Not many days after the sheriff and the pursuivants had been at our
house, and Mr. Bryan, by reason of the bloody laws which had been
enacted against Papists and such as harbor priests, had left us,--
though intending to return at such times as might serve our commodity,
and yet not affect our safety,--I was one morning assisting my mother
in the store-room, wherein she was setting aside such provisions as
were to be distributed to the poor that week, together with salves,
medicines, and the like, which she also gave out of charity, when a
spasm came over her, so vehement and painful, that for the moment she
lost the use of speech, and made signs to me to call for help. I ran
affrighted into the library for my father, and brought him to her,
upon which, in a little time, she did somewhat recover, but desired he
would assist her to her own chamber, whither she went leaning on his
arm. When laid on her bed she seemed easier; and smiling, bade me
leave them for awhile, for that she desired to have speech with my
father alone.
For the space of an hour I walked in the garden, with so oppressive a
grief at my heart as I had never before experienced. Methinks the
great stillness in the air added thereunto some sort of physical
disorder; for the weather was very close and heavy; and if a leaf did
but stir, I started as if danger was at hand; and the noise of the
chattering pies over my head worked in me an apprehensive melancholy,
foreboding, I doubt not, what was to follow. At about eleven o'clock,
hearing the sound of a horse's feet in the avenue, I turned round, and
saw Edmund riding from the house; upon which I ran across the grass to
a turning of the road where he would pass, and called to him to stop,
which he did; and told me he was going to Lichfield for his father,
whom my mother desired presently to see. "Then thou shouldst not
tarry," I said; and he pushed on and left me standing where I was; but
the bell then ringing for dinner, I went back to the house, and, in so
doing, took notice of a bay-tree on the lawn which was withered and
dried-up, though the gardener had been at pains to preserve it by
sundry appliances and frequent watering of it. Then it came to my
remembrance what my nurse used to say, that the dying of that sort of
tree is a sure omen of a death in a family; which thought sorely
disturbed me at that time. I sat down with my father to a brief and
silent meal; and soon after the physician he had sent for came, whom
he conducted to my mother's chamber, whereunto I did follow, and
slipped in unperceived. Sitting on one side of the bed, behind the
curtains, I heard her say, in a voice which sounded hollow and weak,
"Good Master Lawrenson, my dear husband was fain to send for you, and
I cared not to withstand him, albeit persuaded that I am hastening to
my journey's end, and that naught that you or any other man may
prescribe may stay what is God's will. And if this be visible to you
as it is to me, I pray you keep it not from me, for it will be to my
much comfort to be assured of it."
When she had done speaking, he did feel her pulse; and the while my
heart beat so quick and, as it seemed to me, so loud as if it must
needs impede my hearing; but in a moment I heard him say: "God defend,
good madam, I should deceive you. While there is life, there is hope.
Greater {177} comfort I dare not urge. If there be any temporal matter
on your mind, 'twere better settled now, and likewise of your soul's
health, by such pious exercises as are used by those of your way of
thinking."
At the hearing of these his words, my father fetched a deep sigh; but
she, as one greatly relieved, clasped her hands together, and cried,
"My God, I thank thee!"
Then, stealing from behind the curtain, I laid my head on the pillow
nigh unto hers, and whispered, "Sweet mother, prithee do not die, or
else take me with thee."
But she, as one not heeding, exclaimed, with her hands uplifted, "O
faithless heart! O selfish heart! to be so glad of death!"
The physician was directing the maids what they should do for her
relief when the pain came on, and he himself stood compounding some
medicine for her to take. My father asked of him when he next would
come; and he answered, "On the morrow;" but methinks 'twas even then
his belief that there would be no morrow for her who was dying before
her time, like the bay-tree in our garden. She bade him farewell in a
kindly fashion; and when we were alone, I lying on the bed by her
side, and my father sitting at its head, she said, in a low voice,
"How wonderful be God's dealings with us, and how fatherly his care;
in that he takes the weak unto himself, and leaves behind the strong
to fight the battle now at hand! My dear master, I had a dream
yesternight which had somewhat of horror in it, but more methinks of
comfort." My father breaking out then in sighs and tears as if his
heart would break, she said, "Oh, but thou must hear and acknowledge,
my loved master, how gracious is God's providence to thy poor wife.
When thou knowest what I have suffered--not in body, though that has
been sharp too, but in my soul--it will reconcile thine own to a
parting which has in it so much of mercy. Thou dost remember the night
when Mr. Mush was here, and what his discourse did run on?"
"Surely do I, sweet wife," he answered; "for it was such as the mind
doth not easily lose the memory of; the sufferings and glorious end of
the blessed martyr Mrs. Clitherow. I perceived what sorrowful heed
thou didst lend to his recital; but has it painfully dwelt in thy mind
since?"
"By day and by night it hath not left me; ever recurring to my
thoughts, ever haunting my dreams, and working in me a fearful
apprehension lest in a like trial I should be found wanting, and prove
a traitor to God and his Church, and a disgrace and heartbreak to thee
who hast so truly loved me far beyond my deserts. I have bragged of
the dangers of the times, even as cowards are wont to speak loud in
the dark to still by the sound of their own voices the terrors they do
feel. I have had before my eyes the picture of that cruel death, and
of the children extremely used for answering as their mother had
taught them, till cold drops of sweat have stood on my brow, and I
have knelt in my chamber wringing my hands and praying to be spared a
like trial. And then, maybe an hour later, sitting at the table, I
spake merrily of the gallows, mocking my own fears, as when Mr. Bryan
was last here; and I said that priests should be more welcome to me
than ever they were, now that virtue and the Catholic cause were made
felony; and the same would be in God's sight more meritorious than
ever before: upon which, 'Then you must prepare your neck for the
rope,' quoth he, in a pleasant but withal serious manner; at the which
a cold chill overcame me, and I very well-nigh faulted, though
constraining my tongue to say, 'God's will be done; but I am far
unworthy of so great an honor.' The cowardly heart belied the
confident tongue, and fear of my own weakness affrighted me, by the
which I must needs have offended God, who helps such as trust {178} in
him. But I hope to be forgiven, inasmuch as it has ever been the wont
of my poor thoughts to picture evils beforehand in such a form as to
scare the soul, which, when it came to meet with them, was not shaken
from its constancy. When Conny was an infant I have stood nigh unto a
window with her in my arms, and of a sudden a terror would seize me
lest I should let her fall out of my hands, which yet clasped her; and
methinks 'twas somewhat of alike feeling which worked in me touching
the denying of my faith, which, God is my witness, is dearer to me
than aught upon earth."
"'Tis even so, sweet wife," quoth my father; "the edge of a too keen
conscience and a sensitive apprehension of defects visible to thine
own eyes and God's--never to mine, who was ever made happy by thy love
and virtue--have worn out the frame which enclosed them, and will rob
me of the dearest comfort of my life, if I must lose thee."
She looked upon him with so much sweetness, as if the approach of
death had brought her greater peace and joy than life had ever done,
and she replied: "Death comes to me as a compassionate angel, and I
fain would have thee welcome with me the kindly messenger who brings
so great relief to the poor heart thou hast so long cherished. Now,
thou art called to another task; and when the bruised, broken reed is
removed from thy side, thou wilt follow the summons which even now
sounds in thine ears."
"Ah," cried my father, clasping her hand, "art thou then already a
saint, sweet wife, that thou hast read the vow slowly registered as
yet in the depths of a riven heart?" Then his eyes turned on me; and
she, who seemed to know his thoughts, that sweet soul who had been so
silent in life, but was now spending her last breath in
never-to-be-forgotten words, answered the question contained in that
glance as if it had been framed in a set speech.
"Fear not for her," she said, laying her cheek close unto mine. "As
her days, so shall her strength be. Methinks Almighty God has given
her a spirit meet for the age in which her lot is cast. The early
training thou hast had, my wench; the lack of such memories as make
the present twofold bitter; the familiar mention round thy cradle of
such trials as do beset Catholics in these days, have nurtured thee a
stoutness of heart which will stand thee in good stead amidst the
rough waves of this troublesome world. The iron will not enter into
thy soul as it hath done into mine." Upon which she fell back
exhausted and for a while no sound was heard in or about the house
save the barking of our great dog.
My father had sent a messenger to a house where we had had notice days
before Father Ford was staying but with no certain knowledge he still
there, or any other priest in neighborhood, which occasioned him no
small disquietude, for my mother's strength seemed to be visibly
sinking which was what the doctor's words had led him to expect. The
man he sent returned not till the evening; in the afternoon Mr.
Genings and son came from Lichfield, which, when my mother heard, she
said God was gracious to permit her once more to see John, which was
Mr. Genings' name. They had been reared in the same house; and a
kindness had always continued betwixt them. For some time past he had
conformed to the times; and since his marriage with the daughter of a
French Huguenot who lived in London, and who was a lady of very
commendable character and manners, and strenuous in her own way of
thinking, he had left off practising his own religion in secret, which
for a while he used to do. When he came in, and saw death plainly writ
in his cousin's face, he was greatly moved, and knelt down by her side
with a very sorrowful countenance; upon which she straightly looked at
him, and said: "Cousin John, my {179} breath is very short, as my time
is also like to be. But one word I would fain say to thee before I
die. I was always well pleased with my religion, which was once thine
and that of all Christian people one hundred years ago; but I have
never been so well pleased with it as now, when I be about to meet my
Judge."
Mr. Genings' features worked with a strange passion, in which was more
of grief than displeasure, and grasping his son's shoulder, who was
likewise kneeling and weeping, he said: "You have wrought with this
boy, cousin, to make him a Catholic."
"As heaven is my witness," she answered, "not otherwise but by my
prayers."
"Hast thou seen a priest, cousin Constance?" he then asked: upon which
my mother not answering, the poor man burst into tears, and cried:
"Oh, cousin--cousin Constance, dost count me a spy, and at thy
death-bed?"
He seemed cut to the heart; whereupon she gave him her hand, and said
she hoped God would send her such ghostly assistance as she stood in
need of; and praying God to bless him and his wife and children, and
make them his faithful servants, so she might meet them all in
perpetual happiness, she spoke with such good cheer, and then bade him
and Edmund farewell with so pleasant a smile, as deceived them into
thinking her end not so near. And so, after a while, they took their
leave; upon which she composed herself for a while in silence,
occupying her thoughts in prayer; and toward evening, through God's
mercy, albeit the messenger had returned with the heavy news that
Father Ford had left the county some days back, it happened that Mr.
