their own government, and to that alone they
must appeal.
Such is war, even when conducted by two nations as enlightened
and humane as England and France. Such is that horrible system of
retaliation which war necessarily engenders. This system of reprisals,
visiting upon the innocent the crimes of the guilty, is the fruit
which ever ripens when war buds and blossoms. Napoleon had received
a terrific blow. With instinctive and stupendous power he returned
it. Both nations were now exasperated to the highest degree. The
most extraordinary vigor was infused into the deadly strife. The
power and the genius of France were concentrated in the ruler whom
the almost unanimous voice of France had elevated to the supreme
power. Consequently, the war assumed the aspect of an assault upon an
individual man. France was quite unprepared for this sudden resumption
of hostilities. Napoleon had needed all the resources of the state for
his great works of internal improvement. Large numbers of troops had
been disbanded, and the army was on a peace establishment.
[Illustration: ARREST OF CADOUDAL.]
All France was however roused by the sleepless energy of Napoleon.
The Electorate of Hanover was one of the European possessions of the
King of England. Ten days had not elapsed, after the first broadside
from the British ships had been heard, ere a French army of twenty
thousand men invaded Hanover, captured its army of 16,000 troops,
with 400 pieces of cannon, 30,000 muskets, and 3500 superb horses,
and took entire possession of the province. The King of England was
deeply agitated when he received the tidings of this sudden loss of his
patrimonial dominions.
The First Consul immediately sent new offers of peace to England,
stating that in the conquest of Hanover, "he had only in view to obtain
pledges for the evacuation of Malta, and to secure the execution of
the treaty of Amiens." The British minister coldly replied that his
sovereign would appeal for aid to the German empire. "If a general
peace is ever concluded," said Napoleon often, "then only shall I
be able to show myself such as I am, and become the moderator of
Europe. France is enabled, by her high civilization, and the absence
of all aristocracy, to moderate the extreme demands of the two
principles which divide the world, by placing herself between them;
thus preventing a general conflagration, of which none of us can see
the end, or guess the issue. For this I want ten years of peace,
and the English oligarchy will not allow it." Napoleon was forced
into war by the English. The allied monarchs of Europe were roused
to combine against him. This compelled France to become a camp, and
forced Napoleon to assume the dictatorship. The width of the Atlantic
ocean alone has saved the United States from the assaults of a similar
combination.
It had ever been one of Napoleon's favorite projects to multiply
colonies, that he might promote the maritime prosperity of France.
With this object in view, he had purchased Louisiana of Spain. It
was his intention to cherish, with the utmost care, upon the fertile
banks of the Mississippi, a French colony. This territory, so valuable
to France, was now at the mercy of England, and would be immediately
captured. Without loss of time, Napoleon sold it to the United States.
It was a severe sacrifice for him to make, but cruel necessity demanded
it.
The French were every where exposed to the ravages of the British navy.
Blow after blow fell upon France with fearful vigor, as her cities
were bombarded, her colonies captured, and her commerce annihilated.
The superiority of the English, upon the sea, was so decisive, that
wherever the British flag appeared victory was almost invariably her
own. But England was inapproachable. Guarded by her navy, she reposed
in her beautiful island in peace, while she rained down destruction
upon her foes in all quarters of the globe. "It is an awful temerity,
my lord," said Napoleon to the British embassador, "to attempt the
invasion of England." But desperate as Napoleon acknowledged the
undertaking to be, there was nothing else which he could even attempt.
And he embarked in this enterprise with energy so extraordinary, with
foresight so penetrating, with sagacity so conspicuous, that the world
looked upon his majestic movements with amazement, and all England was
aroused to a sense of fearful peril. The most gigantic preparations
were immediately made upon the shores of the channel for the invasion
of England. An army of three hundred thousand men, as by magic,
sprung into being. All France was aroused to activity. Two thousand
gun-boats were speedily built and collected at Boulogne, to convey
across the narrow strait a hundred and fifty thousand troops, ten
thousand horses, and four thousand pieces of cannon. All the foundries
of France were in full blast, constructing mortars, howitzers, and
artillery, of the largest calibre. Every province of the republic was
aroused and inspirited by the almost superhuman energies of the mind
of the First Consul. He attended to the minutest particulars of all
the arrangements. While believing that destiny controls all things,
he seemed to leave nothing for destiny to control. Every possible
contingency was foreseen, and guarded against. The national enthusiasm
was so great, the conviction was so unanimous that there remained for
France no alternative but, by force, to repel aggression, that Napoleon
proudly formed a legion of the Vendean royalists, all composed, both
officers and soldiers, of those who, but a few months before, had
been fighting against the republic. It was a sublime assertion of his
confidence in the attachment of United France. To meet the enormous
expenses which this new war involved, it was necessary to impose a
heavy tax upon the people. This was not only borne cheerfully, but,
from all parts of the republic, rich presents flowed into the treasury,
tokens of the affection of France for the First Consul, and of the
deep conviction of the community of the righteousness of the cause in
which they were engaged. One of the departments of the state built and
equipped a frigate, and sent it to Boulogne as a free-gift. The impulse
was electric. All over France the whole people rose, and vied with each
other in their offerings of good-will. Small towns gave flat-bottomed
boats, larger towns, frigates, and the more important cities,
ships-of-the-line. Paris gave a ship of 120 guns, Lyons one of 100,
Bordeaux an 84, and Marseilles a 74. Even the Italian Republic, as a
token of its gratitude, sent one million of dollars to build two ships:
one to be called the President, and the other the Italian Republic.
All the mercantile houses and public bodies made liberal presents. The
Senate gave for its donation a ship of 120 guns. These free-gifts
amounted to over ten millions of dollars. Napoleon established himself
at Boulogne, where he spent much of his time, carefully studying
the features of the coast, the varying phenomena of the sea, and
organizing, in all its parts, the desperate enterprise he contemplated.
The most rigid economy, by Napoleon's sleepless vigilance, was infused
into every contract, and the strictest order pervaded the national
finances. It was impossible that strife so deadly should rage between
England and France, and not involve the rest of the continent. Under
these circumstances Alexander of Russia, entered a remonstrance against
again enkindling the horrid flames of war throughout Europe, and
offered his mediation. Napoleon promptly replied: "I am ready to refer
the question to the arbitration of the Emperor Alexander, and will
pledge myself by a bond, to submit to the award, whatever it may be."
England declined the pacific offer. The _Cabinet_ of Russia then made
some proposals for the termination of hostilities. Napoleon replied: "I
am still ready to accept the personal arbitration of the Czar himself;
for that monarch's regard to his reputation will render him just. But
I am not willing to submit to a negotiation conducted by the Russian
Cabinet, in a manner not at all friendly to France." He concluded with
the following characteristic words: "The First Consul has done every
thing to preserve peace. His efforts have been vain. He could not
refrain from seeing that war was the decree of destiny. He will make
war; and he will not flinch before a proud nation, capable for twenty
years of making all the powers of the earth bow before it."
Napoleon now resolved to visit Belgium and the departments of the
Rhine. Josephine accompanied him. He was hailed with transport wherever
he appeared, and royal honors were showered upon him. Every where his
presence drew forth manifestations of attachment to his person, hatred
for the English, and zeal to combat the determined foes of France. But
wherever Napoleon went, his scrutinizing attention was directed to the
dock-yards, the magazines, the supplies, and the various resources and
capabilities of the country. Every hour was an hour of toil--for toil
seemed to be his only pleasure. From this brief tour Napoleon returned
to Boulogne.
The Straits of Calais, which Napoleon contemplated crossing,
notwithstanding the immense preponderance of the British navy
filling the channel, is about thirty miles in width. There were four
contingencies which seemed to render the project not impossible. In
summer, there are frequent calms, in the channel, of forty-eight
hours' duration. During this calm, the English ships-of-the-line
would be compelled to lie motionless. The flat-bottomed boats of
Napoleon, impelled by strong rowers might then pass even in sight of
the enemy's squadron. In the winter, there were frequently dense fogs,
unaccompanied by any wind. Favored by the obscurity and the calm, a
passage might then be practicable. There was still a third chance
more favorable than either. There were not unfrequently tempests, so
violent, that the English squadron would be compelled to leave the
channel, and stand out to sea. Seizing the moment when the tempest
subsided, the French flotilla might perhaps cross the Straits before
the squadron could return. A fourth chance offered. It was, by skillful
combinations to concentrate suddenly in the channel a strong French
squadron, and to push the flotilla across under the protection of its
guns. For three years, Napoleon consecrated his untiring energies to
the perfection of all the mechanism of this Herculean enterprise. Yet
no one was more fully alive than himself to the tremendous hazards to
be encountered. It is impossible now to tell what would have been the
result of a conflict between the English squadron and those innumerable
gun-boats, manned by one hundred and fifty thousand men, surrounding
in swarms every ship-of-the-line, piercing them in every direction
with their guns, and sweeping their decks with a perfect hail-storm
of bullets, while, in their turn, they were run down by the large
ships, dashing, in full sail, through their midst, sinking some in
their crushing onset, and blowing others out of the water with their
tremendous broadsides. Said Admiral Decris, a man disposed to magnify
difficulties, "by sacrificing 100 gun-boats, and 10,000 men, it is not
improbable that we may repel the assault of the enemy's squadron, and
cross the Straits." "One loses," said Napoleon, "that number in battle
every day. And what battle ever promised the results which a landing in
England authorizes us to hope for!"
[Illustration: ARREST OF THE DUKE D'ENGHIEN.]
The amount of business now resting upon the mind of Napoleon, seems
incredible. He was personally attending to all the complicated
diplomacy of Europe. Spain was professing friendship and alliance, and
yet treacherously engaged in acts of hostility. Charles III., perhaps
the most contemptible monarch who ever wore a crown, was then upon the
throne of Spain. His wife was a shameless libertine. Her paramour,
Godoy, called the Prince of Peace, a weak-minded, conceited, worn-out
debauchee, governed the degraded empire. Napoleon remonstrated against
the perfidy of Spain, and the wrongs France was receiving at her hands.
The miserable Godoy returned an answer, mean-spirited, hypocritical,
and sycophantic. Napoleon sternly shook his head, and ominously
exclaimed, "All this will yet end in a clap of thunder."
In the midst of these scenes, Napoleon was continually displaying
those generous and magnanimous traits of character which were the
enthusiastic love of all who knew him. On one occasion, a young English
sailor had escaped from imprisonment in the interior of France, and
had succeeded in reaching the coast near Boulogne. Secretly he had
constructed a little skiff of the branches and the bark of trees, as
fragile as the ark of bullrushes. Upon this frail float, which would
scarcely buoy up his body, he was about to venture out upon the stormy
channel, with the chance of being picked up by some English cruiser.
Napoleon, informed of the desperate project of the young man who was
arrested in the attempt, was struck with admiration in view of the
fearless enterprise, and ordered the prisoner to be brought before him.
"Did you really intend," inquired Napoleon, "to brave the terrors of
the ocean in so frail a skiff?"
"If you will but grant me permission," said the young man, "I will
embark immediately."
"You must, doubtless, then, have some mistress to revisit, since you
are so desirous to return to your country?"
"I wish," replied the noble sailor, "to see my mother. She is aged,
poor, and infirm."
The heart of Napoleon was touched. "You shall see her," he
energetically replied; "and present to her from me this purse of gold.
She must be no common mother, who can have trained up so affectionate
and dutiful a son."
He immediately gave orders that the young sailor should be furnished
with every comfort, and sent in a cruiser, with a flag of truce, to the
first British vessel which could be found. When one thinks of the moral
sublimity of the meeting of the English and French ships under these
circumstances, with the white flag of humanity and peace fluttering in
the breeze, one can not but mourn with more intensity over the horrid
barbarity and brutality of savage war. Perhaps in the next interview
between these two ships, they fought for hours, hurling bullets and
balls through the quivering nerves and lacerated sinews, and mangled
frames of brothers, husbands, and fathers.
Napoleon's labors at this time in the cabinet were so enormous,
dictating to his agents in all parts of France, and to his embassadors,
all over Europe, that he kept three secretaries constantly employed.
One of these young men, who was lodged and boarded in the palace,
received a salary of 1200 dollars a year. Unfortunately, however,
he had become deeply involved in debt, and was incessantly harassed
by the importunities of his creditors. Knowing Napoleon's strong
disapprobation of all irregularities, he feared utter ruin should the
knowledge of the facts reach his ears. One morning, after having passed
a sleepless night, he rose at the early hour of five, and sought refuge
from his distraction in commencing work in the cabinet. But Napoleon,
who had already been at work for some time, in passing the door of the
cabinet to go to his bath, heard the young man humming a tune.
Opening the door, he looked in upon his young secretary, and said, with
a smile of satisfaction, "What! so early at your desk! Why, this is
very exemplary. We ought to be well satisfied with such service. What
salary have you?"
"Twelve hundred dollars, sire," was the reply.
"Indeed," said Napoleon, "that for one of your age is very handsome.
And, in addition, I think you have your board and lodging?"
"I have, sire?"
"Well, I do not wonder that you sing. You must be a very happy man."
"Alas, sire," he replied, "I ought to be, but I am not."
"And why not?"
"Because, sire," he replied, "I have too many _English_ tormenting me.
I have also an aged father, who is almost blind, and a sister who is
not yet married, dependent upon me for support."
"But, sir," Napoleon rejoined, "in supporting your father and your
sister, you do only that which every good son should do. But what have
you to do with the _English_?"
"They are those," the young man answered, "who have loaned me money,
which I am not able to repay. All those who are in debt call their
creditors the _English_."
"Enough! enough! I understand you. You are in debt then. And how is it
that with such a salary, you run into debt? I wish to have no man about
my person who has recourse to the gold of the _English_. From this hour
you will receive your dismission. Adieu, sir!" Saying this, Napoleon
left the room, and returned to his chamber. The young man was stupefied
with despair.
But a few moments elapsed when an aid entered and gave him a note,
saying, "It is from Napoleon." Trembling with agitation, and not
doubting that it confirmed his dismissal, he opened it and read:
"I have wished to dismiss you from my cabinet, for you deserve it;
but I have thought of your aged and blind father, and of your young
sister; and, for their sake, I pardon you. And, since they are the ones
who must most suffer from your misconduct, I send you, with leave of
absence for one day only, the sum of two thousand dollars. With this
sum disembarrass yourself immediately of all the _English_ who trouble
you. And hereafter conduct yourself in such a manner as not to fall
into their power. Should you fail in this, I shall give you leave of
absence, without permission to return."
Upon the bleak cliff of Boulogne, swept by the storm and the rain,
Napoleon had a little hut erected for himself. Often, leaving the
palace of St. Cloud by night, after having spent a toilsome day in the
cares of state, he passed, with almost the rapidity of the wind, over
the intervening space of 180 miles. Arriving about the middle of the
next day, apparently unconscious of fatigue, he examined every thing
before he allowed himself a moment of sleep. The English exerted all
their energies to impede the progress of the majestic enterprise. Their
cruisers incessantly hovering around, kept up an almost uninterrupted
fire upon the works. Their shells, passing over the cliff, exploded
in the harbor and in the crowded camps. The laborers, inspired by the
presence of Napoleon, continued proudly their toil, singing as they
worked, while the balls of the English were flying around them. For
their protection, Napoleon finally constructed large batteries, which
would throw twenty-four pound shot three miles, and thus kept the
English ships at that distance. It would, however, require a volume to
describe the magnitude of the works constructed at Boulogne. Napoleon
was indefatigable in his exertions to promote the health and the
comfort of the soldiers. They were all well paid, warmly clothed, fed
with an abundance of nutritious food, and their camp, divided into
quarters traversed by long streets, presented the cheerful aspect of
a neat, thriving, well ordered city. The soldiers, thus protected,
enjoyed perfect health, and, full of confidence in the enterprise for
which they were preparing, hailed their beloved leader with the most
enthusiastic acclamations, whenever he appeared.
[Illustration: NAPOLEON'S HUT AT BOULOGNE.]
Spacious as were the quays erected at Boulogne, it was not possible to
range all the vessels alongside. They were consequently ranged nine
deep, the first only touching the quays. A horse, with a band passing
round him, was raised, by means of a yard, transmitted nine times
from yard to yard, as he was borne aloft in the air, and in about two
minutes was deposited in the ninth vessel. By constant repetition,
the embarkation and disembarkation was accomplished with almost
inconceivable promptness and precision. In all weather, in summer and
winter, unless it blew a gale, the boats went out to manoeuvre in the
presence of the enemy. The exercise of landing from the boats along
the cliff was almost daily performed. The men first swept the shore
by a steady fire of artillery from the boats, and then, approaching
the beach, landed men, horses, and cannon. There was not an accident
which could happen in landing on an enemies' coast, except the fire
from hostile batteries, which was not thus provided against, and often
braved. In all these exciting scenes, the First Consul was every where
present. The soldiers saw him now on horseback upon the cliff, gazing
proudly upon their heroic exertions; again he was galloping over the
hard smooth sands of the beach, and again on board of one of the
gun-boats going out to try her powers in a skirmish with one of the
British cruisers. Frequently he persisted in braving serious danger,
and at one time, when visiting the anchorage in a violent gale, the
boat was swamped near the shore. The sailors threw themselves into
the sea, and bore him safely through the billows to the land. It is
not strange that those who have seen the kings of France squandering
the revenues of the realm to minister to their own voluptuousness and
debauchery, should have regarded Napoleon as belonging to a different
race. One day, when the atmosphere was peculiarly clear, Napoleon, upon
the cliffs of Boulogne, saw dimly, in the distant horizon, the outline
of the English shore. Roused by the sight, he wrote thus to Cambèceres:
"From the heights of Ambleteuse, I have seen this day the coast of
England, as one sees the heights of Calvary from the Tuileries. We
could distinguish the houses and the bustle. It is a ditch that shall
be leaped when one is daring enough to try."
Napoleon, though one of the most bold of men in his conceptions,
was also the most cautious and prudent in their execution. He had
made, in his own mind, arrangements, unrevealed to any one, suddenly
to concentrate in the channel the whole French squadron, which, in
the harbors of Toulon, Ferrol, and La Rochelle, had been thoroughly
equipped, to act in unexpected concert with the vast flotilla. "Eight
hours of night," said he, "favorable for us, will now decide the fate
of the world."
England, surprised at the magnitude of these preparations, began to
be seriously alarmed. She had imagined her ocean-engirdled isle to be
in a state of perfect security. Now she learned that within thirty
miles of her coast an army of 150,000 most highly-disciplined troops
was assembled, that more than two thousand gun-boats were prepared to
transport this host, with ten thousand horses, and four thousand pieces
of cannon, across the channel, and that Napoleon, who had already
proved himself to be the greatest military genius of any age, was to
head this army on its march to London. The idea of 150,000 men, led by
Bonaparte, was enough to make even the most powerful nation shudder.
The British naval officers almost unanimously expressed the opinion,
that it was impossible to be secure against a descent on the English
coast by the French, under favor of a fog, a calm, or a long winter's
night. The debates in Parliament as to the means of resisting the
danger, were anxious and stormy. A vote was passed authorizing the
ministers to summon all Englishmen, between the ages of 17 and 55, to
arms. In every country town the whole male population were seen every
morning exercising for war. The aged King George III. reviewed these
raw troops, accompanied by the excited Bourbon princes, who wished to
recover by the force of the arms of foreigners, that throne from which
they had been ejected by the will of the people. From the Isle of Wight
to the mouth of the Thames, a system of signals was arranged to give
the alarm. Beacon fires were to blaze at night upon every headland,
upon the slightest intimation of danger. Carriages were constructed
for the rapid conveyance of troops to any threatened point. Mothers
and maidens, in beautiful happy England, placed their heads upon their
pillows in terror, for the blood-hounds of war were unleashed, and
England had unleashed them. She suffered bitterly for the crime. She
suffers still in that enormous burden of taxes which the ensuing years
of war and woe have bequeathed to her children.
The infamous George Cadoudal, already implicated in the infernal
machine, was still in London, living with other French refugees, in a
state of opulence, from the money furnished by the British government.
The Count d'Artois, subsequently Charles X., and his son, the Duke de
Berri, with other persons prominent in the Bourbon interests, were
associated with this brawny assassin in the attempts, by any means,
fair or foul, to crush Napoleon. The English government supplied
them liberally with money; asking no questions, for conscience sake,
respecting the manner in which they would employ it. Innumerable
conspiracies were formed for the assassination of Napoleon, more
than thirty of which were detected by the police. Napoleon at last
became exceedingly exasperated. He felt that England was ignominiously
supplying those with funds whom she knew to be aiming at his
assassination. He was indignant that the Bourbon princes should assume,
that he, elected to the chief magistracy of France by the unanimous
voice of the nation, was to be treated as a dog--to be shot in a ditch.
"If this game is continued," said he, one day, "I will teach those
Bourbons a lesson which they will not soon forget."
A conspiracy was now organized in London, by Count d'Artois and
others of the French emigrants, upon a gigantic scale. Count de
Lisle, afterward Louis XVIII., was then residing at Warsaw. The
plot was communicated to him; but he repulsed it. The plan involved
the expenditure of millions, which were furnished by the British
government. Mr. Hammond, under secretary of state at London, and the
English ministers at Hesse, at Stuttgard, and at Bavaria, all upon the
confines of France, were in intimate communication with the disaffected
in France, endeavoring to excite civil war. Three prominent French
emigrants, the Princes of Condé, grandfather, son, and grandson, were
then in the service and pay of Great Britain, with arms in their hands
against their country, and ready to obey any call for active service.
The grandson, the Duke d'Enghien, was in the duchy of Baden, awaiting
on the banks of the Rhine, the signal for his march into France; and
attracted to the village of Ettenheim, by his attachment for a young
lady there, a Princess de Rohan. The plan of the conspirators was this:
A band of a hundred resolute men, headed by the daring and indomitable
George Cadoudal, were to be introduced stealthily into France to waylay
Napoleon when passing to Malmaison, disperse his guard, consisting
of some ten outriders, and kill him upon the spot. The conspirators
flattered themselves that this would not be considered assassination,
but a battle. Having thus disposed of the First Consul, the next
question was, how, in the midst of the confusion that would ensue, to
regain for the Bourbons and their partisans their lost power. To do
this, it was necessary to secure the co-operation of the army.
In nothing is the infirmity of our nature more conspicuous, than in
the petty jealousies which so often rankle in the bosoms of great men.
General Moreau had looked with an envious eye upon the gigantic strides
of General Bonaparte to power. His wife, a weak, vain, envious woman,
could not endure the thought that General Moreau should be only the
second man in the empire; and she exerted all her influence over her
vacillating and unstable husband, to convince him that the conqueror of
Hohenlinden was entitled to the highest gifts France had to confer. One
day, by accident, she was detained a few moments in the ante-chamber of
Josephine. Her indignation was extreme. General Moreau was in a mood of
mind to yield to the influence of these reproaches. As an indication of
his displeasure, he allowed himself to repel the favors which the First
Consul showered upon him. He at last was guilty of the impropriety of
refusing to attend the First Consul at a review. In consequence, he
was omitted in an invitation to a banquet, which Napoleon gave on the
anniversary of the republic. Thus coldness increased to hostility.
Moreau, with bitter feelings, withdrew to his estate at Grosbois,
where, in the enjoyment of opulence, he watched with an evil eye, the
movements of one whom he had the vanity to think his rival.
Under these circumstances, it was not thought difficult to win
over Moreau, and through him the army. Then, at the very moment
when Napoleon had been butchered on his drive to Malmaison, the
loyalists all over France were to rise; the emigrant Bourbons, with
arms and money, supplied by England, in their hands, were to rush
over the frontier; the British navy and army were to be ready with
their powerful co-operation; and the Bourbon dynasty was to be
re-established. Such was this famous conspiracy of the Bourbons.
[Illustration: EXECUTION OF THE DUKE D'ENGHIEN.]
But in this plan there was a serious difficulty. Moreau prided himself
upon being a very decided republican; and had denounced even the
consulate for life, as tending to the establishment of royalty. Still
it was hoped that the jealousy of his disposition would induce him
to engage in any plot for the overthrow of the First Consul. General
Pichegru, a man illustrious in rank and talent, a warm advocate of the
Bourbons, and alike influential with monarchists and republicans, had
escaped from the wilds of Sinamary, where he had been banished by the
Directory, and was then residing in London. Pichegru was drawn into
the conspiracy, and employed to confer with Moreau. Matters being thus
arranged, Cadoudal, with a band of bold and desperate men, armed to
the teeth, and with an ample supply of funds, which had been obtained
from the English treasury, set out from London for Paris. Upon the
coast of Normandy, upon the side of a precipitous craggy cliff, ever
washed by the ocean, there was a secret passage formed, by a cleft in
the rock, known only to smugglers. Through the cleft, two or three
hundred feet in depth, a rope-ladder could be let down to the surface
of the sea. The smugglers thus scaled the precipice, bearing heavy
burdens upon their shoulders. Cadoudal had found out this path, and
easily purchased its use. To facilitate communication with Paris, a
chain of lodging-places had been established, in solitary farm-houses,
and in the castles of loyalist nobles; so that the conspirators
could pass from the cliff of Biville to Paris without exposure to
the public roads, or to any inn. Captain Wright, an officer in the
English navy, a bold and skillful seaman, took the conspirators on
board his vessel, and secretly landed them at the foot of this cliff.
Cautiously, Cadoudal, with some of his trusty followers, crept along,
from shelter to shelter, until he reached the suburbs of Paris. From
his lurking place he dispatched emissaries, bought by his abundance
of gold, to different parts of France, to prepare the royalists to
rise. Much to his disappointment, he found Napoleon almost universally
popular, and the loyalists themselves settling down in contentment
under his efficient government. Even the priests were attached to
the First Consul, for he had rescued them from the most unrelenting
persecution. In the course of two months of incessant exertions,
Cadoudal was able to collect but about thirty men, who, by liberal
pay, were willing to run the risk of trying to restore the Bourbons.
While Cadoudal was thus employed with the royalists, Pichegru and his
agents were sounding Moreau and the republicans. General Lajolais, a
former officer of Moreau, was easily gained over. He drew from Moreau
a confession of his wounded feelings, and of his desire to see the
consular government overthrown in almost any way. Lajolais did not
reveal to the illustrious general the details of the conspiracy, but
hastening to London, by the circuitous route of Hamburg, to avoid
detection, told his credulous employers that Moreau was ready to take
any part in the enterprise. At the conferences now held in London, by
this band of conspirators, plotting assassination, the Count d'Artois
had the criminal folly to preside--the future monarch of France guiding
the deliberations of a band of assassins. When Lajolais reported that
Moreau was ready to join Pichegru the moment he should appear, Charles,
then Count d'Artois, exclaimed with delight, "Ah! let but our two
generals agree together, and I shall speedily be restored to France!"
It was arranged that Pichegru, Rivière, and one of the Polignacs, with
others of the conspirators, should immediately join George Cadoudal,
and, as soon as every thing was ripe, Charles and his son, the Duke of
Berri, were to land in France, and take their share in the infamous
project. Pichegru and his party embarked on board the vessel of Captain
Wright, and were landed, in the darkness of the night, beneath the
cliff of Biville. These illustrious assassins climbed the smugglers'
rope, and skulking from lurking-place to lurking-place, joined the
desperado, George Cadoudal, in the suburbs of Paris. Moreau made
an appointment to meet Pichegru by night upon the boulevard de la
Madelaine.
It was a dark and cold night, in the month of January, 1804, when these
two illustrious generals, the conqueror of Holland and the hero of
Hohenlinden, approached, and, by a preconcerted signal, recognized
each other. Years had elapsed since they had stood side by side as
soldiers in the army of the Rhine. Both were embarrassed, for neither
of these once honorable men was accustomed to deeds of darkness. They
had hardly exchanged salutations, when George Cadoudal appeared, he
having planned the meeting, and being determined to know its result.
Moreau, disgusted with the idea of having any association with such a
man, was angry in being subjected to such an interview; and appointing
another meeting with Pichegru at his own house, abruptly retired. They
soon met, and had a long and serious conference. Moreau was perfectly
willing to conspire for the overthrow of the consular government, but
insisted that the supreme power should be placed in his own hands, and
not in the hands of the Bourbons. Pichegru was grievously disappointed
at the result of this interview. He remarked to the confidant who
conducted him to Moreau's house, and thence back to his retreat, "And
this man too has ambition, and wishes to take his turn in governing
France. Poor creature! he could not govern her for four-and-twenty
hours." When Cadoudal was informed of the result of the interview, he
impetuously exclaimed, "If we must needs have any usurper, I should
infinitely prefer Napoleon to this brainless and heartless Moreau!"
The conspirators were now almost in a state of despair. They found, to
their surprise, in entire contradiction to the views which had been
so confidently proclaimed in England, that Napoleon was admired and
beloved by nearly all the French nation; and that it was impossible to
organize even a respectable party in opposition to him.
[Illustration: MADAME POLIGNAC INTERCEDING FOR HER HUSBAND.]
Various circumstances now led the First Consul to suspect that some
serious plot was in progress. The three English ministers at Hesse,
Wirtemberg, and Bavaria, were found actively employed in endeavoring
to foment intrigues in France. The minister at Bavaria, Mr. Drake,
had, as he supposed, bribed a Frenchman to act as his spy. This
Frenchman carried all Drake's letters to Napoleon, and received from
the First Consul drafts of the answers to be returned. In this curious
correspondence Drake remarks in one of his letters, "_All plots against
the First Consul must be forwarded; for it is a matter of right little
consequence by whom the animal be stricken down, provided you are all
in the hunt_." Napoleon caused these letters to be deposited in the
senate, and to be exhibited to the diplomatists of all nations, who
chose to see them. Some spies had also been arrested by the police,
and condemned to be shot. One, on his way to execution, declared
that he had important information to give. He was one of the band of
George Cadoudal, and confessed the whole plot. Other conspirators were
soon arrested. Among them M. Lozier, a man of education and polished
manners, declared that Moreau had sent to the royalist conspirators
in London, one of his officers, offering to head a movement in behalf
of the Bourbons, and to influence the army to co-operate in that
movement. When the conspirators, relying upon this promise, had reached
Paris, he continued, Moreau took a different turn, and demanded that he
himself should be made the successor of the First Consul. When first
intimation of Moreau's guilt was communicated to Napoleon, it was
with difficulty that he could credit it. The First Consul immediately
convened a secret council of his ministers. They met in the Tuileries
at night. Moreau was a formidable opponent even for Napoleon to attack.
He was enthusiastically admired by the army, and his numerous and
powerful friends would aver that he was the victim of the jealousy of
the French Consul. It was suggested by some of the council that it
would be good policy not to touch Moreau. Napoleon remarked, "they will
say that I am afraid of Moreau. That shall not be said. I have been one
of the most merciful of men; but, if necessary, I will be one of the
most terrible. I will strike Moreau as I would strike any one else, as
he has entered into a conspiracy, odious alike for its objects and for
the connections which it presumes." It was decided that Moreau should
be immediately arrested. Cambacères, a profound lawyer, declared that
the ordinary tribunals were not sufficient to meet this case, and urged
that Moreau should be tried by a court martial, composed of the most
eminent military officers, a course which would have been in entire
accordance with existing laws. Napoleon opposed the proposition. "It
would be said," he remarked, "that I had punished Moreau, by causing
him, under the form of law, to be condemned by my own partisans."
Early in the morning, Moreau was arrested and conducted to the Temple.
Excitement spread rapidly through Paris. The friends of Moreau declared
that there was no conspiracy, that neither George Cadoudal nor Pichegru
were in France, that the whole story was an entire fabrication to
enable the First Consul to get rid of a dangerous rival. Napoleon was
extremely sensitive respecting his reputation. It was the great object
of his ambition to enthrone himself in the hearts of the French people
as a great benefactor. He was deeply wounded by these cruel taunts. "It
is indeed hard," said he, "to be exposed to plots the most atrocious,
and then to be accused of being the inventor of those plots; to be
charged with jealousy, when the vilest jealousy pursues me; to be
accused of attempts upon the life of another, when the most desperate
attacks are aimed at my own." All the enthusiasm of his impetuous
nature was now aroused to drag the whole plot to light in defense of
his honor. He was extremely indignant against the royalists. He had
not overturned the throne of the Bourbons. He had found it overturned,
France in anarchy, and the royalists in exile and beggary. He had been
the generous benefactor of these royalists, and had done every thing in
his power to render them service. In defiance of deeply-rooted popular
prejudices, and in opposition to the remonstrances of his friends, he
had recalled the exiled emigrants, restored to them, as far as possible
their confiscated estates, conferred upon them important trusts, and
had even lavished upon them so many favors as to have drawn upon
himself the accusation of meditating the restoration of the Bourbons.
In return for such services they were endeavoring to blow him up with
infernal machines, and to butcher him on the highway. As for Moreau, he
regarded him simply with pity, and wished only to place upon his head
the burden of a pardon. The most energetic measures were now adopted
to search out the conspirators in their lurking places. Every day new
arrests were made. Two of the conspirators made full confessions. They
declared that the highest nobles of the Bourbon Court were involved in
the plot, and that a distinguished Bourbon prince was near at hand,
ready to place himself at the head of the royalists as soon as Napoleon
should be slain.
The first Consul, exasperated to the highest degree, exclaimed, "These
Bourbons fancy that they may shed my blood like that of some wild
animal. And yet my blood is quite as precious as theirs. I will repay
them the alarm with which they seek to inspire me. I pardon Moreau the
weakness and the errors to which he is urged by a stupid jealousy. But
I will pitilessly shoot the very first of these princes who shall fall
into my hands. I will teach them with what sort of a man they have to
deal."