Watson, a secular priest who had lately arrived in England, and was on
his way to Chester, stopped at our house, whereunto Mr. Orton, whom he
had seen in prison at London, had directed him for his own convenience
on the road, and likewise our commodity, albeit little thinking how
great our need would be at that time of so opportune a guest, through
whose means that dear departing soul had the benefit of the last
sacraments with none to trouble or molest her, and such ghostly aid as
served to smooth her passage to what has proved, I doubt not, the
beginning of a happy eternity, if we may judge by such tokens as the
fervent acts of contrition she made both before and after shrift, such
as might have served to wash away ten thousand sins through his blood
who cleansed her, and her great and peaceable joy at receiving him
into her heart whom she soon trusted to behold. Her last words were
expressions of wonder and gratitude at God's singular mercy shown unto
her in the quiet manner of her death in the midst of such troublesome
times. And methinks, when the silver cord was loosed, and naught was
left of her on earth save the fair corpse which retained in death the
semblance it had had in life, that together with the natural grief
which found vent in tears, there remained in the hearts of such as
loved her a comfortable sense of the Divine goodness manifested in
this her peaceable removal.
How great the change which that day wrought in me may be judged of by
such who, at the age I had then reached to, have met with a like
affliction, coupled with a sense of duties to be fulfilled, such as
then fell to my lot, both as touching household cares, and in respect
to the cheering of my father in his solitary hours during the time we
did yet continue at Sherwood Hall, which was about a year. It waxed
very hard then for priests to make their way to the houses of
Catholics, as many now found it to their interest to inform against
them and such as harbored them; and mostly in our neighborhood,
wherein there were at that time no recusants of so great rank and note
that the sheriff would not be lief to meddle with them. We had
oftentimes had secret advices to beware of such and such of our
servants who might betray our hidden conveyances of safety; and my
father scarcely durst {180} be sharp with them when they offended by
slacking their duties, lest they might bring us into danger if they
revealed, upon any displeasure, priests having abided with us. Edmund
we saw no more since my mother's death; and after a while the news did
reach us that Mr. Genings had died of the small-pox, and left his wife
in so distressed a condition, against all expectation, owing to debts
he had incurred, that she had been constrained to sell her house and
furniture, and was living in a small lodging near unto the school
where Edmund continued his studies.
I noticed, as time went by, how heavily it weighed on my father's
heart to see so many Catholics die without the sacraments, or fall
away from their faith, for lack of priests to instruct them, like so
many sheep without a shepherd; and I guessed by words he let fall on
divers occasions, that the intent obscurely shadowed forth in his
discourse to my mother on her deathbed was ripening to a settled
purpose, and tending to a change in his state of life, which only his
love and care for me caused him to defer. What I did apprehend must
one day needs occur, was hastened about this time by a warning he did
receive that on an approaching day he would be apprehended and carried
by the sheriff before the council at Lichfield, to be examined
touching recusancy and harboring of priests; which was what he had
long expected. This message was, as it were, the signal he had been
waiting for, and an indication of God's will in his regard. He made
instant provision for the placing of his estate in the hands of a
friend of such singular honesty and so faithful a friendship toward
himself, though a Protestant, that he could wholly trust him. And next
he set himself to dispose of her whom he did term his most dear
earthly treasure, and his sole tie to this perishable world, which he
resolved to do by straightway sending her to London, unto his sister
Mistress Congleton, who had oftentimes offered, since his wife's
death, to take charge of this daughter, and to whom he now despatched
a messenger with a letter, wherein he wrote that the times were now so
troublesome, he must needs leave his home, and take advantage of the
sisterly favor she had willed to show him in the care of his sole
child, whom he now would forthwith send to London, commending her to
her good keeping, touching her safety and religious and virtuous
training, and that he should be more beholden to her than ever brother
was to sister, and, as long as he lived, as he was bound to do, pray
for her and her good husband. When this letter was gone, and order had
been taken for my journey, which was to be on horseback, and in the
charge of a maiden gentlewoman who had been staying some months in our
neighborhood, and was now about in two days to travel to London, it
seemed to me as if that which I had long expected and pictured unto
myself had now come upon me of a sudden, and in such wise as for the
first time to taste its bitterness. For I saw, without a doubt, that
this parting was but the forerunner of a change in my father's
condition as great and weighty as could well be thought of. But of
this howbeit our thoughts were full of it, no talk was ministered
between us. He said I should hear from him in London; and that he
should now travel into Lancashire and Cheshire, changing his name, and
often shifting his quarters whilst the present danger lasted. The day
which was to be the last to see us in the house wherein himself and
his fathers for many centuries back, and I his unworthy child, had
been born, was spent in such fashion as becometh those who suffer for
conscience sake, and that is with so much sorrow as must needs be felt
by a loving father and a dutiful child in a first and doubtful
parting, with so much regret as is natural in the abandonment of a
peaceful earthly home, wherein God had been served in a Catholic
manner for many generations and up to that time without
discontinuance, only of late years as it were by {181} night and
stealth, which was linked in their memories with sundry innocent joys
and pleasures, and such griefs as do hallow and endear the visible
scenes wherewith they be connected, but withal with a stoutness of
heart in him, and a youthful steadiness in her whom he had infected
with a like courage unto his own, which wrought in them so as to be of
good cheer and shed no more tears on so moving an occasion than the
debility of her nature and the tenderness of his paternal care
extorted from their eyes when he placed her on her horse, and the
bridle in the hand of the servant who was to accompany her to London.
Their last parting was a brief one, and such as I care not to be
minute in describing; for thinking upon it even now 'tis like to make
me weep; which I would not do whilst writing this history, in the
recital of which there should be more of constancy and thankful
rejoicing in God's great mercies, than of womanish softness in looking
back to past trials. So I will even break off at this point; and in
the next chapter relate the course of the journey which was begun on
that day.
[TO BE CONTINUED.]
------
Abridged from Le Correspondant.
THE MARQUIS DE CHASTELLUX.
In the bleak region of Upper Burgundy, not far from the domain of
Vauban, stands the old manor of Chastellux, famous since the fifteenth
century as the birth-place of two brothers, one of whom became an
admiral, the other a marshal of France. From this feudal stronghold
came forth one of the most amiable of the courtiers of Louis XVI.--a
disciple of Voltaire and Hume, a rival of Turgot and Adam Smith, a
friend of Washington and Jefferson, a forerunner of the revolutionists
of 1789, a philosopher, an historian, a political economist, something
of a poet, something of a naturalist, something of an artist, a man of
taste, an enthusiastic student, a brilliant talker, and an elegant
writer. The rude Sieurs de Chastellux would have been not a little
astonished could they have foreseen what character of man was destined
to inherit their title.
Francois Jean de Beauvoir, first known as Chevalier and afterward
Marquis de Chastellux, was born at Paris in 1734. He was a son of the
Count de Chastellux, lieutenant-general of the armies of the king, by
Mlle. d'Aguesseau, daughter of the chancellor. His mother, being left
a widow at an early period, withdrew thereupon into the privacy of
domestic life, and the young marquis had the good fortune to be
brought up under the eyes of the Chancellor d'Aguesseau himself. He
entered the army at sixteen, and was hardly twenty-one before he had
risen to be colonel. He distinguished himself highly during the
campaigns of the Seven Years' War, and it was as a reward of his
gallantry no less than out of compliment to his hereditary rank that
he was selected on one occasion to present to the king the flags of a
conquered city. It is hard to understand how, in the midst of such an
active life, he could find time for study; but for all that he knew
Greek, Latin, English, and Italian, and had some acquaintance with
every branch of science cultivated in his time. From boyhood he showed
a zealous interest in every sort of invention or discovery which
promised to be of practical use {182} to mankind. When the principle
of inoculation for small-pox was first broached in Europe, everybody
shrank in alarm from the experiment. The young marquis had himself
inoculated without his mother's knowledge, and then, running to
Buffon, who knew his family, exclaimed joyfully, "I am saved, and my
example will be the means of saving many others."
When peace was declared in 1763, he was not yet thirty. With his
eminent gifts of mind and person, a brilliant career in society lay
open to him, but he aimed to be something more than a mere man of
fashion. His first literary productions were biographical sketches of
two of his brother officers, MM. de Closen and de. Belsunce, which
appeared in the _Mercure_, in 1765. He wrote a lively and graceful
little essay on the "Union of Poetry and Music,"--the same subject
which Marmontel afterward treated in his poem of _Polymnie_. The great
quarrel between the schools of Gluck and Piccini did not break out
until ten years later; but mutterings of the coming tempest were heard
already. Italian music had its enthusiastic admirers and its
implacable foes, and in the midst of their disputes Monsigny and
Gretry had just given to France a lyric school of her own by creating
the comic opera. M. de Chastellux, like everybody else in those days,
was passionately fond of the theatre, and he espoused the cause of
Italian music with the ardor that characterized everything he did.
About the same time he fell into the society of the Encyclopoedists,
and allied himself with Helvetius, d'Alembert, Turgot, and the rest of
the philosophical party, who received the illustrious recruit with
open arms.
About the same time that M. de Chastellux left the army, and made his
debut in civil life, the Scottish historian and philosopher, David
Hume, arrived in Paris, with the British ambassador, Lord Hertford. He
became the lion of the day. Courtiers and philosophers fell down and
worshipped him; his skeptical opinions were eagerly imbibed, and the
three years that he spent in the French capital became, owing to his
extraordinary influence, one of the most important epochs in the
literary history of the eighteenth century. M. de Chastellux shared in
the general enthusiasm; and the "Essays" and "Political Discourses" of
Hume, together with the _Essai sur les moeurs et l'esprit des nations_
of Voltaire, which had appeared a few years before, wrought upon his
mind a deep and lasting impression. The united influence of these two
authors led him to a course of study which resulted in a work upon
which his reputation was finally established. This was his celebrated
treatise, "On Public Felicity; or, Considerations on the Condition of
Man at different Periods of his History," in two volumes. It bears a
resemblance to both its parents. It is historical, like the _Essai sur
les moeurs_, and dogmatic, like the "Essays" and "Discourses." And
that is one of its defects. The "Considerations" on the condition of
man at various periods serve by way of introduction to the author's
theory of public felicity; but the second part is inferior to the
first. The body of the book is sacrificed to the introduction.
This was four years before the appearance of Adam Smith's "Wealth of
Nations." The Marquis de Mirabeau and others of his school had begun
to write; but their notions of political economy were still unfamiliar
to the public. M. de Chastellux may therefore be regarded as one of
the first supporters of that doctrine of human perfectibility which
lies at the bottom of all the prevailing opinions of the eighteenth
century. To this he added another theory, that the only end of
government ought to be "the greatest happiness of the greatest
possible number." Nearly one hundred years ago, therefore, he
discovered and developed the principle which is now one of the most
popular epitomes of social science. His style is good, {183} but
neither very concise nor very brilliant. It is now and then obscure,
sometimes digressive, sometimes declamatory; but for the most part
clear, lively, and abounding in those happy touches which show the
writer to be a man of the world as well as an author.
It is said that the immediate occasion of his writing the book was a
conversation with Mably, the author of "Observations on the History of
France," who maintained that the world was constantly degenerating,
and that the men of to-day were not half so good as their
grandfathers. The young philosopher, his head full of the new ideas,
resolved to demonstrate the superiority of the present over the past.
The first edition of his work appeared in 1772, two years before the
death of Louis XV. It was printed anonymously in Holland. Everywhere
it was read with avidity, abroad as well as in France. It was
translated into English, German, and Italian. Voltaire read it at
Ferney, and was so much struck by it that he covered his copy with
marginal notes--not always of approbation--which were reproduced in a
new edition of the work by the author's son, in 1822.
Despite great merits, which cannot be denied it, the essay "On Public
Felicity" is now almost forgotten. In the historical portion, M. de
Chastellux passes in review all the nations of ancient and modern
times, for the purpose of showing that the general condition of man
has never before been so good as it is now. The fundamental principle
of his work is disclosed in the following profession of faith: "To say
that man is born to be free, that his first care is to preserve his
liberty when he enjoys it, and to recover it when he has lost it, is
to attribute to him a sentiment which he shares with the whole animal
kingdom, and which cannot be called in question. And if we add that
this liberty is by its very nature indefinite, and that the liberty of
one individual can only be limited by that of another, we do but
express a truth which few in this enlightened age will be found to
contradict. Look at society from this point of view, and you will see
nothing but a series of encroachments and resistances; and if you want
to form a just idea of government, you must consider it as the
equilibrium which ought to result from these opposing struggles....
Government and legislation are only secondary and subordinate objects.
They ought to be regarded merely as means through which men may
preserve in the social state the greatest possible portion of natural
liberty."
It is melancholy to see how, in a work that has so much to recommend
it, the chapter which treats of the establishment of Christianity is
disfigured by the skeptical philosophy of the age. Our regret at this
is perhaps the more keen because the fault was altogether without
excuse. Turgot had argued before the Sorbonne, only a few years
previously, that a belief in the progress of the human race, so far
from being incompatible with the doctrine of redemption, is its
necessary consequence. De Chastellux might have shown that, if the
coming of our Lord did not immediately effect a sensible reformation
throughout the civilized world, it was because the vices and bad
passions of the old pagan society long survived the overthrow of the
old pagan gods. But there is this to be said for him: if he does not
evince an adequate appreciation of the great moral revolution effected
by Christianity, he at least does not speak of it in the same insolent
tone that was fashionable in his day. When he comes down to modern
times, and treats of density of population in its relation to national
prosperity, he repeats the popular fallacy that the multiplication of
religious orders exerts a pernicious influence upon the progress of
population. But when from general views he descends to statistics, he
refutes his own arguments. "The number of monks in France," he says,
"according to a careful enumeration {184} made by order of government,
a few years ago, was 26,674, and it certainly is not less now." In
point of fact, the real number when the property of the clergy was
confiscated in 1790 was only 17,000; and what is that in a population
of 24,000,000 or 26,000,000? The army withdraws from the marriage
state twenty times that number of men, in the vigor of their age;
whereas the greater part of the monks are men in the decline of life.
It is a matter of astonishment that a work which professes to treat of
"public felicity" should devote itself entirely to the material
well-being of society, and have nothing to say of the moral condition
of mankind, which is the more important element of the two in making
up the sum of human happiness. Every author, of course, has a right to
fix the limits of his subject; but then he must not promise on the
title-page more than he means to perform.
The authorship of the essay on "Public Felicity" was not long a
secret; but de Chastellux received perhaps as much annoyance as glory
from the discovery. His ideas did not please everybody, and among
those who fell foul of him for his philosophical errors were some of
his own family. He made little account of their opposition, and in
1774 came out boldly with an eulogy on Helvetius, with whom he had
lived for a long time on the most intimate terms. Two years later, he
published a second edition of his previous treatise, with the addition
of a chapter of "Ulterior Views," in which he points out the danger of
some of the revolutionary opinions which were then coming more and
more into vogue, and the futility of trying to realize in actual life
that form of government which might be theoretically the best. If he
had been alive in 1789, he would have belonged to the monarchical
party in the Constituent Assembly; and, after having done his part in
paving the way for the revolution, he would have perished as one of
its victims. Among political and social reformers, he must be classed
with the school of Montesquieu rather than with that of Rousseau.
The attention of France, however, was now fixed more and more firmly
upon the contest going on in America between Great Britain and her
rebellious colonies. Louis XVI., after some resistance, yielded to the
demand of public opinion, and, in 1778, not only recognized the
independence of the United States, but sent a fleet under Count
d'Estaing to help them. A second expedition was despatched under Count
de Rochambeau. M. de Chastellux, who then held the grade of marechal
de camp [equivalent to something between brigadier and major-general
in the present United States army--ED.], obtained permission to join
it, and was appointed major-general. The expeditionary corps arrived
at Newport, capital of the state of Rhode Island, July 10, 1780. It
consisted of eight ships of the line, two frigates, two gunboats, and
over 5,000 troops. The next year came a reenforcement of 3,000 men.
Lord Cornwallis, who commanded the English force was shut up in
Yorktown, Va., and, being closely besieged by the allies and invested
by land and sea, was compelled to surrender in October, 1781. This
forced England to conclude a peace, and the auxiliary corps
re-embarked at Boston on their return to France at the close of 1782.
It had been two years and a half in America, and during this time the
republic had achieved its independence.
During his visit to America, M. de Chastellux employed the brief
periods of leisure left him from military occupations in making three
tours through the interior. He wrote down as he travelled a journal of
his observations, and printed at a little press on board the fleet
some twenty copies of it, ten or twelve of which found their way to
Europe. So great was the eagerness {185} with which people there
seized upon every book relating to America, that a number of copies
were surreptitiously printed, and a publisher at Cassel brought out an
imperfect edition. The author then published the book himself in 1786
(2 vols., 12mo, Paris), under the title, _Voyages de M. le Marquis de
Chastellux dans l'Amerique septentrionale en_ 1780, 1781, _et_ 1782.
Though written originally only for his friends, it has a general
interest, and presents a curious picture of the condition of North
America at the period of which it treats.
The author set out from Newport, where the troops had landed and gone
into winter-quarters, in order to visit Pennsylvania. Accompanied by
two aides-de-camp, one of whom was the Baron de Montesquieu, grandson
of the author of the _Esprit des lois_, and by five mounted servants,
he started, November 11, 1780, on horseback, for that was the only
means of travelling that the country afforded. The ground was frozen
hard, and already covered with snow. The little party directed their
steps first toward Windham, where Lauzun's hussars, forming the
advance-guard of the army, were encamped. They found the Duke de
Lauzun at the head of his troops, and this meeting between the
grandsons of d'Aguesseau and Montesquieu, and a descendant of the
Lauzuns and Birons, all three fighting for the cause of liberty in the
wilds of America, was a curious beginning of their adventures. It was
this same Duke de Lauzun, a friend of Mirabeau and Talleyrand, who
became Duke de Biron after the death of his uncle, was chosen a member
of the States General in 1789, commanded the republican army of La
Vendee, and finished his career on the scaffold.
The travellers crossed the mountains which separated them from the
Hudson, and, after passing through a wild and almost desert country,
arrived at West Point, a place celebrated at that time for the most
dramatic incidents of the war of independence (the treason of General
Arnold and the execution of Major Andre), and now famous as the seat
of the great military school of the United States. The American army
occupying the forts of West Point, which Arnold's treachery had so
nearly given over to the enemy, saluted the French major-general with
thirteen guns--one for each state in the confederation. "Never," says
he, "was honor more imposing or majestic. Every gun was, after a long
interval, echoed back from the opposite bank with a noise nearly equal
to that of the discharge itself. Two years ago, West Point was an
almost inaccessible desert. This desert has been covered with
fortresses and artillery by a people who, six years before, had never
seen a cannon. The well-filled magazines, and the great number of guns
in the different forts, the prodigious labor which must have been
expended in transporting and piling up on the steep rocks such huge
trunks of trees and blocks of hewn stone, give one a very different
idea of the Americans from that which the English ministry have
labored to convey to Parliament. A Frenchman might well be surprised
that a nation hardly born should have spent in two years more than
12,000,000 francs in this wilderness; but how much greater must be his
surprise when he learns that these fortifications have cost the state
nothing, having been constructed by the soldiers, who not only
received no extra allowance for the labor, but have not even touched
their regular pay! It will be gratifying for him to know that these
magnificent works were planned by two French engineers, M. du Portail
and M. Gouvion, [Footnote 45] who have been no better paid than their
workmen."
[Footnote 45: MM. du Portail and Gouvion went to America with
Lafayette, and returned with him. Each rose afterward to the rank of
lieutenant-general in the French army. The former, through the
influence of Lafayette, was appointed minister-of-war in 1790; he
fled to the United States during the Reign of Terror. The other was
created major-general of the National Guard of Paris in 1769; he
fell in battle in 1792.]
West Point stands on the bank of {186} the Hudson, in a situation
which may well be compared with the most beautiful scenery of the
Rhine. M. de Chastellux describes it with the liveliest admiration;
but he remained there only a short time, because he was in haste to
reach the head-quarters of Washington.
"After passing thick woods, I found myself in a small plain, where I
saw a handsome farm. A small camp which seemed to cover it, a large
tent pitched in the yard, and several wagons around it, convinced me
that I was at the head-quarters of _His Excellency_, for so Mr.