Fresh arrests were still daily made, and the confessions of the
prisoners all established the point that there was a young prince
who occasionally appeared in their councils, who was treated with
the greatest consideration, and who was to head the movement. Still
Cadoudal, Pichegru, and other prominent leaders of the conspiracy,
eluded detection. As there was ample evidence that these men were
in Paris, a law was passed by the Legislative Assembly, without
opposition, that any person who should shelter them should be punished
by death, and that whosoever should be aware of their hiding-place,
and yet fail to expose them, should be punished with six years
imprisonment. A strict guard was also placed, for several days, at the
gates of Paris, allowing no one to leave, and with orders to shoot
any person who should attempt to scale the wall. Pichegru, Cadoudal,
and the other prominent conspirators were now in a state of terrible
perplexity. They wandered by night from house to house, often paying
one or two thousand dollars for the shelter of a few hours. One evening
Pichegru, in a state of despair, seized a pistol and was about to shoot
himself through the head, when he was prevented by a friend. On another
occasion, with the boldness of desperation, he went to the house of
M. Marbois, one of the ministers of Napoleon, and implored shelter.
Marbois, knowing the noble character of the master whom he served, with
grief, but without hesitancy, allowed his old companion the temporary
shelter of his roof, and did not betray him. He subsequently informed
the First Consul of what he had done. Napoleon, with characteristic
magnanimity, replied to this avowal in a letter expressive of his
high admiration of his generosity, in affording shelter, under such
circumstances, to one, who though an outlaw, had been his friend.
At length Pichegru was betrayed. He was asleep at night. His sword
and loaded pistols were by his side, ready for desperate defense. The
gendarmes cautiously entered his room, and sprang upon his bed. He
was a powerful man, and he struggled with herculean but unavailing
efforts. He was, however, speedily overpowered, bound, and conducted
to the Temple. Soon after, George Cadoudal was arrested. He was in a
cabriolet. A police officer seized the bridle of the horse. Cadoudal
drew a pistol, and shot him dead upon the spot. He then leaped from
the cabriolet, and severely wounded another officer who attempted to
seize him. He made the utmost efforts to escape on foot under cover of
the darkness of the night; but, surrounded by the crowd, he was soon
captured. This desperado appeared perfectly calm and self-possessed
before his examiners. There were upon his person a dagger, pistols, and
twelve thousand dollars in gold and in bank notes. Boldly he avowed his
object of attacking the First Consul, and proudly declared that he was
acting in co-operation with the Bourbon princes.
The certainty of the conspiracy was now established, and the senate
transmitted a letter of congratulation to the First Consul upon his
escape. In his reply, Napoleon remarked, "I have long since renounced
the hope of enjoying the pleasures of private life. All my days are
occupied in fulfilling the duties which my fate and the will of the
French people have imposed upon me. Heaven will watch over France and
defeat the plots of the wicked. The citizens may be without alarm;
my life will last as long as it will be useful to the nation. But I
wish the French people to understand, that existence, without their
confidence and affection, would afford me no consolation, and would, as
regards them, have no beneficial objects."
Napoleon sincerely pitied Moreau and Pichegru, and wished to save them
from the ignominious death they merited. He sent a messenger to Moreau
assuring him that a frank confession should secure his pardon and
restoration to favor. But it was far more easy for Napoleon to forgive
than for the proud Moreau to accept his forgiveness. With profound
sympathy Napoleon contemplated the position of Pichegru. As he thought
of this illustrious general, condemned and executed like a felon, he
exclaimed to M. Real, "What an end for the conqueror of Holland! But
the men of the Revolution must not thus destroy each other. I have
long thought about forming a colony at Cayenne. Pichegru was exiled
thither, and knows the place well; and of all our generals, he is best
calculated to form an extensive establishment there. Go and visit him
in his prison, and tell him that I pardon him; that it is not toward
him or Moreau, or men like them that I am inclined to be severe.
Ask him how many men, and what amount of money he would require for
founding a colony in Cayenne, and I will supply him, that he may go
thither and re-establish his reputation in rendering a great service
to France." Pichegru was so much affected by this magnanimity of the
man whose death he had been plotting, that he bowed his head and wept
convulsively. The illustrious man was conquered.
But Napoleon was much annoyed in not being able to lay hold upon one of
those Bourbon princes who had so long been conspiring against his life,
and inciting others to perils from which they themselves escaped. One
morning in his study he inquired of Talleyrand and Fouché respecting
the place of residence of the various members of the Bourbon family. He
was told in reply that Louis XVIII. and the Duke d'Angouléme lived in
Warsaw; the Count d'Artois and the Duke de Berri in London, where also
were the Princes of Condé with the exception of the Duke d'Enghien, the
most enterprising of them all, who lived at Ettenheim near Strasburg.
It was in this vicinity that the British ministers Taylor, Smith, and
Drake had been busying themselves in fomenting intrigues. The idea
instantly flashed into the mind of the First Consul that the Duke
d'Enghien was thus lurking near the frontier of France to take part in
the conspiracy. He immediately sent an officer to Ettenheim to make
inquiries respecting the Prince. The officer returned with the report
that the Duke d'Enghien was living there with a Princess of Rohan, to
whom he was warmly attached. He was often absent from Ettenheim, and
occasionally went in disguise to Strasburg. He was in the pay of the
British government, a soldier against his own country, and had received
orders from the British Cabinet to repair to the banks of the Rhine, to
be ready to take advantage of any favorable opportunity which might be
presented to invade France.
On the very morning in which this report reached Paris, a deposition
was presented to Napoleon, made by the servant of George Cadoudal,
in which he stated that a prince was at the head of the conspiracy,
that he believed this Prince to be in France, as he had often seen at
the house of Cadoudal a well dressed man, of distinguished manners,
whom all seemed to treat with profound respect. This man, thought
Napoleon, must certainly be the Duke d'Enghien, and his interviews
with the conspirators will account for his frequent absence from
Ettenheim. Another very singular circumstance greatly strengthened this
conclusion. There was a Marquis de _Thumery_ in the suite of the Duke
d'Enghien. The German officer, who repeated this fact, mispronounced
the word so that it sounded like Dumuner, a distinguished advocate
of the Bourbons. The officer sent by Napoleon to make inquiries,
consequently reported that General Dumuner was with the Duke d'Enghien.
All was now plain to the excited mind of the First Consul. The Duke
d'Enghien was in the conspiracy. With General Dumuner and an army of
emigrants he was to march into France, by Strasburg, as soon as the
death of the First Consul was secured; while the Count d'Artois. aided
by England, would approach from London.
A council was immediately called, to decide what should be done. The
ministers were divided in opinion. Some urged sending a secret force to
arrest the Duke, with all his papers and accomplices, and bring them
to Paris. Cambacères, apprehensive of the effect that such a violation
of the German territory might produce in Europe, opposed the measure.
Napoleon replied to him kindly, but firmly, "I know your motive for
speaking thus--your devotion to me, I thank you for it. But I will not
allow myself to be put to death without resistance. I will make those
people tremble, and teach them to keep quiet for the time to come."
Orders were immediately given for three hundred dragoons to repair to
the banks of the Rhine, cross the river, dash forward to Ettenheim,
surround the town, arrest the Prince and all his retinue, and carry
them to Strasburg. As soon as the arrest was made, Colonel Caulaincourt
was directed to hasten to the Grand-duke of Baden, with an apology
from the First Consul for violating his territory, stating that the
gathering of the hostile emigrants so near the frontiers of France,
authorized the French government to protect itself, and that the
necessity for prompt and immediate action rendered it impossible
to adopt more tardy measures. The duke of Baden expressed his
satisfaction with the apology.
On the 15th of March, 1804, the detachment of dragoons set out, and
proceeded with such rapidity as to surround the town before the Duke
could receive any notice of their approach. He was arrested in his bed,
and hurried, but partially clothed, into a carriage, and conveyed with
the utmost speed to Strasburg. He was from thence taken to the Castle
of Vincennes, in the vicinity of Paris. A military commission was
formed composed of the colonels of the garrison, with General Hullin as
President. The Prince was brought before the Commission. He was calm
and haughty, for he had no apprehension of the fate which awaited him.
He was accused of high treason, in having sought to excite civil war,
and in bearing arms against France. To arraign him upon this charge
was to condemn him, for of this crime he was clearly guilty. Though
he denied all knowledge of the plot in question, boldly and rather
defiantly he avowed that he had borne arms against France, and that
he was on the banks of the Rhine for the purpose of serving against
her again. "I esteem," said he, "General Bonaparte as a great man, but
being myself a prince of the house of Bourbon, I have vowed against him
eternal hatred." "A Condé," he added, "can never re-enter France but
with arms in his hands. My birth, my opinions render me for ever the
enemy of your government." By the laws of the Republic, for a Frenchman
to serve against France was a capital offense. Napoleon, however,
would not have enforced this law in the case of the Duke, had he not
fully believed that he was implicated in the conspiracy, and that it
was necessary, to secure himself from assassination, that he should
strike terror into the hearts of the Bourbons. The Prince implored
permission to see the First Consul. The court refused this request,
which, if granted would undoubtedly have saved his life. Napoleon also
commissioned M. Real to proceed to Vincennes, and examine the prisoner.
Had M. Real arrived in season to see the Duke, he would have made a
report of facts which would have rescued the Prince from his tragical
fate; but, exhausted by the fatigue of several days and nights, he had
retired to rest, and had given directions to his servants to permit him
to sleep undisturbed. The order of the First Consul was, consequently,
not placed in his hands until five o'clock in the morning. It was then
too late. The court sorrowfully pronounced sentence of death. By torch
light the unfortunate Prince was led down the winding staircase, which
led into a fosse of the chateau. There he saw through the gray mist
of the morning, a file of soldiers drawn up for his execution. Calmly
he cut off a lock of his hair, and, taking his watch from his pocket,
requested an officer to solicit _Josephine_ to present those tokens of
his love to the Princess de Rohan. Turning to the soldiers he said, "I
die for my King and for France;" and giving the command to fire, he
fell, pierced by seven balls.
While these scenes were transpiring, Napoleon was in a state of
intense excitement. He retired to the seclusion of Malmaison, and for
hours, communing with no one, paced his apartment with a countenance
expressive of the most unwavering determination. It is said that
Josephine pleaded with him for the life of the Prince, and he replied
"Josephine, you are a woman, and know not the necessities of political
life." As pensive and thoughtful he walked his room, he was heard in
low tones to repeat to himself the most celebrated verses of the French
poets upon the subject of clemency. This seemed to indicate that his
thoughts were turned to the nobleness of pardon. He however remained
unrelenting. He was deeply indignant that the monarchs of Europe
should assume that he was an upstart, whom any one might shoot in the
street. He resolved to strike a blow which should send consternation
to the hearts of his enemies, a blow so sudden, so energetic, so
terrible as to teach them that he would pay as little regard for
their blood, as they manifested for his. The object at which he aimed
was fully accomplished. Says Thiers "It is not much to the credit
of human nature to be obliged to confess, that the terror inspired
by the First Consul acted effectually upon the Bourbon Princes and
the emigrants. They no longer felt themselves secure, now that even
the German territory had proved no safeguard to the unfortunate Duke
d'Enghien; and thenceforth conspiracies of that kind ceased." There are
many indications that Napoleon subsequently deplored the tragical fate
of the Prince. It subsequently appeared that the mysterious stranger
to whom the prisoners so often alluded, was Pichegru. When this fact
was communicated to Napoleon, he was deeply moved and musing long and
painfully, gave utterance to an exclamation of grief, that he had
consented to the seizure of the unhappy Prince.
He, however, took the whole responsibility of his execution upon
himself. In his testament at St. Helena, he wrote, "I arrested the
Duke d'Enghien because that measure was necessary to the security,
the interest, and the honor of the French people, when the Count
d'Artois maintained, on his own admission, sixty assassins. In similar
circumstances I would do the same." The spirit is saddened in recording
these terrible deeds of violence and of blood. It was a period of
anarchy, of revolution, of conspiracies, of war. Fleets were bombarding
cities, and tens of thousands were falling in a day upon a single
field of battle. Human life was considered of but little value. Bloody
retaliations and reprisals were sanctified by the laws of contending
nations. Surrounded by those influences, nurtured from infancy in the
minds of them, provoked beyond endurance by the aristocratic arrogance
which regarded the elected sovereign of France as an usurper beyond
the pale of law, it is only surprising that Napoleon could have passed
through a career so wonderful and so full of temptations, with a
character so seldom sullied by blemishes of despotic injustice.
This execution of a prince of the blood royal sent a thrill of
indignation through all the courts of Europe. The French embassadors
were treated in many instances with coldness amounting to insult.
The Emperor Alexander sent a remonstrance to the First Consul. He
thus provoked a terrible reply from the man who could hurl a sentence
like a bomb-shell. The young monarch of Russia was seated upon the
blood-stained throne, from which the daggers of assassins had removed
his father. And yet, not one of these assassins had been punished.
With crushing irony, Napoleon remarked, "France has acted, as Russia
under similar circumstances would have done; for had she been informed
that the assassins of Paul were assembled at a day's march from her
frontier, would she not, at all hazards, have seized upon them there?"
This was not one of these soft answers which turn away wrath. It stung
Alexander to the quick.
Absorbed by these cares, Napoleon had but little time to think of
the imprisoned conspirators awaiting their trial. Pichegru, hearing
no further mention of the First Consul's proposal, and informed of
the execution of the Duke d'Enghien, gave himself up for lost. His
proud spirit could not endure the thought of a public trial and an
ignominious punishment. One night, after having read a treatise of
Seneca upon suicide, he laid aside his book, and by means of his
silk-cravat, and a wooden-peg, which he used as a tourniquet, he
strangled himself. His keepers found him in the morning dead upon his
bed.
The trial of the other conspirators soon came on. Moreau, respecting
whom great interest was excited, as one of the most illustrious of the
Republican generals, was sentenced to two years imprisonment. Napoleon
immediately pardoned him, and granted him permission to retire to
America. As that unfortunate general wished to dispose of his estate,
Napoleon gave orders for it to be purchased at the highest price. He
also paid the expenses of his journey to Barcelona, preparatory to his
embarkation for the new world. George Cadoudal, Polignac, Revière, and
several others, were condemned to death. There was something in the
firm and determined energy of Cadoudal which singularly interested the
mind of the First Consul. He wished to save him. "There is one man,"
said Napoleon, "among the conspirators whom I regret--that is George
Cadoudal. His mind is of the right stamp. In my hands, he would have
done great things. I appreciate all the firmness of his character, and
I would have given it a right direction. I made Real say to him, that
if he would attach himself to me, I would not only pardon him, but
would give him a regiment. What do I say? I would have made him one of
my aides-de-camp. Such a step would have excited a great clamor; but I
should not have cared for it. Cadoudal refused every thing. He is a bar
of iron. What can I now do? He must undergo his fate; for such a man
is too dangerous in a party. It is a necessity of my situation."
The evening before his execution, Cadoudal desired the jailer to bring
him a bottle of excellent wine. Upon tasting the contents of the bottle
brought, and finding it of an inferior quality, he complained, stating
that it was not such wine as he desired. The jailer brutally replied,
"It is good enough for such a miscreant as you." Cadoudal, with perfect
deliberation and composure, corked up the bottle, and, with his
herculean arm hurled it at the head of the jailer, with an aim so well
directed that he fell helpless at his feet. The next day, with several
of the conspirators, he was executed.
Josephine, who was ever to Napoleon a ministering angel of mercy, was
visited by the wife of Polignac, who, with tears of anguish, entreated
Josephine's intercession in behalf of her condemned husband. Her tender
heart was deeply moved by a wife's delirious agony, and she hastened
to plead for the life of the conspirator. Napoleon, endeavoring to
conceal the struggle of his heart beneath a severe exterior, replied,
"Josephine, you still interest yourself for my enemies. They are all of
them as imprudent as they are guilty. If I do not teach them a lesson
they will begin again, and will be the cause of new victims." Thus
repulsed, Josephine, almost in despair, retired. But she knew that
Napoleon was soon to pass through one of the galleries of the chateau.
Calling Madame Polignac, she hastened with her to the gallery, and they
both threw themselves in tears before Napoleon. He for a moment glanced
sternly at Josephine, as if to reproach her for the trial to which
she had exposed him. But his yielding heart could not withstand this
appeal. Taking the hand of Madame Polignac, he said, "I am surprised in
finding, in a plot against my life, Armand Polignac, the companion of
my boyhood at the military school. I will, however, grant his pardon to
the tears of his wife. I only hope that this act of weakness on my part
may not encourage fresh acts of imprudence. Those princes, madame, are
most deeply culpable who thus compromise the lives of their faithful
servants without partaking their perils."
General Lajolais had been condemned to death. He had an only daughter,
fourteen years of age, who was remarkably beautiful. The poor child
was in a state of fearful agony in view of the fate of her father.
One morning, without communicating her intentions to any one, she set
out alone and on foot, for St. Cloud. Presenting herself before the
gate of the palace, by her youth, her beauty, her tears, and her woe,
she persuaded the keeper, a kind-hearted man, to introduce her to the
apartment of Josephine and Hortense. Napoleon had said to Josephine
that she must not any more expose him to the pain of seeing the
relatives of the condemned; that if any petitions were to be offered,
they must be presented in writing. Josephine and Hortense were,
however, so deeply moved by the anguish of the distracted child, that
they contrived to introduce her to the presence of Napoleon as he was
passing through one of the apartments of the palace, accompanied by
several of his ministers. The fragile child, in a delirium of emotion,
rushed before him, precipitated herself at his feet, and exclaimed,
"Pardon, sire! pardon for my father!"
Napoleon, surprised at this sudden apparition, exclaimed in
displeasure, "I have said that I wish for no such scenes. Who has dared
to introduce you here, in disregard of my prohibition? Leave me, miss!"
So saying, he turned to pass from her.
But the child threw her arms around his knees, and with her eyes
suffused with tears, and agony depicted in every feature of her
beautiful upturned face, exclaimed, "Pardon! pardon! pardon! it is for
my father!"
"And who is your father?" said Napoleon, kindly. "Who are you?"
"I am Miss Lajolais," she replied, "and my father is doomed to die."
Napoleon hesitated for a moment; and then exclaimed, "Ah, miss, but
this is the second time in which your father has conspired against the
state. I can do nothing for you!"
"Alas, sire!" the poor child exclaimed, with great simplicity, "I know
it: but the first time, papa was innocent; and to-day I do not ask for
justice--I implore pardon, pardon for him!"
Napoleon was deeply moved. His lip trembled, tears filled his eyes,
and, taking the little hand of the child in both of his own, he
tenderly pressed it, and said:
"Well, my child! yes! For your sake, I will forgive your father. This
is enough. Now rise and leave me."
At these words the suppliant fainted, and fell lifeless upon the floor.
She was conveyed to the apartment of Josephine, where she soon revived,
and, though in a state of extreme exhaustion, proceeded immediately
to Paris. M. Lavalette, then aid-de-camp of Napoleon, and his wife,
accompanied her to the prison of the Conciergerie, with the joyful
tidings. When she arrived in the gloomy cell where her father was
immured, she threw herself upon his neck, and her convulsive sobbings,
for a time, stifled all possible powers of utterance. Suddenly,
her frame became convulsed, her eyes fixed, and she fell in entire
unconsciousness into the arms of Madame Lavalette. When she revived,
reason had fled, and the affectionate daughter was a hopeless maniac!
Napoleon, in the evening, was informed of this new calamity. He dropped
his head in silence, mused painfully, brushed a tear from his eye,
and was heard to murmur, in a low tone of voice, "Poor child! poor
child!--a father who has such a daughter is still more culpable. I will
take care of her and of her mother."
Six others of the conspirators also soon received a pardon. Such was
the termination of the Bourbon conspiracy for the assassination of
Napoleon.
"WHO MURDERED DOWNIE?"
About the end of the eighteenth century, whenever any student of the
Marischal College, Aberdeen, incurred the displeasure of the humbler
citizens, he was assailed with the question, "Who murdered Downie?"
Reply and rejoinder generally brought on a collision between "town
and gown;" although the young gentlemen were accused of what was
chronologically impossible. People have a right to be angry at being
stigmatized as murderers, when their accusers have probability on their
side; but the "taking off" of Downie occurred when the gownsmen, so
maligned, were in swaddling clothes.
But there was a time, when to be branded as an accomplice in the
slaughter of Richard Downie, made the blood run to the cheek of many
a youth, and sent him home to his books, thoughtful and subdued.
Downie was sacrist or janitor at Marischal College. One of his duties
consisted in securing the gate by a certain hour; previous to which all
the students had to assemble in the common hall, where a Latin prayer
was delivered by the principal. Whether, in discharging this function,
Downie was more rigid than his predecessor in office, or whether he
became stricter in the performance of it at one time than another,
can not now be ascertained; but there can be no doubt that he closed
the gate with austere punctuality, and that those who were not in the
common hall within a minute of the prescribed time, were shut out, and
were afterward reprimanded and fined by the principal and professors.
The students became irritated at this strictness, and took every petty
means of annoying the sacrist; he, in his turn, applied the screw at
other points of academic routine, and a fierce war soon began to rage
between the collegians and the humble functionary. Downie took care
that in all his proceedings he kept within the strict letter of the
law; but his opponents were not so careful, and the decisions of the
rulers were uniformly against them, and in favor of Downie. Reprimands
and fines having failed in producing due subordination, rustication,
suspension, and even the extreme sentence of expulsion had to be put
in force; and, in the end, law and order prevailed. But a secret and
deadly grudge continued to be entertained against Downie. Various
schemes of revenge were thought of.
Downie was, in common with teachers and taught, enjoying the leisure
of the short New Year's vacation--the pleasure being no doubt greatly
enhanced by the annoyances to which he had been subjected during the
recent bickerings--when, as he was one evening seated with his family
in his official residence at the gate, a messenger informed him that
a gentleman at a neighboring hotel wished to speak with him. Downie
obeyed the summons, and was ushered from one room into another, till
at length he found himself in a large apartment hung with black,
and lighted by a solitary candle. After waiting for some time in
this strange place, about fifty figures also dressed in black, and
with black masks on their faces, presented themselves. They arranged
themselves in the form of a Court, and Downie, pale with terror, was
given to understand that he was about to be put on his trial.
A judge took his seat on the bench; a clerk and public prosecutor sat
below; a jury was empanelled in front; and witnesses and spectators
stood around. Downie at first set down the whole affair as a joke; but
the proceedings were conducted with such persistent gravity, that,
in spite of himself, he began to believe in the genuine mission of
the awful tribunal. The clerk read an indictment, charging him with
conspiring against the liberties of the students; witnesses were
examined in due form, the public prosecutor addressed the jury; and the
judge summed up.
"Gentlemen," said Downie, "the joke has been carried far enough--it is
getting late, and my wife and family will be getting anxious about me.
If I have been too strict with you in time past, I am sorry for it, and
I assure you I will take more care in future."
"Gentlemen of the jury," said the judge, without paying the slightest
attention to this appeal, "consider your verdict; and, if you wish to
retire, do so."
The jury retired. During their absence the most profound silence was
observed; and except renewing the solitary candle that burnt beside the
judge, there was not the slightest movement.
The jury returned, and recorded a verdict of GUILTY.
The judge solemnly assumed a huge black cap, and addressed the prisoner.
"Richard Downie! The jury have unanimously found you guilty of
conspiring against the just liberty and immunities of the students
of Marischal College. You have wantonly provoked and insulted those
inoffensive lieges for some months, and your punishment will assuredly
be condign. You must prepare for death. In fifteen minutes the sentence
of the Court will be carried into effect."
The judge placed his watch on the bench. A block, an ax, and a bag
of sawdust were brought into the Centre of the room. A figure more
terrible than any that had yet appeared came forward, and prepared to
act the part of doomster.
It was now past midnight, there was no sound audible save the ominous
ticking of the judge's watch. Downie became more and more alarmed.
"For any sake, gentlemen," said the terrified man, "let me home. I
promise that you never again shall have cause for complaint."
"Richard Downie," remarked the judge, "you are vainly wasting the few
moments that are left you on earth. You are in the hands of those who
must have your life. No human power can save you. Attempt to utter one
cry, and you are seized, and your doom completed before you can utter
another. Every one here present has sworn a solemn oath never to reveal
the proceedings of this night; they are known to none but ourselves;
and when the object for which we have met is accomplished, we shall
disperse unknown to any one. Prepare, then, for death; other five
minutes will be allowed, but no more."
The unfortunate man in an agony of deadly terror raved and shrieked
for mercy: but the avengers paid no heed to his cries. His fevered,
trembling lips then moved as if in silent prayer; for he felt that the
brief space between him and eternity was but as a few more tickings of
that ominous watch.
"Now!" exclaimed the judge.
Four persons stepped forward and seized Downie, on whose features a
cold, clammy sweat had burst forth. They bared his neck, and made him
kneel before the block.
"Strike!" exclaimed the judge.
The executioner struck the ax on the floor; an assistant on the
opposite side lifted at the same moment a wet towel, and struck it
across the neck of the recumbent criminal. A loud laugh announced that
the joke had at last come to an end.
But Downie responded not to the uproarious merriment--they laughed
again--but still he moved not--they lifted him, and Downie was dead!
Fright had killed him as effectually as if the ax of a real headsman
had severed his head from his body.
It was a tragedy to all. The medical students tried to open a vein,
but all was over; and the conspirators had now to bethink themselves
of safety. They now in reality swore an oath among themselves; and the
affrighted young men, carrying their disguises with them, left the body
of Downie lying in the hotel. One of their number told the landlord
that their entertainment was not yet quite over, and that they did not
wish the individual that was left in the room to be disturbed for some
hours. This was to give them all time to make their escape.
Next morning the body was found. Judicial inquiry was instituted,
but no satisfactory result could be arrived at. The corpse of poor
Downie exhibited no mark of violence internal or external. The
ill-will between him and the students was known: it was also known
that the students had hired apartments in the hotel for a theatrical
representation--that Downie had been sent for by them; but beyond this,
nothing was known. No noise had been heard, and no proof of murder
could be adduced. Of two hundred students at the college, who could
point out the guilty or suspected fifty? Moreover, the students were
scattered over the city, and the magistrates themselves had many of
their own families among the number, and it was not desirable to go
into the affair too minutely. Downie's widow and family were provided
for, and his slaughter remained a mystery; until, about fifteen years
after its occurrence, a gentleman on his death-bed disclosed the whole
particulars, and avowed himself to have belonged to the obnoxious class
of students who murdered Downie.
FRAGMENTS FROM A YOUNG WIFE'S DIARY.[3]
I have been married seven weeks. * * * I do not rave in girlish fashion
about my perfect happiness--I do not even say I love my husband. Such
words imply a separate existence--a gift consciously bestowed on one
being from another. I feel not thus: my husband is to me as my own soul.
[3] By the Authoress of "OLIVE," "THE OGILVIES," and "THE HEAD OF
THE FAMILY," three charming works, recently published by Harper and
Brothers.
Long, very long, it is since I first knew this. Gradually, not
suddenly, the great mystery of love overshadowed me, until at last I
found out the truth, that I was my own no more. All the world's beauty
I saw through his eyes--all the world's goodness and greatness came
reflected through his noble heart. In his presence I was as a child: I
forgot myself, my own existence, hopes, and aims. Every where--at all
times and all places--his power was upon me. He seemed to absorb and
inhale my whole soul into his, until I became like a cloud melting away
in sunshine, and vanishing from the face of heaven.
All this reads very wild and mad; but, oh! Laurence--Laurence! none
would marvel at it who had once looked on thee! Not that he is a
perfect Apollo--this worshiped husband of mine: you may meet a score
far handsomer. But who cares? Not I! All that is grand, all that
is beautiful, all that makes a man look godlike through the inward
shining of his godlike soul--I see in my Laurence. His eyes, soft, yet
proud--his wavy hair--his hand that I sit and clasp--his strong arm
that I lean on--all compose an image wherein I see no flaw. Nay, I
could scarce believe in any beauty that bore no likeness to Laurence.
Thus is my husband--what am I? His wife--and no more. Every thing in me
is only a reflection of him. Sometimes I even marvel that he loved me,
so unworthy as I seem: yet, when heaven rained on me the rich blessing
of his love, my thirsty soul drank it in, and I felt that had it never
come, for lack of it I must have died. I did almost die, for the joy
was long in coming. Though--as I know now--he loved me well and dearly;
yet for some reason or other he would not tell me so. The vail might
never have fallen from our hearts, save for one blessed chance. I will
relate it. I love to dream over that brief hour, to which my whole
existence can never show a parallel.
We were walking all together--my sisters, Laurence Shelmerdine, and
I--when there came on an August thunder-storm. Our danger was great,
for we were in the midst of a wood. My sisters fled; but I, being weak
and ill--alas! my heart was breaking quietly, though he knew it not--I
had no strength to fly. He was too kind to forsake me: so we staid in
an open space of the wood, I clinging to his arm, and thinking--God
forgive me!--that if I could only die then, close to him, encompassed
by his gentle care, it would be so happy--happier far than my life was
then. What he thought, I knew not. He spoke in hurried, broken words,
and turned his face from me all the while.
It grew dark, like night, and there came flash after flash, peal after
peal. I could not stand--I leaned against his arm. At last there
shone all around us a frightful glare, as if the whole wood were in
flames--a crash of boughs--a roar above, as though the heavens were
falling--then, silence.
Death had passed close by us, and smote us not--and Death was the
precursor of Love.
We looked at one another, Laurence and I: then, with a great cry, our
hearts--long-tortured--sprang together. There never can be such a
meeting, save that of two parted ones, who meet in heaven. No words
were spoken, save a murmur--"Adelaide!" "Laurence!"--but we knew that
between us two there was but one soul. We stood there--all the while
the storm lasted. He sheltered me in his arms, and I felt neither the
thunder nor the rain. I feared not life nor death, for I now knew that
in either I should never be divided from him.
* * * Ours was a brief engagement. Laurence wished it so; and I
disputed not--I never disputed with him in any thing. Besides, I was
not happy at home--my sisters did not understand him. They jested
with me because he was grave and reserved--even subject to moody fits
sometimes. They said, "I should have a great deal to put up with;
but it was worth while, for Mr. Shelmerdine's grand estate atoned
for all." My Laurence! as if I had ever thought whether he were rich
or poor! I smiled, too, at my sisters' jests about his melancholy,
and the possibility of his being "a bandit in disguise." None truly
knew him--none but I! Yet I was half afraid of him at times; but that
was only from the intensity of my love. I never asked him of his for
me--how it grew--or why he had so long concealed it; enough for me that
it was there. Yet it was always calm: he never showed any passionate
emotion, save one night--the night before our wedding day.
I went with him to the gate myself, walking in the moonlight under the
holly trees. I trembled a little; but I was happy--very happy. He held
me long in his arms ere he would part with me--the last brief parting
ere we would have no need to part any more. I said, looking up from his
face unto the stars, "Laurence, in our full joy, let us thank God, and
pray Him to bless us."
His heart seemed bursting: he bowed his proud head, dropped it down
upon my shoulder, and cried, "Nay, rather pray Him to _forgive_ me.
Adelaide, I am not worthy of happiness--I am not worthy of you."
He, to talk in this way! and about me! but I answered him soothingly,
so that he might feel how dear was my love--how entire my trust.
He said, at last, half mournfully, "You are content to take me then,
just as I am; to forgive my past--to bear with my present--to give
hope to my future. Will you do this, my love, my Adelaide?"
I answered, solemnly, "I will." Then, for the first time, I dared to
lift my arms to his neck; and as he stooped I kissed his forehead. It
was the seal of this my promise--which may God give me strength to keep
evermore!
* * * * *
We were laughing to-day--Laurence and I--about _first loves_. It was
scarcely a subject for mirth; but one of his bachelor friends had been
telling us of a new-married couple, who, in some comical fashion,
mutually made the discovery of each other's "first loves." I said to
my husband, smiling happily, "that _he_ need have no such fear." And I
repeated, half in sport, the lines--
"'He was her own, her ocean treasure, cast
Like a rich wreck--her first love, and her last.'
So it was with your poor Adelaide." Touched by the thought, my gayety
melted almost into tears. But I laughed them off, and added, "Come,
Laurence, confess the same. You never, never loved any one but me?"
He looked pained, said coldly, "I believe I have not given cause--"
then stopped. How I trembled; but I went up to him, and whispered,
"Laurence, dearest, forgive me." He looked at me a moment, then caught
me passionately to his breast. I wept there a little--my heart was so
full. Yet I could not help again murmuring that question--"You love me?
you _do_ love me?"
"I love you as I never before loved woman. I swear this in the sight of
heaven. Believe it, my wife!" was his vehement answer. I hated myself
for having so tried him. My dear, my noble husband! I was mad to have a
moment's doubt of thee.
* * * * *
* * * Nearly a year married, and it seems a brief day: yet it seems,
also, like a lifetime--as if I had never known any other. My Laurence!
daily I grow closer to him--heart to heart. I understand him better--if
possible, I love him more: not with the wild worship of my girlhood,
but with something dearer--more home-like. I would not have him an
"angel," if I could. I know all his little faults and weaknesses quite
well--I do not shut my eyes on any of them; but I gaze openly at them,
and _love_ them down. There is love enough in my heart to fill up all
chasms--to remove all stumbling-blocks from our path. Ours is truly
a wedded life: not two jarring lives, but an harmonious and complete
_one_.
* * * * *
I have taken a long journey, and am somewhat dreary at being away, even
for three days, from my pleasant home. But Laurence was obliged to go,
and I would not let him go alone; though, from tender fear, he urged
me to stay. So kind and thoughtful he was too. Because his engagements
here would keep him much from me, he made me take likewise my sister
Louisa. She is a good girl, and a dear girl; but I miss Laurence; I
did especially in my walk to-day, through a lovely, wooded country and
a sweet little village. I was thinking of him all the time; so much so,
that I quite started when I heard one of the village children shouted
after as "Laurence."
Very foolish it is of me--a loving weakness I have not yet got
over--but I never hear the name my husband bears without a pleasant
thrill; I never even see it written up in the street without turning
again to look at it. So, unconsciously, I turned to the little rosy
urchin, whom his grandam honored by the name of "Laurence."