Washington is called, in the army and throughout America. M. de
Lafayette was conversing in the yard with a tall man about five feet
nine inches high, of a noble and mild aspect: it was the general
himself. I was soon off my horse and in his presence. The compliments
were short; the sentiments which animated me and the good-will which
he testified for me were not equivocal. He led me into his house,
where I found the company still at table, although dinner had long
been over. He presented me to the generals and the aides-de-camp,
adjutants, and other officers attached to his person, who form what is
called in England and America the _family_ of the general. A few glasses
of claret and madeira accelerated the acquaintances I had to make, and
I soon felt at my ease in the presence of the greatest and best of
men. The goodness and benevolence which characterize him are evident
from everything about him; but the confidence he inspires never gives
occasion to familiarity, for it originates in a profound esteem for
his virtues and a high opinion of his talents."
The next day Washington offered to conduct his guest to the camp of
_the marquis:_ this was the appellation universally bestowed in
America upon Lafayette, who commanded the advance of the army.
"We found his troops in order of battle, and himself at their head,
expressing by his air and countenance that he was better pleased to
receive me there than he would be at his estate in Auvergne.
[Footnote 46] The confidence and attachment of his troops are
invaluable possessions for him, well-earned riches of which nobody can
deprive him; but what, in my opinion, is still more flattering for a
young man of his age (he was not more than twenty-three) is the
influence and consideration he has acquired in political as well as
military matters. I do not exaggerate when I say that private letters
from him have often produced more effect upon some of the states than
the most urgent recommendations of the Congress. On seeing him, one is
at a loss to decide which is the stranger circumstance--that a man so
young should have given such extraordinary proofs of ability, or that
one who has been so much tried should still give promise of such a
long career of glory. Happy his country, should she know how to make
use of his talents! happier still, should she never stand in need of
them!"
[Footnote 46: M. de Chastellux was cousin-german by the mother's
side to the Duchess of Ayen, the mother of Madame de Lafayette.]
This last remark shows that M. de Chastellux, with all his enthusiasm
for the present, was not without anxiety for the future. He spent
three days at head-quarters, nearly all the while at table, after the
American fashion. At the end of each meal nuts were served, and
General Washington sat for several hours, eating them, "toasting," and
conversing. These long conversations only increased his companion's
admiration.
"The most striking characteristic of this respected man is the perfect
accord which exists between his physical and moral qualities. This
idea of a perfect whole cannot be produced by enthusiasm, which would
rather reject it, since the effect of proportion is to diminish the
idea of greatness. Brave without rashness, laborious without ambition,
generous without prodigality, noble without pride, virtuous without
severity, he seems always to have {187} confined himself within those
limits where the virtues, by clothing themselves in more lively but
more changeable and doubtful colors, may be mistaken for faults."
The city of Philadelphia was the capital of the confederation and the
seat of the Congress. M. de Chastellux did not fail to visit it. He
enjoyed there the hospitality of the Chevalier de la Luzerne, French
minister to the United States, and had the pleasure of meeting several
young French officers, some in the service of the United States,
others belonging to the expeditionary corps, whom the interruption of
military operations had left at liberty, like himself. Among them were
M. de Lafayette, the Viscount de Noailles, the Count de Damas, the
Count de Custine, the Chevalier de Mauduit, and the Marquis de la
Rouerie. Let us give a few particulars about these "Gallo-Americans,"
as our author calls them. The Viscount de Noailles, brother-in-law of
Lafayette, and colonel of the chasseurs of Alsace, was afterward a
member of the States General, and principal author of the famous
deliberations of the 4th of August. The Count Charles de Damas, an
aide-de-camp of Rochambeau, in after years took part, on the contrary,
against the revolutionists, and, attempting to rescue Louis XVI. at
Varennes, was arrested with him. The Count de Custine, colonel of the
regiment of Saintonge infantry, is the same who was general-in-chief
of the republican armies in 1792, and who died by the guillotine the
next year, like Lauzun. The Chevalier de Mauduit commanded the
American artillery. At the age of fifteen, with his head full of
dreams of classical antiquity, he ran away from college, walked to
Marseilles, and shipped as cabin-boy on board a vessel bound for
Greece, in order to visit the battle-fields of Plataea and
Thermopylae. The same spirit of enthusiasm carried him, at the age of
twenty, to America. Appointed, after the war, commandant at Port au
Prince, he was assassinated there by his own soldiers in 1791. The
history of the Marquis de la Rouerie, or Rouarie, is still more
romantic. In his youth he fell violently in love with an actress, and
wanted to marry her. Compelled by his family to break off this
attachment, he determined to become a Trappist; but he soon threw
aside the monastic habit and went to America, where he commanded a
legion armed and equipped at his own cost. He abandoned his surname
and title, and would only be known as Colonel Armand. After his return
to France, he was concerned, with others of the nobility of Brittany,
in the troubles which preceded the revolution. He was one of the
twelve deputies sent in 1787 to demand of the king the restoration of
the privileges of that province, and as such was committed to the
Bastile. The next year he had occasion to claim the same privileges,
not from the king, but from the Third Estate. In 1791 he placed
himself at the head of the disaffected, and organized the royalist
insurrection in the west. Denounced and pursued, he saved himself by
taking to the forest, lay hid in one chateau after another, fell sick
in the middle of winter, and died in a fit of despair on hearing of
the execution of Louis XVI.
The Chevalier de la Luzerne, brother of the Bishop of Langres,
afterward cardinal, so distinguished for his noble conduct in 1789,
was a man of more coolness and deliberation, but not less devoted to
the cause of the United States. He had given abundant proof of his
friendship by contracting a loan on his own responsibility for the
payment of the American troops.
"M. de la Luzerne," says de Chastellux, "is so formed for the station
he occupies, that one would be tempted to imagine no other could fill
it but himself. Noble in his expenditure, like the minister of a great
monarchy, but plain in his manners, like a republican, he is equally
fit to represent the king with the Congress, or the Congress with the
king. He loves the {188} Americans, and his own inclination attaches
him to the duties of his administration. He has accordingly obtained
their confidence, both as a private and a public man; but in both
these respects he is inaccessible to the spirit of party which reigns
but too much around him. He is anxiously courted by all parties, and,
espousing none, he manages all." In acknowledgment of his services in
America, the Chevalier was appointed, after the peace, minister at
London;--rather an audacious action on the part of the government of
Louis XVI. to choose as their representative in England the very man
who had contributed most of all to the independence of the United
States. The state of Pennsylvania, in gratitude for his acts of
good-will, gave the name of Luzerne to one of her counties.
The principal occupation of these officers, during their stay at
Philadelphia, was to visit, notwithstanding the inclemency of the
weather, the scenes of the recent conflicts near that city, or to
discuss the causes which had turned the fortune of war, now in favor
of the Americans, and now against them. Our author here shows himself
in a new light, as a tactician who, with a thorough knowledge of the
art of war, points out the circumstances which have led to the success
or failure of this or that manoeuvre. Those affairs in which the
French figured especially attracted his attention. Bravery,
generosity, disinterestedness, all the national virtues were
conspicuous in these volunteers who had crossed the ocean to make war
at their own expense, and who softened the asperity of military
operations by the charm of their elegant manners and chivalric
bearing.
Among the battle-fields which these young enthusiasts, while a waiting
something better to do, loved to trace out was that of Brandywine,
where M. de Lafayette, almost immediately after his landing in
America, received the wound in the leg of which he speaks so gaily in
a letter to his wife. Lafayette himself acted as their guide, and
recounted to his friends, on the very scene of action, the incidents
of this day, which was not a fortunate one for the Americans. He did
the honors of another expedition to the heights of Barren Hill, where
he had gained an advantage under rather curious circumstances. He had
with him there about two thousand infantry with fifty dragoons and an
equal number of Indians, when the English, who occupied Philadelphia,
endeavored to surround and capture him.
"General Howe [Sir Henry Clinton--ED.] thought he had now fairly
caught the marquis, and even carried his gasconade so far as to invite
ladies to meet Lafayette at supper the next day; and, whilst the
principal part of the officers were at the play, he put in motion the
main body of his forces, which he marched in three columns. The first
was not long in reaching the advanced posts of M. de Lafayette, which
gave rise to a laughable adventure. The fifty savages he had with him
were placed in ambuscade in the woods, after their own manner; that is
to say, lying as close as rabbits. Fifty English dragoons, who had
never seen any Indians, entered the wood where they were hid. The
Indians on their part, had never seen dragoon. Up they start, raising
a horrible cry, throw down their arms, and escape by swimming across
the Schuylkill. The dragoons, on the other hand, as much terrified as
they were, turned tail, and fled in such a panic that they did not
stop until they reached Philadelphia. M. de Lafayette, finding himself
in danger of being surrounded, made such skilful dispositions that he
effected his retreat, as if by enchantment, and crossed the river
without losing a man. The English army, finding the bird flown,
returned to Philadelphia, spent with fatigue, and ashamed of having
done nothing. The ladies did not see M. de Lafayette, and General Howe
[Clinton] himself arrived too late for supper." By the side of these
admirable military sketches, we have an account of a ball at the
Chevalier de la Luzerne's. "There were near twenty women, {189} twelve
or fifteen of whom danced, each having her 'partner,' as the custom is
in America. Dancing is said to be at once the emblem of gaiety and of
love; here it seems to be the emblem of legislation and of marriage:
of legislation, inasmuch as places are marked out, the country-dances
named, and every proceeding provided for, calculated, and submitted to
regulation; of marriage, as it furnishes each lady with a partner,
with whom she must dance the whole evening, without being permitted to
take another. Strangers have generally the privilege of being
complimented with the handsomest women; that is to say, out of
politeness, the prettiest partners are given to them. The Count de
Damas led forth Mrs. Bingham, and the Viscount de Noailles, Miss
Shippen. Both of them, like true philosophers, testified a great
respect for the custom of the country by not quitting their partners
the whole evening; in other respects they were the admiration of the
whole assembly from the grace and dignity with which they danced. To
the honor of my country, I can affirm that they surpassed that evening
a chief justice of Carolina, and two members of Congress, one of whom
(Mr. Duane) passed for being by ten per cent. more lively than all the
other dancers."