A pretty, sturdy boy, of five or six years old--a child to glad any
mother. I wondered had he a mother! I staid and asked.--I always
notice children now. Oh! wonderful, solemn mystery sleeping at my
heart, my hope--my joy--my prayer! I think, with tears, how I may one
day watch the gambols of a boy like this; and how, looking down in
his little face, I may see therein my Laurence's eyes. For the sake
of this future--which God grant!--I went and kissed the little fellow
who chanced to bear my husband's name. I asked the old woman about
the boy's mother. "Dead! dead five years." And his father? A sneer--a
muttered curse--bitter words about "poor folk" and "gentle-folk." Alas!
alas! I saw it all. Poor, beautiful, unhappy child!
My heart was so pained, that I could not tell the little incident to
Laurence. Even when my sister began to talk of it, I asked her to
cease. But I pondered over it the more. I think, if I am strong enough,
I will go and see the poor little fellow again to-morrow. One might do
some good--who knows?
* * * * *
To-morrow has come--to-morrow has gone. What a gulf lies between that
yesterday and its to-morrow!
* * * Louisa and I walked to the village--she very much against her
will. "It was wrong and foolish," she said; "one should not meddle
with vice." And she looked prudent and stern. I tried to speak of the
innocent child--of the poor dead mother; and the shadow of motherhood
over my own soul taught me compassion towards both. At last, when
Louisa was half angry, I said I would go for I had a secret reason
which she did not know.--Thank heaven those words were put into my lips.
So, we went. My little beauty of a boy was not there; and I had the
curiosity to approach the cottage where his grandmother lived. It stood
in a garden, with a high hedge around. I heard a child's laugh, and
could not forbear peeping through. There was my little favorite, held
aloft in the arms of a man, who stood half hidden behind a tree.
"He looks like a gentleman: perhaps it is the wretch of a father!"
whispered Louisa. "Sister, we ought to come away." And she walked
forward indignantly.
But I still staid--still looked. Despite my horror of the crime, I
felt a sort of attraction: it was some sign of grace in the man that
he should at least acknowledge and show kindness to his child. And the
miserable mother! I, a happy wife, could have wept to think of her.
I wondered, did he think of her, too? He might; for, though the boy
laughed and chattered, lavishing on him all those pet diminutives which
children make out of the sweet word "father," I did not hear _this_
father answer by a single word.
Louisa came to hurry me away. "Hush!" I said: "one moment and I will
go."
The little one had ceased chattering: the father put it down, and came
forth from his covert.
Heaven it was _my husband_!
* * * I think I should then have fallen down dead, save for one
thing--I turned and met my sister's eyes. They were full of
horror--indignation--pity. She, too, had seen.
Like lightning there flashed across me all the future: my father's
wrath--the world's mockery--_his_ shame.
I said--and I had strength to say it quite calmly--"Louisa, you have
guessed our secret; but keep it--promise!"
She looked aghast--confounded.
"You see," I went on, and I actually smiled, "you see, I know all about
it, and so does Laurence. It is--a friend's child."
May heaven forgive me for that lie I told: it was to save my husband's
honor.
Day after day, week after week, goes by, and yet I live--live, and
living, keep the horrible secret in my soul. It must remain there
buried forever, now.
It so chanced; that after that hour I did not see my husband for some
weeks: Louisa and I were hastily summoned home. So I had time to think
what I was to do.
I knew all now--all the mystery of his fits of gloom--his secret
sufferings. It was remorse, perpetual remorse. No marvel! And for a
moment my stern heart said, "Let it be so." I, too, was wronged. Why
did he marry me, and hide all this? O vile! O cruel! Then the light
broke on me: his long struggle against his love--his terror of winning
mine. But he did love me: half-maddening as I was, I grasped at that.
Whatever blackness was on the past, he loved me now--he had sworn
it--"more than he ever loved woman."
I was yet young: I knew little of the wickedness of the world; but I
had heard of that mad passion of a moment, which may seize on a heart
not wholly vile, and afterward a whole lifetime of remorse works out
the expiation. Six years ago! he must have been then a mere boy. If he
had thus erred in youth, I, who knew his nature, knew how awful must
have been the repentance of his manhood. On any humbled sinner I would
have mercy--how much rather must I have mercy on _my husband_?
I _had_ mercy. Some, stern in virtue, may condemn me--but God knoweth
all.
He is--I believe it in my soul--he is a good man now, and striving more
and more after good. I will help him--I will save him. Never shall he
know that secret, which out of pride or bitterness might drive him back
from virtue, or make him feel shame before me.
* * * * *
I took my resolution--I have fulfilled it. I have met him again, as a
faithful wife should meet her husband: no word, no look, betrays, or
shall betray, what I know. All our outward life goes on as before: his
tenderness for me is constant--overflowing. But oh! the agony, worse
than death, of knowing my idol fallen--that where I once worshiped, I
can only pity, weep, and pray.
* * * * *
He told me yesterday he did not feel like the same man that he was
before his marriage. He said I was his good angel: that through me he
became calmer, happier every day. It was true: I read the change in his
face. Others read it too. Even his aged mother told me, with tears, how
much good I had done to Laurence. For this, thank God!
My husband! my husband! At times I could almost think this horror was
some delirious dream, cast it all to the winds, and worship him as of
old. I do feel, as I ought, deep tenderness--compassion. No, no! let
me not deceive myself: I love him; in defiance of all I love him, and
shall do evermore.
Sometimes his olden sufferings come over him, and then I, knowing the
whole truth, feel my very soul moved within me. If he had only told me
all: if I could now lay my heart open before him, with all its love and
pardon; if he would let me comfort him, and speak of hope, of heaven's
mercy--of atonement, even on earth. But I dare not--I dare not.
Since, from this silence which he has seen fit to keep, I must not
share the struggle, but must stay afar off--then, like the prophet who
knelt on the rock, supplicating for Israel in the battle, let my hands
fall not, nor my prayer cease, until heaven sendeth the victory.
* * * * *
Nearer and nearer comes the hour which will be to me one of a double
life, or of death. Sometimes, remembering all I have lately suffered,
there comes to me a heavy foreboding. What, if I, so young, to whom,
one little year ago, life seemed an opening paradise--what, if I
should die--die and leave _him_, and he never know how deeply I have
loved--how much I have forgiven?
Yes; he might know, and bitterly. Should Louisa tell. But I will
prevent that.
* * * * *
In my husband's absence, I have sat up half the night writing; that,
in case of my death, he may be made acquainted with the whole truth,
and hear it from me alone. I have poured out all my sufferings--all my
tenderness: I have implored him, for the love of heaven, for the love
of me, that he would in every way atone for the past, and lead for the
future a righteous life; that his sin may be forgiven, and that, after
death, we may meet in joy evermore.
* * * * *
I have been to church with Laurence--for the last time, as I think.
We knelt together, and took the sacrament. His face was grave,
but peaceful. When we came home, we sat in our beautiful little
rose-garden: he, looking so content--even happy; so tender over me--so
full of hope for the future. How should this be, if he had on his soul
that awful sin? All seemed a delusion of my own creating: I doubted
even the evidence of my own senses. I longed to throw myself on his
bosom, and tell him all. But then, from some inexplicable cause, the
olden cloud came over him; I read in his face, or thought I read, the
torturing remorse which at once repelled me from him, and yet drew me
again, with a compassion that was almost stronger than love.
I thought I would try to say, in some passing way, words that, should
I die, might afterward comfort him, by telling him how his misery had
wrung my heart, and how I did not scorn him, not even for his sin.
"Laurence," I said, very softly, "I wish that you and I had known one
another all our lives--from the time we were little children."
"Oh! that we had! then I had been a better and a happier man, my
Adelaide!" was his answer.
"We will not talk of that. Please God, we may live a long and worthy
life together; but if not--"
He looked at me with fear. "What is that you say? Adelaide, you are not
going to die? you, whom I love, whom I have made happy, _you_ have no
cause to die."
Oh, agony! he thought of the one who _had_ cause--to whose shame and
misery death was better than life. Poor wretch! she, too, might have
loved him. Down, wife's jealousy! down, woman's pride! It was long,
long ago. She is dead; and he--Oh! my husband! may God forgive me
according as I pardon you!
I said to him once more, putting my arm round his neck, leaning so that
he could only hear, not see me. "Laurence, if I should die, remember
how happy we have been, and how dearly we have loved one another. Think
of nothing sad or painful; think only that, living or dying, I loved
you as I have loved none else in the world. And so, whatever chances,
be content."
He seemed afraid to speak more, lest I should be agitated; but as he
kissed me, I felt on my cheek tears--tears that my own eyes, long
sealed by misery, had no power to shed.
* * * I have done all I wished to do. I have set my house in order.
Now, whichever way God wills the event, I am prepared. Life is not to
me what it once was: yet, for Laurence's sake, and for one besides--Ah!
now I dimly guess what that poor mother felt, who, dying, left her
child to the mercy of the bitter world. But, heaven's will be done. I
shall write here no more--perhaps forever.
* * * It is all past and gone. I have been a mother--alas! _have been_;
but I never knew it. I woke out of a long blank dream--a delirium of
many weeks--to find the blessing had come, and been taken away. ONE
only giveth--_ONE_ only taketh. Amen!
For seven days, as they tell me, my babe lay by my side--its tiny hands
touched mine--it slept at my breast. But I remember nothing--nothing!
I was quite mad all the while. And then--it died--and I have no little
face to dream of--no memory of the sweetness that has been. it is all
to me as if I had never seen my child.
If I had only had my senses for one day--one hour: if I could but have
seen Laurence when they gave him his baby boy. Bitterly he grieves, his
mother says, because he has no heir.
* * * My first waking fear was horrible. Had I betrayed any thing
during my delirium? I think not. Louisa says I lay all the time silent,
dull, and did not even notice my husband, though he bent over me like
one distracted. Poor Laurence! I see him but little now: they will not
suffer me. It is perhaps well: I could not bear his grief and my own
too: I might not be able to keep my secret safe.
* * * * *
I went yesterday to look at the tiny mound--all that is left to me
of my dream of motherhood. Such a happy dream as it was, too! How it
comforted me, many a time: how I used to sit and think of my darling
that was to come: to picture it lying in my arms--playing at my
feet--growing in beauty--a boy, a youth, a man! And this--this is
all--this little grave.
Perhaps I may never have another child. If so, all the deep love
which nature teaches, and which nature has even now awakened in my
heart, must find no object, and droop and wither away, or be changed
into repining. No! please God, _that_ last shall never be: I will not
embitter the blessings I have, by mourning over those denied.
But I must love something, in the way that I would have loved my child.
I have lost my babe; some babe may have lost a mother. A thought
comes--I shudder--I tremble--yet I follow it. I will pause a little,
and then--
* * * * *
In Mr. Shelmerdine's absence, I have accomplished my plan. I have
contrived to visit the place where lives that hapless child--my
husband's child.
I do believe my love to Laurence must be such as never before was borne
to man by woman. It draws me even toward this little one: forgetting
all wife-like pride, I seem to yearn over the boy. But is this strange?
In my first girlish dreams, many a time I have taken a book he had
touched--a flower he had gathered--hid it from my sisters, kissed
it, and wept over it for days. It was folly; but it only showed how
precious I held every thing belonging to him. And should I not hold
precious what is half himself--his own son?
I will go and see the child to-morrow.
Weeks have passed, and yet I have had no strength to tell what that
to-morrow brought. Strange book of human fate! each leaf closed until
the appointed time--if we could but turn it, and read. Yet it is best
not.
I went to the cottage--alone, of course. I asked the old woman to let
me come in and rest, for I was a stranger, weak and tired. She did so
kindly, remembering, perhaps, how I had once noticed the boy. He was
her grandson she told me--her daughter's child.
Her daughter! And this old creature was a coarse, rough-spoken woman--a
laborer's wife. Laurence Shelmerdine--the elegant--the refined--what
madness must have possessed him!
"She died very young, then, your daughter?" I found courage to say.
"Ay, ay; in a few months after the boy's birth. She was but a weakly
thing at best, and she had troubles enow."
Quickly came the blood to my heart--to my cheek--in bitter, bitter
shame. Not for myself, but for him. I shrank like a guilty thing before
that mother's eye. I dared not ask--what I longed to hear--concerning
the poor girl, and her sad history.
"Is the child like her?" was all I could say, looking to where the
little one was playing, at the far end of the garden. I was glad not to
see him nearer. "Was his mother as beautiful as he?"
"Ay, a good-looking lass enough; but the little lad's like his father,
who was a gentleman born: though Laurence had better ha' been a
plowman's son. A bad business Bess made of it. To this day I dunnot
know her right name, nor little Laurence's there; and so I canna
make his father own him. He ought, for the lad's growing up as grand
a gentleman as himself: he'll never do to live with poor folk like
granny."
"Alas!" I cried, forgetting all but my compassion; "then how will the
child bear his lot of shame!"
"Shame!" and the old woman came up fiercely to me. "You'd better mind
your own business: my Bess was as good as you."
I trembled violently, but could not speak. The woman went on:
"I dunnot care if I blab it all out, though Bess begged me not. She was
a fool, and the young fellow something worse. His father tried--may-be
he wished to try, too--but they couldna undo what had been done. My
girl was safe married to him, and the little lad's a gentleman's lawful
son."
Oh! joy beyond belief! Oh! bursting blessed tears! My Laurence! my
Laurence!
* * * I have no clear recollection of any thing more, save that I
suppose the woman thought me mad, and fled out of the cottage. My first
consciousness is of finding myself quite alone, with the door open, and
a child looking in at me in wonderment, but with a gentleness such as I
have seen my husband wear. No marvel I had loved that childish face:
it was such as might have been _his_ when he was a boy.
I cried, tremulously, "Laurence! little Laurence!" He came to me,
smiling and pleased. One faint struggle I had--forgive me, poor dead
girl!--and then I took the child in my arms, and kissed him as though I
had been his mother For thy sake--for thy sake--my husband!
* * * * *
I understood all the past now. The wild, boyish passion, making an
ideal out of a poor village girl--the unequal union--the dream fading
into common day--coarseness creating repulsion--the sting of one folly
which had marred a lifetime--dread of the world, self-reproach, and
shame--all these excuses I could find: and yet Laurence had acted ill.
And when the end came: no wonder that remorse pursued him, for he had
broken a girl's heart. She might, she must, have loved him. I wept for
her--I, who so passionately loved him too.
He was wrong, also, grievously wrong, in not acknowledging the child.
Yet there might have been reasons. His father ruled with an iron hand;
and, then, when he died, Laurence had just known me. Alas! I weave all
coverings to hide his fault. But surely this strong, faithful love was
implanted in my heart for good. It shall not fail him now: it shall
encompass him with arms of peace: it shall stand between him and the
bitter past: it shall lead him on to a worthy and happy future.
There is one thing which he must do: I will strengthen him to do it.
Yet, when I tell him all, how will he meet it? No matter; I must do
right. I have walked through this cloud of misery--shall my courage
fail me now?
He came home, nor knew that I had been away. Something oppressed him:
his old grief perhaps. My beloved! I have a balm even for that, now.
* * * I told him the story, as it were in a parable, not of myself, but
of another--a friend I had. His color came and went--his hands trembled
in my hold. I hid nothing: I told of the wife's first horrible fear--of
her misery--and the red flush mounted to his very brow. I could have
fallen at his feet, and prayed forgiveness; but I dared not yet. At
last I spoke of the end, still using the feigned names I had used all
along.
He said, hoarsely, "Do you think the wife--a good and pure woman--would
forgive all this?"
"Forgive! Oh! Laurence--Laurence!" and I clung to him and wept.
A doubt seemed to strike him. "Adelaide--tell me--"
"I have told. Husband, forgive me! I know all, and still I love you--I
love you!"
I did not say, _I pardon_. I would not let him think that I felt I had
need to pardon.
Laurence sank down at my feet, hid his face on my knees, and wept.
* * * The tale of his youth was as I guessed. He told it me the same
night, when we sat in the twilight gloom. I was glad of this--that not
even his wife's eyes might scan too closely the pang it cost him to
reveal these long-past days. But all the while he spoke my head was on
his breast, that he might feel I held my place there still, and that no
error, no grief, no shame, could change my love for him, nor make me
doubt his own, which I had won.
* * * * *
My task is accomplished. I rested not, day or night, until the right
was done. Why should he fear the world's sneer, when his wife stands
by him--his wife, who most of all might be thought to shrink from
this confession that must be made? But I have given him comfort--ay,
courage. I have urged him to do his duty, which is one with mine.
My husband has acknowledged his first marriage, and taken home his son.
His mother, though shocked and bewildered at first, rejoiced when she
saw the beautiful boy--worthy to be the heir of the Shelmerdines. All
are happy in the thought. And I--
I go, but always secretly, to the small daisy-mound. My own lost one!
my babe, whose face I never saw! If I have no child on earth, I know
there is a little angel waiting me in heaven.
* * * * *
Let no one say I am not happy, as happy as one can be in this world:
never was any woman more blessed than I am in my husband and my
son--_mine_. I took him as such: I will fulfill the pledge while I live.
* * * The other day, our little Laurence did something wrong. He rarely
does so--he is his father's own child for gentleness and generosity.
But here he was in error: he quarreled with his Aunt Louisa, and
refused to be friends. Louisa was not right either: she does not half
love the boy.
I took my son on my lap, and tried to show him the holiness and beauty
of returning good for evil, of forgetting unkindness, of pardoning
sin. He listened, as he always listens to me. After a while, when
his heart was softened, I made him kneel down beside me, saying the
prayer--"_Forgive us our trespasses, as we forgive them that trespass
against us._"
Little Laurence stole away, repentant and good. I sat thoughtful: I did
not notice that behind me had stood _my_ Laurence--my husband. He came
and knelt where his boy had knelt. Like a child, he laid his head on my
shoulder, and blessed me, in broken words. The sweetest of all were:
"My wife! my wife who has saved her husband!"
A SOLDIER'S FIRST BATTLE.
THE CAPTURE OF A REDOUBT.
A military friend of mine, who died of fever, in Greece, a few years
ago, one day related to me the first affair in which he had been
engaged. His recital made such an impression upon me that I wrote it
down from memory as soon as I had leisure. Here it is:
"I joined my regiment on the 4th of September, in the evening. I found
my colonel at the bivouac. He received me at first very bluntly; but
when he had read my letter of recommendation from General B----, he
altered his manner, and addressed some civil words to me.
"I was presented by him to my captain, who had that instant returned
from reconnoitering the movements of the enemy. This captain, though I
had scarce time to observe him, was a tall, sunburnt man, of harsh and
repulsive aspect. He had been a private soldier, and had gained his
epaulets and his cross of the Legion on the field of battle. His voice,
which was hoarse and weak, contrasted oddly with his almost gigantic
height. They told me afterward that he owed his strange voice to a ball
which had cut his windpipe across at the battle of Jena.
"On learning that I had come from the military school of Fontainebleau,
he made a grimace, and said, 'My lieutenant was killed yesterday'--I
understood what he would have added: 'It is you that should take his
place, but you are not fit.' An angry retort was on my lips, but I
contained myself.
"The moon rose behind the redoubt of Cheverino, situated about two
gun-shots from our bivouac. It was large and red, as usual at first
rising. But this evening the moon seemed to me of extraordinary size.
For an instant the redoubt stood out from the dark night against the
broad red disc of the moon. It looked like the cone of a volcano at the
moment of an eruption.
"An old soldier, near whom I stood, remarked upon the color of
the moon--'She is very red,' said he, 'it is a sign that it will
cost us dear to take it--this famous redoubt!' I have always been
superstitious, and this augury, especially at this moment, affected me
considerably.
"I went to rest, but could not sleep. I rose, and walked about for some
time in the dark, looking at the immense line of watch-fires which
covered the heights about the village of Cheverino.
"When I found the cold, keen night-air had sufficiently cooled my
blood, I went back to the fire; I wrapped myself carefully in my cloak,
and shut my eyes, hoping not to open them again before daylight. But
sleep fled my eyelids. My thoughts unconsciously assumed a gloomy
aspect. I reflected that I had not a single friend among the hundred
thousand men who covered this plain. If I were wounded, I would be
carried to an hospital, and treated without respect, by perhaps
ignorant surgeons. All that I had heard of surgical operations came
into my mind. My heart beat with violence, and mechanically I placed,
as a kind of cuirass, the handkerchief and the portfolio which I had
with me, about my breast. Fatigue overwhelmed me; I grew sleepier each
instant; but some unlucky thought suddenly flashed upon my mind, and I
woke up again with a start.
"But fatigue prevailed, and when the drums beat to arms, they awoke me
from a sound sleep. We were put in battle array, and challenged the
enemy, then we piled arms, and all said we were going to have a quiet
day.
"About three o'clock, an aid-de-camp galloped up, bringing an order.
We stood to our arms again; our sharpshooters spread themselves over
the plain; we followed them slowly, and in about twenty minutes we saw
the advanced posts of the Russians turning back and entering within the
redoubt.
"A battery of artillery had established itself on our right, another on
our left, but both were well in advance of us. They began a brisk fire
upon the enemy, who replied vigorously, and the redoubt of Cheverino
was very soon hid under a thick cloud of smoke.
"Our regiment was almost secure against the fire of the Russians by a
rising-ground in our front. Their bullets--a rare thing for us--(for
their gunners fired more accurately than ours) went over our heads, or
at most covered us with earth and little stones.
"As soon as the order to advance had been given us, my captain eyed
me with a look which obliged me, two or three times, to pass my hand
over my young mustache with as unconcerned an air as I could. Indeed,
I was not frightened, and the only fear I had was, lest any one about
me should imagine I was afraid. These inoffensive bullets of the
Russians still continued to preserve my heroic calmness. My self-esteem
whispered to me that I ran a real danger, and that I was under the fire
of a battery. I was delighted at feeling myself so much at my ease, and
I thought of the pleasure with which I should relate the capture of the
redoubt of Cheverino, in the salon of Madame de B----, in the Rue de
Provence.
"The colonel passed before our company; he said to me, 'Well, sir! you
are soon going to make your _début_.'
"I smiled, with a martial air, brushing at the same time the sleeve of
my coat, upon which a bullet, that had fallen about thirty paces from
me, had sent a little dust.
"It seemed that the Russians had perceived the bad success of their
firing, for they replaced their cannon with howitzers, which could
better reach us in the hollow where we were posted. Suddenly a stunning
blow knocked off my shako, and a ball killed the man behind me.
"'I congratulate you,' said the captain to me, as I put on my shako
again, 'you are safe for the day.' I knew of the military superstition,
which holds that the axiom _non bis in idem_ has its application on
the field of battle as well as in the court of justice. I put on my
shako somewhat haughtily. 'This causes one to salute without ceremony,'
said I, as gayly as I could. This wretched pleasantry, under the
circumstances, seemed excellent. 'I wish you joy,' replied the captain,
'you will not be hit again, and you will command a company this night;
for I feel sure that the furnace is heated for me. Every time that I
have been wounded, the officer behind me has received some mortal ball,
and,' he added, in a low tone, and as if ashamed of what he was about
to say, 'their names always began with a P.'
"I felt stout-hearted now; many people would have done as I did; many
would, like myself, have been struck with these prophetic words.
Conscript as I was, I felt that I could confide my sentiments to no
one, and that I ought only to appear coolly intrepid.
"At the lapse of about half an hour the fire of the Russians sensibly
diminished; and then we sallied from our cover, to march upon the
redoubt.
"Our regiment was composed of three battalions. The second was ordered
to turn the redoubt on the side of the defile; the two others were
ordered to make the assault. I belonged to the third battalion.
"In moving out from behind the shoulder of the rising ground which
had hitherto protected us, we were met by volleys of musketry, which,
however, did little execution among our ranks. The whistling of the
bullets surprised me; I frequently turned my head, and thus excited
considerable pleasantry among those of my comrades who were more
familiar than myself with this kind of music. Taking all things, said I
to myself, a battle is not so terrible a thing after all.
"We advanced at a running pace, preceded by the skirmishers. All at
once the Russians set up three hurras--three distinct hurras; then they
remained silent, and entirely ceased firing. 'I don't like this quiet,'
said my captain, 'it bodes us no good.' I found our people becoming
rather blustering, and I could not help at the moment contrasting their
noisy exclamations with the imposing silence of the enemy.
"We soon reached the foot of the redoubt, the palisades of which had
been broken and the earth scattered by our cannon-balls. The soldiers
rushed over the ruins, with cries of _Vive l'Empereur!_ louder than one
could have expected of men who had already been shouting so much.
"I raised my eyes, and never shall I forget the scene which I saw
before me. The greater part of the smoke had risen, and hung, suspended
like a canopy, twenty feet above the redoubt. Beyond a bluish vapor, we
could see behind their half-destroyed parapet the Russian grenadiers,
with muskets raised, immovable as statues. I think I still see each
soldier, his left eye fixed on us, his right hidden behind his musket.
In an embrasure, some feet from us, a man, holding a match, stood
beside a cannon.
"I shuddered, and I thought that my last hour was come. 'Now the dance
is about to begin!' said my captain. 'Good-night!' These were the last
words I heard him speak.
"A roll of drums resounded through the redoubt. I saw them lower
their muskets. I shut my eyes, and then I heard a terrific discharge,
followed by cries and groans. I opened my eyes again, surprised to find
myself still unharmed. The redoubt was again enveloped in smoke. I was
surrounded by dead and wounded. My captain lay stretched at my feet.
His head was pounded by a bullet, and I was spattered with his blood
and his brains. Of all my company, there remained alive only six men
besides myself.
"A moment of stupor succeeded to this carnage. The colonel, putting
his hat on the point of his sword, clambered up the parapet the first,
crying _Vive l'Empereur!_ and he was soon followed by the survivors. I
have no distinct recollection of what occurred. We entered the redoubt,
I don't know how. We fought, man to man, amid a smoke so thick that we
could scarcely see each other. I must have struck like the rest, for I
found my sabre all bloody. At last I heard the cry of 'Victory!' and,
the smoke diminishing, I saw that blood and dead bodies almost covered
the ground of the redoubt. The cannons were almost buried under the
heaps of corpses. About two hundred men standing, in French uniforms,
were grouped without order, some charging their pieces, others wiping
their bayonets. Eleven Russian prisoners stood by them.
"The colonel lay stretched, all bloody, upon a broken wagon, near the
defile. Some soldiers pressed round him. I approached. 'Who is the
senior captain?' he asked of a sergeant. The sergeant shrugged his
shoulders in a most expressive manner. 'And the senior lieutenant?'
'This officer who arrived to-day!' said the sergeant, calmly. The
colonel smiled sadly. 'Come, sir,' said he to me, 'you command in
chief. You must at once fortify the redoubt, and barricade the defile
with wagons, for the enemy is in force; but General C---- will support
you.' 'Colonel,' said I to him, 'you are seriously wounded.' 'F----, my
dear fellow, but the redoubt is taken.'"
MEMORY AND ITS CAPRICES.
There is no faculty so inexplicable as memory. It is not merely that
its powers vary so much in different individuals, but that every
one has found their own liable to the most unaccountable changes
and chances. Why vivid impressions should appear to become utterly
obliterated, and then suddenly spring to light, as if by the wand of
a magician, without the slightest effort of our own, is a mystery
which no metaphysician has ever been able to explain. We all have
experience of this, when we have striven _in vain_ to recollect a name,
a quotation, or a tune, and find it present itself unbidden, it may be,
at a considerable interval of time, when the thoughts are engaged on
another subject. We all know the uneasy feeling with which we search
for the missing article, and the relief when it suddenly flashes
across the mind, and when, as if traced by invisible ink, it comes out
unexpectedly, bright and clear.
It is most happily ordered, that pleasing sensations are recalled with
far greater vividness than those of a distressing nature. A charming
scene which we loved to contemplate, a perfume which we have inhaled,
an air to which we have listened, can all be reverted to with a degree
of pleasure not far short of that which we experienced in the actual
enjoyment; but bodily pain, which, during its continuance, occasions
sensations more absorbing than any thing else, can not be recalled with
the same vividness. It is remembered in a general way as a great evil,
but we do not recall the suffering so as to communicate the sensation
of the reality. In fact, we remember the pain, but we recollect the
pleasure--for the difference between remembrance and recollection is
distinct. We may remember a friend, whose person we have forgotten,
but we can not have forgotten the appearance of one whom we recollect.
Surely a benevolent Providence can be traced in the provision which
enables us to enjoy the sensations again which gave pleasure, but which
does not oblige us to feel those which gave pain. The memory of the
aged, which is so impaired by years, is generally clear as to the most
pleasurable period of existence, and faint and uncertain as to that
which has brought the infirmities and "ills which flesh is heir to;"
and the recollection of schoolboy days, with what keen delight are all
their merry pranks and innocent pleasures recalled, while the drudgery
of learning and the discipline of rules, once considered so irksome,
fill but a faint outline in the retrospective picture; the impressions
of joy and gayety rest on the mind, while those which are felt in the
first moments of some great calamity are so blunted by its stunning
effect, that they can not be accurately recalled. Indeed, it frequently
happens that the memory loses every trace of a sudden misfortune, while
it retains all the events which have preceded it.
Of such paramount importance is a retentive memory considered, that
the improvement of the faculty by constant exercise is the first
object in education, and artificial aids for its advantage have been
invented. So essential did the ancients regard its vigor for any work
of imagination, that "they described the muses as the daughters of
memory." Though a retentive memory may be found where there is no
genius, yet genius, though sometimes, is rarely deficient in this
most valuable gift. There are so many examples of its great power in
men of transcendent abilities, that every one can name a host. Some
of these examples would appear incredible, had they not been given on
unquestionable authority. Themistocles, we are told, could call by
their names every citizen of Athens, though they amounted to twenty
thousand. Cyrus knew the name of every soldier in his army. Hortentius,
after attending a public sale for the day, gave an account in the
evening of every article which had been sold, the prices, and the names
of the purchasers. On comparing it with that taken at the sale by the
notary, it was found to agree as exactly with it as if it had been
a copy. "Memory Corner Thompson," so called from the extraordinary
power which he possessed, drew, in the space of twenty-two hours, a
correct plan of the parish of St. James's, Westminster, with parts of
the parishes of St. Marylebone, St. Ann, and St. Martin. In this were
included all the squares, streets, courts, lanes, alleys, markets,
and all other entries; every church, chapel, and public building;
all stables and yards; all the public-houses and corners of streets,
with every pump, post, tree, house, bow-window; all the minutiæ about
St. James's Palace; this he did in the presence of two gentlemen,
without any plan or notes of reference, but solely from his memory. He
afterward completed the plans of other parishes. A house being named in
any public street, he could tell the trade of the shop, either on the
right or left hand. He could from memory furnish an inventory of every
thing contained in any house where he was intimate, from the garret to
the cellar.
The extraordinary powers of calculation entirely from memory are
very surprising. The mathematician Wallis, in bed, and in the dark,
extracted the cube root from a number consisting of thirty figures.
George III. had a memory remarkably retentive. He is said never to
have forgotten the face he had once seen, or the name once heard.
Carolan's memory was remarkably quick and retentive. On one occasion,
he met a celebrated musician at the house of an Irish nobleman. He
challenged him to a trial of musical skill. The musician played the
fifth Concerto of Vivaldi on his violin, to which Carolan, who had
never heard it, listened with deep attention. When it was finished, he
took his harp, and played the Concerto from beginning to end, without
missing a single note. An instance of great memory is related of La
Motte, who was invited by Voltaire, then a young man, to hear a tragedy
which he had just finished. La Motte listened with great attention,
and was delighted with it. However, he said he had one fault to find
with it. On being urged by Voltaire to say what _that_ was, he replied,
that he regretted that any part of it should have been borrowed.
Voltaire, chagrined and incredulous, requested that he would point
this out. He named the second scene of the fourth act, saying, that,
when he had met with it, it had struck him so much, that he took the
trouble of transmitting it to memory. He then recited the scene, just
as Voltaire had read it, with the animation which showed how much it
pleased him. Voltaire, utterly confounded, remained silent; the friends
who were present looked at each other in amazement; a few moments of
embarrassment and dismay ensued. La Motte at length broke the silence:
"Make yourself easy, sir," said he, "the scene belongs to no one
but you. I was so charmed by its beauty that I could not resist the
temptation of committing it to memory."
It is not uncommon to find the memory retentive on some subjects,
yet extremely defective on others. The remarkable powers of some are
limited to dates and names. A lady with whom we were acquainted could
tell the number of stairs contained in each flight in the houses of
all her acquaintance, but her memory was not particularly retentive in
any thing else. In the notice of the death of Miss Addison, daughter of
the celebrated Addison, which took place in 1797, it is stated, that
"she inherited her father's memory, but none of the discriminating
powers of his understanding; with the retentive faculties of Jedediah
Buxton, she was a perfect imbecile. She could go on in any part of her
father's works, and repeat the whole, but was incapable of speaking or
writing an intelligible sentence." Cases of occasional forgetfulness
on matters of interest to the mind are among the strange caprices of
memory. When Dr. Priestley was preparing the dissertations prefixed
to his "Harmony of the Gospels," he had taken great pains to inform
himself on a subject which had been under discussion, relative to the
Jewish passover. He transcribed the result of his researches, and
laid the paper aside. His attention being called to something else, a
fortnight elapsed before the subject again occurred to his mind. The
same pains were taken which he had bestowed on it before. The fruits of
his labor were again written out. So completely had he forgotten that
he had before copied out exactly the same paragraphs and reflections,
that it was only when he found the papers on which he had transcribed
them that it was recalled to his recollection. At times he has read his
own published writings without recognizing them.
John Hunter's memory once failed him. When he was in the house of a
friend, he totally forgot where he was, in whose house, in what room,
or in what street, or where he lived himself. He was conscious of this
failure, and tried to restore his recollection by looking out of the
window to ascertain where he was, but to no purpose. After some time,
recollection gradually returned. It is well known that a young man of
great ability, and for whom his friends looked for the most brilliant
success, totally forgot what he had been about to say, when making his
first, and, as it proved, his only parliamentary speech. He tried to
resume the thread of his argument, but all was a cheerless blank--he
came to a dead stop; and thus his parliamentary career ended: he never
attempted to address the house again. An actor, who was performing in
a play which had a great run, all at once forgot a speech which he had
to make. "How," said he, when he got behind the scenes, and offered, as
he thought, a very sufficient excuse, "how could it be expected that I
should remember it forever. Haven't I repeated it every night for the
last thirty nights!"