At Philadelphia, as in camp, a great part of the day was passed at
table. The Congress having met, M. de Chastellux was invited to dinner
successively by the representatives from the North and the
representatives from the South; for the political body was even then
divided by a geographical line, each side having separate reunions at
a certain tavern which they used to frequent: so we see the
differences between North and South are as old as the confederation
itself. He made the acquaintance of all the leading members, and
especially of Samuel Adams, one of the framers of the Declaration of
Independence. [Footnote 47] He saw also the celebrated pamphleteer,
Thomas Paine, who ten years afterward came to France, and was chosen a
member of the National Convention. Together with Lafayette, our author
was elected a member of the Academy of Philadelphia. Despite so many
circumstances to prepossess him in favor of the Americans, he appears
not a very ardent admirer of what he witnesses about him. He shows but
little sympathy with the Quakers, whose "smooth and wheedling tone"
disgusts him, and whom he represents as wholly given up to making
money. Philadelphia he calls "the great sink in which all the
speculations of the United States meet and mingle." The city then had
40,000 inhabitants; it now contains 600,000.
[Footnote 47: A mistake of the reviewer's. Samuel Adams had no hand
in writing the Declaration, nor does de Chastellux say that he
had.--ED. C. W. ]
We can easily conceive that, in contrasting the appearance of this
republican government with the great French monarchy, he should have
found abundant food for study and reflection. He speaks with great
reserve, but what little he says is enough to show that he was not so
much enamored of republican ideas as Lafayette and most of his
friends. The disciple of Montesquieu loses much of his admiration for
the American constitutions when he sees them in operation, and seems
especially loath to introduce them into his own country. The
constitution of Pennsylvania strikes him as particularly defective.
"The state of Pennsylvania is far from being one of the best governed
of the members of the confederation. The government is without force;
nor can it be otherwise. A popular government can never have any
whilst the people are uncertain and vacillating in their opinions; for
then the leaders seek rather to please than to serve them, and end by
becoming the slaves of the multitude whom they pretended to govern."
This constitution had one capital defect: it provided only for a
single legislative chamber. After a disastrous trial, Pennsylvania was
{190} compelled to change her laws, and adopt the system of two
chambers, like the other states of the Union.
Our author betrays his misgivings most clearly in his narrative of an
interview with Samuel Adams. His report of the conversation is
especially curious, as it shows how entirely the two speakers were
preoccupied by different ideas. Samuel Adams, who has been called "the
American Cato," bent himself to prove the revolution justifiable, by
arguments drawn not only from natural right but from historical
precedent. The thoroughly English character of mind of these
innovators led them to make it a sort of point of honor to find a
sanction for their conduct in tradition. M. de Chastellux, like a true
Frenchman, made no account of such reasonings.
"I am clearly of opinion that the parliament of England had no right
to tax America without her consent; but I am still more clearly
convinced that, when a whole people say, 'We will be free!' it is
difficult to demonstrate that they are in the wrong. Be that as it
may, Mr. Adams very satisfactorily proved to me that New England was
peopled with no view to commerce and aggrandizement, but wholly by
individuals who fled from persecution, and sought an asylum at the
extremity of the world, where they might be free to live and follow
their own opinions; that it was of their own accord that these
colonists placed themselves under the protection of England; that the
mutual relationship springing from this connection was expressed in
their charters, and that the right of imposing or exacting a revenue
of any kind was not comprised in them." There was no question between
the two speakers of the Federal Constitution, for it did not yet
exist. The states at that time formed merely a confederation of
sovereign states, with a general congress, like the German
confederation. They had no president or central administration. The
constitutions spoken of in this conversation were simply the separate
constitutions of the individual states, and Samuel Adams, being from
Massachusetts, referred particularly to that state. M. de Chastellux,
accustomed to the complex social systems of Europe, was surprised that
no property qualification should be required of voters; the Americans,
on the contrary, who had always lived in a democratic community, both
before and since the declaration of independence, could not comprehend
the necessity of such a restriction. Both were doubtless right; for it
is equally difficult to establish political inequality where it does
not already exist, and to suddenly abolish it where it does exist. The
constitution of Massachusetts, superior in this respect to that of
Pennsylvania, provided for a moderating power by creation of a
governor's council, elected by property-holders.
Our author's first journey terminates in the north, near the Canada
frontier. He crosses the frozen rivers in a sleigh, in order to visit
the battle-field of Saratoga, the scene, three years before, the
capitulation of General Burgoyne, the most important success which the
Americans had achieved previous to the arrival of the French.
Returning to Newport in the early part of 1781, after having
travelled, in the course of two months, more than three hundred
leagues, on horseback or in sleighs, he passed the rest of the year
solely occupied in the duties of the glorious campaign which put an
end to the war. He wrote a journal of this campaign, but it has not
been published. He speaks of it in the narrative of his travels. From
the _Memoires_ of Rochambeau, however, we learn something of his
gallant behavior at the siege of Yorktown, where, at the head of the
reserve, he repulsed a sortie of the enemy.
His second journey was made immediately after the surrender of
Cornwallis, and was directed toward Virginia, the most important of
the southern, as Pennsylvania was of the northern, states. It was the
birth-place of Washington, of Jefferson, of Madison, and {191} of
Monroe; the state which shared most actively in the war of
independence, and which is now the principal battle-field of the
bloody struggle between North and South. This second journey did not
partake of the military and political character of the first. Now that
the destiny of America seemed settled, the author gave his attention,
principally, to natural history. In every phrase we recognize the
pupil and admirer of Buffon. His chief purpose was to visit a natural
bridge of rock across one of the affluents of the James river, in the
Appalachian mountains. He describes this stupendous arch with great
care, and illustrates his narrative with several drawings which he
caused to be made by an officer of engineers.
_A propos_ of this subject, he indulges in speculations upon the
geological formation of the New World, quite after the manner of the
author of _Epoques de la nature_. On the road he amused himself by
hunting. He describes the animals that he kills, and gives an account
of the mocking-bird, which almost equals Buffon's in vivacity, and
excels it in accuracy. He gives several details respecting the
opossum, that singular animal which almost seems to belong to a
different creation. All natural objects interest him, and he studies
them with the zeal of a first discoverer. His description of the
mocking-bird is well worth reproducing:
"I rose with the sun, and, while breakfast was preparing, took a walk
around the house. The birds were heard on every side, but my attention
was chiefly attracted by a very agreeable song, which appeared to
proceed from a neighboring tree. I approached softly, and perceived it
to be a mocking-bird, saluting the rising sun. At first I was afraid
of frightening it, but my presence, on the contrary, gave it pleasure;
for, apparently delighted at having an auditor, it sang better than
before, and its emulation seemed to increase when it saw a couple of
dogs, which followed me, draw near to the tree on which it was
perched. It kept hopping incessantly from branch to branch, still
continuing its song; for this extraordinary bird is not less
remarkable for its agility than its charming notes. It keeps
perpetually rising and sinking, so as to appear not less the favorite
of Terpsichore than Polyhymnia. This bird cannot certainly be
reproached with fatiguing its auditors, for nothing can be more varied
than its song, of which it is impossible to give an imitation, or even
to furnish any adequate idea. As it had every reason to be satisfied
with my attention, it concealed from me none of its talents; and one
would have thought that, after having delighted me with a concert, it
was desirous of entertaining me with a comedy. It began to counterfeit
different birds; those which it imitated the most naturally, at least
to a stranger, were the jay, the raven, the cardinal, and the lapwing.
It appeared desirous of detaining me near it; for, after I had
listened for a quarter of an hour, it followed me on my return to the
house, flying from tree to tree, always singing, sometimes its natural
song, at others those which it had learned in Virginia and in its
travels; for this bird is one of those which change climate, although
it sometimes appears here during the winter."
Continuing his journey, the traveller visited Jefferson at his
country-home, situated deep in the wilderness, on the skirts of the
Blue Ridge. This visit gives him opportunity for a new historical
portrait:
"It was Jefferson himself who built his house and chose the situation.
He calls it Monticello ['little mountain'], a modest title, for it is
built upon a very high mountain; but the name indicates the owner's
attachment to the language of Italy, and above all to the fine arts,
of which that country was the cradle. He is a man not yet forty, of
tall stature and a mild and pleasant countenance; but his mind and
understanding are ample substitutes for every external grace. {192} An
American who, without having ever quitted his own country, is skilled
in music and drawing; a geometrician, an astronomer, a natural
philosopher, a jurist and a statesman; a senator who sat for two years
in the congress which brought about the revolution, and which is never
mentioned without respect, though unhappily not without regret;
[Footnote 48] a governor of Virginia, who filled this difficult
station during the invasions of Arnold, of Phillips, and of
Cornwallis; in fine, a philosopher in voluntary retirement from the
world and public affairs, because he only loves the world so long as
he can flatter himself with the conviction that he is of some use to
mankind. A mild and amiable wife, charming children, of whose
education he himself takes charge, a house to embellish, great
possessions to improve, and the arts and sciences to cultivate--these
are what remain to Mr. Jefferson after having played a distinguished
part on the theatre of the New World. Before I had been two hours in
his company, we were as ultimate as if we had passed our whole lives
together. Walking, books, but above all a conversation always varied
and interesting, sustained by that sweet satisfaction experienced by
two persons whose sentiments are always in unison, and who understand
each other at the first hint, made four days seem to me only so many
minutes. No object had escaped Mr. Jefferson's attention; and it
seemed as if from his youth he had placed his mind, as he has done his
house, on an elevation from which he might contemplate the universe."
[Footnote 48: The United States were then passing through a crisis
of anarchy, which lasted until the adoption of the Federal
Constitution in 1788, and the elevation of Washington to the
presidency.]
At the period of this visit, Mr. Jefferson thought only of retirement;
but when M. de Chastellux's _Voyages en Amerique_ appeared, three
years afterward, he was minister-plenipotentiary of the United States
in Paris. The death of his wife had determined him to return to public
life. He formed a solid friendship for M. de Chastellux, of which his
correspondence contains abundant proof. The brilliant French soldier
introduced the solitary of Monticello, the "American wild-man of the
mountains," to the _salons_ of Paris; and the republican statesman, with
the manners of an aristocrat, entered, nothing loath, into the society
of the gay and polished capital, where he received the same welcome
and honors that were accorded to Franklin.
This portion of the _Journal_ closes with some general remarks upon
Virginia, which possess a new interest now that the people of that
state reappear upon the scene in the same bellicose and indomitable
character which they bore of old.
"The Virginians differ essentially from the people of the North, not
only in the nature of their climate, soil, and agriculture, but in
that indelible character which is imprinted on every nation at the
moment of its origin, and which, by perpetuating itself from
generation to generation, justifies the great principle that
'everything which is partakes of that which has been.' The settlement
of Virginia took place at the commencement of the seventeenth century.
The republican and democratic spirit was not then common in England;
that of commerce and navigation was scarcely in its infancy. The long
wars with France and Spain had perpetuated the military spirit, and
the first colonists of Virginia were composed in great part of
gentlemen who had no other profession than that of arms. It was
natural, therefore, for these colonists, who were filled with military
principles and the prejudices of nobility, to carry them even into the
midst of the savages whose lands they came to occupy. Another cause
which operated in forming their character was the institution of
slavery. It may be asked how these prejudices have been brought to
coincide with a revolution founded on such different principles? I
answer {193} that they have perhaps contributed to produce it. While
the insurrection in New England was the result of reason and
calculation, Virginia revolted through pride."
The third and last journey of M. de Chastellux led him through New
Hampshire, Massachusetts, and northern Pennsylvania. This was during
the months of November and December, 1782, on the eve of his return to
France. He started from Hartford, the capital of Connecticut, and,
after visiting several other places, went to Boston, for he could not
leave America without seeing this city, the cradle of the revolution.
He found at this port the French fleet, under command of M. de
Vaudreuil, which was to carry back the expeditionary corps to France.
He closes his _Journal_ with an interesting account of the university
at Cambridge, which Ampere, who was, like him, a member of the French
Academy, visited and described seventy years afterward. In the
appendix to his book he gives a letter written by himself on board the
frigate _l'Emeraude_, just before sailing, to Mr. Madison, professor
of philosophy in William and Mary College. It is upon a subject which
has not yet lost its appropriateness--the future of the arts and
sciences in America. A democratic and commercial society, always in a
ferment, seemed to him hardly compatible with scientific, and still
less with artistic, progress. But, in his solicitude for the welfare
of the country he had been defending, he would not allow that the
difficulty was insuperable. Some of his remarks upon this subject are
extremely delicate and ingenious.
The question which troubled him is not yet fully answered, but it is
in a fair way of being settled. The United States have really made but
little progress in the arts, though they have produced a few pictures
and statues which have elicited admiration even in Europe at recent
industrial exhibitions. They are beginning, however, to have a
literature. Even in the days of the revolution they could boast of the
writings of Franklin, which combined the-most charming originality
with refinement and solid good sense. Now they can show, among
novelists, Fenimore Cooper and the celebrated Mrs. Beecher Stowe,
whose book gave the signal for another revolution; among
story-tellers, Washington Irving and Hawthorne; among critics,
Ticknor; among historians, Prescott and Bancroft; among economists,
Carey; among political writers, Everett; among moralists, Emerson and
Channing; among poets, Bryant and Longfellow. In science they have
done still more. They have adopted and naturalized one of the first of
modern geologists, Agassiz; and the hydrographical labors of Maury,
[late] director of the Washington Observatory, are the admiration of
the whole world. Their immense development in industrial pursuits
implies a corresponding progress in practical science. It was Fulton,
an American, who invented the steamboat, and carried out in his own
country the idea which he could not persuade Europe to listen to; and
only lately the reaping-machine has come to us from the shores of the
great lakes and the vast prairies of the Far West.
When the _Voyages en Amerique_ appeared, the revolutionary party in
France were still more dissatisfied with the book than they had been
with the _Felicite publique_. They were angry at the wise and
unprejudiced judgments which the author passed upon men and things in
the New World; they were angry that he found some things not quite
perfect in republican society, that his praises of democracy were not
louder, his denunciations of the past not more sweeping. Brissot de
Warville, whose caustic pen was already in full exercise, published a
bitter review of the book. Some of the hostile criticisms found their
way to the United States, and M. de Chastellux, in sending a copy of
his work to General Washington, took occasion to {194} defend himself.
He received from the general a long and affectionate reply, written at
Mount Vernon, in April, 1786.
M. de Chastellux also wrote a "Discourse on the Advantages and
Disadvantages which have resulted to Europe from the Discovery of
America," and edited the comedies of the Marchioness de Gleon. This
lady, celebrated for her wit and beauty, was the daughter of a rich
financier. At her house, La Chevrette, near Montmorency, she
entertained all the literary world, and gave representations of her
own plays. Her friend, M. de Chastellux, was himself the author of a
few dramatic pieces, performed either at La Chevrette or at the Prince
de Conde's, at Chantilly; but they have never been published. We shall
respect his reserve, and refrain from giving our readers a taste
either of these compositions or of his "Plan for a general Reform of
the French Infantry," and other unpublished writings.
After his return from America, de Chastellux was appointed governor of
Longwy. He had reached the age of nearly fifty and was still
unmarried, when he met at the baths of Spa, which were still the
resort of all the good company in Europe, a young, beautiful, and
accomplished Irish girl, named Miss Plunkett, with whom he fell over
head and ears in love. He married her in 1787, but did not long enjoy
his happiness, for he died the next year. Like most men who devote
themselves to the public welfare, he had sadly neglected his private
affairs. Being the youngest of five children, his fortune was not
large, and it gave him little trouble to run through it. General
officers in those days took a pride in their profuse expenditures in
the field: he ruined himself by his American campaign. His widow was
attached in the capacity of maid of honor to the person of the
estimable daughter of the Duke de Penthievre, the Duchess of Orleans,
mother of King Louis Philippe. This princess adopted, after a certain
fashion, his posthumous son, who became one of the _chevaliers
d'honneur_ of Madame Adelaide, the daughter of his patroness. He was
successively a deputy and peer of France after the revolution 1830. He
published a short memoir of his father, prefixed to an edition of the
_Felicite publique_.
------
{195}
From The Month.
THE LEGEND OF LIMERICK BELLS.
BY BESSIE RAYNER PARKES.
There is a convent on the Alban hill,
Round whose stone roots the gnarled olives grow;
Above are murmurs of the mountain rill,
And all the broad Campagna lies below;
Where faint gray buildings and a shadowy dome
Suggest the splendor of eternal Rome.
Hundreds of years ago, these convent-walls
Were reared by masons of the Gothic age:
The date is carved upon the lofty halls,
The story written on the illumined page.
What pains they took to make it strong and fair
The tall bell-tower and sculptured porch declare.
When all the stones were placed, the windows stained,
And the tall bell-tower finished to the crown,
Only one want in this fair pile remained,
Whereat a cunning workman of the town
(The little town upon the Alban hill)
Toiled day and night his purpose to fulfil.
Seven bells he made, of very rare devise,
With graven lilies twisted up and down;
Seven bells proportionate in differing size,
And full of melody from rim to crown;
So that, when shaken by the wind alone,
They murmured with a soft AEolian tone.
These being placed within the great bell-tower,
And duly rung by pious skilful hand,
Marked the due prayers of each recurring hour,
And sweetly mixed persuasion with command.
Through the gnarled olive-trees the music wound,
And miles of broad Campagna heard the sound.
And then the cunning workman put aside
His forge, his hammer, and the tools he used
To chase those lilies; his keen furnace died;
And all who asked for bells were hence refused.
With these his best, his last were also wrought,
And refuge in the convent-walls he sought.
There did he live, and there he hoped to die,
Hearing the wind among the cypress-trees
Hint unimagined music, and the sky
Throb full of chimes borne downward by the breeze;
Whose undulations, sweeping through the air,
His art might claim as an embodied prayer.
{196}
----
But those were stormy days in Italy:
Down came the spoiler from the uneasy North,
Swept the Campagna to the bounding sea,
Sacked pious homes, and drove the inmates forth;
Whether a Norman or a German foe,
History is silent, and we do not know.
Brothers in faith were they; yet did not deem
The sacred precincts barred destroying hand.
Through those rich windows poured the whitened beam,
Forlorn the church and ruined altar stand.
As the sad monks went forth, that self-same hour
Saw empty silence in the great bell-tower.
The outcast brethren scattered far and wide;
Some by the Danube rested, some in Spain:
On the green Loire the aged abbot died,
By whose loved feet one brother did remain
Faithful in all his wanderings: it was he
Who cast and chased those bells in Italy.
He, dwelling at Marmontier, by the tomb
Of his dear father, where the shining Loire
Flows down from Tours amidst the purple bloom
Of meadow-flowers, some years of patience saw.
Those fringed isles (where poplars tremble still)
Swayed like the olives of the Alban hill.
The man was old, and reverend in his age;
And the "Great Monastery" held him dear.
Stalwart and stern, as some old Roman sage
Subdued to Christ, he lived from year to year,
Till his beard silvered, and the fiery glow
Of his dark eye was overhung with snow.
And being trusted, as of prudent way,
They chose him for a message of import,
Which the "Great Monastery" would convey
To a good patron in an Irish court;
Who, by the Shannon, sought the means to found
St. Martin's off-shoot on that distant ground.
The old Italian took his staff in hand,
And journeyed slowly from the green Touraine
Over the heather and salt-shining sand,
Until he saw the leaping crested main,
Which, dashing round the Cape of Brittany,
Sweeps to the confines of the Irish Sea.
{197}
There he took ship, and thence with laboring sail
He crossed the waters, till a faint gray line
Rose in the northern sky; so faint, so pale,
Only the heart that loves her would divine,
In her dim welcome, all that fancy paints
Of the green glory of the Isle of Saints.
Through the low banks, where Shannon meets the sea,
Up the broad waters of the River King
(Then populous with a nation), journeyed he,
Through that old Ireland which her poets sing;
And the white vessel, breasting up the stream,
Moved slowly, like a ship within a dream.
When Limerick towers uprose before his gaze,
A sound of music floated in the air--
Music which held him in a fixed amaze,
Whose silver tenderness was alien there;
Notes full of murmurs of the southern seas,
And dusky olives swaying in the breeze.
His chimes! the children of the great bell-tower,
Empty and silent now for many a year,
He hears them ringing out the vesper hour,
Owned in an instant by his loving ear.
Kind angels stayed the spoiler's hasty hand,
And watched their journeying over sea and land.
The white-sailed boat moved slowly up the stream;
The old man lay with folded hands at rest;
The Shannon glistened in the sunset beam;
The bells rang gently o'er its shining breast,
Shaking out music from each lilied rim:
It was a requiem which they rang for him.
For when the boat was moored beside the quay,
He lay as children lie when lulled by song;
But never more to waken. Tenderly
They buried him wild-flowers and grass among,
Where on the cross alights the wandering bird,
And hour by hour the bells he loved are heard.
------
{198}
From London Society.
A PERILOUS JOURNEY.
A TALE.