We are told in the "Psychological Magazine," that many cases have
occurred in which persons have forgotten their own names. On one
occasion, a gentleman had to turn to his companion, when about to leave
his name at a door where they called to visit, to ask him what it was,
so completely and suddenly had he forgotten it. After severe attacks
of illness and great hardship, loss of memory is not infrequent. Some
who recovered from the plague at Athens, as Thucydides relates, had
lost their memories so entirely that no friend, no relation, nothing
connected with their personal identity, was remembered. It is said,
that, among those who had escaped with life the disasters of the
memorable campaign in Russia, and the disease which was so fatal to the
troops at Wilna, there were some who had utterly lost their memory--who
preserved not the faintest recollection of country, home, or friends.
The fond associations of other days had left nothing but a dreary blank.
As the body has been made the vehicle for the exercise of the faculties
of the mind, and as they are united in some mysterious manner, we find
injuries to the one often hurtful, and sometimes fatal to the other.
Mental shocks frequently impede, or in some cases utterly put an end to
that exercise which the union of body and mind produces. The memory is
often disturbed or upset by some injury to the brain. A fall, a sudden
blow, or disease, may obliterate _all recollection_. We have heard
of those who have suffered from such who have forgotten every friend
and relation, and never knew the face of one belonging to them again.
But the effects are sometimes very strange and partial, and totally
beyond our comprehension. The functions of the memory, in some cases,
are suspended for a time, but, on recovery, take up at the very point
where they were deprived of their power. Dr. Abercrombie was acquainted
with a lady who had an apoplectic seizure while at cards. From Thursday
evening till Sunday morning she was quite unconscious. At length she
spoke, and the first words she uttered were, "What is trump?" Beattie
mentions a gentleman who had a similar attack, in the year 1761, from
which he recovered, but all recollection of the four years previous to
the attack was gone, while all that had happened in the preceding years
was accurately recollected. He had to refer to the public journals of
the forgotten years, in which he had taken great interest at the time,
for information about the passing events of those years, and read
the details with great satisfaction and surprise. By a fall from his
horse, a gentleman, who was an admirable scholar, received a severe
hurt on the head. He recovered, but his learning was gone, and he had
actually to commence his education again by the very first step, the
learning of the alphabet. A less unfortunate scholar, meeting with a
similar accident, lost none of his acquirements but his Greek; but it
was irrevocably lost. A strange caprice of memory is recorded in the
case of Dr. Broussannet. An accident which befell him brought on an
attack of apoplexy. When he recovered, he had utterly lost the power
of pronouncing or writing proper names, or any substantive, while his
memory supplied adjectives in profusion, by the application of which he
distinguished whatever he wished to mention. In speaking of any one, he
would designate him by calling him after the shape or color for which
he was remarkable. If his hair was red, he called him "red;" if above
the usual height, he named him "tall;" if he wanted his hat, he asked
for his "black;" if his "blue" or "brown" was required, it was a _coat_
of the color that he called for. The same mode of mentioning plants
was that which he made use of. As he was a good botanist, he was well
acquainted with a vast number, but he could never call them by their
names.
Mr. Millingen quotes from Salmuth an account of a man who could
pronounce words, though he had forgotten how to write them; and of
another, who could only recollect the first syllable of the words
he used. Some have confused substantives altogether, calling their
watch a hat, and ordering up paper when they wanted coals; others
have transposed the letters of the words which they intended to
use. A musician, laboring under the partial loss of memory, was
known to call his flute a _tufle_, thus employing every letter in
the right word. Curious anagrams, it is stated, have been made in
this way, and innumerable names for persons and things invented. An
extraordinary case of periodic recollection had occurred in an old
man, who had forgotten all the events of his former life, unless they
were recalled to his memory by some occurrence; yet every night he
regularly recollected some one particular circumstance of his early
days. There are, indeed, very extraordinary cases of a sudden rush
of recollections. A gentleman with whom we are acquainted, mentioned
that at one time he was in imminent danger of being drowned, and that
in the brief space of some moments all the events of his life were
vividly recalled. There have been similar instances; indeed, were we to
transcribe one-third of the remarkable cases of the caprice of memory,
we should far exceed our limits. Some very wonderful details are given
of those which have been known to occur in the somnambulist state.
Dr. Dyce of Aberdeen describes the case of a girl who was subject to
such attacks. During these, she would converse with the bystanders,
answering their questions. Once she went through the whole of the
baptismal service of the Church of England. On awakening, she had no
recollection of what had occurred in her state of somnambulism, but,
on falling into it again, she would talk over all that had passed and
been said while it continued. During one of these paroxysms, she was
taken to church, where she appeared to attend to the service with great
devotion. She was much affected by the sermon, and shed tears at one
passage. When restored to the waking state, she had not the faintest
recollection whatever of the circumstance; but, in the following
paroxysm, her recollection of the whole matter was most accurate; her
account of it was as vivid as possible. Not only did she describe every
thing, but she gave the subject of the sermon, repeating _verbatim_
the passage at which she had wept. Thus she appeared endowed with two
memories--one for the walking state, and the other for that mysterious
sleep.
There are some very affecting cases of the partial loss of memory from
sudden misfortune and from untoward accidents. The day was fixed for
the marriage of a young clergyman and one to whom he was most tenderly
attached. Two days before the appointed time, he went out with a young
friend, who was going to shoot. The gun went off accidentally. He
instantly fell, and it was found that part of the charge had lodged in
his forehead. For some days his life was despaired of; but at the end
of that time he was pronounced out of danger. The happiness, however,
which had hung on his existence was forever gone. She who had watched
by him night and day had a trial more bitter than his death: he was
deranged; his memory retained nothing but the idea of his approaching
marriage. Every recollection, every thought was absorbed in that one
idea. His whole conversation related to the preparations. He never
would speak on any other subject. It was always within two days of the
happy time. Thus years and years went over. Youth passed, and still two
days more would wed him to her who was fondly loved as ever. And thus
he reached his eightieth year, and sunk into the grave.
It has sometimes happened that the recollection of a sudden calamity
has been lost in the very shock which it has produced. A curate of
St. Sulpice, never weary of doing good, practiced the most rigid
self-denial, that he might have the means of serving others. He adopted
an English orphan boy, who repaid his kindness with a fond affection,
which increased every year--in short, they loved like a father and a
son. The poor boy was an apt scholar, and his protector took special
delight in teaching him. But his predominant taste was for music, for
which he evinced the enthusiasm that ever marks genius. His taste was
cultivated, for many of those whom the curate instructed were the sons
of artists, and were themselves well skilled in the delightful art,
and he got them to give lessons to his protégé. He soon excelled upon
the harp, and his voice, though not powerful, was capable of all those
touching modulations which find their way to the heart. Accompanied
by the chords, which he so well knew how to waken, more enchanting
melody could scarcely be heard; and the poor curate found no more
delightful relaxation than listening to his music; and the kind old
man felt pride as well as delight in the progress of his _son_, as
he always called the young musician. But peace and harmony was sadly
interrupted. The attachment of the curate to the Archbishop of Arles
was the cause of his being thrown into confinement with him in the
convent of the Carmelites. His poor son pined to share the prison of
one so much beloved--the one in whom all his feelings of affection
and gratitude centred. At length his entreaties succeeded, and the
pupil and his preceptor were together again. But even this melancholy
companionship was to be rent asunder. The convent was attacked. The
particulars of the massacre of the 2d of September, 1792, are too well
known to need repetition. Some sought concealment among the branches
of the trees into which they had climbed; but pikes and bullets soon
reached them. The archbishop, attended by thirty of the clergy, went
with steady steps up to the altar in the chapel at the end of the
garden. It was there that these martyrs were sacrificed, as it has been
beautifully told by Mr. Alison, with eyes raised to the image of their
crucified Redeemer, and offering a prayer for their cruel assassins.
Poor Capdeville, the good curate, it is said, recited at this awful
moment the prayers of persons in the last agonies. The youth flew
about the house in a state of bewildered distraction, seeking for his
benefactor; at one moment bursting into an agony of tears, and then
uttering the wildest lamentations; then, brushing away his tears, he
would listen for some sound which might direct him to the spot where
he might find his father. Some of the neighbors, who had been led by
compassion to the melancholy scene, tried to induce the boy to escape,
but he pursued his way wildly, till he found his benefactor. Nothing
could persuade him to leave him. He appeared riveted to the spot, and
refused to quit his side. But soon after the murder of the archbishop,
the death-blow was aimed at Capdeville. He cast a last look, full of
compassion and tenderness, on the beloved boy, and expired. Even as he
lay, with his head resting on the step of the altar, it seemed as if he
still observed his favorite with looks of kindness. The poor child's
mind was quite upset. He would not believe him dead. He insisted that
he slept. He forgot the scene of carnage by which he was surrounded.
He sat by the bleeding corpse for three hours, expecting every moment
that he would awaken. He rushed for his harp, and, returning to his
patron's side, he played those plaintive airs in which he had taken
especial delight. At length, worn out by watching for the moment of
his awaking, he fell into a profound sleep, and the compassionate
people about him bore him away and laid him on a bed. The sleep, or,
more properly speaking, the stupor, continued for forty-eight hours.
It was thought that when consciousness returned he might be somewhat
composed; but his senses were never restored. As his affliction met
with great commiseration, and as he was perfectly harmless, he was
allowed the free range of the house. He would remain, as it were, in
abstracted thought, pacing silently along the apartments, till the
clock struck three; then he would bound away and fetch his harp, and,
leaning against the fragments of the altar, he would play the tunes his
preceptor had loved to hear. There was a touching expression of anxious
hope in his countenance, but, when hours passed on, it was gradually
succeeded by utter sadness. It was observed that at the hour of six he
ceased to play, and slowly moving, he would say, "Not yet, not yet;
but he will soon speak to his child;" and then he would throw himself
on his knees, and appear for a while rapt in devotion, and, heaving a
sigh as he rose, he would glide softly about, as if fearing to disturb
his friend, whom he thought was sleeping; and then he would again fall
into a state of abstraction till the next day. How it happened that
there was such regularity in the time of his commencing and ceasing to
play, has not been suggested. It may have been that the exact time of
his last interview with his friend was impressed upon his mind, or it
may have been, which seems to us most likely, that these were the hours
in which the poor curate was in the habit of seeking the relaxation of
music to soothe and elevate his spirit after the labors of the day.
Every one pitied the poor demented boy, and could not see unmoved how
he clung to affection and to hope, though bereft of reason and of
recollection.
BLEAK HOUSE.[4]
BY CHARLES DICKENS.
CHAPTER XX.--A NEW LODGER.
The long vacation saunters on toward term-time, like an idle river very
leisurely strolling down a flat country to the sea. Mr. Guppy saunters
along with it congenially. He has blunted the blade of his penknife,
and broken the point off, by sticking that instrument into his desk in
every direction. Not that he bears the desk any ill-will, but he must
do something; and it must be something of an unexciting nature, which
will lay neither his physical nor his intellectual energies under too
heavy contribution. He finds that nothing agrees with him so well, as
to make little gyrations on one leg of his stool, and stab his desk,
and gape.
[4] Continued from the September Number.
Kenge and Carboy are out of town, and the articled clerk has taken out
a shooting license and gone down to his father's, and Mr. Guppy's two
fellow stipendiaries are away on leave. Mr. Guppy, and Mr. Richard
Carstone divide the dignity of the office. But Mr. Carstone is for the
time being established in Kenge's room, whereat Mr. Guppy chafes. So
exceedingly, that he with biting sarcasm informs his mother, in the
confidential moments when he sups with her off a lobster and lettuce,
in the Old Street Road, that he is afraid the office is hardly good
enough for swells, and that if he had known there was a swell coming,
he would have got it painted.
Mr. Guppy suspects every body who enters on the occupation of a stool
in Kenge and Carboy's office, of entertaining, as a matter of course,
sinister designs upon him. He is clear that every such person wants
to depose him. If he be ever asked how, why, when, or wherefore,
he shuts up one eye and shakes his head. On the strength of these
profound views, he in the most ingenious manner takes infinite pains
to counterplot, when there is no plot; and plays the deepest games of
chess without any adversary.
It is a source of much gratification to Mr. Guppy, therefore, to
find the new comer constantly poring over the papers in Jarndyce and
Jarndyce; for he well knows that nothing but confusion and failure
can come of that. His satisfaction communicates itself to a third
saunterer through the long vacation in Kenge and Carboy's office; to
wit, Young Smallweed.
Whether Young Smallweed (metaphorically called Small and eke Chick
Weed, as it were jocularly to express a fledgling), was ever a boy,
is much doubted in Lincoln's Inn. He is now something under fifteen,
and an old limb of the law. He is facetiously understood to entertain
a passion for a lady at a cigar shop, in the neighborhood of Chancery
Lane; and for her sake to have broken off a contract with another lady,
to whom he had been engaged some years. He is a town-made article,
of small stature and weazen features; but may be perceived from a
considerable distance by means of his very tall hat. To become a Guppy
is the object of his ambition. He dresses at that gentleman (by whom
he is patronized), talks at him, walks at him, founds himself entirely
on him. He is honored with Mr. Guppy's particular confidence; and
occasionally advises him, from the deep wells of his experience, on
difficult points in private life.
Mr. Guppy has been lolling out of window all the morning, after
trying all the stools in succession, and finding none of them easy,
and after several times putting his head into the iron safe with a
notion of cooling it. Mr. Smallweed has been twice dispatched for
effervescent drinks, and has twice mixed them in the two official
tumblers and stirred them up with the ruler. Mr. Guppy propounds, for
Mr. Smallweed's consideration, the paradox that the more you drink the
thirstier you are; and reclines his head upon the window-sill in a
state of hopeless languor.
While thus looking out into the shade of Old Square, Lincoln's Inn,
surveying the intolerable bricks and mortar, Mr. Guppy becomes
conscious of a manly whisker emerging from the cloistered walk below,
and turning itself up in the direction of his face. At the same time,
a low whistle is wafted through the Inn, and a suppressed voice cries,
"Hip! Guppy!"
"Why, you don't mean it?" says Mr. Guppy, aroused. "Small! Here's
Jobling!" Small's head looks out of window too, and nods to Jobling.
"Where have you sprung up from?" inquires Mr. Guppy.
"From the Market Gardens down by Deptford. I can't stand it any longer.
I must enlist. I say! I wish you'd lend me half-a-crown. Upon my soul
I'm hungry."
Jobling looks hungry, and also has the appearance of having run to seed
in the Market Gardens down by Deptford.
"I say! Just throw out half-a-crown, if you have got one to spare. I
want to get some dinner."
"Will you come and dine with me?" says Mr. Guppy, throwing out the
coin, which Mr. Jobling catches neatly.
"How long should I have to hold out?" says Jobling.
"Not half an hour. I am only waiting here, till the enemy goes,"
returns Mr. Guppy, butting inward with his head.
"What enemy?"
"A new one. Going to be articled. Will you wait?"
"Can you give a fellow any thing to read in the mean time?" says Mr.
Jobling.
Smallweed suggests the Law List. But Mr. Jobling declares, with much
earnestness, that he "can't stand it."
"You shall have the paper," says Mr. Guppy. "He shall bring it down.
But you had better not be seen about here. Sit on our staircase and
read. It's a quiet place."
Jobling nods intelligence and acquiescence. The sagacious Smallweed
supplies him with the newspaper; and occasionally drops his eye upon
him from the landing as a precaution against his becoming disgusted
with waiting, and making an untimely departure. At last the enemy
retreats, and then Smallweed fetches Mr. Jobling up.
"Well, and how are you?" says Mr. Guppy, shaking hands with him.
"So, so. How are you?"
Mr. Guppy replying that he is not much to boast of, Mr. Jobling
ventures on the question, "How is _she_?" This Mr. Guppy resents as a
liberty; retorting, "Jobling, there _are_ chords in the human mind--"
Jobling begs pardon.
"Any subject but that!" says Mr. Guppy, with a gloomy enjoyment of his
injury. "For there _are_ chords, Jobling--"
Mr. Jobling begs pardon again.
During this short colloquy, the active Smallweed, who is of the dinner
party, has written in legal characters on a slip of paper, "Return
immediately." This notification to all whom it may concern, he inserts
in the letter-box; and then putting on the tall hat, at the angle of
inclination at which Mr. Guppy wears his, informs his patron that they
may now make themselves scarce.
Accordingly they betake themselves to a neighboring dining-house, of
the class known among its frequenters by the denomination Slap-Bang,
where the waitress, a bouncing young female of forty, is supposed to
have made some impression on the susceptible Smallweed; of whom it may
be remarked that he is a weird changeling, to whom years are nothing.
He stands precociously possessed of centuries of owlish wisdom. If
he ever lay in a cradle, it seems as if he must have lain there in a
tail-coat. He has an old, old eye, has Smallweed; and he drinks, and
smokes, in a monkeyish way; and his neck is stiff in his collar; and he
is never to be taken in; and he knows all about it, whatever it is. In
short, in his bringing up, he has been so nursed by Law and Equity that
he has become a kind of fossil Imp, to account for whose terrestrial
existence it is reported at the public offices that his father was John
Doe, and his mother the only female member of the Roe family; also that
his first long-clothes were made from a blue bag.
Into the Dining House, unaffected by the seductive show in the window,
of artificially whitened cauliflowers and poultry, verdant baskets of
peas, coolly blooming cucumbers, and joints ready for the spit, Mr.
Smallweed leads the way. They know him there, and defer to him. He has
his favorite box, he bespeaks all the papers, he is down upon bald
patriarchs, who keep them more than ten minutes afterward. It is of
no use trying him with any thing less than a full-sized "bread," or
proposing to him any joint in cut, unless it is in the very best cut.
In the matter of gravy he is adamant.
Conscious of his elfin power, and submitting to his dread experience,
Mr. Guppy consults him in the choice of that day's banquet; turning
an appealing look toward him as the waitress repeats the catalogue
of viands, and saying "What do _you_ take, Chick?" Chick, out of the
profundity of his artfulness, preferring "veal and ham and French
beans--And don't you forget the stuffing, Polly," (with an unearthly
cock of his venerable eye); Mr. Guppy and Mr. Jobling give the like
order. Three pint pots of half-and-half are super-added. Quickly the
waitress returns, bearing what is apparently a model of the tower of
Babel, but what is really a pile of plates and flat tin dish-covers.
Mr. Smallweed, approving of what is set before him, conveys intelligent
benignity into his ancient eye, and winks upon her. Then, amid a
constant coming in, and going out, and running about, and a clatter of
crockery, and a rumbling up and down of the machine which brings the
nice cuts from the kitchen, and a shrill crying for more nice cuts down
the speaking-pipe, and a shrill reckoning of the cost of nice cuts that
have been disposed of, and a general flush and steam of hot joints, cut
and uncut, and a considerably heated atmosphere in which the soiled
knives and table-cloths seem to break out spontaneously into eruptions
of grease and blotches of beer, the legal triumvirate appease their
appetites.
Mr. Jobling is buttoned up closer than mere adornment might require.
His hat presents at the rims a peculiar appearance of a glistening
nature, as if it had been a favorite snail-promenade. The same
phenomenon is visible on some parts of his coat, and particularly at
the seams. He has the faded appearance of a gentleman in embarrassed
circumstances; even his light whiskers droop with something of a shabby
air.
His appetite is so vigorous, that it suggests spare living for some
little time back. He makes such a speedy end of his plate of veal and
ham, bringing it to a close while his companions are yet midway in
theirs, that Mr. Guppy proposes another. "Thank you, Guppy," says Mr.
Jobling, "I really don't know but what I _will_ take another."
Another being brought, he falls to with great good-will.
Mr. Guppy takes silent notice of him at intervals, until he is half way
through this second plate and stops to take an enjoying pull at his
pint pot of half-and-half (also renewed), and stretches out his legs
and rubs his hands. Beholding him in which glow of contentment, Mr.
Guppy says:
"You are a man again, Tony!"
[Illustration: MR. GUPPY'S ENTERTAINMENT.]
"Well, not quite, yet," says Mr. Jobling. "Say, just born."
"Will you take any other vegetables? Grass? Peas? Summer cabbage?"
"Thank you, Guppy," says Mr. Jobling. "I really don't know but what I
_will_ take summer cabbage."
Order given; with the sarcastic addition (from Mr. Smallweed) of
"Without slugs, Polly!" And cabbage produced.
"I am growing up, Guppy," says Mr. Jobling, plying his knife and fork
with a relishing steadiness.
"Glad to hear it."
"In fact, I have just turned into my teens," says Mr. Jobling.
He says no more until he has performed his task, which he achieves as
Messrs. Guppy and Smallweed finish theirs; thus getting over the ground
in excellent style, and beating those two gentlemen easily by a veal
and ham and a cabbage.
"Now, Small," says Mr. Guppy, "what would you recommend about pastry?"
"Marrow puddings," says Mr. Smallweed instantly.
"Ay, ay!" cries Mr. Jobling, with an arch look. "You're there, are you?
Thank you, Guppy, I don't know but what I _will_ take a marrow pudding."
Three marrow puddings being produced, Mr. Jobling adds, in a pleasant
humor, that he is coming of age fast. To these succeed, by command of
Mr. Smallweed, "three Cheshires;" and to those, "three small rums."
This apex of the entertainment happily reached, Mr. Jobling puts up his
legs on the carpeted seat (having his own side of the box to himself),
leans against the wall, and says, "I am grown up, now, Guppy. I have
arrived at maturity."
"What do you think, now," says Mr. Guppy, "about--you don't mind
Smallweed?"
"Not the least in the world. I have the pleasure of drinking his good
health."
"Sir, to you!" says Mr. Smallweed.
"I was saying, what do you think _now_," pursues Mr. Guppy, "of
enlisting?"
"Why, what I may think after dinner," returns Mr. Jobling, "is one
thing, my dear Guppy, and what I may think before dinner is another
thing. Still, even after dinner, I ask myself the question, What am I
to do? How am I to live? Ill fo manger, you know," says Mr. Jobling,
pronouncing that word as if he meant a necessary fixture in an English
stable. "Ill fo manger. That's the French saying, and mangering is as
necessary to me as it is to a Frenchman. Or more so."
Mr. Smallweed is decidedly of opinion "much more so."
"If any man had told me," pursues Jobling, "even so lately as when you
and I had the frisk down in Lincolnshire, Guppy, and drove over to see
that house at Castle Wold--"
Mr. Smallweed corrects him: "Chesney Wold."
"Chesney Wold. (I thank my honorable friend for that cheer.) If any man
had told me, then, that I should be as hard up at the present time as I
literally find myself, I should have--well, I should have pitched into
him," says Mr. Jobling, taking a little rum-and-water with an air of
desperate resignation; "I should have let fly at his head."
"Still, Tony, you were on the wrong side of the post then,"
remonstrates Mr. Guppy. "You were talking about nothing else in the
gig."
"Guppy," says Mr. Jobling, "I will not deny it. I was on the wrong side
of the post. But I trusted to things coming round."
That very popular trust in flat things coming round! Not in their being
beaten round, or worked round, but in their "coming" round! As though a
lunatic should trust in the world's "coming" triangular!
"I had confident expectations that things would come round and be all
square," says Mr. Jobling, with some vagueness of expression, and
perhaps of meaning, too. "But I was disappointed. They never did. And
when it came to creditors making rows at the office, and to people
that the office dealt with making complaints about dirty trifles of
borrowed money, why there was an end of that connection. And of any
new professional connection, too; for if I was to give a reference
to-morrow, it would be mentioned, and would sew me up. Then, what's a
fellow to do? I have been keeping out of the way, and living cheap,
down about the market-gardens; but what's the use of living cheap when
you have got no money? You might as well live dear."
"Better," Mr. Smallweed thinks.
"Certainly. It's the fashionable way; and fashion and whiskers have
been my weaknesses, and I don't care who knows it," says Mr. Jobling.
"They are great weaknesses--Damme, sir, they are great. Well!" proceeds
Mr. Jobling, after a defiant visit to his rum-and-water, "what can a
fellow do, I ask you, _but_ enlist?"
Mr. Guppy comes more fully into the conversation, to state what, in
his opinion, a fellow can do. His manner is the gravely impressive
manner of a man who has not committed himself in life, otherwise than
as he has become the victim of a tender sorrow of the heart.
"Jobling," says Mr. Guppy, "myself and our mutual friend Smallweed--"
(Mr. Smallweed modestly observes, "Gentlemen both!" and drinks.)
"Have had a little conversation on this matter more than once, since
you--"
"Say, got the sack!" cries Mr. Jobling, bitterly. "Say it, Guppy. You
mean it."
"N-o-o! Left the Inn," Mr. Smallweed delicately suggests.
"Since you left the Inn, Jobling," says Mr. Guppy; "and I have
mentioned, to our mutual friend Smallweed, a plan I have lately thought
of proposing. You know Snagsby, the stationer?"
"I know there is such a stationer," returns Mr. Jobling. "He was not
ours, and I am not acquainted with him."
"He _is_ ours, Jobling, and I _am_ acquainted with him," Mr. Guppy
retorts. "Well, sir! I have lately become better acquainted with him,
through some accidental circumstances that have made me a visitor of
his in private life. Those circumstances it is not necessary to offer
in argument. They may--or they may not--have some reference to a
subject, which may--or may not--have cast its shadow on my existence."
As it is Mr. Guppy's perplexing way, with boastful misery to tempt his
particular friends into this subject, and the moment they touch it,
to turn on them with that trenchant severity about the chords in the
human mind; both Mr. Jobling and Mr. Smallweed decline the pitfall, by
remaining silent.
"Such things may be," repeats Mr. Guppy, "or they may not be. They
are no part of the case. It is enough to mention, that both Mr. and
Mrs. Snagsby are very willing to oblige me; and that Snagsby has,
in busy times, a good deal of copying work to give out. He has all
Tulkinghorn's, and an excellent business besides. I believe, if our
mutual friend Smallweed were put into the box, he could prove this?"
Mr. Smallweed nods, and appears greedy to be sworn.
"Now, gentlemen of the jury," says Mr. Guppy, "--I mean, now
Jobling--you may say this is a poor prospect of a living. Granted. But
it's better than nothing, and better than enlistment. You want time.
There must be time for these late affairs to blow over. You might live
through it on much worse terms than by writing for Snagsby."
Mr. Jobling is about to interrupt, when the sagacious Smallweed checks
him with a dry cough, and the words, "Hem! Shakspeare!"
"There are two branches to this subject, Jobling," says Mr. Guppy.
"That is the first. I come to the second. You know Krook, the
Chancellor, across the lane. Come, Jobling," says Mr. Guppy, in his
encouraging cross-examination tone, "I think you know Krook, the
Chancellor, across the lane?"
"I know him by sight," says Mr. Jobling.
"You know him by sight. Very well. And you know little Flite?"
"Every body knows her," says Mr. Jobling.
"Every body knows her. _Very_ well. Now it has been one of my duties
of late, to pay Flite a certain weekly allowance, deducting from it
the amount of her weekly rent: which I have paid (in consequence of
instructions I have received) to Krook himself, regularly, in her
presence. This has brought me into communication with Krook, and into
a knowledge of his house and his habits. I know he has a room to let.
You may live there, at a very low charge, under any name you like; as
quietly as if you were a hundred miles off. He'll ask no questions;
and would accept you as a tenant, at a word from me--before the clock
strikes, if you chose. And I'll tell you another thing, Jobling," says
Mr. Guppy, who has suddenly lowered his voice, and become familiar
again, "he's an extraordinary old chap--always rummaging among a litter
of papers, and grubbing away at teaching himself to read and write;
without getting on a bit, as it seems to me. He is a most extraordinary
old chap, sir. I don't know but what it might be worth a fellow's while
to look him up a bit."
"You don't mean--?" Mr. Jobling begins.
"I mean," returns Mr. Guppy, shrugging his shoulders with becoming
modesty, "that _I_ can't make him out. I appeal to our mutual friend
Smallweed, whether he has or has not heard me remark, that I can't make
him out."
Mr. Smallweed bears the concise testimony, "A few!"
"I have seen something of the profession, and something of life, Tony,"
says Mr. Guppy, "and it's seldom I can't make a man out more or less.
But such an old card as this; so deep, so sly, and secret (though I
don't believe he is ever sober;) I never came across. Now, he must
be precious old, you know, and he has not a soul about him, and he
is reported to be immensely rich; and whether he is a smuggler, or a
receiver, or an unlicensed pawnbroker, or a money-lender--all of which
I have thought likely at different times--it might pay you to knock up
a sort of knowledge of him. I don't see why you shouldn't go in for it
when every thing else suits."
Mr. Jobling, Mr. Guppy, and Mr. Smallweed, all lean their elbows on the
table, and their chins upon their hands, and look at the ceiling. After
a time, they all drink, slowly lean back, put their hands in their
pockets, and look at one another.
"If I had the energy I once possessed, Tony!" says Mr. Guppy with a
sigh. "But there are chords in the human mind--"
Expressing the remainder of the desolate sentiment in rum and water,
Mr. Guppy concludes by resigning the adventure to Tony Jobling, and
informing him that, during the vacation and while things are slack,
his purse, "as far as three or four or even five pound goes," will be
at his disposal. "For never shall it be said," Mr. Guppy adds with
emphasis, "that William Guppy turned his back upon his friend!"
The latter part of the proposal is so directly to the purpose, that
Mr. Jobling says with emotion, "Guppy, my trump, your fist!" Mr. Guppy
presents it, saying, "Jobling, my boy, there it is!" Mr. Jobling
returns. "Guppy, we have been pals now for some years!" Mr. Guppy
replies, "Jobling, we have." They then shake hands, and Mr. Jobling
adds in a feeling manner, "Thank you, Guppy, I don't know but what I
_will_ take another glass for old acquaintance sake."
"Krook's last lodger died there," observes Mr. Guppy, in an incidental
way.
"Did he though!" says Mr. Jobling.
"There was a verdict. Accidental death. You don't mind that?"
"No," says Mr. Jobling, "I don't mind it; but he might as well have
died somewhere else. It's devilish odd that he need go and die at _my_
place!" Mr. Jobling quite resents this liberty; several times returning
to it with such remarks as, "There are places enough to die in, I
should think!" or, "He wouldn't have liked my dying at _his_ place, I
dare say!"
However, the compact being virtually made, Mr. Guppy proposes to
dispatch the trusty Smallweed to ascertain if Mr. Krook is at home,
as in that case they may complete the negotiation without delay. Mr.
Jobling approving, Smallweed puts himself under the tall hat and
conveys it out of the dining-rooms in the Guppy manner. He soon returns
with the intelligence that Mr. Krook is at home, and that he has seen
him through the shop-door, sitting in his back premises, sleeping,
"like one o'clock."
"Then I'll pay," says Mr. Guppy, "and we'll go and see him. Small, what
will it be?"
Mr. Smallweed, compelling the attendance of the waitress with one hitch
of his eyelash, instantly replies as follows: "Four veals and hams is
three and four potatoes is three and four and one summer cabbage is
three and six and three marrows is four and six and six breads is five
and three Cheshires is five and three and four pints of half-and-half
is six and three and four small rums is eight and three and three
Pollys is eight and six. Eight and six in half a sovereign, Polly, and
eighteen-pence out!"
Not at all excited by these stupendous calculations, Smallweed
dismisses his friends, with a cool nod, and remains behind to take a
little admiring notice of Polly, as opportunity may serve, and to read
the daily papers: which are so very large in proportion to himself,
shorn of his hat, that when he holds up The Times to run his eye over
the columns, he seems to have retired for the night, and to have
disappeared under the bedclothes.
Mr. Guppy and Mr. Jobling repair to the rag and bottle shop, where they
find Krook still sleeping like one o'clock; that is to say, breathing
stertorously with his chin upon his breast, and quite insensible to
any external sounds, or even to gentle shaking. On the table beside
him, among the usual lumber, stand an empty gin bottle and glass. The
unwholesome air is so stained with this liquor, that even the green
eyes of the cat upon her shelf, as they open and shut and glimmer on
the visitors, look drunk.
"Hold up here!" says Mr. Guppy, giving the relaxed figure of the old
man another shake. "Mr. Krook! Halloa, sir!"
But it would seem as easy to wake a bundle of old clothes, with a
spirituous heat smouldering in it. "Did you ever see such a stupor as
he falls into, between drink and sleep?" says Mr. Guppy.
"If this is his regular sleep," returns Jobling, rather alarmed, "it'll
last a long time one of these days, I am thinking."
"It's always more like a fit than a nap," says Mr. Guppy, shaking him
again. "Halloa, your lordship! Why he might be robbed, fifty times
over! Open your eyes!"
After much ado, he opens them, but without appearing to see his
visitors, or any other objects. Though he crosses one leg on another,
and folds his hands, and several times closes and opens his parched
lips, he seems to all intents and purposes as insensible as before.
"He is alive at any rate," says Mr. Guppy. "How are you, my Lord
Chancellor. I have brought a friend of mine, sir, on a little matter of
business."
The old man still sits, often smacking his dry lips, without the least
consciousness. After some minutes, he makes an attempt to rise. They
help him up, and he staggers against the wall, and stares at them.
"How do you do, Mr. Krook?" says Mr. Guppy, in some discomfiture. "How
do you do sir? You are looking charming, Mr. Krook. I hope you are
pretty well?"
The old man, in aiming a purposeless blow at Mr. Guppy, or at nothing,
feebly swings himself round, and comes with his face against the wall.
So he remains for a minute or two, heaped up against it; and then
staggers down the shop to the front door. The air, the movement in the
court, the lapse of time, or the combination of these things, recovers
him. He comes back pretty steadily, adjusting his fur cap on his head,
and looking keenly at them.
"Your servant, gentlemen; I've been dozing. Hi! I am hard to wake, odd
times."
"Rather so, indeed, sir," responds Mr. Guppy.
"What? You've been a-trying to do it, have you?" says the suspicious
Krook.
"Only a little," Mr. Guppy explains.
The old man's eye resting on the empty bottle, he takes it up, examines
it, and slowly tilts it upside down.
"I say!" he cries, like the Hobgoblin in the story. "Somebody's been
making free here!"
"I assure you we found it so," says Mr. Guppy. "Would you allow me to
get it filled for you?"
"Yes, certainly I would!" cries Krook, in high glee. "Certainly I
would! Don't mention it! Get it filled next door--Sol's Arms--the Lord
Chancellor's fourteenpenny. Bless you, they know _me_!"
He so presses the empty bottle upon Mr. Guppy, that that gentleman,
with a nod to his friend, accepts the trust, and hurries out and
hurries in again with the bottle filled. The old man receives it in his
arms like a beloved grandchild, and pats it tenderly.
"But, I say!" he whispers, with his eye screwed up, after tasting
it, "this ain't the Lord Chancellor's fourteenpenny. This is
eighteen-penny!"
"I thought you might like that better," says Mr. Guppy.
"You're a nobleman, sir," returns Krook, with another taste--and his
hot breath seems to come toward them like a flame. "You're a baron of
the land."
Taking advantage of this auspicious moment, Mr. Guppy presents his
friend under the impromptu name of Mr. Weevle, and states the object
of their visit. Krook, with his bottle under his arm (he never gets
beyond a certain point of either drunkenness or sobriety), takes time
to survey his proposed lodger, and seems to approve of him. "You'd
like to see the room, young man?" he says. "Ah! It's a good room! Been
whitewashed. Been cleaned down with soft soap and soda. Hi! It's worth
twice the rent; letting alone my company when you want it, and such a
cat to keep the mice away."
Commending the room after this manner, the old man takes them
up-stairs, where indeed they do find it cleaner than it used to be,
and also containing some old articles of furniture which he has dug up
from his inexhaustible stores. The terms are easily concluded--for the
Lord Chancellor can not be hard on Mr. Guppy, associated as he is with
Kenge and Carboy, Jarndyce and Jarndyce, and other famous claims on his
professional consideration--and it is agreed that Mr. Weevle shall take
possession on the morrow.
Mr. Weevle and Mr. Guppy then repair to Cook's Court, Cursitor Street,
where the personal introduction of the former to Mr. Snagsby is
effected, and (more important) the vote and interest of Mrs. Snagsby
are secured. They then report progress to the eminent Smallweed,
waiting at the office in his tall hat for that purpose, and separate;
Mr. Guppy explaining that he would terminate his little entertainment
by standing treat at the play, but that there are chords in the human
mind which would render it a hollow mockery.
On the morrow, in the dusk of evening, Mr. Weevle modestly appears at
Krook's, by no means incommoded with luggage, and establishes himself
in his new lodging; where the two eyes in the shutters stare at him in
his sleep, as if they were full of wonder. On the following day Mr.
Weevle, who is a handy good-for-nothing kind of young fellow, borrows
a needle and thread of Miss Flite, and a hammer of his landlord, and
goes to work devising apologies for window-curtains, and knocking up
apologies for shelves, and hanging up his two tea-cups, milk-pot, and
crockery sundries on a pennyworth of little hooks, like a shipwrecked
sailor making the best of it.
But what Mr. Weevle prizes most, of all his few possessions (next
after his light whiskers, for which he has an attachment that only
whiskers can awaken in the breast of man), is a choice collection of
copper-plate impressions from that truly national work, The Divinities
of Albion, or Galaxy Gallery of British Beauty, representing ladies of
title and fashion in every variety of smirk that art, combined with
capital, is capable of producing. With these magnificent portraits,
unworthily confined in a band-box during his seclusion among the
market-gardens, he decorates his apartment; and as the Galaxy Gallery
of British Beauty wears every variety of fancy-dress, plays every
variety of musical instrument, fondles every variety of dog, ogles
every variety of prospect, and is backed up by every variety of
flower-pot and balustrade, the result is very imposing.
But fashion is Mr. Weevle's, as it was Tony Jobling's weakness. To
borrow yesterday's paper from the Sols' Arms of an evening, and read
about the brilliant and distinguished meteors that are shooting across
the fashionable sky in every direction, is unspeakable consolation to
him. To know what member of what brilliant and distinguished circle
accomplished the brilliant and distinguished feat of joining it
yesterday, or contemplates the no less brilliant and distinguished feat
of leaving it to-morrow, gives him a thrill of joy. To be informed what
the Galaxy Gallery of British Beauty is about and means to be about,
and what Galaxy marriages are on the tapis, and what Galaxy rumors
are in circulation, is to become acquainted with the most glorious
destinies of mankind. Mr. Weevle reverts from this intelligence, to the
Galaxy portraits implicated; and seems to know the originals, and to be
known of them.
For the rest he is a quiet lodger, full of handy shifts and devices
as before mentioned, able to cook and clean for himself as well as
to carpenter, and developing social inclinations after the shades
of evening have fallen on the court. At those times, when he is not
visited by Mr. Guppy, or by a small light in his likeness quenched in
a dark hat, he comes out of his dull room--where he has inherited the
deal wilderness of desk bespattered with a rain of ink--and talks to
Krook, or is "very free," as they call it in the court, commendingly,
with any one disposed for conversation. Wherefore, Mrs. Piper, who
leads the court, is impelled to offer two remarks to Mrs. Perkins:
Firstly, that if her Johnny was to have whiskers, she could wish 'em to
be identically like that young man's; and secondly, Mark my words, Mrs.
Perkins, ma'am, and don't you be surprised, Lord bless you, if that
young man comes in at last for old Krook's money!
CHAPTER XXI.--THE SMALLWEED FAMILY.
In a rather ill-favored and ill-savored neighborhood, though one of its
rising grounds bears the name of Mount Pleasant, the Elfin Smallweed,
christened Bartholomew, and known on the domestic hearth as Bart,
passes that limited portion of his time on which the office and its
contingencies have no claim. He dwells in a little narrow street,
always solitary, shady, and sad, closely bricked in on all sides like
a tomb, but where there yet lingers the stump of an old forest tree,
whose flavor is about as fresh and natural as the Smallweed smack of
youth.
There has been only one child in the Smallweed family for several
generations. Little old men and women there have been, but no child,
until Mr. Smallweed's grandmother, now living, became weak in her
intellect, and fell (for the first time) into a childish state.
With such infantine graces as a total want of observation, memory,
understanding and interest, and an eternal disposition to fall asleep
over the fire and into it, Mr. Smallweed's grandmother has undoubtedly
brightened the family.
Mr. Smallweed's grandfather is likewise of the party. He is in a
helpless condition as to his lower, and nearly so as to his upper
limbs; but his mind is unimpaired. It holds, as well as it ever held,
the first four rules of arithmetic, and a certain small collection of
the hardest facts. In respect of ideality, reverence, wonder, and other
such phrenological attributes, it is no worse off than it used to be.
Every thing that Mr. Smallweed's grandfather ever put away in his mind
was a grub at first, and is a grub at last. In all his life he has
never bred a single butterfly.
The father of this pleasant grandfather of the neighborhood of Mount
Pleasant was a horny-skinned, two-legged, money-getting species
of spider, who spun webs to catch unwary flies, and retired into
holes until they were entrapped. The name of this old pagan's God
was Compound Interest. He lived for it, married it, died of it.
Meeting with a heavy loss in an honest little enterprise in which
all the loss was intended to have been on the other side, he broke
something--something necessary to his existence; therefore it couldn't
have been his heart--and made an end of his career. As his character
was not good; and he had been bred at a Charity School, in a complete
course, according to question and answer, of those ancient people the
Amorites and Hittites; he was frequently quoted as an example of the
failure of education.
His spirit shone through his son, to whom he had always preached
of "going out," early in life, and whom he made a clerk in a sharp
scrivener's office at twelve years old. There, the young gentleman
improved his mind, which was of a lean and anxious character; and,
developing the family gifts, gradually elevated himself into the
discounting profession. Going out early in life and marrying late, as
his father had done before him, he too begat a lean and anxious-minded
son; who, in his turn, going out early in life and marrying late,
became the father of Bartholomew and Judith Smallweed, twins. During
the whole time consumed in the slow growth of this family tree, the
house of Smallweed, always early to go out and late to marry, has
strengthened itself in its practical character, has discarded all
amusements, discountenanced all story-books, fairy tales, fictions,
and fables, and banished all levities whatsoever. Hence the gratifying
fact, that it has had no child born to it; and that the complete little
men and women whom it has produced, have been observed to bear a
likeness to old monkeys with something depressing on their minds.
At the present time, in the dark little parlor certain feet below the
level of the street--a grim, hard, uncouth parlor, only ornamented
with the coarsest of baize table-covers, and the hardest of sheet iron
tea-trays, and offering in its decorative character no bad allegorical
representation of Grandfather Smallweed's mind--seated in two black
horsehair porter's chairs, one on each side of the fire-place, the
superannuated Mr. and Mrs. Smallweed wile away the rosy hours. On the
stove are a couple of trivets for the pots and kettles which it is
Grandfather Smallweed's usual occupation to watch, and projecting from
the chimney-piece between them is a sort of brass gallows for roasting,
which he also superintends when it is in action. Under the venerable
Mr. Smallweed's seat, and guarded by his spindle legs, is a drawer in
his chair, reported to contain property to a fabulous amount. Beside
him is a spare cushion, with which he is always provided, in order
that he may have something to throw at the venerable partner of his
respected age when ever she makes an allusion to money--a subject on
which he is particularly sensitive.
"And where's Bart?" Grandfather Smallweed inquires of Judy, Bart's
twin-sister.
"He an't come in yet," says Judy.
"It's his tea-time, isn't it?"
"No."
"How much do you mean to say it wants then?"
"Ten minutes."
"Hey?"
"Ten minutes."--(Loud on the part of Judy.)
[Illustration: THE SMALLWEED FAMILY.]
"Ho!" says Grandfather Smallweed. "Ten minutes."
Grandmother Smallweed, who has been mumbling and shaking her head at
the trevets, hearing figures mentioned, connects them with money,
and screeches, like a horrible old parrot without any plumage, "Ten
ten-pound notes!"
Grandfather Smallweed immediately throws the cushion at her.
"Drat you, be quiet!" says the old man.
The effect of this act of jaculation is twofold. It not only doubles
up Mrs. Smallweed's head against the side of her porter's chair, and
causes her to present, when extricated by her grand-daughter, a highly
unbecoming state of cap, but the necessary exertion recoils on Mr.
Smallweed himself, whom it throws back into _his_ porter's chair, like
a broken puppet. The excellent old gentleman being, at these times,
a mere clothes-bag with a black skull-cap on the top of it, does not
present a very animated appearance until he has undergone the two
operations at the hands of his grand-daughter, of being shaken up
like a great bottle, and poked and punched like a great bolster. Some
indication of a neck being developed in him by these means, he and the
sharer of his life's evening again sit fronting one another in their
two porter's chairs, like a couple of sentinels long forgotten on their
post by the Black Sergeant Death.
Judy the twin is worthy company for these associates. She is so
indubitably sister to Mr. Smallweed the younger, that the two kneaded
into one would hardly make a young person of average proportions; while
she so happily exemplifies the before-mentioned family likeness to the
monkey tribe, that, attired in a spangled robe and cap, she might walk
about the table-land on the top of a barrel-organ without exciting much
remark as an unusual specimen. Under existing circumstances, however,
she is dressed in a plain, spare gown of brown stuff.
Judy never owned a doll, never heard of Cinderella, never played at
any game. She once or twice fell into children's company when she was
about ten years old, but the children couldn't get on with Judy, and
Judy couldn't get on with them. She seemed like an animal of another
species, and there was instinctive repugnance on both sides. It is
very doubtful whether Judy knows how to laugh. She has so rarely seen
the thing done, that the probabilities are strong the other way. Of
any thing like a youthful laugh, she certainly can have no conception.
If she were to try one, she would find her teeth in her way; modeling
that action of her face, as she has unconsciously modeled all its other
expressions, on her pattern of sordid age. Such is Judy.
And her twin brother couldn't wind up a top for his life. He knows no
more of Jack the Giant Killer, or of Sinbad the Sailor, than he knows
of the people in the stars. He could as soon play at leap-frog, or at
cricket, as change into a cricket or a frog himself. But he is so much
the better off than his sister, that on his narrow world of fact an
opening has dawned, into such broader regions as lie within the ken
of Mr. Guppy. Hence, his admiration and his emulation of that shining
enchanter.
Judy, with a gong-like clash and clatter, sets one of the sheet-iron
tea-trays on the table, and arranges cups and saucers. The bread she
puts on in an iron basket; and the butter (and not much of it) in a
small pewter plate. Grandfather Smallweed looks hard after the tea as
it is served out, and asks Judy where the girl is?
"Charley, do you mean?" says Judy.
"Hey?" from Grandfather Smallweed.
"Charley, do you mean?"
This touches a spring in Grandmother Smallweed who, chuckling, as
usual, at the trevets, cries--"Over the water! Charley over the water,
Charley over the water, over the water to Charley, Charley over
the water, over the water to Charley!" and becomes quite energetic
about it. Grandfather looks at the cushion, but has not sufficiently
recovered his late exertion.
"Ha!" he says, when there is silence--"if that's her name. She eats a
deal. It would be better to allow her for her keep."
Judy, with her brother's wink, shakes her head, and purses up her mouth
into No, without saying it.
"No?" returns the old man. "Why not?"
"She'd want sixpence a-day, and we can do it for less," says Judy.
"Sure?"
Judy answers with a nod of deepest meaning; and calls, as she scrapes
the butter on the loaf with every precaution against waste, and cuts
it into slices, "You Charley, where are you?" Timidly obedient to the
summons, a little girl in a rough apron and a large bonnet, with her
hands covered with soap and water, and a scrubbing brush in one of
them, appears, and courtesies.
"What work are you about now?" says Judy, making an ancient snap at
her, like a very sharp old beldame.
"I'm a cleaning the up-stairs back room, miss," replies Charley.
"Mind you do it thoroughly, and don't loiter. Shirking won't do for me.
Make haste! Go along!" cries Judy, with a stamp upon the ground. "You
girls are more trouble than you're worth, by half."
On this severe matron, as she returns to her task of scraping the
butter and cutting the bread, falls the shadow of her brother, looking
in at the window. For whom, knife and loaf in hand, she opens the
street door.
"Ay, ay, Bart!" says Grandfather Smallweed. "Here you are, hey?"
"Here I am," says Bart.
"Been along with your friend again, Bart?"
Small nods.
"Dining at his expense, Bart?"
Small nods again.
"That's right. Live at his expense as much as you can, and take warning
by his foolish example. That's the use of such a friend. The only use
you can put him to," says the venerable sage.
His grandson without receiving this good counsel as dutifully as he
might, honors it with all such acceptance as may lie in a slight wink
and a nod, and takes a chair at the tea-table. The four old faces then
hover over tea-cups, like a company of ghastly cherubim; Mrs. Smallweed
perpetually twitching her head and chattering at the trevets, and Mr.
Smallweed requiring to be repeatedly shaken up like a large black
draught.
"Yes, yes," says the good old gentleman, reverting to his lesson of
wisdom. "That's such advice as your father would have given you, Bart.
You never saw your father. More's the pity. He was my true son."
Whether it is intended to be conveyed that he was particularly pleasant
to look at, on that account, does not appear.
"He was my true son," repeats the old gentleman, folding his bread and
butter on his knee; "a good accountant, and died fifteen years ago."
Mrs. Smallweed, following her usual instinct, breaks out with "Fifteen
hundred pound. Fifteen hundred pound in a black box, fifteen hundred
pound locked up, fifteen hundred pound put away and hid!" Her worthy
husband, setting aside his bread and butter, immediately discharges
the cushion at her, crushes her against the side of her chair, and
falls back in his own overpowered. His appearance, after visiting Mrs.
Smallweed with one of these admonitions, is particularly impressive
and not wholly prepossessing: firstly, because the exertion generally
twists his black skull-cap over one eye and gives him an air of
goblin rakishness; secondly, because he mutters violent imprecations
against Mrs. Smallweed; and thirdly, because the contrast between
those powerful expressions and his powerless figure is suggestive of a
baleful old malignant, who would be very wicked if he could. All this,
however, is so common in the Smallweed family circle, that it produces
no impression. The old gentleman is merely shaken, and has his internal
feathers beaten up; the cushion is restored to its usual place beside
him; and the old lady, perhaps with her cap adjusted, and perhaps not,
is planted in her chair again, ready to be bowled down like a ninepin.
Some time elapses, in the present instance, before the old gentleman is
sufficiently cool to resume his discourse; and even then he mixes it up
with several edifying expletives addressed to the unconscious partner
of his bosom, who holds communication with nothing on earth but the
trevets. As thus:
"If your father, Bart, had lived longer, he might have been worth a
deal of money--you brimstone chatterer!--but just as he was beginning
to build up the house that he had been making the foundations for,
through many a year--you jade of a magpie, jackdaw, and poll-parrot,
what do you mean!--he took ill and died of a low fever, always being a
sparing and a spare man, full of business care--I should like to throw
a cat at you instead of a cushion, and I will, too, if you make such a
confounded fool of yourself!--and your mother, who was a prudent woman,
as dry as a chip, just dwindled away like touchwood after you and Judy
were born. You are an old pig. You are a brimstone pig. You're a head
of swine!"
Judy, not interested in what she has often heard, begins to collect
in a basin various tributary streams of tea, from the bottoms of
cups and saucers and from the bottom of the teapot, for the little
charwoman's evening meal. In like manner she gets together, in the iron
bread-basket, as many outside fragments and worn-down heels of loaves
as the rigid economy of the house has left in existence.
"But your father and me were partners, Bart," says the old gentleman;
"and when I am gone, you and Judy will have all there is. It's rare for
you both, that you went out early in life--Judy to the flower business,
and you to the law. You won't want to spend it. You'll get your living
without it, and put more to it. When I am gone, Judy will go back to
the flower business, and you'll still stick to the law."
One might infer, from Judy's appearance, that her business rather
lay with the thorns than the flowers; but she has, in her time, been
apprenticed to the art and mystery of artificial flower-making. A
close observer might perhaps detect both in her eye and her brother's,
when their venerable grandsire anticipates his being gone, some little
impatience to know when he may be going, and some resentful opinion
that it is time he went.
"Now, if every body has done," says Judy, completing her preparations,
"I'll have that girl into her tea. She would never leave off, if she
took it by herself in the kitchen."
Charley is accordingly introduced, and, under a heavy fire of eyes,
sits down to her basin and a Druidical ruin of bread and butter. In the
active superintendence of this young person, Judy Smallweed appears
to attain a perfectly geological age, and to date from the remotest
periods. Her systematic manner of flying at her, and pouncing on her,
with or without pretense, whether or no, is wonderful; evincing an
accomplishment in the art of girl-driving, seldom reached by the oldest
practitioners.
"Now, don't stare about you all the afternoon," cries Judy, shaking her
head and stamping her foot, as she happens to catch the glance which
has been previously sounding the basin of tea, "but take your victuals
and get back to your work."
"Yes, miss," says Charley.
"Don't say yes," returns Miss Smallweed, "for I know what you girls
are. Do it without saying it, and then I may begin to believe you."
Charley swallows a great gulp of tea in token of submission, and so
disperses the Druidical ruins that Miss Smallweed charges her not to
gormandize, which "in you girls," she observes, is disgusting. Charley
might find some more difficulty in meeting her views on the general
subject of girls, but for a knock at the door.
"See who it is, and don't chew when you open it!" cries Judy.
The object of her attentions withdrawing for the purpose, Miss
Smallweed takes that opportunity of jumbling the remainder of the bread
and butter together, and launching two or three dirty tea-cups into the
ebb-tide of the basin of tea; as a hint that she considers the eating
and drinking terminated.
"Now! Who is it, and what's wanted?" says the snappish Judy.
It is one "Mr. George," it appears. Without other announcement or
ceremony, Mr. George walks in.
"Whew!" says Mr. George. "You are hot here. Always a fire, eh? Well!
Perhaps you do right to get used to one." Mr. George makes the latter
remark to himself, as he nods to Grandfather Smallweed.
"Ho! It's you!" cries the old gentleman. "How de do? How de do?"
"Middling," replies Mr. George, taking a chair. "Your grand-daughter I
have had the honor of seeing before; my service to you, miss."
"This is my grandson," says Grandfather Smallweed. "You han't seen him
before. He is in the law, and not much at home."
"My service to him, too! He is like his sister. He is very like his
sister. He is devilish like his sister," says Mr. George, laying a
great and not altogether complimentary stress on his last adjective.
"And how does the world use you, Mr. George?" Grandfather Smallweed
inquires, slowly rubbing his legs.
"Pretty much as usual. Like a football."
He is a swarthy browned man of fifty; stoutly built, and good-looking;
with crisp dark hair, bright eyes, and a broad chest. His sinewy and
powerful hands, as sunburnt as his face, have evidently been used to a
pretty rough life. What is curious about him is, that he sits forward
on his chair as if he were, from long habit, allowing space for some
dress or accoutrements that he has altogether laid aside. His step,
too, is measured and heavy, and would go well with a weighty clash and
jingle of spurs. He is close-shaved now, but his mouth is set as if his
upper lip had been for years familiar with a great mustache; and his
manner of occasionally laying the open palm of his broad brown hand
upon it, is to the same effect. Altogether, one might guess Mr. George
to have been a trooper once upon a time.
A special contrast Mr. George makes to the Smallweed family. Trooper
was never yet billeted upon a household more unlike him. It is a
broad-sword to an oyster-knife. His developed figure, and their stunted
forms; his large manner filling any amount of room, and their little
narrow pinched ways; his sounding voice, and their sharp spare tones,
are in the strongest and the strangest opposition. As he sits in the
middle of the grim parlor, leaning a little forward, with his hands
upon his thighs, and his elbows squared, he looks as though, if he
remained there long, he would absorb into himself the whole family and
the whole four-roomed house, extra little back-kitchen and all.
"Do you rub your legs to rub life into 'em?" he asks of Grandfather
Smallweed, after looking round the room.
"Why, it's partly a habit, Mr. George, and--yes--it partly helps the
circulation," he replies.
"The cir-cu-la-tion!" repeats Mr. George, folding his arms upon his
chest, and seeming to become two sizes larger. "Not much of that, I
should think."
"Truly, I'm old, Mr. George," says Grandfather Smallweed. "But I can
carry my years. I'm older than _her_," nodding at his wife, "and see
what she is!--You're a brimstone chatterer!" with a sudden revival of
his late hostility.
"Unlucky old soul!" says Mr. George, turning his head in that
direction. "Don't scold the old lady. Look at her here, with her
poor cap half off her head, and her poor chair all in a muddle. Hold
up, ma'am. That's better. There we are! Think of your mother, Mr.
Smallweed," says Mr. George, coming back to his seat from assisting
her, "if your wife an't enough."
"I suppose you were an excellent son, Mr. George," the old man hints,
with a leer.
The color of George's face rather deepens, as he replies: "Why no. I
wasn't."
"I am astonished at it."
"So am I. I ought to have been a good son, and I think I meant to have
been one. But I wasn't. I was a thundering bad son, that's the long and
the short of it, and never was a credit to any body."
"Surprising!" cries the old man.
"However," Mr. George resumes, "the less said about it, the better now.
Come! You know the agreement. Always a pipe out of the two months'
interest! (Bosh! It's all correct. You needn't be afraid to order the
pipe. Here's the new bill, and here's the two months' interest-money,
and a devil-and-all of a scrape it is to get it together in my
business.")
Mr. George sits, with his arms folded, consuming the family and the
parlor, while Grandfather Smallweed is assisted by Judy to two black
leathern cases out of a locked bureau; in one of which he secures
the document he has just received, and from the other takes another
similar document which he hands to Mr. George, who twists it up for
a pipe-light. As the old man inspects, through his glasses, every
up-stroke and down-stroke of both documents, before he releases them
from their leathern prison; and as he counts the money three times
over, and requires Judy to say every word she utters at least twice,
and is as tremulously slow of speech and action as it is possible
to be; this business is a long time in progress. When it is quite
concluded, and not before, he disengages his ravenous eyes and fingers
from it, and answers Mr. George's last remark by saying, "Afraid
to order the pipe? We are not so mercenary as that, sir. Judy, see
directly to the pipe and the glass of cold brandy and water for Mr.
George."
The sportive twins, who have been looking straight before them all this
time, except when they have been engrossed by the black leathern cases,
retire together, generally disdainful of the visitor, but leaving
him to the old man, as two young cubs might leave a traveler to the
parental bear.
"And there you sit, I suppose, all the day long, eh?" says Mr. George,
with folded arms.
"Just so, just so," the old man nods.
"And don't you occupy yourself at all?"
"I watch the fire--and the boiling and the roasting--"
"When there is any," says Mr. George, with great expression.
"Just so. When there is any."
"Don't you read, or get read to?"
The old man shakes his head with sharp, sly triumph. "No, no. We have
never been readers in our family. It don't pay. Stuff. Idleness. Folly.
No, no!"
"There's not much to choose between your two states," says the visitor,
in a key too low for the old man's dull hearing, as he looks from him
to the old woman and back again. "I say!" in a louder voice.
"I hear you."
"You'll sell me up at last I suppose, when I am a day in arrear."
"My dear friend!" cries Grandfather Smallweed, stretching out both
hands to embrace him. "Never! Never, my dear friend! But my friend in
the city that I got to lend you the money--_he_ might!"
"O! you can't answer for him?" says Mr. George; finishing the inquiry,
in his lower key, with the words "you lying old rascal!"
"My dear friend, he is not to be depended on. I wouldn't trust him. He
will have his bond, my dear friend."
"Devil doubt him," says Mr. George. Charley appearing with a tray, on
which are the pipe, a small paper of tobacco, and the brandy and water,
he asked her, "How do you come here! you haven't got the family face."
"I goes out to work, sir," returns Charley.
The trooper (if trooper he be or have been) takes her bonnet off, with
a light touch for so strong a hand, and pats her on the head. "You give
the house almost a wholesome look. It wants a bit of youth as much as
it wants fresh air." Then he dismisses her, lights his pipe, and drinks
to Mr. Smallweed's friend in the city--the one solitary flight of that
esteemed old gentleman's imagination.
"So you think he might be hard upon me, eh?"
"I think he might--I am afraid he would. I have known him do it," says
Grandfather Smallweed, incautiously, "twenty times."
Incautiously, because his stricken better-half, who has been dozing
over the fire for some time, is instantly aroused and jabbers. "Twenty
thousand pounds, twenty twenty-pound notes in a money-box, twenty
guineas, twenty million twenty per cent., twenty--" and is then cut
short by the flying cushion, which the visitor, to whom this singular
experiment appears to be a novelty, snatches from her face, as it
crushes her in the usual manner.
"You're a brimstone idiot. You're a scorpion--a brimstone scorpion!
You're a sweltering toad. You're a chattering, clattering, broom-stick
witch, that ought to be burnt!" gasps the old man, prostrate in his
chair. "My dear friend, will you shake me up a little?"
Mr. George, who has been looking first at one of them and then at the
other, as if he were demented, takes his venerable acquaintance by the
throat on receiving this request, and dragging him upright in his chair
as easily as if he were a doll, appears in two minds whether or no to
shake all future power of cushioning out of him, and shake him into his
grave. Resisting the temptation, but agitating him violently enough to
make his head roll like a harlequin's, he puts him smartly down in his
chair again, and adjusts his skull cap with such a rub, that the old
man winks with both eyes for a minute afterward.
"O Lord!" says Mr. Smallweed. "That'll do. Thank you, my dear friend,
that'll do. O dear me, I'm out of breath. O Lord!" And Mr. Smallweed
says it, not without evident apprehensions of his dear friend, who
still stands over him looming larger than ever.
The alarming presence, however, gradually subsides into its chair, and
falls to smoking in long puffs; consoling itself with the philosophical
reflection, "The name of your friend in the city begins with a D,
comrade, and you're about right respecting the bond."
"Did you speak, Mr. George?" inquires the old man.
The trooper shakes his head; and leaning forward with his right elbow
on his right knee and his pipe supported in that hand, while his other
hand, resting on his left leg, squares his left elbow in a martial
manner, continues to smoke. Meanwhile he looks at Mr. Smallweed with
grave attention, and now and then fans the cloud of smoke away, in
order that he may see him the more clearly.
"I take it," he says, making just as much and as little change in his
position as will enable him to reach the glass to his lips, with a
round, full action, "that I am the only man alive (or dead either),
that gets the value of a pipe out of _you_?"
"Well!" returns the old man, "it's true that I don't see company, Mr.
George, and that I don't treat. I can't afford to do it. But as you, in
your pleasant way, made your pipe a condition--"
"Why, it's not for the value of it; that's no great thing. It was a
fancy to get it out of you. To have something in for my money."
"Ha! You're prudent, prudent, sir!" cries Grandfather Smallweed,
rubbing his legs.
"Very. I always was." Puff. "It's a sure sign of my prudence, that I
ever found the way here." Puff. "Also, that I am what I am." Puff. "I
am well known to be prudent," says Mr. George, composedly smoking. "I
rose in life, that way."
"Don't be down-hearted, sir. You may rise yet."
Mr. George laughs and drinks.
"Ha'n't you no relations now," asks Grandfather Smallweed, with a
twinkle in his eyes, "who would pay off this little principal, or who
would lend you a good name or two that I could persuade my friend in
the city to make you a further advance upon? Two good names would be
sufficient for my friend in the city. Ha'n't you no such relations, Mr.
George?"
Mr. George, still composedly smoking, replies, "If I had, I shouldn't
trouble them. I have been trouble enough to my belongings in my day. It
_may_ be a very good sort of penitence in a vagabond, who has wasted
the best time of his life, to go back then to decent people that he
never was a credit to, and live upon them; but it's not my sort. The
best kind of amends then, for having gone away, is to keep away, in my
opinion."
"But, natural affection, Mr. George," hints Grandfather Smallweed.
"For two good names, hey?" says Mr. George, shaking his head, and still
composedly smoking. "No. That's not my sort, either."
Grandfather Smallweed has been gradually sliding down in his chair
since his last adjustment, and is now a bundle of clothes, with a voice
in it calling for Judy. That Houri appearing, shakes him up in the
usual manner, and is charged by the old gentleman to remain near him.
For he seems chary of putting his visitor to the trouble of repeating
his late attentions.
"Ha!" he observes, when he is in trim again. "If you could have traced
out the Captain, Mr. George, it would have been the making of you. If,
when you first came here, in consequence of our advertisements in the
newspapers--when I say 'our,' I'm alluding to the advertisements of my
friend in the city, and one or two others who embark their capital in
the same way, and are so friendly toward me as sometimes to give me a
lift with my little pittance--if, at that time, you could have helped
us, Mr. George, it would have been the making of you."
"I was willing enough to be 'made,' as you call it," says Mr. George,
smoking not quite so placidly as before, for since the entrance of Judy
he has been in some measure disturbed by a fascination, not of the
admiring kind, which obliges him to look at her as she stands by her
grandfather's chair; "but, on the whole, I am glad I wasn't now."
"Why, Mr. George? In the name of--of Brimstone, why?" says Grandfather
Smallweed, with a plain appearance of exasperation. (Brimstone
apparently suggested by his eye lighting on Mrs. Smallweed in her
slumber).
"For two reasons, comrade."
"And what two reasons, Mr. George? In the name of the--"
"Of our friend in the city?" suggests Mr. George, composedly drinking.
"Ay, if you like. What two reasons?"
"In the first place," returns Mr. George; but still looking at Judy,
as if, she being so old and so like her grandfather, it is indifferent
which of the two he addresses; "you gentlemen took me in. You
advertised that Mr. Hawdon (Captain Hawdon, if you hold to the saying,
Once a captain always a captain) was to hear of something to his
advantage."
"Well?" returns the old man, shrilly and sharply.
"Well!" says Mr. George, smoking on. "It wouldn't have been much to
his advantage to have been clapped into prison by the whole bill and
judgment trade of London."
"How do you know that? Some of his rich relations might have paid his
debts, or compounded for 'em. Beside, he had taken _us_ in. He owed us
immense sums, all round. I would sooner have strangled him than had no
return. If I sit here thinking of him," snarls the old man, holding up
his impotent ten fingers, "I want to strangle him now." And in a sudden
access of fury he throws the cushion at the unoffending Mrs. Smallweed,
but it passes harmlessly on one side of her chair.
"I don't need to be told," returns the trooper, taking his pipe from
his lips for a moment, and carrying his eyes back from following the
progress of the cushion to the pipe-bowl, which is burning low, "that
he carried on heavily and went to ruin. I have been at his right hand
many a day, when he was charging upon ruin full-gallop. I was with
him, when he was sick and well, rich and poor. I laid this hand upon
him, after he had run through every thing and broken down every thing
beneath him--when he held a pistol to his head."
"I wish he had let it off!" says the benevolent old man, "and blown his
head into as many pieces as he owed pounds!"
"That would have been a smash indeed," returns the trooper, coolly;
"any way, he had been young, hopeful, and handsome in the days gone
by; and I am glad I never found him, when he was neither, to lead to a
result so much to his advantage. That's reason number one."
"I hope number two's as good?" says the old man.
"Why, no. It's more of a selfish reason. If I had found him, I must
have gone to the other world to look. He was there."
"How do you know he was there?"
"He wasn't here."
"How do you know he wasn't here?"
"Don't lose your temper as well as your money," says Mr. George, calmly
knocking the ashes out of his pipe. "He was drowned long before. I am
convinced of it. He went over a ship's side. Whether intentionally or
accidentally, I don't know. Perhaps your friend in the city does. Do
you know what that tune is, Mr. Smallweed?" he adds, after breaking off
to whistle one, accompanied on the table with the empty pipe.
"Tune!" replies the old man. "No. We never have tunes here."