There is a tide in the affairs of men,
Which, taken at the flood, leads on to fortune--
So says the sage, and it is not to be gainsayed by any man whom forty
winters have chilled into wisdom. Ability and opportunity are fortune.
Opportunity is not fortune; otherwise all were fortunate. Ability is
not fortune, else why does genius slave? Why? But because it missed
_the_ opportunity that fitted it?
What I have--wife, position, independence--I owe to an opportunity for
exercising the very simple and unpretending combination of qualities
that goes by the name of ability. But to my story.
My father was a wealthy country gentleman, of somewhat more than the
average of intelligence, and somewhat more than the average of
generosity and extravagance. His younger brother, a solicitor in large
practice in London, would in vain remonstrate as to the imprudence of
his course. Giving freely, spending freely, must come to an end. It
did; and at twenty I was a well educated, gentlemanly pauper. The
investigation of my father's affairs showed that there was one
shilling and sixpence in the pound for the whole of his creditors, and
of course nothing for me.
The position was painful. I was half engaged--to that is, I had
gloves, flowers, a ringlet, a carte de visite of Alice Morton. That,
of course, must be stopped.
Mr. Silas Morton was not ill-pleased at the prospect of an alliance
with his neighbor Westwood's son while there was an expectation of a
provision for the young couple in the union of estates as well as
persons; but now, when the estate was gone, when I, Guy Westwood, was
shillingless in the world, it would be folly indeed. Nevertheless I
must take my leave.
"Well, Guy, my lad, bad job this; very bad job; thought he was as safe
as the Bank. Would not have believed it from any one--not from any
one. Of course all that nonsense about you and Alice must be stopped
now; I'm not a hard man, but I can't allow Alice to throw away her
life in the poverty she would have to bear as your wife; can't do it;
wouldn't be the part of a father if I did."
I suggested I might in time.
"Time, sir! time! How much? She's nineteen now. You're brought up to
nothing; know nothing that will earn you a sixpence for the next six
months; and you talk about time. Time, indeed! Keep her waiting till
she's thirty, and then break her heart by finding it a folly to marry
at all.'
"Ah! Alice, my dear, Guy's come to say 'Good by:' he sees, with me,
that his altered position compels him, as an honorable man, to give up
any hopes he may have formed as to the future."
He left us alone to say 'Farewell!'--a word too hard to say at our
ages. Of course we consulted what should be done. To give each other
up, to bury the delicious past, that was not to be thought of. We
would be constant, spite of all. I must gain a position, and papa
would then help us.
Two ways were open; a commission in India, a place in my uncle's
office. Which? I was for the commission, Alice for the office. A
respectable influential solicitor; a position not to be despised;
nothing but cleverness wanted; and my uncle's name, and no one to wait
for; no liver {199} complaints; no sepoys; no sea voyages; and no long
separation.
"Oh, I'm sure it is the best thing."
I agreed, not unnaturally then, that it was the best.
"Now, you young people, you've had time enough to say 'Good by,' so be
off, Guy. Here, my lad, you'll need something to start with," and the
old gentleman put into my hands a note for fifty pounds.
"I must beg, sir, that you will not insult--"
"God bless the boy! 'Insult!' Why I've danced you on my knee hundreds
of times. Look you, Guy,"--and the old fellow came and put his hand on
my shoulder,--"it gives me pain to do what I am doing. I believe, for
both your sakes, it is best you should part. Let us part friends. Come
now, Guy, you'll need this; and if you need a little more, let me
know."
"But, sir, you cut me off from all hope; you render my life a burden
to me. Give me some definite task; say how much you think we ought to
have; I mean how much I ought to have to keep Alice--I mean Miss
Morton--in such a position as you would wish."
Alice added her entreaties, and the result of the conference was an
understanding that if, within five years from that date, I could show
I was worth L500 a year, the old gentleman would add another L500; and
on that he thought we might live for a few years comfortably.
There was to be no correspondence whatever; no meetings, no messages.
We protested and pleaded, and finally he said--
"Well, well, Guy; I always liked you, and liked your father before
you. Come to us on Christmas day, and you shall find a vacant chair
beside Alice. There, now; say 'Good by,' and be off."
I went off. I came to London to one of the little lanes leading out of
Cannon street. Five hundred a year in five years! I must work hard.
My uncle took little notice of me; I fancied worked me harder than the
rest, and paid me the same. Seventy-five pounds a year is not a large
sum. I had spent it in a month before now, after the fashion of my
father: now, I hoarded; made clothes last; ate in musty, cheap, little
cook-shops; and kept my enjoying faculties from absolute rust by a
weekly half-price to the theatres--the pit.
The year passed. I went down on Christmas, and for twenty-four hours
was alive; came back, and had a rise of twenty pounds in salary for
the next year. I waited for opportunity, and it came not.
This jog-trot routine of office-work continued for two years more, and
at the end of that time I was worth but my salary of L135 per
year--L135! a long way from L500. Oh, for opportunity? I must quit the
desk, and become a merchant; all successful men have been merchants;
money begets money. But, to oppose all these thoughts of change, came
the memory of Alice's last words at Christmas, "Wait and hope, Guy,
dear; wait and hope." Certainly; it's so easy to.
"Governor wants you, Westwood. He's sharp this morning; very sharp; so
look out, my dear nephy."
"You understand a little Italian, I think?" said my uncle.
"A little, sir."
"You will start to-night for Florence, in the mail train. Get there as
rapidly as possible, and find whether a Colonel Wilson is residing
there, and what lady he is residing with. Learn all you can as to his
position and means, and the terms on which he lives with that lady.
Write to me, and wait there for further instructions. Mr. Williams
will give you a cheque for L100; you can get circular notes for L50,
and the rest cash. If you have anything to say, come in here at five
o'clock; if not, good morning. By-the-by, say nothing in the office."
I need not say that hope made me believe my opportunity was come.
I hurried to Florence and discharged my mission; sent home a {200}
careful letter, full of facts without comment or opinion, and in three
weeks' time was summoned to return. I had done little or nothing that
could help me, and in a disappointed state of mind I packed up and
went to the railway station at St. Dominico. A little row with a
peasant as to his demand for carrying my baggage caused me to lose the
last train that night, and so the steamer at Leghorn. The
station-master, seeing my vexation, endeavored to console me:
"There will be a special through train to Leghorn at nine o'clock,
ordered for Count Spezzato: he is good-natured, and will possibly let
you go in that."
It was worth the chance, and I hung about the station till I was
tired, and then walked back toward the village. Passing a small
wine-shop, I entered, and asked for wine in English. I don't know what
whim possessed me when I did it, for they were unable to understand me
without dumb motions. I at length got wine by these means, and sat
down to while away the time over a railway volume.
I had been seated about half an hour, when a courier entered,
accompanied by a railway guard. Two more different examples of the
human race it would be difficult to describe.
The guard was a dark, savage-looking Italian, with 'rascal' and
'bully' written all over him; big, black, burly, with bloodshot eyes,
and thick, heavy, sensual lips, the man was utterly repulsive.
The courier was a little, neatly-dressed man, of no age in particular;
pale, blue-eyed, straight-lipped, his face was a compound of fox and
rabbit that only a fool or a patriot would have trusted out of arm's
length.
This ill-matched pair called for brandy, and the hostess set it before
them. I then heard them ask who and what I was. She replied, I must be
an Englishman, and did not understand the Italian for wine. She then
left.
They evidently wanted to be alone, and my presence was decidedly
disagreeable to them; and muttering that I was an Englishman, they
proceeded to try my powers as a linguist. The courier commenced in
Italian, with a remark on the weather. I immediately handed him the
Newspaper. I didn't speak Italian, that was clear to them.
The guard now struck in with a remark in French as to the fineness of
the neighboring country. I shrugged my shoulders, and produced my
cigar case. French was not very familiar to me, evidently.
"Those beasts of English think their own tongue so fine they are too
proud to learn another," said the guard.
I sat quietly, sipping my wine, and reading.
"Well, my dear Michael Pultuski," began the guard.
"For the love of God, call me by that name. My name is Alexis Alexis
Dzentzol, now."
"Oh! oh!" laughed the guard; "you've changed your name, you fox; it's
like you. Now I am the same that you knew fifteen years ago, Conrad
Ferrate--to-day, yesterday, and for life, Conrad Ferrate. Come, lad,
tell us your story. How did you get out of that little affair at
Warsaw? How they could have trusted you, with your face, with their
secrets, I can't for the life of me tell; you look so like a sly
knave, don't you, lad?"
The courier, so far from resenting this familiarity, smiled, as if he
had been praised.
"My story is soon said. I found, after my betrayal to the police of
the secrets of that little conspiracy which you and I joined, that
Poland was too hot for me, and my name too well known. I went to
France, who values her police, and for a few years was useful to them.
But it was dull work; very dull; native talent was more esteemed. I
was to be sent on a secret service to Warsaw; I declined for obvious
reasons."
"Good! Michael--Alexis; good, {201} Alexis. This fox is not to be
trapped." And he slapped the courier on the shoulder heartily.
"And," resumed the other, "I resigned. Since then I have travelled as
courier with noble families, and I trust I give satisfaction."
"Good! Alexis; good Mich--good Alexis! To yourself you give
satisfaction. You are a fine rascal!--the prince of rascals! So decent;
so quiet; so like the cure of a convent. Who would believe that you
had sold the lives of thirty men for a few hundred roubles?"
"And who," interrupted the courier, "would believe that you, bluff,
honest Conrad Ferrate, had run away with all the money those thirty
men had collected during ten years of labor, for rescuing their
country from the Russian?"
"That was good, Alexis, was it not? I never was so rich in my life as
then; I loved--I gamed--I drank on the patriots' money."
"For how long? Three years?"
"More--and now have none left. Ah! Times change, Alexis; behold me."
And the guard touched his buttons and belt, the badges of his office.
"Never mind--here's my good friend, the bottle--let us embrace--the
only friend that is always true--if he does not gladden, he makes us
to forget."
"Tell me, my good Alexis, whom do you rob now? Who pays for the best,
and gets the second best? Whose money do you invest, eh! my little
fox? Why are you here? Come, tell me, while I drink to your success."
"I have the honor to serve his Excellency the Count Spezzato."
"Ten thousand devils! My accursed cousin!" broke in the guard. "He who
has robbed me from his birth; whose birth itself was a vile robbery of
me--me, his cousin, child of his father's brother. May he be accursed
for ever!"
I took most particular pains to appear only amused at this genuine
outburst of passion, for I saw the watchful eye of the courier was on
me all the time they were talking.