"That's the Dead March in Saul. They bury soldiers to it; so it's the
natural end of the subject. Now, if your pretty grand-daughter--excuse
me, miss--will condescend to take care of this pipe for two months, we
shall save the cost of one, next time. Good evening, Mr. Smallweed!"
"My dear friend!" The old man gives him both his hands.
"So you think your friend in the city will be hard upon me, if I fail
in a payment?" says the trooper, looking down upon him like a giant.
"My dear friend, I am afraid he will," returns the old man looking up
at him like a pigmy.
Mr. George laughs; and with a glance at Mr. Smallweed, and a parting
salutation to the scornful Judy, strides out of the parlor, clashing
imaginary sabres and other metallic appurtenances as he goes.
"You're a damned rogue," says the old gentleman, making a hideous
grimace at the door as he shuts it. "But I'll lime you, you dog, I'll
lime you!"
After this amiable remark, his spirit soars into those enchanting
regions of reflection which its education and pursuits have opened
to it; and again he and Mrs. Smallweed wile away the rosy hours, two
unrelieved sentinels forgotten as aforesaid by the Black Sergeant.
While the twain are faithful to their post, Mr. George strides through
the streets with a massive kind of swagger and a grave enough face. It
is eight o'clock now, and the day is fast drawing in. He stops hard
by Waterloo Bridge, and reads a playbill; decides to go to Astley's
Theatre. Being there, is much delighted with the horses and the feats
of strength; looks at the weapons with a critical eye; disapproves of
the combats, as giving evidences of unskillful swordmanship; but is
touched home by the sentiments. In the last scene, when the Emperor of
Tartary gets up into a cart and condescends to bless the united lovers,
by hovering over them with the Union-Jack, his eye-lashes are moistened
with emotion.
The theatre over, Mr. George comes across the water again, and makes
his way to that curious region lying about the Haymarket and Leicester
Square, which is a centre of attraction to indifferent foreign hotels
and indifferent foreigners, racket-courts, fighting-men, swordsmen,
foot-guards, old china, gaming houses, exhibitions, and a large medley
of shabbiness and shrinking out of sight. Penetrating to the heart of
this region, he arrives, by a court and a long whitewashed passage, at
a great brick building, composed of bare walls, floor, roof-rafters,
and skylights; on the front of which, if it can be said to have any
front, is painted GEORGE'S SHOOTING GALLERY, &C.
Into George's Shooting Gallery, &c., he goes; and in it there are
gas-lights (partly turned off now), and two whitened targets for
rifle-shooting, and archery accommodation, and fencing appliances, and
all necessaries for the British art of boxing. None of these sports
or exercises are being pursued in George's Shooting Gallery to-night;
which is so devoid of company, that a little grotesque man, with a
large head, has it all to himself, and lies asleep upon the floor.
The little man is dressed something like a gunsmith, in a green baize
apron and cap; and his face and hands are dirty with gunpowder, and
begrimed with the loading of guns. As he lies in the light, before a
glaring white target, the black upon him shines again. Not far off, is
the strong, rough, primitive table, with a vice upon it, at which he
has been working. He is a little man with a face all crushed together,
who appears, from a certain blue and speckled appearance that one of
his cheeks presents, to have blown up, in the way of business, at some
odd time or times.
"Phil!" says the trooper, in a quiet voice.
"All right!" cries Phil, scrambling up.
"Any thing been doing?"
"Flat as ever so much swipes," says Phil. "Five dozen rifle and a dozen
pistol. As to aim!" Phil gives a howl at the recollection.
"Shut up shop, Phil!"
As Phil moves about to execute this order, it appears that he is
lame, though able to move very quickly. On the speckled side of his
face he has no eyebrow, and on the other side he has a bushy black
one, which want of uniformity gives him a very singular and rather
sinister appearance. Every thing seems to have happened to his hands
that could possibly take place, consistently with the retention of all
the fingers; for they are notched, and seamed, and crumpled all over.
He appears to be very strong, and lifts heavy benches about as if he
had no idea what weight was. He has a curious way of limping round the
gallery with his shoulder against the wall, and tacking off at objects
he wants to lay hold of, instead of going straight to them, which has
left a smear all round the four walls, conventionally called "Phil's
mark."
This custodian of George's Gallery in George's absence concludes his
proceedings, when he has locked the great doors, and turned out all
the lights but one, which he leaves to glimmer, by dragging out from a
wooden cabin in a corner two mattresses and bedding. These being drawn
to opposite ends of the gallery, the trooper makes his own bed, and
Phil makes his.
"Phil!" says the master, walking toward him without his coat and
waistcoat, and looking more soldierly than ever in his braces, "You
were found in a doorway, weren't you?"
"Gutter," says Phil. "Watchman tumbled over me."
"Then, vagabondizing came natural to _you_, from the beginning."
"As nat'ral as possible," says Phil.
"Good-night!"
"Good-night, guv'ner."
Phil can not even go straight to bed, but finds it necessary to
shoulder round two sides of the gallery, and then tack off at
his mattress. The trooper, after taking a turn or two in the
rifle-distance, and looking up at the moon, now shining through the
skylights, strides to his own mattress by a shorter route, and goes to
bed too.
CHAPTER XXII.--MR. BUCKET.
Allegory looks pretty cool in Lincoln's Inn Fields, though the evening
is hot; for, both Mr. Tulkinghorn's windows are wide open, and the room
is lofty, gusty, and gloomy. These may not be desirable characteristics
when November comes with fog and sleet, or January with ice and snow;
but they have their merits in the sultry long vacation weather. They
enable Allegory, though it has cheeks like peaches, and knees like
bunches of blossoms, and rosy swellings for calves to its legs and
muscles to its arms, to look tolerably cool to-night.
Plenty of dust comes in at Mr. Tulkinghorn's windows, and plenty more
has generated among his furniture and papers. It lies thick every
where. When a breeze from the country that has lost its way, takes
fright, and makes a blind hurry to rush out again, it flings as much
dust in the eyes of Allegory as the law--or Mr. Tulkinghorn, one of its
trustiest representatives--may scatter, on occasion, in the eyes of the
laity.
In his lowering magazine of dust, the universal article into which
his papers and himself, and all his clients, and all things of earth,
animate and inanimate, are resolving, Mr. Tulkinghorn sits at one
of the open windows, enjoying a bottle of old port. For, though a
hard-grained man, close, dry, and silent, he can enjoy old wine with
the best. He has a priceless bin of port in some artful cellar under
the Fields, which is one of his many secrets. When he dines alone in
chambers, as he has dined to-day, and has his bit of fish and his steak
or chicken brought in from the coffee-house, he descends with a candle
to the echoing regions below the deserted mansion, and, heralded by a
remote reverberation of thundering doors, comes gravely back, encircled
by an earthly atmosphere, and carrying a bottle from which he pours a
radiant nectar, two score and ten years old, that blushes in the glass
to find itself so famous, and fills the whole room with the fragrance
of southern grapes.
Mr. Tulkinghorn, sitting in the twilight by the open window, enjoys
his wine. As if it whispered to him of its fifty years of silence and
seclusion, it shuts him up the closer. More impenetrable than ever, he
sits, and drinks, and mellows as it were in secrecy; pondering, at that
twilight hour, on all the mysteries he knows, associated with darkening
woods in the country, and vast blank shut-up houses in town; and
perhaps sparing a thought or two for himself, and his family history,
and his money, and his will--all a mystery to every one--and that one
bachelor friend of his, a man of the same mould, and a lawyer too, who
lived the same kind of life until he was seventy-five years old, and
then, suddenly conceiving (as it is supposed) an impression that it
was too monotonous, gave his gold watch to his hair-dresser one summer
evening, and walked leisurely home to the Temple, and hanged himself.
But Mr. Tulkinghorn is not alone to-night, to ponder at his usual
length. Seated at the same table, though with his chair modestly and
uncomfortably drawn a little away from it, sits a bald, mild, shining
man, who coughs respectfully behind his hand when the lawyer bids him
fill his glass.
"Now, Snagsby," says Mr. Tulkinghorn, "to go over this odd story again."
"If you please, sir."
"You told me, when you were so good as to step round here, last night--"
"For which I must ask you to excuse me if it was a liberty, sir; but I
remembered that you had taken a sort of an interest in that person, and
I thought it possible that you might--just--wish--to--"
Mr. Tulkinghorn is not the man to help him to any conclusion, or to
admit any thing as to any possibility concerning himself. So Mr.
Snagsby trails off into saying, with an awkward cough, "I must ask you
to excuse the liberty, sir, I am sure."
"Not at all," says Mr. Tulkinghorn. "You told me, Snagsby, that you
put on your hat and came round without mentioning your intention to
your wife. That was prudent, I think, because it's not a matter of such
importance that it requires to be mentioned."
"Well, sir," returns Mr. Snagsby, "you see my little woman is--not to
put too fine a point upon it--inquisitive. She's inquisitive. Poor
little thing, she's liable to spasms, and it's good for her to have her
mind employed. In consequence of which, she employs it--I should say
upon every individual thing she can lay hold of, whether it concerns
her or not--especially not. My little woman has a very active mind,
sir."
Mr. Snagsby drinks, and murmurs with an admiring cough behind his hand.
"Dear me, very fine wine indeed!"
"Therefore you kept your visit to yourself, last night?" says Mr.
Tulkinghorn. "And to-night, too?"
"Yes, sir, and to-night, too. My little woman is at present in--not
to put too fine a point upon it--in a pious state, or in what she
considers such, and attends the Evening Exertions (which is the name
they go by) of a reverend party of the name of Chadband. He has a great
deal of eloquence at his command, undoubtedly, but I am not quite
favorable to his style myself. That's neither here nor there. My little
woman being engaged in that way, made it easier for me to step round in
a quiet manner."
Mr. Tulkinghorn assents. "Fill your glass, Snagsby."
"Thank you, sir, I am sure," returns the stationer, with his cough of
deference. "This is wonderfully fine wine, sir!"
"It is a rare wine now," says Mr. Tulkinghorn. "It is fifty years old."
"Is it indeed, sir? But I am not surprised to hear it, I am sure. It
might be--any age almost." After rendering this general tribute to the
port, Mr. Snagsby in his modesty coughs an apology behind his hand for
drinking any thing so precious.
"Will you run over, once again, what the boy said?" asks Mr.
Tulkinghorn, putting his hands into the pockets of his rusty
smallclothes, and leaning quietly back in his chair.
"With pleasure, sir."
Then, with fidelity, though with some prolixity, the law stationer
repeats Joe's statement made to the assembled guests at his house. On
coming to the end of his narrative, he gives a great start, and breaks
off with--"Dear me, sir, I wasn't aware there was any other gentleman
present!"
Mr. Snagsby is dismayed to see, standing with an attentive face between
himself and the lawyer, at a little distance from the table, a person
with a hat and stick in his hand, who was not there when he himself
came in, and has not since entered by the door or by either of the
windows. There is a press in the room, but its hinges have not creaked,
nor has a step been audible upon the floor. Yet this third person
stands there, with his attentive face, and his hat and stick in his
hands, and his hands behind him, a composed and quiet listener. He is
a steady-looking, sharp-eyed man in black, of about the middle age.
Except that he looks at Mr. Snagsby as if he were going to take his
portrait, there is nothing remarkable about him at first sight but his
ghostly manner of appearing.
"Don't mind this gentleman," says Mr. Tulkinghorn, in his quiet way.
"This is only Mr. Bucket."
"O indeed, sir?" returns the stationer, expressing by a cough that he
is quite in the dark as to who Mr. Bucket may be.
"I wanted him to hear this story," says the lawyer, "because I
have half a mind (for a reason) to know more of it, and he is very
intelligent in such things. What do you say to this, Bucket?"
"It's very plain, sir. Since our people have moved this boy on, and
he's not to be found on his old lay, if Mr. Snagsby don't object to go
down with me to Tom-all-Alone's and point him out, we can have him here
in less than a couple of hours' time. I can do it without Mr. Snagsby,
of course; but this is the shortest way."
"Mr. Bucket is a detective officer, Snagsby," says the lawyer in
explanation.
"Is he indeed, sir?" says Mr. Snagsby, with a strong tendency in his
clump of hair to stand on end.
"And if you have no real objection to accompany Mr. Bucket to the place
in question," pursues the lawyer, "I shall feel obliged to you if you
will do so."
In a moment's hesitation on the part of Mr. Snagsby, Bucket dips down
to the bottom of his mind.
"Don't you be afraid of hurting the boy," he says. "You won't do that.
It's all right as far as the boy's concerned. We shall only bring him
here to ask him a question or so I want to put to him, and he'll be
paid for his trouble, and sent away again. It'll be a good job for
him. I promise you, as a man, that you shall see the boy sent away all
right. Don't you be afraid of hurting him; you an't going to do that."
"Very well, Mr. Tulkinghorn!" cries Mr. Snagsby, cheerfully, and
reassured, "since that's the case--"
"Yes! and lookee here, Mr. Snagsby," resumes Bucket, taking him aside
by the arm, tapping him familiarly on the breast, and speaking in a
confidential tone. "You're a man of the world, you know, and a man of
business, and a man of sense. That's what _you_ are."
"I am sure I am much obliged to you for your good opinion," returns the
stationer, with his cough of modesty, "but--"
"That's what you _are_, you know," says Bucket. "Now it an't necessary
to say to a man like you, engaged in your business, which is a business
of trust, and requires a person to be wide awake and have his senses
about him, and his head screwed on right (I had an uncle in your
business once)--it an't necessary to say to a man like you, that it's
the best and wisest way to keep little matters like this quiet. Don't
you see? Quiet!"
"Certainly, certainly," returns the stationer.
"I don't mind telling _you_," says Bucket, with an engaging appearance
of frankness, "that, as far as I can understand it, there seems to be
a doubt whether this dead person wasn't entitled to a little property,
and whether this female hasn't been up to some games respecting that
property, don't you see!"
"O!" says Mr. Snagsby, but not appearing to see quite distinctly.
"Now, what _you_ want," pursues Bucket, again tapping Mr. Snagsby on
the breast in a comfortable and soothing manner, "is, that every person
should have their rights according to justice. That's what _you_ want."
"To be sure," returns Mr. Snagsby, with a nod.
"On account of which, and at the same time to oblige a--do you call it,
in your business, customer or client? I forget how my uncle used to
call it."
"Why, I generally say customer, myself," replies Mr. Snagsby.
"You're right!" returns Mr. Bucket, shaking hands with him quite
affectionately--"on account of which, and at the same time to oblige
a real good customer, you mean to go down with me, in confidence, to
Tom-all-Alone's, and to keep the whole thing quiet ever afterward
and never mention it to any one. That's about your intentions, if I
understand you?"
"You are right, sir. You are right," says Mr. Snagsby.
"Then here's your hat," returns his new friend, quite as intimate with
it as if he had made it; "and if you're ready, I am."
They leave Mr. Tulkinghorn, without a ruffle on the surface of his
unfathomable depths, drinking his old wine; and go down into the
streets.
"You don't happen to know a very good sort of person of the name of
Gridley, do you?" says Bucket, in friendly converse as they descend the
stairs.
"No," says Mr. Snagsby, considering, "I don't know any body of that
name. Why?"
"Nothing particular," says Bucket; "only, having allowed his temper
to get a little the better of him, and having been threatening some
respectable people, he is keeping out of the way of a warrant I have
got against him--which it's a pity that a man of sense should do."
As they walk along, Mr. Snagsby observes, as a novelty, that however
quick their pace may be, his companion still seems in some undefinable
manner to lurk and lounge; also, that whenever he is going to turn to
the right or left, he pretends to have a fixed purpose in his mind
of going straight ahead, and wheels off, sharply, at the very last
moment. Now and then, when they pass a police constable on his beat,
Mr. Snagsby notices that both the constable and his guide fall into a
deep abstraction as they come toward each other, and appear entirely
to overlook each other, and to gaze into space. In a few instances Mr.
Bucket, coming behind some under-sized young man with a shining hat
on, and his sleek hair twisted into one flat curl on each side of his
head, almost without glancing at him touches him with his stick; upon
which the young man, looking round, instantly evaporates. For the most
part Mr. Bucket notices things in general, with a face as unchanging as
the great mourning ring on his little finger, or the brooch, composed
of not much diamond and a good deal of setting, which he wears in his
shirt.
When they come at last to Tom-all-Alone's, Mr. Bucket stops for a
moment at the corner, and takes a lighted bull's-eye from the constable
on duty there, who then accompanies him with his own particular
bull's-eye at his waist. Between his two conductors, Mr. Snagsby passes
along the middle of a villainous street, undrained, unventilated, deep
in black mud and corrupt water--though the roads are dry elsewhere--and
reeking with such smells and sights that he, who has lived in London
all his life, can scarce believe his senses. Branching from this street
and its heaps of ruins, are other streets and courts so infamous that
Mr. Snagsby sickens in body and mind, and feels as if he were going,
every moment deeper down, into the infernal gulf.
"Draw off a bit here, Mr. Snagsby," says Bucket, as a kind of shabby
palanquin is borne toward them, surrounded by a noisy crowd. "Here's
the fever coming up the street."
As the unseen wretch goes by, the crowd, leaving that object of
attraction, hovers round the three visitors, like a dream of horrible
faces, and fades away up alleys and into ruins, and behind walls; and
with occasional cries and shrill whistles of warning, thenceforth flits
about them until they leave the place.
"Are those the fever-houses, Darby?" Mr Bucket coolly asks, as he turns
his bull's-eye on a line of stinking ruins.
Darby replies that "all them are," and further that in all, for months
and months, the people "have been down by dozens," and have been
carried out, dead and dying "like sheep with the rot." Bucket observing
to Mr. Snagsby as they go on again, that he looks a little poorly, Mr.
Snagsby answers that he feels as if he couldn't breathe the dreadful
air.
There is inquiry made, at various houses, for a boy named Jo. As few
people are known in Tom-all-Alone's by any Christian sign, there is
much reference to Mr. Snagsby whether he means Carrots, or the Colonel,
or Gallows, or Young Chisel, or Terrier Tip, or Lanky, or the Brick.
Mr. Snagsby describes over and over again. There are conflicting
opinions respecting the original of his picture. Some think it must be
Carrots; some say the Brick. The Colonel is produced, but is not at all
near the thing. Whenever Mr. Snagsby and his conductors are stationary,
the crowd flows round, and from its squalid depths obsequious advice
heaves up to Mr. Bucket. Whenever they move, and the angry bull's-eyes
glare, it fades away, and flits about them up the alleys, and in the
ruins, and behind the walls, as before.
At last there is a lair found out where Toughy, or the Tough Subject,
lays him down at night; and it is thought that the Tough Subject may
be Jo. Comparison of notes between Mr. Snagsby and the proprietress of
the house--a drunken, fiery face tied up in a black bundle, and flaring
out of a heap of rags on the floor of a dog-hutch, which is her private
apartment--leads to the establishment of this conclusion. Toughy has
gone to the Doctor's to get a bottle of stuff for a sick woman, but
will be here anon.
"And who have we got here to-night?" says Mr. Bucket, opening another
door, and glaring in with his bull's-eye. "Two drunken men, eh? And two
women? The men are sound enough," turning back each sleeper's arm from
his face to look at him. "Are these your good men, my dears?"
"Yes, sir," returns one of the women. "They are our husbands."
"Brickmakers, eh?"
"Yes, sir."
"What are you doing here? You don't belong to London."
"No, sir. We belong to Hertfordshire."
"Whereabouts in Hertfordshire?"
"Saint Albans."
"Come up on the tramp?"
"We walked up yesterday. There's no work down with us at present; but
we have done no good by coming here, and shall do none, I expect."
"That's not the way to do much good," says Mr. Bucket, turning his head
in the direction of the unconscious figures on the ground.
"It an't, indeed," replies the woman with a sigh. "Jenny and me knows
it full well."
The room, though two or three feet higher than the door, is so low
that the head of the tallest of the visitors would touch the blackened
ceiling if he stood upright. It is offensive to every sense; even the
gross candle burns pale and sickly in the polluted air. There are a
couple of benches, and a higher bench by way of table. The men lie
asleep where they stumbled down, but the women sit by the candle. Lying
in the arms of the woman who has spoken, is a very young child.
"Why, what age do you call that little creature?" says Bucket. "It
looks as if it was born yesterday." He is not at all rough about
it; and as he turns his light gently on the infant, Mr. Snagsby is
strangely reminded of another infant, encircled with light, that he has
seen in pictures.
"He is not three weeks old yet, sir," says the woman.
"Is he your child?"
"Mine."
The other woman, who was bending over it when they came in, stoops down
again, and kisses it as it lies asleep.
"You seem as fond of it as if you were the mother yourself," says Mr.
Bucket.
"I was the mother of one like it, master, and it died."
"Ah Jenny, Jenny!" says the other woman to her; "better so. Much better
to think of dead than alive, Jenny! Much better!"
"Why, you an't such an unnatural woman, I hope," returns Bucket,
sternly, "as to wish your own child dead?"
"God knows you are right, master," she returns. "I am not. I'd stand
between it and death, with my own life if I could, as true as any
pretty lady."
"Then don't talk in that wrong manner," says Mr. Bucket, mollified
again. "Why do you do it?"
"It's brought into my head, master," returns the woman, her eyes
filling with tears, "when I look down at the child lying so. If it
was never to wake no more, you'd think me mad, I should take on so.
I know that very well. I was with Jenny when she lost hers--warn't I
Jenny?--and I know how she grieved. But look round you, at this place.
Look at them;" glancing at the sleepers on the ground. "Look at the boy
you're waiting for, who's gone out to do me a good turn. Think of the
children that your business lays with often and often, and that _you_
see grow up!"
"Well, well," says Mr. Bucket, "you train him respectable, and he'll be
a comfort to you, and look after you in your old age, you know."
"I mean to try hard," she answers, wiping her eyes. "But I have been a
thinking, being over-tired to-night, and not well with the ague, of
all the many things that'll come in his way. My master will be against
it, and he'll be beat, and see me beat, and made to fear his home, and
perhaps to stray wild. If I work for him ever so much, and ever so
hard, there's no one to help me; and if he should be turned bad, 'spite
of all I could do, and the time should come when I should sit by him in
his sleep, made hard and changed, an't it likely I should think of him
as he lies in my lap now, and wish he had died as Jenny's child died."
"There, there!" says Jenny. "Liz, you're tired and ill. Let me take
him."
In doing so she displaces the mother's dress, but quickly readjusts it
over the wounded and bruised bosom where the baby has been lying.
"It's my dead child," says Jenny, walking up and down as she nurses,
"that makes me love this child so dear, and it's my dead child that
makes her love it so dear too, as even to think of its being taken away
from her now. While she thinks that, _I_ think what fortune would I
give to have my darling back. But we mean the same thing, if we knew
how to say it, us two mothers does in our poor hearts!"
As Mr. Snagsby blows his nose, and coughs his cough of sympathy, a step
is heard without. Mr. Bucket throws his light into the doorway, and
says to Mr. Snagsby, "Now, what do you say to Toughy? Will _he_ do?"
"That's Jo!" says Mr. Snagsby.
Jo stands amazed in the disc of light, like a ragged figure in a magic
lantern, trembling to think that he has offended against the law in
not having moved on far enough. Mr. Snagsby, however, giving him the
consolatory assurance, "It's only a job you will be paid for, Jo,"
he recovers; and, on being taken outside by Mr. Bucket for a little
private confabulation, tells his tale satisfactorily, though out of
breath.
"I have squared it with the lad," says Mr. Bucket, returning, "and it's
all right. Now, Mr. Snagsby, we're ready for you."
First, Jo has to complete his errand of good-nature by handing over the
physic he has been to get, which he delivers with the laconic verbal
direction that "it's to be all took d'rectly." Secondly Mr. Snagsby has
to lay upon the table half-a-crown, his usual panacea for an immense
variety of afflictions. Thirdly, Mr. Bucket has to take Jo by the arm
a little above the elbow and walk him on before him: without which
observance, neither the Tough Subject nor any other subject could be
professionally conducted to Lincoln's Inn Fields. These arrangements
completed, they give the women good-night, and come out once more into
black and foul Tom-all-Alone's.
By the noisome ways through which they descended into that pit, they
gradually emerge from it; the crowd flitting, and whistling, and
skulking about them, until they come to the verge, where restoration of
the bull's-eyes is made to Darby. Here the crowd, like a concourse of
imprisoned demons turns back, yelling and is seen no more. Through the
clearer and fresher streets, never so clear and fresh to Mr. Snagsby's
mind as now, they walk and ride, until they come to Mr. Tulkinghorn's
gate.
As they ascend the dim stairs (Mr. Tulkinghorn's chambers being on the
first floor), Mr. Bucket mentions that he has the key of the outer door
in his pocket, and that there is no need to ring. For a man so expert
in most things of that kind, Bucket takes time to open the door, and
makes some noise too. It may be that he sounds a note of preparation.
Howbeit, they come at last into the hall, where a lamp is burning, and
so into Mr. Tulkinghorn's usual room--the room where he drank his old
wine to-night. He is not there, but his two old-fashioned candlesticks
are; and the room is tolerably light.
Mr. Bucket, still having his professional hold of Jo, and appearing to
Mr. Snagsby to possess an unlimited number of eyes, makes a little way
into this room, when Jo starts, and stops.
"What's the matter?" says Bucket in a whisper.
"There she is!" cries Jo.
"Who?"
"The lady!"
A female figure, closely vailed, stands in the middle of the room,
where the light falls upon it. It is quite still, and silent. The front
of the figure is toward them, but it takes no notice of their entrance,
and remains like a statue.
"Now, tell me," says Bucket aloud, "how you know that to be the lady."
"I know the wale," replies Jo, staring, "and the bonnet, and the gownd."
"Be quite sure of what you say, Tough," returns Bucket, narrowly
observant of him. "Look again."
"I am a-looking as hard as ever I can look," says Jo, with starting
eyes, "and that there's the wale, the bonnet, and the gownd."
"What about those rings you told me of?" asks Bucket.
"A sparkling all over here," says Jo, rubbing the fingers of his left
hand on the knuckles of his right, without taking his eyes from the
figure.
The figure removes the right hand glove, and shows the hand.
"Now, what do you say to that?" asks Bucket.
Jo shakes his head. "Not rings a bit like them. Not a hand like that."
"What are you talking of?" says Bucket; evidently pleased though, and
well pleased too.
"Hand was a deal whiter, a deal delicater, and a deal smaller," returns
Jo.
"Why, you'll tell me I'm my own mother, next," says Mr. Bucket. "Do you
recollect the lady's voice?"
"I think I does?" says Jo.
The figure speaks. "Was it at all like this. I will speak as long as
you like if you are not sure. Was it this voice, or at all like this
voice?"
Jo looks aghast at Mr. Bucket. "Not a bit!"
"Then, what," retorts that worthy, pointing to the figure, "did you say
it was the lady for?"
"Cos," says Jo, with a perplexed stare, but without being at all
shaken in his certainty, "Cos that there's the wale, the bonnet, and
the gownd. It is her and it an't her. It an't her hand, nor yet her
rings, nor yet her woice. But that there's the wale, the bonnet, and
the gownd, and they're wore the same way wot she wore 'em, and its her
height wot she wos, and she give me a sov'ring and hooked it."
"Well!" says Mr. Bucket, slightly, "we haven't got much good out of
_you_. But, however, here's five shillings for you. Take care how you
spend it, and don't get yourself into trouble." Bucket stealthily tells
the coins from one hand into the other like counters--which is a way
he has, his principal use of them being in these games of skill--and
then puts them, in a little pile, into the boy's hand, and takes him
out to the door; leaving Mr. Snagsby, not by any means comfortable
under these mysterious circumstances, alone with the vailed figure.
But on Mr. Tulkinghorn's coming into the room, the vail is raised,
and a sufficiently good-looking Frenchwoman is revealed, though her
expression is something of the intensest.
"Thank you, Mademoiselle Hortense," says Mr. Tulkinghorn, with his
usual equanimity. "I will give you no further trouble about this little
wager."
"You will do me the kindness to remember, sir, that I am not at present
placed?" said Mademoiselle.
"Certainly, certainly!"
"And to confer upon me the favor of your distinguished recommendation?"
"By all means, Mademoiselle Hortense."
"A word from Mr. Tulkinghorn is so powerful."--"It shall not be
wanting, Mademoiselle."--"Receive the assurance of my devoted gratitude
dear sir."--"Good-night." Mademoiselle goes out with an air of native
gentility; and Mr. Bucket, to whom it is, on an emergency, as natural
to be groom of the ceremonies as it is to be any thing else, shows her
down stairs, not without gallantry.
"Well, Bucket?" quoth Mr. Tulkinghorn on his return.
"It's all squared, you see, as I squared it myself, sir. There an't a
doubt that it was the other one with this one's dress on. The boy was
exact respecting colors and every thing. Mr. Snagsby, I promised you,
as a man, that he should be sent away all right. Don't say it wasn't
done!"
"You have kept your word, sir," returns the stationer; "and if I can be
of no further use, Mr. Tulkinghorn, I think, as my little woman will be
getting anxious--"
"Thank you, Snagsby, no further use," says Mr. Tulkinghorn. "I am quite
indebted to you for the trouble you have taken already."
"Not at all, sir. I wish you good-night."
"You see, Mr. Snagsby," says Mr. Bucket, accompanying him to the door,
and shaking hands with him over and over again, "what I like in you,
is, that you're a man it's of no use pumping; that's what _you_ are.
When you know you have done a right thing, you put it away, and it's
done with and gone, and there's an end of it. That's what _you_ do."
"That is certainly what I endeavor to do, sir," returns Mr. Snagsby.
"No, you don't do yourself justice. It an't what you endeavor to
do," says Mr. Bucket, shaking hands with him and blessing him in the
tenderest manner, "it's what you _do_. That's what I estimate in a man
in your way of business."
Mr. Snagsby makes a suitable response; and goes homeward so confused
by the events of the evening, that he is doubtful of his being awake
and out--doubtful of the reality of the streets through which he
goes--doubtful of the reality of the moon that shines above him. He
is presently reassured on these subjects, by the unchallengeable
reality of Mrs. Snagsby, sitting up with her head in a perfect beehive
of curl-papers and nightcap; who has dispatched Guster to the police
station with official intelligence of her husband's being made away
with, and who, within the last two hours, has passed through every
stage of swooning with the greatest decorum. But, as the little woman
feelingly says, many thanks she gets for it!
MONSTERS OF FAITH.
We people in this western world, have, in our time, not less than
those who went before us, been witnesses of many acts of eccentric and
exaggerated faith. We have seen this virtue dressed in many a guise,
tricked out in many a hue. We have seen it in the meanest and the
highest.
But what is cold, dwarfed, European faith, when compared with the huge
monstrous faith of the barbarous land of the sun? The two will no more
bear comparison than will the Surrey Hills compare with the Himalayas,
or the Thames and the Garonne bear being mentioned beside the Ganges
and the Burrumpootra. The scenes I am about to relate are not selected
for their rarity or for any peculiarity about them; they may be met
with at any of the many festivals, or Poojahs, throughout India proper.
The village at which the festival I witnessed was held, was not very
far distant from one of the leading cities of Bengal, a city numbering
possibly half a million of inhabitants, with a highly populous country
round about it for many a league. The reader will, therefore, readily
imagine the crowding and rushing which took place from all sides, to
witness the festival of a deity in whom all believed, for, away from
the south, there are comparatively but few of any other faith than
Hindooism.
It was high noon when I arrived on the ground in my palanquin; and
by favor of the friendship of the British collector of Howdahpore I
was admitted within the most privileged circle, and took up my stand
beneath the pleasant shade of a wide-spreading Jambo tree. I had time
and opportunity to note the place and the people; for the sacred
operations had not as yet commenced. The spot we were assembled in was
in an extensive valley lightly wooded at intervals, and commanding a
picturesque view of a rather wide river which flowed on to Howdahpore,
and was now busy with many boats loaded with passengers. On the river
bank nearest to us, a number of bamboo and leaf sheds had been hastily
erected, in which carousals and amusements of various kinds were in
progress or preparation. Flowers decorated the ample doorways, and
hung festooned from many a roof; while high above, wooing in vain a
passing breeze and brightly glaring in the noon-day tropic sun, gay
streamers drooped in burning listlessness. From the topmost summits of
some of the loftiest trees--and they _are_ lofty here--long tapering
poles extended other flags and strips of colored cloth. In cool, shady
nooks, where clumps of spreading jungle kindly grew, at other times the
haunts of fiercest tigers, or worse, of cruel Thugs, small knots of
Hindoo families of rank were grouped in silent watchfulness. The lordly
Zemindar of the district; the exacting Tulukdhar, the terror of village
ryots; the grinding Putindhar: all these were there in eastern feudal
pomp.
Far as the eye could reach, the rich green valley teemed with human
life. Thousands on thousands flocked from many a point, and pressed
to where the gaudy flags and beating drums told of the approaching
Poojah. The steady hum of the vast multitude seemed like the ocean's
fall on some far distant shore. Grief, joy, pain, pleasure, prayers
and songs, blended with howling madness, or cries of devotees, in one
strange, stormy discord; the heat and glare, the many new and striking
garbs, the sea of dusky visages and brightly glaring eyes, mixed with
the varied gorgeous foliage, and flinging into contrast the lovely
gentleness of distant hills and woods, made up a whole not easy to
forget, yet difficult to paint.
But my attention was before long directed to some preparations in
progress not far from where I stood. I had observed several huge poles
standing at a great height, with ropes and some apparatus attached to
them, the use of which I knew from report alone. Here I now remarked a
great deal of bustling activity; a number of attendants were beating
back the crowd in order to clear a space around one of the loftiest of
the poles I have mentioned. This was a work of much difficulty, for
the mob was both excited and dense. At length, however, they succeeded
in the task, and finding the ground before me pretty clear, I advanced
close to the scene of action. Round about the pole were a number of
Fakirs or Ascetics, a sort of self-mutilated hermits, who hope and
firmly believe that, by distorting their limbs into all sorts of
impossible positions and shapes, they have insured the favor of some
unpronounceable divinity, and with that a ready and certain passport
to some future state about which they have not the most remote idea,
which renders their devotion the more praiseworthy.
There was one miserable object, with his long matted locks of dirty
red streaming over his shoulders, and one withered arm and hand held
blighted high above his head, immovable. It had been forced into that
unnatural position years ago, and what was then an act of free-will,
was now a matter of necessity; the arm would no longer return to its
true position, but pointed in its thin and bony haggardness to heaven.
Another dark-eyed, dark-haired ascetic had held his hands for years
so firmly clasped together, that the long talon-like nails were to be
seen growing through the palms of his hands and appearing at the back.
Some I saw with thick rope actually threaded through their flesh quite
round their bodies, many times in bleeding coils; more than one young
woman was there with her neck and shoulders thickly studded over with
sharp short needles stuck firmly in the flesh. One man, a young man,
too, had forced a sort of spear right through the fleshy part of his
foot, with the thick wooden handle downward, on which he walked, quite
indifferent to any sort of inconvenience. There was no lack of others,
all self-tortured, maimed, and trussed, and skewered, as though about
to be spitted and put down to the fire.
The object which all by one consent agreed to gaze at, was a young
and pretty-looking girl, almost a child in manner, who sat upon the
ground so sadly, yet so calm and almost happy, that I could not
persuade myself one so young and gentle was about to be barbarously
tortured. Yet so it was. It appeared that her husband had, months
since, gone upon some distant, dangerous journey; that being long
absent, and rumors raised in the native bazaar of his death, she, the
anxious wife, had vowed to Siva, the protector of life, to undergo
self-torture on his next festival if her loved husband's life should
be spared. He had returned, and now, mighty in faith and love, this
simple-minded, single-hearted creature gave up herself to pain such
as the stoutest of our sex or race might shrink from. She sat looking
fondly on her little infant as it lay asleep in the arms of an old
nurse, all unconscious of the mother's sacrifice, and turning her eyes
from that to her husband, who stood near in a wild, excited state, she
gave the signal that she was ready. The stout-limbed, burly-bodied
husband rushed like a tiger at such of the crowd as attempted to press
too near the sacrificial girl: he had a staff in his hand, and with it
played such a tune on bare and turbaned heads and ebony shoulders, as
brought down many an angry malediction on the player. The nurse with
the infant moved further away among the crowd of admiring spectators.
Two or three persons, men and women, pressed forward to adjust the
horrid-looking hooks. Was it possible, I thought, that those huge
instruments of torture, heavy enough to hold an elephant, were to be
forced into the flesh of that gentle girl! I felt sick as I saw the
poor child stretched upon her face, and first one and then the other
of those ugly, crooked pieces of iron forced slowly through the flesh
and below the muscles of her back. They lifted her up, and as I watched
her, I saw big drops of perspiration starting from her forehead; her
small eyes seemed closed at first, and, for the moment, I fancied she
had fainted; but as they raised her to her feet, and then quickly drew
her up in the air high above us, hanging by those two horrid hooks, I
saw her looking down quite placidly. She sought her husband out, and
seeing him watching her eagerly, gave him a smile, and, waving her
little hands, drew from her bosom small pieces of the sacred cocoa-nut
and flung them amid the gazing crowd. To scramble for and obtain one of
these precious fragments was deemed a fortunate thing, for they were
supposed to contain all sorts of charmed powers.
And now the Poojah was fairly commenced. The ropes which carried the
iron hooks were so arranged, that by pulling one end--which passed over
the top of the pole--it swung round a plate of iron which set in motion
the other rope holding the hooks and the living operator. Two men
seized on this rope, and soon the poor girl was in rapid flight over
the heads of the crowd, who cheered her on by a variety of wild cries,
and shouts, and songs. Not that she seemed to need encouragement; her
eyes were still bent toward her husband; I almost fancied she smiled
as she caught his eye. There was no sign of pain, or shrinking, or
yielding: she bore it as many a hero of the old world would have been
proud to have done, scattering beneath her flowers and fruit among the
busy throng.
I felt as though a heavy weight were off my mind when I perceived the
whirling motion of the ropes first to slacken, and then to cease,
and finally the girl, all bleeding, relieved from the cruel torture.
They laid her on a mat beneath some shady trees: the women gave her a
draught of cool water in a cocoa-nut shell. But her thoughts were not
upon herself: she looked anxiously around, and could not be satisfied
until her husband sat beside her, and their little swarthy infant was
placed within her arms. The only care her deep and open wounds received
was to have them rubbed with a little turmeric powder, and covered with
the fresh tender leaf of a banana.
Leaving this family group, I turned back to watch the further
proceedings around the huge pole, where there was once more a great
bustle and pressing among the crowd. This time the operator, or
sufferer, whichever would be the most fitting term, was a man of middle
age, and of the lowest ranks of the laboring class. He appeared to be
perfectly indifferent to any thing like suffering, as the two operators
seized the flesh of his back, and another roughly thrust through it two
hooks. In another minute he was whirling through the air as rapidly
as the attendants could force him; still he seemed anxious to travel
faster, and by signs and cries urged them to increased speed. The mob
was delighted with this exhibition of perfect endurance and enthusiasm,
and testified their approbation in a variety of modes. This man
remained swinging for fully twenty minutes, at the end of which time he
was released: somewhat less excited, I fancied, than when he was first
hoisted in the air. I failed to learn his story, but it had reference,
beyond a doubt, to some escape from danger, real or imaginary, and, of
course, imputed to the direct interposition of the powerful Siva, or
some equally efficacious deputy. The medical treatment of this devotee
was on the ruder scale, and would have shocked the feelings and science
of some of our army surgeons, to say nothing of civil practitioners.
The root of turmeric was again employed, in fine powder, but placed in
the wounds most hastily, and, by way of forcing it thoroughly in, some
one stood on his back, and trod in the powder with his heel.
I saw one other man hoisted up. He had taken the vow in order to save
the life of a much-loved sister's child; and as he swung round and
round in stoical indifference, the sister, a young creature with her
little infant, sat looking at him as if she would willingly have borne
the suffering in his stead. Doubtless there was a love linking these
poor creatures together in their ignorance; which, mighty as it was,
would have done honor to any highly-gifted dwellers in the west. And,
it must be remembered, their sacrifice was for the past; it was one
of gratitude, and not of hope or fear for the future. Their prayers
had been heard; and, although they knew not of that undying Providence
which had listened to their voice and spared the young child's life,
they turned to such stone and wooden deities as their forefathers had
set up, and devoutly kept their vow.
There were other victims yet to be self-offered; but I had had enough,
and the heat, and the noise, and the many strange effluvia were growing
so rank and overpowering, that I prepared to retreat. As I returned
through the dense crowd which made way for me, I perceived an aged
woman preparing for a swing as stoically as any of the younger devotees
who had gone before her. A tall, powerful-looking man was standing by
her side, watching the preparations with considerable interest. He
was her son; and, as I learnt, the cause of her present appearance
in public. It had been some seven or eight years previously that the
vow had been made to the stone deity; which, as they believed, had
acted as a miracle and saved his life. It would have been fulfilled at
once, but first poverty, and then ill-health, had stood in the way of
its performance; and now, after this long lapse being able to pay the
necessary fees to the priests, she had left her distant home to carry
out the never-to-be-forgotten vow. As I moved away in the distance, I
heard the shouts of the enraptured multitude raised in honor of the old
lady's fortitude; cry after cry floated on the breeze, and died away
in the din of drums, and pipes, and bells.
For miles the country round about was covered with festivity and
uproar. Hundreds of fanatic companies were reveling in religious
festive rites. In one leaf and bamboo shed, larger than the rest, I
noticed, as I looked in unperceived, the young self-offered wife of
that day, as gay and unconcerned by pain as any of the party; I might
have fancied she had but just been married, instead of hanging in the
air upon cruel hooks.
LIFE AND DEATH OF PAGANINI.
Genius--talent, whatever its extent--can not always count upon
popularity. Susceptibility of the highest conceptions, of the most
sublime creations, frequently fails in securing the attention of the
multitude. How to attain this most coveted point? It would be difficult
to arrive at any precise conclusion, from the fact that it applies to
matters totally differing from each other; it is, however, perhaps
possible to define the aggregation of qualities required to move the
public in masses, by calling it _sympathetic wonderment_, and its
originality is one of its absolute conditions. Many names, doubtless,
recall talents of the first order, and personalities of the highest
value; yet, notwithstanding their having been duly appreciated by the
intelligent and enlightened classes, they have not always called forth
those outbursts of enthusiasm, which were manifested toward the truly
prodigious artist who is the object of this notice.
Nicolo Paganini, the most extraordinary musical genius of the 19th
century, was born at Genoa, on the 18th of February, 1784. His father,
Antoine Paganini, a commercial broker, or simple post clerk, according
to some biographers, was passionately fond of music, and played upon
the mandoline. His penetration soon discovered the aptitude of his
son for this art, and he resolved that study should develope it. His
excessive severity had probably led to contrary results to those he
expected, had not the younger Paganini been endowed with the firm
determination of becoming an artist. From the age of six years he was
a musician, and played the violin. The ill treatment to which he was
subjected during this period of his youth, appears to have exercised a
fatal influence over his nervous and delicate constitution. From his
first attempts he was imbued with the disposition to execute feats of
strength and agility upon his instrument; and his instinct urged him to
attempt the most extraordinary things.
His father's lessons soon became useless, and Servetto, a musician
of the theatre, at Genoa, became his teacher; but even he was not
possessed of sufficient ability to benefit this predestined artist.
Paganini received his instructions for a short period only, and he was
placed under Giacomo Costa, director of music, and principal violinist
of the churches of Genoa, under whose care he progressed rapidly. He
had now attained his eighth year, when he wrote his Sonata, which he
unfortunately took no care of, and has been lost among many other of
his productions.
Having reached his ninth year, the young virtuoso appeared in public,
for the first time, in a performance at the large theatre of his
native town; and this extraordinary child played variations of his
own composition on the French air, _la Carmagnole_, amid the frenzied
acclamations of an enthusiastic audience. About this period of his
life the father was advised, by judicious friends, to place the boy
under good masters of the violin and composition; and he shortly after
took him to Parma, where Alexander Rolla then resided, so celebrated
for his performance as conductor of the orchestra, and composer.
Paganini was now twelve years of age. The following anecdote, related
by M. Schottky, and which Paganini published in a Vienna journal,
furnishes interesting details of the master's first interview with the
young artist: "On arriving at Rolla's house," he said, "we found him
ill, and in bed. His wife conducted us into a room adjoining the one
where the sick man lay, in order to concert with her husband, who, it
appeared, was not at all disposed to receive us. Perceiving upon the
table of the chamber into which we were ushered, a violin, and the
last concerto of Rolla, I took up the violin, and played the piece at
first sight. Surprised at what he heard, the composer inquired the
name of the virtuoso he had just heard. When he heard the virtuoso
was only a mere lad, he would not give credence to the fact unless by
ocular demonstration. Thus satisfied, he told me, that he could teach
me nothing, and recommended me to take lessons on composition from
Paër." Even now, Paganini was occupied in discovering new effects on
his instrument. It was, however, only after his return to Genoa, that
Paganini wrote his first compositions for the violin. This music was
so difficult that he was obliged to study it himself with increasing
perseverance, and to make constant efforts to solve problems unknown to
all other violinists.
Quitting Parma, at the commencement of 1797, Paganini made his first
professional tour, with his father, of all the principal towns in
Lombardy, and commenced a matchless reputation. On his return to
Genoa, and after having in solitude made the efforts necessary for
the development of his talent, he began to feel the weight of the
chain by which he was held by his father, and determined to release
himself from the ill treatment to which he was still subjected under
the paternal roof. A favorable opportunity alone was required to favor
his design. This soon presented itself. The fête of St. Martin was
celebrated annually at Lucca by a musical festival, to which persons
flocked from every part of Italy. As this period approached, Paganini
entreated his father to permit him to attend it, accompanied by his
elder brother. His demand was at first met with a peremptory refusal;
but the solicitations of the son, and the prayers of the mother,
finally prevailed, and the heart of the young artist, at liberty for
the first time, bounded with joy, and he set out agitated by dreams
of success and happiness. At Lucca he was received with enthusiasm.
Encouraged by this propitious _début_, he visited Pisa, and some other
towns, in all of which his success was unequivocal. Paganini had not
yet attained his fifteenth year. This is not the age of prudence. His
moral education, besides, had been grossly neglected, and the severity
which assailed his more youthful years, was not calculated to awaken
him to the dangers of a free life: and he formed dangerous connections.
Paganini, in this manner, frequently lost the produce of several
concerts in one night, and was consequently often in a state of great
embarrassment, and frequently reduced to part with his violin. In this
condition he found himself at Leghorn, and was indebted to the kindness
of a French merchant (M. Livron), a distinguished amateur, for the loan
of a violin, an excellent Guarneri. When the concert had concluded,
Paganini brought it back to its owner, when this gentleman exclaimed,
"Never will I profane strings which your fingers have touched! that
instrument is now yours." This is the violin Paganini since used in all
his concerts.
Adventures of every kind signalize this period of Paganini's early
days; the enthusiasm of art, love, and gaming, divided his time,
despite the warnings of a delicate constitution, which proclaimed the
necessity of great care. Heedless of every thing, he continued his
career of dissipation, until the prostration of his faculties forced a
respite. He would then lie by for several weeks, in a state of absolute
repose, until, with energies refreshed, he recommenced his artistic
career and wandering life. It was to be feared that this dissolute life
would, ultimately, deprive the world of his marvelous talent, when an
unforeseen and important circumstance, related by himself, ended his
fatal passion for gaming.
"I shall never forget," he said, "that I, one day, placed myself in
a position which was to decide my future. The Prince of ---- had,
for some time, coveted the possession of my violin--the only one I
possessed at that period, and which I still have. He, on one particular
occasion, was extremely anxious that I should mention the sum for which
I would dispose of it; but, not wishing to part with my instrument, I
declared I would not sell it for 250 gold Napoleons. Some time after,
the prince said to me that I was, doubtless, only in jest in asking
such a sum, but that he would be willing to give me 2,000 francs. I
was, at this moment, in the greatest want of money to meet a debt of
honor I had incurred at play, and I was almost tempted to accept the
proffered amount, when I received an invitation to a party that evening
at a friend's house. All my capital consisted of thirty francs, as
I had disposed of all my jewels, watch, rings, and brooches, &c., I
resolved on risking this last resource; and, if fortune proved fickle,
to sell my violin to the prince and proceed to St. Petersburg, without
instrument or luggage, with the view of re-establishing my affairs;
my thirty francs were reduced to three, when, suddenly, my fortune
took a sudden turn; and, with the small remains of my capital, I won
160 francs. This amount saved my violin, and completely set me up.
From that day I abjured gaming--to which I had sacrificed a part of
my youth--convinced that a gamester is an object of contempt to all
well-regulated minds."
Although he was still in the full prime of youth, Paganini devoted
his talent steadily to success and profit, when, in one of those
hallucinations to which all great artists are subject, the violin
lost its attractions in his eyes. A lady of rank having fallen
desperately in love with him, and reciprocated by him, he withdrew
with her to an estate she possessed in Tuscany. This lady played the
guitar, and Paganini imbibed a taste for the instrument, and applied
himself as sedulously to its practice as he had formerly done with
the violin. He soon discovered new resources; and during a period
of three years, he divided all the energies of his mind between its
study, and agricultural pursuits, for which the lady's estate afforded
him ample opportunities. But Paganini's former _penchant_ for the
violin returned, and he decided on resuming his travels. On his return
to Genoa, in 1804, he occupied himself solely with composition. It
appears, too, that at this period he gave instruction on the violin to
Catherine Calcagno, born at Genoa, in 1797, who, at the age of fifteen,
astounded Italy by the boldness of her style; all traces of her seem
lost after 1816. Toward the middle of 1805, Paganini left Genoa, to
undertake a new tour in Italy. The first town he visited was Lucca,
the scene of his first successes. Here he again created so great a
sensation by the concerto he performed at a nocturnal festival, in a
convent chapel, that the monks were obliged to leave their stalls, in
order to repress the applause which burst forth, despite the sanctity
of the place. He was then twenty-one years of age. The principality of
Lucca and Piombino had been organized in the month of March, of the
same year, in favor of the Princess Eliza, sister of Napoleon, and
the wife of Prince Bacciochi. The court had fixed its residence in
the town of Lucca. The great reputation of the violinist induced the
princess to offer him the posts of director of her private music, and
conductor of the Opera orchestra, which he accepted. The princess, who
had appreciated the originality of his talent, excited him to extend
his discoveries of novel effects upon his instrument. To convince him
of the interest he had inspired her with, she granted him the grade of
captain in the Royal Gendarmerie, so that he might be admitted with
his brilliant costume at all the great court receptions. Seeking to
vary the effect of his instrument at the court concerts, he removed the
second and third strings, and composed a dialogue sonata for the first
and fourth strings. He has related this circumstance himself nearly in
the same terms:
"At Lucca I directed the orchestra when the reigning family honored
the Opera with their presence. I was often also called upon to play
at court: and then, fortnightly, I organized concerts, and announced
to the court a novelty under the title of _Scène amoureuse_. Curiosity
rose to the highest pitch; but the surprise of all present at court
was extreme, when I entered the saloon with a violin with only two
strings. I had only retained the first and the fourth. The former was
to express the sentiments of a young girl; the other was to express
the passionate language of a lover. I had composed a kind of dialogue,
in which the most tender accents followed the outbursts of jealousy.
At one time, chords representing most tender appeals; at another,
plaintive reproaches, cries of joy and anger, felicity and pain. Then
followed the reconciliation; and the lovers, more persuaded than ever,
executed a _pas de deux_, which terminated in a brilliant coda. This
novelty was eminently successful. The Princess Eliza lauded me to the
skies; and said to me, in the most gracious manner possible, '_You
have just performed impossibilities--would not a single string suffice
for your talent?_' I promised to make the attempt. This idea delighted
me; and, some weeks after, I composed my military sonata, entitled
_Napoleon_, which I performed on the 25th of August, before a numerous
and brilliant court. Its success far surpassed my expectations. My
predilection for the _G_ string dates from this period."
In the summer of 1808, Paganini obtained leave to travel, and quitted
Lucca, never more to return. As the sister of Napoleon had become
Grand Duchess of Tuscany, she fixed her residence at Florence, with
all her court, and where the great artist retained his position. He
went to Leghorn, where, seven years previously, he had met with so much
success. He has related, with much humor, a series of tribulations
which happened to him upon the occasion of his first concert there.
"A nail," he said, "had run into my heel, and I came on limping, at
which the audience laughed. At the moment I was about to commence
my concerto, the candles of my desk fell out. (Another laugh.) At
the end of the first few bars of the solo, my first string broke,
which increased the hilarity of the audience; but I played the piece
on the three strings--the grins quickly changed into acclamations
of applause." This broken string frequently occurred afterward; and
Paganini has been accused of using it as a means of success, having
previously practiced upon the three strings, pieces which appear to
require the use of the first string.
From Leghorn he went to Turin, where Paganini was first attacked with
the bowel complaint, which subsequently so debilitated his health, as
frequently to cause long interruptions to his travels, and his series
of concerts.
Being at Milan in the spring of 1813, he witnessed, at the theatre of
_La Scala_, the ballet of _Il noce di Benevento_ (the Drowned One of
Benevento). It was from this ballet Paganini took the theme of his
celebrated variations, _le Streghe_ (the Witches), from the air being
that to which witches appeared. Here he was again seized with a return
of his former malady, and several months elapsed before he could appear
in public. It was only on the 29th of October following, he was enabled
to give his first concert, exciting a sensation which the journals of
Italy and Germany made known to the whole world.
In the month of October, 1814, he went to Bologna, when he saw
Rossini for the first time, and commenced a friendship which became
strengthened at Rome in 1817, and at Paris in 1831.
In the year 1817, he arrived at Rome, and found Rossini there busy in
producing his _Cenerentola_. Several concerts he gave here during the
Carnival excited the greatest enthusiasm. From this time, Paganini
formed the project of leaving Italy to visit the principal cities in
Germany and France; and in the year 1819, he arrived at Naples. It
is a very remarkable circumstance, that he appeared here in a manner
unworthy of his great name; for, instead of giving his first concerts
at St. Carlo, he modestly commenced at the theatre of the _Fondo_.
On his arrival at Naples, Paganini found several artists indisposed
toward him. They doubted the reality of the prodigies attributed to
him, and awaited a failure. To put his talent to the test, the young
composer, Danna, was engaged, recently from the Conservatory, to write
a quartet, containing every species of difficulty, convinced that the
great violinist would not vanquish them. He was, therefore, invited to
a musical re-union, where the piece was immediately given to him to
play at first sight. Understanding the snare that was laid for him, he
merely glanced at it, and played it as if he had been familiar with it.
Amazed and confounded at what they had heard, the highest approbation
was awarded to him, and he was proclaimed a miracle.
It was during this sojourn at Naples that Paganini met with one of the
most singular adventures of his extraordinary life. An alarming relapse
of his malady took place; and, satisfied that any current of air was
injurious to him, he took an apartment in the part of the town called
_Petrajo_ under Saint Elme; but meeting here that which he most sought
to avoid, and his health daily becoming worse, it was reported that he
was consumptive. At Naples, the opinion prevails that consumption is
contagious. His landlord, alarmed at having in his house one who was
supposed to be dying of this malady, had the inhumanity to turn him
into the street, with all he possessed. Fortunately, the violoncellist,
Ciandelli, the friend of Paganini, happened to be passing, and,
incensed at the act of cruelty he was witness to, and which might have
proved fatal to the great artist, belabored the barbarian unmercifully
with a stick he carried, and then had his friend conveyed to a
comfortable lodging, where every attention was paid to him.
Between 1820 and 1828, he visited Milan, Rome, Naples, and Trieste, and
on the 2d of March, 1828, he proceeded to Vienna.
On the 29th of March, the first concert of this artist threw the
Viennese population into an indescribable paroxysm of enthusiasm.
"The first note he played on his Guarneri" (says M. Schilling, in his
poetical style, in his _Lexique Universel de Musique_)--indeed, from
his first step into the room--his reputation was decided in Germany.
The Vienna journals were unlimited in hyperbolical expressions of
admiration; and all admitted his performance to be incomparable. Verses
appeared in every publication--medals were struck--the name of Paganini
engrossing all; and, as M. Schottky remarks, _every thing was à la
Paganini_. Cooks designated certain productions after him; and any
extraordinary stroke of billiards was compared to a bow movement of the
artist. His portrait appeared on snuff-boxes and cigar-cases; his bust
surmounted the walking-sticks of the fashionable men. After a concert
given for the benefit of the poor, the magistrate of Vienna presented
to Paganini the large gold medal of St. Salvator, and the emperor
conferred upon him the title of virtuoso of his private band.
After an uninterrupted series of triumphs, during three years, the
celebrated artist arrived at Paris, and gave his first concert at
the Opera, the 9th of March, 1831. His studies for the violin, which
had been published there for some time--a species of enigma which
had perplexed every violinist--the European fame of the artist--his
travels and triumphs--raised the curiosity of the artists and the
public. It were impossible to describe the enthusiasm his first concert
created--it was universal frenzy. The same enthusiasm prevailed during
his entire stay in Paris.
Toward the middle of May he left this city and proceeded to
London--where he was expected with the utmost impatience, but not with
that artistic and perceptive interest with which he had been received
at Paris.
After an absence of six years, Paganini again set foot on his native
soil. The wealth he had amassed in his European tour, placed him in
a position of great independence; and among the various properties
he purchased, was a charming country-house in the environs of Parma,
called _la Villa Gajona_--here he decided on residing.
In 1836, speculators induced him to lend the aid of his name and talent
for establishing a casino, of which music was the pretext, but gambling
the real object. This establishment, which was situate in the most
fashionable locality of Paris, was opened with considerable splendor at
the end of November, 1837, under the name of _Casino Paganini_; but the
government refused to authorize its opening as a gambling-house, and
the speculators were reduced to give concerts, which far exceeded the
expenses of the undertaking. The declension of his health was manifest,
and his wasted strength precluded the possibility of his playing at the
casino. A lawsuit was commenced against him, which he lost; and the
judges, without having heard his defense, condemned him to pay 50,000f.
to the creditors of the speculation, and he was deprived of his liberty
until that amount was paid.
When this decision was pronounced, Paganini was dying--his malady,
which was phthisis of the larynx, had increased since the commencement
of 1839. The medical men advised him to proceed to Marseilles,
the climate of which they considered favorable to his health. He
followed this advice, and traveled by slow stages to the southern
extremity. Despite his extreme weakness, he went to hear a requiem,
by Cherubini, for male voices; finally, on the 21st of June, he
attended in one of the churches at Marseilles, to take part in a solemn
mass, by Beethoven. However, the love of change, inherent in all
valetudinarians, induced him to return to Genoa by sea, fully impressed
the voyage would recruit his health. Vain hope! In the commencement of
October of the same year, he wrote from his native city to M. Galafre,
a painter, an esteemed friend: "_Being in much worse health than I
was at Marseilles, I have resolved on passing the winter at Nice._"
Nice was destined to be his last abode. The progress of his malady was
rapid--his voice became almost extinct, and dreadful fits of coughing,
which daily became more frequent, and, finally, reduced him to a
shadow. The sinking of his features, a certain token of approaching
death, was visible in his face. An Italian writer has furnished us with
a most touching description of his last moments, in the following terms:
"On the last night of his existence, he appeared unusually tranquil--he
had slept a little: when he awoke, he requested that the curtains
of his bed should be drawn aside to contemplate the moon, which, at
its full, was advancing calmly in the immensity of the pure heavens.
At this solemn hour, he seemed desirous to return to Nature all the
soft sensations which he was then possessed of; stretching forth his
hand toward his enchanted violin--to the faithful companion of his
travels--to the magician which had robbed care of its stings--he sent
to heaven, with its last sounds, the last sigh of a life which had been
all melody."
The great artist expired on the 27th of May, 1840, at the age of 56,
leaving to his only son, Achille, an immense fortune, and the title of
Baron, which had been conceded him in Germany. All had not ended with
the man whose life was as extraordinary as his talent. Whether from the
effect of certain popular rumors, or whether from Paganini having died
without receiving the last rites of his church, he had left doubts of
his faith; his remains were refused interment in consecrated ground
by the Bishop of Nice. Vainly did his friends solicit permission to
celebrate a solemn service for his eternal rest; the bishop remained
inexorable, but proffered an authentic act of decease, with permission
to remove the body wheresoever they pleased. This was not accepted,
and the matter was brought before the tribunals. All this time, the
body was remaining in one of the rooms of the hospital at Nice; it was
afterward removed by sea from the lazaretto of Villa Franca, near that
city, to a country spot named _Polcevera_, near Genoa, which belonged
to the inheritance of the illustrious artist. At length, the friends
of the deceased obtained permission from the bishop of Parma to bring
the body into the Duchy, to remove it to the _Villa Gajona_, and to
inter it in the village church. This funeral homage was rendered to
the remains of this celebrated man, in the month of May, 1845, but
without pomp, in conformity with the orders which had emanated from the
government.
By his will, made on the 27th of April, 1837, and opened the 1st of
June, 1840, Paganini left to his son, legitimized by deeds of law, a
fortune estimated at two millions (£80,000 sterling), out of which two
legacies were to be paid, of fifty and sixty thousand francs, to his
two sisters, leaving to the mother of his son, Achille, an annuity
of 1,200 francs. Independently of his wealth, Paganini possessed a
collection of valuable instruments; his large _Guarneri_, the only
instrument which accompanied him in his travels, he bequeathed to the
town of Genoa, not being desirous that an artist should possess it
after him.
NUMBER NINETEEN IN OUR STREET.
Number Nineteen in our street is a gloomy house, with a blistered door
and a cavernous step; with a hungry area and a desolate frontage.
The windows are like prison-slips, only a trifle darker, and a good
deal dirtier, and the kitchen-offices might stand proxies for the
Black Hole of Calcutta, barring the company and the warmth. For as
to company, black beetles, mice, and red ants, are all that are ever
seen of animated nature there, and the thermometer rarely stands above
freezing-point. Number Nineteen is a lodging-house, kept by a poor
old maid, whose only friend is her cat, and whose only heirs will be
the parish. With the outward world, excepting such as slowly filter
through the rusty opening of the blistered door, Miss Rebecca Spong has
long ceased to have dealings. She hangs a certain piece of card-board,
with "Lodgings to Let," printed in school-girl print, unconscious of
straight lines, across it; and this act of public notification, coupled
with anxious peepings over the blinds of the parlor front, is all the
intercourse which she and the world of men hold together. Every now and
then, indeed, a mangy cab may be seen driving up to her worn-out step;
and dingy individuals, of the kind who travel about with small square
boxes, covered with marbled paper, and secured with knotted cords
of different sizes, may be witnessed taking possession of Nineteen,
in a melancholy and mysterious way. But even these visitations,
unsatisfactory as most lodging-house keepers would consider them, are
few and far between; for somehow the people who come and go never seem
to have any friends or relations whereby Miss Spong may improve her
"connection." You never see the postman stop at that desolate door; you
never hear a visitor's knock on that rusty lion's head; no unnecessary
traffic of social life ever takes place behind those dusty blinds;
it might be the home of a select party of Trappists, or the favorite
hiding-place of coiners, for all the sunshine of external humanity that
is suffered to enter those interior recesses. If a murder had been
committed in every room, from the attics to the cellar, a heavier spell
of solitude and desolation could not rest on its floors.
One dreary afternoon in November, a cab stopped at Number Nineteen.
It was a railway cab, less worn and ghastly than those vehicles in
general, but not bringing much evidence of gayety or wealth for all
that. Its inmates were a widow and a boy of about fifteen; and all the
possessions they had with them were contained in one trunk of very
moderate dimensions, a cage with a canary-bird twittering inside,
some pots of flowers, and a little white rabbit, one of the comical
"lop-eared" kind. There was something very touching in these evidences
of the fresh country life which they had left for the dull atmosphere
and steaming fogs of the metropolis. They told a sad tale of old
associations broken, and old loves forsworn; of days of comfort and
prosperity exchanged for the dreariness of poverty; and freedom, love,
and happiness, all snapped asunder for the leaden chain of suffering to
be forged instead. One could not help thinking of all those two hapless
people must have gone through before they could have summoned courage
to leave their own dear village, where they had lived so many years in
that local honorableness of the clergyman's family; throwing themselves
out of the society which knew and loved them, that they might enter a
harsh world, where they must make their own position, and earn their
own living, unaided by sympathy, honor, or affection. They looked as
if they themselves thought something of this, too, when they took
possession of the desolate second floor; and the widow sat down near
her son, and taking his hand in hers, gave vent to a flood of tears,
which ended by unmanning the boy as well. And then they shut up the
window carefully, and nothing more was seen of them that night.
Mrs. Lawson, the widow, was a mild, lady-like person, whose face bore
the marks of recent affliction, and whose whole appearance and manners
were those of a loving, gentle, unenergetic, and helpless woman,
whom sorrow could well crush beyond all power of resistance. The boy
was a tall, thin youth, with a hectic flush and a hollow cough, eyes
bright and restless, and as manifestly nervous as his mother was the
reverse in temperament--anxious and restless, and continually taxing
his strength beyond its power, making himself seriously ill in his
endeavors to save his beloved mother some small trouble. They seemed
to be very tenderly attached one to the other, and to supply to each
all that was wanting in each: the mother's gentleness soothing down
her boy's excitability, and the boy's nervousness rousing the mother
to exertion. They were interesting people--so lonely, apparently so
unfit to "rough it," in the world; the mother so gentle in temper, and
the son so frail in constitution--two people who ought to have been
protected from all ill and all cares, yet who had such a bitter cup to
empty, such a harsh fate to fulfill.
They were very poor. The mother used to go out with a small basket
on her arm, which could hold but scanty supplies for two full-grown
people. Yet this was the only store they had; for no baker, no butcher,
no milkman, grocer, or poulterer, ever stopped at the area gate of
Miss Rebecca Spong; no purveyor of higher grade than a cat's-meat-man
was ever seen to hand provisions into the depths of Number Nineteen's
darkness. The old maid herself was poor; and she, too, used to do her
marketing on the basket principle; carrying home, generally at night,
odd scraps from the open stalls in Tottenham Court Road, which she
had picked up as bargains, and dividing equally between herself and
her fagged servant-of-all-work the wretched meal which would not have
been too ample for one. She therefore could not help her lodgers, and
they all scrambled on over the desolate places of poverty as they best
might. In general, tea, sugar, bread, a little rice, a little coffee
as a change, a scrap of butter which no cow that ever yielded milk
would have acknowledged--these were the usual items of Mrs. Lawson's
marketing, on which she and her young son were to be nourished. And on
such poor fare as this was that pale boy expected to become a hearty
man? The mother could not, did not expect it. Else why were the tears
in her eyes so often as she returned? and why did she hang over her
son, and caress him fondly, as if in deprecation, when she brought him
his wretched meal, seeming to lament, to blame herself, too, that she
had not been able to provide him any thing better? Poor things! poor
things!
Mrs. Lawson seemed at last to get some employment. She had been seeking
for it long--to judge by her frequent absences from home, and the
weary look of disappointment she wore when she returned. But at last
the opening was found, and she set to work in earnest. She used to go
out early in the morning, and not return until late in the evening,
and then she looked pale and tired, as one whose energies had been
overtasked all the day; but she had found no gold-mine. The scanty
meals were even scantier than before, and her shabby mourning was
getting shabbier and duller. She was evidently hard-worked for very
little pay; and their condition was not improved, only sustained by
her exertions. Things seemed to be very bad with them altogether, and
with little hope of amendment; for poor Mrs. Lawson had been "brought
up as a lady," and so was doubly incapable--by education as well as by
temperament--of gaining her own living. She was now employed as daily
governess in the family of a city tradesman--people, who though they
were kindly-natured enough, had as much as they could do in keeping
their own fortunes afloat without giving any substantial aid to others,
and who had therefore engaged her at the lowest possible salary, such
as was barely sufficient to keep her and her son from absolute want.