The guard drank off a tumbler of brandy.
"That master of yours is the man of whom I spoke to you years ago, as
the one who had ruined me; and you serve him! May he be strangled on
his wedding night, and cursed for ever."
"Be calm, my dearest Conrad, calm yourself; that beast of an
Englishman will think you are drunk, like one of his own swinish
people, if you talk so loud as this."
"How can I help it? I must talk. What _he_ is, that _I_ ought to be: I
was brought up to it till I was eighteen; was the heir to all his vast
estate; there was but one life between me and power--my uncle's--and
he, at fifty, married a girl, and had this son, this son of perdition,
my cousin. And after that, I, who had been the pride of my family,
became of no account; it was 'Julian' sweet Julian!'"
"I heard," said the courier, "that some one attempted to strangle the
sweet child, that was----?"
"Me--you fox--me. I wish I had done it; but for that wretched dog that
worried me, I should have been Count Spezzato now. I killed that dog,
killed him, no not suddenly; may his master die like him!"
"And you left after that little affair?"
"Oh yes! I left and became what you know me."
"A clever man, my dear Conrad. I know no man who is more clever with
the ace than yourself, and, as to bullying to cover a mistake, you are
an emperor at that. Is it not so, Conrad? Come, drink good health to
my master, your cousin."
"You miserable viper, I'll crush you if you ask me to do that again.
I'll drink--here, give me the glass--Here's to Count Spezzato: May he
die like a dog! May his carcase bring the birds and the wolves
together! May his name be cursed and hated while the sun lasts! And
may purgatory keep him till I pray for his release!"
{202}
The man's passion was something frightful to see, and I was more than
half inclined to leave the place; but something, perhaps a distant
murmur of the rising tide, compelled me to stay. I pretended sleep,
allowing my head to sink, down upon the table.
He sat still for a few moments, and then commenced walking about the
room, and abruptly asked:
"What brought you here, Alexis?"
"My master's horse, Signor Conrad."
"Good, my little fox; but why did you come on your master's horse?"
"Because my master wishes to reach Leghorn to-night, to meet his
bride, Conrad."
"Then his is the special train ordered at nine, that I am to go with?"
exclaimed the guard eagerly.
"That is so, gentle Conrad; and now, having told you all, let me pay
our hostess and go."
"Pay! No one pays for me, little fox; no, no, go; I will pay."
The courier took his departure, and the guard kept walking up and down
the room, muttering to himself:
"To-night, it might be to-night. If he goes to Leghorn, he meets his
future wife; another life, and perhaps a dozen. No, it must be
to-night or never. Does his mother go? Fool that I am not to ask! Yes;
it shall be to-night;" and he left the room.
What should be "to-night?" Some foul play of which the count would be
the victim, no doubt. But how? when? That must be solved. To follow
him, or to wait--which? To wait. It is always best to wait; I had
learned this lesson already.
I waited. It was now rather more than half-past eight, and I had risen
to go to the door when I saw the guard returning to the wine-shop with
a man whose dress indicated the stoker.
"Come in, Guido; come in," said the guard; "and drink with me."
The man came in, and I was again absorbed in my book.
They seated themselves at the same table as before, and drank silently
for a while; presently the guard began a conversation in some patois I
could not understand; but I could see the stoker grow more and more
interested as the name of Beatrix occurred more frequently.
As the talk went on, the stoker seemed pressing the guard on some part
of the story with a most vindictive eagerness, repeatedly asking, "His
name? The accursed! His name?"
At last the guard answered, "The Count Spezzato."
"The Count Spezzato!" said the stoker, now leaving the table, and
speaking in Italian.
"Yes, good Guido; the man who will travel in the train we take
to-night to Leghorn."
"He shall die! The accursed! He shall die to-night!" said the stoker.
"If I lose my life, the betrayer of my sister shall die!"
The guard, returning to the unknown tongue, seemed to be endeavoring
to calm him; and I could only catch a repetition of the word "Empoli"
at intervals. Presently the stoker took from the seats beside him two
tin bottles, such as you may see in the hands of mechanics who dine
out; and I could see that one of them had rudely scratched on it the
name "William Atkinson." I fancied the guard produced from his pocket
a phial, and poured the contents into that bottle; but the action was
so rapid, and the corner so dark, that I could not be positive; then
rising, they stopped at the counter, had both bottles filled with
brandy, and went out.
It was now time to get to the station; and, having paid my modest
score, I went out.
A little in front of me, by the light from a small window, I saw these
two cross themselves, grip each other's hands across right to right,
left to left, and part.
The stoker had set down the bottles, and now taking them up followed
the guard at a slower pace.
{203}
Arrived at the station, I found the count, his mother, a female
servant, and the courier.
The count came up to me, and said, in broken English, "You are the
English to go to Leghorn with me? Very well, there is room. I like the
English. You shall pay nothing, because I do not sell tickets; you
shall go free. Is that so?"
I thanked him in the best Italian I could muster.
"Do not speak your Italian to me; I speak the English as a native; I
can know all you shall say to me in your own tongue. See, here is the
train special, as you call it. Enter, as it shall please you."
The train drew up to the platform; and I saw that the stoker was at
his post, and that the engine-driver was an Englishman.
I endeavored in vain to draw his attention to warn him, and was
compelled to take my seat, which I did in the compartment next the
guard's break--the train consisting of only that carriage and another,
in which were the count, his mother, and the servant.
The guard passed along the train, locked the doors, and entered his
box.
"The Florence goods is behind you, and the Sienna goods is due at
Empoli Junction four minutes before you; mind you don't run into it,"
said the station-master, with a laugh.
"No fear; _we_ shall not run into _it_," said the guard, with a marked
emphasis on the "we" and "it" that I recalled afterward.
The whistle sounded, and we were off. It was a drizzling dark night;
and I lay down full length on the seat to sleep.
As I lay down a gleam of light shot across the carriage from a small
chink in the wood-work of the partition between the compartment I was
in and the guard's box.
I was terribly anxious for the manner of the guard; and this seemed to
be a means of hearing something more. I lay down and listened
attentively.
"How much will you give for your life, my little fox?" said the guard.
"To-day, very little; when I am sixty, all I have, Conrad."
"But you might give something for it, to-night, sweet Alexis, if you
knew it was in danger?"
"I have no fear; Conrad Ferrate has too often conducted a train for me
to fear to-night."
"True, my good Alexis; but this is the last train he will ride with as
guard, for to-morrow he will be the Count Spezzato."
"How? To-morrow? You joke, Conrad. The brandy was strong; but you who
have drunk so much could hardly feel that."
"I neither joke, nor am I drunk; yet I shall be Count Spezzato
to-morrow, good Alexis. Look you, my gentle fox, my sweet fox; if you
do not buy your life of me, you shall die tonight. That is simple,
sweet fox."
"Ay; but, Conrad, I am not in danger."
"Nay, Alexis; see, here is the door" (I heard him turn the handle).
"If you lean against the door, you will fall out and be killed. Is it
not simple?"
"But, good Conrad, I shall not lean against the door."
"Oh, my sweet fox, my cunning fox, my timid fox, but not my strong
fox; you will lean against the door. I know you will, unless I prevent
you; and I will not prevent you, unless you give me all you have in
that bag."
The mocking tone of the guard seemed well understood, for I heard the
click of gold.
"Good, my Alexis; it is good; but it is very little for a life. Come,
what is your life worth, that you buy it with only your master's
money? it has cost you nothing. I see you will lean against that door,
which is so foolish."
"What, in the name of all the devils in hell, will you have?" said the
trembling voice of the courier. "Only a little more; just that belt
{204} that is under your shirt, under everything, next to your skin,
and dearer to you; only a little soft leather belt with pouches in. Is
not life worth a leather belt?"
"Wretch! All the earnings of my life are in that belt, and you know
it."
"Is it possible, sweet fox, that I have found your nest? I shall give
Marie a necklace of diamonds, then. Why do you wait? Why should you
fall from a train, and make a piece of news for the papers? Why?"
"Take it; and be accursed in your life and death!" and I heard the
belt flung on the floor of the carriage.
"Now, good Alexis, I am in funds; there are three pieces of gold for
you; you will need them at Leghorn. Will you drink? No? Then I will
tell you why, without drink. Do you know where we are?"
"Yes; between St. Dominico and Signa."
"And do you know where we are going?"
"Yes; to Leghorn."
"No, sweet Alexis, we are not; we are going to Empoli: the train will
go no further. Look you, little fox; we shall arrive at the junction
one minute before the Sienna goods train, and there the engine will
break down just where the rails cross; for two blows of a hammer will
convert an engine into a log; I shall get out to examine it; that will
take a little time; I shall explain to the count the nature of the
injury; that will take a little time; and then the goods train will
have arrived; and as it does not stop there, this train will go no
further than Empoli, and I shall be Count Spezzato to-morrow. How do
you like my scheme, little fox? Is it not worthy of your pupil? Oh, it
will be a beautiful accident; it will fill the papers. That beast of
an English who begged his place in the train will be fortunate; he
will cease, for goods trains are heavy. Eh! but it's a grand scheme--
the son, the mother, the servant, the stranger, the engine-driver, all
shall tell no tales."
"And the stoker?" said the courier.
"Oh, you and he and I shall escape. We shall be pointed at in the
street as the fortunate. It is good, is it not, Alexis, my fox? I have
told him that the count is the man who betrayed his sister. He
believes it, and is my creature. But, little fox, it was not my
cousin, it was myself, that took his Beatrix from her home. Is it not
good, Alexis? Is it not genius? And Atkinson--he, the driver--is now
stupid: he has drunk from his can the poppy juice that will make him
sleep for ever. I will be a politician. I am worthy of office. I will
become the Minister of a Bourbon when I am count, my dear fox, and you
shall be my comrade again, as of old."
I was, for a time, lost to every sensation save that of hearing. The
fiendish garrulity of the man had all the fascination of the serpent's
rattle. I felt helplessly resigned to a certain fate.
I was aroused by something white slowly passing the closed window of
the carriage. I waited a little, then gently opened it and looked out.
The stoker was crawling along the foot-board of the next carriage,
holding on by its handles, so as not to be seen by the occupants, and
holding the signal lantern that I had noticed at the back of the last
carriage in his hand. The meaning of it struck me in a moment: if by
any chance we missed the goods train from Sienna, we should be run
into from behind by the train from Florence.