The boy had long been very busy. He used to sit by the window all the
day, earnestly employed with paper and scissors; and I wondered what
fascinating occupation he had found to chain him for so many hours by
those chinks and draughts; for he was usually enveloped in shawls,
and blankets were hung about his chair, and every tender precaution
taken that he should not increase his sickness by exposure even to the
ordinary changes in the temperature of a dwelling-room. But now, in
spite of his terrible cough, in spite of his hurried breathing, he used
to sit for hours on hours by the dusky window, cutting and cutting at
that eternal paper, as if his very life depended on his task. But he
used to gather up the cuttings carefully, and hide all out of sight
before his mother came home--sometimes nearly caught before quite
prepared, when he used to show as much trepidation as if committing a
crime.
This went on for some time, and at last he went out. It was fortunately
a fine day--a clear, cold, January day; but he had no sooner breathed
the brisk frosty air than a terrible fit of coughing seemed to threaten
his frail existence. He did not turn back though; and I watched him
slowly pass down the street, holding on by the rails, and every now
and then stopping to take breath. I saw a policeman speak to him in
a grave, compassionating way, as if--seeing that he was so young
and feeble, and so much a stranger, that he was asking his way to
Oxford-street, while going in a totally contrary direction--he was
advising him to go home, and to let some one else do his business--his
father perhaps; but the boy only smiled, and shook his head in a
hopeful way; and so he went from my sight, though not from my thoughts.
This continued daily, sometimes Herbert bringing home a small quantity
of money, sometimes only disappointment; and these were terrible
trials! At last, the mother was made acquainted with her son's new
mode of life, by the treasured 5s. which the poor boy thrust into
her hand one evening, with a strange shy pride that brought all the
blood into his face, while he kissed her with impetuosity to smother
her reproaches. She asked him how he had got so much money--so much!
and then he told her how, self-taught, he had learned to cut out
figures--dogs and landscapes--in colored paper, which he had taken to
the bazaars and stationers' shops, and there disposed of--for a mere
trifle truly. "For this kind of thing is not fashionable, mother,
though I think the Queen likes them," he said; "and of course, if not
fashionable, I could not get very much for them." So he contented
himself, and consoled her, for the small payment of sixpence or a
shilling, which perhaps was all he could earn by three or four days'
work.
The mother gently blamed him for his imprudence in exposing himself as
he had done to the wet and cold--and, alas! these had told sadly on
his weakened frame; but Herbert was so happy to-night, that she could
not damp his pleasure, even for maternal love; so she reserved the
lecture which _must_ be given until to-morrow. And then his out-door
expeditions were peremptorily forbidden; and Miss Spong was called up
to strengthen the prohibition--which she did effectually by offering,
in her little, quick, nervous way, to take Herbert's cuttings to the
shops herself, and thus to spare him the necessity of doing so. Poor
Mrs. Lawson went up to the little woman, and kissed her cheek like a
sister, as she spoke; while Miss Spong, so utterly unused as she had
been for years to the smallest demonstration of affection, looked at
first bewildered and aghast, and finally sank down on the chair in a
childish fit of crying. I can not say how much the sight of that poor
little old maid's tears affected me! They seemed to speak of such
long years of heart-loneliness--such loving impulses strangled by the
chill hand of solitude--such weary familiarity with that deadness of
life wherein no sympathy is bestowed, no love awakened--that I felt
as one witnessing a dead man recalled to life, after all that made
life pleasant had fled. What a sorrowful house that Number Nineteen
was! From the desolate servant-of-all-work at her first place from the
Foundling, to the half-starved German in the attics, every inmate of
the house seemed to have nothing but the bitter bread of affliction to
eat--nothing but the salt waters of despair to drink.
And now began another epoch in the Lawson history, which shed a sad but
most beautiful light over the fading day of that young life.
A girl of about fourteen--she might have been a year or so younger--was
once sent from one of the stationer's shops to conclude some bargain
with the sick paper-cutter. I saw her slender figure bound up the
desolate steps with the light tread of youth, as if she had been a
divine being entering the home of human sorrow. She was one of those
saintly children who are sometimes seen blooming like white roses,
unstained by time or by contact. Her hair hung down her neck in
long, loose curls, among which the sunlight seemed to have fairly
lost itself, they were so golden bright; her eyes were large, and
of that deep, dark gray which is so much more beautiful, because so
much more intellectual, than any other color eyes can take; her lips
were fresh and youthful; and her figure had all that girlish grace of
fourteen which combines the unconscious innocence of the child with the
exquisite modesty of the maiden. She soon became the daily visitor of
the Lawsons--pupil to Herbert.
The paper-cutting was not wholly laid aside though; in the early
morning, and in the evening, and often late into the night, the thin,
wan fingers were busy about their task; but the middle of the day was
snatched like an hour of sleep in the midst of pain--garnered up like a
fountain of sweet waters in the wilderness; for then it was that little
Jessie came for her Latin lesson, which she used to learn so well,
and take such pleasure in, and be doubly diligent about, because poor
Herbert Lawson was ill, and vexation would do him harm. Does it seem
strange that a stationer's daughter should be so lovely, and should
learn Latin? And there those two children used to sit for three dear
hours of the day; she, leaning over her book, her sweet young face
bent on her task with a look of earnest intellectuality in it, that
made her like some sainted maid of olden time; and he watching her
every movement, and listening to every syllable, with a rapt interest
such as only very early youth can feel. How happy he used to look! How
his face would lighten up, as if an angel's wing had swept over it,
when the two gentle taps at the door heralded young Jessie! How his
boyish reverence, mixed with boyish care, gave his wasted features an
expression almost unearthly, as he hung over her so protectingly, so
tenderly, so adoringly! It was so different from a man's love! There
was something so exquisitely pure and spiritual in it--something so
reverential and so chivalrous--it would have been almost a sin to
have had that love grow out into a man's strong passion! The flowers
she brought him--and seldom did a day pass without a fresh supply of
violets, and, when the weather was warmer, of primroses and cowslips,
from her gentle hand--all these were cherished more than gold would
have been cherished; the books she lent him were never from his side;
if she touched one of the paltry ornaments on the chimney-piece, that
ornament was transferred to his own private table; and the chair she
used was always kept apart, and sacred to her return.
It was very beautiful to watch all these manifestations: for I did
watch them, first from my own window, then in the house, in the midst
of the lonely family, comforting when I could not aid, and sharing
in the griefs I could not lessen. Under the new influence, the boy
gained such loveliness and spiritualism, that his face had an angelic
character, which, though it made young Jessie feel a strange kind of
loving awe for the sick boy, betokened to me, and to his mother, that
his end was not far off.
He was now too weak to sit up, excepting for a small part of the day;
and I feared that he would soon become too weak to teach, even in his
gentle way, and with such a gentle pupil. But the Latin exercises still
held their place; the books lying on the sofa instead of on the table,
and Jessie sitting by him on a stool, where he could overlook her as
she read: this was all the change; unless, indeed, that Jessie read
aloud more than formerly, and not always out of a Latin book. Sometimes
it was poetry, and sometimes it was the Bible that she read to him; and
then he used to stop her, and pour forth such eloquent, such rapturous
remarks on what he had heard, that Jessie used to sit and watch him
like a young angel holding converse with a spirit. She was beginning
to love him very deeply in her innocent, girlish, unconscious way; and
I used to see her bounding step grow sad and heavy as, day by day, her
brother-like tutor seemed to be sinking from earth so fast.
Thus passed the winter, poor Mrs. Lawson toiling painfully at her task,
and Herbert falling into death in his; but with such happiness in his
heart as made his sufferings divine delights, and his weakness, the
holy strength of heaven.
He could do but little at his paper-cutting now, but still he
persevered; and his toil was well repaid, too, when he gave his mother
the scanty payment which he received at the end of the week, and felt
that he had done his best--that he had helped her forward--that he was
no longer an idler supported by her sorrow--but that he had braced the
burden of labor on to his own shoulders also, weak as they were, and
had taken his place, though dying, among the manful workers of the
world. Jessie brought a small weekly contribution also, neatly sealed
up in fair white paper; and of these crumpled scraps Herbert used to
cut angels and cherubs' heads, which he would sit and look at for hours
together; and then he would pray as if in a trance--so earnest and
heartfelt was it--while tears of love, not grief, would stream down his
face, as his lips moved in blessings on that young maiden child.
It came at last. He had fought against it long and bravely; but death
is a hard adversary, and can not be withstood, even by the strongest.
It came, stealing over him like an evening cloud over a star--leaving
him still beautiful, while blotting out his light--softening and
purifying, while slowly obliterating his place. Day by day, his
weakness increased; day by day, his pale hands grew paler, and his
hollow cheek more wan. But the love in his boy's heart hung about his
sick bed as flowers that have an eternal fragrance from their birth.
Jessie was ever a daily visitor, though no longer now a scholar; and
her presence had all the effect of religion on the boy--he was so calm,
and still, and holy, while she was there. When she was gone, he was
sometimes restless, though never peevish; but he would get nervous, and
unable to fix his mind on any thing, his sick head turning incessantly
to the window, as if vainly watching for a shadowy hope, and his thin
fingers plucking ceaselessly at his bedclothes, in restless, weary,
unsoothed sorrow. While she sat by him, her voice sounding like low
music in his ears, and her hands wandering about him in a thousand
offices of gentle comforting, he was like a child sinking softly to
sleep--a soul striving upward to its home, beckoned on by the hands of
the holier sister before it.
And thus he died--in the bright spring-time of the year, in the bright
spring-time of his life. Love had been the cradle song of his infancy,
love was the requiem of his youth. His was no romantic fable, no
heroic epic; adventures, passions, fame, made up none of its incidents;
it was simply the history of a boy's manful struggling against fate--of
the quiet heroism of endurance, compensated by inward satisfaction, if
not by actual happiness.
True, his career was in the low-lying paths of humanity; but it was
none the less beautiful and pure, for it is not deeds, it is their
spirit, which makes men noble, or leaves them stained. Had Herbert
Lawson been a warrior, statesman, hero, philosopher, he would have
shown no other nature than that which gladdened the heart of his
widowed mother, and proved a life's instruction to Jessie Hamilton, in
his small deeds of love and untaught words of faith in the solitude
of that lodging-house. Brave, pure, noble then, his sphere only would
have been enlarged, and with his sphere the weight and power of his
character; but the spirit would have been the same, and in the dying
child it was as beautiful as it would have been in the renowned
philosopher.
We have given this simple story--simple in all its bearings--as an
instance of how much real heroism is daily enacted, how much true
morality daily cherished, under the most unfavorable conditions. A
widow and her young son cast on the world without sufficient means of
living--a brave boy battling against poverty and sickness combined, and
doing his small endeavor with manful constancy--a dying youth, whose
whole soul is penetrated with love, as with a divine song; all these
are elements of true human interest, and these are circumstances to
be found in every street of a crowded city. And to such as these is
the divine mission of brotherly charity required; for though poverty
may not be relieved by reason of our inability, suffering may always
be lightened by our sympathy. It takes but a word of love, a glance
of pity, a gentle kiss of affection--it takes but an hour of our day,
a prayer at night, and we may walk through the sick world and the
sorrowful as angels dropping balm and comfort on the wounded. The
cup of such human love as this poured freely out will prove in truth
"twice blessed," returning back to our hearts the peace we have shed on
others. Alas! alas! how thick the harvest and how few the reapers!
GOSSIP ABOUT GREAT MEN.
One can not help taking an interest in great men. Even their pettiest
foibles--their most ordinary actions--their by-play--their jokes--are
eagerly commemorated. Their haunts--their homes--the apartments in
which they have studied--their style of dress--and, above all, their
familiar conversation, are treasured up in books, and fascinate all
readers. Trifles help to decipher the character of a man, often more
than his greatest actions. What is a man's daily life--his private
conversations--his familiar deportment? These, though they make but
a small figure in his history, are often the most characteristic and
genuine things in a man's life. With what interest do we think of
blind, glorious John Milton, when writing _Paradise Lost_, sitting
at "the old organ behind the faded green hangings," his dimmed eyes
rolling in vain to find the day; of Richardson, in his back-shop,
writing _Pamela_; of Cowper and his tame hares; of Byron and Newstead
Abbey; of Burns, in his humble cottage home; of Voltaire, in his
retreat of Ferney, by the shores of Lake Leman; of Sir Walter Scott, in
his study at Abbotsford; of Dr. Johnson, in his retreat in Bolt Court;
of Shakspeare, and the woods of Charlecote; of Pope, and his house at
Twickenham; of Swift, and his living at Laracor. We are never tired
of reading of such things, identified as they are with genius, and
consecrated by their association with the names of great men.
We take an interest in even smaller things. Everybody remembers
Goldsmith's bloom-colored coat; George Fox's "leathern hull;" Milton's
garb of coarse gray; Magliabecchi's great brown vest down to his knees,
his broad-brimmed hat, and patched black mantle, and his cravat full
of snuff-droppings; Pope's velvet cap, tye-wig, and sword; and Buffon,
with his hair in curl-papers while sitting at his desk. We curiously
remember Oliver Cromwell's warts; Wilks's squint; Scott's limp; Byron's
club-foot; Pope's little crooked figure, like a note of interrogation;
Johnson's rotundity and rheum; Charles Lamb's spindle-shanks in
gaiters; and all manner of personal peculiarities of distinguished men.
The appetites, tastes, idiosyncracies, prejudices, foibles, and follies
of great men, are well known. Perhaps we think too much of them; but we
take interest in all that concerns them, even the pettiest details. It
is often these that give an interest to their written life. What were
Boswell's _Johnson_, that best of biographies, were it wanting in its
gossip and small talk?
An interesting chapter might be written about the weaknesses of great
men. For instance, they have been very notorious for their strange fits
of abstraction. The anecdote of Archimedes will be remembered, who
rushed through the streets of Syracuse _al fresco_, crying _Eureka!_
and at the taking of the city was killed by a soldier, while tracing
geometrical lines on sand. Socrates, when filled with some idea,
would stand for hours fixed like a statue. It is recorded of him
that he stood amidst the soldiers in the camp at Potidea, in rooted
abstraction, listening to his "prophetic or supernatural voice."
Democritus shut himself up for days together in a little apartment in
his garden. Dante was subject to fits of abstraction, in which he often
quite forgot himself. One day, he found an interesting book, which he
had long sought for, in a druggist's shop at Sienna, and sat reading
there till night came on.
Bude, whom Erasmus called the wonder of France, was a thoroughly absent
man. One day his domestics broke into his study with the intelligence
that his house was on fire. "Go inform my wife," said he; "you know
I do not interfere in household affairs!" Scaliger only slept for a
few hours at a time, and passed whole days without thinking of food.
Sully, when his mind was occupied with plans of reform, displayed
extraordinary fits of forgetfulness. One day, in winter, when on his
way to church, he observed, "How very cold it is to-day!" "Not more
cold than usual," said one of his attendants. "Then I must have the
ague," said Sully. "Is it not more probable that you are too scantily
dressed?" he was asked. On lifting his tunic the secret was at once
discovered. He had forgotten all his under clothing but his breeches!
Mrs. Bray tells a somewhat familiar story of the painter Stothard. When
invited on one occasion to dine with the poet Rogers, on reaching the
house in St. James's Place, he complained of cold, and, chancing to
place his hand on his neck, he found he had forgotten to put on his
cravat, when he hastily returned home to complete his attire.
Buffon was very fond of dress. He assumed the air of the grand signeur;
sported jewels and finery; wore rich lace and velvets; and was curled
and scented to excess--wearing his hair _en papillotte_ while at his
studies. Pope, too, was a little dandy in a bag-wig and a sword; and
his crooked figure enveloped in fashionable garments, gave him the look
of an over-dressed monkey. Voltaire, also, was fond of magnificent
attire, and usually dressed in an absurd manner. Diderot once traveled
from St. Petersburg to Paris in his morning-gown and nightcap; and in
this guise promenaded the streets and public places of the towns on his
route. He was often taken for a madman. While composing his works, he
used to walk about at a rapid pace, making huge strides, and sometimes
throwing his wig in the air when he had struck out a happy idea. One
day, a friend found him in tears--"Good heavens!" he exclaimed, "what
is the matter?" "I am weeping," answered Diderot, "at a story that I
have just composed!"
Young, the poet, composed his _Night Thoughts_ with a skull before
him, in which he would sometimes place a lighted candle; and he
occasionally sought his sepulchral inspiration by wandering among
the tombs at midnight. Mrs. Radcliffe courted the horrors with which
she filled her gloomy romances, by supping on half-raw beefsteaks,
plentifully garnished with onions. Dryden used to take physic before
setting himself to compose a new piece. Kant, the German philosopher,
while lecturing, had the habit of fixing his attention upon one of his
auditors who wore a garment without a button in a particular place.
One day, the student had the button sewed on. Kant, on commencing his
lecture, fixed his eyes on the usual place. The button was there! Fancy
the consternation of the philosopher, whose ideas had become associated
with that buttonless garment. His lecture that day was detestable: he
was quite unhinged by the circumstance.
Too many authors have been fond of the bottle. Rabelais said, "Eating
and drinking are my true sources of inspiration. See this bottle!
It is my true and only Helicon, my cabalistic fountain, my sole
enthusiasm. Drinking, I deliberate; and deliberating, I drink." Ennius,
Eschylus, and Cato, all got their inspiration while drinking. Mezerai
had always a large bottle of wine beside him, among his books. He drank
of it at each page that he wrote. He turned the night into day; and
never composed except by lamp-light, even in the day time. All his
windows were darkened; and it was no unusual thing for him to show a
friend to the door with a lamp, though outside it was broad daylight!
On the contrary, Varillas, the historian, never wrote except at full
mid-day. His ideas, he imagined, grew and declined with the sun's light.
Sir William Blackstone is said to have composed his _Commentaries_
with a bottle of wine on the table, from which he drank largely at
intervals: and Addison, while composing, used to pace to and fro the
long drawing-room of Holland House, with a glass of sherry at each
end, and rewarded himself by drinking one in case of a felicitous
inspiration.
While Goldsmith wrote his _Vicar of Wakefield_, he kept drinking at
Madeira, "to drown care," for the duns were upon him. When Johnson
called to relieve him, he sent away the bottle, and took the manuscript
to the bookseller, bringing back some money to the author. Goldsmith's
first use of the money was, to call in the landlady to have a glass of
punch with him. Goldie was guilty of very strange tricks. He once broke
his shin by exhibiting to the company how much better he could jump
over a stick than puppets.
The intemperance of poets is but too painfully illustrated in the lives
of Parnell, Otway, Sheffield, Savage, Churchill, Prior, Dryden, Cowley,
Burns, Coleridge, Lamb, and others. There is nothing more painful in
Burns's letters, than those in which he confesses his contrition after
his drunken bouts, and vows amendment for the future. His letter to
Mrs. Dunlop on this subject will be remembered. Lamb, too, in a letter
to Mr. Carey, painted _next morning_ in vivid terrors. Byron says--
Get very drunk; and when
You wake with headache, you shall see what then.
Here is Lamb's graphic picture: "I protest," said he, to Mr. Carey,
the translator of Dante; "I know not in what words to invest my sense
of the shameful violation of hospitality which I was guilty of on that
fatal Wednesday. Let it be blotted from the calendar. Had it been
committed at a layman's house--say a merchant's, or a manufacturer's,
or a cheesemonger's, or a greengrocer's--or, to go higher, a
barrister's, a member of parliament's, a rich banker's, I should have
felt alleviation--a drop of self-pity. But to be seen deliberately to
go out of the house of a clergyman, drunk!... With feverish eyes on the
succeeding dawn, I opened upon the faint light, enough to distinguish,
in a strange chamber, not immediately to be recognized, garters, hose,
waistcoat, neckerchief, arranged in dreadful order and proportion,
which I knew was not mine own! 'Tis the common symptom, on awaking,
I judge my last night's condition from. A tolerable scattering on the
floor I hail as being too probably my own, and if the candlestick
be not removed, I assail myself. But this finical arrangement--this
finding every thing in the morning in exact diametrical rectitude,
torments me. By whom was I divested? burning blushes! not by the
fair hand of nymphs--the Buffian graces! Remote whispers suggested
that I _coached_ it home in triumph. Far be that from waking pride
in me, for I was unconscious of the locomotion. That a young Newton
accompanied a reprobate old Telemachus; that, Trojan-like, he bore his
charge upon his shoulders, while the wretched incubus, in glimmering
sense, hiccoughed drunken snatches of flying on the bat's wings after
sunset.... Occasion led me through Great Russell-street, yesterday: I
gazed at the great knocker. My feeble hands in vain essayed to lift it.
I dreaded that Argus Portitor, who doubtless lanterned me out on that
prodigious night. I called the Elginian marbles; they were cold to my
suit. I shall never again, I said, on the wide gates unfolding, say,
without fear of thrusting back, in a light but a peremptory air, 'I am
going to Mr. Cary's.'"
Lamb was also a great smoker at one period of his life. But he
determined to give it up, as he found it led to drinking--to "drinking
egg-flip hot, at the Salutation"--so he wrote his "Farewell to
Tobacco," and gave it up--returning to it again, but finally abandoning
it. In a letter to Wordsworth, he said: "Tobacco has been my evening
comfort and my morning curse for these five years; and you know how
difficult it is from refraining to pick one's lips even, when it has
become a habit. I have had it in my head to write this poem [Farewell
to Tobacco] these two years; but tobacco stood in its own light, when
it gave me headaches that prevented my singing its praises."
Once, in the height of Lamb's smoking fever, he was puffing the smoke
of strong, coarse tobacco from a clay pipe, in the company of Dr. Parr,
who whiffed only the finest weed, when the latter, addressing Lamb,
asked: "Dear me, sir, how is it that you have acquired so prodigious a
smoking power?" "I have acquired it," answered Lamb, "by toiling after
it, as some men toil after virtue."
It was from frequenting the society of Dr. Parr, that Robert Hall, the
famous preacher, when at Cambridge, acquired the habit of smoking. He
smoked in self-defense. Some one asked him why he had commenced such an
odious habit. "Oh," said Hall, "I am qualifying myself for the society
of a Doctor of Divinity; and this (holding up the pipe) is the test of
my admission." A friend found him busy with his pipe one day, blowing
huge clouds of smoke. "Ah," said the new comer, "I find you again at
your old idol." "Yes," said Hall, "_burning it_!" But his friends were
anxious that he should give up the practice, and one of them presented
him with Adam Clarke's pamphlet on _The Use and Abuse of Tobacco_, to
read. He read the pamphlet, and returned it to the lender saying, as if
to preclude discussion--"Thank you, sir, for Adam Clarke's pamphlet. I
can't refute his arguments, and I can't give up smoking."
Among other smokers of distinction, may be named the poet Milton,
whose nightcap was a pipe of tobacco and a glass of pure water. But he
was exceedingly moderate in the indulgence of this "vice." Sir Walter
Raleigh, who introduced the use of this weed into England, smoked
frequently; and the anecdote of his servant, who emptied a bucket of
water on him, thinking he was on fire, because he saw the smoke issuing
from his mouth, is very well known. Many other poets and literary men
have smoked. Carlyle, at this day, blows a tremendous cloud.
Southey's indulgence at bed-time, was a glass of hot rum punch,
enriched with a little black current jelly. Byron wrote under the
influence of gin and water. Coleridge took immoderate quantities of
opium. Gluck, the musical composer, wrote with a bottle of Champagne
beside him--Sacchini, when his wife was by his side, and his numerous
cats gamboling about him.
Other authors have found relaxation in other ways. Thus Daguesseau,
when he wanted relaxation from the study of jurisprudence and history,
betook himself to a pair of compasses and a book of mathematics.
Richelieu amused himself by playing with cats, and studying their
tricks. Cowper had his tame hares. Sir Walter Scott was always attended
by his favorite dogs. Professor Wilson, at this day, is famous for his
terriers.
Alfieri, like Luther and Milton, found the greatest solace and
inspiration in music. "Nothing," said he, "so moves my heart, and soul
and intellect, and rouses my very faculties, like music--and especially
the music of woman's voice. Almost all my tragedies have been conceived
under the immediate emotion caused by music." Voltaire took pleasure
in the Opera, (not so Thomas Carlyle, as you may have seen), and there
dictated some of his most brilliant letters.
But the foibles of men of genius are endless; and would be a curious
subject for some Disraeli, in a future volume of the Curiosities of
Literature, to depict at length, if the subject be indeed worth the
required amount of pains and labor.
MY NOVEL; OR, VARIETIES IN ENGLISH LIFE.[5]
BOOK XII.--INITIAL CHAPTER.
"Again," quoth my father--"Again behold us! We who greeted the
commencement of your narrative, who absented ourselves in the mid
course, when we could but obstruct the current of events, and jostle
personages more important--we now gather round the close. Still, as the
chorus to the drama, we circle round the altar with the solemn but
dubious chant which prepares the audience for the completion of the
appointed destinies; though still, ourselves, unaware how the skein is
to be unraveled, and where the shears are to descend."
[5] Continued from the September Number.
So there they stood, the Family of Caxton--all grouping round me--all
eager officiously to question--some over-anxious prematurely to
criticise.
"Violante can't have voluntarily gone off with that horrid Count," said
my mother; "but perhaps she was deceived, like Eugenia by Mr. Bellamy,
in the novel of 'CAMILLA.'"
"Ha!" said my father, "and in that case it is time yet to steal a hint
from Clarissa Harlowe, and make Violante die less of a broken heart
than a sullied honor. She is one of those girls who ought to be killed!
_Ostendent omnia letum_--all things about her forebode an early tomb!"
"Dear, dear!" cried Mrs. Caxton, "I hope not--poor thing!"
"Pooh, brother," said the Captain, "we have had enough of the tomb in
the history of poor Nora. The whole story grows out of a grave, and to
a grave it must return:--if, Pisistratus, you must kill somebody, kill
Levy."
"Or the Count," said my mother, with unusual truculence.
"Or Randal Leslie," said Squills. "I should like to have a
_post-mortem_ cast of his head--it would be an instructive study."
Here there was a general confusion of tongues, all present conspiring
to bewilder the unfortunate author with their various and discordant
counsels how to wind up his story and dispose of his characters.
"Silence!" cried Pisistratus, clapping his hands to both ears. "I can
no more alter the fate allotted to each of the personages whom you
honor with your interest than I can change your own; like you, they
must go where events lead them, urged on by their own characters and
the agencies of others. Providence so pervadingly governs the universe,
that you can not strike it even out of a book. The author may beget a
character, but the moment the character comes into action, it escapes
from his hands--plays its own part, and fulfills its own inevitable
doom."
"Besides," said Mr. Squills, "it is easy to see, from the phrenological
development of the organs in those several heads which Pisistratus
has allowed us to examine, that we have seen no creations of mere
fiction, but living persons, whose true history has set in movement
their various bumps of Amativeness, Constructiveness, Acquisitiveness,
Ideality, Wonder, Comparison, &c. They must act and they must end,
according to the influences of their crania. Thus we find in Randal
Leslie the predominant organs of Constructiveness, Secretiveness,
Comparison, and Eventuality--while Benevolence, Conscientiousness,
Adhesiveness, are utterly _nil_. Now, to divine how such a man must
end, we must first see what is the general composition of the society
in which he moves--in short, what other gases are brought into contact
with his phlogiston. As to Leonard, and Harley, and Audley Egerton,
surveying them phrenologically, I should say that--"
"Hush!" said my father. "Pisistratus has dipped his pen in the
ink, and it seems to me easier for the wisest man that ever lived
to account for what others have done, than to predict what they
should do. Phrenologists discovered that Mr. Thurtell had a very
fine organ of Conscientiousness, yet, somehow or other, that erring
personage contrived to knock the brains out of his friend's organ of
Individuality. Therefore I rise to propose a Resolution--that this
meeting be adjourned till Pisistratus has completed his narrative: and
we shall then have the satisfaction of knowing that it ought, according
to every principle of nature, science, and art, to have been completed
differently. Why should we deprive ourselves of that pleasure?"
"I second the motion," said the Captain, "but if Levy be not hanged, I
shall say that there is an end of all poetical justice."
"Take care of poor Helen," said Blanche, tenderly; "not that I would
have you forget Violante."
"Pish! and sit down, or they shall both die old maids."
Frightened at that threat, Blanche, with a deprecating look, drew her
stool quietly near me, as if to place her two protégés in an atmosphere
mesmerised to matrimonial attractions; and my mother set hard to
work--at a new frock for the baby. Unsoftened by these undue female
influences, Pisistratus wrote on at the dictation of the relentless
Fates. His pen was of iron, and his heart was of granite. He was as
insensible to the existence of wife and baby as if he had never paid a
house bill, nor rushed from a nursery at the sound of an infant squall.
O blessed privilege of Authorship!
"O testudinis aureæ
Dulcem quæ strepitum, Pieri, temperas!
O mutis quoque piscibus
Donatura cycni, si libeat, sonum!"
CHAPTER II.
It is necessary to go somewhat back in the course of this narrative,
and account to the reader for the disappearance of Violante.
It may be remembered that Peschiera, scared by the sudden approach
of Lord L'Estrange, had little time for farther words to the young
Italian, than those which expressed his intention to renew the
conference, and press for her decision. But, the next day, when he
re-entered the garden, secretly and stealthily as before, Violante
did not appear. And after watching round the precincts till dusk, the
Count retreated with an indignant conviction that his arts had failed
to enlist on his side, either the heart or the imagination of his
intended victim. He began now to revolve, and to discuss with Levy,
the possibilities of one of those bold and violent measures, which
were favored by his reckless daring, and desperate condition. But Levy
treated with such just ridicule any suggestion to abstract Violante by
force from Lord Lansmere's house--so scouted the notions of nocturnal
assault, with the devices of scaling windows and rope-ladders--that
the Count reluctantly abandoned that romance of villainy so unsuited
to our sober capital, and which would no doubt have terminated in his
capture by the police, with the prospect of committal to the House of
Correction.
Levy himself found his invention at fault, and Randal Leslie was called
into consultation. The usurer had contrived that Randal's schemes of
fortune and advancement were so based upon Levy's aid and connivance,
that the young man, with all his desire rather to make instruments of
other men, than to be himself their instrument, found his superior
intellect as completely a slave to Levy's more experienced craft, as
ever subtle Genius of air was subject to the vulgar Sorcerer of earth.
His acquisition of the ancestral acres--his anticipated seat in
parliament--his chance of ousting Frank from the heritage of
Hazeldean--were all as strings that pulled him to and fro, like a
puppet in the sleek filbert-nailed fingers of the smiling showman, who
could exhibit him to the admiration of a crowd, or cast him away into
dust and lumber.
Randal gnawed his lip in the sullen wrath of a man who bides his hour
of future emancipation, and lent his brain to the hire of the present
servitude, in mechanical acquiescence. The inherent superiority of the
profound young schemer became instantly apparent over the courage of
Peschiera and the practiced wit of the Baron.
"Your sister," said Randal to the former, "must be the active agent in
the first and most difficult part of your enterprise. Violante can not
be taken by force from Lord Lansmere's--she must be induced to leave
it with her own consent. A female is needed here. Woman can best decoy
woman."
"Admirably said," quoth the Count; "but Beatrice has grown restive, and
though her dowry and therefore her very marriage with that excellent
young Hazeldean, depend on my own alliance with my fair kinswoman, she
has grown so indifferent to my success that I dare not reckon on her
aid. Between you and me, though she was once very eager to be married,
she now seems to shrink from the notion; and I have no other hold over
her."
"Has she not seen some one, and lately, whom she prefers to poor Frank?"
"I suspect that she has; but I know not whom, unless it be that
detested L'Estrange."
"Ah--well, well. Interfere with her no farther yourself, but have all
in readiness to quit England, as you had before proposed, as soon as
Violante be in your power."
"All is in readiness," said the Count. "Levy has agreed to purchase a
famous sailing vessel of one of his clients. I have engaged a score or
so of determined outcasts, accustomed to the sea--Genoese, Corsicans,
Sardinians--ex-Carbonari of the best sort--no silly patriots, but
liberal cosmopolitans, who have iron at the disposal of any man's gold.
I have a priest to perform the nuptial service, and deaf to any fair
lady's 'No.' Once at sea, and wherever I land, Violante will lean on my
arm as Countess of Peschiera."
"But Violante," said Randal, doggedly, determined not to yield to the
disgust with which the Count's audacious cynicism filled even him--"but
Violante can not be removed in broad daylight at once to such a vessel,
nor from a quarter so populous as that in which your sister resides."
"I have thought of that too," said the Count; "my emissaries have found
me a house close by the river, and safe for our purpose as the dungeons
of Venice."
"I wish not to know all this," answered Randal, quickly; "you will
instruct Madame di Negra where to take Violante--my task limits itself
to the fair inventions that belong to intellect; what belongs to force,
is not in my province. I will go at once to your sister, whom I think I
can influence more effectually than you can; though later, I may give
you a hint to guard against the chance of her remorse. Meanwhile as,
the moment Violante disappears, suspicion would fall upon you, show
yourself constantly in public surrounded by your friends. Be able to
account for every hour of your time--"
"An _alibi_?" interrupted the _ci-devant_ solicitor.
"Exactly so, Baron. Complete the purchase of the vessel, and let the
Count man it as he proposes. I will communicate with you both as soon
as I can put you into action. To-day I shall have much to do; it will
be done."
As Randal left the room, Levy followed him.
"What you propose to do will be well done, no doubt," quoth the usurer,
linking his arm in Randal's; "but take care that you don't get yourself
into a scrape, so as to damage your character. I have great hopes of
you in public life; and in public life character is necessary--that is,
so far as honor is concerned."
"I damage my character! and for a Count Peschiera!" said Randal,
opening his eyes. "I! What do you take me for?"
The Baron let go his hold.
"This boy ought to rise very high," said he to himself, as he turned
back to the Count.